by Eoghan Egan
Night
‘Were you in to see Dad today? Or even phone him?’
Malcolm cringed, sorry he’d answered Ciara’s call. ‘Didn’t get a chance.’ This had been the worst day he’d ever had at Fairyhouse. One win from a seven-card race meeting. The Gaffer, a 25/1 winner in the first, delivered a result. After that, he’d spent the day chasing losses. Tyson missed out to The Harbour Master by three-quarters of a length. ‘Hmm? What? I Missed that?’ He tapped the laptop keyboard, and circled the mouse around tomorrow’s UK meetings, still smarting that And Here’s The Kicker, at 20/1 got beaten into third place.
‘I said, are you working?’
‘Yeah, still in the office.’ Only three race meetings in the UK tomorrow. This weather was killing his opportunities.
‘You’re in the office? On Sunday?’
‘Yeah. Working on a presentation.’
‘I’m almost speechless.’
‘Yeah, well …’ Earlier, in Fairyhouse, he’d picked the 12/1 second favourite, Granny Smith, in the fourth, Conquistador at 66/1 in the fifth, because he was getting edgy, and punted on Ben Bulbin in the sixth, hoping for a 33/1 pay-out. He’d torn up his ticket when the horses were halfway around the course; Ben Bulbin was fourth, and fading fast. He knew the Willie Mullins trained horse would win the last, but at 1/3 favourite, the odds were useless. Instead, he’d placed his last hundred euro on 50/1 outsider, Mystic Mac, and prayed for a miracle. The miracle didn’t happen. Fairyhouse was a washout. The next meeting there was in two weeks; his luck would’ve changed by then, and he’d regain today’s losses, plus interest. But that was then. This was now, and he needed money.
‘What’s that? The line’s breaking up.’ Malcolm skimmed through the runners for Monday’s first race in Fakenham. Couldn’t decide. He scrolled through the card.
‘I said you should get out more. Socialise. Find another girlfriend. All work and no play makes—’
‘Makes two of us.’
‘For your information, I’d a lunch date today.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yep.’
‘How’d it go?’ Malcolm’s glance brushed through the starting prices. Mrs McGinty at 16/1 looked a decent punt.
‘I got a bad vibe.’
‘Someone local?’
‘Tipperary, I think. Or maybe Dublin.’
‘Oh, like that, was it?’
‘Hmm.’
‘Trust your instincts.’
‘Always. That’s why there won’t be another date with him.’
‘You’re too cynical. That’s your punishment for the shit you do in HR.’ Malcolm exited that screen, clicked on the Plumpton meeting, analysed the card. The favourites should win. Useless prices. He clicked again. Wolverhampton. Scrolled down.
‘My purgatory. You okay, Mal?’
‘Fine.’ Hard Times and Hobson’s Choice, 18/1 and 14/1, respectively. If either of them, plus Crystal Gaze in the January Maiden Hurdle at Fakenham, came home first, it would net …
‘You seem distracted,’ Ciara said.
‘Sorry. I’m ah, kinda sore. Audi skidded on the way in here.’
‘Oh my God. Are you hurt? Have you been to—?’
‘Bruised, that’s all.’
‘Have you painkillers?’
‘Yeah. Um, the car’s more smashed up than me.’
‘So that’s the reason you couldn’t get to Dad.’
‘Hmm-hmm.’
‘Why didn’t you say?’
‘Didn’t want to worry you. I’ll find a way to visit tomorrow.’
‘Much damage?’
Malcolm thought for a beat. ‘I reckon four grand’s worth.’
‘But the insurance company will—’
‘Not worth losing my no claims bonus for something small.’
‘Oh, damn. That’s a pain. How long will it take to—?’
‘A week, once I get the dosh together. It’s the whole left wing and door, plus labour costs, car hire—’
‘Malcolm?’
‘Yeah?’
‘If I loan you the money, swear you won’t gamble it.’
‘I swear. If you can give, I mean lend me cash, I’ll be on the road inside a week.’ Malcolm held his breath.
‘Okay. If I transfer money to your account now—’
‘I’ll repay you Friday. Monday at the latest. You know I’m good for it.’
‘Hmm. Make sure you visit Dad tomorrow.’
‘First chance.’
