Are You Watching Me

by Sinéad Crowley

  ‘I’m actually not going back to Tír na nÓg right now; I’m meeting some friends. So I’ll see you later, alright?’

  Not bothering to hear his response, she strode across the reception area, pushed through the heavy double doors and walked quickly out on to the street. She took a quick look around to make sure he wasn’t following close behind and then broke into a sprint, through a damp laneway and out on to the main road, not stopping until she was sure she was free.

  Leaning, panting, against a garden wall, she fought the urge to laugh. Jesus, she hadn’t run that fast from a fella since the fifth-year disco. Then again, maybe she’d be better off if she had run away more often – from fellas, and temptation in general. Her smile faded. Her mouth was bone dry but she’d forgotten to bring any water with her. Stupid thing to do.

  The electronic sign on a nearby shelter said the next bus into town was fifteen minutes away. That would give Richard plenty of time to catch up with her, if he was so inclined. Prising herself away from the wall, Liz decided to walk home instead, and then realised she had forgotten her iPod too. More stupidity. Stupid girl.

  Get a grip, Elizabeth. He’s just some oul fella who thinks he’s still a player. Nothing more to it than that. Don’t beat yourself up. But the unplanned sprint, together with the adrenaline dip following the radio interview, had left her shaken and unsure.

  Her heart was pounding now and she tried to slow her breathing down.

  My sister said to say hi – really? It was probably nothing, just a coincidence, one of the thousands that happened in Dublin every day. But Liz couldn’t say that for definite, because she couldn’t remember anything. Had she insulted the woman one night or stolen her boyfriend? Kissed him on the dance floor where everyone could see?

  A blush flooded across her cheeks. She was sweating now, and not just from the run. Who did she think she was, anyway? The bright young thing, the media star. Yeah, right. Stupid bitch. She knew nothing. Was nothing.

  She needed a drink.

  The thought was there all of the time, but most of the time she kept it submerged.

  Don’t go there.

  Had she said it out loud? A businesswoman, fiftyish and fabulous in a belted trench coat and black-framed glasses, gave Liz a startled look as she rushed past. Was her misery that obvious? A drink would fix her in seconds. Or, better still, a smoke, or – oh, God, yeah – a line of blow. Liz almost groaned at the thought of it. The anticipation of the powder laid out in front of her. The tingle as she inhaled. The rush as it powered into her bloodstream and pierced her brain. The feeling of being whole again.

  You’re better than this.

  Tom’s words tumbled into her brain. Spoken the night he’d brought her home and waited outside the toilet door while she puked up the tea he’d made her, before emerging pale, tearful and desperate for something to make her feel better again.

  ‘You’re better than this.’

  ‘You don’t know me.’

  ‘I don’t have to.’

  It could have been the script from some stupid romantic movie, except it was Tom, and he had meant every word of it. He promised to look after her that night, and he had kept that promise. Liz had kept hers as well, and had folded the drugs and the drink, the memory of them and the longing for them, deep inside her skin. But every so often the desire for them broke through. A little help. She wanted it so badly.

  She’d walk. She’d drink coffee. She’d be OK.

  But the takeaway Americano made things worse, not better. Liz’s nerve endings were jangling and the caffeine frazzled them further. A smoke would calm her down. There was a pub near here, guys who’d know how to sort her out. She could be in and out in a few minutes, no one would know.

  I’d know.

  Fuck off, Tom. Get out of my head.

  It had started to rain heavily now and she pulled the collar of her jacket up around her face. Organised people, real, functioning people, carried umbrellas with them. Most days she was lucky if she remembered to charge her phone.

  ‘Jesus!’

  Head down, she almost walked straight into a couple of lost tourists staring helplessly at a soggy map and muttering about Trinity College.

  ‘Could you help, please?’

  ‘No, no, I’m sorry.’

  She couldn’t even help herself.

