Lifesaving for Beginners

by Ciara Geraghty

  Mum is away again. A book tour in America and Canada. Her book is called The Ten-thirty from Heuston. Short stories.

  When Dad gets home from work, he says, ‘How are you feeling?’

  I say, ‘Better, thanks,’ and he nods and says, ‘Good, good,’ before picking up his briefcase and walking, in his vague, distracted way, into the study.

  Mrs Higginbotham scrapes half my dinner into the bin. She says, ‘You’re off your food, Kat-Nap,’ which is what she called me when I was a kid and sometimes still does. ‘What’s the matter?’

  I say, ‘Sore throat,’ or ‘Cramps in my tummy,’ or ‘I had something to eat at Minnie’s house,’ and Mrs Higginbotham fixes me with her steely stare and then, for a moment, I think: she knows. She knows everything. And I feel a magnificent surge of relief, as if everything will be all right now. Mrs Higginbotham knows and she’ll fix it. She’ll make it right. But then she nods and returns to the sink and says, ‘Gargle with hot water and salt,’ or ‘Fill a hot water bottle and have an early night,’ or ‘I told you not to eat between meals.’

  Two months to go.

  My belly is hard. And the deep well of my bellybutton is gone. It’s stretched across my stomach. There is movement. I don’t look down when that happens. I don’t put my hand on my belly when that happens. I put a tape in my Walkman. Turn the volume up and up. If I’m in my room and Mum is not in the house, I sing along. I’m really bad at singing. I close my eyes and sing along at the top of my voice.

  Two months till the exams. The Intermediate Examination. We talk about fourth year. We’ll be seniors then. We’ll wear blue jumpers and we’ll be allowed on the blue stairs that are currently off limits to third years like us.

  We don’t talk about it, Minnie and me. I think it’s because we don’t know what to say. We don’t know what to do.

  Instead, we slag each other.

  ‘Is that a face on your spot?’

  ‘Givvus a match.’

  ‘My arse and your face.’

  ‘Fat bitch.’

  ‘Spotty cow.’

  ‘Givvus a fag.’

  ‘Kenny Everett.’

  We laugh. We laugh all the time. Sometimes we laugh so hard that we cry. That’s the only time I cry. When I laugh so hard.

  Faith says, ‘I liked your note.’

  I say, ‘I didn’t want you to worry.’

  Faith says, ‘You spelled responsibilities wrong.’

  I say, ‘Miss Williams hasn’t done that word with us yet.’

  We are on the plane. It hasn’t taken off yet, which is good because taking off happens to be my favourite bit. The stewardess is showing us how to fasten the seatbelt. I check mine. It’s fastened. I tighten it as much as it will go but it’s still loose. I look at Faith, wondering if I should tell her, but she is looking out of the window.

  My second favourite bit is when the plane goes into the clouds and then out the other side, where the sky is blue and the clouds below look like snow. Proper snow. Not like the stuff a week ago. Me and Damo made a snowman but it was really small. There’s no such things as leprechauns but Americans think there are. They’re really small. And green. Our snowman was like that, except he wasn’t green. More like a dirty white.

  I feel under the seat with my hand but I can’t find the life jacket. Maybe there are two under Faith’s seat. The stewardess says that adults have to attend to their own life jacket first, before the kids’. I expect I’d be able to put on my own one. If I had one. I don’t know about Faith, though. She’s still looking out of the window. She hasn’t listened to a single word the stewardess has said. I hope we don’t crash. I really do.

  I don’t think the woman knows we are coming to see her. I don’t think Faith has a plan. Having a plan saves lives. That’s what Coach says.

  Now the stewardess is walking down the plane. She’s checking to see everybody has their seatbelt on and I pull up my jacket so she can see my belt, which is fastened as tight as it will go but is still a bit loose. She stops at our row and smiles at me. She doesn’t even check my seatbelt.

  She says, ‘Hello, there.’ Her teeth are very long and very white and she is wearing a necklace that says ‘Angela’. I bet that’s her name.

  She moves past our row, without even glancing at my belt. I pull on the strap again but it’s definitely as tight as it will go.

