Next morning in work there was no sign of him and no sign of Peadar that night either. On Thursday Chris still hadn’t appeared or phoned in sick. The sour–faced rodent of a librarian was thrilled. He always hated Chris and saw his chance to get rid of him unless a doctor’s note arrived. Peadar had called to see her on Thursday night, apologising for not having phoned the previous evening.
‘I was with your friend, Chris,’ he said. ‘Jesus, can that man drink. He turned up yesterday, looking like he hadn’t slept. Six pints later he tells me how he crushed up ten sleeping tablets on Tuesday night and downed them with vodka. He’s some headcase but I can’t help liking him.’
‘Why did he do that?’ Alison had asked, feeling that everything was her fault and she would lose them both now.
‘He didn’t say, but he had that look. Woman trouble. Has he a secret girlfriend who’s given him the bullet?’
‘He doesn’t have a girlfriend,’ she replied.
‘No. I rather thought he didn’t.’ Peadar had paused, studying her face. ‘But that doesn’t mean he’s not in love with someone, does it?’
‘How long have you known?’
‘Sometimes when we’re drinking alone he manages to get through a whole two minutes without mentioning you in some way.’
Alison had told him whatever she felt it was safe to say. She was nervous, unsure if Peadar would feel angry or threatened. And maybe all along her intention had been to make Peadar jealous and force him to focus on her. But she was telling him nothing about Chris’s feelings that he hadn’t known already.
When she was finished he told how Chris had walked the streets all Tuesday night, waiting for the tablets to take effect, being almost thrown into the canal by cider drinkers, before, around four a.m., he had phoned a hospital casualty department. When he refused to go in they had told him to keep walking where people could see him, and drink as much milk as possible to flush the tablets out.
When he had told Peadar about the tablets on Wednesday afternoon, Peadar lured him onto black coffee and eventually coaxed him into visiting a hospital. He had stayed with Chris as the nurses examined him, even slipping anecdotes about Alison into the conversation so that Chris could talk about her, always in the context of a friend advising Peadar about how lucky he was.
The sleeping tablets had worked their way through his system by then. Peadar spent all Wednesday night with him, sitting up in a kebab shop drinking unspeakable wine. They had crashed in Peadar’s room with Peadar insisting on Chris taking the bed. Alison had imagined Chris lying on the mattress where she and Peadar so often made love, still awake thirty–six hours after stepping off the library van, despite all the booze and pills. When Peadar woke on Thursday morning Chris was gone.
Ironically it was Peadar’s concern for his rival which had finally convinced her that he was the man she wanted. For all of Peadar’s contradictions she had known that she could trust him.
‘He loves you a lot,’ Peadar had said as they finished talking about Chris late on the Thursday night.
‘Do you?’
Boys often use words glibly. But Peadar hadn’t looked like a boy as he put his arms around her. He’d looked older than his years, strong enough to cure all her insecurities.
‘I love you more than Chris does. If I couldn’t have you then I’d try to kill myself too, only I’d do it properly.’
That was the night when the featherlite condom burst inside her. Peadar must have sensed it snap because he tried to withdraw, the semen splashing between her thighs and onto the sheet. It was four a.m. They were both exhausted, unsure of what to do next.
‘I got out just in time,’ Peadar whispered and, though she wasn’t convinced, she had tried to blank the fear from her mind. Sleep overcame her and when she woke it was late and she had to rush into work. Chris was seated at the table and she ran over to hug him, knowing that he had inadvertently brought Peadar and her closer together, but unaware of Peadar’s seed already moving inside her.
That was how Evelyn almost came to be born; how Peadar and herself split up but were drawn back together again; how her other children were later conceived; and how she came to lie awake in Fitzgerald’s Hotel, worrying about a man who would never know the role he had played in shaping her life.
