Better to talk, not think.
She turned back to Felim, smiled again. ‘Are you off it long yourself?’
‘Fifteen years.’
His eyes were, she noticed, a startling shade of blue, and the whites were clear.
‘Not worth it, is it?’
‘No.’
Their heads were close together now, knees almost touching on the sagging sofa. The room had emptied a little, three of the men having left to go outside for a smoke, and Liz could feel herself starting to relax. In one corner, Michael was reading the paper and muttering to himself about chancers in the Dáil. At the table, Tom and Eugene were still engrossed in the game of Scrabble. Life was going on as normal, or as normal as it got in Tír na nÓg.
‘You’re only a young one, though; you don’t want to throw your life away.’
Felim sounded so sincere that Liz gave a genuine smile.
‘Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?’
She shook her head, about to say no, and then looked at him. She hadn’t been able to tell Tom what had happened, couldn’t bear the thought of it. He had put so much work into fixing her, she hadn’t had the heart to tell him how little it had taken to mess it all up again. A couple of stupid anonymous notes, destroying everything they both had worked so hard for. But there was something about Felim that made her feel like she could tell him anything – confess to him, without the need for an act of contrition afterwards.
‘I got a couple of letters. From this guy called Stephen. Weird stuff, mentioning James and that. They’ve just freaked me out, that’s all.’
He nodded, calmly. Felim was a man, she figured, who didn’t get freaked out often. Maybe he had seen it all before.
‘And have you gone to the guards?’
She took another sip of Coke.
‘No. My friend, Dean – he says this sort of stuff happens all the time. You know, because I’ve been on the TV and stuff. Anyway, I did something stupid. I threw the first one away, and I got pissed and burned the other one. So I’ve no proof. And I’m afraid they’ll laugh if I tell them that.’
Felim raised his hand as if to pat hers, and then took it away again. His respecting of her boundaries, after Richard’s earlier advances, made her so grateful Liz almost burst into tears.
Felim gave a shy grin. ‘They’re not all bad, the Gardaí. You might find a decent fella, someone who’ll listen to you.’
Liz shook her head. The guards hadn’t been on her side, back in the day. She had no reason to believe things would be different now.
As if he knew what she was thinking, Felim smiled again. ‘You’re a good girl, Elizabeth. I can call you a girl, can’t I? You’re only a young one. I don’t care what you do or what you did outside of here. In here, in this place, you’re a hero. You do great work. You shouldn’t let this type of thing drag you down.’
He looked across the room to where Tom was now locked in a debate over a triple-word score.
‘Everyone in here thinks a lot of you, and that lad over there is very fond of you. You’ve a good friend there. But do you know something? He can’t fix you.’
It was funny, she realised, how they had both used the exact same word without knowing it.
‘He can’t fix whatever happened. Whatever happened to you in the past and whatever happened this week to set you back, he can’t make it better. It’s you that has to tackle it, face up to it. Lookit, anything would be better than this, wouldn’t it?’
The sweep of his arm encompassed the Scrabble players, the dingy room, their lives.
‘I’m just an oul fella, seeing out my days. You’ve fifty years of life ahead of you to enjoy, if you want to.’
This time he did pat her hand, squeezing it awkwardly before pulling away again. Liz sat back on the sofa, drained, but, for the first time that day, somewhat at peace. Eugene laughed, a surprisingly high-pitched squeal, and in an instant the room seemed to have shifted back on its axis again. The furniture was homely, not scruffy. The men friendly, not strange.
Not home, but something like it. Somewhere safe.
Chapter Fourteen
It was three o’clock in the morning when Stephen realised that writing to her would never be enough. He needed to see her, speak to her. Needed to tell her everything.
Memories of Mr Mannion had kept him from sleeping. Always ‘Mr Mannion’. Never ‘James’. Gone now, but still with him – the memories too. Hot breath on his neck, spittle in his face.
Hurt in the places the marks don’t show.
He drifted into an unsettled sleep then and woke again at noon, foggy headed, shaken, less certain. Why her? Why now?
