* * *
Peering from under the cap Cilla had provided, he hauled the trolley along the path, rounded the castle wall. Suddenly footsteps sounded, approaching, from beyond the border hedging. He froze, in sight of the birdhouse, caught a glimpse of her through a gap. Reflex set him back in stride. From around the turn the figure took form, the VanSant woman, marching toward him. He couldn’t run. Maybe she wouldn’t even look at him, or notice his climbing boots. If she did, the game was up. He speeded up. Before she got to him his shaking fingers held the peak of his cap, tipped it up and down, obscuring his face. She passed without a nod. He recorded her fading heel-stabs in the cinder. At the next break in the hedging he ducked in, checked, she had vanished.
At his shoulder stood the birdhouse, beyond it the brown door bearing the Liffey God knocker Cilla had described. With the trolley concealed, he reconnoitred his surroundings, then pushed twice on the doorbell, with no response. A minute later he was inside, standing stiff and quiet.
He called out a greeting, expecting no answer, but wondering if someone answered, whose voice it would be. And what he might say, or do. Heart pumping, he crept in. The apartment seemed big. But not noiseless. He called out again, and waited. No answer came. A minute passed. Maybe he should leave, he thought. He had no right. What if he walked in on something that was none of his business? Or was caught inside? Prison, not that he was ever going back. But the thought was unnerving. He should go, get out now; he’d do that, he decided. Then keys rattled. Outside. The scrape of someone at the door, coming in, into Lenny’s apartment. The door bolt turned. Seconds earlier he had noticed a bicycle wheel poking out of an alcove. Now he swept the curtain aside, ducked in, lying as he landed, in semi-darkness, hard edges poking into him.
As daylight burst into the hall he steadied the curtain, tried to muffle his breathing. His legs would have to wait, so too whatever was sticking into his back. Through the gap at the floor his eyes followed a pair of men’s black polished shoes squeaking into and out of downstairs rooms, sometimes doubling back, then climbing the stairs, no one calling out in expectation of finding anyone home. Then came sounds of drawers being pulled out and pushed back in, and then the man coming back down the stairs, stopping in front of the alcove, an arm’s length away, followed by a phone being dialled.
‘Dominick, where are you?’ the demanding voice asked. ‘Leave that. Come over to Leonora’s place. Bring my cart.’ Then a pause. ‘No! I said leave that. Get over here. Now, please.’
The accent sounded American, Tony thought. So the body in the shoes was Charles Quin, probably. And Dominick was Boxer Dunne, now on his way over. It made sense. In another way it made no sense.
Growing achey and with sweat stinging his eyes, he put a picture on every sound, tried to place the footfalls. He braced himself for exposure, how he’d explain his presence, what he’d say, what he’d do. He’d be compelled to act, if only to run, as a last resort. Then the feet creaked the stairs, ascending again, moved about, seemingly searching for something.
He tried to reposition; his muscles had cramped. A slight roll provided some relief and a better view of the hall.
The door knocker clacked twice. New feet appeared.
‘Mr Quin, I’m here.’ It was a man’s voice tainted with the politeness of subservience. He plodded past the curtained alcove, deeper into the apartment, emitting cologne.
‘Dominick!’ the man upstairs shouted.
The scuffed sneakers scooted back to the front door. ‘Right here, boss.’
‘Did I tell you to come in?’
‘Just standing here, boss, just waiting for you to tell me what you want me to do.’
‘You have the cart?’
‘All ready to go. Got here rapid, like you said. I brought your clubs in case you might have forgot to remember to tell me.’
‘Wait outside. Pull the front door.’
Tony caught sight of the figure exiting: Boxer Dunne. He looked bigger than he remembered, fatter around the middle, still stuffed into a bad suit. The train station shit-head from last year. He’d seen that face only once. He’d see it again, he suspected, soon.
Five minutes passed before the man upstairs descended and moved into Tony’s view: Charles Quin. The man in the white Mercedes at the castle gate. In spite of all the rummaging, it seemed he was leaving empty-handed.