Alison didn’t phone Peadar when she woke: she waited for him to call. When the phone rang the children were already in the corridor, hungry for breakfast. She let them play out there, not caring what noise they made. Every word Peadar said she found herself analysing, every intonation in his voice. The court had appointed a receiver, with a final site inventory to be signed off at eight p.m. Peadar would be a free man then, able to drive down late tonight or first thing on Friday morning for lunch and a swim before bringing them home.
She found the details drifting past as she homed in for any trace of falsehood in his voice. She wondered could Peadar detect the note of caution in her carefully phrased questions, her pauses each time she was on the verge of seeking advice. She had never thought she could be this unsure of Peadar or of herself. Where had he been last night and why was her hand trembling as she gripped the phone?
Twenty years before, Peadar had talked Chris Conway away from suicide. She should tell him everything and insist he immediately come down. But – if her instincts were right – then what gave her the right to stop Chris? It wasn’t an impulsive gesture this time. Chris was a grown man, rationally and methodically deciding his own future, bowing out as he wished. There were no dependants left behind, no loved ones to be hurt. This was no cry for attention. Few people would ever know so clean a death. What permission had she to ruin his plans?
Peadar was still talking away, annoyed by her lack of response.
‘I’m giving you the choice,’ he repeated. ‘Will I come down late tonight or first thing in the morning?’
A door opened down the corridor and footsteps came.
‘Mr Dull!’ Sheila, who had been subdued since she woke, ran down the corridor. Chris was still alive. She watched him pass the doorway with Sheila at his side. He ruffled Danny’s hair but didn’t look in. Peadar’s voice was angry.
‘Jesus, woman, do you want me down there or not?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Where do you want to be?’
‘What sort of question is that?’
‘An honest one,’ she snapped. ‘Remember honesty? What time did you go to bed last night?’
‘Good Christ,’ Peadar said, ‘I went to bed when I was tired. I stayed in, sat up late, had a few drinks and a cigar. I didn’t burn the house down. What the hell has that to do with anything?’
‘You tell me. Tell me where we fit into all your bloody schemes. Tell me why I was phoning half the night and you weren’t there. You tell me who you were with and what she does that I can’t do!’
Alison knew she was being hysterical, mouthing half–formed suspicions aloud. Her anger was driven by guilt. Last night it was she who had imagined another’s touch, who had wanted comfort, had realised how alone she felt, not just on this holiday but so often over the last year.
‘Alison, what the hell are you saying?’
‘I was never good enough for you, or your stuck–up father. I still see it in his eyes when we meet, the scrubber from the back lanes of Waterford whom you banged up.’
‘For Jesus’s sake!’ Peadar was furious now. ‘Are the kids listening? That was twenty years ago. Where the hell is all this coming from?’
‘Drive down tomorrow. I wouldn’t deprive you of a last night of freedom.’
‘Listen to me’ – Peadar sounded panic–stricken, but she didn’t want explanations or excuses. Her outburst had shocked herself as much as him. She wanted time alone, to understand this crisis.
‘The children are screaming for breakfast,’ she said. ‘Phone me later. I’d phone you if I ever bloody well knew where you were.’
She put the receiver down, shaking. Wherever he had been sitting up last night it wasn’t at ho
me. Danny came to the doorway, beckoning. She walked out, not caring if their hair wasn’t brushed. For once in her life she was ordering strong coffee for breakfast and not tea. She’d order a Bloody Mary if they were serving them.
She would never mock Danny and his spy games again. All morning she was worse than him. Keeping one eye on Chris Conway, panicking if she saw him near the steps to the beach. One crazy golf hole overlooked both the deserted strand and the gardens. She kept playing it with Sheila and Shane until the children grew bored. The RTE executive and Mr BMW walked the course, analysing each hole. Danny came over to demand his morning swim. This time she let him get changed by himself.