  The rain fell heavier and she ducked into a bookshop, but it was one of those cheap, bargain places, with shiny pastel covers and huge red signs on the wall, shrieking, Three For Two and, Buy One, Get One Free. Too much colour; too much noise; too much stimulation; too much too much. She darted back outside before the assistant could offer to help her. Trust me, love, you can’t. No one can. A tattered pumpkin display in the next window reminded her that, with Halloween now over, she was on the downward spiral towards Christmas and New Year. The least wonderful time of the year.

  Darkness fell. The figures on the streets were different now; tourists and shoppers replaced by laughing students walking three abreast, mothers with plastic-wrapped buggies, power-walking workers returning home.

  ‘Ya stupid—’

  She flinched. The yell had come from the opposite side of the street, had nothing to do with her, but she quickened her pace, anyway. Get me home. Just get me home. Ducking through the crowds, she banged shoulders with other pedestrians – excuse me, excuse me, can I just . . .? – and then she stopped asking and just barged through. I need to get home.

  An alleyway. An empty sleeping bag. Did it belong to one of their lads? Right now, she didn’t care. Get me home. Her brain was aching, thoughts and regrets shadow-boxing inside her skull.

  Get me home.

  The one good thing that had come out of her father’s death and all of the darkness: a one-bedroom apartment, her own name on the deeds, her own key. She’d never lost that key – not even during the height of the horror – had managed to stumble home to the flat every night, although not always alone.

  She was almost running now, splashing through puddles, feet sliding on the wet pavement – trying not to think about how desperate she must look, or of who might be looking at her. Just get me home. A dart across the road, a parp of a horn and she was there.

  Home. She buzzed herself in through the communal door, sprinted down the corridor till she got to her apartment. Her hands, freezing and wet, fumbled in her pocket. Crumbs and cloth; no keys. She was outside, alone, exposed. Exposed. Where had that word come from? There was no one chasing her. But she was truly shaken now, close to panic, her caffeinated, adrenalised heart battering against her chest, her eyes blurred from rain and tears combined.

  She was so tired. But just as she was about to give up, to sink down on the grotty communal carpet and burst into tears, her fingers closed on cool metal. The keys had been in her pocket the whole time, just caught up somehow in the lining. The lock clicked open. Her alarm beeped – a friendly wink to let her know her little flat was secure, and she was safe inside it. Home. Heat from the storage system pumped through the little hall. She had left a light on in the kitchen that morning and her brain calmed immediately at the thought of the frozen dinner waiting in the fridge and the movie she’d taped the night before, ready to go in the DVR.

  Home. She threw her coat on the floor, took off her sodden shoes and rested her back against the radiator for a moment. Home, and her fears had been groundless. Richard? He was just an eejit. It had meant nothing. Nor had your man Ian’s sister. Nothing. It was meaningless. She was just jittery after weeks of hard work and the shock of James’s death. She didn’t need a drink, or anything stronger – just a bath and a cup of tea. She’d been doing too much, that was the problem. Maybe a break, later in the month? She could head west for the weekend, get a cheap B & B somewhere, go for walks on the beach. Or she could just stay here. Tape a few more movies, stay in bed. Tír na nÓg would survive without her for a few days. And she would survive without going back on her word, without betraying Tom and his trust in her.

  Mind
calming, heart slowing down, Liz peeled herself away from the radiator and picked up the pile of post that was lying on the floor. Three pizza leaflets, a badly typed flyer looking for old clothes, and an electricity bill. Now that was something to panic about. Ho ho. There was also an envelope with her address in scrawled handwriting. She opened it on her way into the kitchen and wondered why she was looking at a picture of James Mannion. Then realised it was an article on his death, torn from a paper. And a note was pinned to it.

  Elizabeth. I’ve been watching you. You could be next. Stephen.

  Chapter Nine

  So Mr Mannion had been here, and now he was gone again. For good, this time.

  Elizabeth was his only constant. On the days when he could listen to her, look at her, think about her, on those days he felt, for a while at least, that he would survive. But there were never enough of those days.

  Why couldn’t you have just left things alone, Mr Mannion? Why couldn’t you have left me alone?

  He tried to keep himself busy – cut out items from the newspaper that he thought she might be interested in, kept them safe, so they’d have something to talk about when they finally met.

