I walk to the side of the house where a gate leads into the back garden, unlatch it with a hand that is shaking. I stumble through the gate, into the back garden where the air is heavy with scent and the light of the moon pours through the branches of the fig trees. But I don’t notice the cool, scented air or the light of the moon.
I am shaking.
It feels like every feeling I have ever had is rampaging inside me, hurling against the walls of my body, trying to get out. I can’t work out how I feel.
I am shaking.
I feel maddened. Like a bull in a ring with the first of the matador’s swords sunk in the solid ridge of its shoulders.
I want to shout. Scream even. Shout and scream until my throat is sore and my voice runs out and there is nothing else to say. Nothing left to shout. My breath comes in shaky bursts, as if I have run a marathon, which I have never done and never will because I don’t do anything.
I don’t do anything.
I never do anything.
I don’t know what the point of me is.
I thought I could help.
I always think I can help.
I can’t help.
Iris is going to die.
Iris is going to end her life.
She is going to kill herself and there’s nothing I can do because I don’t do anything because I never do anything because I can’t do anything because nothing I do will make any difference.
The thoughts go around and around. A blur of thoughts. I am dizzy with them.
The need to do something – anything – is solid. A brick wall of need with no beginning and no ending.
And then I see the cage that Monsieur Lalouette calls an aviary but which is really a cage. Inside, the pigeons sleep, their heads tucked into the finery of their plumage, their dreams innocent of the carnage of their fate.
I run towards the cage, wrench back the bolt and fling the door open.
The pigeons lift their heads from their breasts and fix me with their beady black eyes.
Other than that, nothing happens.
‘Go on,’ I tell them, and even my voice is shaking. I point to the sky. ‘You’re free,’ I tell them.
The birds shuffle on their various perches and one of them emits a low coo, but, other than that, nothing happens.
I storm inside the cage and the smell is physical, like an assault. I breathe through my mouth. Now I can taste the smell. I point at the open cage door. ‘Go on,’ I tell them again as if, perhaps, they hadn’t heard me the first time. ‘Get out. I’m freeing you.’
The pigeons make a dreadful racket now, and those on the upper perches seek refuge on the lower ones, cowering together as if there is safety in numbers.
‘I’m trying to help you,’ I tell them, stabbing my finger in the air, towards the door.
The open door.
Freedom.
I lunge at the nearest pigeon. Pick it up. I’ve never held a bird before. The body feels firm but warm, with the benefit of feathers.
I hold it at arm’s length and duck my head as I emerge from the cage. I lift it towards the sky, open my hands.
Nothing happens.
The bird squats on the flat of my palms, looking at me. His eyes are unblinking and in their reflection I see myself; my white face and my worried eyes and my open mouth, as if I’m about to say something.
I need to say something.
‘Fly away,’ I tell the bird. ‘You’re free now.’ I stretch my hands further. As far as they will reach. The sky is clear. Smugly serene. I want to grab it, tear it down, rip it up. I want it to rain. To lash. I want there to be wind. A gale force, to twist and bend the branches of the fig trees and the lovingly tended rose bushes that stand so still in their neat little rows, unhindered by weeds. Unhindered by life.
‘GO!’ I roar at the bird.
Still, he sits in my hands, untroubled by my rage or my demands. I lower my hands and lift them, raising the bird towards that smug sky again, this time letting my hands part so he has no choice but to spread his wings and take flight. I hold my breath as I watch him go, the span of his wings wider than his small body suggests.
He flies to the nearest branch of the nearest tree and perches there, cocking his head as he studies me.
I run at the bird. I think I shout. The sound is guttural. Almost a wail. I wheel around, but no lights snap on inside the house. Behind me, the pigeons in their cage coo gently.
I race back inside the cage, flapping my arms wildly about, trying to get them to move, to leave their cage, to fly away. They shuffle this way and that, avoiding my flailing limbs. Not one of them takes their leave or even glances at the open door.
After a while, I stop.