  After the runway bit and the going up through the clouds bit, I’m bored. I forgot to pack Dark Days, the fourth Skulduggery Pleasant book, which is actually turning out to be just as good as the third one. Damo says reading’s for nerds but Ant is always reading and he’s not a nerd. He’s had about a hundred girlfriends and he never studies.

  George Pullman said he flew to America once and everyone on the plane had their own telly and you could watch whatever you liked. I don’t believe him. He said his dad was an astronaut but me and Damo saw him with his dad in Pizza Hut once and his dad was wearing a dark suit, like an undertaker. Undertakers are people who sell coffins. They wear dark suits.

  Faith says, ‘What’s wrong with you?’

  I say, ‘Nothing.’

  She says, ‘You haven’t asked me if we’re there yet.’

  I shrug, as if it’s nothing.

  Faith says, ‘Well, we are there. Nearly there.’ She nods towards the window and I look out. Faith has the window seat. I thought it might cheer her up.

  Below, I see the sea. It’s called the Irish Sea, the one between England and Ireland. We did that in Mrs O’Reilly’s class, last year. She taught us lots of things about Ireland because that’s where she’s from. She didn’t let us say, ‘Londonderry’. If you did, she’d make you stand by the wall with your back to the class so you couldn’t see anything.

  I see an island with a round tower. There’s no roof on the tower. I reckon if I parachuted down right now, I’d land inside it, no problem.

  The fields look really small. Green.

  ‘The Emerald Isle’ Mam called it. Emeralds are like diamonds except they’re green. From up here, everything looks green, even the sea. Not many people know that the sea is actually green. Most people think it’s blue.

  I say, ‘Faith?’

  She says, ‘Ummm?’ the way adults do when they’re not listening. I tap her elbow and this makes her turn away from the window and look at me.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What were you going to say?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘I swear to God, Milo . . .’

  ‘OK, OK, I was just wondering if we’re going to see your birth mother as soon as we get off the plane.’

  Faith shakes her head. ‘Will you keep your voice down?’ Her whisper sounds like a hiss. She looks around but no one is listening. Most of them are looking at the sea and the fields and the island and the tower. She puts her elbows on the table top in front of her. It’s still down but it’s supposed to be up by now. She pushes her hands into her hair.

  I say, ‘I thought that’s why we were here. So you could talk to her.’

  She says, ‘It is, but . . . Milo, look, it’s . . . it’s complicated. You’re just nine. You don’t understand.’

  Adults always tell kids they don’t understand instead of saying that they don’t know how to explain it. Miss Williams doesn’t let us say, ‘I don’t know’. She says you have to make a stab at it.

  I only want to know if we’re going to visit the lady when we land. And if we’re not, then I just want to know what we’re going to do instead. I like having a plan. When you have a plan, you know what’s coming. When you’re a little kid, you don’t think about what’s coming. But I’ll be ten soon. Double digits. Damo says I’ll be a pre-teen, like him. A pre-teen is like being a teenager except you don’t need to shave and you don’t have spots yet. Damo has three hairs under each arm now. He says he got them two days after he turned ten. He’s always wearing tops with no sleeves. He hangs off the monkey bars at the park, so that everyone can see them.

>   I say, ‘So?’

  Faith says, ‘What?’

  And I say, ‘So what?’ and that makes her smile and I love when Faith smiles so I don’t ask her again.

  The landing is really bouncy, which is pretty exciting. The lady in the seat in front of Faith doesn’t like it.

  She says, ‘Jesus, Mary and holy St Joseph, preserve us.’ Then she blesses herself loads of times. I think Ireland is a pretty holy place. Mrs O’Reilly was Irish and she was dead holy. She went to mass on Sundays and gave out to us if we had a ham sandwich on Fridays. You’re not supposed to eat meat on Fridays if you’re holy. Not even chicken nuggets, which have hardly any meat in them at all.

  I’ve only been to mass four times, I think. When I got christened and when I made my First Holy Communion, and then the two masses after the accident. Faith didn’t want me to go to the first one. Dad and Faith had a big fight about it.

  Dad said, ‘He needs to be there. He needs to understand.’

