‘Coffee?’ Lynda offered, getting out the mugs.
Robert nodded. ‘Yeah. They’ll be here in about forty minutes to fix the tyres. Or so they say. I’ll just make a few calls, warn James I’m going to be late.’
‘Sure. Fire ahead.’
As he left the kitchen, mobile already at his ear, Ciarán and Jon came in.
‘What’s all the commotion?’ asked Ciarán, yawning. ‘You woke us up.’
Lynda looked at him. ‘Well, it couldn’t be helped. We had two flat tyres each this morning. It’s a bit of an inconvenience, to say the least.’
Ciarán frowned. ‘How did that happen?’
‘I don’t know. When I left the bin out this morning, I noticed it. I called your dad and we’ve arranged for someone to come and fix them.’
‘Are they punctures?’ asked Jon.
‘I don’t know,’ said Lynda. ‘I presume so.’
‘But you haven’t been driving. Not for ages,’ said Ciarán, reaching for the Corn Flakes. ‘You said you were getting stir-crazy.’
Lynda smiled. ‘Well, it’s a mystery. Your dad thinks it might have been some local kids. Their idea of a joke.’
‘Some joke.’ Ciarán rummaged in the fridge now for milk.
Jon stood by the kitchen table, looking over at her. ‘Pretty horrible thing to do, in this weather,’ he said. ‘Someone with a strange sense of humour. Why would anyone do that?’
‘Jon, sit down, please,’ said Lynda, suddenly realizing that he was standing while Ciarán had looked after himself. ‘What would you like for breakfast? We don’t usually have such a chaotic start to the morning.’
‘I’m fine, thanks. Whatever Ciarán is having.’ Jon pulled out a chair.
‘Ciarán, get out a bowl for Jon, please. And some cutlery.’ She glanced at the clock. ‘You two are up early,’ she said. It was a long time since she had seen Ciarán up at half-past six.
‘The field trip to Newgrange, remember?’ said Ciarán, his mouth full of cereal. She was about to tell him not to speak while eating, and then stopped herself. Not in front of Jon, who was looking groomed and polished even at this hour. Beside him, Ciarán looked, well, a bit lumpy. Like an unmade bed.
She was growing used to Jon’s presence. Since that first evening Ciarán had brought him home, they were spending more and more time together and when Jon was there, Ciarán was less angry. Yesterday evening, when Lynda had emerged from her studio around seven, she’d found both of them in the kitchen. They’d emptied the dishwasher and Jon was folding clothes from the tumble-dryer.
‘Well,’ she’d said. ‘Thank you. That’s most thoughtful.’ She’d caught Ciarán glancing in Jon’s direction. As though he was saying you got that one right. She wondered what her son was leading up to. Ciarán had always been transparent as a child.
‘Do you want to get a beer for yourself and Jon?’ she’d said to Ciarán, pulling salmon out of the fridge. ‘There’s some in the utility room. Help yourself. And bring out a bottle of white for us as well, will you?’
He’d nodded, and headed towards the farthest end of the kitchen. She’d heard him stamping about in the utility room, heard the chink of bottles as he pulled open the fridge door.
‘Ciarán has been very kind to me, you know,’ Jon had said quietly. ‘Especially in the last few months when things were really bad at home. He’s probably the only one I can talk to. He speaks very highly of you and I just thought you’d like to know that.’
Lynda had looked at him. Ciarán? Kind? That had surprised her. ‘Thank you,’ she’d said. ‘It’s good to know that.’
Ciarán had reappeared, carrying cans and a bottle of wine. ‘Want me to pull the cork on this one?’ He’d held up a Chablis.
She’d nodded. ‘Please. Here’s the corkscrew. And get yourselves some glasses from the cupboard in the dining room.’
‘I know, I know,’ he’d grumbled. But his tone had been good-natured. ‘No tinnies at the table.’ This time, though, there was no muttering under the breath, no ‘Jesus Christ’ as he marched off to do as she asked. Jon had smiled at her, watching Ciarán’s departing back.
‘Is there anything else I can do?’ he’d asked.
‘Really? You don’t have to.’ And Lynda had smiled. ‘A bit of chopping and we’re done.’
