Martin had opened the driver’s door and was rolling down the window.
‘Probably want to get all the windows down. Let it cool for a minute.’
David opened the passenger side and the back door, then lowered the windows.
Bernie stood. ‘Right, the bride bagsies the front seat!’
Linda rolled her eyes. The sooner this wedding was over the better.
David stood at the back, arm outstretched invitingly. ‘Ladies.’
Carmel stepped forward, but then turned to Connor. ‘Do you want to be in the middle this time?’
Before Connor could answer, Martin stepped to the rear of the car. ‘No. Connor can get in the boot.’
‘Ah, no need, there’s plenty of room.’ Linda stood back, to let Connor into the back seat.
‘No,’ Martin said firmly and took hold of Connor’s shoulder. He lifted the rear door and pushed the boy forward.
‘Come on, Martin. Cool it.’ David looked concerned. Was Martin drunk? What was going on?
‘If it’s good enough for a dog, it’s good enough for Connor Hayes.’
‘It’s fine. Honestly,’ Connor said quietly and curled up in the space behind the back seat before Martin slammed the rear door of the estate.
Bernie was already in the car, but the others exchanged glances. Linda raised her eyebrows. None of them knew what was going on, but nobody cared especially. It was enough to know that they were heading home.
From the moment they drove off it was as if Martin was trying to hurt Connor. He took corners too quickly, braked suddenly behind other cars. They could hear Connor’s body sliding and thumping from side to side. At first David tried to make a joke of it. He turned and grinned at Connor lying in the back. ‘You better hold on there!’ Connor didn’t react. It was unnerving.
After about twenty minutes of what seemed to be deliberately erratic driving, Linda poked her face forward. ‘Martin, would you ever slow down a bit? It’s mad bumpy back here.’
‘Yes!’ Carmel agreed. The sisters looked at each other and shook their heads. This was madness.
‘Home soon,’ was the only response they got from the driver.
David could see that Bernie was frightened. Her arms were braced against the glove compartment. He decided not to say anything so as not to concern her further. There wasn’t far to go.
The coast road as it reached Mullinmore was straight and flat, but even so they all knew that Martin was going too fast. From where David was sitting it looked like the car was heading full pelt towards the grass island in the centre of Barry’s roundabout. He held his breath and prayed that nothing was approaching on the right. The roundabout was clear. He breathed a sigh of relief, but then one of the back tyres hit the concrete kerb of the central reservation with a loud bang.
The girls screamed and Martin shouted, ‘Fuck!’
The car lurched to the left and then they were on two wheels. For a moment everything was quiet and still, before the car crashed onto its side and began to roll. Glass was smashing, metal scraping along the tarmac. Carmel was screaming the loudest, but her head smashing into the side window knocked her into silence. The last thing Bernie Bradley saw was a freshly manicured nail being torn against the dashboard and a dark drop of blood appearing on her fingertip. Her final thought was of photographs being ruined. David was pushed between the two front seats and over the destructive roar of the crashing vehicle no one heard the gristly snap as his neck was broken. There was a rush of air as the boot door sprang open, throwing Connor free, before the car continued rolling and crashing through the bushes, down the bank.
Connor felt branches scraping his face before he landed with a bone-shuddering thud. He could hear the crashes of the car as it continued to roll down the bank, and then there was silence. The smell of grass and damp soil filled his nostrils. He stared at his hand, noticing a small cut blossoming into a slash of red. He wondered if he could move. Tentatively he wriggled his feet, then his legs. He pushed his hands against the earth and lifted himself. Down below, the car had landed on its wheels. He could see the driver’s door was hanging open and then Martin slithered out on to the flattened grass. He remained on his hands and knees, breathing heavily. Then he turned his head towards Connor and their eyes locked. Slowly Martin began to crawl up the bank towards him.
Connor had lifted himself to a kneeling position by the time Martin reached him.
‘You OK?’
