Falling Suns

by J. A. Corrigan

  ‘That’s just because I’m tall. No, I don’t want to be Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. And I think you’re thinking of her in Sleeping with the Enemy. And I think that was Iowa.’

  ‘Maybe. You’re right though, very unrealistic in Pretty Woman, never met a prostitute like that.’ I couldn’t imagine Stanley meeting any prostitutes. ‘But it was a wonderful role for Julia.’

  I wanted to ask if he’d met her.

  ‘I want to speak like the prostitute you think she should have been,’ I said. ‘A real one, with a sad and dysfunctional past, a woman who’s sold out, given up.’ I wanted to add, the type who sells her body, or mind, to murderers.

  Stanley poured me coffee. ‘Sugar?’

  ‘Three please.’

  ‘Definitely not Ms Roberts,’ he said, scooping three sugars into a white mug. He handed it to me. ‘Interesting. I think you’re very interesting, Amanda, if you don’t mind me saying.’

  I grinned. ‘I don’t.’

  ‘To be someone else and do it realistically, you have to be in possession of that character. Like creating a character in a novel, you have to know that character. You look from the outside in, and the inside out. You know all those subconscious thoughts – the ones we repress and pack down like newly laid tarmac? Well, those you have to have access to. To play someone else well you not only have to be inside their head, but outside too. See what the outside world sees.’ He waited. ‘And the voice is important.’

  Every night and every day that I thought of Joe, I also thought about the person who’d killed him. To get close to that person, apart from being inside Amanda’s head I needed to be inside the perpetrator’s too. Tom Gillespie had taught this technique well. To be inside the perp’s mind. And also inside the thoughts of the victim. To know both will always give you the edge in any murder enquiry. People are consistent, they act with an alarming sameness, and by understanding the consistencies of both the killer and the victim, you were halfway to solving the crime and the motivation for that crime.

  I looked past Stanley and upwards at the ceiling, noticing the cracks that had been repaired with Polyfilla, and then painted. Like people’s personalities: cracks skilfully covered, but always apparent if you looked hard enough. How hard did I have to look for Margaret’s? It had seemed impossible to look, for years, impossible. But now I was able to peer inside the vault of my mind, it was opening.

  The cracks in Margaret’s personality were huge. An abyss.

  Squeezing my eyes shut; I thought of Joe, the victim. I knew exactly how Joe would have been, how he would have reacted, even what he would have said. But Joe didn’t have enough information about the person who had ripped away his life, and that was my fault. I imagined the killer, knowing what a strong position he’d been in. How opportune it had all been. How unlucky I had been. My Joe, with no luck at all. I found my eyes following one particularly large crevice that travelled from the ceiling’s edge, like slashed skin from a sharp knife, down the wall.

  ‘So, Amanda McCarthy, our task should be an easy one?’ Stanley interrupted my thoughts.

  I nodded. ‘So what happens now?’

  ‘Now you begin your first class.’

  ‘Great.’

  The course was ten days long. As well as honing my accent it would give me a little more time to assimilate my new face and body, before confronting Hemmings for the first time.

  It was my body that seemed to be giving me the biggest problem. If I avoided mirrors, the face I could easily ignore. Marek had taken some fat away from my naturally rounded hips, making me appear more angular. Like my height, curvaceous hips were memorable. I’d always been flat chested; he’d given me a D cup. Bigger than he’d wanted to go. However, I needed something very different from Rachel. A positive consequence of Marek’s work was that now I definitely looked less like the woman whose genes I’d inherited. My hand skimmed over my left breast and I smiled; it was taking me longer to get used to the large chest than it was to become familiar with a new name.

  —

  The sun was disappearing below London’s murky skyline by the time I left Cambri. I decided I needed to walk and not return straight away to Mrs Xú’s. After only one day in the school, I realised that if I was to become who I needed to become and achieve my aim, my compulsion towards isolation was not a good thing. I needed some human interaction.

  I pounded the pavement toward Regent’s Park, and my head cleared. From just a few hours of tuition I’d learnt a lot, and not only about voice and accent but a little about acting, too. And I needed to learn, because by the time Amanda visited Michael Hemmings there would be no turning back.