Sheila’s rash had vanished now she was using plain soap again. The antibiotic kept her throat at bay, but Alison couldn’t get a word out of her. The child was cranky, near tears, just sitting in her robe on a poolside chair. Alison was uneasy until she saw Chris Conway appear. He made straight for the sauna, then after ten minutes came out and stood over the seven–foot plunge pool. Joan waded past, catching Alison watching him as he allowed his body to drop. Was this a dress rehearsal? Alison only let her breath out when his head and arm reappeared holding onto the ladder. He climbed from the plunge pool, shaking cold water from him like a dog, his stomach flat, shoulders strong, and walked into the steam room.
Alison had to talk to him. She asked Sally’s husband to keep an eye on the boys, not even waiting to hear his reply, but aware of Joan’s eyes burning into her back as her bare soles crossed the tiles to the steam room
It was empty apart from Chris. He lay with his eyes closed, oblivious to who had come in. The steam cycle was just starting, the room growing unbearably hot. Perhaps the thermostat was broken. Alison sat against the far wall and tried to recover her composure. She’d had a headache all morning, as always after a row with Peadar. God knows what he must be thinking in Dublin. But they were home truths she had spoken, even if he couldn’t guess at the turmoil that was causing them. They had needed this holiday to put things right between them, to escape from that house and his job and all the other tediums and pressures.
Maybe lack of sleep was making her feel this fragile. She couldn’t stay in here long with Sheila like that. Alison observed Chris through the steam. Perhaps she was wrong. He might have survived the worst of his grief and be starting on a journey back to life. Maybe he had been learning to let ghosts go on that beach last night.
‘Chris …?’ He opened his eyes, surprised. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine, Ali, just fine.’
‘If you ever wanted to call over, see us some time in Dublin … Peadar and I would like that.’ Would they even be together in a few years’ time? Peadar’s parents had never broken up, they just refused to exchange a word in ten years, leading separate lives inside a single house. The morning that Peadar’s mother had suddenly addressed her husband was viewed within the family as the first sign of her Alzheimer’s.
‘That’s kind.’ Chris’s voice was non–committal.
‘It was good what you did for Sally. Still you should be careful with your money, make sure you’ve enough for whatever you want to do next.’
She was trawling for some sign of any future plan. But it was like talking to a stranger. There was a new calmness about him, a serenity even. Whatever decision he had reached was one he was perfectly reconciled with. Alison was the tortured one, biting her tongue. Was it only three days since they had encountered each other here, two nights since they kissed and he told her she was the only person he still cared for? It felt like he was cutting her off now, carefully and deliberately. He had said all there was to say. This was surplus time, with every loose end tied up. All he had left to do was to kill himself.
‘I’d miss you,’ she said; ‘if you were never in touch again.’
His voice sounded amused, gentle. ‘Don’t be silly, Ali. You haven’t missed me in twenty years.’
The door opened. Two women came nosily in, complaining about the heat. She rose as they sat down.
‘I’ll see you later,’ she said.
‘No doubt I’ll be knocking around. The proverbial bad penny.’
Chris made no sign of rising, yet his skin was running with sweat. It dripped from his glistening arms and legs, matting the hairs on his chest that she suddenly longed to touch. His face looked so hot she thought it would melt. She didn’t know how much longer anyone could stand such heat.
All afternoon she wished to phone Peadar back, but pride and confusion stopped her. She wanted to try talking to Chris again, but felt unable to approach. He was ensconced at a table on the patio. Final entries for the golf scramble had to be in by three p.m. The Slaney Room was crowded with competitors returned from last–minute efforts to improve their scores, licking their wounds together.
There was a different feel about Thursdays in Fitzgerald’s, a heightened gaiety marking the beginning of the end. She even saw it in the children, trying to drink in every last sensation of the holiday. Danny would refuse to contemplate tomorrow’s heartbreak until the time came to pack. Shane would cope with leaving as with everything, glad to be here, yet happy to see his own bed when they reached home. Sheila sat quiet in herself on the grass beside Alison’s chair, idly fingering their room key. Whenever Alison urged her to go and play, the child barely looked up.
