Fragile Lies

by Elliot, Laura

  Twenty-eight

  On a September afternoon when the clouds clung to the hills like dour grey sheep and the sea rolled queasily towards shore, the stranger Lorraine had met on the mountain road came to Trabawn. Hobbs’ barking warned her that someone had entered the lane. A few minutes later he braked his car outside her house.

  “You got my message?” His glance was enquiring, uncertain of his welcome.

  “My daughter told me. I was walking the beach when you rang yesterday.”

  He stared around the overgrown garden, the cement and mud tracks, the crack running along the gable wall.

  “I’m still settling in as you can see,” she said. “You’ll have to excuse everything. Would you like coffee or tea before we go into the studio?”

  “Coffee sounds good.”

  They entered the kitchen and she gestured towards a chair, set a plate of buttered scones on the table.

  “My neighbour’s home cooking, not mine,” she said when he made an appreciative comment. “She always throws my name into the baking bowl. I guess she thinks I need nourishing.”

  His eyes raked her but he made no comment. Self-consciously, she pushed her hair from her forehead and lifted mugs from the dresser. Slowly, as if he was memorising every detail, his gaze moved over the freshly painted walls, the spice racks, her jacket hanging from a hook on the back door; his eyes resting on the wooden table, the chairs with their broad backs and solid legs, the old-fashioned dresser filled with crockery. A red throw had been draped over the sofa where Emily usually curled watching television.

  “I’m afraid your name meant nothing to me when you rang yesterday so I didn’t know who to expect. But Emily was in quite a tizz. She believes you write for television. Nowhere Lodge – is that the name of the programme?”

  He bowed his head in acknowledgement.

  She heaped logs on the fire. The flames licked the wood and the blast of heat brought colour to her cheeks. “I can’t believe it! Emily’s one of your greatest fans. She adores that show.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “At school. She should be home soon. Be warned. She’ll pester you for autographs.”

  Emily usually arrived home from school with Ibrahim. They were now recognised in the gang as “an item” and, ostensibly, they went to each other’s houses to study. Whenever Lorraine came in from her studio, she found them sitting at the kitchen table, their heads bent over their books. Such diligence would have impressed her had she not also observed the rumpled cushions on the sofa. Remembering her own dalliance behind the sand dunes and the delirium of first love, she knew the uselessness of advising caution. Instead, she found herself delivering the same heavy-headed lectures Donna had once delivered on the trauma of crisis pregnancies and thought, “It’s actually happening. I’m becoming my own mother.”

  “When did you move here?” Michael Carmody interrupted her thoughts.

  “Early March.”

  “Have you settled down?”

  “Not really. You mentioned something about a portrait?”

  “Yes. Killian Devine-O’Malley, my son.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “Is the portrait a present for his birthday?”

  Coffee sloshed from his mug, scalded his fingers. With a muttered exclamation he laid the mug back on the table. Lorraine rummaged in a drawer and found a spray of aloe vera balm, which she applied to his hand. He flinched when she touched his skin. No wedding band or rings of any kind. His son called by a different name. He was separated from the boy’s mother, she guessed. Early forties, had known tragedy, it was in his eyes.

  “Don’t worry,” she reassured him. “This will work quickly and stop the stinging. Is the portrait meant to be a surprise or shall I have an opportunity to meet him?”

  “I’d like to arrange a meeting.” He drew his hand away and rested it on the table.

  “Good. I prefer to meet the person. Sometimes, if it’s a surprise present, I have to work from photographs which is not half as satisfying.”

  “I can show you his photograph.” He removed a wallet from his inside pocket. To her surprise he produced a photograph of a young boy, about seven, she guessed. His front teeth were missing but, oblivious of gaps and gums, he was grinning widely as he stood on a pier and pointed towards a ferry sailing across the bay from the North Wall terminal.

  “He’s the image of you.” She handed the photograph back to him. “Is he your eldest child?”

  “He’s my only child.”

  “Emily’s my only child too. Do you have a more recent photograph of Killian? I’m sure he’s changed a lot since that was taken.”

  A second photograph revealed a tall slim youth wearing a Nirvana t-shirt and jeans. He stared into the camera with the same challenging gaze as his father. Lorcan Sheraton stood beside him and Mount Subasio, looking like a fixture in a theme park, was the backdrop.

  “I see we have a mutual acquaintance.” She stared in surprise at the two boys.

  He nodded. “Lorcan is Killian’s neighbour. They’ve been friends for a long time.”

  “I’m afraid I was rather distracted leaving Lorcan’s house that day we met. My apologies for almost slamming you back into your own driveway.”

  His coffee was cooling but he made no attempt to drink it. “I was leaving Killian’s mother’s house. My apartment is in the city.”

  “What a coincidence. I was delivering a family portrait to the Sheratons when we met. Lorcan hated the experience of being painted. He’ll probably warn Killian to run for cover. You could check out the portrait with Andrea. See what you think of my style.”

  “I’m very familiar with your style.”

  “In that case, we might as well go to the studio.”

  A light drizzle was falling. The weather changed with a rapidity that amazed her. Mist could descend from the hills in minutes and rain swoop in from the sea, blinding her eyes, yet by the time she had completed her walk along the beach the sky would be milky streaked.