I step out of the cage, close the door, bolt it. The birds go back to sleep. I lie on the grass, stare at the sky and the moon and the stars and try not to think about anything. Try to breathe the way I used to breathe. In and out, like a normal person. Like the normal person I was before I began this hare-brained odyssey.
Slowly, slowly, my breath subsides, becomes manageable. I stop shaking. My heart stops pounding. Now, I can feel the cool damp of the grass through the thin fabric of my top. Now, I can smell the lavender and the roses and the honeysuckle. In the tree, the pigeon gives me one last look before spreading his wings and taking to the sky. I hold my breath as I watch him, his glide so graceful and silent. He turns and swoops, landing beside the locked door of the cage. He pecks at the bars with his sturdy little beak.
I stand up, brush the grass from my skirt, remove a pigeon feather from my hair. I walk towards the cage, pull the bolt back, open the door. The bird waddles inside, hops onto the nearest perch, tucks his head inside his plumage and goes back to sleep. I press my face against the bars of the cage, shut my eyes. But the dark cannot protect me from the glaring truth.
I have run out of road.
28
YOUR VEHICLE MUST HAVE MIRRORS FITTED SO THAT YOU ALWAYS KNOW WHAT IS BEHIND AND TO EACH SIDE.
I wake with a blinding headache, a sawdust-dry mouth, and a keen aversion to the brightness of the day. I kick the duvet off my sweating body. It does little to alleviate the weight of heat with which I am suffused.
And the weight of an all-too-vivid recollection of what passed between me and Iris last night.
The memory of what I said – what I did – is shard-sharp. Mother Nature’s way of making up for my father’s disintegrating recall, perhaps.
And Iris. My wonderful friend, Iris. The accusations I hurled at her. And before that, back at the start. In Dublin. The promise I made her. The one I never intended to keep. The pretences I employed, to get her to agree to my presence here.
My intentions were good.
And here we are now. On this paved road to hell.
And there is Vera again, shaking her head at my stupidity. My blind refusal to accept what was there the whole time. Right there, in front of my face.
I struggle out of bed, kick the duvet out of my way and stumble towards the bathroom, where I swallow two of Dad’s painkillers, on an empty stomach, washed down with possibly bacteria-laced French tap water that I collect in the scoop of my hand.
I make the mistake of looking at myself in the mirror.
My eyes are the worst. The lids pulpy and swollen from crying, the whites threaded with red veins, semi-circles of bruised and baggy purple skin beneath.
I go back to bed without even checking on Dad.
I feel detached. Like a balloon that has slipped from the grip of a child and is lifted away by the wind, becoming smaller and smaller before it disappears.
I form no thoughts. I have no plan.
I lie in bed, stare at the ceiling, wait for the painkillers to do their job.
I don’t know how long it takes. Long, I think.
When the worst of the headache has passed, I ease myself out of bed, stumble to my suitcase, grab the first thing I see, pull it over my head. I don’t have the energy for the onslaught of a shower.
I check on Dad. He is asleep, so I close the door gently and move to Iris’s room.
I knock.
There is no answer.
I knock again.
‘Iris?’ I whisper.
No response.
I knock again. And again.
‘Iris?’ Louder this time.
I press my ear against the door.
I hear nothing.
I open the door slowly, push my head through the small gap I have created.
The room is empty, the bed made, the window ajar so that the lace curtains sway gently in the morning breeze.
I stumble back to my room, grab my phone, ring Iris’s mobile.
This is Iris. Leave a message but not a long one.
I hang up, toss the phone onto my bed, rush out of the room, down the stairs.
Madame and Monsieur Lalouette are at either end of the dining-room table – set for five – eating identical bowls of what looks like prunes, in silence.
Monsieur Lalouette looks up. ‘Ah, you are finally awake,’ he says, tapping the face of his watch with one of his meaty fingers.
‘Oh. Oui. Je me sentais un peu malade.’
