by Jackie Walsh
‘No, everything is fine.’ He drops the spoon, full at last. ‘Will I check if there are any good movies on?’ he says, changing the subject and heading over to the sofa. He lifts the remote control and switches on the TV. So that’s that then. He’s not going to share.
* * *
The night drags on: three episodes of some Harlan Coban series, Conor checking his phone every ten minutes and two harrowing screaming sessions from Shay. When I asked Conor why he kept looking at his phone he said he was waiting to hear from some guy whose beer order had gone wrong. I didn’t believe him. He looks far too worried for that to be the problem.
At twelve o’clock, I give Shay his last feed and take him up to the bedroom. The sky is pitch black. Lying there, waiting for Conor to come up to bed, night terrors begin to creep into my thoughts. It’s like a switch going on, telling me it’s time to exaggerate all my fears now. So I do. Conor killed Vicky. Is it possible? Did he leave in the middle of the night while I was sleeping? Fintan is definitely covering up something for him. But murder? And why? Was Conor having an affair with Vicky? Did she threaten to tell? I can’t see Conor murdering Vicky to save his reputation. But what if it wasn’t his reputation that needed saving? Who else would he be willing to kill for?
Chapter Twenty-Six
It’s been a year and four months since I first met Conor. I’d been coughing all night. Amanda heard me in the room next door and ordered me to pick up a cough bottle on my way to work. I considered skipping work, ringing in sick but I knew I shouldn’t, I was lucky enough to have been offered the job. If it wasn’t for Amanda, I wouldn’t have; she hassled her boss on a regular basis to give me a chance. God knows what else she had to do for him.
Pete Gunner, the boss, was a nice enough guy but he still lived with the schoolyard attitude that boys were the best. He looked surprised when he discovered women could do the job, patting them on the back or continuously looking at them while shaking his head in admiration. His out-of-date attitude towards women was sharply at odds with his cutting-edge approach to business. He ran one of the few motivational businesses in Ireland at the time.
Imanage offered companies new ways to do their business, updating them on approach, technology and marketing. Pete also developed some of the first team-building exercises for staff. At first I didn’t understand any of it. Imanage didn’t sell anything except ideas – mostly other people’s ideas. But it worked. Pete’s workforce was growing as big as his bank balance, which was when Amanda got a job there. Followed soon after by her struggling big sister.
If Pete was expecting the same bubbly enthusiasm Amanda was able to fake, he must have been slightly disappointed when I walked through the door.
No surprise I wasn’t awarded one of the motivational roles. My contribution was more traditional: sit at the reception desk, answer the phone, direct the visitors to their allotted areas. But on this day, the day of the cough, I was asked to sit in on one of the motivational talks. Apparently the flu that I was bravely fighting had swum through the whole building taking down some weaker targets, and now they were short an assistant in the green room. It wasn’t a green room like they have for people going on TV. All the rooms at Imanage were identified by colour instead of numbers. ‘Forward-thinking,’ according to Pete. Easier for the clients to remember, and there were other reasons too. Something to do with belonging and feeling like a team. Pete Gunner seemed to have taken the school playground very serious.
My role was not going to change anyone’s life. I was to sit in the room, hand out literature when directed and try and look interested. I didn’t have to believe any of it, but by the time I left the first session I was so fired up I was already planning to run for president.
It didn’t last long. By the end of the day I didn’t have the enthusiasm to vote for president, never mind run for it. Hearing the same thing over and over loses its effect. But as luck would have it, I was assigned the same role the following day, a day that was to change my life forever.
In the spirit of my temporary promotion, I made an extra special effort when getting dressed for work. It was something I’d learned in the session the day before: to dress as I want to be treated. So, the navy suit that went so easily unnoticed behind the reception desk, was replaced by a light tweed skirt with a leather belt, a tight white polo neck and short black leather jacket. All courtesy of Amanda.