  The cacophony of city noise thumped inside my head and I thought of the monster that was locked away in a mental institution, of the day Tom Gillespie walked into my kitchen that housed a fridge with a picture of three falling suns stuck on the side.

  Three falling suns. Three people. A Trinity. Essence, substance and nature: Mr Roberts, my old Sunday school teacher had explained. The three of us in our family were distinct and yet one, but now that was not so. Now we were broken. Now it felt as if Liam and I were nothing.

  I looked up and saw I was nearly at Regent’s Park. I waited for the traffic to stop at the red light. I was about to move, then felt a rush of air and seconds later a mild collision. My bag had been ripped from my arm. Trained reflexes returned and I scanned the street. Without thinking I sprinted down the road, my eyes never leaving the boy, my handbag held firmly in his hands. Even through the adrenaline, I noticed the looks of surprise from the people I elbowed out of the way; people unaccustomed to the sight of the victim running after the thief. The boy turned the corner and I changed gear, pounding after him. The larger bust slowed me down, but I could still see him and closed the gap fast. Making one last exaggerated effort – and feeling the effects of the liposuction on my thighs – I made a finish-line sprint. As energy flowed like heat from my own body, the thief’s wavered.

  I grabbed him by his sweat-laden shirt. ‘You should do some training, get fit for your chosen profession.’ No older than seventeen I guessed.

  ‘Let ... fucking go of me!’ He shouted in my ear and punched ineffectively into my still fragile jawline.

  ‘You fucking thief! Who do you think you are?’ I shouted, not recognising my own voice.

  He swung around, forcing himself free from my grip and striking me in the face again. By now, onlookers had stopped but still did nothing. I gathered myself and felt at a bloody nose. It might be broken and, pointlessly, I worried about the time Marek had spent on it.

  I looked at the boy; he seemed as surprised as me at the punch he’d executed. I could see a glimmer of an apology in his eyes and, momentarily, I softened. Then anger took over.

  I hesitated only for a second before kicking him in the groin. He doubled over. I could have left it then, picked up my bag and left, but I did not. I jabbed his trunk hard with the flat of my foot and he rolled onto the ground, moaning. To protect his face he placed his arm at a peculiar angle. Bringing up my foot, I planned to push his arm down hard into the pavement knowing it would likely dislocate his shoulder. I held my foot in position. Time slowed, but anticipating my wrath he screeched, and the noise reminded me of a visit long ago to a French slaughterhouse. Of the pig as its throat was slit horizontally.

  I took my foot away and allowed him to get up. I glanced around the street; still no one had ventured close to the incident.

  He stared at me as if I was a lunatic.

  ‘You mad fucker!’

  People moved closer, but no one intervened.

  ‘I’m sorry ...’ I said to the young thief.

  ‘Mad fucking bitch.’ And he ran down the street.

  What was I thinking? It was just a stolen handbag. Thank God I’d come to my senses and let him go.

  I returned to Mrs Xú’s and an overwhelming desire to sleep overtook me. After checking that my nose wasn’t in fact broken, and applying ice for ten minutes,
I slid into bed hungry and thirsty. I slept for fifteen hours.

  The next morning I woke up groggy. I got up and showered. Luckily there was no bruise on my face, just puffiness.

  I was standing outside the deli at eight-thirty with a Styrofoam cup in my hand, ‘Tea’ written hastily on its side, courtesy of George.

  Stanley looked at me. ‘A bad night?’

  I smiled dimly and nodded.

  ‘I thought you said you didn’t like tea?’ he said, as I followed him inside.

  ‘I don’t.’

  But Amanda had done, her daughter had told me.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  I’d completed the first six days at Cambri and was loving every minute.

  Being an intensive, concentrated course there was no time to make small talk and this suited me fine. It was Friday and we were wrapping up for the day. I was particularly exhausted; my one-to-one with Stanley had taken everything from me. Getting inside the head of the numerous characters he invented was like running a marathon. Although it had been only in the last hour that I’d allowed myself to ‘go’. That is how Stanley described it – ‘going’: when you became the character, wiping out anything that might pertain to the real you. And if Stanley saw anything creeping in that might be a part of the ‘real’ you, he ranted a lot in a take-off of his own Jewishness, but always with a fat smile on his face. I adored Stanley.

