by Claire Allan
Chapter Four
Emily
My heart was in my mouth all the way back to my office – a stark, concrete building on the main road out of the city towards Donegal with tinted glass in the windows lest any of us peek out of the window and see the world in all its true colour and wonder. I wanted to get there and to immerse myself in the routine of my day-to-day life to the point where I couldn’t think about everything else that was going. Rose, Ben, it was too much to take in.
I thought of how I had passed the last five years sitting in my cubicle, in front of my computer screen, tapping on my keyboard, lost in a routine that suited but didn’t challenge me. It was all I could manage in the aftermath of him leaving. Somewhere I could sit and do my work, go home at five and be done with it until the following morning. It was boring. Soul destroying even. But it was safe.
I wondered about Rose Grahame. Had she enjoyed her work? Had it fulfilled her or had it simply been somewhere she hid away from life? I couldn’t imagine she wanted to hide from anything. Colour marked her funeral, just as I imagine it marked her life.
‘All good?’ Andrew asked when I got into the office, before I had so much as hung my coat up.
‘Yes. Yes, fine,’ I lied. I missed Maud at that moment. Wished she was still here and I could drag her into the kitchen and weep on her shoulder and have her reassure me in the way only Maud could.
‘You were gone a long time. I wondered, did you need a few fillings? Or an extraction? Or perhaps an entire new set of teeth chiselled out of enamel there and then by Capuchin Monks or similar?’
Andrew was younger than me by a good eight or nine years. While in his mid-twenties, he still looked as if he only needed to shave once a week and even then, only with a fairly blunt razor just to make him feel more manly. Short in stature and slight, he favoured slim-fit clothes, which far from flattering his petite physique made him look like a child playing at being a grown up.
‘No. Nothing like that,’ I said before breaking eye contact and walking across the room to my desk and hoped he wouldn’t follow me. It had been hard enough trying to keep it together as it was without him being on my back.
My desk was in a particularly bleak spot, devoid of any access to natural light. Management had a strict clear desk policy, with no personalisation of our cubicles allowed. It was supposed to increase productivity, but instead it just made each workspace feel cold and clinical. Like we were battery hens. I plugged myself into my computer terminal, watched the beeping light on my keyboard tell me a caller was waiting and wondered how long they would keep me chatting.
Rose would be buried by now. Part of me wanted to go online and hunt through the pictures of the funeral. See more of her life. See if I could spot Ben among the mourners. A bigger part of me was terrified to look in case he was. And that friend request was still waiting. I felt a headache start to build behind my left eye, warning me that a migraine was on the way.
I was, admittedly, less patient than usual with the man on the other end of the line who seemed unable to understand my most basic of requests. He was muttering madly, in a panic about how he didn’t know how to switch his router off, or even which piece of hardware his router was.
It was one of those times when I felt angry. Frustrated. Cross at the mundane nature of people’s lives. How could they get flustered over broadband when a woman was dead? Killed. Wiped out.
People could carry on even though the police hadn’t found her killer. When he was still out there. When he could be sending friend requests to ex-girlfriends on Facebook. Paranoid, I told myself. I was just being paranoid but as the man wittered on about what lights were and weren’t flashing on his finally located router I couldn’t stop thinking about Rose’s killer.
I wondered if, as they ploughed into Rose, they had looked at the other people in the street? Had they seen me? Mouth agape? Eyes wide with fear and shock?
The man on the phone barked something into my ear which pulled me from my thoughts. I apologised and asked him to repeat himself.
‘Oh you are still there then?’ he said, scorn dripping from every word. ‘I thought you’d gone for a nap, or maybe a holiday.’
‘I’m terribly sorry, sir,’ I repeated, trying to diffuse the situation. These calls were monitored and the last thing I needed was for this to end up in a training session at the end of the month. ‘You have my full attention now – let’s get this problem solved.’
Ten minutes later he was appeased and I was able to hang up the call and take a moment to rub my temples; to try and regain focus on what I was being paid to do.
Thirty seconds, that was all it would take to check online for pictures. Then I could settle myself and get back to work. Properly.