  “Be careful here,” she warned as they walked around a cement mixer. “I intend having this area paved. Everything takes so long.” She unlocked the studio door and stood aside for him to enter.

  “Was this originally a stable?” Again his quizzical glance, this time upwards towards the high arched ceiling.

  “Two donkeys lived here when I was a child. Plato and Aristotle.”

  “Philosophical donkeys. Makes sense.” He laughed abruptly and removed his jacket, placed it on the back of a chair. She was about to show him her portfolio when Con tapped on the studio door and entered. He took a step backwards when he saw she was busy and turned to leave.

  “Sorry, Lorraine. I didn’t know you’d someone with you. I need to check delivery dates but I can call back later.”

  “No. Go on ahead to the house. I’ll be with you in a moment.” She placed her portfolio on the table. “These are some samples of my work. Have a look at them while I’m talking to Con.”

  When she returned, Michael Carmody was leafing through one of her sketch pads. To her consternation she realised it was the one containing the self-portraits.

  “Sorry, Michael. But those are not for public consumption.”

  “Such pain,” he replied, making no attempt to close the pad. “It reminds me of your early work.”

  She walked quickly towards him and laid her hand protectively over the open page. “You know a lot about my paintings.”

  “But not a lot about you. Are these recent sketches?”

  “As I already said, they’re not for public consumption.” Firmly she took the sketch pad from him and pushed it to one side. “We were talking about your son. Those drawings are not typical of my work but if you’ve changed your mind about the portrait I understand.”

  “No, I’d like you to meet him. When will you be in Dublin?”

  Before she could reply his mobile phone rang. He turned from her, his voice changing, becoming more urge
nt. “No, I’m not at home. Why?”

  His breath caught and was released on a whistling sigh. “I’m on my way, Jean.” He had already reached the studio door before he clicked off his mobile.

  “Are you all right?” She followed him outside. “Has something happened?”

  “I have to leave right away.” The drizzle had turned to heavy rain. Despite his protests, she took the umbrella she used when walking the beach on rainy afternoons and held it over him.

  He fumbled for his keys and opened the car door. In the overhead light his face was haggard. “I’ll be in touch with you again and then we’ll talk.” Without saying goodbye he accelerated away.

  He had only travelled a short distance when his car swerved and came to a standstill.

  She hurried towards him. “What’s the problem?”

  “Jesus Christ! I can’t believe this!” He was already hunkered down before one of the front tyres. “I hit something sharp on the way down the lane and it obviously punctured the wheel.”

  He removed a jack and wheel-brace from the boot. When the car was fully jacked he tried to twist off the wheel nuts. Despite his strenuous efforts he was unable to loosen them. After ten minutes he wiped his sleeve across his forehead.

  “I can’t do it without a machine.” His voice shook. She wondered if there were tears or raindrops running down his cheeks.

  “I’ll drive into the village and bring back a mechanic. I know the garage owner. He’s very obliging. I’ll get my car.”

  “Your car?” His furious voice stopped her in her tracks. He gripped the wheel brace in his hand and she thought for a shocked instant that he was going to fling it at her. Abruptly, as if he sensed her fear, he flung it to the ground. The rumble of Frank’s tractor drowned out his reply. The ground seemed to vibrate around them as the tractor drew nearer and shuddered to a halt.

  The farmer took in the scene at a glance. “Wait a minute and I’ll get the lads,” he shouted and juddered past them towards the farmyard gate.

  He returned shortly with his sons who hunkered beside the wheel, each taking a side of the wheel-brace and holding it firmly in position while Frank in his muck-splattered wellingtons stood firmly on it. Lorraine winced as the men took their father’s weight but they were obviously used to working as a team. As Frank jumped lightly and persistently on the wheel-brace, the bolts twisted and loosened. They watched while Michael put on the spare wheel, standing around him in a protective semi-circle. His frenzied movements, his haste, the tension emanating from him as he tightened the bolts increased Lorraine’s nervousness. She wanted him on the road, speeding towards whatever emergency had drained the colour from his face. She was standing by her gate when he finally drove away, her face shaded under the brim of the umbrella.

  He had left his business card with one of the photographs on the table. She studied his son’s features, his fine cheeks and slim nose, the tremulous smile. A sensitive face, she decided, easily hurt or frightened. She recognised the Poolbeg lighthouse at the end of the pier and remembered a Sunday afternoon, two figures walking slowly. A vibration passed through her fingers and the photograph trembled, as if a breeze blew gently but persistently by her.

  She entered her studio and opened the sketch pad containing her self-portraits. How haunted she looked, those skeletal cheeks and distraught expressions. She remembered the fury that had consumed her that night as she sketched, snapping sticks of charcoal, rubbing, shading, highlighting, shaping.