  If they met.

  When they met.

  ‘You should always think positively, Stephen.’

  But he doubted this was what the doctor had in mind.

  He kept his ideas in clear plastic folders. He’d had to go all the way into town to buy them, but it had been worth it, for her. Besides, he didn’t want to buy one of those scrapbooks from the local shop, the ones kids used or those nutcases off the telly with their paranoia and their conspiracy theories. Idiots, the lot of them. Stephen was nothing like them. He was just trying to keep in touch with a friend.

  Mr Mannion’s funeral was in Dublin, not Rathoban: a Mass near his home with cremation afterwards in Glasnevin Cemetery. Stephen read the details in the paper; thought, briefly, about attending. Would it be the right thing to do? There was hardly a protocol for these things, but it would be nice to see if— No. The more he thought about it, the more the breath tightened in his chest and, by the time the morning came round, he hadn’t been able to leave the bed, let alone catch the bus across the city. He had been due to start the night shift that evening, but instead called in sick to work, for the first time in fifteen years. The girl on the other end of the phone told him not to worry and to take care now and that there was something going round.

  Stephen wondered what she’d say if he told her the real reason for his absence. Her voice wouldn’t be so bright then, maybe.

  When he’d recovered enough to leave the flat, collect his sick cert and lie to the doctor about how he was feeling, he decided to take himself out for lunch, like normal people did. Brought a newspaper with him, put his phone on the table, checked it regularly so he could look as important as everyone else. Ordered a glass of wine, smiled at the waitress as if he did this sort of thing all the time. But he could still feel them looking at him. It was always the same. Wrong shoes, wrong clothes, wrong hair. He didn’t fit in anywhere.

  His mother used to tell him he wouldn’t go far wrong in a pair of slacks and an ironed shirt, but he hadn’t gone too far right, either.

  Stephen had bought himself a pair of jeans once – years back, when he was still in school. His father had given him money for a football jersey after Stephen told him he hadn’t been picked for the team because he didn’t have the right gear. That was bullshit, of course; he was just trying to get the oul lad off his back, but it was the best excuse he could come up with at the time, with the cigarette inches from his face and the smell of beery sweat strong enough to knock him over. Only trouble was, his father had believed him and handed over a twenty, no more questions. Just told him to get himself kitted out and that he’d turn up on the Saturday morning to see how he was getting on.

  He’d made it as far as the sports shop in the village and was just about to open the door when he saw the team trainer, blurred by the glass, hanging over the counter and giving a lecture to the young fella at the till. Stephen had backed away. They probably wouldn’t let him in the door, an eejit like him who tripped over his feet every time he was confronted with a ball, who ran back to his mammy when they suggested he’d be better in goal. Mightn’t even sell him the damn jersey; there were maybe rules about that sort of thing. So he had turned and walked back down the main street, shoulders hunched, the twenty quid in his pocket, hand-warmed from holding, and wondered what to do.

  Giving it back wasn’t an option. That would have involved an explanation, and a hiding, or at the very least being called whatever name came first to his father’s mind that day. He could give it to his ma, get her to spend it on herself, but, sure, that was a stupid idea as well; she’d have to account for where it had come from too.

  And then Stephen had walked past the clothes shop, the new one, halfway up the main street, and seen the pair of jeans in the window. They weren’t a mad posh pair; they didn’t have that little red label on the arse pocket that he’d seen the other lads wearing. But they were denim, and blue, and grand. Normal. He walked in then, in a kind of a daze, and answered their questions – waist size, leg length – everything they needed to know. Turned out the sizes were the same for jeans as any other pants. He’d never known that before. And then Stephen handed over the twenty and told them he’d wear the jeans home. Maybe if they were already on him the oul lad wouldn’t make too big a fuss. Maybe he’d see how well he looked in them and just let him be.

  He didn’t make it further than the hall. Da was having a bad day; he knew that as soon as he’d closed the door behind him. There was a strong smell of booze, and puke mixed in with it too: that was bad for only five o’clock in the evening.

  ‘I spoke to Jim Daly at lunchtime.’