I have to admit, I did feel a lot more confident pushing open the rotating doors and walking towards the green room in heels that would normally be kept for hen parties.
I arrived early, part of the new improved Laura, and so had the guy sitting alone in the room. His tightly-fitted grey suit clung to his toned body. His dark hair, lightly gelled, cut short above his square-shaped face. He was clean-shaven, smelt of effort, and when he caught my eye, I immediately blushed. He stood up when I walked in. I presumed he thought I was the lecturer.
‘Sorry if I’m a bit early, I can never predict the traffic,’ he said.
With my new-found confidence I waved him back into his seat.
‘You can never be early, only late.’ Something else I’d heard the day before.
I could see him smirking, his smile reached from ear to ear displaying a perfect set of teeth. He was probably wondering how much more of this shit he was going to be subjected to as the day progressed.
‘Are you here for the course too?’ he said.
Disappointed that he didn’t think my words of wisdom rendered me already qualified, I said, ‘No, facilitating.’
‘Oh.’ This seemed to cheer him. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs.
‘Well, not facilitating as such, I’m assisting.’
‘Well aren’t we the lucky group?’ he said.
I smiled at him – maybe I shouldn’t have, but compliments and I had become such distant friends I was delighted to get reacquainted.
‘Did your boss send you?’ I said.
‘Well, I kinda wanted to come.’
I wanted to say, are you mad? You volunteered for this? But I didn’t – I didn’t think Pete would appreciate his staff undermining his years of hard bullshit.
‘Oh, why is that?’ I smiled at him.
The guy laughed, stood up from his chair and walked over to the water station just as I got there. He poured some water from one of the jugs and offered it to me. I took it. Then he poured himself one.
‘Just want to stay on top, find out what’s new; you don’t always know what the latest trends are when you’re living outside the capital.’
I took one look at his suit. ‘Oh, I’d say you’re doing okay.’ Then I walked away with my glass of water.
It was the best motivational class ever. I was motivated by greed, lust and possibly even love. Once or twice I caught him glancing my way, and anytime I had to hand him some literature he kept the paper longer in his grip before taking it from me than he had to, smiling up at me, flirting.
When the end of the session arrived I could sense him standing behind me. By now I knew his name was Conor because everyone had introduced themselves and their line of business. The guy worked in a brewery. At first I thought it was one of those new craft breweries popping up all over the place but no, Callbrew was an old, famous brand. The guy of my dreams could even get free booze.
I didn’t expect any further contact from him, assuming that he already had a beautiful girlfriend – or many of them – and that his interest in me was just a distraction from the boredom of the classroom. But nothing could stop me dreaming.
The following day, I was reassigned to my proper station back at reception, the sick people returned and I was back where I belonged. Answering the phone. I’d kicked off the shoes below my desk and was resigned to wearing the navy suit when I answered the call. It was him; I recognised the lilt in his voice. Was he ringing to book another session? Or to complain about the last one, maybe? No. He was asking if he could speak to me, Laura, the girl from the green room.
&nbs
p; Chapter Twenty-Seven
The sun is beaming into the room when I hear Shay’s cry. It feels like twelve o’clock in Spain but it’s ten o’clock in Ballycall.
With Shay rocking on my shoulder, I walk to the landing window at the front of the house and look out at the day. Everything is so peaceful. Green, clean and without any human blight.
I yearn for human blight. Which is why I decided myself and Shay were going to get dressed and visit our friendly village. Being stuck in the house has made me lose my mind. I’m beginning to think unbelievable things. I lay in bed last night believing Conor could be a murderer, or be involved some way in what happened to Vicky. Which is ludicrous. I need to clear my head, distract myself and panic less. If there is something I should be concerned about, Conor will tell me. I’m sure. That’s what I want to believe. But how can I when he didn’t tell me what the detective wanted?
‘Mammy is going mad cooped up in this house, Shay.’ Searching through his wardrobe of tiny clothes, most of which will have to be donated before he even gets a chance to wear them, I find a snowy, grey, all-in-one padded romper suit.