I picked up my phone, refreshed the internet app and happened upon a picture of the weeping relatives, their bright colours looking garish, standing at a graveside. Jack, thumb in mouth, being carried by an older woman wearing a bright pink coat who looked as though she was resisting the urge to hurl herself into the grave. Cian – ashen faced – was captured tossing a cream rose into the hole in the ground that now contained his wife. She was gone. It was done. But looking at the faces of the mourners, I realised it was just beginning for them.
*
I had put my phone away and answered another call when I saw Andrew walk over towards my soulless desk. He was trying his very best to look intense and managerial, but the unmistakable glint in his eyes implied he was about to impart news that made him feel important. He stood a little too close while he waited for me to finish the call I was on, and just as I was about to answer the next call waiting in the queue, he lifted the headphones from my ears and forced himself into my direct eyeline.
‘A word?’ he said, head tilted to the side.
‘Any word or had you something particular in mind?’ I said, a weak attempt at a joke.
As feared, it went right over his head and he looked at me as if I was a puzzle he couldn’t figure out. A human Rubik’s Cube. ‘My office?’ he said, an eyebrow raised. He led the way. A bad feeling washed over me. Nothing good ever, ever happened in Andrew’s office. Still a part of me lived in hope he was going to break the company-wide tradition of demoralising and humiliating staff and offer me a pay rise or a promotion or both.
‘Close the door,’ he said as he took his seat behind his desk. He probably imagined he looked foreboding – but he didn’t. He was too small, too fine a creature, too weedy to intimidate me. I wondered whether his mother still took his trousers up for him.
‘Sit down,’ he said, and I did, straightening my skirt and taking a deep breath. I looked at him.
‘So the dentist?’ he said.
I shrugged, unsure what he wanted me to say.
‘You were there this morning?’
I nodded. ‘I told you that, and I took unpaid leave.’
‘Is your dentist a very Godly person?’ he asked, and I was sure I could see the hint of a sneer.
‘I can’t say we’ve discussed theology,’ I replied. Tone light. Not rattled.
‘Well, it’s just you seem to have been in church this morning, so I wondered was your dentist moonlighting as a priest? Confession and tooth removal a speciality?’ A wave of dread shot right to the pit of my stomach.
I willed myself to think fast.
‘Who? What? I don’t know … what?’ I stumbled, feeling the heat rise in my face as my cheeks blushed red.
He turned his computer screen towards me, and I saw my image frozen in pixels, creeping from the church ahead of the mourners. Looking shifty. Ducking out of view – but clearly not enough.
‘I had to go to the funeral,’ I stuttered, ‘and I knew the company policy about compassionate leave being only for immediate family. I took unpaid leave. It doesn’t really matter, does it?’
That was clearly the wrong thing to say.
‘Of course it matters. We have targets to hit and you took time off on the premise of a medical issue and instead y
ou were getting a nosy at the big funeral of the year. Did you even know her?’
‘It’s not like that,’ I said. The blush in my cheeks was now so hot, I could almost hear the roar of the blood rushing to my face. ‘I saw it. I saw the accident. I was a witness. I had to go. I had to get closure.’
The words were spilling out. My hands were shaking – maybe not enough for Andrew to see but I could feel them jittering as I tried to get enough air into my lungs between my short, sharp sentences. I willed the panic not to take hold.
I saw Andrew shake his head. Heard him sigh. I wanted to scream at him.
‘You know we can’t carry dead weight here, Emily. We’ve talked before about this. About your attendance. About your attitude to being here and being part of the team. You’ve had enough warnings. We can’t keep giving you chances. And lying to management? That constitutes gross misconduct.’
I stared at him. ‘But I had to go. Don’t you understand?’
He shook his head again. I wanted to grab him and shake the rest of his weak, puny body along with his stupid head.
‘And you never mentioned it before now? Really? You want me to believe that?’ He snorted. A short, derisory laugh that made the room spin a little more. All sense of balance, of calm, was leaving me. ‘Regardless, Emily, you know that it’s not good enough. I have no choice but to dismiss you with immediate effect. You’ve had more chances than most. More chances than you deserve, if I’m being honest. I am very sorry it’s come to this but really, you have no one to blame but yourself.’
He sat back in his seat, either oblivious to or unmoved by my growing distress. I tried to find the words to reply, but my tongue felt heavy in my mouth. ‘No one to blame but yourself’ reverberated wildly around my head.
