by Laura Elliot
Her scars had disappeared or, perhaps, he had simply stopped noticing them. She never named the girl who had bullied her but it was obvious that Karin was responsible. He remembered what she had said the last time they were together. She made my life hell. But she wasn’t responsible for how I dealt with it. That was something I did all by myself.
‘I don’t know what motivates you.’ He was unable to take his eyes from the plum-coloured stain on the rim of Karin’s glass. ‘Is your crazy jealousy reserved just for me and Nadine or did you give the same treatment to the other unfortunate guys who walked out on you?’
‘No one has ever walked out on me,’ she replied. ‘No one. As for jealousy… crazy or otherwise. Check the mote in your own eye. What do you think Nadine was doing when she was shacked up in Alaska with the boat guy?’
‘If you don’t stop – ’
‘Don’t… don’t!’ Her sharp exclamation attracted attention and two women sitting at a nearby table glanced curiously across at them. ‘Let me tell you about don’t. You don’t accuse me of being possessive when you’ve wanted to possess me from the first time we met. You don’t take from me as you’ve done then shrug me aside like a piece of discarded junk.’
‘We took from each other.’
‘No.’ Her expression hardened. ‘You took. I gave.’
‘I never asked – ’
‘You never had to. I knew what you wanted and I gave willingly.’
‘What were you, Karin?’ he demanded. ‘A sacrifice?’
‘I knew your mind, Jake. The violence within.’ She tapped the side of her head. ‘I loved you and so I was willing to indulge your rape fantasies. Who did you want to hurt when we were together? Was it your wife who walked out on you? Your dominatrix mother? Did you want to rip that body stocking from your sluttish daughter? Which of them were you thinking about when you fucked me?’
‘Stop.’ Buffeted by her fury he was filled with a sudden urge to put his hands on her throat, to squeeze until her demanding eyes dulled and closed. ‘I refuse to continue this conversation.’
‘You started this conversation but I intend to finish it.’ She arched her head back and exposed her throat. The air was heavy with her scent. A miasma, cloying his nostrils. ‘Go on, do it. I’m inside your mind, Jake. I know you better than you know yourself.’
She was mad, he realised. Not in the sense that he had always imagined madness to be, irrational, erratic, violent, dazed, helpless. This was something different, something controlled and hidden behind a thin veneer of normality.
‘You’re right, Karin,’ he replied. ‘That’s exactly what I want to do. But, unlike you, I have the self-control to walk away and accept when a relationship like ours is over.’
‘It’s over when I say so.’ She swayed towards him and marked his cheek with the same glossy smear that stained the glass. ‘We’ve said things we’ll both regret when we’re apart. But we’ll forgive each other in time… like all lovers do.’ She rubbed the lipstick stain on her finger then licked it. The flick of her tongue, the glisten of saliva, those hot, sultry nights.
‘We’re not lovers,’ he said. ‘We never were. Whatever we had between us is finished. Don’t come near me or my family again.’
Nothing moved in her face, no twitch or pout, even her eyelashes seemed suspended. She opened her handbag and removed her mobile phone.
‘Remember the texts,’ she said. ‘New York calling. You promised to love me forever.’ She held the phone in front of her. The selfie was taken before he realised what she was doing. She snapped her handbag closed and stood up. ‘You should never have broken your promise.’
Men turned their heads to watch as her high heels clicked against the marble tiles, an arch of blue visible on the heel and sole of her shoe A Louboutin design, Nadine told him when he asked about that flash of red. He had laughed over what he had seen as a design absurdity but now, as Karin flaunted her signature colour, bile rose in his throat and soured his mouth.
CHAPTER 47
NADINE
Thanks to Stuart, I’m a woman with means. Ali and the twins can once again concentrate full time on their careers and Brian, my self-sufficient son… perhaps a new kiln. Our outstanding bank debts can be settled. Freedom, which I so avidly pursued, is mine at last. I can turn in any direction I like and walk towards a new future. But the shadows will come with me. No amount of money can cast a light on them. The only way they can be vanquished is to lose my memory and begin again… shriven.