The women’s crazy golf competition was finishing, with one or two serious–faced older women lining up putts as if fortunes were at stake. But generally there was an air of hilarity, with most women just out to have fun. The first male competitors were queuing to start their rounds, joking as well but with a different air about them. Competition was competition, male egos at stake. Jack Fitzgerald came out to watch, impeccably dressed as ever. Alison commented upon the difference and he smiled.
‘Men will be men,’ he said.
‘I wouldn’t mind but they’ll let Heinrich win.’
‘That’s not compulsory,’ Jack Fitzgerald said. ‘It normally just works that way. I mean it’s such a mad game nobody could seriously mind losing.’
Geraldine beckoned for Chris Conway to begin his round. Alison was aware of Jack Fitzgerald watching him too. Surely this was the time to warn someone, but what could she say?
‘Do you think you’ll see Chris here again?’ she asked. ‘I hope so. You never can tell.’
Jack Fitzgerald moved on as Alison watched Chris putt expertly through the tunnel, leaving his ball inches from the hole. He walked towards it, plainly savouring the sea breeze against his face. Alison had never seen him look so much at ease with the world.
Jack Fitzgerald walked back towards her. If she interfered now then Chris would just go to some tacky hotel in a foreign town. Somewhere without resonance or memory. Death would be sordid there, a stranger cursed for his inconvenience. She would be tempted to kill herself too if her family died, but would fail to do so cleanly like Chris planned. Her death would be messy and embarrassing for everyone.
She looked down to find that Sheila had disappeared. The girl might have wandered off to play but the room key was also missing which frightened her.
Alison looked around for her. Shane was in the sandpit, involved in some complex make–believe game. Danny was off with those blasted twins, God knows where. Fear seized her. Nowhere was safe for kids, not even Fitzgerald’s Hotel. Some stranger could slip up from the beach. A mother had to watch her kids. You had no right to become obsessed by your own cares.
She ran across to try the French doors into their room. It was locked with the lace curtains pulled tight. She couldn’t remember if that was how she had left them. It was impossible to see in. She called Sheila’s name, banging on the glass and starting to panic. Why would the child take the key without telling her?
Danny’s voice startled her from the tennis courts. The twins were with him, clutching bottles of Seven–Up. He wanted money for one too.
‘Where’s Sheila? Have you seen Sheila?’ she shouted.
The way he shrugg
ed his shoulders infuriated her, a nonchalance affected to impress the twins.
‘I asked you a bloody question,’ she snapped. ‘You have a bloody tongue on you.’
He stepped back, less sure of himself. ‘Maybe she’s on the beach.’
‘Did you see her there?’ The tide was coming in. Anybody could come along and snatch her.
‘No. I just said maybe.’
‘Don’t just say maybe. Look for her.’
‘Where?’
‘Anywhere. Everywhere. You three are supposed to be the bloody detectives!’
She didn’t care what the twins thought. She banged on the French doors again. Chris spotted her and abandoned his putter to run over.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Sheila’s missing.’
‘Try your room. I’ll check around reception.’
Then he was gone, leaving his opponent stranded. She ran in after him. The corridor beside the dining room was empty. An elderly couple stepped from the lift, the woman on a stick. She brushed past, not caring how rude she looked.
If Sheila was in their room then surely she’d have come to the window? Her step faltered. Their door was half ajar. She pushed it open. The room seemed empty. Nothing was touched, not even her money on the locker. Sheila’s ragdoll lay on the double bed and, on the floor beside it, Sheila sat with her knees cradling her head. There was no sound but Alison knew she’d been crying. She approached carefully and knelt.
‘Are you all right, pet?’
Sheila put her arms around her, her face blotched. How long had she been sitting there crying? ‘
Tell Mammy, whatever it is.’
‘I don’t want to go home tomorrow.’
‘Did anyone bring you up here?’
‘I wanted to talk to Daddy. You were busy. Why do we have to go home?’
Temptation Page 16
