A Model Partner
Page 19
‘Have you read a book about this or something?’ she asked.
When he admitted that he had read a book about it she laughed so hard that she curled into a ball in the back seat. She used the window to support her head and her hair clung to the condensation.
‘That’s mad,’ she squealed. ‘You’re mad.’
And Tom felt this immense warmth in his chest and he thought that he had never been happier than he was at that moment and he thought how Sarah was the most beautiful girl he had ever met.
In every single way.
Tom couldn’t stand to be in that horsebox on his own in the evenings. His new friendships had made being alone even more lonely. So he would join his grandfather in Ryan’s bar the odd evening. Tom found his grandfather different in Rossboyne, more animated. He would slap men on the back and grab women by their waists and try to dance with them.
‘Come on woman!’ he’d shout. ‘Barman, play some music.’
This frightened Tom more than his quietness.
In some ways his grandfather became a stranger in Rossboyne.
One evening he sat down next to Tom and began to tell him a story about some kid that had hurt himself on their estate a number of years before.
‘I brought him to the hospital on me bike,’ his grandfather said. ‘I remember it as clear as day. There was this small woman at the front desk and I marched right up to her and told her that the boy had stood on a nail. She said that there was a system and that I’d have to wait across the hall.’ His eyebrows dipped as he recalled. ‘My grandson, that’s what she called him. And I put her straight. I told her that he wasn’t anything to do with me, that he belonged to the woman down the road, ye know the fat one, the one that’s mad about her garden.’
‘Mrs Murray?’
‘Yeah, that’s the one,’ he took his pouch of tobacco from the table and began to roll a cigarette. He smiled. ‘He needs a member of his family with him, she says. A guardian or something. So I says that a guardian won’t fix the lad’s foot. She made the boy show her his foot then. There was this circle of damp on the sock where the nail had gone through. He peeled off his sock and there was all this green gunk around the wound.’
‘Green?’
‘Green,’ he nodded seriously. ‘Your woman asked me why I was only after bringing the boy in. I says that all I knew was that the lad had stood on a nail. And it wasn’t one of mine, I says. I’m not the type of person who leaves nails around for young boys to just come along and stand on. I was asked by his mother to bring him to the hospital. Sure if I’d of known there was going to be wild allegations flying around I’d have probably told her to ask someone else. The woman said that the boy had been going around all day with an infection and that he might have gangrene or something and that he could have a fever. She ran off then to get a nurse.’
Tom’s grandfather placed the cigarette in his mouth, fluidly flicked a match against the side of the box and brought the flame toward his face. After a couple of drags he leaned forward.
‘That’s green-foot, I said to the boy. You ever heard of the green-foot, Tom?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Tom said.
‘Neither did I but ye should have seen the face of him,’ he laughed. ‘The poor fella hugged his foot closer to his body and I told him that his foot was starting to rot. I nudged him in the ribs with me elbow though, ye know, to let him know that I was only messing and I said that if these fools don’t sort it out quickly they’ll have to cut it off. Jesus, he was as pale as anything by the time the nurse arrived.’ He scratched the hair on his chin for a moment. It crunched against his fingernails. The smile left his face then. ‘It got me thinking how people can pick up on things all wrong, ye know, people that don’t know ye. Do you get me?’
‘Yeah,’ Tom nodded.
‘I was trying to help the boy and he didn’t get me at all. I don’t know, sometimes ye can just make things worse by talking. Sometimes you’re better off saying nothing.’
He finished the cigarette and stubbed it out on the floor with his heel.
‘I didn’t have to talk to her, your Nan. She just knew,’ he gripped the top of his glass between thumb and forefinger and twirled it gently. ‘We didn’t have to talk about things, feelings and all that kind of shite. We’re not that kind of people. And she just knew.’ He stopped playing with the glass and stared Tom in the face. ‘You know, don’t you, that we’re not that kind?’
Tom nodded.
‘It’s nothing bad. We’re just not that kind of people,’ he said and went to the bar to get another pint.
Tom was in the pub again a number of evenings later. She was in the lounge, the woman from the window, Mary. She was seated at a stool at the corner of the bar, a glass of stout in front of her. She would chat to the people who entered and when she did this Tom would glance in her direction, taking advantage of her distractions.
His grandfather was joking around. People were giving him sheets of paper and buying him drinks. Apparently he had told the punters that he was terminally ill and that he had a photographic memory. He was offering to memorise people’s messages and relay them to lost relatives in heaven.
‘Praise the Lord,’ he was shouting. ‘Praise the Damn Lord.’
Mary came over to Tom’s table at one point, a glass of cola in one hand, a stout in the other.
‘Hello there, stranger,’ she smiled. ‘I haven’t seen you in a while.’