The configuration of shipping containers – painted in bright, gaudy colours and erected on a once-disused London dockland site – look as if they could topple into the Thames on a high wind. But they are solidly balanced on supports with walkways, balconies, glass-fronted entrances and portholes cut into the steel that serve as windows.
Aurora is working in her angel shop. A week has passed since our meeting in the café but she’s not surprised to see me. One of the advantages of being a psychic, I guess. She’s a carver of angels, fluttery little creatures with serene expressions and translucent wings. All their accoutrements – blessings, pendants, chimes, crystals, incense and whatever it takes to make the days bearable – adorn the shelves but the angels are her own creation. Her hands are large and red-rough yet dexterous when it comes to making delicate things. She locks the shop and introduces me to her neighbours. One woman runs a fashion design studio, another makes hats, there’s a bearded poet, a sculpture and a silversmith. Most of them have a second container where they live. Before I leave I’d rented one for my studio and a second one for my home.
I return to Aurora’s angel shop to tell her we’ll be neighbours. Before I realise what she’s about to do she takes both my hands in hers. Heat runs along my arms when she touches my wrists with her broad fingers.
‘Your mother is still a very strong presence,’ she says. ‘She asks me to tell you that the blade is blunt. You’ve healed.’
The blade is blunt… a clever guess. But Aurora’s awareness is unsettling. She makes me think of things I’d rather ignore. I imagine Karin on the stairs of Sea Aster, climbing higher into the attic, touching our possessions, rummaging in bags and boxes, building a picture of the lives we discarded when we moved to Sea Aster. What else has she done? Jake hesitated when I asked and fobbed me off. He’s not telling me the full truth. Do I want to know it? This is my chance to move on. To rebuild the house of cards that collapsed so savagely around us. My scars barely mar the surface of my skin but they are still capable of cutting open the artery of memory.
Karin Moylan always knew how to cut deep. The gift she gave me for my sixteenth birthday was wrapped in silver foil and emblazoned with red love hearts. A square box sitting on my desk with a tag attached. Impossible to miss when I entered the classroom. To a kool babe on her 16th birthday. XXXX Annonimus Admiror was written on the gift tag. The writing was unfamiliar, blocky misspelled letters. I looked across at Alan O’Neill. He’d told Jenny he liked me, had asked her to act as our go-between. His spelling was notorious. Could he have laid it on my desk? An open declaration of intent?
Our history teacher, Miss Gibson, or Gibby, as we called her, should have arrived in the class but there was no sign of her. The box was large and light. It made no sound when I rattled it. One of the girls who’d gathered around my desk asked to see what was inside. I wanted to take it to a private place but I was caught in the hub of their curiosity. Karin sitting two desks away, had removed herself from the speculation.
Quickly, before Gibby arrived, I ripped off the paper and lifted the lid. Another box was inside it, wrapped in a different layer of gilt paper. Then another box, like nesting Russian dolls they emerged from one another, each one neatly wrapped. The girls no longer believed it was a large basket from Bodyshop. Perhaps it was a pendant, earrings, maybe, they giggled, an engagement ring from my anonymous admirer. Alan O’Neill had joined the group. He seemed as curious as the others and my nervousness grew. I willed Gibby to arrive and scatter
us. She was always punctual but the classroom door remained closed. The girls cheered each time another box was revealed. The last layer of paper was off, the tiny red box opened.
The blade glistened, silver sharp. A girl snorted with laughter, the sound magnified by the silence of those who stared from the blade to me, a slow realisation dawning. I dropped the box. The blade clinked when it hit the floor. Karin’s head was bent, her face hidden. Her nails made a low sawing sound as she slid them along the desk. How could she have known? Long sleeves hid the plasters on my wrists, long socks covered my ankles.