  Faith said, ‘He’s only nine years old.’

  Dad said, ‘I know what age my own son is, thank you very much.’

  By then Faith was crying and Dad said something like, ‘Your mother would have wanted him there.’ And that’s when Faith started shouting at Dad. ‘What the hell would you know about what Mam wanted?’ Dad didn’t even tell her to stop shouting and saying hell.

  Later, when Damo asked me why my eyes were red, I said, ‘I ate a chilli pepper,’ and he said, ‘A whole one?’ and I said, ‘Yeah,’ and he said, ‘A raw one?’ and I said, ‘Yeah,’ and he said, ‘Awesome,’ and that made me stop thinking about Dad and Faith shouting, and Mam not being here anymore.

  I see Faith’s bag on the carousel and I drag it off. It’s pretty heavy for just a couple of days but that’s because Faith is a girl and girls need more clothes than boys. Sometimes Imelda wears three different outfits in one day but Carla always wears the same jeans, even if there’re grass stains on the knees.

  When we get outside, Faith lights a cigarette and checks the bus timetable. Afterwards, she says, ‘Let’s go,’ and I pick up my bag and follow her, even though I don’t know where we’re going to or how long it’s going to take to get there.

  And I don’t ask.

  It’s probably because I’m nearly ten now. Double digits. A pre-teen. I’m going to check my armpits when we get to wherever we’re going, because you just never know, do you?

  Not much happens.

  I think about Thomas. About ringing him. I don’t ring him.

  I smoke. A lot.

  Brona rings. I tell her I’ve just started a chapter. I can’t talk.

  I don’t write anything.

  I examine my face in the mirror. My almost-forty-year-old face.

  Minnie rings and tells me about her teeth. Apparently, they’re falling into disrepair due to all the calcium in her body bypassing her mouth and going directly to the baby. She doesn’t seem put out by this turn of events, even though she’s particular about her teeth, having worn train tracks for much of the eighties.

  I tell her I can’t talk, I’ve got Brona holding on the other line. She wants to discuss the chapter I’m writing. Minnie tells me to ring her back. I don’t.

  I avoid Ed. I tell him I can’t come over to play Super Mario Galaxy with him.

  ‘We could play Super Mario Galaxy 2, if you prefer.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Why not, Kat?’

  ‘Because . . .’

  ‘Is it because you’re getting things ready for when Faith comes to visit us?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  Later, the phone rings. I check the screen.

  Withheld.

  But it could be Ed phoning from Sophie’s, looking for a lift somewhere. Maybe he’s out of credit. I don’t think it’s Ed. But it could be.

  ‘Hello?’ My voice sounds sharp. Caustic. I don’t sound like someone who is afraid.

  ‘You were wrong.’ The voice is the same as before. A man’s voice. Low-pitched. English accent. The enunciation of each word like an elocution lesson.

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Last time we spoke, you said you know who I am. But you don’t, do you? You haven’t got a clue.’

  ‘I know you’re a coward.’

  ‘I’m a businessman.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘An investment in my business.’

  ‘What business?’

  ‘The business of not giving an exclusive to one of our lovely tabloids about Killian Kobain and who he really is.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Everybody wants to know this story.’

  ‘What story?’

  ‘The Killian Kobain story.’

  ‘That’s got nothing to do with me.’

  ‘The clock is ticking on this deal, Kat. I’m not looking for a big investment. A modest six-figure sum should be sufficient. I don’t think that will pose much of a problem for someone with a net worth of about . . . what did the Bookseller report say? Oh yes, twenty-two million, wasn’t it? Now is that euro or sterling?’ He laughs, like he’s said something funny.

  I know I should hang up. I know I should.

  I don’t.

  He says, ‘Let’s hope you have no other secrets to hide, Kat.’

  Something twists in my gut, like a knife. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Once the press gets hold of this story, they’ll go through you for a shortcut. No stone will be left unturned. I wouldn’t want that for you, of course. But by then the matter will be out of my hands.’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  ‘Now, now, Kat, that’s not very polite.’

  ‘You’re blackmailing me.’

  ‘I’m not fond of that word.’