‘Yeah, no, really,’ he’d said, earnestly. ‘Honestly, I don’t mind.’ He’d paused. ‘To tell you the truth, I kinda like being in a home kitchen again. My mother doesn’t cook any more. In fact, she’s hardly ever there. Not since my dad moved out.’
Lynda had felt a wave of compassion for him. He’d looked forlorn as he’d spoken, almost fragile. ‘How about setting the table, then?’ she’d said. ‘The dishes and plates and things are in the cupboard over there.’
He’d nodded. ‘Sure.’
‘You want a glass of wine, Mum?’ Ciarán was standing in front of her, glass in one hand, bottle of Chablis in the other. She’d noticed that he had brought her favourite crystal. She’d smiled at him. ‘Yes, please, why not?’
He’d poured for her, then said suddenly, ‘We’ve a really early field trip tomorrow morning, Mum. Part of our history project. We’re goin’ to Newgrange. It’d be much easier for us both to go to UCD from here.’ He’d looked over at Jon. ‘The bus is leaving at eight. No point in Jon going all the way home to Shankill and all the way back again in the morning.’
Jon had made as if to protest, politely.
Lynda had waved it away. So that’s what the domestic bliss had been all about. ‘Of course, that’s no problem. Jon, you can stay in Katie’s room. I’ll change the bed after dinner.’
‘If you’re sure it’s no trouble.’ There it was again, that flash of vulnerability.
‘No trouble at all.’ She’d smiled at him. ‘It’s a pleasure to have you.’
But this morning, the discovery of the flat tyres had made her forget all about their field trip. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I’m losing my memory as well, thanks to all this commotion. What time do you reckon you’ll be back tonight?’
Ciarán looked at Jon and then shrugged. ‘Dunno. I’ll text you if I’m coming back for dinner. There might be something going on afterwards.’
‘Right,’ Lynda said. ‘I’m going for a shower. Jon, you’re very welcome to come back here for dinner tonight. Both of you – just let me know.’
‘Oh, no it’s fine – really, I—’ Jon’s voice trailed away.
‘Ah, shuddup,’ said Ciarán. ‘Thanks, Mum. Text you later.’
‘Have a good day,’ called Lynda over her shoulder, as she left the kitchen. She hoped that Jon wasn’t embarrassed by their hospitality. If he was, he and Ciarán would just have to sort it out between them.
Just as Lynda reached the end of the hallway, she saw a light flashing outside. She could make out nothing else through the frosted glass, so she stepped into the television room and pulled back the curtains. She saw two men standing in the driveway, talking to Robert. Behind them, the lights of the tow-truck flashed orange.
This morning’s discovery was making her uneasy in a way she couldn’t explain. Robert’s anger had been a straightforward, less complicated response – and she hoped that he was right. As far as he could tell, the tyres had not been damaged. He’d insisted that letting the air out was a mindless piece of vandalism. But harmless, really. Lynda wished that she could feel so certain.
One of the repairmen bent down, his head level with the wheel arches of the Jeep. She watched as he inserted the jack and began to lever the car upwards. Suddenly, he stopped and lifted something white from the top of the wheel. He handed it to Robert, and then turned back to his work.
Lynda moved closer to the window, her heart pounding. She knew by Robert’s reaction that something was wrong. He walked away from the car, and stood close to the gateway. His whole body stiffened as he looked at whatever it was in his hands – he had his back to her, but Lynda knew by his movements that he had just opened the package the man ha
d handed him. Then his shoulders slumped forward and he ran one hand across the back of his neck, as though trying to dislodge something that gripped him there.
He turned around suddenly and Lynda ducked away from the window. She left the room and ran, taking the stairs two at a time. She reached the upstairs window in time to see Robert fold whatever it was he had in his hand and stuff it into the back pocket of his trousers.
She started to tremble.
A letter from Danny. It had to be. Another one, to follow the one that had arrived a week ago. The one Robert had never shown her.
Lynda sat heavily on the bedroom chair. She knew what this was. There was no point in pretending she didn’t. Maybe Danny wasn’t under her roof this time, but it made no difference. His reach was long.
This was the start of another campaign. Clever, focussed, relentless. She knew the drill by now; had learned that lesson three years ago. She couldn’t wait: she’d have to confront Robert, now, today. Not just about this, but about the last letter, too. And by the expression on his face, he would not want to share whatever it was he had just read and hidden away in his back pocket.