Tom nervously brought his hands below the table and tucked them under his thighs on the seat. He bowed his head, pushed his shoulders forward as if trying to shrink from view.
She took the stool opposite him and placed the stout and cola on the table.
‘Got you this.’
He looked from the cola to the bar. The barman was watching them, his sight moving from one to the other before resting on a glass which he was drying with a cloth.
‘I know I shouldn’t be buying you fizzy drinks,’ she said. ‘Bad for your teeth and all that. But it’s nice to have a treat now and again.’
She pushed the drink in front of him and rested her hand on his lower arm.
‘We’re all allowed to be bold sometimes,’ she said and urged him to drink it.
Tom removed his hands from under him, gripped the glass tightly and brought it to his lips. His hand shook, causing the ice to rattle loudly against the sides.
‘I noticed that you’ve made a few friends,’ she said. ‘The Daly brothers are a little bit older than you, aren’t they?’
‘A little bit,’ Tom muttered.
She leaned forward, turned her head so the people beside couldn’t hear.
‘You mind yourself with them now. Especially that older fella. He has a mean streak in him. I don’t know the girl so much. Sharon, is it?’
‘Sarah,’ Tom corrected.
‘Sarah. Yeah, she seems a nice enough sort. She isn’t shy that one though, sure she’s not? Comes a long way to hang out with you lot, this Sarah one, doesn’t she?’
Tom stayed quiet.
‘Yeah,’ she sipped on her stout, licked her lips slowly. ‘What happened to your hand?’ She nodded to scratches above his wrist.
‘I just caught it on some brambles.’
She took his hand in hers and brought it towards her body.
‘Make sure it doesn’t get infected now. Keep it clean, won’t you?’
‘Yeah,’ Tom said.
‘You promise?’
Tom nodded quickly.
She brought his hand close to her chest.
‘Sure, I’ll look after you in any case, won’t I?’
Tom felt her breasts against the back of his hand. He tensed, sweat breaking out on his forehead. The image of her in the window blinked into his head, her naked form, the paleness of her skin.
He inhaled deeply and only exhaled when she finally released his hand.
‘I have to head,’ he said quickly, his voice breaking slightly.
‘What about your drink?
‘I’ll see you around so,’ she said as Tom stood and hurried from the bar.
Chapter 23
She has finished at nine for the last two nights. She creeps from the nightclub end of the hotel, head lowered so the longer hair at the back of her head falls around her face. She stops at the pathway to the left of the exit, lights a cigarette, her free palm moving to her cheek. Frequently she changes the leg she leans on. When she does this her hips move in the opposite direction and she swaps the hand which holds the cigarette and she switches the palm which goes to her cheek. She has the look of someone who has enduring worries.
For some reason Tom thinks of her as trapped. He pictures a caged bird when he sees her.
On both nights the car has arrived at the Manhattan a few minutes after nine. She takes a series of quick drags when it parks and flicks the butt of the cigarette onto the roadway, climbs into the car.
Tonight it is raining.
Tom waits for her. He wears his heavy coat, the one which he bought in a flea market three years ago, retrieved from a rack of second-hand leather jackets and vintage cardigans that smelled of must and were peppered with dust. It is overly heavy for the mild night but the collar is large enough to partially conceal his face. He wears a hat, the one which he found in the bag of wigs. It smells of washing powder and softener now. The peak is ironed straight but Tom still has flashes of an image, the hat sitting in the end of the bag of wigs. And when he does, he scratches the place where the hat meets his scalp and imagines a crawling sensation in his hair.
Ticka-ticka-ticka
Tom blinks against the droplets of rain and watches the changing of the traffic lights. He enjoys the consistency of the timing, the regular routine.
Green on the major road, the light hazy in the rain.
To amber. To red. Green again.
The traffic moves off slowly. Almost lazily.
Amber. Red. Pedestrian lights turn green but there is nobody waiting to cross.
Tom thinks of this sequence continuing all night, changing when there is nobody around. The steadiness of it gives him a warm sensation in his stomach.
He hears footsteps behind him, a dampened clacking sound on the wet footpath.
She appears at his left, rolls her thumb across a turquoise-coloured lighter and brings the flame up to a cigarette between her lips. She blows smoke from her nose.
Tom moves towards her. The way she turns to the side slightly alerts Tom to the fact that she is aware of his presence.
‘I need to ask you a couple of questions,’ Tom says softly.
He maintains a respectable distance.
Her eyes widen and Tom raises both hands in a show of peace. He even takes a step backwards.
‘It’ll only take a second,’ he says.
‘My husband will be here in a minute,’ her tone is faltering.
‘Just a couple of questions,’ Tom says. ‘Please.’
‘You better not touch me,’ she warns.