The whine of the golf cart had died away before Tony emerged, stiff-legged. It was only then that he noticed the photographs, clusters of small framed prints. Inside the nearest room his eyes ran full circle. At least ten magazine covers in large frames: Vogue, Harpers, Cosmopolitan, Self, and others he hadn’t heard of. But it struck him that there was no life in this room, no feel of it being lived in, just a gallery. Nothing seemed touched, no papers, no open books, no sat-on sofas. The second room, farther down the hall, had neither the décor nor the deadness of the first. Instead, colourful paintings, pillowed sofas, ornate rugs.
He had no idea what he was looking for. Nothing seemed conspicuous. He checked his watch; he’d been in the apartment ten minutes. More time brought more risk. Another few minutes, he decided, then he’d get out.
At the top of the staircase he pushed open a door. And froze. His eyes followed an arc. Lenny Quin stared at him. And so too a second pair of eyes, a man, a stranger. All in photographs. Forty or more, all black-and-white, most hanging, a few standing. Four or five of Lenny, maybe seven of the two of them, all the rest of the man alone, portrait studies. In a sculpted heart above the bed their unity was evident, Lenny radiant in all.
Why? His heart thumped, he tried to make sense of it. Beyond what was clear. What did this mean for him? He wasn’t the man in her life, obviously. The man in the photos, she was his. Without question. That’s where she was gone, to be with him. Cilla knew, he figured, even tried to tell him in a round about way, then helped him learn for himself.
On a wicker stand near the bed lay items of men’s clothing neatly folded: shirt, pants, a pair of polished but well-worn boots, an Australian ranch hat with snake-skin band.
A chill cut through him. No need for any more, the voice inside him said. Just leave. Someday meet someone he could trust. Fucking fool. Should have known. He never belonged in this snob class. His face distorted, fists rose up, trembled in the air. He could deal with it better in his core, he thought, from where all his victories had sprung, the resource Joel Vida had shown him. Deep down in his core. The sacred place. Where he had found how to survive. There, he hoped, he could deal with this.
He subdued what he could, regained some composure, picked up a small double-heart frame. She shook in his hands, looking sparkling, joyful. Why not, with her beauty, he said silently, why not exploit the privilege of women beautiful to men.
He pulled open the top bureau drawer. Prescription containers, lots of them, many full. Chemist-shop labels on all: Lenny Quin, Aranroe. Drugs. The names meant nothing to him. White pills, blue pills, small orange ones. Was she ill, or addicted? Was that it? Part of it? Did it even matter now?
His anger at his naivete deepened. Crazy world: the words kept repeating in his head. Harder than fighting on the streets, where he’d never gotten caught out; was always ready, people couldn’t fuck with him without facing him, and he was never so dumb to trust. Now life felt dark again, suddenly, the darkness that started with Jesus Pomental’s dead eyes. Get away, one voice in him said, go. How could he? No home, no country. He rammed the drawer shut, spun away.
And there she stood. In front of him. Real. Alive. Pallid. Blond, black polo and blue jeans. Wordless. Lenny Quin. He backed away, staring, until he reached the window, then turned his face from her.
Her fingers swept across her full watery eyes. ‘Tony . . .’ Her voice asked only for his acknowledgement, for an equal intimacy.
He gave neither.
‘Tony, Tony.’ She made his name sound sad and sweet, like it contained everything they had been and might be. And she waited as if for fate, without forcing
him from his withdrawal.
She had a story, no doubt, he decided. He didn’t want it. What he thought he had, he never had. Get to Mweelrea, climb. Away from this woman, the only one he’d ever even thought he loved. He tried to stop shaking.
‘I’m so sorry, Tony. I should have said something. There’s a perfectly good explan – ’
‘Said something?’ His words exploded. ‘That you lied? That what you said was a rotten lie? Remember? Do you? Love – was that it?’
‘Please listen to me; there is an – ’
‘You married, that it? Or just this guy’s lover? Maybe others’ too?’
‘No, I’m not! None of those things. I’ve never been married. And I am not seeing anyone! No I didn’t tell you everything. But I did not lie to you, Tony. Not once.’
