He had hardly rested at all in the past week, had taken to walking, tormented, through the streets, the face of Alison’s old aunt constantly before him: the terror in her widened eyes, in the tight clench of her mouth as she watched him from the upstairs window, the phone pressed to her ear, her hand shaking. He had never meant to frighten or harm anyone, never meant to kick in that door, but neither the aunt nor Alison had answered, though he’d rung the doorbell what seemed like a hundred times. And tried the windows. He’d barely had time to scale the back garden wall before the squad car pulled into the drive. Stupid fools announcing themselves with that siren! Still, Jesus, if they’d caught him! He’d been a fool to stay on for the rest of the week. It was only his imagination he knew now, only stupid wishful thinking that had persuaded him he’d caught a glimpse of Alison through the window of a bus heading for town last Tuesday. The stupid ramblings of a tormented fool! He’d let some senseless notion of being near her run away with him, sitting like a dumb statue behind that window, wasting time. Much as he’d been tempted he hadn’t gone near the aunt’s house again for fear of the guards keeping watch. He palmed his cap, pulled it down lower on his forehead. He had been lucky, he knew, but that kind of luck didn’t last forever. He closed his eyes and, as they had all the past week, his own mother’s eyes returned to haunt him now, widened with that same fear, that same disbelief that he’d seen Alison’s aunt.
His mind shot back to February, to his frenzied newspaper searches for reports on the attack in Waterford. It had got enough column inches for him to be satisfied that his mother was still alive, was relatively unharmed. But the reporters had got it all wrong. It hadn’t been an attack. He had never intended to harm her. He had known where she kept the money, had known she had no use for it. He had known it would be enough to buy him that fake passport, a ticket to a new life, a new identity; enough to end the anonymous half-life he had endured since leaving Carniskey; to put down roots, to start again. In that split second when he had turned his head and their eyes had met he knew beyond doubt that his mother had recognised him and that look on her face, her anguished wail that had filled the whole room, had haunted him day and night ever since. He slammed his head back against the headrest now, jerked his mind back to the present. What was done was done, he told himself. There was no changing the past. There was only now. Now and the future. He had control over that and he would use it. He would use it and put things right again, with his mother, with Alison.
His sigh was long, laced with darkness. When Tom had shown him that paper with Alison’s ad, it was as if the gods had intervened and granted him a second chance. He would buy the gear from Alison with the money he had taken and put the guilt of his mother, of everything he had done in the past, behind him. He would be free to start again. But Tom had changed all that when he’d come back from Carniskey, with his talk of the place, of Alison, of how she had searched for him, mourned him. He had never thought of returning to Carniskey, had never even considered it a possibility. But, listening to Tom, he had felt the years burn away, felt like he was back in those teenage days when she would leave at the end of the summer and the whole place would scream with her absence. All the guilt and the loss and the longing that he had kept buried for three whole years erupted inside him. That was when he knew that there was no starting again. Carniskey was his home and back there, with Alison, was the only place he would ever belong.
The bus trundled along the quay. He stared out the window, his thoughts wandering back to the first night he had gone to Kathleen’s bed. He had convinced himself that it was a one-off drunken mistake to be cast to the back of his mind. But it wasn’t that simple. Nothing was ever that simple. Kathleen asked no questions, expected nothing for herself. He could come and go as he pleased, unannounced, no explanations. He had found a place where he could unleash the darkness, the anger and frustration inside him – the parts that he fought to keep hidden from Alison and Hannah. Soon he had sought Kathleen like a drug. His long hours on the sea had provided a perfect excuse and Alison never questioned where he had been so late and so often. Self-loathing swelled in his throat as he pictured her face that last evening as he drove away: her hurt, her frustration, how near she was to breaking. He knew then that he had lost her. Knew that once Kathleen opened her mouth there would be no going back. And that had decided him. He would rather be gone, absolutely, than spend the rest of his days near her, wanting her, knowing that it was his own selfishness and stupidity that had driven her from him.