‘He’ll be discharged midweek. I want to take him home, but we haven’t discussed—’
‘Let’s chat with Dad tomorrow night,’ Malcolm said. ‘He might’ve already decided what he wants. No point in us making decisions for him ’til we find out.’
‘Yes, he’s told me he’s going to his own place, but I’m not sure that’s the … You’re right. I’ll sleep on it. Goodnight, Mal. Chat tomorrow.’
‘Yeah. Night.’
-----
Ganestown Caregivers Association acted as a crutch for families at the end of their tether. Ruth introduced Hugh to a man who spelt out how life with Alzheimer’s evolves.
‘AD,’ the caregiver said, ‘is a faceless, shapeless, thieving bastard. It begins as a seed and spreads like a chestnut tree. A person can move through the stages in months, or it mightn’t become full-blown for years. It’s a brewing storm. At the outset, you’ll notice no major changes. There’s no sign of the destruction that’s occurring; it’s so gradual, you doubt yourself. The worst is when our relatives can’t recognise or remember us,’ the man added. ‘The loss of shared experiences is …’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘You lose so much of the person. Alzheimer’s recognises no boundaries.’
‘Ma’s doctor described it as a tsunami in the brain,’ Hugh said.
‘That’s accurate.’
‘How did you find out? What were the first signs?’
‘She phoned me in the middle of the night,’ the carer said. ‘A burglar had broken in. Caused a major panic, I can tell you. Of course, there was no break-in, but I changed the locks to give her peace of mind. Within a week, the calls began again. More robbers. One night, mother rang my sister. This time the intruders were playing music. My sister dashed across, but too late. Mother had slipped on the stairs. Ambulance. Hospital. Broken hip. They gave us the results of a PET scan, and our Alzheimer’s nightmare began.’
‘How did it advance from normal chat to memory loss?’ Hugh asked.
‘I’d ask her a question, and she’d repeat what she heard back to me. See, her brain couldn’t find an answer, so she’d echo the last words she heard. Other times, she’d recite the sentence a dozen times. Ad nauseam. We’re at the stage now where she can’t follow any conversation.’
‘God. That’s twenty-four-seven care,’ Hugh said. ‘Have you got home help? How do you cope?’
‘There are days I’m detached and numb,’ the caregiver shrugged, ‘as if it’s happening to somebody else, and I’m here to lighten the person’s load, but the sense of helplessness is crushing. You know it won’t get any better, and that makes you want to scream in rage. Yes, at times I do scream, but only when no one’s around.’
‘Is your mother at home or in a care facility?’
‘Home. I’ve three sisters, and we’ve worked out a rota system. We’re lucky. A lot of families don’t have that well of support. Government cutbacks have played havoc with carer assistance. We’re reliant on community generosity for funds. But money’s tight, and time’s short. Sorry for being blunt, but better you know up-front what’s involved.’
‘Feels like my mooring’s untied and I’m adrift,’ Hugh said.
‘We all experience that,’ the man nodded, ‘but when there’s no other choice, you’ll find the strength to handle it. It’s up to the primary caregiver to adjust their reactions and expectations as each phase kicks in. There’s also a whole new language to learn. The symptoms are similar for each Alzheimer patient, but the journey depends on their life experien
ces.’
Before he left the meeting, Hugh thanked Ruth for inviting him along.
‘I learned a lot,’ he said, ‘and that carer I met?’
‘Yes?’
‘He freaked me out.’ Hugh gulped a deep breath. ‘But, it was vital to get his perspective. They’re a rare breed. I mean, “we”. I’ve to count myself part of that group now, learning to live with indecision. That should be the title of an Alzheimer’s conference: “Living with Uncertainty.” Oh, I spoke to Sarah. Thanks for the contact.’
‘Glad to help. So, you off painting now?’
‘Think I’ll give it a miss. Too much on my mind. Hope you sleep well. Text me when you’re home safe.’
‘Aww. That’s sweet. I will. You look after yourself too.’
Hugh’s house was cold as an icebox.
Letters splattered on the hallway floor. Doctor Abbott’s plain envelope stood out, a stark contrast against the colourful excess of junk mail.
He fretted about his mother and his own future, made notes of questions he’d ask at Wednesday’s exit interview, brooded over Eilish, scribbled out what he’d written, began again, changed his mind and tossed the crumpled paper into a bin.