Why not?
A pain, deep beneath his kidneys. The body remembers. Stephen heaved himself out of bed and stood for a moment, dizzy, as the blood sank from his head. Maybe it would be best to lie down again, wait for it all to go away.
But maybe it never would.
He would tell her, and then everything would be OK.
He was too anxious to eat, but spent a long time in the shower, using scented shampoo that had been left in there by one of the other tenants. Then he ironed three shirts before deciding which one to wear, pulled on socks without holes in them and polished his shoes. By the time he was ready to leave, it was the middle of the afternoon, but the delay would have been worth it, if he got to meet her. If she noticed the effort he had made. Elizabeth.
She would understand. He could make her understand.
My Elizabeth.
Stop right there.
It wasn’t a long journey and Stephen considered walking, but didn’t want to sweat inside his shirt so caught a bus instead. Then, almost immediately regretted the decision. The vehicle was packed, clammy and airless and, after inching his way to the only available seat, he found himself pinned against the unopened window, hemmed in by a bearded tourist whose backpack made him look like a large upended beetle. An old man on a disabled seat stared at him as if he knew exactly where he was going, and what he was going to do.
But how could he, when Stephen wasn’t sure himself? Well, not really.
Lost in misery and self-doubt, he almost missed his stop and had to scramble past the beetle, two laughing women and a large baby buggy to get to the door. His heart was racing now, his fingers slipping on the plastic pole and they missed the button that would get the bus to STOP and let him out of there and then the baby was crying and the women were still laughing and they didn’t see him trying to MOVE past them and GET OFF HE NEEDED TO GET OFF. ‘Excuse me please I think I . . .’
The driver noticed him, in the end, and slid open the doors while they were stopped at a set of traffic lights. They weren’t supposed to do that, but something about the panic on the face of the man in the sticky shirt made her not want him on her bus for longer than she could help it.
Stephen stumbled down the steps, accepted abuse from a passing cyclist and clambered, shaking, on to the footpath. Nearly there. It had been a bad decision, to get the bus. But when had he ever made a good one?
Maybe today.
He started to walk, slowly. No point in rushing. Better to collect his thoughts, to know what he wanted to say.
To do.
To say.
Would she understand him? Would she appreciate how stupid he felt, walking along, shoulders hunched under the sweaty shirt, thoughts jumbled up in his head like tangled twine, looking for someone to find the end and pull the rope taut again?
Would she see how much he needed her? How far he was willing to go to be with her? What he was willing to do?
In many ways, he wasn’t a man at all. In his head, he was still fifteen. They said that happened sometimes, after trauma – that you stay that age forever. He read it in a newspaper; cut it out, put it in his scrapbook. Maybe he’d show it to her.
The closer he got to her, the more he thought about going home. But he had come so far. So he kept walking; took out his phone as if he was checking directions, but he didn’t need to. The address o
f the centre was the only solid, anchored thing in his head. That, and the thoughts of her.
He would know what to say when he got there. Wouldn’t he?
He licked his top lip, tasted salt, worried about it, sweated some more. Worried some more. The closer he got to her, the sicker he felt.
He leaned against a wall for a moment, bent his arm around and failed to reach the muscle in the small of his back that was twanging in pain. He imagined for a moment what it would be like to have someone rub it for him; felt a need warm and glow and grow inside him at the thought of it.
To have someone touch him there.
To have someone touch him anywhere.
Take it slowly, now.
You need to live your life again.
She’ll fix me.
Another road, a side street and, too quickly, he had arrived.
He paused at the gate. There were beads of sweat on his forehead, running down his neck. He hadn’t thought he’d get here so soon. He needed to plan what he was going to say. Somehow, at three o’clock in the morning, he had imagined the words would come easily to him, but now his thoughts were scrambled.