He whistled a sigh through his tight lips, his fingers massaging the knuckles of his right hand. Three years now and Katheen hadn’t talked. And Alison, Alison was still waiting. Tom would help him, he knew he would – hadn’t he offered as much that night when he’d shown him the ad? The best plan was for Tom to go to Carniskey on his behalf, talk to Kathleen first and make some kind of arrangement about the boy – the money was there, waiting – and in return Kathleen would promise to keep their past a secret. Tom could then go to Alison, prepare her, lessen the shock and make Sean’s return all the easier for everyone. A half-smile pulled at his lips as he closed his eyes, settled back into his seat. The bus swung onto the main Galway road.
Eighteen
Tom did a double-take as he sat at the bar at Richie’s to order his drink. Where in the name of God had he sprung from? Sean Delaney sat at a small table in the corner, his head, as usual, bent over his drink. Tom pretended not to see him and turned his head in towards the bar to collect his thoughts. It was weeks now since Sean had done his disappearing act and Tom hadn’t been sorry to see the back of him. He had intended giving Alison a ring when he’d heard Sean had left by bus, but he’d mulled it over and decided against it. If Sean had gone down to Alison, there was little he could do about it. And anyway, if that was the case, Tom was probably the last person she would want to hear from. Imagine what she would think of him, knowing all that time that Sean was alive and not telling her? She’d think one of them was as bad as the other. And maybe she’d be right. No, he had decided to let it lie. Sean was gone and it was no longer any of his affair.
But now here he was again and Tom could sense trouble all around him. He watched him in the mirror behind the bar. His face when he lifted it was thundered with thought. Tom picked up his whiskey glass and drained it in one gulp before nodding to the barman for a refill.
‘How long’s he been in?’ he asked the bartender.
‘Came in just after five, been at it heavy since.’
‘For four hours? Should ye still be servin’ him?’
‘Not my call, Tom.’ The barman nodded sideways towards the owner, who sat playing cards with a few of the regulars.
Keeping one eye on the mirror, Tom finished his drink. He tried to ignore the anger that welled up in him every time he caught a glimpse of Sean’s sullen face. He no longer felt sorry for him – at least not in the way he had when Sean had first told him his story. Tom understood more about it now. And he had heard Alison’s side. What the hell was he doing back here? What if little Daniel saw him? He didn’t want the child hurt all over again. He noticed the bruising on Sean’s right hand when he raised the glass to his lips. He sighed. No doubt he had left some other heartache behind him, wherever he’d been.
Sean lifted his head, fixed his eyes on the back of Tom’s head. So, that was the way it was to be now, Sean brooded, drink and exhaustion weighing his head. He had seen Tom come in. Seen him look away and pretend not to notice him. I could have had a good friend there, he thought, if I’d kept my mouth shut. He had never before spoken to anyone about Alison. Or about the Sean Delaney that had left Carniskey. And that’s the way I should have kept it, he cursed into his drink. But there had been something about Tom that had drawn him out. He felt he could trust him with his secret. And look where it had gotten him! Now that he knew the shadows in him, Tom wouldn’t even look his way. He should have known the man would grow to despise him, just as he despised himself. Anyone in his life that
he had ever gotten close to he had destroyed: Alison and Hannah; his own mother; Kathleen and the child; poor old Joe O’Sullivan; Tom and the young lad, Daniel.
He pushed the empty glass away from him. It had been a wrong move, coming back to Killybegs. He should have known he’d no longer be welcome here. Tom had had his fill of him and he couldn’t blame him. He caught up his knapsack and swayed towards the door. Tom studied his every move in the mirror. Their eyes met in the glass and when Tom looked away Sean turned to leave. Keeping his eye on his retreating back, Tom saw the moment that he changed his mind and stopped, hand on the door, before turning to stagger back towards the bar.
‘Tom,’ he dropped his knapsack to the floor, threw his arm around Tom’s shoulder. ‘I ju-just came back to say th-th-thanks – you were good to me once.’
‘Don’t mention it, Sean.’ Tom sipped his drink, avoided meeting his eye.
‘I will mention it! A good friend is hard to find, am I right?’
‘Ye are indeed.’ Tom coughed into his fist. Heads were turning to look in their direction.
‘How’s the lad? Di-did he get my letter?’
