The Child Before

by Michael Scanlon

  She shook her head.

  ‘No I don’t. I’ve got nothing, no real evidence anyway. But the way this is going, I’ll have it solved before they do.’

  Danny shook his head, as if none of this was making sense.

  ‘What about the baby? The poor baby?’

  ‘That’s a conundrum I can’t explain. Not right now.’

  ‘This is too crazy. I don’t think…’

  She reached out and held his hand gently, squeezed it, took a step closer. Her face was inches from his. She was wearing a belted skirt, the buckle touching the buckle of his jeans, a dull, soft metallic chiming sound.

  ‘No it’s not, Danny, trust me, okay?’

  Danny smiled. ‘OK, I trust you.’

  Vicky laughed, took a step back.

  ‘I knew you would,’ she said.

  Fifty-Four

  Beck carried Claire’s suitcase into the house and up the stairs to the spare bedroom.

  ‘Thank you. And thank you for insisting.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ he said.

  She was referring on his insistence on leaving the station, of leaving work behind. Delegation, he had said; the belief that others can carry out and execute a task. There was a night shift coming on duty. That is why the job was split into shifts, a seamless transfer of duties and functions.

  ‘Are you ambitious?’ he asked her now as an afterthought.

  She looked about the bedroom. It was simple; wardrobe, bed, bedside table.

  ‘I wasn’t. Well, I was. But then I wasn’t, that’s what I mean to say. But I think I will be again. To get purpose, you know, back into my life. Can I tell you something?’

  He was hoping now she wouldn’t, he wanted to make a meeting.

  ‘Of course,’ but without enthusiasm.

  ‘I know this isn’t the right time. But I just need to get it off my chest. We were trying for a child. For three years actually. Since before we got married. Don’t look at me like that.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like that. Like you think it wasn’t a very good idea.’

  ‘I’m not thinking that. You are. I’m thinking that I’d like to make a meeting, that’s all. An AA meeting.’

  The news brought no reaction. Had he already told her he was going to AA? He couldn’t remember.

  ‘We went to Spain,’ ignoring it. ‘To a clinic. We could have done it here. But it’s less expensive there. They cover more options too. They organised everything. A donor. Blood tests. It was all very straightforward. Until it didn’t work. So we tried again. And again. Or should I say, Lucy actually tried again. We thought that was better. She’s five years younger than me.’

  Claire swallowed a number of times in quick succession, her voice wavering.

  ‘Claire. You don’t have to tell me any of this, you know.’

  A flash of anger.

  ‘Why, don’t you like hearing it? Or is it that you just couldn’t be bothered?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Beck said.

  The truth was, it was a bit of both. He hoped she wouldn’t start crying. The last time had used up all his reserves of emotional empathy. You’re so up your own arsehole, Beck, do you know that?

  ‘I need to tell it,’ she said. ‘For myself. I need to make sense of it. So you’re going to have to listen. Not a very appreciative guest, am I?’

  Beck determined that he would listen. He crossed the room to the window, looked out.

  ‘You have a view,’ he said. ‘You’d never believe it, but there was supposed to be a public garden out there. All weeds now. From here it doesn’t look so bad.’ He turned. ‘Go on.’

  Yes, he would listen, for no other reason than to be there for someone who was prepared to open the valve and not, like himself for instance, have it explode in his face.

  ‘It all changed after that,’ she went on. She remained standing at the door. Rigid. Formal. To sit would add a cosiness to this that didn’t belong. ‘I wanted to forget about it. Move on. We still had each other, right? That’s how I was looking at it. But Lucy wanted to try again. Again! And since it hadn’t worked for her, she wanted me to be the one to carry the baby. But I couldn’t go through with it. I just couldn’t.’

  She allowed herself to lean against the door now and bit her lower lip.

  ‘We’re constantly rowing’ Claire said. ‘It’s just constant. We say we’ll stop arguing. But we never do. We just start all over again. We can’t help ourselves. One word. That’s all it takes. And we’re at it. She’s said some things… things I can’t forgive. I can’t take it any more. I really can’t. I want it to stop. And… she scares me a bit sometimes. If I wasn’t sure about carrying a baby, I’m really not sure about bringing it into a house where every word is said in anger. So we need a break. From each other. To give us time.’