  ‘Not bad, not bad at all. You were nearly there – only saw a little of who you might be,’ Stanley said. ‘It’s not just the voice, there’s a certain amount of acting too. Stay here a little longer and we could go into the method...’

  ‘I can’t stay any longer, Stanley.’ I sat on the floor facing him. ‘And you don’t know me, so how can you see anything that’s not the character, but that is me?’ I said.

  ‘Years of practice, my dear girl.’ He surveyed me with a teacher’s passion. ‘You have to leave yourself behind. Final.’

  ‘What if I can’t find her again?’

  ‘Of course you’ll find her.’ He scrutinised me. ‘My girl, I think you should join the Friday-night exodus.’

  ‘I don’t drink these days. I’m not very sociable. Anyway, I need an early night.’

  ‘Then act and sound sociable. It’ll do you good. You look as if you could do with a good night out,’ the perceptive teacher said.

  Stanley definitely looked like Einstein when he won the Nobel Prize.

  ‘Do you fancy a drink?’ I asked.

  I had no idea what to order from the five-page cocktail menu.

  ‘Do you like cream?’ Stanley asked.

  ‘Hate cream.’

  ‘Cranberry juice?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Mint?’

  ‘Mint? Why, we ordering lamb cocktails?’ I said, smiling.

  Stanley touched my arm and shouted into the noise of the bar, towards a bartender. ‘Two mojitos!’

  ‘Yamas!’ Stanley said as the bartender put the drinks in front of us.

  ‘Yes, cheers,’ I said, taking a sip. ‘Nice.’

  We chatted about inconsequential stuff, drank more cocktails, but then Stanley’s face took on a serious expression.

  ‘So, Amanda.’ He lowered his voice so much I had difficulty hearing him in the increasing loudness of the bar; a Mexican guitarist had just begun to play. His tone told me he was going to ask something I’d rather not answer. ‘Why are you really here?’

  Part of my brain warned my mouth to be careful, but the mojitos were taking their toll and I could feel my vigilance departing. Stanley was curious. I asked myself if it mattered. Yes, it could. In the near future I knew it could matter. The bar was now humming with Friday night chatter. I scanned the stools filled with people and tried to gain the attention of the overworked barman. My line of vision was drawn to the end of the bar, towards the stool that stood alone from the others.

  And I saw the petrol blue, Joe sitting in a crowded bar in London, looking uncomfortable. I don’t think he wanted to be there. I rose unsteadily, falling forwards, then the colour faded, and so did Joe. It was the alcohol. It wasn’t Joe. Joe was dead. I tried to clear my mind, override the white rum swishing through my veins.

  I took a breath. ‘Joe...’

  ‘Joe?’ Stanley said quietly. ‘Who’s Joe?’

  ‘Joe’s dead,’ I said.

  ‘Amanda, are you all right?’

  What was I saying, what was I doing? ‘I’m sorry, I’m drunk. Ignore me.’

  ‘Maybe we should eat something?’

  I waited for him to ask about Joe again, but the lovely Stanley did not and I gathered my brain. ‘The book I’m writing ... I’m doing some research on repressed and abused women. American women who feel the need to befriend characters on death row.’

  ‘Ah ...’ He didn’t pursue Joe. ‘Some research into the character while writing your book, like a docu-drama? I thought you were writing about accents? But I’m impressed, whatever you’re writing about.’ He crossed his arms. ‘So, a character like Julia Roberts in Sleeping with the Enemy?’

  I gulped down another mojito. ‘It was definitely Iowa in Sleeping with the Enemy ... I think,’ I said smiling.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ Stanley said.

  I wished I hadn’t mentioned researching books, and death row. Or Joe. Stanley was switched on, he was inquisitive, and he was more than curious about me.

  Two hours later Stanley was standing on Mrs Xú’s step, holding me steady with one arm. I knew I was drunk. It was the same feeling I’d had many times with Charlotte, in faraway days. But this was much worse, I realised. I’d eaten nothing and felt sick. The step was moving in an alarming fashion and, no matter how much I tried, it was impossible to focus. I attempted to peer at him. I needed to vomit.