Madame Lalouette’s spoon pauses halfway to her mouth to give her time to shake her head slowly from side to side to demonstrate her … I don’t know. Nothing good anyway. I find that I don’t care.
‘Has Iris already eaten?’ I ask Monsieur Lalouette in French that seems oddly effortless. Perhaps because I am not dwelling on it. I can’t think about anything right now. Except Iris.
Where is Iris?
‘No,’ he says.
The pair resume their breakfast, lowering their spoons into their bowls in tandem, lifting them to their mouths, which open just wide enough to allow the withered-looking purple fruit to tip inside.
‘Have you seen her?’ I ask, taking a step nearer the table.
Monsieur Lalouette nods his head, continues eating.
The urge to grab his bowl and pour the contents over his head is enormous. I clench my fists.
‘Where is she?’ I say.
It is Madame Lalouette’s turn to speak now, apparently. She examines me over the tops of her glasses.
‘Your friend has left,’ she says with a sort of caustic accent on the word friend.
‘Gone?’ A rash of goosebumps breaks out across my skin.
The couple continue eating.
‘What do you mean, gone?’ I say.
‘I believe my wife’s meaning is perfectly clear,’ says Monsieur Lalouette. ‘Your friend is gone.’
‘But is she coming back?’ My voice is louder now, and the pain in my head, which had dimmed with the medication, returns in slow, deliberate waves.
Monsieur Lalouette shrugs. ‘It is not my habit to enquire of my guests as to their intentions.’
‘Did she have her case with her? Did she say anything?’
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘She had her case. And no, she did not grace us with any conversation.’
‘Well, did you see what direction she went in? Was she walking?’
‘I believe we have told you everything we know,’ he says, setting his spoon on the table beside his bowl. A spool of viscous liquid dribbles from it. He picks up a napkin, dabs at the corners of his mouth.
I try to think through the pain in my head.
THINK.
‘There’s a taxi isn’t there?’
‘Of course,’ says Madame Lalouette.
‘Do you have the number?’ I say.
‘What number?’ Monsieur Lalouette asks.
‘THE TELEPHONE NUMBER!’
‘There is no need to raise your voice,’ says Madame Lalouette.
I lunge towards the table, and they flinch, and I don’t even care. I speak to them in the kind of French I had no idea I was capable of. ‘Listen to me,’ I say. ‘Iris isn’t well. And she thinks I’ve let her down. I have let her down. I need to find her. Please. Can you help me?’
They look at each other by way of consultation and seem to reach some sort of consensus because when they turn back to me, Monsieur Lalouette says, ‘Thirty-three, fifty-four, sixty-two, fifteen.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, running towards the stairs, taking them two at a time, repeating the number in my head as I go.
I find my mobile phone, punch in the number and it begins to ring.
And ring.
And ring.
Until it stops ringing and the line goes dead. No answering machine, no nothing.
THINK.
I sit on the edge of the bed, close my eyes and massage my temples with my fingers.
What do I know?
I don’t know anything.
THINK.
I think that Iris has taken a taxi.
I know she wants to go to Zurich.
To the clinic. Pax, it’s called.
I know that she doesn’t think she can rely on me any longer. She can’t trust me.
I ring her number again.
This is Iris. Leave a message but not a long one.
I hang up. Ring the taxi. It rings out.
I leap up and grab my stuff, hurl everything into Dad’s suitcase. I run into his room. He’s asleep. I pull open the curtains. On the windowsill, his dentures, magnified in the glass of water.
‘Dad,’ I say. ‘Dad, wake up, we’re going.’ He doesn’t budge.
I put my hand on his shoulder, shake him gently.
‘Teresa?’ He holds his hand across his forehead like a visor, blinks at me.
‘Dad, come on, please. We have to go.’
‘Do you need a lift?’
‘Yes.’
He pushes himself into a sitting position, eases his legs over the edge of the bed. ‘Okay then,’ he says, nodding at me.
He was always great for lifts. He’d get out of his bed at any hour and in all weathers.
