Are You Watching Me

by Sinéad Crowley

  His absence, both physical and emotional, unsettled her. The clients sensed it too and had taken to huddling around Liz like needy toddlers, tugging at her sleeve and wondering when Daddy was going to come home. She was starting to wonder that herself. It had been four days since she’d last had a proper conversation with her boss and supposed best friend. If she were to stop and think how that made her feel, she didn’t think she’d be able to get going again. So she had to keep moving.

  But she wasn’t going to lose herself in drink this time. She’d love to. God, there were times when she wanted nothing more than to uncork a bottle and turn off her thoughts for a while. But the memory of the three-day hangover she’d inflicted on herself the last time was keeping her from going there, for the moment, anyway. That and the fleeting look of distaste on Dean’s face the last time she’d suggested going to the pub. Maybe she had been imagining it? Paranoia from the hangover, maybe? But the thought of his disapproval and, worse, his pity, was enough to keep her sober, for the moment.

  She needed something, though – something to keep her going, to distract her from the murders and Tom and how shit everything was these days. She needed something to do, something practical to stop her thinking and worrying and panicking. Something that didn’t involve getting rat-arsed. She needed a project and taking part in this vigil was very tempting. If only she could risk it.

  She walked across to the crash scene and unfolded the page again. A white page, red writing.

  Vigil for the Voiceless.

  Liz was sick of staying silent.

  ‘We could collect money, Dean. If I did it. Pass around a bucket, or something. God knows, the centre could do with it.’

  She reached for the coffee Dean had handed her earlier, savouring its bitter kick. The only stimulant now left to her, the coffee tasted how she felt: sharp, toughened up. She couldn’t really explain it, but, despite everything that had happened, Liz realised, she was actually feeling OK these days. Clearer than she had done in years. Cleaner. Stronger. Weirdly, it was the interview with the guards that seemed to have finally sorted things out in her head. For the last two years, she’d been terrified that someone would find out about how bad things had been, how far off the rails she had gone. She had been afraid to even think about that night, that girl, the flash of the blue lights above the roofs of the houses, the mist of rain on her face, her feet slapping through the puddles, the tumble into the taxi and the fear of turning around. She had buttoned it away but, every so often, the memory poked through, terrifying her. But now she had talked to someone about it. And not just someone. The guards. She had told them everything. And they had just shrugged, and written a few things in their notebooks, and told her to go home. The sky hadn’t fallen in. Turned out she had a choice, after all. To go back to the crap, or head towards the future she’d worked so hard to secure.

  Dean frowned again. ‘I suppose what you could do—’

  But her phone interrupted him. Liz answered it, listened for a moment, then gave a muttered, ‘Thank you,’ and hung up. She grinned across the room at him.

  ‘You can stop worrying, Dean. I might just have a story for you too. They’ve arrested him. That was the guards – you know, that Philip Flynn guy? He says they’ve arrested the guy they think wrote me the letters. Stephen. They’re going to start questioning him today. Everything is OK.’

  Ignoring the frown on her friend’s face, she looked at the flier again and read the time and the date. She took a deep breath. And smiled.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  He decided, after the fourth cup of tea, that it was better not to look at them, not to make eye contact at all. Or maybe it was the fifth. The cups themselves had been taken away but he could count their number in the fur on his tongue, the bitterness at the back of his throat. At some stage during the evening, the liquid had stopped quenching his thirst and had started to make him feel parched instead. Parched, desert, deserted. Alone. Words swam in his brain. He was so tired. Best not to look at them. Best not to answer them. Best for them not to know things. Best for her.

  ‘You’re going to have to start talking at some stage, Stephen.’

  No, I’m not. The solicitor they had called for him had told him that much – told him it wasn’t necessarily the best course of action, but that he could keep his mouth shut if he wanted. Fine, so. It was exactly what Stephen wanted. Or, more to the point, what was needed.