  ‘I feel a bit ill.’ I tried to centre my eyes on the middle Stanley. I began to giggle, almost hysterically, forcing away the sick feeling.

  ‘Amanda, are you all right, I mean ... really all right?’

  At that moment Mrs Xú opened the door in a black kimono.

  ‘I think time for you to go home,’ she said to Stanley, her face stone-like and not intimidated by Stanley at all. I think she thought he was my beau. Stanley was nearly old enough to be my father. My father. Dad. And I was brought back to reality.

  Mrs Xú’s demeanour made me feel like a daughter coming home from an illicit date. Despite her acerbity she gave me a feeling of something that I’d missed out on while growing up. In my drunkenness a part of me wanted Mrs Xú to know everything, as I’d wanted to tell Stanley more in the bar earlier. These strangers had drawn more from the depths of me than anyone had been able to do for the last five years.

  I hadn’t acknowledged how alone I truly was. Charlotte wanted to be there for me, but I’d been unable to reach out to my best friend. And I had felt during the last time we’d spoken that even Charlotte held something back, some knowledge that she didn’t share. This feeling of withdrawal on her part caused me to be more cautious towards my friend.

  I planned to take my revenge, and then disappear forever and I now regretted giving Charlotte a PO Box number. It had been a mistake.

  Stanley looked at me. ‘You’re OK, aren’t you?’ Then he took in the formidable four-foot-eleven Mrs Xú, whose steady gaze had captured him.

  ‘I’m fine, Stanley, thank you,’ I said. ‘Go home, it’s late.’

  ‘See you Monday. He touched his forehead as he turned to Mrs Xú. If he’d been wearing a hat I was sure he would have tipped it briefly.

  The sick feeling returned with a vengeance. ‘I have to go ...’ I looked at Mrs Xú. ‘I need to get to the bathroom.’

  She moved sideways; a faint and amused smile on her face as she allowed me to pass.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  With all physical feeling numbed, I entered my room with a sense of unusual serenity.

  Mrs Xú had given me a tea that I’d drunk downstairs sitting on the stool where she made her potions. The nausea had died down and so
berness settled. Had she known I would come home drunk, and prepared it earlier? I wouldn’t have been surprised. She had left me alone drinking the tea and I’d felt its effects quickly.

  I now sipped at a pint of water and pulled from my bag the envelope that I’d picked from my PO Box earlier in the day. It was from Amanda’s daughter, Mary Lou. I’d had a quick look inside; it was a long letter and I’d noticed that the spelling and grammar were both much better than in her mum’s correspondence to Stephen Passaro.

  Mary Lou wanted to tell me more about her mum, and again I felt guilty. I’d told her the same thing I’d told Stanley, that I was researching a book. Mary Lou wanted to help me.

  As I leant sideways to put the glass on the side table, the toffee popcorn came and the envelope slid downwards. But the internal voice of my son trailed away as quickly as it came. Joe was becoming weaker, yet the hunger I hadn’t felt for weeks returned. Mrs Xú had felt him too, I was sure of it. Or did I just like to think that? Had Mrs Xú seen her own son after his death?

  I needed to release Joe. And for that I had to kill Hemmings. There was no other way.

  Picking up the envelope again, I pulled out the paper and began to read about the woman I was becoming.

  Dear Rachel,

  I haven’t met you, but knowing you have read Mom’s letters and something about her, I hope you now have a better understanding, and that you are able to write a book that will help others to not travel the same path as my mom.

  I met a good man, fell in love, and we moved away from Toledo. He was good enough to not only take me on, but also my brother and sister. I have to look after them; I want to take care of them, especially Noah.

  Mom worked at Yum Yums until Stephen Passaro’s execution in 2003. She seemed to go downhill after that. Too many drugs. She had always been a cannabis user, but soon graduated to heroin.

  Mom’s life was tragic. She married young, had three children before she was thirty. She managed to get away from her first husband, our father, because of his early death. Then she hooked up with a local farmer, and married him quickly. I am the eldest and I remember it well, their marriage.