Lynda felt a strange sense of calm surround her. It was here, at last. This was what she had been waiting for, for three whole years.
Without even knowing it.
Danny takes a calculated risk and walks past his old house.
A Thursday night; a blanket of midweek quietness all around him. Chancy, nevertheless. He is aware of that. But it’s very late when he goes walkabout and the streets are dark. It’s a good neighbourhood, a safe neighbourhood, where people look after their own.
Danny has taken good care to disguise himself, to shield his face from any random, prying eyes. He’s enjoyed it, the dressing-up: it brings him right back to the games he used to play with Emma. He’s always liked being someone else. Superman. Spiderman. Secret agent. Tonight, though, it’s the good old-fashioned spy-movie disguise that appeals to him. The Humphrey Bogart Look. It’s a classic: the turned-up collar, the belted trench coat, the tilted fedora. Perfect for retreating into yourself, like a tortoise into its shell.
Except that that isn’t what he’s really wearing, of course; that would make him stand out even more, had anyone been looking. Instead, he’s put on a dark beanie, pulled low over the forehead. And he keeps his head down, his nose assailed by the slightly sour smell of his old donkey-jacket. Head down and shoulders hunched. That takes a good three or four inches off his height. He has proven that, on more than one occasion.
All of the house lights are off, everywhere. As he passes number nineteen, he glances at the front garden. Gravel where the old path used to be. There is no longer any grass – or ‘lawn’ as his mother used to call it. Instead, he can see the dark outline of shrubs, something low-lying and creeping, off to one side. And two cars in the driveway, of course. That makes him smile. It must have been a happy little interruption to the household, the discovery of four flat tyres. He was pleased with that bit of inspiration. The perfect kick-off. The Jeep sits squarely now, all black and arrogant. Behind it, and closer to the house, there’s the sleek and sexy BMW.
He’s never been much into cars, himself. They’ve always been Robbie’s territory. Danny’s more of a motorbike man. Ah: the Harley Davidson he’d once owned, briefly; and the secondhand Kawasaki, all those years ago. Nothing like a motorbike. The freedom. The open road. He nods to himself. Those days will come again.
This time, ever since he’s come back, he has been trying to get a handle on the years after Emma was no longer around. He thinks of them as the grown-up years, when Lord Robert had himself nicely installed, thank you very much, along with that wife of his, Lynda. Lynda with a ‘y’, who was probably plain old Linda with an ‘i’ until she met Robert and got the taste for tennis clubs and a little social climbing.
But the way things turned out afterwards is not Danny’s fault, has never been his fault. The forces of destiny conspired against him, that’s all. Things went wrong from time to time, and all that wrongness meant that he was left with fewer and fewer choices. Life’s like that: once the doors start to close, particularly after the first time, they close against you with startling speed. And then, one final slam and it’s all over. You’re trapped, in whatever kind of life you’ve ended up with, right then, right there. The noose is around your neck, you dangle from the string of chance, spitting and clawing in vain. Change is no longer possible.
For years, bad luck seemed to seek him out. It followed him around. Great waves of it, breaking along the shoreline of his life. Sometimes, others got pulled in underneath the surface along with him; sometimes they drowned in the undertow.
A bit like Amy. He met her after things had fallen apart, after he had been cut adrift. But they didn’t last, the two of them. Even after it was over, though, he thought about her from time to time. He’d heard that she married, a year or so after he’d left for England. A fella called Phelan. He wonders what she looks like now. Is she a stout, matronly, forty-something, following the pattern of her sister and her mother? The mother only glimpsed from afar, it is true: Danny had never had any intention of meeting her. The sister, Tina, had been quite enough on her own.
Amy was so very pretty, with those big brown eyes, that gorgeous, innocent mane of blonde hair. He had loved the slenderness of her, too, the way his hands could almost meet around her waist. And he had loved her, no matter what they said. In his own way, sure: but that was love, too, of a kind. Amy knew it. And trusted it.
So breathless, she was, the first night they’d spent together. He could see that she was overcome, that she’d never felt about anyone the way she felt about him.