  He’d felt like puking himself when he heard that. Didn’t say anything, though. No point. Just let his hand trail uselessly behind him, feeling the chill of the air between him and the door. He was too far away to turn the handle and leg it; hadn’t the courage, anyway.

  ‘He said he hasn’t seen you next or near the football field in weeks.’

  ‘Da . . .’

  The word came out in a high bleat – the very worst way, the way it most annoyed him. Through the closed kitchen door Stephen could hear his mother muffle a sob and his heart twisted inside him; she was trying to stay quiet, trying not to annoy his dad and bring him down on them, and there he was practically pissing himself trying to do the same thing.

  It was only then that the old man noticed the jeans. He didn’t say a word. Just reached out and grabbed his son by the belt buckle. Pulled him in towards him. Breathed puke and beer and fags down on to him. Jabbed him hard in the kidneys. Slapped him across the head; pucked him in the back of the knee until he fell to the floor. Muttered one word – ‘Thief’ – just one word and then started the kicking. Not in the head this time. Nor the arms or the hands or anywhere it would show. Just in the groin, and the kidneys. The groin and the back and the kidneys and the kidneys and the kidneys and the kidneys, until the piss ran down his legs and Stephen abandoned his silence and begged and screamed to be saved. Until the woman burst through the kitchen door and flung herself towards the mess of a child and said, ‘Kick me instead! Dear Jesus, kick me instead.’ His da left them alone then. One final boot, a slap to his mother and then out the door with him.

  Stephen fell asleep sometime after ten. The tablets his mother had got from the doctor the last time worked well enough for the pain, and he figured he’d be safe enough now his father had vented his rage. He was wrong. Da had still been drunk the following morning and dragged him from the bed, forced him to put the damp jeans back on, threw him into the back of the car and then drove him to school, the piss-stained trousers clinging to his legs.

  There was no point in making a run for it. The oul fella was going to wait in the car until he went inside. Saying no wasn’t an option. So it was easier for Stephen just to make his way into the
school and suffer the looks and the comments and the wrinkling of the noses from some, and the slight sympathy from others, and the confusion and then the horror on Mr Mannion’s face when he finally realised where the smell was coming from. And then the questions. And the pity. And the lies.

  In the end, Mr Mannion found him a spare pair of trousers and told him he’d drive him home. And after that, everything changed.

  Chapter Ten

  ‘I’ll drive.’

  Flynn opened his mouth and then closed it again just as quickly. Good man, Philip. You’ll make Inspector yet with those powers of observation. Claire jammed her sunglasses on to her nose and reversed out of the parking space with a screech. It wasn’t a particularly bright day but the sunglasses were a necessity, given the ache at the back of her eyes. The entente cordiale brought about by Anna’s first tooth hadn’t lasted long and she and Matt were back to averaging three hours’ broken sleep a night, between them. The little girl just wasn’t happy with life at the moment and wanted everyone to know. Her mother. Her father. The woman in the house next door who’d given them a sympathetic look on the first morning of Toothgate and had been muttering about soothers by day three. And their neighbour wasn’t the only one with an Opinion.

  Matt, following an hour spent buried in the baby books Claire didn’t even pretend that she had time to read anymore, had diagnosed ‘Separation Anxiety’. Claire’s mother, who phoned with depressing regularity every Sunday evening, was of the Opinion that teeth were to blame. But, as Claire had recently found out, Nuala Boyle was happy blaming everything from nappy rash to soaring temperatures on a little bit of enamel cutting through a baby gum. In fact, Claire had a sneaking suspicion that if the teenage Anna was ever to appear in court on major charges, her grandmother would be spotted whispering into the judge’s hairy ear that she hadn’t meant to do it, it was just her teeth had been at her that day. And even Matt’s mother – the gorgeous, ageless Eimear, who worked sixty-hour weeks as a senior partner in a law firm – had volunteered an unsolicited Opinion, looking over her fabulous gold-rimmed glasses during her monthly duty visit and proclaiming that the child needed to learn to ‘settle herself’, a process, she said, that ‘hadn’t done Matt any harm’.