by Roddy Doyle
—How're my newly-weds?
—Grand, thanks, Mrs Doyle.
—Lovely. You don't mind the rain.
—No.
—You haven't even noticed it.
—It doesn't matter to us.
—Lovely.
—That much.
She told us that she was giving us more breakfast than we were entitled to but she wasn't showing off and fishing for gratitude. She liked us. Charlo was great with her.
—Ah now, look at this, he said when she put the breakfast in front of him.
—Jaysis.
She laughed. She loved the way Dublin people talked. She liked this time of year the best. It got a bit too hectic later on; she couldn't cope with the noise and fighting back the sand.
—It gets into everything, she said. —I get them to shake their kiddies before they come in but it makes no difference. It's like hoovering the Sahara, so it is,
—D'you ever get to go on holidays yourself? Charlo asked her.
—Oh, I do indeed.
She went to her sisters' houses in England every October; Coventry one week, Luton the next. She put her feet up and let herself be spoiled.
—There's no sand in Coventry, she said. —I love it.
She had three brothers in America — Boston, Buffalo and San Francisco — and another one was dead.
—Cancer; cancer.
She hadn't seen her brothers in years. They didn't write. One of them was divorced and had re-married, a Mexican woman.
—Can you imagine it? She'd go down well here in Courtown. She looks lovely in the photograph.
I waited for her to get the photographs out for us but she never did. Maybe Charlo was right; she was making it all up. She always went to Gorey for Christmas, to her daughter; except the Christmas after the little girl died in the fridge, when she went to Dublin.
—That's the Christmas I'd like to forget, she said. — That kind of thing ruins all Christmases. And my husband died on Saint Patrick's Day.
She started laughing.
—I've only Easter left.
The things I remember. The plates at breakfast. White with a yellow edge. I got the same plate two days in a row, the same chip. I wondered would I be given the same plate for the whole holiday. A stain in Charlo's underpants when they were on the floor. The shock of it, then the comfort: I knew him that well now; we were that close. The feel of the one-armed bandit as I pulled the handle towards me. The heat of the chips coming through the paper in my hand. A car light from somewhere going across the ceiling. The different creaks of the stairs. Mrs Doyle's Sunday clothes and her prayer book and beads. Standing on a sharp stone in my bare feet. Charlo throwing the stone into the sea and yelling after it to fuck off. Looking around to see if anyone had heard him, laughing. Rain. A swan in the harbour, looking miserable. The cold of the water when I paddled.
Nicola was conceived on the Tuesday night. I'm absolutely certain about that. I knew — I drew something into me. Something rushed into my head and made me slam my eyes closed, a mix of pain and happiness. She started then. Nothing will ever prove me wrong. I felt her. Then nothing for weeks, just the knowledge, waiting; what I brought home to Dublin. (I haven't told Nicola yet. I don't know if I ever will. I'm not sure that she'd want to know; I don't know. I'll tell her some time when she's annoying me.) Sex all week. Me as much as him. I tired him out. Four, five goes a day. Twice after we got back from the pub. I'd never done it twice in a row before; I never knew you could. Neither did Charlo. It was never the same after, when we got home from the holiday; the sex. It was good but it was never the first time again. It wasn't the first time then either, strictly speaking, but it was the first proper time. Going to bed; waking up together. Not worrying. Feeling each other. Not hurrying. Lying cuddled up for ever and ever.
Before we got married it had always been a dash. Quick, before they came home, before it got cold, before the last bus. No no no, not here, not yet. Is there a smell? Is there a stain? Is there grass on my back? It couldn't be helped. We didn't have anywhere to go. It had to be quick. It had to end with him. He came, and we went. It wasn't his fault. He wasn't being a pig. The quicker the better. I liked the feel of him coming; I'd made him do it and we could get in out of the rain. Married, it was different. We didn't go anywhere when we were finished. We lay beside each other. We cooled down. We giggled. The noise of the bed, the squeaks and creaks, made us howl. I put my hand over his mouth. He held it with his teeth. It never scared me. He turned to me and held one of my tits.