  It was late, or was it early? He didn’t own a watch, and the guards had asked him, much earlier, to turn off his phone. They’d told him too that he was entitled to a rest break, but he’d been so terrified of being left alone in a cell that he’d refused. Then they’d introduced him to the solicitor, a stocky man in a brown suit whose Brylcreemed hair had shone under the lights. The handkerchief in the man’s breast pocket was damp from the sweat on his forehead, which reappeared as soon as he tried to wipe it away, and he had an over-eager expression on his face, as if Stephen and his problems were all he could think about right now. But Stephen, once he’d found out what he needed to know about staying silent, had ignored him too, and told him to go away. Then he simply allowed himself to be led back to the yellowing room with its high, windowless walls, closed himself up to their questions, and looked at his hands.

  ‘We can sit here as long as you like, you know. You’re just making things difficult on yourself.’

  Could a room be yellowing? Stephen pondered on this, blocking out their words. He was beyond scared – just dazed now, numbed and lost in his own head. He was making them angry, he knew that. He hated it when people were angry with him. But there was nothing else he could do.

  ‘Does the name James Mannion mean anything to you?’

  Despite himself, he caught the guard’s eye, and then pulled his gaze away from hers again.

  Mr Mannion. It must have been, what, three months ago now that he had last met him? Thirty years after everything had happened. Stephen had just climbed off the bus and was heading for home after an early shift when he’d seen him rounding the corner. He hadn’t recognised his former teacher at first. The hair had been the same, white now, obviously, but still strong and wavy, worn long at the back and swept off his face. But everything else had changed. Mr Mannion’s shoulders were stooped now, his face unshaven. Like any other old man you’d pass on the street. Until he’d looked at him and said, ‘Ah, Stephen.’ The voice was the same as he’d remembered.

  Oh, Mr Mannion, if only you had let things be.

  But that hadn’t been his way, had it? Not back in the Rathoban days and not now, either, it seemed.

  ‘Hello, Stephen. It’s good to see you again.’

  ‘Stephen? Stephen? Can you hear me? Flynn – do you think we need a doctor in here? Do you think he’s conscious at all?’

  ‘I can hear you.’

  The woman cop looked really pleased when he said the words, like she’d finally achieved something. But Stephen was only trying to avoid their talk of doctors and, when it became clear they weren’t serious, he fell silent again. There was a blackened piece on one of his fingernails and he thought he might lose it – wondered, if he left it, would it fall off in its own time?

  ‘You’re going to have to start talking to us, Stephen.’

  No. No, I’m not.

  He turned his hands over, studied the calluses that had formed where finger met palm. Awkward, heavy hands. Mr Mannion had reached out and grasped them, clumsily.

  ‘Are you in a hurry, Stephen? Or will you let me buy you a cup of tea?’

  Then the two of them had hovered awkwardly at the door of a café; more decisions; you, no you, I insist. Stephen won the meek half-argument and directed Mr Mannion to a corner seat before buying two mugs of tea and a package of biscuits in plastic wrapping. It was one of those places Stephen rarely visited, loud and too bright and confusing, with food in one place and a coffee machine in another and no sign for where you were to stand if you only wanted a cup of tea. So it had taken him ten m
inutes to place his order and then he’d tripped over someone’s handbag on the way back and slopped the drinks out all over the tray. Mr Mannion had just smiled and said it didn’t matter. Stephen felt eleven years old again. Nothing had changed.

  ‘You look like a man who works with his hands?’

  The calluses. That broken nail. Yes, Stephen had told him, raising them, showing him the weals. He did shifts in a factory, moving boxes from one side of the room to another. It was a computer factory, although what was inside the boxes meant little to Stephen. He just carted them around. Heavy lifting. In films, that meant all lads in on it together, having the crack, chatting about the match on a Monday and where to go for pints on Friday evenings. In reality, of course, it meant not fitting in and always saying the wrong thing. Not understanding the jokes and laughing in the wrong places. Sometimes, it meant a day or two spent being nice to a new fella and him being nice back, before he copped on to the fact that you were an eejit and joined the rest of the pack in despising you. It paid the rent.

  ‘It’s an alright job. I get by.’