This time I would not run from the classroom. I picked up the blade, placed it back in the red box and left it on my desk. I gathered up the wrapping papers, the discarded boxes, and pushed them into the litter basket. Gibby arrived, rushing late, accompanied by Vonnie Williams. I didn’t need to read Vonnie’s elated expression to understand why our history teacher had been delayed.
I left the school immediately after the last class ended and ran home through Gracehills Park. Jenny called to my house a short while later. I told my mother to send her away. Neither of them paid any attention to my frantic command. My door was locked but Jenny banged on it until I allowed her in.
‘You’re the only one who knew.’ My pillow was damp with tears. ‘I trusted you.’
‘You know I wouldn’t share spit with that bitch.’ She forced me to sit up and face her. ‘There’s only one way you can deal with this.’ She rolled up the sleeve of my blouse. Her breath hissed when she saw the most recent cuts. ‘As long as you keep doing this she’ll dominate you. Have you the courage to stop? I believe you have. Prove me right.’
Like the drawing on the blackboard, no one was held responsible but Karin’s name was whispered along the class grapevine. Students began to ignore her. Vonnie Williams, aware that she might be isolated in the chilliness surrounding Karin, ended their friendship. I felt no pleasure as I watched Karin’s growing isolation. I too was isolated, not by silence or by being ignored, but by the skinning of my most intimate secret. The victim and the bully, bound together by the one crime.
CHAPTER 48
On Friday I hire a van and drive to Pembroke where I take the ferry to Rosslare. It’s a long drive to the Dingle peninsula and I’m anxious to see my son. It’s late in the evening when I reach Slí na hAbhann. Brian discovered the craft centre when he was cycling through the peninsula with Peter Brennan two summers ago. That’s when he decided to drop out of college and set up his pottery. I don’t have a favourite child but Brian stirs something deep and emotional within me. Perhaps it’s his single-minded creativity. I had it once when I was very young and, now, I hope to find it again. I park the van and make my way towards the courtyard.
Lights have been switched on in the workshops and studios. They twinkle from windows and speckle the dark depths of the mountain slopes. I hear the rush of the river that inspired the name Slí na hAbhann. It lies below us, a tumbling rush of water heading towards Dingle Bay. Brian is unaware that I’ve arrived. I watch him through the pottery window. He’s glazing something, his attention concentrated on each meticulous stroke. He looks broader, more rugged. My son, the mountainy man. I won’t cry, not now. Plenty of time for that later.
The glazing is done and I’m in his arms, swept up on the fervour of seeing him again. I admire his ceramic award and he proudly replaces it on a plinth. He shuts the pottery door and we walk the short distance to his cottage. Its sparseness used to worry me. I’d arrive with cushions and cutlery, lampshades, pictures, crockery, rugs, and bring them home again.
He prepared a casserole. It’s been slow cooking for hours, he says, as he removes it from the oven. A wood burning stove warms the room. He opens the wine I brought with me and when we’ve eaten he shows me the video of the craft award ceremony. This is the full version, instead of the short video I’d seen of him walking to the stage for the presentation.
I see her at a table, a necklace of moonstones at her neck. Her smile is rapturous as she stands, hands high, and claps my son who stands, self-consciously, and holds up the award. She’s sitting between Liam Brett and Jimmy French, one of the weaselling Core reporters. Jessica is there also, and Gina from Admin. But Karin Moylan is the only face I see.
I watch the video until the end. Brian clears the dishes from the table and then, almost as an afterthought, he says, ‘You can expect a call from your friend Karin. She’s hoping to link up with you over the weekend.’
The shock of her name on his lips freezes me. He’s comfortable imparting this information, no guile or hidden inferences.
‘How do you know Karin Moylan?’ I ask.
I’m unsure if it’s the glow from the stove or the wine or the charm she would have used to flatter and disarm my son but Brian looks decidedly flushed.
‘She’s been here twice. Bought something each time. She really likes my stuff.’
‘When was she here last?’
‘A few days ago. She says the two of you go way back.’
‘We do. But she’s not my friend.’