‘I think so.’ Truthfully Connor didn’t really know. He found it hard to believe that it was possible to be thrown from a fast-moving car and walk away.
Martin held on to what remained of the low metal barrier that marked the verge and stood. Apart from a small cut above his left eye, he looked remarkably unharmed.
‘The others?’
Martin glanced down towards the wreckage. ‘I don’t know.’
There was a low slapping sound. It was Bill Lawlor from the garden centre running towards them.
‘You did this,’ Martin hissed.
‘What?’ Connor didn’t understand.
‘You were driving the car.’
Before any response was possible, their rescuer had reached them.
Bill Lawlor, obviously unused to running, was gasping for air. ‘Is everything all right? Is anyone …’ His questions dissolved into steady panting as he saw the remains of the car below them.
‘Is help coming? How many are there?’
Connor waited for Martin to speak, but he didn’t.
‘Has someone called an ambulance?’ A note of panic and dread had crept into Bill’s voice.
Connor looked up.
‘Four. There are four of them.’
‘Six.’ Martin contradicted him. ‘Six altogether. The two of us and four in the car. You’re the first. Nobody has called an ambulance.’ Martin’s voice had become almost eerily calm. He sounded like his usual confident, certain self.
‘Right. Don’t move!’ Bill shouted and he began to run back towards Barry’s petrol station.
Connor turned and looked down at the car. He could see Bernie’s head through the windscreen and an arm, he wasn’t sure if it belonged to Linda or Carmel, sticking out of one of the back windows. ‘We must help them.’ He started to stand up, but Martin pushed him back down again.
‘So that’s settled then. You were driving.’
Connor stared up at Martin. He had hoped that his request had just been a moment of panic.
‘But I wasn’t.’
‘For fuck’s sake. I’m going into my last year. I can’t have done this. I was drinking. I’m going to be a doctor. A doctor.’ He repeated the word as if Connor was simple or didn’t speak English very well.
‘But Martin, I wasn’t. What about the others?’
‘The others will say what they’re told.’
Connor was incredulous that in the midst of all the carnage Martin had already figured out a plan to save himself.
‘Martin.’ His voice was pleading. He must see that this was an impossible request. ‘I wasn’t.’
Martin crouched down and grabbed Connor’s shoulders. ‘What does it matter to you? You’re not going anywhere. I’m going to be a doctor. I can’t ruin my life for this.’
Connor could feel the heat of the other man’s breath in his face. He twisted around to look at the car. The bodies weren’t moving, and the smoke was getting thicker.
‘You’re crazy, Martin. I can’t. I just can’t.’
Martin pushed his face into Connor’s. One of his eyes was badly bloodshot. He spat out his words.
‘You say you were the driver, or I will tell everyone you’re a little cocksucker.’
The change of expression on Connor’s face told Martin that he had hit a nerve.
‘Do you want your parents knowing you’re a little queer?’
‘No.’ Connor’s voice was quiet. He sounded frightened, defeated.
‘If you don’t want everyone in the town to know that you’re a filthy queer
, you’ll say you were driving that car.’
Martin paused, trying to gauge Connor’s response. Their breathing had become slow and heavy. They studied each other’s faces, until Connor broke away and bent over. Martin put a hand on his shoulder. ‘You weren’t even drinking. You’ll be grand.’
Ten minutes later the roundabout was filled with emergency vehicles and people in uniforms. Sirens and flashing lights ripped through the still of early evening, informing the world of the horror.
Sergeant Doyle was huddled with Connor and Martin.
‘And boys, who was in control of the vehicle?’
Connor looked to Martin who just stared back at him with a blank expression.
‘The driver. Who was driving?’ The sergeant clarified.
Connor squeezed his eyes shut, took two deep breaths, and then looked at the police officer.
‘I was. I was driving.’
2012
VI.