  Trapped and vulnerable, without any concept of a future, she had sought refuge in childhood and the belief that the past held the key to what was to come. Perhaps it did. Sometimes it flickered, a will-o’-the-wisp taunting her to take a step forward, mocking her when she fell two paces back. Slowly, deliberately she ripped out the pages and flung them into the rubbish bin. She turned up the volume on her compact disc player and began to draw a boy standing on a pier. Michael Carmody’s face came to mind. She remembered his whistling breath and the tremor in his voice when he spoke on the phone. The caller had been a woman. Lorraine had heard the high tones, her words inaudible, her panic unmistakable, and that same fear had taken hold of Michael Carmody and sent him speeding homewards.

  The thudding guitar beat and world-weary lyrics of Bob Dylan singing “Just Like a Woman” echoed around her studio. When she finished sketching she tacked the drawings to the wall. She pinned the photograph to the top of her easel and painted without interruption until the small hours of the morning. She had no idea when it happened, the shift that lifted her over the self-consciousness and forced discipline that had gripped her for so long, but suddenly her mind was free and she was painting with free, easy strokes that created a blurred impression of ships sailing over the horizon and, watching them leave, a young boy standing lonely on a pier.

  Twenty-nine

  Killian

  Black horses on the ocean. Riding through the waves. The sea sings, drum-beat engines, fog horns call. The lighthouse flares the rocks. He watches the lady. Daisies in her eyes. And in the moon, Bozo tumbling.

  * * *

  See where you’re going, Ferryman. This road only has one signpost. I was your age once. The world in my hands. I flung it into an empty bottle.

  Where’s your stammer, Bozo? Where’s your big fat red nose?

  Left them on the shore. Stop asking stupid questions and go home to your family, you squandering, reckless boy. Don’t you know where you’re heading? One road, one signpost. Fuck off out of my sight. I want to sing with the angels.

  Shady Lady, take me away. Smother me. Mother me.

  I’ll be waiting for you, Killian. We’ve all the time in the great beyond. But my arms can’t hold you yet.

  Why did you leave Michael? Why did you make him sad?

  I reached too soon for heaven. I squandered the daisy days.

  Stay … Shady … stay … stay …

  Killian, I’m here beside you. Keep breathing, please keep breathing. Don’t leave us now. Not when you’ve endured so much. Feel my hand. Hold it tight. Jean rang. She said hurry … hurry. Pneumonia. They warned us it could happen. I scorched the miles from Trabawn, sparks on the road. I fought with my mother every inch of the way.

  “Leave him with me,” I yelled. “Get off your fucking cloud and take a look below. What the hell do you think you’re doing? Why aren’t you watching out for me the way a proper mother should? Open your bruised eyes and see my son. He’s not ready, not near ready to go to you yet.”

  How I raged, Killian. Right on the chin, I gave it to her. I told her what it was like to be without a mother and a father who passed like a ship through my nights. I demanded from her, temper tantrums, kicking, screaming, the way I never could when I was a child. I demanded your life in exchange for my anger. When I came here I was punch drunk, reeling.

  Jean said, “You were praying,” and I laughed at the notion, even though there’s no room for laughter tonight. She’s drifted off to sleep on the chair beside your bed. Terence has gone to the kitchen to make tea and see if he can scrounge some biscuits. He loves you as much as I do. Love has no divisions. It’s a river, an effortless flowing river. Flow with it, Killian. Let it carry you back to us.

  Thirty

  The men, handsome in tuxedos and black ties, and the women, glittering in designer eveningwear, gathered in the reception room of the Congress Hotel to drink champagne. Bill Sheraton moved among the guests, an affable host, stopping here, stopping there, stepping out a skilful minuet between business and pleasure. Virginia cast her experienced gaze over the proceedings and welcomed a photographer from Prestige. He flirted with her, as he always did on such occasions, and obeyed her instructions to photograph Andrea. The Sheratons posed beside a prominent government minister. Lorcan, ordered by his mother to smile, looked as if his teeth were being pulled without an anaesthetic. His habitual look of boredom disappeared when a young woman shrieked his name and flung her arms around him. Marianne Caulfield. The name clicked instantly into Virg
inia’s mind. She had directed the film which would be shown later in the evening.

  The guests swept towards the ballroom where tables were laid for the gala dinner. Chandeliers shone kindly on bare arms and there was much excitement over the foil-wrapped gift resting beside each place card. Despite Andrea’s insistence that the places at the top table could not be changed, Lorcan demanded that another setting be organised beside him for Marianne.

  Waiters streamed from the kitchen with silver platters balanced on one hand. Throughout the meal the young couple sat closely together, locked in a conversation that excluded everyone at the table. Occasionally they giggled and lowered their voices in a conspiratorial whisper. No doubt the adults surrounding them were the source of their merriment.

  The level of noise reached the animated pitch that accompanies good food and fine wine. How handsome Adrian looked compared to the other men present. Virginia willed him to meet her eyes across the floral centrepiece. How often in the past had they dined in company, separated by convention, yet linked by the magnetic pull of desire. He was seated next to Jennifer Dwyer, the financial controller of Sheraton Worldwide Travel. His gaze never wavered from her face as he talked knowledgeably about the breeding patterns of pure-bred Siamese. Her laughter suggested that his comments had a risqué edge but she seemed amused and behaved towards him in a mildly flirtatious manner. Virginia turned her attention to the accountant’s husband, a barrister who would always look insignificant without his wig.