Blame.
It was all down to me. It was always all down to me. Isn’t that what Ben had always said? That I brought things on myself? Then and now – it was a fault I couldn’t escape.
I could hear a faint humming; he was talking again. Muttering about clearing out my desk and leaving immediately. HR would be in touch. He hoped I wouldn’t make a scene.
‘Don’t make it worse for yourself,’ he said, head tilted to the side. False compassion that made me want to cry more than any true compassion would have.
I felt my nails dig into my palms – the sharp, scratchy sensation at least making me feel grounded in the room that was becoming increasingly stifling. I willed myself to get up, to remember the breathing techniques I had learned in hospital. I willed my tongue to loosen – to tell him to go straight to hell. I willed myself to turn sharply on my mid-heeled court shoe and slam his office door behind me. But my legs were like jelly.
No one to blame but yourself.
I stood up, using the back of the chair for leverage. I was vaguely aware that Andrew was still talking but I couldn’t hear. All I could hear was the humiliation pounding through my veins.
Sacked. At thirty-four. With rent to pay on a flat I didn’t even like that much and credit card bills that were already a struggle.
No one to blame but myself.
And Rose, I suppose. For taking my place. For walking in front of me and getting hit by the fucking Toyota Avensis.
But I had let her, hadn’t I? I had smiled at her beautiful curly-haired baby and, touched by her cooing and singing and the baby’s toothy grin, I had said: ‘Mothers and children first’ and let her walk through the door before me.
No one to blame but myself.
I could have stayed and talked to the police. Had some sort of proof to show Andrew I had been there. But I had bolted. Like I wanted to bolt now. Or faint. Or throw up. React in any of the ways one would normally react to a shock.
At least, I thought, as I shovelled the contents of my desk drawer into my handbag without making eye contact with anyone else in the office, the company’s bleak clean desk policy meant I didn’t have much to pack up. A Cup–a–Soup that was long out of date. A mug with our faded company logo on it. A strip of paracetamol. A strip of Buspirone (my anti-anxiety medication, rarely used at work but a safety net in case a panic attack crept in, as they were prone to do, with no warning). A couple of faded business cards. Forty-seven pence in loose change. Three paper clips, two salt sachets and a torn, half-empty pepper sachet, spilling its dusty brown contents in my drawer. A button from a long-forgotten clothing item. Two pens.
Not much of a life. I popped two Buspirone from the packet and threw them back with a mouthful of water. They would knock me a little silly – take the edge off. Probably shouldn’t drive though. Wouldn’t be safe. Wouldn’t be right. And we all know how driving dangerously ends, don’t we?
Might as well have a drink, I thought. End the day on a big fat high of having no one to blame but myself.
Chapter Five
I missed the smell of smoke in pubs. The comforting mix of stale smoke mixed with stale alcohol was a signal to the senses that they were about to be soothed. Now I had to buy my drink and stand outside, hopping from foot to foot, cradling my drink to me in a bid to keep warm while I sucked on my cigarette.
Vodka was the drink of the day. I hadn’t had it in a while – but desperate times called for desperate measures. Lots of 35ml measures of impending oblivion.
Jim, the barman, had looked at me oddly when I walked in from the bright winter sunshine to the cosy gloominess of Jack’s Bar, just a short walk from my flat on Northland Road.
‘Early doors today?’ he asked as I took a seat at the bar.
I looked at him quizzically.
‘Is it not early to be knocking off work? Time off for good behaviour, eh? Teacher’s pet?’
I couldn’t help but snort at the irony of the words. ‘Yes, something like that,’ I said. ‘Double vodka and a Diet Coke.’ He raised his eyebrows but didn’t speak, just lifted a glass and carried it to the optic where I stared as the numbing clear liquid poured out.
‘The hard stuff, eh?’ he asked, as he added ice and popped open a small bottle of Diet Coke. He didn’t pour it. I imagined he knew as well as I did that the soft drink was really only for show. I would add a splash; enough to colour the vodka but not enough to dilute its potency.
‘Hard to beat,’ I said, raising my glass before tipping it back, allowing the sharp taste of the alcohol to warm my throat and sink to my stomach where it would settle the growing sense of unease.