His phone hummed. He read the text:
Hiya. Home safe n sound. Glad
u found meeting useful. Tks
for coffee and chat. Ring if
there’s anything u want to talk
about/discuss.
See u soon. R.
Upstairs, Hugh sat on the bed and looked at the space filled with memories. He rubbed the sheets as if Eilish’s body might magically appear. The residue of her perfume teased his senses. He wished there was a way to switch off, but there was no release button. Emptying a bedside locker, he poked through photos, mind gliding between chats they’d shared, jokes they’d laughed at, places they’d visited, and betrayal. That’s what festered and swelled, dragging him further into depression. He tried to pull himself together, but it was a losing battle. Grief knifed through him and he couldn’t stay home alone any longer.
Weary with worry, brain shutting down from exhaustion and emotional strain yet too wound up to sleep, Hugh trudged into Ganestown and roved the streets in an effort to outrun a hurt that wouldn’t cease. Frozen and wet through, he found himself across town, near his mother’s home. Rather than return to his own houseful of memories, and needing something, anything, to blank out Eilish, he opted to paint.
-----
Adam Styne waited until after ten.
His headache hammered, and he didn’t bother to change out of farm clothes.
A whiff of cow manure and silage will be the least of your worries, Ciara.
Sub-zero airstreams from Scandinavia had brought in another wave of dense fog and snow. Earlier, the journey from Ciara’s house to Ganestown’s ring-road took twenty-five minutes. The drive back was taking twice that.
After all this, you’d better be at home waiting for me, Ciara.
He tried to pick out landscapes he’d memorised earlier, but the fog and darkness hampered his vision. He guessed bedtime would be the same as Roberta Lord; around eleven p.m. The dashboard dial read 22:50.
At the National School, the fog unfurled, revealing a full moon. Styne slowed, looking for the knot of houses near a road bend.
There.
A light still burned behind a curtained window in Ciara’s home, her car in the driveway. He extinguished the headlights, cut the engine, freewheeled in the gateway and coasted into the drive.
Armed and ready. Last chance. Turn back? No way. Hunter and hunted. I’ll be the final voice she hears, the last face she sees.
The Mazda rolled to a stop. Styne inspected the house perimeter, waiting to see if the car movement triggered a sensor light.
Nothing.
He turned off the dome light, snapped on latex gloves, picked up the stun gun and eased out, senses fine-tuned. Moonlight glittered on the glazed snow. He studied the garden boundaries, primed for escape if a dog or human appeared. In the murk, a snowman resembled a headstone. The scent of timber smoke filled his lungs.
Styne stepped nearer the house.
Stopped.
Ears honed, absorbing the night sounds. Another two paces. Raised his head, strained to listen.
No sound.
He spun, checked the road.
No traffic.
He thumbed off the immobiliser’s safety catch, trod another step, testing each one before letting his boots sink into snow. Frost sheathed the windows of the Nissan. Crouched at the side of the car, he peeked around, studying the doorway …
Stay in the open. Footprints will get erased.
… Moved closer to the front door with its frosted glass panel. He pressed the bell, tensed his body, ready to bulldoze through a security chain. A light cascaded the hallway, and the door opened.
Stupid woman. No door guard.
Ciara hadn’t time to react or register the syrupy stench of silage. Styne pushed in and touched the stun gun against her neck. The voltage propelled her backwards. Her head walloped off a wall, and she crumpled, unconscious before she hit the floor. Styne used his heel to close the door, immobiliser ready for attack. The jacket Ciara wore earlier hung on a coat-stand. Another door, ajar, at the end of the passage, had a Santa Claus sketch stuck to it.
Boy’s room. What’s his name? David.
He stuck his head inside the room Ciara had vacated.
Sitting-room.
A laptop sat open on a desk.
Styne listened for a footstep, a voice, a question.
No movement.
Just the hiss of silence.