There is only one way to do this and that is by doing it. Advice someone had given him a long time ago. It hadn’t made sense then and it didn’t make sense now, but the rhythm of it was comforting and he turned and felt his back contract and the pain rise and subside as he walked his feet forward, through the gate, up the path and as far as the door. Only one way to do it, by doing it. Only one way to do it, by doing it. He lifted his eyes from his shoes and felt his breath flutter in his throat.
He knocked at the door.
You’ll know what to say.
‘I want to speak to Elizabeth.’
‘I’m sorry, pal. She’s not here.’
The man was easily thirty years older than him, his clothes even shabbier than his own, but there was an air of contentment about him. Belly full of food, happy smile on his face.
‘Tom’s right here – will I get him for you?’
Stephen was not prepared for this. No words came.
The man moved closer, a question in his eyes. ‘Are you alright, boy? You don’t look the best, if you don’t mind me saying so . . .’
His throat dry, Stephen scraped words from somewhere.
‘No, thanks. I’m grand.’
He forced himself to meet the man’s eyes, saw confusion there.
‘Sure, come in for a minute, anyway, and catch your breath.’
A shadow moved in the hall and Stephen felt the sweat dry cold on his skin.
He knew he was taking a risk, coming here. But he hadn’t realised just how dangerous it would be.
Wordlessly, Stephen turned and strode back down the path but the man walked after him, reached out his hand and grabbed him on the shoulder.
‘Hey – what’s your name?’
‘It’s OK; it’s fine,’ he muttered, stumbling, shaking, trying to escape. But the big man did not want to let him go.
‘No, c’mere a minute.’
The man moved closer – his eyes searching Stephen’s face, his expression suddenly hostile. ‘Here, did my brother send you looking for me, is that it?’
And other questions Stephen didn’t understand.
He stumbled his way back down the garden, out on to the footpath and crashed straight into a woman, sending the contents of her bag spilling out on to the road.
‘Here – you! I suppose a sorry is out of the question? Fuck’s sake.’
But the big man was chasing him now too, hurling questions. Stephen tried to answer him but everything he said made things worse. In the end, he just ran, the woman’s voice drifting after him.
‘Fucking eejit!’
Yeah, he thought to himself as he stumbled towards the bus stop. That’s me.
Chapter Fifteen
‘A bottle of Coors Light, please. No, actually, make it a pint. Lovely. Thanks.’
Claire slurped the foam off the top of her drink and walked slowly back to the centre of the pub, where the rest of the lads were standing in a circle, yelling at each other. It was pointless, really, drinking those fecky little bottles. She’d spend the night going up and down to the bar, if she stuck to them. She hadn’t planned on coming out this evening but, seeing as she’d gone to the trouble, she might as well make the most of it.
Taking another reviving swallow, she elbowed her way into a space between Rory Deegan and Sean Caulfield, catching the end of what sounded like a far-fetched story about a crustie, a five spot and a missing evidence bag. Deegan was hyper, hands darting, beer splashing everywhere as he gave the anecdote socks, and, although she didn’t fully understand the punch line, Claire laughed along with the rest of them, anyway. It was great, being back in a gang like this. Matt had been right to make her go.
She slid her phone out of her jeans pocket and checked the screen. Nothing. Good man, Mattie. Anna must be fast asleep, so – or at least happy to spend Friday night without her mother. Nice one. She took another gulp of her beer and had to stop herself doing a comedy exhalation – ahhhh! – as the bubbly liquid slid down her throat. Typical Matt, to know exactly what she needed.
The invite to Dave Rourke’s retirement do had been stuck to the fridge for weeks, but when she’d stomped in from the office earlier that evening, tired, sticky and frustrated by her lack of progress in the Mannion investigation, Claire hadn’t had a notion of attending. But her husband had insisted she go. She hadn’t been out in ages, he’d reminded her, and she’d enjoy it when she got there. The following day was Saturday. She could let her hair down.
There had been a funny expression on Matt’s face when he was saying it, though, like he’d been trying to say something else at the same time, and it had bothered her, a little. She’d smiled down at the child, who was playing happily in her bouncer, and then leaned against the fridge and narrowed her eyes.