‘Your bodyguard?’ he said, gesturing to the intimate portrait over the bed. ‘Chauffeur? Daddy’s personal chef? The fucking gardener?’
‘Stop it! I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you if you let me. Can we go downstairs now, get a cup of tea, can we? Talk about this calmly?’
‘Fuck talk,’ he said. ‘Fuck talk.’ He angled his shoulders to pass her in the door frame. She blocked him, hand reaching to him. He backed away, made to push past her again. She blocked him again, face in pain, arms open to him.
‘Tony!’ she yelled.
He jumped, then fixed his eyes on her.
‘Listen to what I’m saying. Please. You need to hear me. We’ve each had our own lives up to now. Some things will never go away, good and bad. But we can live for now, today; they’re your words. Nothing has changed; I still feel the same for you.’
‘Feel? For me? Run off to him. Sham fucking lousy shit life.’
‘Stop it, I said! You’ve been hurt; I know that, and I care. I’ve been hurt too, in ways you don’t realise. But I’m, I’m – ’
She tried to go on but seemed to fall into an inner struggle, and then her features firmed into sadness and she just stared at him.
‘Think you know what real pain feels like?’ he said. ‘You’re the expert on pain?’
He heard his words only after they had left him, knew them to be shields against his own suffering, and he felt again the solitariness into which he knew he could sink. His hands pressed hard against his temples. He powered past her.
‘Tony. Tony, wait! Please.’ She continued to call after him, until the thump of the front door sounded.
12
‘You look terrible!’ Cilla glared at him. ‘What the hell happened?’
‘Can I come in?’
She poked her head out, scanned in both directions, then followed him into the kitchen. ‘Don’t tell me she was there? She wasn’t there?!’
His look made her cringe.
‘Don’t worry, she’s doing great, better than ever.’ He fired a stare at her. ‘Ever been in there, in that apartment, upstairs?’
‘What reason would I have? Tell me what happened.’
‘You said you’ve known her for years.’
‘I didn’t say I know her; I just know her in a certain way. I told you, I come from a little sodden farm, not a castle. Leo knows her; I’d say he’s the only one. Why are you asking me this anyhow?’
He paused before answering her, sounded less angered. ‘Remember you said I was different?’
‘Wasn’t that long ago that I’d forget.’
‘I want to know what you meant. What’s different?’
‘Don’t know. Just different.’
‘You must know. You said it. Why would you say it?’
‘Hold on. Why are you so bothered? What’s got you so upset? Tell me what happened?’
‘Just tell me what you meant. It’s important to me. Or is everyone in Aranroe a fucking liar, including you?’
Cilla’s glare imposed a lull between them.
‘If it means that much to you, I’ll tell you,’ she said firmly. ‘You’re different because you’re not like most fellas. Probably other reasons too.’ She looked away, then back at him, softer now. ‘You’re going to think I’m mad but I’ll tell you; I started really thinking last night when we were in that restaurant. Things I never thought before. Private things. About me. Then after that, when you were asleep on the couch, my eyes wouldn’t close. Just lying there I was, thinking all kinds of stuff. Nice things, different things. I started laughing so hard I was sure you’d wake up and think there was a madwoman in the attic. I could’ve sworn you were going to try to talk me into bed, you growing up in America and all that. But you didn’t, and that made me feel, feel sort of really special.’
He reciprocated her silence, the hard edge of his distress now assuaged. Once again her simplicity was challenging what he believed about himself; her simple openness had just punished him, exposed his narrowness, and in this moment she enriched and complicated his thinking.
‘Sorry,’ he said with obvious embarrassment. ‘An odd time the temper just happens. Hard to stop it; goes back a long way.’
‘What’s there to be sorry for? I’d love you to tell me about who you are really.’
‘I didn’t mean what I said. I could never see you as a liar.’
‘Don’t be a silly man. Aren’t all girls liars. You should know that, a fella your age.’
Their eyes connected, and for him underlined what was different in these moments; they had each revealed a chunk of their inner worlds.
‘I have to change for work,’ Cilla said. ‘Stay as long as you want; the key’s always under the geranium pot.’ Then passing behind him she trailed a hand along his shoulder. ‘I finish at ten. See you later tonight, maybe?’