He walked. But these were not the same exploratory rambles he had gone on when he had arrived in the city with Tim years before. These were entirely aimless. A venti coffee in hand he would walk down Ninth, then head east along streets he had no recollection of ever seeing before. Past small stores with clothes in the window that seemed like the very antithesis of fashionable New York. Garish sequins, synthetic fabrics in candy colours draped into evening gowns for mannequins from other decades or other continents. Someone must buy these things, Connor reasoned, but he struggled to imagine who that might be. The wind blew cold and bracing off the East River as he hit the edge of the island and then, on he went, heading north. Tudor City, past the United Nations, up to Sutton Place. Long anonymous blocks where he had never spent time, that held no memories for him. It was as if, having been found by Finbarr, he just wanted to lose himself again. He avoided Central Park precisely because it did conjure up days spent with Tim or one or two ill-advised trysts with strangers.
Once, but only once, Connor had allowed himself to head further south into the village. He crossed Christopher Street and then headed west along his old block. It was early evening and the lights were on in Tim’s apartment. Connor had to stop himself thinking of it as home. He had avoided coming here, assuming he would find it upsetting, but in fact he felt very little. It was closer to a faint nostalgia than any form of pressing jealousy or regret. Perhaps this was what closure felt like? Recognising it as an affair that had run its course, rather than some grand passion that had been cruelly cut short. He wondered who was up there but was surprised to find that he had no desire to join them. The postcard Tim had sent him of a giant tyre somewhere in Detroit was still stuffed in the kitchen window frame. Odd, he thought. If he had been Carl, that was precisely the sort of memento he would have removed.
Now that it was the end of September, there was less work. Connor missed having somewhere to be, the guys in the van to trade banter with. The paucity of friends in his life seemed very marked. The usual phone apps gave him a certain level of social interaction, but he wanted to meet someone for a drink where there was no ‘hot or not’ negotiation. He found he longed for a shared history, for jokes about times past. Some nights he tried to persuade himself to head out to a bar and make conversation, or text one of the few friends who wasn’t specifically linked to Tim and their life together, but the thought of that effort seemed worse than the few hours alone on his couch sipping glasses of wine till he could fall asleep. Connor knew that what he really wanted was a boyfriend, someone to rescue him, but who on earth was going to fall in love with a gone-to-seed man who hadn’t showered in days? The only sign of time passing or things achieved were the number of pizza crusts accumulating on the coffee table before him.
He thought about Finbarr. It was very likely that his nephew had the answers to the questions that were caught like a log jam in his mind. At first, he had considered whether the truth might have come out back in Mullinmore, but then he reminded himself that his own sister had married Martin. She couldn’t have done that if she knew the truth, could she?
What version of the story did Finbarr know? It would be so simple to just head back to Sobar and swap numbers. They could meet and pick over all that he had missed. Why didn’t he, then? He knew he was afraid – but of what precisely? He felt he could bear hearing about the town still blaming him for what had happened, so it wasn’t that. No. It was the same reason he had never joined Facebook. He told himself that he had never signed up because he didn’t want to be found, but what really terrified him was the idea of discovering that everyone had simply forgotten about him and gone on with their lives. Just considering that possibility made his eyes well up and his breath come in shallow little bursts.
One night, with the courage provided by a bottle of Malbec, he went downstairs and hailed a cab. It dropped him on Seventh Avenue, and he walked the half-block down towards the red neon sign of Sobar. Connor paused outside, questioning the wisdom of this decision. He had lived without answers for so long; why did he need them now? Of course, he hadn’t known Ellen had married Martin before, but how much would this kid know about his parents’ marriage? Connor was about to walk away when two older men in suits came and stood behind him, obviously waiting for him to step forward and open the door. Going in seemed the simplest thing to do. The trio, Connor and the two strangers, climbed the couple of steps up into the dark, music-filled space. The suited couple walked towards the lounge area further back. Connor looked at the staff behind the bar. No Finbarr. He felt a sense of relief tinged with regret. He was off the hook. He could just head home again knowing that he had tried. A tanned muscular barman, older, maybe a manager, was smiling and waving from behind the bar. He did look familiar, but why? Connor had no specific recollection.
