It was a question Liz herself wasn’t sure she knew the answer to.
Smiling vaguely down at Noeleen Kavanagh, she lifted her head and looked out over the crowd. It was amazing to see so many people standing quietly at the centre of the city’s main thoroughfare. Out on the pavements, life on O’Connell Street was going on as normal. Pedestrians were playing dodge the chugger, gangs of teenagers were cramming into burger joints, and queues of harried commuters jostled for position at the street’s many bus stops.
But here, on the pedestrianised area at the centre, all was still.
Liz inhaled and felt frosty air cut through her nostrils. It was a beautifully clear winter’s day and, in the gap between glove and sleeve, cold air tickled at her skin. It would be a miserable night to be sleeping on the streets, she thought, suddenly, Tír na nÓg and its clients never far from her mind. But a lovely day to stand still, and to breathe.
Behind her, the Spire rose steeply into the blue sky. Some Dubliners had complained when the 120-metre-high needle had been erected at the top of O’Connell Street over a decade before. It had been too new, too modern, too bloody shiny to replace Nelson’s Pillar, blown up decades before Liz was born. But most of the capital’s citizens now loved the monument. The Spire gave the city centre a much-needed focal point. Tourists gathered there to read maps, new residents of the city met up with their fellow countrymen there on nights when home seemed very far away, and today a crowd had gathered there to remember James Mannion, a man few of them had ever met, but whose death had touched them in some way.
Most carried mobile phones; some were already filming the proceedings, although very little had happened as yet. Earlier, there had been an abortive attempt by a middle-aged man in a trench coat to say a decade of the rosary, but, other than that, the crowd remained silent. A murmur of conversation began, tapered off and then swelled again, and Liz became aware of a growing sense of impatience. We turned up, they seemed to be saying. Now what?
‘They’re waiting for you.’
Noeleen pressed a loudhailer into her hand and Liz resisted its pressure for a moment. But already the people at the front of the crowd had noticed what was happening, and began to mutter to their neighbours.
‘That’s her, now. That’s your woman.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Elizabeth something.’
‘Ah, yeah, I recognise the face.’
‘Shut up, now, and let the lady talk.’
‘Quiet now, let’s hear what she has to say.’
Two, three, four camera-phones were raised and readied. Liz coughed, then lifted the loudspeaker and spoke into it, hearing nothing but a muffled whisper.
Noeleen Kavanagh nudged her arm. ‘It’s the little button, there – look.’
‘Hello, I . . . Oh.’ Her head jerked back as her voice, simultaneously loud and tremulous, boomed into the air. The crowd fell silent and, for a moment, she wondered if she could escape. But 120 metres of shining steel stood in her way, and the crowd was expecting something.
‘I’d like to . . . thank you for coming.’
Jesus, what was she? A bridesmaid at the world’s grimmest wedding? Liz’s voice trembled, then she looked down at the smile on Noeleen’s face, the bobble on her hat waving furious encouragement, and the sight of it gave her just enough courage to continue.
‘James would have . . . James would have been amazed to see you all here today. And very surprised. He was . . .’
And then she stopped speaking again. How to describe him? What could she say? She had known James Mannion for less than a year. Truth be told, he hadn’t been the easiest person to get on with, particularly towards the end. But she could hardly say that to them, now, could she?
Could she?
‘He was much loved – he was a lovely man . . .’
But her words sounded false, evaporating with her frosty breath into the blue sky, and the people in front of her were shuffling their feet, checking their watches, wondering if they’d have time to pick up a few bargains in the big Penneys across the road. Liz’s hand tightened on the megaphone. Well, if it was honesty they wanted . . .
‘Do you know what? James Mannion wasn’t always an easy man to get along with.’
She couldn’t have felt more awkward, more exposed, but the cold had chilled her blood to such an extent that she wasn’t blushing, and that knowledge lent her courage.
‘He was a complex man, a complicated man, maybe. An educated man. He could quote from any Shakespeare play. He had an opinion on everything. But I’m not sure if I’d call him a nice man. He’d correct your grammar, soon as look at you. He would!’