He forced a smile.
* * *
After Cilla had left he walked the short distance to his B&B, blocking from his view in every step the great dome lording over the bog and rock and water of this world. And soon, like a man from whom new hope had been too soon taken, he crashed onto his bed, arms across his eyes. America had taken his young years, nobody could give them back, not one day. He’d never know how it felt to be eighteen and nineteen and normal. Or twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six. Except in a sub-world, prey to perverts and psychopaths, a trophy of penitentiary scum. And in all of life no romance that counted, but one. Was this, too, part of what was dragging him down, that he had never learned to understand women, how they thought and functioned, what they sought and needed?
Maybe it was none of that but what the shrinks warned him about. Fit in, they said, stay on guard: depression, conflicts, losing control, giving up. Since he got out eighteen months ago he’d been up and down, but he’d managed, even survived Eva Kohler’s madhouse. Now this, end of the dream, her deceit, making love to him, obsessed with someone else, and a room full of drugs. So many holes to fall into, everywhere. So many things he just didn’t get. Even Cilla: clever, sexy, strong, just as much a riddle.
How far down did all this bury him, he asked. Could he cope? Honour his oath, re-find his spirit, become himself again, belong, ever? With anyone? Could these people understand only their own? Was he one of them? Or was he lost still, a misfit still, native nowhere, slipping back into the darkness?
Mweelrea was still there; that was all. He’d climb, tomorrow, early, grate once again against stone and earth, rest somewhere along the way, in yellow heather, minus civilisation, minus everything. At dawn.
* * *
Hours later it was hunger that awakened him. He split the curtains and was blinded by a bright evening sky. He needed to move, escape, breathe country air.
Outside, Paddy McCann called out, and shuffled toward him. ‘I have a wee letter here for you. From her good self. And strict orders to wait and bring a reply back to her.’
Tony took the envelope and glared at Paddy.
‘I’ll be leaving you to read it in private,’ Paddy said. ‘Chance for me to get in a little bit of a walk around the driveway. I’ll tell Eilis I did half a mile.’
‘Hold on, Pa
ddy.’
‘Won’t be far, just give a shout when you need me.’
‘Hold on. There won’t be any reply. Take it back.’
‘Couldn’t do a thing like that,’ he said, still retreating. ‘Wouldn’t be fair on herself. Not in the best of spirits at the minute. Y’know yourself the way the women are.’
Tony watched as Paddy’s big out-of-synch frame moved away. Despite his distrust of these people, this was the quality he admired most in Paddy, compassion. But he wouldn’t be taken in by it.
‘Don’t give me any shit, Paddy. Take it back to her!’
‘Afraid I couldn’t do that, sir . . . wouldn’t have the courage.’
‘I’ll tear it up, right here.’
‘No, no, I have it, sir,’ Paddy hurried back. ‘I could say I talked to your good self, that you were on your way someplace fierce important, the hounds of time were after you, and that you’d not a chance to read it but you took it with you, and, and, you said, you said you would, that you’d read it.’
Tony offered no response.
‘Not a right thing to do, make up a lie to tell herself. Could you, could you just – ’
Tony threw the letter into the taxi. Paddy reached in, plucked it out.
‘Couldn’t you just take one peek? The first page. It’s probably only – ’
‘No, I said! The answer is no. You understand?’ He moved off along the long driveway.
Paddy followed. ‘What if I run you down to the village? You could read it on the way; there’d be no charge, not a red penny. How’s that?’
Their eyes engaged. With both hands, Paddy offered the envelope again. Tony shook his head, continued his departure. Paddy scrambled back into his taxi and moments later slowed alongside Tony. ‘I’m headed to the village anyway. Give you a free lift for nothing.’
Tony’s expression terminated what was happening between them. The taxi drove ahead toward the exit but stopped after twenty yards. The horn blared once, a long, loud blare. Paddy’s hand emerged dangling the envelope. It dropped, spun twice, landed flat on the grass border. The taxi drove out through the gate and sped away.
On the Edge of the Loch: A Psychological Novel set in Ireland Page 13