‘Hello, gorgeous,’ he says. Walks right up to her in the club, pushes aside the others hovering nearby. The girls on either side of her look stunned. They are far better-looking, in a low-necked, self-assured kind of way. But it is Amy he wants. Petite, just like Emma. He has eyes only for her. He makes sure to let the other girls know it, too. He catches the whiff of resentment, as they each peel themselves off their barstools, stubbing out their cigarettes, saying: ‘See ya later, Amy.’ ‘Yeah, Amy, see ya.’
He’s seen it all before, with young women like these. Heard it, too – that sour edge of mockery, the insolent disbelief. ‘Why her?’ ‘Why not me?’ Especially the really good-looking ones. Danny’d been quite a catch in those days, too, at least at first acquaintance – and he still has the photographs to prove it. Six foot four, dark hair, pale eyes, rugby-player’s build. He could have picked up anyone he wanted – but it is Amy he wants on that night. All five-foot nothing of her, Madonna-eyed, shy.
‘Hello,’ she says, the word ending in a gulp. She glances down at her glass and then puts it behind her on the bar. He notices that her hands are shaking a little. He smiles. It’s a good feeling that, sweeping someone off their feet. And he is ready for a girl to find him special. It has been a while since anybody has come even close to finding him special.
‘So,’ he is saying. ‘You’re Amy and I’m Danny. That’s all the necessary introductions over with.’
Her eyes widen in surprise. She hasn’t copped the other girls’ use of her name as they leave. She’s only had eyes and ears for him. That gives him more confidence.
‘Well, okay, let’s do surnames as well and get it over with. I’m Danny Graham,’ he says, and he takes her right hand and shakes it, gravely.
‘Amy Munroe,’ she says.
‘Like Marilyn?’
She smiles at that. ‘Yeah, but with a “u”, not an “o”.’
That figures. She is about as different from Marilyn as he could want. All that blowsy, frowsy stuff is not to his taste, not at all. ‘Would you like us to go somewhere quieter?’ he says then, still holding onto her hand. ‘Can’t hear my ears in this place.’
‘Quieter?’ she says. ‘That would be some trick. It’s two o’clock in the morning. And it’s Christmas. Everywhere’s jammers.’
But she goes wit
h him, willingly. Out in the street, he lifts her, literally sweeps her off her feet and she shrieks with delight. He places her back gently on the footpath and kisses her, both arms wound tightly around her.
‘Ah, Amy, Amy,’ he says, ‘where have you been all my life?’ It is a cliché, of course it is, but he figures he’ll get away with it with her.
‘Waiting,’ she says. ‘Amy and Danny, Danny and Amy.’ She cocks her head to one side, looks at him demurely. ‘We sound good together.’
She is a little tipsy, he thinks, or else more forward than he’d believed. ‘Yeah,’ he says softly. ‘I think we’ll be very good together.’ Her skin, he notices, lights up from within. This is what happiness looks like, he remembers thinking.
She goes home with him to his flat and stays until morning. He is reluctant to let her go, the memory of her shy passion lingering. She promises him she’ll be back. She’s never stayed out a whole night before, she says. She needs to go home to spin her mother and father a yarn, but she will come back to him. Promise, promise, promise.
And she keeps her promise. ‘I’m here!’ she calls, as he throws open the door of the flat to welcome her. He’s not surprised, not really, but nevertheless he’s glad that her mother and father haven’t been able to stop her.
‘I told them nothing,’ she says. ‘I’m really good at keeping secrets. Besides,’ and she looks suddenly coy, ‘you’re Danielle now. We work together. In the accounts department of Arnotts.’ She smiles the slow smile that he comes to know well, at least at first. ‘I’m keeping you company, while your family are away on holidays.’
‘And afterwards?’ he asks. He’s curious. He never makes plans, himself. He’s surprised to have found someone else so like him.
She shrugs. ‘We’ll tell them when we have to. And by then,’ she kisses him, ‘it’ll be too late for them to do anything about it.’
We’ll tell. We.
Danny doesn’t like the word. ‘We’ has always been used against him, to shut him out, to let him know that he is not welcome as part of the charmed circle of family. He says nothing, though. He doesn’t want to spoil the moment. And Amy is very cute when she smiles.
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