‘Not your friend?’ He stops, puzzled. ‘Why would she lie about something like that? She knew all about Alaska and you and Dad splitting up. She was delighted when I told her you were coming back for the weekend.’
‘She won’t be ringing me, Brian. And if she does I’ll hang up on her. I don’t trust her and I don’t want you to have anything more to do with her. Promise me you’ll let me know if she comes here again.’
‘I don’t understand. How am I supposed to stop customers coming into my pottery?’
‘She hates me for something that happened a long time ago.’
‘Like what?’
‘We fought over someone we loved. It hurts too much to go into details but you need to trust me on this one. Don’t make her welcome here.’
He’s not convinced. Our night together has turned sour. He wants more information than I’m prepared to divulge. How can I tell him the sordid truth? I want to contain my past, not brandish it like a fan that flicks over to reveal… what? No, I can’t go there. I never will. Was Jake her lover or the settlement of a debt I’ll never be able to repay? I feel a sudden and unexpected urge to protect him. He’s playing with Shard in Donegal this weekend. That’s why I’ve chosen this time to collect what I need from Sea Aster. It’s easier this way. The bleakness in his voice when we talk reminds me of Ali’s comment. Walking through quicksand. He keeps apologising for lying to me. He needs absolution. To ease the memory of his deceit in my forgiveness.
‘I self-harmed when I was a teenager,’ I tell Brian. ‘I was going through a difficult time and I believed it was the only way I could cope with the pressure.’
It’s hard to remember the person I was then. The fear and self-loathing that consumed me. Only for those faint scars, I’d never believe I’d touched such a destructive chord in myself.
‘What kind of pressure?’ he asks.
‘Bullying. There were girls involved. Karin Moylan was one of them. The mind games she played almost destroyed me. Don’t let her do the same to you.’
He looks shocked but also understanding when I tell him about the cuttings, the savage and painful path I took. I’ll strip my soul if it stops him welcoming her into his life. I watched my children like a hawk during their teenage years for signs of insecurity, of stealth and secret hurts. But they are brash tiger cubs, open and unafraid to pursue their dreams. When I leave in the morning I can tell it’s okay. Karin Moylan will no longer be welcome in Slí na hAbhann.
It’s late in the afternoon when I reach Sea Aster. Winter has taken its toll on Mallard Cove. The van judders over potholes, the wheels skid on perished seaweed. I drive slowly, nervous in case I get a puncture. It’s quiet on the estuary, too cold for the usual Saturday family excursions to feed the swans.
I unlock the front door of apartment 1 with the new key Jake posted to me. He collects my post every day and sends on what’s important. The rest is junk mail which he’s p
iled neatly on the hall table. A note from him lies on top. He left a bottle of wine and fresh food in my fridge.
I open windows and allow the breeze from the estuary to flow through the rooms. I heat the soup and make a pasta. The evening passes quickly. I need to pack even less than I thought. Coping in small spaces is habit-forming. My bedroom looks the same as I remember. But appearances are deceptive. Karin Moylan was here. I sense her presence. She trawled through my possessions before she climbed into the attic to destroy my paintings.
Jake has sorted out the clutter. Everything is packed and stacked, each container labelled, and ready to be stored in a warehouse until needed.
I sleep fitfully and awaken, my mind sharp with images of her smile as she flatters Brian, her hands caressing the sensuous glazes on the bowls and ceramic box she bought from him.
When morning arrives, I write a note to thank Jake for the food and wine. An envelope lies in the hall. I didn’t notice it last night and post is not delivered on Sundays. My name and the Sea Aster address are printed on the front. There’s no postmark. She had been here during the night.
I slide open the flap and draw out a photograph. They are together, her and Jake, staring cheek to cheek into the camera. It’s a close-up selfie. Lipstick on Jake’s cheek, his lob-sided grimace, as if he’s been caught unaware. Her glistening, white smile. When was it taken? I find the answer on the bar receipt she stapled to the photograph.