  ‘I see.’ Mr Mannion picked up his tea and then dabbed at the wetness it left behind with a hanky he took from his inside pocket. ‘I had always hoped you’d go to university some day. You were good at maths, if I remember correctly? I thought you’d do honours maths – did you do honours maths, Stephen?’

  Stephen shook his head and saw disappointment in the older man’s eyes. You see, Mr Mannion? Everything was ruined that day.

  ‘We moved to England shortly after . . . after you left. My father opened a business over there and we went with him. They had a different system. I went to school for a while, but you don’t have to, after you’re sixteen. It didn’t suit me. I got out as soon as I could and came back here – to Ireland, I mean. Not to Rathoban. I’ve never been back there.’

  ‘We know he taught you in Rathoban, Stephen. But have you seen him since? Have you had any contact with James Mannion over the past few months?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’ve nothing to say.’

  They had sat together in the café for almost an hour. A waitress came and tried to hurry them along, but Mr Mannion wouldn’t let her. He was kind of funny about it, actually. Told her she couldn’t take their cups, they weren’t finished with them, but could she clean the table, please? No, not with that cloth, not the one she’d been using on all the other surfaces. With the clean one – the one hanging off the back of her trolley. Stephen knew by looking at her that she wanted to tell him where to go. But there was something so polite about Mr Mannion, so reasonable, that, despite his scruffy appearance, she did what he asked.

  They chatted for a while about the weather, about the town. And then Mr Mannion slapped his hand gently against his chest.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not a well man, Stephen.’

  Seeing his former pupil’s discomfort, he lifted his hand again and held it out in front of him, as if stopping traffic. Or an argument.

  ‘It’s OK. You don’t have to say anything. I’m sixty-eight; it’s not a bad innings. And they say it’ll happen quickly. I’m not going to go for any of their oul treatments. If your time is up, it’s up.’

  Stephen nodded. He didn’t know what to say. He had never been good at social occasions.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Mr Mannion smiled. ‘Thank you, Stephen. That’s kind of you. You’re the first person I’ve told, actually. There’s a freedom, in saying it out loud.’ And then he’d looked at him. ‘I had hoped we’d meet again one day.’ He picked up the spare packets of sugar from the tray and stacked them neatly on the table. ‘I had hoped I’d bump into you on the street, maybe. Or in a park or something. I had this idea that you’d have a clatter of kids with you and a big car. And a beautiful woman. Don’t laugh! A beautiful woman, and I’d say to myself, “There’s Stephen; he did OK.”’

  Stephen wanted to get up then, wanted to just walk away, get out of there before things got more awful. But there was a lump of dough in his throat and he didn’t think he’d be able to get his legs to obey him. So he stayed.

  Mr Mannion sighed.

  ‘How are things, Stephen? Really?’

  Stephen couldn’t remember the last time someone had asked him that. The doctor, maybe? With that clinical way he had of looking over his glasses. No one who hadn’t been paid to do so, anyway. He coughed into his hand and trapped a sob in his fist.

  ‘Ah, Stephen, I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  Mr Mannion reached across, touching his arm gently. Stephen flinched.

  ‘You haven’t, it’s grand, I . . .’

  A tear rose up from the corner of his eye. Jesus. He was making a holy show of himself now. But Mr Mannion didn’t look angry. Instead, he withdrew his hand and lifted his tea to his lips. The cup was shaking and it took him three tries to get it safely back on to the table.

  ‘Things haven’t gone so well for you, so.’

  Stephen shook his head, mortified, embarrassed and angry in turns. It wasn’t like Mr Mannion himself was swanning around in a Mercedes. You could read his own struggles in the shabby overcoat and the frayed cuffs that peeped out from underneath the sleeves, his exhaustion obvious from the greyness of his face.

  His former teacher spoke again: ‘Can I give you some advice?’ Terrified of how he’d sound if he allowed himself to answer, Stephen simply nodded.

  ‘There are good people in the world, you know. People who can help you.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  The word came out as a grunt and Stephen coughed and tried again.

  ‘Yeah. Doctors and that. I’ve tried them. They’ve nothing for me.’