‘He’s good, Sean, aye, he did.’ Tom finished his drink and made to stand. ‘Well, I’m for home. Good luck, Sean.’
‘You’ll let me buy ya a drink for Christ sake!’
‘Thanks all the same.’ Tom nodded his goodnight to the barman and stepped out through the door, pulling it shut behind him. He sighed his relief into the cool air. There was a darkness, a malevolent energy around Sean that made him shiver.
‘No time for Se-Sean Delaney now, big man!’
Tom turned to face him, his anger rising. ‘Look, Sean, I’ve done what I can for ye. It’s time ye moved on – there’s nothin’ around here for ye now.’
‘There’s nothin’ anywhere for me! Why’s that, Tom, huh? Why’s that?’
Tom took a deep breath, turned to walk away.
‘I tried to find her . . . Alison. They told me sh-she was up in Dublin.’
‘Who told ye?’ Jaw set, Tom turned, retraced his steps.
‘I rang the house.’
‘Ye did what?’ He caught him by the collar, half-lifting him off the ground. ‘Didn’t I tell ye to leave her alone?’ he whispered through clenched teeth. ‘She’s happy. Happy without ye!’
‘Sh-sh-she’s not happy! What would you know about her?’ Sean sneered. ‘She’s waitin’ for me.’
‘Not any more, sonny!’ Tom loosened his grip on Sean’s collar, pushed him away. ‘She’s with someone else. I saw them. Ye’re in the past. Ye’re forgotten. As far as she’s concerned, ye’re a dead man.’
‘Someone else?’ Sean’s anger had softened to a whisper of disbelief.
‘Yes. Someone else.’ A part of Tom pitied the hurt and incredulity on Sean’s face. ‘I didn’t want to tell ye before . . . it’s probably for the best.’
‘For the best, is it? And what the fuck would you know about it?’ He spat on the ground at Tom’s feet and shuffled away in the direction of the pier.
Sean threw his knapsack down against the storm wall and sat with it cushioned against his lower back. He lit a cigarette. Someone else? Never. Not Alison. He threw his head back, his eyes, his whole face, tightening as he remembered the night he had rang the house and some fellow had answered the phone. A hot jealousy surged inside him. Someone else. In my bed? In my house – with my wife! He leapt to his feet and kicked the knapsack again and again in quicker and harder succession. The money he’d sent for his gear – Tom’s gear now – she’d be spending it on him! His mother’s savings, his own father’s death money – on him! On her fancy man? He paced unsteadily to the edge of the pier and back again, back and forth till he’d walked some of the whiskey from his head and planned his next move.
* * *
Tom turned again onto his left side, cursed under his breath as he pushed the bedclothes down from his shoulders. He’d thought he was done with sleepless nights. He half-heard a shuffle at the kitchen door but was so caught up in his thoughts that he didn’t respond until he heard the car engine spit to life below the window. By the time he had jumped from the bed it had screeched its reverse and he watched from the bedroom window as it disappeared at speed down the hill and into the night.
He ran down the stairs in his bare feet and switched on the kitchen light. Sean Delaney’s knapsack lay thrown inside the open back door. He closed the door and sat at the table, his fingers pulling at his chin. The lad was full of drink. And temper. He’d never manage a car. Let him off, was Tom’s first thought. Let him kill himself. It would be no one’s responsibility but his own. How had Sean turned from the quiet, withdrawn lad that had first come to stay with them into that dark, hate-fuelled man he’d encountered tonight? A heavy guilt pressed down on his chest. If only he had left him alone and not drawn him out. If he hadn’t shown him the ad, hadn’t helped to bring Alison alive in his mind and his heart again, it would probably never have come to this. There was no denying his culpability, his downright stupidity. He should ring the guards. It was his responsibility. What if Sean hit someone else, some other poor innocent on the road? Could he live with the guilt of that?
He rose from the table, took the phone in his hand. If the guards caught Sean, then the whole story would come out. And Alison would have to be told. He paced the kitchen, looked up at the clock. Almost midnight. Maybe he should give it another fifteen minutes, give Sean a chance to change his mind, to come back. But a lot could happen in fifteen minutes. He lifted the phone and dialled the Garda station.