—You're a ride, he said. —D'you know that?
—So are you, I said. —D'you know that?
—So are you. D'you know that?
I couldn't get enough of him. I was tired and sore but I didn't care. I didn't want to sleep. I wanted the ache. I wanted him in me, all the time. His weight on top of me. I wanted to squeeze him in further and further. I wanted to watch his face. I wanted his sweat to drop onto me. I wanted to drop mine on him. I got on top of him. I'd never done it before. I couldn't really believe it; I was doing this. I was inventing something. I held him and put him in. He felt deeper in me. I'll never forget it. I was in charge and he liked it. I held his hands down. He pretended he was trying to break free. I let my tits touch his face. He went mad; he bucked. He split me in two. I pushed down. I couldn't believe it. One of his fingers flicked over my bum. I did it to him. He lifted and heaved. I couldn't believe it. There was no end to it, no end to the new things. He did something. I copied him. I did something. He did it back. He took me from behind. I pushed back, forced more of him into me. I sucked him. He licked me. I made him come on my stomach. He sucked my toes. The whole room rocked and Mrs Doyle smiled at us every morning.
24
A post mortem by the State pathologist found that Mrs Fleming had been struck twice across the face but there was no evidence of a sexual assault.
He killed her when he saw the Guards coming. The shot was heard. By neighbours and some of the Guards on the Coast Road. A loud crack. Not what she'd have expected, one of the neighbours said. Maybe when he saw them coming over the wall at the back, from the kitchen window; men sliding soundlessly over the wall, experts. He panicked. The way they moved. There might have been sirens. He shot her. A shotgun. He blew her middle away. When he saw them coming. Experts coming over the wall. He panicked. She started shouting, screaming. His finger pressed the trigger. He'd never done it before. She was running at him, screaming. He did it before he knew what he'd done. She was dead before he understood it.
It didn't work. I couldn't convince myself. I couldn't deny or believe it. I hadn't a clue. I kept starting at the beginning and trying to get to an end, an ending that wasn't appalling. I wanted an ending that included the facts. There was only one big fact: he had shot her. No; there was another one:
. .. Mrs Fleming had been struck twice across the face. . .
Not slapped, struck. He'd struck her twice before he killed her. Why? He'd struck her hard enough for the State pathologist to say definitely what had happened. He'd left the marks, like places on a map. Two marks? Both sides? One on top of the other? Slapped, punched, kicked? Why? The papers didn't say. Why had he hit her? There'd have been no need — the sight of the gun and Charlo's eyes breaking through the balaclava would have been more than enough to stop her doing anything stupid. When he'd hit me he'd been keeping me in my place, putting me back in my box. I said there was a smell off his breath: whack. I signed up to do a night class, I gave him a too-soft egg: whack. I went to the doctor: whack. He followed me. There's nothing wrong with you; what's your problem? Whack. And I loved him when he didn't do it; I loved him with all my heart. He was so kind. He just lost his temper sometimes. He loved me. He bought me things. He bought me clothes. Why didn't I wear them? Whack. But why did he whack poor Mrs Fleming? He wasn't married to her. He hit her twice. What had happened?
I wanted none of the answers that started to breathe in me; I smothered them. They were all horrible
. They were all just savage and brutal. Nasty and sick. They mocked my marriage, my love; they mocked my whole life.
. . . but there was no evidence of a sexual assault.
No evidence.
What did that mean? Nothing. Had he struck her because she'd tried to stop him? To soften her up? The marks on her face were the evidence. Then he'd seen the Guards sliding over the wall. Then he'd shot her. Because she'd have told them. He'd shot her so she couldn't say anything.
No.
Yes.
No.
She was nearly the same age as my mother, only six years younger. The photographs in the papers, the same two again and again; she looked like the granny she was, a nice granny — old, round, finished. A shy smile — don't waste your time photographing me. He'd hit her because she started making noise. He'd panicked, or he'd just hit her to shut her up. There was no evidence because there was nothing else. He'd just hit her.