‘This will be lovely on you. Perfect for our little adventure.’ I pull the tag off and try to remember who brought it to the baby shower but I can’t. There was so much stuff. So many people. So much wrapping paper.
‘C’mon Shay, let’s get going.’
I haven’t driven with Shay in the car yet. I need to shake all the doubts out of my head and concentrate. At some point I’m going to want to bring him to the city – take him to Imanage and show him off to my ex-colleagues. I don’t care if they’re interested or not, they can pretend.
Amanda said they were asking for me. They wanted to know how I was getting on living so far away from all the big lights. She painted a pretty picture for them: my fabulous house, my wonderful husband, my friendly neighbours and of course, the most beautiful baby in the world. Local murders were not mentioned.
I never thought anyone could be jealous of me. It was Amanda people envied. She was prettier, bubblier, attracted any amount of friends. I just stood by her side and benefited. Sometimes I wonder what my life would have been like if I hadn’t got Amanda to run it for me. Would I be here now? I doubt it. Or maybe I would. Maybe I would have excelled if I hadn’t looked for her approval all the time.
With Shay safely in the car seat, I buckle up, press the ignition button and leave to find some form of life.
* * *
The village is a little busier today, the sun a welcome change from the recent wet days. In front of me an old man walks with an old woman across the street. They link arms, both warmed by grey coats, her with a red hat, him with a black one. I slow the car to a stop to let them by. Neither looks up as they drag their feet, and each other, across the road.
That could be me and Conor someday; holding each other up, having faced life’s challenges. Doing the shuffle of survival. A part of me wants to ask them how they managed it. How did they learn to trust one another? How do I learn to trust Conor?
I find a parking space close to the coffee shop and unload Shay.
‘I’ll get better at this,’ I tell myself, having finally secured the seat into the buggy. The path is worn, broken in places. Shay is being bopped around left, right and centre. I think he likes it though. His eyes are open wide, taking everything and nothing in. Thankfully, he’s not objecting.
* * *
Shay is objecting. I’ve only just sat down with a frothy cup of coffee when I hear him. For a new baby he sure can cry loudly. Rocking the buggy won’t do it. I’ll have to take him out.
‘Do you need a hand there, Laura?’ Helen is standing behind me, her hand reaching out to hold the buggy in place while I lift Shay into my arms.
‘Thanks Helen, I didn’t see you.’ I look around to see if Maggie is with her. I hope not. It’s not that I don’t like Maggie. I do. But I feel like I have to watch my p’s and q’s when she’s around. I have to be careful not to say the wrong thing or ask the wrong question or I’ll be subjected to the exclusive mother-in-law stare that she has perfected specifically for me. Helen sees me scan the room.
‘Don’t worry.’ She smiles. ‘I’m on my own. Do you mind if I sit here?’ Helen points to the chair opposite mine, hanging her bag on the back of it before I have time to answer.
‘The usual.’ She nods up at the counter.
The bottle is still warm when I take it out of the bag and shake it. Shay’s eyes widen, his tongue making an appearance. Like father, like son. The girl with the long dark hair who was in the hairdresser’s the other day is placing Helen’s order on the table. A pot of tea and a slice of apple pie.
‘Would you like one?’ Helen says, pulling the plate closer to her. ‘Derbhla makes them herself… Don’t you, Derbhla?’
Helen looks up at the girl who nods. I’m not in the mood for apple pie but I am trying to make friends here, and if it means eating Derbhla’s homemade apple pie, well, so be it.
‘Well if you made it yourself,’ I say, smiling up at the girl who has nothing to say.
With Shay sleeping in the buggy, I finally get to drink my coffee. It’s cold but I’m not going to complain. The last thing I want is to appear fussy. Not with the ‘city girl’ tag dangling around my neck.