He might grumble about it, drive with a face like thunder. But he’d show up. Get us to where we needed to be.
Dad is at his most sluggish in the mornings. His most confused. Before his cup of tea. Before his medication.
I wrestle his trousers over his pyjama bottoms and pull a T-shirt over his pyjama top. He does not comment on the frenzy of my ministrations. I coax his feet into clean socks, tie his laces. Double knot, so he can’t untie them. I rinse his dentures, hand them to him.
‘Are we going somewhere?’ he asks.
‘We have to find Iris,’ I say.
‘Iris?’ His forehead furrows.
‘Iris Armstrong. My friend,’ I tell him. ‘Remember?’
He nods. ‘I remember,’ he says, and I hug him tightly because he doesn’t remember but he’s pretending he does. For me. He pats me awkwardly on the arm.
‘What about …’ He struggles to find the word. It takes longer than usual. I clench with impatience.
‘What about …’ he repeats slowly. And then, finally, ‘Breakfast.’
I take his hand and pull him into my room, give him the cereal bar I keep for emergencies in the zipsection of my handbag. He lifts it towards his mouth and I have to grab his hand, remove the wrapper. I shove Dad’s belongings into the suitcase, ring the taxi again.
No answer.
I rush downstairs with my wallet. Madame Lalouette is poised in the middle of the hallway with forms in one hand and a pen in the other. On the hall table, the – empty – bottle of wine from the garden, along with the two mugs.
Evidence.
I decide I don’t have time to feel mortified. ‘How much do I owe you?’ I ask her.
‘Firstly, you must fill in these feedback forms,’ she says, extending her hand with the sheaf of papers.
‘No,’ I say. ‘Sorry.’ I open my wallet, take out a wad of notes. ‘How much?’ I repeat.
She waves the forms in my direction, stepping closer. ‘You must. It is a requirement.’
I shake my head. ‘No,’ I say again. I don’t even add ‘sorry’ this time. Instead, I leave a bundle of notes on the table and say, ‘Keep
the change.’ I race back up the stairs where Dad has finished the cereal bag and is mooching around in my handbag, no doubt looking for more vittles.
I take Lucas’s card out of my handbag. He answers after two rings.
‘Lucas, it’s me, Terry. Terry Shepherd. I—’
‘Irish dancing Terry?’ he says, like he knows many Terrys and he’s trying to work out which one I am.
‘But listen Lucas, there’s a … situation, and I need my car in a hurry.’
‘It’s ready.’
‘Really? Oh, that’s brilliant.’
‘It doesn’t look great, but it will go.’
‘Will it go as far as Zurich?’
‘Of course. I will drive it to the Lalouettes’.’
‘Can you do that now? I mean, immediately? Sorry, it’s just—’
‘I will,’ he says and hangs up. I throw my phone into my handbag, pick up Dad’s suitcase. I scan the room. I seem to have everything.
Except Iris.
‘Come on, Dad,’ I say. ‘We need to leave before Mrs Sprat calls the B&B police.’
Downstairs there is no sign of the Lalouettes. The cash and wine bottle and mugs have been removed from the table, which has been the benefactor of a recent dust and polish. The forms – unfilled – are still there. I ignore them, open the door. I walk towards the garden gate. From the back garden, I hear the pigeons, cooing.
We inch along the garden path towards the gate, Dad slower than usual. I used to skip beside him, when I was little. That was the only way I could keep up with his long stride.
‘Are you okay, Dad?’
‘I’m tired,’ he says.
‘We’re nearly there,’ I tell him.
‘Where?’
‘To where we’re going.’
‘Will Teresa be there?’
I don’t have to answer because Lucas arrives in my car. My repaired car. I have never been so glad to see anyone. Lucas pulls down the window. ‘Good morning,’ he says, and his tone is straightforward. Uncomplicated. As if nothing is strange. As if Iris has not disappeared.
Rules of the Road Page 26