But she'd played tennis every day. She went swimming. She was active. She was very popular. She did things. She had her own car. She whizzed around. Photographs were misleading; I'd seen some of me. I've seen bad ones of Nicola, and she's beautiful. You couldn't tell from photographs, especially in newspapers; they were spotted and dull, photographs of photographs. Mr Fleming would have given them the first ones he'd found.
I knew Charlo.
A woman alone. A challenge. A laugh. He was wearing his woolly balaclava; he was hidden, Superman. (He bought his balaclava. It was in the papers a few days later; putting the whole thing, all the events together. He bought the balaclava in Alpha Bargains on Liffey Street. He murdered a woman, he used a stolen shotgun, he tried to rob twenty-five thousand pounds, but he bought the balaclava. That was just Charlo all over. The fuckin' eejit.) Even if she was as old and dumpy as the photographs said she was. It didn't matter. It didn't have anything to do with it. Young men raped old women. It happened, it had happened before. The mother of a neighbour of mine was raped and nearly killed by a young lad of nineteen, out of his head on drugs, in her old-folk's flat. He'd broken in for money and he'd raped the poor woman, then beaten her up and left her for dead. It happened. Looks and age had nothing to do with it. Men raped women.
He'd killed her because she'd have told them. He weighed up his options; her alive, or dead. Then he'd shot her. Aimed. No panic. Right in the middle. He'd ripped her apart.
Yes.
It had happened that way.
Yes.
No.
Even if he had been doing something, thinking about doing something — there was no evidence — he'd never have killed her just for that. He wouldn't have cared. He never cared when I knew that he'd been with other women, when I could smell them off him; he didn't care. He laughed; he denied it and winked. Just as long as I kept my mouth shut and didn't annoy him. He loved it; he thought it was hilarious. Some of those women were no paintings, and I'm not boasting; I was better-looking than most of them. I told him that; I couldn't understand it. And he laughed again. He'd have laughed at her when she was telling the police. He'd have looked at them; he'd have nodded at her. Will yis listen to her. The state of her. I can hear him. He'd have taken off the balaclava to show them his face. There was no evidence. He knew these things. He didn't know what embarrassment was. He'd have laughed right at her.
He saw the police. He panicked. He shot her.
Charlo never panicked.
He panicked this time, the first time in his life; he didn't understand what was happening to him. He saw them coming and it hit him, and she was dead before he knew what the sound of the shotgun was. He looked at her. Under the low roof, the noise shocked him. Guards running. Guns. Better-looking guns than his. He looked at her settling on the floor; her head hitting, and rising, and landing. The blood. The walls. The floor. The mess of her clothes. And he ran.
He ran to the front door. The smell of the gun had spread all through the house. He opened the door. He heard cars. The Guards weren't there yet; they were late getting to the front of the house. He ran. To the right, away from the approaching cars. A car turning into the cul-de-sac. Others after it. He ran away from them. To the end of the road and the castle-house. He could run; he was fit. He played football. The cars emptied. Wheels skidding, doors opening. He looked back. Uniforms and plain-clothes. Hiding behind the doors, gliding along the walls. Used to all this. After him. He ran. To the left, away, off the road, over the little park, to the other road, to the car, where they'd left it. He ran, slid a bit on the wet. The ground would have been soggy. He'd have worried about muck getting on his trousers; I knew Charlo. He wasn't as fit as he thought he was; too much drink and takeaways. He was gasping. Feeling heavy. The shotgun weighed a ton. The rifle. He didn't know how to run and carry it properly. They were after him. He could feel their feet when his touched the ground. He was near the car now. The driver's door was on the path side. Was it locked? No. He opened the door. He looked back.
—Stop!
What did they yell at him? Stop? Halt? Stick'm up? It never said. Hey, you with the shotgun. I don't know. It doesn't matter.
—Stop!
He turned and pointed the gun at them. They were coming up behind him now as well. He was surrounded, by the police and the car; the houses, the clouds and the facts. He pointed the shotgun at them. They stopped and dived. He got into the car. He got out again; he never shut the door. He was getting out. One leg out on the road; the other stuck inside, under a pedal, caught on the mat.