Helen is picking the last few crumbs from the plate. We’ve already discussed the weather and the beautiful apple pie that should only ever be made with fresh apples, none of that processed stewed stuff. She even managed to apologise for arriving at the house unexpectedly the night of the funeral. Maggie had insisted. I told her it wasn’t a bother and that she was welcome anytime.
We are getting on marvellously. Maybe I should take this opportunity to find out more.
‘Have you been friends with Maggie long?’ I say, putting my hand out to tighten the blanket over my little boy.
‘Oh, all our lives, Laura. We both grew up here.’
‘You must have been a big help to her when Seamus passed away.’
‘Indeed, indeed. A terrible time it was for Maggie, such a horrible thing to happen.’ Helen is draining the last of the tea out of the little flower-printed teapot.
‘What happened exactly?’
‘Well, I’m sure Conor told you.’
‘He told me he died in an accident, I just presumed it was a car crash.’
‘No no no. It wasn’t a car crash. There was an accident in the factory.’
My cup is now empty, but I lift it to my lips anyway to keep her talking.
‘He got locked into one of the vats and drowned.’
‘What?’
I think my sudden jerk of disbelief has shocked Helen into retreating. She’s sorry she said anything now.
‘Sure, it was a long time ago. Accidents happen.’ She turns her head to call for the bill. ‘I better get going, Georgina is expecting me shortly,’ she says.
Helen takes her bag and walks to the counter. Before leaving, she tells me she’s paid for mine too. Nodding a thank you, I tell her I hope to see her again soon – then pity myself for meaning it. What has my life come to? Where are all the young people?
With Shay fast asleep in the buggy, I decide to make a move. I can understand why Conor never elaborated on his father’s accident. What a horrible thing to have to recount. Poor Conor.
The other night he told his mother not to gossip about Vicky’s murder. He made some comment about knowing how that felt. Rumours. There must have been rumours going around after his father’s accident. But what were they?
Derbhla pulls the door open, making it easier for me to push the buggy out. With nowhere to be, I decide to indulge in the fresh air, take a walk to the church grounds, stroll around the graveyard. Maybe bump into some old ghosts.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
It’s only one o’clock in the afternoon, how am I going to fill this day? Two laps of the graveyard is enough for anyone. I left the house hoping to make contact with the living, not the dead.
There was an abundance of flowers on Vicky’s grave. I wonder what her headstone will say? That she went too early? That’s what it says on Seamus’s headstone. I can’t help thinking about something so horrific happening. Conor is going to have to talk to me about it. He should want to talk to me about it. Maybe he has blocked it from his mind. Recalling the details might be too hard for him.
The day I asked him how his father died, I was sitting in the passenger seat of the fanciest car I’d ever been in. I can’t remember how his father came up in conversation, but when I asked him what killed him, I expected him to say a heart attack or cancer.
With his eyes firmly on the road ahead, he told me he had died in an accident. Conor didn’t elaborate and I didn’t ask. I presumed it was too upsetting for him to rehash and he hasn’t spoken about it since. The poor guy, I wonder was he there at the time? The most I ever heard him speak about his father was at our wedding when his loving words brought a tear to Maggie’s eye.
With the highlights of the village completed, I get back into the car. Where to now?
I decide to call in at Conor’s office. See exactly what goes on over there. It might help unravel the mystery surrounding the detective’s visit. Or, I could find out more about the accident involving Conor’s dad. But I must be discreet. I don’t want Conor thinking I suspect anything is amiss.
Conor will be thrilled to see little Shay. He can show him the chair he’ll probably be sitting on in twenty-five years. Or maybe not. Conor says he doesn’t want any of his kids to feel like they have to take over the business. He wants them to make their own choices. Have the life they chose. Unlike himself. Bottling beer is a far cry from discovering stars.
It’s a noble position for Conor to take, but we’ll see if he still feels that way when one of his own progeny decide they don’t want to play for Ballycall GAA Club and choose to play for an opposition team.