She paused as a couple of polite titters escaped from the crowd.
‘And if you misplaced an apostrophe . . . Jesus! A sign saying that potato’s were on sale would put him in a bad mood for the rest of the day.’
Several more titters now, and a couple of hearty laughs. Noeleen Kavanagh’s hat was bobbing appreciatively.
‘He liked cats, and hated dogs – couldn’t talk about them, even; couldn’t stand people who talked about them. He would walk away in the middle of any conversation, actually, if he didn’t agree with what you were saying.’
She paused, looking at her hands, now rock steady on the megaphone.
‘He was clever. He was a genius at chess, and Scrabble, and any other game you could mention. But socially . . . socially, he wasn’t able to cope at all, really. I saw him in the supermarket once. I was a couple of people behind him in the queue – he didn’t know I was there. I saw him pack his bag, slide the money across to the girl, take the change, leave, all without saying anything to her. He just wanted to do his shopping and go home. Or go somewhere like Tír na nÓg, where nothing was expected of him. That’s what we gave him, you know? Somewhere he could be himself.’
A couple of hundred pairs of eyes were fixed on her now, and no one was muttering anymore. Liz gave a brief smile, and continued.
‘That’s a funny phrase, when you think about it. We say it all the time, you know. “Just be yourself.” We say it to kids, if they are worried about something. “Just be yourself.” But that’s bullshit, really. What we really mean is, be the version of yourself that is acceptable to other people. Be what the world wants you to be. Act correctly. Don’t step out of line. We don’t have much space in this world for people who are different. James was different. And I think, I hope, that in Tír na nÓg we gave him space to be that way.’
For a moment, the crowd stood motionless. Then came a handclap, and another. Then a cheer.
‘Hear, hear!’
A sudden burst of loud applause felt almost violent and her hands fumbled with the loudspeaker, looking for the off switch.
Noeleen reached up and took it from her, before speaking into it herself.
‘Ladies and gentlemen – Liz Cafferky!’
Liz moved backwards, her knees suddenly weak. If Noeleen hadn’t taken her elbow, she would have tripped over her own feet and headbutted the Spire, which was not the kind of finale she was aiming for.
‘Lovely speech.’
Still stunned by the crowd’s reaction, Liz simply smiled weakly at Noeleen, who was still holding her arm.
‘I was just glad to help.’
The phone in her pocket jangled and she took it out, saw Dean’s name. Answering, she could hear applause and loud conversation all around him and had to strain to hear what he was saying.
‘Nice job! . . . interview . . . me?’
‘What?’ She pressed her finger into one ear, jamming the phone into the other, but there were people clustering around her now, their faces pushed into hers.
‘. . . talk to me?’
‘I can’t hear—’
‘Here – can I get a photograph?’
She blinked as a camera flashed in her face, and then a second young man stood beside her, snapped a grinning selfie and walked away again.
‘. . . very crowded. Don’t go off, OK? I—
’
Then Dean’s phone signal disappeared altogether.
‘You’re a great woman, love! Are you taking a collection, or . . .?’
‘I’m not sure.’
The woman pressed a fiver into her hand. Over her shoulder, she could see that a bucket was being passed around the crowd.
Noeleen was tugging on her arm. ‘There’s a few people over here want to talk to you, look—’
‘I’m sorry.’
More people were crowding around her now and Liz couldn’t see a way out. Despite the intense cold, sweat had broken out on her forehead and she felt panicked, overwhelmed.
‘If I could just . . .’
But nobody was listening to her. Instead, they approached her with demand after demand.
‘Can I talk to you about my father? I really feel he needs—’
‘There’s a lad over there says he’s collecting money for you, but you’d want to watch that fella, he—’
‘—photo? Just look over here. Excellent!’
Hands clawed at her arms.
‘I’m sorry, I really do need to . . .’