  Beck thought of Natalia. The illicit rendezvous. Her guilt afterwards. ‘We have to stop,’ she’d say. ‘This is the last time’. But it never did stop. Because that was the buzz for both of them. The fact it was illicit. The fact they shouldn’t be doing it. The fact they shouldn’t be together. It was just another way for him to escape. Maybe if he could turn the handle, open the valve, just like Claire was doing here, run a little steam off. The meetings at the top of the rickety stairs in Ozanam House weren’t doing that for him. He doubted they ever would. But he’d give it one more try anyway.

  Fifty-Five

  Beck noted the looks when he went into the room. He closed the door gently, looking about for a chair. He spotted one, against the far wall. He walked towards it, the room falling silent as he crossed. The floor creaked with each step he took. Beck could feel a collective contempt for him that far outweighed the mere act of being late and disturbing the meeting. Since he’d started coming here, he’d never once been on time. He reached the chair and sat down. Another glance from someone, and a voice sounded, warning the room that tardiness was a symptom of carelessness that led to relapse. Satisfied, the meeting continued.

  At the top table, behind a row of AA slogans – Keep Coming Back, A Day At A Time, Keep It Simple – sat Vicky, telling her story. She glanced at Beck and nodded. Beck could see Joe in the front row, half turning, before stopping, seemingly resisting the urge to look back.

  ‘… I was on that misery-go-round that we all know about, just one never-ending misery fest. It’s usually the man who’s the alcoholic in the relationship, right? There are women, but it’s usually the man? Right? But in my marriage it was me. My ex-husband was a good man, but he didn’t know what he’d gotten himself into, God love him. He walked up the aisle with this cutie – if I say so myself – and woke up with Godzilla.’

  The room laughed. Laughter in the face of misery. The more miserable, the greater the laugh. Which made Beck wonder if there didn’t exist an attraction for rolling in the gutter again for these people? These people? That included him. If nothing else, it would always make for a good story at a later meeting.

  ‘And when I drank it was lights out. Literally. I’d never remember anything. I got into all sorts of situations. Did things I’m not proud of. And my husband stuck by me. Even having my kids didn’t stop me. Nothing did. And he stayed by my side through it all, through thick and thin. He was always there for me. The strange thing is, when I finally got sober, you know what I did? I left him. That’s what I did. Funny old world, isn’t it.’

  The room broke into laughter again, but more energetic this time, like the comedian had told a cracker. Beck had to admit, the punch line had gone above his head.

  She spoke for another quarter hour. A verbal collage of black-outs, bar-room fights, infidelities, car crashes, arrests, lost opportunities, each paling into the other. When she’d finished, the meeting was opened to the floor. And so it continued, stories from the misery-go-round, each more miserable and fantastic than the one gone before. He was asked to share, but Beck declined. The contempt was back again briefly, but was then swept along by the next story.

  ‘Anyone else
?’ Vicky asked the room when it eventually fell silent. ‘We have a couple of minutes left if there’s anyone who would like to share.’

  ‘G’evening. My name’s Mikey. And I’m an alcoholic.’

  Beck turned. Mikey was seated at the far end of the room against the wall.

  ‘I’ve been in Australia ten years now. But I’m originally from Cross Beg. Australia’s been good to me. It’s given me back my self respect. I’m home on holiday. It’s my first time back. Ever. But something terrible’s happened. My sister, Samantha, she’s the one was found dead the other day.’ A murmur went through the room. ‘Aye, the girl never had it easy. Always made wrong choices see. Just like me. But at least I got a second chance, to learn how to choose to make the right ones. She never did, I guess. That’s what AA taught me. I don’t remember my last drink, but I’ll never forget it. It was here, in Cross Beg. I woke up in a police cell. They’d beaten me, the coppers. They did that back then.’ He shot a look at Beck, meeting him square in the eyes, held them, before looking away. ‘But I gotta thank them too. If it weren’t for the coppers, I’d never have left this town. I’d still be here, hangin’ round, drawing the dole, fucked up and miserable. Aye. But I got out. I got out. It’s good to be here, thanks for listening.’