  ‘Ah, lookit.’ A sigh, a shrug, an exhalation. ‘There are a lot of people out there. You just have to find the right one.’

  ‘Doesn’t seem to have worked for you.’

  The words hit home and, for a moment, Stephen was happy to see pain dart across the older man’s face.

  But Mr Mannion’s gaze remained steady. ‘I’ve had a few tough years, I won’t deny that. But I’ve met good people too. I go to Tír na nÓg now; have you heard of it?’

  Stephen shrugged. The name was vaguely familiar, nothing more. But the old man was looking more animated.

  ‘They’re the good guys.’

  His smile widened when he said it – the good guys – the way old people smile when they think they’re saying something the young folk will appreciate. His hand shook as it raised the hanky to his mouth to dab the edges, and Stephen felt all of his anger drain away.

  ‘They’re good people. Here –’ Mr Mannion reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a crumpled newspaper dated a couple of days before – ‘here’s an article about them, look.’

  The girl in the picture smiled up at him and something shifted inside Stephen.

  ‘That’s Liz. She’s in charge over there, her and Tom. Oh, I’m not saying . . .’ Mr Mannion slid the paper towards him. ‘I’m not saying you have to talk to them, or anything. They’re mainly for oul fellas like me, not young men like yourself, with your life ahead of you. But it’s good to know, you know, that there are people out there. Do you know what I’m saying? People who can help. I found my sanctuary; you can find yours. I’m an old man, Stephen, and I’m on the way out, so I can say these things. You don’t look happy, son. You don’t look like life has been kind to you.’

  But Stephen was only half listening. Instead, he stared down at the paper and gently touched Liz’s face. Elizabeth, he’d call her. It suited her better.

  ‘I’ve thought about you often.’

  Mr Mannion’s voice cracked on the end of the sentence and Stephen could hear a rasp in his throat as he struggled to catch his breath before continuing.

  ‘What happened . . . Look, I don’t need to tell you that it ruined my life. But all these years I’ve been hoping it hadn’t ruined yours. But, looking at you today, Stephen, I’m not sure about that.’

  Stephen could hear tears in the old man’s voi
ce now and he focused his gaze on the newspaper, embarrassed and ashamed, praying he’d stop talking. Christ, God, what good was this going to do anyone? But Mr Mannion had more to say.

  ‘Life is short, Stephen. I know – it’s a terrible cliché. I used to tell you boys not to put clichés in your essays, didn’t I? But sometimes they are clichés because they are true. You should talk to someone, Stephen. Bring it out into the open. Let yourself have a good life, the life you deserve. Tell the guards, maybe?’

  Stephen let another small noise escape from him, a squeak this time, that same sound that used to cause so much irritation, so long ago.

  Mr Mannion shook his head. ‘OK, so, not the guards. But someone, Stephen. Find someone to tell.’ Then he pushed the paper away, grabbed his hand and pulled it towards him. Forced him to look into his blurred, blue eyes. ‘What happened shouldn’t go unpunished. I knew it then, Stephen, and I know it now. It’s up to you. You’re still a young man. You can put it behind you. You can end it, Stephen. It’s in your hands now.’

  There was pressure on his hand, firm pressure, and then Mr Mannion dropped it, levered himself slowly to his feet and walked out the door.

  Oh, Mr Mannion. Why did you have to come around that corner, that day? Why did you stop and talk to me? We could have walked on, the two of us, sick and miserable and safe.

  ‘You have to talk to us, Stephen.’

  The cross woman, the senior guard, raised her voice and forced his gaze upwards.

  No. No, I don’t.

  I’ve been saying nothing for thirty years.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  ‘Waaahhh!’

  Instinctively, Claire’s head whipped around, but the cry belonged to someone else’s child. Grand, so. She bent down and stroked her daughter gently on the cheek.

  ‘More ups-a-daisy?’

  Anna might have been, in her mother’s eyes, at least, the most advanced infant in the greater Dublin area but, at just seven months old, a verbal response was still beyond her. No matter, the grin of pure delight on the baby’s face was evidence enough that she was enjoying herself. Claire smiled back and gave the swing a gentle push.