A teenager in front of her raised his phone to snap yet another picture and, in the gap he created when he raised his arm, she saw her chance to escape.
‘I’m sorry, I can’t. I have to – go!’
She ducked her head, manoeuvred her body through the space and then pushed her way into the crowd.
‘Please – excuse me – I have to . . .’
Hands clutched at her coat but she kept moving, pushing herself forward to the edge of the traffic island and then across the road, ignoring the red man, darting through the lines of cars before, finally, out of breath and flustered, reaching the other side. Pulling the hood of her coat as far forward as it would go, she strode quickly down the street, passing a bank, a disused ice-cream parlour and Clerys department store before she dared to look around. Most of the crowd was still in the centre of the traffic island; it looked like she’d got away with it . . .
Then a figure loomed over her.
‘Elizabeth, I need to talk to you. Can you come with me? Straight away?’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Her first instinct was to tell him she didn’t have time to talk. Or rather, didn’t have time to talk to him. Tom had been blanking her for days; what right had he to turn up now, at a moment when she really needed some head space, and demand her attention?
But then Liz took a closer look, and her boss’s fragility frightened her. His shirt hadn’t been ironed, the skin around his eyes looked equally creased. He looked exhausted, and something else too. Frightened? Maybe.
‘Can we talk?’ he asked again. The tentative, strained voice didn’t seem to belong to him and, worried, Liz tried to make her reply sound as normal as possible.
‘Sure. You want to go for a coffee or something?’
Tom nodded. ‘Yes. Please. And –’ he sighed, then reached out and touched her shoulder awkwardly – ‘I’m sorry I haven’t . . . haven’t been much use to you these past few days.’
‘Ah, Tom.’
The look of absolute helplessness in his eyes shocked her and, without thinking, she flung herself at him and buried her face in his shoulder. Tom held himself rigid for a moment and then relaxed into the hug.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said again, pulling away slightly. ‘I should have talked to you before now.’
‘C’mon. It can’t be that bad? Will we need scones as well as coffee? Jam and cream?’
A reference to his sweet tooth usually made him smile, but not this time.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said again, before taking a step back and looking down at her.
It was an expression Liz had never seen on his face before: sadness, mixed with defeat. He didn’t look like Tom at all; it was as if something about him had changed, something fundamental. Then she dismissed the thought. She was on edge, hyper after the vigil and the crowd’s reaction, lacking in sleep and any perspective. She was seeing things that weren’t there. Tom never changed – that was the joy of him. He was just having a bad day, or a bad week, or something. She looked across to the traffic island again. The vigil crowd were beginning to disperse and there was a green bobbled hat heading in her direction.
‘Actually, now would be the perfect time to escape. Let’s grab that coffee.’
They strolled together down the street, past a tall uniformed guard who was standing with his back to a window, solemnly watching the crowd disperse on the other side of the road.
‘Afternoon.’ Unsmiling, he nodded at Liz and then directed his gaze upwards to where Tom was walking close beside her. ‘Mind yourself, now.’
‘Ah, I’m in good hands.’
Fair play to that detective, Liz thought to herself. What was his name again? Flynn. The guards didn’t have the budget to put her under twenty-four-hour watch, she knew that much. And the truth of it was, they didn’t have any reason to. She’d burned the letters and hadn’t left them with any physical evidence that she was in any trouble. But, when he’d dropped her back at Tír na nÓg after she’d been to the station that last time, the Flynn chap had given her a funny look and told her to ‘be sensible’; and she had the feeling that he’d asked a couple of his colleagues to keep their eye out for her too. There had been too many sideways glances from cops at the vigil, too many double takes and suggestions for her to ‘mind yourself, now’ for her to have been imagining it. Well, that was nice of him, Liz decided. It felt good, being minded. And now Tom was here too. It didn’t matter what sort of humour he was in, he was by her side again. For the first time in ages, she felt safe.
‘We might get a seat in here?’
She followed Tom into a large coffee shop on the corner of O’Connell Street and Talbot Street and allowed him to lead her to a table by the window.