  ‘That’s what you’re doing.’

  The edge returns to his voice. ‘This story will either get told or it won’t. It’s up to you, Katherine.’

  ‘Don’t ring this number again.’

  ‘We’ll talk again. When you’ve had a chance to think about things.’

  ‘There’s nothing to think about.’

  ‘There’s always something to think about.’ This time, he hangs up first.

  I throw the phone at the wall but it doesn’t break. The back cover comes off, that’s all. I put it back and dial the number, but I hang up before it gets a chance to ring. I end up doing it a couple of times. Dialling and hanging up. I don’t know why. I’ll be glad in the morning, I’d say. That I didn’t ring Thomas.

  I open a Word document. Look at the blank screen. Page one of one. I type ‘Chapter One’. Then I close the lid of the laptop, put it into the bag and put it under the stairs, behind a case of wine.

  I go out. Sit in the cinema. I can’t remember the name of the film. Subtitles. German, maybe. I go to a sushi bar. The food goes round and round on a conveyer belt. I drink a glass of wine. Then I go home.

  As soon as I open the hall door, I see it. A light, flashing on my answering machine. A red light. In the darkness of the hall, it looks sinister. It looks like bad news.

  It’s probably nothing. Someone selling broadband. Or asking me questions about the telly programmes I like. For a survey. My viewing habits they call it, when they ring.

  The car keys are in my hand, my coat is on, so I turn, away from the light, the red flashing light, close the door and back down the hallway. I don’t wait for the lift. Instead, I take the stairs two at a time and don’t stop running until I reach my car. I get in and turn on the radio – loud – and light a cigarette, even though I am not supposed to smoke in the car.

  Rain lashes against the window and blurs my view as if I’ve been crying, which I haven’t because I don’t, as a rule.

  My breath is coming hard and shallow now. If I didn’t know myself better, I might think I’m having a panic attack. I roll down the window and pitch my cigarette out. Sheets of driving rain sting my eyes and my cheeks but the coldness of the air feels good. I
stick my head out of the window and drink it in, like it’s a good stiff Merlot. I start the car and begin to drive.

  Here’s what I love about driving. Even when your mind is someplace else, you can drive. You don’t have to think about it. Not really. I don’t make a conscious decision to go to Minnie’s. All of a sudden, I’m just there. Pulled up outside her and Maurice’s huge pile in Ballsbridge. That’s the only good thing about accountants coupling up. Money is no object.

  I smoke one more cigarette before I ring the bell, taking care to hide the butt in the hanging basket. I push it deep into the soil at the back. Minnie has an eye for butts.

  Minnie says, ‘Oh shit. What’s happened?’

  I say, ‘Charming,’ although it’s true that I rarely call at their house, mostly because Maurice is often there. And I never come without ringing first. From Minnie’s point of view, I can see how this looks.

  Minnie says, ‘Sorry, sorry, it’s just . . . come in, come in.’

  I say, ‘Is Maurice here?’

  She shakes her head. ‘He’s gone to his Mensa meeting.’ And there you have it. Maurice, it seems, is a genius. The only thing Maurice has ever done that might denote a modicum of genius is get Minnie to marry him. Lots of people wanted to – men and women alike – but Maurice was the man who managed it. God knows, you’d have to have some – grudging – respect for that kind of achievement.

  Minnie leads the way to the kitchen, which is like a kitchen in a restaurant with its gleaming stainless steel and its football-stadium proportions. The radio is on. Front Row on BBC Radio 4. I look at Minnie, who shrugs. ‘There was a programme about famous recluses. I thought it might amuse me.’

  ‘Recluses are usually just famous for being recluses. Take Howard Hughes, for instance. I bet you can’t name one of the films he produced.’

  Minnie ignores the question, which means she doesn’t know the answer.

  ‘They compared Killian Kobain to JD Salinger.’

  ‘About time.’

  ‘No. Not the writing. Just the fact that a couple of killers were found with copies of The Catcher in the Rye, either on their person or in their houses. And a copy of one of your books – The Secrets You Keep – was found in Catherine Nevin’s walk-in wardrobe.’