Judson leaned across the countertop.
‘Hi, stranger. Long time no see. What are you having?’
Connor found himself ordering a vodka and soda.
‘So how have you been?’ The barman was still smiling. Connor was fairly certain he hadn’t slept with him. A friend of Tim’s? He didn’t think so. ‘Fine. Good.’ He returned the smile in a non-committal way.
Judson put the drink down in front of Connor and said, ‘On me’ when Connor reached into the back pocket of his jeans for his wallet.
‘Thanks …’
‘Judson. You don’t remember me, do you?’ he said with an exaggerated air of disappointment.
‘I’m so sorry. I know the face, I just can’t recall …’
‘Fire Island. We had a house share next to you a couple of summers back. I lit your barbecue for you.’
‘Of course, of course.’ Connor did remember that summer and the way that Tim hadn’t even tried to hide how he had stretched from the bedroom window to check out Judson and his friends lounging by their pool. Tim had become almost skittish when the ‘hot neighbours’ had accepted an invitation to their Sunday afternoon barbecue. It was a side of Tim that Connor had never liked.
Judson raised his hand to pause Connor as a young woman with her hair in bunches shouted a drinks order over the bar. The other barman, younger and tattooed, waved at Connor as he walked past to the till. This was disconcerting because it was another person Connor could not recall.
‘It’s Irish daddy!’ Franco said with a wide grin as he gave someone their change.
‘You know this guy?’ Judson asked.
‘You remember. Finbarr’s uncle. The sleepy one.’
Connor felt himself blushing.
‘That was you!’ Judson slammed his hand onto the bar, clearly enjoying the coincidence.
‘Irish was trying to find you,’ Franco added as he moved to the other end of the bar to take an order.
‘Is he …?’
‘No, you missed him. He did happy hour.’
‘That’s a shame.’ Connor knew that he sounded awkward and unconvincing.
Judson came and put his elbows on the bar in a lull between customers.
‘So, how’s your boyfriend? Tim, right?’
>
‘Yes. Tim. We broke up.’ Connor still found it difficult imparting this information even to people like Judson who didn’t really know them. It seemed so personal somehow and it always felt to Connor as if he was announcing to the world that he was a failure, that he had been found wanting.
‘I’m sorry to hear that. You guys had been together a while, right?’
‘Yes. More than sixteen years.’
Judson raised his eyebrows, clearly impressed. ‘Wow. Long time. That’s got to suck.’
Connor shrugged. ‘You could say that.’
‘Was it mutual?’ Judson asked.
Connor bristled. He didn’t know this man – why did he think he had a right to ask something that was clearly private? ‘Something like that.’ He drained his glass. ‘Well, I only really popped in to see Finbarr. Thanks for the drink.’
‘Do you want to leave him your number?’ Judson turned and picked up a pen from beside the till.
Connor hesitated. ‘No.’ He paused, knowing he couldn’t just leave it at that. ‘I’ll swing by again. Good to see you.’
‘You too,’ Judson called after him as he picked his way through the other drinkers towards the door.
Two days later Connor was lying in bed trying to remember if he had any milk when the door buzzer went. He sighed. He was sick of having to let in every FedEx and UPS delivery driver. Why had Tim bought an apartment in a building with no doorman?
‘Hello?’ He pressed against the intercom.
‘Connor?’
‘Yes.’ Connor wondered who it could be. It was too early for some forgotten trick returning to the scene of the crime. Who else would know his name and where he lived?
‘It’s Tim. Can I come up?’
Connor froze. He looked around the room. The unmade bed. The tinfoil dishes from the Thai restaurant downstairs. The empty bottles on the kitchen counter. It was not a portrait of a happy human being. Fuck.
Home Stretch Page 15