‘God, I’m knackered after that.’
‘Can I get you a coffee?’
Their words collided and Liz felt a tension between them, a nervousness in the air. They hadn’t really spoken in days, she realised. But, what matter, they just needed a few minutes in each other’s company and they’d be grand, back to normal again.
Chatter about the vigil broke the silence until the coffees arrived and then, when the waitress had gone, she looked at him. ‘So are you going to tell me what’s up? You have me worried, Tom, and the clients can feel it too. You haven’t been yourself for days.’
He picked up a spoon and stirred his coffee. ‘I know. I’m sorry.’
He fell silent then and grabbed a long thin packet of sugar, squashing it so hard between his fingers that the paper tore and grains trickled on to the table.
A sudden, terrible thought struck her. ‘You’re not sick, are you? Oh, God, Tom, it’s not . . .’
But he shook his head. ‘No. Nothing like that.’
And then, more silence. Anxious to fill it, she started to gabble.
‘Was it just the Eugene thing freaked you out? I mean, I don’t blame you, it was awful, and the guards have been around the whole time and—’
‘I just needed a bit of time, Elizabeth.’
It was the way he said her name, Elizabeth, that really frightened her. Like there was something really serious approaching and she wouldn’t be able to get out of its way. She gabbled nervously, hoping to drag some normality back into the conversation.
‘I know, we all need time sometimes, don’t we? No harm at all, get away from everything, get a bit of head space. Anyway, sure, the lads have been a bit worried about you, but they’re grand, you know, yourself.’
‘Elizabeth. Liz.’ Tom stretched his hand out and reached for hers. The movement was clumsy and he succeeded only in grasping the tips of her fingers. She let them rest in his for a moment before pulling away.
‘So, yeah, if you want to, like, take a break or something—’
‘Elizabeth, I need to tell you something.’
Tortured. That was the only word she could use to describe the expression
on his face now – tortured, his features pinched and pale. He needed a friend, that was obvious. Or, more to the point, needed her to be his friend. But that was his job, wasn’t it? To pick people up, dust them off, send them on their way again? Not hers.
The silence between them grew heavy. Liz was starting to regret that she hadn’t suggested they go to a pub – somewhere crowded, with a TV in one corner and a crowd of noisy after-work drinkers in another. A bit of distraction. Instead, they had nowhere to look but at each other.
She forced a smile. ‘So, what can I do for you?’
Tom brushed the sugar from his fingers. ‘You know I told you the story of my dad? How he got sick, and why I started the centre?’
Liz nodded. ‘Sure. Yeah.’
She had, in fact, heard the story several times. Tom trotted it out on a regular basis to prospective donors anxious to get information about where their money might be going; or to new clients curious about what motivated this tall, broad-shouldered man who seemed to be offering them sanctuary and wasn’t asking for anything in return. He’d keep it simple, tell them how his dad had got sick and then left him a few bob when he died, and that he, Tom, had decided to use it to help other men of a similar age. It was a straightforward enough tale, Liz always thought, but the telling of it used to make clients feel at ease.
‘Well, there’s a bit more to it than that.’
Tom rubbed a hand across his face, the skin wrinkling beneath his fingers. He looked old, Liz realised, as well as knackered. She had never asked Tom his age. What was he? Fifty, maybe? She had never really thought about it before; it had never seemed particularly important. They were mates, nothing more, so what did age have to do with it? Sure, she’d heard the slagging in the centre sometimes, was aware that some of the men thought the boss fancied her, or even assumed that they were already in a relationship. But the rumours never bothered her, because they were so far from the truth. Liz knew Tom didn’t think about her in that way. That wasn’t false modesty, just the way things were. Over the past few years, Liz had been around enough men who wanted to get into her pants to be able to recognise, very quickly, one who didn’t. Once, after a few pints, Dean had described Tom as her ‘father figure’. That had been a little closer to the truth than Liz was comfortable with and she’d moved the conversation on, not wanting to think about it at all.
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