* * *
Sean raced along the narrow, winding road, the feel of the wheel in his hands and the power of the engine’s roar fuelling him on. Four hours, five at tops, should do it. He’d leave the car down behind the caravan park and make his way up through the fields to the house. No one would see him, there’d be no one about at that hour. He still had his key to the back door. Alison would be sleeping. Sleeping with him in your bed. The thought fanned the fire raging inside him. He pressed the accelerator harder to the floor. He imagined her face when he stood by the bed and called her name. At first she would think she was dreaming. But then he’d call louder, stretch out his hand and touch her face. Then she’d know. Then there’d be no doubting! He sneered at the thought of the shock on her face, of the fear in the eyes of the other bastard lying beside her. Who did she think she was – the child shipped off to England so she could play the merry widow? Her and her fancy man living it up on the money that he had slaved for! Oh, he’d soon put an end to her dance! He threw his head back, his triumphant laugh drowning out the radio.
The sharp bend rushed at him through the darkness. He jerked the wheel, the blood draining from his face and legs, his heart bursting against his chest as the car spun across to the opposite ditch and then righted itself before ploughing head-on into the high stone wall.
The twig-snap of his neck was lost in the thunder of the engine’s combustion. Orange flames licked and leaped like hungry savages, engulfing the car and lighting the darkness, the rabbits in the adjoining field darting to the black safety of their burrows.
* * *
Joe O’Sullivan screamed out in his sleep. His elderly mother rushed to his room, where she held and comforted him through the night, his deep sobs racking his body.
Alison woke with a start, her eyes wide, heart pounding, her body turning, arms stretching out, searching for him. The light of the moon through the uncurtained window bathed his peaceful face. Relief then as her fingers found his warm arm, stroked its downy hair, her lips bending in benediction to his eyes, his cheeks, his lips, her whole being desperately longing to fill him up, to course her life-force, her determination, her strength, the force and the fierceness of her love right through him.
* * *
Tom stowed the knapsack in the cabin of his boat, secured the lock and set about sorting the nets for mending. Ella would be along soon with the young lad. He’d wait until Daniel was gone back hom
e for tea before heading out to dump the bag in the ocean. Two guards had called to the house before daylight. They’d found the car, burned out, forty miles south. The driver’s remains, propelled on impact onto the mangled bonnet, were charred beyond recognition but still – though it would be no easy task – they reckoned that the dental remains and a belt buckle that must have come loose before the ‘sole occupant’ was thrown through the windscreen would give forensics something to go on. Meanwhile a search and enquiry would be conducted in the surrounding area to establish if anyone was missing, if anyone had noticed anyone acting suspiciously around the area in the past few days.
‘I’m sorry I can’t tell ye more. If I think of anything . . . ’ Tom couldn’t wait till the two young officers left the house. He knew Ella had seen the knapsack under the stairs, knew she had been about to confront him just as the guards had knocked on the door.
‘You’ve been a great help, Tom, we’ll keep you informed.’
‘You’d better move that bag before Daniel gets up.’ The guards gone, Ella had continued cooking the breakfast without once meeting his eyes. Her words rushed at him. ‘A woman phoned last night, asking if he was here. I told her nothing, Tom, because I knew nothing.’
‘I wasn’t . . . ’ When Tom opened his mouth to speak, she turned towards him, raised her hand. ‘No, I want you to listen to me now. I’ve stayed quiet on this long enough but no more. No more.’ She turned her attention back to the grill, her voice clear and firm over her shoulder. ‘After that awful night when Daniel went missing I never wanted to see that man again. God rest him now, but I never wanted to see him or hear a word from him again. But whatever he told you, it . . . it changed you, Tom. It changed us – didn’t you see that? Didn’t you care? Did you never for one second stop to consider what it was like for me, watching you go into yourself, pretending to be asleep beside you while you tossed and turned in the bed all night? And never one word of explanation. Did it never cross your mind what that was like for me, your wife?’ She forked the sausages onto a plate, slipped it beneath the dying grill. ‘He’s gone now and I don’t want to know his business. But I do want to know what’s happened to us.’
Finding Alison Page 29