He stood outside the child’s room, inched one foot across the wooden threshold and whispered, ‘David?’ The hall light bathed the bedroom in a ginger hue. Other cute cartoon sketches adorned the wall; a tractor with disproportionately sized wheels, a house with four crooked windows and a pencil line of smoke that curled into clouds. He stepped inside. ‘Da … vid?’ A superman figurine crunched underfoot. An A4 sheet, pinned to a built-in press, showed a stick figure drawing of a red-haired man. On the single bed, a teddy-bear sat propped against the pillow. Rows of farm machinery toys lined against a wall, alongside an empty Nintendo Switch box. A pile of folded clothes sat on top of a wooden trunk. Styne moved back to the hallway, poked into rooms; a kitchen-cum-living room, another bedroom, and sniffed the air.
Coconut.
Back in the hallway, he checked on Ciara. She was wearing a short-sleeved Nike T-shirt and black skirt. Still inert. In the sitting-room, a mobile lay on a typist desk shelf beside the laptop. He traced the power lead, unplugged it, wrapped the cord around the computer, powered off the phone and stuck it in a pocket. Then he caught Ciara in a fireman’s grip.
Styne’s legs strained.
Fat bitch.
Had to bend again for the laptop, secured it under an arm, and groped for the light switch. Clicked it off, unlatched the door and staggered outside, past Ciara’s car. Her floppy body was causing a weight imbalance. His knees buckled.
Should have reversed in.
His breath blew in ragged gasps. The laptop fell when he opened the boot and dumped Ciara in. Her head thwacked off the side, legs refused to bend. He pushed in the limbs and slammed the lid. The metal lip banged against bone and sprang open.
This isn’t working.
Winded, he leaned against the Mazda, wiped sweat from his brow, and steadied his breathing.
Ciara whimpered.
Styne jabbed the stun gun to her neck. Her body jerked, shuddered and went limp.
No idea how long she’ll stay knocked out. Remember chloroform for Jana.
He unlocked the passenger door, muscled Ciara into the front seat, closed the boot lid, retrieved the computer and reversed out as another blustery snow shower descended.
‘So, Ciara. How wrong you were that we’d never meet again. Here we are. And oh so soon.’ The window steamed up, and Styne switched on the heater. ‘How was your d
ay since?’ The belt alarm pinged. He stopped and strapped in the comatose woman. ‘Don’t want you to get hurt. Or as you might say, lol. And look? See that? More beautiful snow. What’s that? My day? Well, a little frustrating, actually, because you didn’t allow me enough time to organise a proper welcome for you. Besides that, it’s been good, oh, except for a tiny hiccup at lunchtime, which again you were accountable for. Yes, yes, I admit I was at fault too. I hadn’t prepared enough. But, to quote another of your lines, let me cut to the chase: the majority of the blame lies with you, Ciara, you obstinate bitch.’
Ciara groaned.
Styne pressed the Taser to her neck.
No buzz.
What? Why—?
Ciara mumbled, fingers grasping at air. Her arms shook.
Styne turned on the interior light. He was holding her mobile.
Christ.
He swapped the mobile for the stun gun, and zapped Ciara into oblivion again. ‘Relax.’ He stroked her leg, wiped his brow on a sleeve. ‘We’ve got all night to enjoy each other’s company. And you’re wearing the opal ring. Well, guess what? Your security shield’s got holes. Your bastion of protection. Poof.’
Adam prised Ciara’s phone apart and thumbed out the battery and SIM card. ‘It’s quite annoying that your prying and asinine attempt to trip me up made me lose control, forcing me to bump up my timeline. Well, you’ll pay for that. I’m the one in control now. I doubt there’ll be any checkpoints tonight. Fortune favours the fearless, what say you? Yes, sleep now while you can. Over the last twelve hours, I can’t tell you how I’ve anticipated our night together. I’m particularly interested in seeing what resistance you’ll put up. How much control you’ll muster when I hold the aces, you bitch. You’ll learn I’m the winner. Winners control the game. Perhaps I’ll send photos of your last moments to David. I imagine he’d treasure a memento. Hmm?’
The snow shower eased as they crossed the Tullamore River. Clouds cleared and revealed the full moon and the million galaxies that glistened from the heavens. Styne glanced at Ciara, still conked out. At Blueball, he pitched the phone battery out, broke the SIM in two and threw a segment after it. Two kilometres further, he tossed the other half. Then the gloves. Nearing Kilcormac, he stopped, got out, ground the mobile underfoot and lobbed the pieces into a ditch.