  When Beck looked back to the top table, Vicky was watching him, and their eyes met, briefly, before she looked away. Again, he wasn’t certain. But he thought he caught it, he wasn’t sure what.

  But something.

  Mikey was smoking a cigarette on the street outside when Beck came through the front door of Ozanam House.

  ‘I thought you might be in this club,’ he said. ‘Coppers have a lot to feel guilty about. Guess that’s why they drink, eh?’

  Beck smiled. ‘Don’t you ever give it a rest? That’s a great bloody rock on your shoulder. Not a chip.’ Mikey clamped his cigarette between his lips and flipped open the pack he was holding, held it out to Beck. Beck took a cigarette and looked at it. ‘If I was in your shoes,’ he said, ‘I’d be the same way too. This menthol?’

  ‘Yey, mate, it is.’

  Mikey offered him his lighter. Beck took it, lit the cigarette and handed it back.

  ‘Thanks.’ He took a long draw. ‘We’re doing everything we can, Mikey,’ he said, blowing out a thick stream of smoke. ‘I’d like you to understand that.’

  ‘Yey. But it’s fucking raw, y’know?’

  Beck nodded.

  Mikey flicked the stub of his cigarette away. He smiled.

  ‘You’re not too bad for a bloody copper. Mum’s out of the hospital. I’ll give her your regards.’

  Mikey zipped his padded jacket and turned up the collar.

  ‘They call this a heatwave, mate,’ he said. ‘More like bloody autumn, if you ask me.’

  Beck watched as he walked away, and checked the time. Gumbell would be waiting.

  Fifty-Six

  The tinkling chimes of a piano filled the lounge in the Brown Water Inn. The music was subtle but commanding, filling the entire space with a soothing audio glow. The carpet was luscious, and the lounge was filled with what looked like antique settees and armchairs. Floor lamps were placed strategically throughout, just enough to offer an aura of yellow light, a sort of aurora borealis. The bar was a horse-shoe shape against the wall at one end, without stools to discourage lingering. Shapes sat on the settees and armchairs, and others in white shirts and red waistcoats flittered about, carrying trays and putting down drinks, but it was difficult to discern anything, the place was like a hall of mirrors.

  ‘Give me a double cognac and a bottle of chilled lager. Make sure it’s chilled now.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘Beck, what do you want?’

  ‘A ginger-ale.’

  Gumbell guffawed.

  ‘No. A real drink, Beck. You’ve seen the alternative. Alcohol fundamentalism. You don’t want to end up like that, do you? An insufferable dry drunk.’

  As opposed to an insufferable wet drunk?

  ‘A. Gin. Ger. Ale. Thank you.’

  ‘You really are serious, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  When the drinks arrived, Gumbell took a long swallow of cognac. It was in a balloon glass, but it could have been in an old shoe.

  After a while, Gumbell spoke, voice much calmer now.

  ‘I’ll be conducting an autopsy on the body tomorrow. Of Inspector O’Reilly. I deem it necessary. I want to make sure he wasn’t made to drink weed killer, or something like that. That would be a double whammy. A bit of, ahem, overkill. Not trying to be funny, old boy.’

  Beck could tell the alcohol had already shorn away the sharpest edges from Gumbell.

  ‘I see,’ he said.

  ‘But I doubt it,’ Gumbell said. ‘Never struck me as the particularly thorough type.’

  Beck swirled the ice cubes in his glass before taking a sip. Without the alcohol, the ginger ale tasted insipid, cowering on his tongue. It had no reason for existence on God’s green earth without a brandy in it. The only other purpose was to give the impression a person had a real drink in their hands. Like now.

  ‘How long have you been going to those bloody meetings anyway?’ Gumbell asked.

  ‘You said not to mention it.’

  ‘Just answer the bloody question.’

  ‘Couple of weeks.’

  ‘Do they actually make you feel any better?’

  ‘Actually…’

  ‘Bad bender was it?’ Gumbell interrupted before he could finish. ‘Your knee hit anything else while you jerked it up?’