‘I thought you were going off the booze for a bit?’ Jim asked, as I pushed the glass, now empty, towards him and gestured for a refill.
‘I did,’ I said. ‘It’s been a few weeks.’ I knew as well as he did that it had been just over a week, but he didn’t correct me.
‘Are you sure you want another? It’s still early and last time you were in you told me—’
‘Never mind what I told you,’ I said, making a conscious effort to keep my tone light when all I really wanted was for him to pour me another drink. ‘Look, Jim. You can pour me another drink – and maybe even another after that – or I can take my business elsewhere. But if I’m honest, I like it here. It’s quiet and most of the time you’re not a pain in the ass.’
Jim shrugged and poured my drink. To try and make him feel a little better I added more than just a splash of my Diet Coke to the glass and nodded towards the beer garden, where I headed with my drink and my smokes to imbibe nicotine along with the alcohol.
I knew I shouldn’t be drinking. Of course I did. Not least because of the double dose of anti-anxiety meds dissolved in my system. Ones that came with a big ‘Do Not Consume Alcohol’ warning on the front. But the alternative was not appealing. Go home to my flat in the half-light of the afternoon, work out just how many weeks’ rent I could afford to pay before I was officially broke. Broke and homeless. With a mild drink problem, an addiction to prescription medication, in hiding from a man who wanted to cause me actual physical harm and nursing a very heavy dose of guilt about the death of Rose Grahame.
Standing shivering in the beer garden beside
a plant pot festooned with cigarette butts and some fairy lights that no longer twinkled, I felt the first wave of negative feelings towards Rose and her perfect life. Had she not the sense she was born with? The sense to look both ways before crossing the road? She was pushing her baby in a pram for the love of God. If she had just looked up I wouldn’t be tormented by the abnormal angle of her neck and her left leg when she fell. I would be able to escape that glassy-eyed stare. I wouldn’t have felt compelled to go to the funeral and I wouldn’t have had to lie to Andrew and I wouldn’t now be unemployed and feeling slightly fuzzy headed as the last dregs of my vodka and Diet Coke slid down my throat.
I’d have one more – and then go home. I stubbed out my cigarette, left it teetering on the pile of butts on the plant pot – all playing a dystopian version of Buckaroo, and walked back into the bar. I pushed my glass in Jim’s direction and he shook his head but poured another double measure anyway. ‘I’ll get you a toastie made. Some soakage,’ he said, but I shook my head.
‘I’ve dinner plans,’ I lied. ‘I’ll be good,’ I lied again.
He walked away, knew he was beat. I poured the remainder of my Diet Coke into my vodka glass and took out my phone, clicking back into Facebook. I stared at the dialogue box asking me ‘What’s on your mind?’ – it had been just over five years since I had shared what was on my mind, but I couldn’t bring myself to delete my account. I hadn’t always been so reticent to share what I was thinking, of course. I used to share everything. My life on view for whoever wanted to see it and even a few people who didn’t. When things were better, of course. Or at least when I thought they were better. The fool that I was.
*
My keys clattered onto the floor as I kicked the pile of letters away from the door and stumbled into my flat, wondering who had moved the light switch a few inches to the left. I had been true to my word. I had left after my third drink (that it was a double wasn’t important). Now though, stumbling towards the moving light switch and feeling my stomach – empty but for the alcohol – churn, I decided I’d had a little too much. I needed to sit down and try to stop the room from spinning. My head had started to hurt. I knew I needed a glass of water and a few painkillers, so I made my way to the kitchen and pulled out a packet of pills, taking two small yellow and green Tramadol capsules out and throwing them back with water from the tap. I didn’t need painkillers this strong any more; they were given to me for backache a few months ago. I probably should have returned the remainder to the chemist, but I liked how they made me feel. Not only would they sort out my headache, they would knock me into the oblivion I desired – the kind of oblivion where, if I was lucky, I would dream of happy endings and nice things. An escape from my reality and of the face of Ben Cullen that haunted my notifications. Perhaps dreams of a sexy, stubbly husband called Cian, and a chubby cheeked baby called Jack and a life where I felt I had something to contribute to Facebook after all. A life worth mourning. Pinching the bridge of my nose, I kicked off my shoes and lay down on the sofa, pulling a blue chenille throw over me and drifting off into a hazy sleep.