—Fuck it!
The shotgun pointing. Empty. They didn't know that.
One of them shot him. Two more bullets as he fell out of the car. He was falling anyway, his foot stuck. The shots came too late to push him back into the car. He fell face first onto the path. He was dead. He must have really smacked it, face first, no hands out to break his fall. He was dead.
They covered him with a blanket.
There were no last words. Top of the world, Ma! Fuck, Jaysis or Hang on. He just hit the path. Bang; dead.
The State pathologist examined him too, when he was finished with Mrs Fleming. Did the balaclava stop any cutting and bruising? The papers didn't say.
25
He lost his temper. And he hit me. He lost his temper. It was as simple as that. And he hit me. He sent me flying across the kitchen. I hit the sink and fell. I felt nothing, only shock. And a spinning in my head. I knew nothing for a while, where I was, who was with me, how come I was on the floor. Then I saw his feet, then his legs, making a triangle with the floor. He seemed way up over me. Miles up. I had to bend back to see him. Then he came down to meet me.
—Y'alright?
His face, his eyes were going all over my face, every inch and corner. Looking, searching. Looking for marks, looking for blood. He was worried. His face was full of worry and love. He was scared. He skipped over my eyes. He turned my head and looked at the sides.
—You fell, he said. —I didn't —
I fell. He felled me. I'm looking at it now. Twenty years later. I wouldn't do what he wanted, he was in his moods, I was being smart, he hated me being pregnant, I wasn't his little Paula any more — and he drew his fist back and he hit me. He hit me. Before he knew it? He drew his own fist back, not me. He aimed at me. He let go. He hit me. He wanted to hurt me. And he did. And he did more than that.
I'm looking at it now but that isn't what I saw then. I couldn't have coped with it then, the fact that he'd hit me, plain and simple, he'd drawn back his fist and smashed me. Something had gone wrong.
I fell.
I'd been too near him; he hadn't realised.
He'd only been warning me.
He didn't know his own strength.
He had things on his mind.
Anything.
It wouldn't happen again. Anything. It wouldn't happen again. How could it? It had been a mistake. We'd laugh about it later. Remember the time.
We did laugh about it later. That night. And the time after that. And the time after that.
Many other nights. Until I couldn't laugh any more. I wouldn't let myself. Nothing came out when I opened my mouth. Only pain.
What happened?
I said, Make your own fuckin' tea. That was what happened. Exactly what happened. I provoked him. I always provoked him. I was always to blame. I should have kept my mouth shut. But that didn't work either. I could provoke him that way as well. Not talking. Talking. Looking at him. Not looking at him. Looking at him that way. Not looking at him that way. Looking and talking. Sitting, standing. Being in the room. Being.
What happened?
I don't know.
Someone once told me that we never remember pain. Once it's gone it's gone. A nurse. She told me just before the doctor put my arm back in its socket. She was being nice. She'd seen me before.
—I fell down the stairs again, I told her. —Sorry.
No questions asked. What about the burn on my hand? The missing hair? The teeth? I waited to be asked. Ask me. Ask me. Ask me. I'd tell her. I'd tell them everything. Look at the burn. Ask me about it. Ask.
No.
She was nice, though. She was young. It was Friday night. Her boyfriend was waiting. The doctor never looked at me. He studied parts of me but he never saw all of me. He never looked at my eyes. Drink, he said to himself. I could see his nose moving, taking in the smell, deciding.
He told everyone. He even got to my mother before I did. I was pregnant. We were thrilled. Charlo was delighted. He couldn't sit down. He kept looking at me; he couldn't wait. And he told everyone. He was boasting, of course. Only just married and his mot was already pregnant. What a man. (We didn't know about sperm counts back then, or else Charlo would have had a magnifying glass out, counting his.) What an absolute man. It was nice, though. I loved watching him telling people. I was making him so happy. He'd put his arm around me. I'd feel his strength in that arm, and our future. We were going places, everything in front of us.