  Beck put his glass down on the little oval-shaped holder attached to his chair. It slid in and out of the armrest. Original, he considered.

  ‘Is it the same person, do you think?’ Beck asked.

  ‘This throat-slitting you mean?’

  ‘No, the bloody Zodiac Killer. Who’d you think I mean?’

  ‘Steady on there, Beck. You’re very tetchy. Get yourself a drink and settle yourself down. Good man.’

  Beck got to his feet.

  The State Pathologist gave a rare smile. ‘Just call a waiter, they’ll do it for you.’

  ‘I’m not getting a drink. I’m bloody leaving.’

  ‘Be like that then.’

  ‘Shouldn’t have bothered coming here in the first place.’

  ‘Toodle-oo, you’re a miserable bastard tonight anyway. No company for a refined gentleman such as myself.’

  ‘And my question. As to whether it’s the same person?’

  ‘I don’t know. Not yet. But when I do… Now leave me alone to enjoy my drink.’

  As Beck walked away, Gumbell’s words trailed after him: ‘Self-righteous fecker.’

  Beck ordered a taxi at reception and went outside to wait for it. He lit a cigarette and held it next to his mouth, taking short, frequent puffs.

  ‘Penny for them.’

  He turned. And did a double take. Coming through the door: Vicky.

  ‘Didn’t expect to see you here,’ she said.

  ‘Nor I you.’

  ‘AA open meeting coming up soon. Needed to finalise some details.’

  She didn’t ask why he was there.

  ‘I was meeting a friend,’ he offered anyway.

  ‘A female friend?’ with a coy smile.

  He realised he’d smoked his cigarette down to the filter. He stubbed it out in the ashtray on the wall.

  ‘No. Very much the opposite.’

  She smiled again, not coy this time, brushing a hand through her hair.

  ‘You didn’t make it to Frazzali’s.’

  He nodded towards the hotel.

  ‘I know,’ she said, ‘your friend. Look. I’d better be on my way. See you at the next meeting, hopefully.’

  He felt disappointment. That something he’d thought he’d felt wasn’t a something after all.

  She moved past him, was about to step from the pavement onto the hotel car park. She stopped.

  ‘Are you waiting for some
body?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m waiting on a taxi.’

  Again, the smile. A return to coy. He could get lost in it.

  ‘Ridiculous. I’ll give you a lift. Come on.’

  She drove a two-year-old Mercedes. Her perfume filled the car. And there was something else. He felt it immediately. Like a static charge. The car seemed to fizzle with it, radiating from her. He noted the curve of her hand around the steering wheel, the glow from the dash on the lower portion of her face, the lipstick on the folds of her lips glistening in the faint light, like rain on a night-time street.

  She drove fast. Beck watched the lights outside flash by. Up ahead, the street lamps of Cross Beg came into view in the near distance, a chain of orange glows on either side of the road, meandering into the town. The pitch of the engine changed, the car slowing down.

  ‘The town of secrets,’ she said, adding, with a soft laugh, ‘my secrets.’ She looked at him. ‘Are you good at keeping secrets?’

  ‘Not very good,’ he answered. ‘Secrets I mean. Are they?’

  ‘But necessary,’ she said, softly, as if to herself, then, her voice solemn. ‘Any developments in the investigation, if you don’t mind my asking?’

  ‘I don’t mind you asking. It’s progressing, is what I’ll say.’

  ‘Not giving anything away then, are you?’ she said.

  ‘No,’ Beck replied, an edge to his voice now, a hardness that hadn’t been there before. ‘I’m not.’

  Silence.

  After a moment, Vicky turned the steering wheel, moving from the road.

  Beck strained and made out the sheen of grey light ahead. As they drew closer he realised the sheen was water. It was a lake. She turned from the road onto a rutted track and then there was the crunch as the tyres moved over pebbles. The car stopped by a water’s edge. Vicky turned off the engine.

  ‘You never once asked where I was taking you?’

  ‘I didn’t care.’

  She laughed, tugging with both hands at the front of her shirt. The stud buttons popped apart. He was looking at a black lace bra with two brimming breasts. The static in the car changed, morphing into an energy. Charging through their bodies.