‘What is it to you, whether I go or not?’
She realised the words sounded confrontational as soon as she’d said them, but something about the look on his face continued to provoke her, so she didn’t take them back, just folded her arms and waited for his reply.
‘We haven’t been out in ages – either of us.’
‘Oh, here we go again.’ She sighed, and picked up Anna’s soother, which had fallen on the floor. ‘You don’t want to come with me, do you?’
‘Christ, no!’
His look of horror took some of the tension out of the conversation, and she smiled, despite her bad mood.
‘What, drink warm beer and listen to cop talk all night? Absolutely not. I just think we should get out more, both of us, and if we can’t do it together, then we might as well do it separately. You, on a Friday; me, on a Saturday. Or whatever. Let’s just make time for it, yeah? Then maybe we’ll take your mum up on her offer of babysitting. In a week or so.’
‘God.’
Claire shuddered. She knew Matt was right; Anna was nearly seven months old and they hadn’t been out on their own since she had been born. But Matt’s mother wasn’t the type to relish the prospect of spit-up on her jacket, and her own parents, even though they were dying to get their hands on their only grandchild, would have to travel up from Galway and stay overnight, which, quite frankly, made a few drinks in the local sound like more hassle than they were worth. They could ask one of the girls from the crèche to do a nixer but that would add forty quid to the night’s bill, easy. So they’d just got out of the habit of it, she supposed. Nights out had turned into nights in with box-sets and bottles of wine. And that was fun, it its own way. At least, that’s how she looked at it, and she had thought Matt felt the same.
‘I’m perfectly happy staying in with you.’
Curse him, he always could read her mind.
But her husband hadn’t finished speaking and, reaching over, brushed a strand of hair away from her cheek.
‘But I think it’s important we do other stuff too. It doesn’t have to be a big
deal. I want to get back running again; I miss it. There’s a half-marathon next year I’d really like to train for. And other stuff, you know – see a match on a proper screen, have a few pints with the lads, that sort of thing. I just think it would be nice if we could set aside an evening a week to do whatever we want to do. No questions. Just one night each. And we’ll work on finding a babysitter for the weekend if you don’t want to get the grannies involved.’
‘Ah, come on.’ She laughed at him then, rolled her eyes. ‘Tuesday can be my yoga night and Thursday can be your night with the boys? Jesus, Matt, we laugh at those kind of people!’
He’d smiled at her then, and waggled his fingers at the baby. ‘Hon, we are those kind of people now.’
Depressing thought. Still, he’d been right about tonight, though. Claire drained her glass and winked at Dave Keegan, who was heading to the bar.
‘Go on, then; if you insist.’
She stole a crisp from Michael Harris and felt the tension melt from her shoulders. They were a great bunch and it had been, what, nearly a year and a half since she’d been out with them? Out properly, that was. She’d tagged along, the odd night, when she was expecting Anna, but it just hadn’t been the same. Sitting around, nursing a fizzy water while the conversation grew rowdy; trying to join in with the crack but always being half a beat behind. Not worth the trouble. But tonight, tonight she felt she was right in there.
Keegan came back and Claire shrugged her jacket off her shoulders and threw it on a nearby bar stool before accepting the new pint with a smile. Even the heat of the bar felt good against her skin. She sank into it, the smell of the place, a welcome mixture of beer, aftershave and damp fleece jackets. None of the lads were in uniform, but they didn’t need to be. Everyone else in the pub could see exactly who they were and were giving them a wide berth – which, Claire thought to herself, was exactly as it should be. They deserved a night out, the same as the next crowd. And there was no gang like them when they were on form.
Keegan shouted something at her but she smiled vaguely and waved him away, unable to hear and unwilling to put much effort in. She was happy just to stand back, sip her fresh drink and let the conversation ebb and flow around her. It was nice, just being able to think back over the day, without Anna to mind or – good and all, as he was – Matt to include in the conversation. Standing here, surrounded by half-cut cops, Claire felt as alone as she had been in a long time, and far more peaceful.
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