‘I just want to ask you about the watch.’
‘Leave me alone,’ she takes a deep drag on the cigarette and aims her sight to the road.
‘I know he showed you the watch,’ Tom says and takes a step closer to her. ‘I saw the two of you talking.’
‘You didn’t see anything,’ she hisses and looks at him sharply. Her eyes partially close. ‘What did you see?’
‘I saw the two of you at the bar. He showed you the watch.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ she looks to the heavens. ‘Why won’t you just leave it?’
‘And then I saw the two of you go out to the corridor.’
‘What do you want?’ her voice rises and she waves her hands in frustration.
‘I just want the watch.’
‘That fuckin’ watch,’ she throws the cigarette onto the ground and crushes it with her heel. ‘It’s not even worth anything. It’s a piece of crap.’
‘How do you know it’s not worth anything? You’ve seen the watch, haven’t you? It was you in the bar, wasn’t it?’
She shakes her head slowly. ‘If my husband sees you talking to me he’ll kill you.’
‘Please, just let me know if you’ve seen the watch.’
‘Why?’
‘Please,’ Tom places both hands together and his coat opens.
Her eyes widen and she retreats. ‘What are you up to?’
Tom follows her gaze to the camera around his neck.
‘Have you been taking pictures of us?’ she asks. ‘What are you taking pictures of?’
‘Nothing,’ Tom shakes his head. ‘I just want to know about the watch.’
‘I knew you were trouble.’ She points at Tom. Her hand shakes. She turns and begins to walk away from him.
Tom follows her.
‘Did he show you the watch in the nightclub?’ he asks.
‘Christ,’ she turns. ‘Yes. He showed me the watch. He showed me some stupid trick with it. Now piss off.’
‘Then what?’
‘Then what? What do you want, the details? What is it you really want?’
‘What happened to the watch?’
‘Here’s my husband. Just leave it,’ her words are urgent.
Tom spots the car at the traffic lights. The pedestrian light is green.
‘Jesus. Fuck off,’ she says. ‘Please.’
‘What happened to the watch?’ Tom asks.
She begins to walk in the direction of the car.
‘Please. Don’t follow me. You don’t understand what he’ll do to me. He’ll kill me.’
Tom takes one step towards her.
‘Where is it?’ he asks.
‘Jesus. He has it beside the bed. Please. Don’t come up to the car. I’ll get him to leave it at reception for you.’
‘Who has? Your husband?’
‘Who do you think?’ She talks through the corner of her mouth.
‘Who?’
She throws one last glance in his direction.
‘Karl has it. Fuckin’ Karl, that’s who.’
The car pulls up to the pathway and the door opens. She jumps in and leans across the seat, kisses the driver. His face is obscure in the dim light but Tom senses that the driver is looking directly at him. Tom doesn’t look away. He watches the car drive off and he hears the buzzing in the distance.
It is moving towards him.
Quickly.
Chapter 24
The elderly woman who sells Tom the flowers has creased skin and a faint moustache. She is wrapped in a plain white shawl and squints as she speaks. Tom imagines she sees stories in all her customers’ purchases, affairs in the roses, friendship in the daffodils, sympathy in the chrysanthemums or apologies in the lilies. Perhaps she dreams that someone will buy flowers for her someday, whisk her away from the dreary street, away from cobbles splattered with rotten fruit and the stench of dead fish and cigarette smoke.
‘For someone nice I hope,’ she says as Tom pays for the flowers.
‘Yes,’ Tom pauses, thinks about it for a moment. ‘For someone very nice.’
Tom brings the flowers up to head-height as he enters the Manhattan even though there is no sign of Barry the security man. Fiona smiles at the approaching flowers.
The smile disappears when Tom sticks his head out from behind.
‘Ah Jesus Tom,’ she says softly. ‘I can’t take any more drama. I haven’t got the energy.’
‘I just want to give you these,’ Tom says. ‘To say sorry and stuff.’
She exhales loudly. ‘Tom. You have to go.’
‘Take these, will you?’ He moves the flowers closer.
‘Tom,’ she draws out his name.
‘I know that things got out of control. If Barry had listened we could have sorted it out. I spoke to her last night, you know, the blonde woman. She said she was going to leave the watch at reception for me.’
&nbs
p; ‘Tom,’ Fiona sighs loudly. ‘There’s no watch here for you.’
‘There has to be,’ Tom leans on the counter and scans the desk.
‘But there’s not.’
‘She told me it would be here.’
‘Jesus Tom,’ Fiona shoves the A4 diary aside. ‘Have a look for yourself if you don’t believe me.’ She lifts a pile of papers up. ‘It’s not here. It’s gone,’ Tom. I’m sorry but you have to forget about it and stop hassling the people who work here.’
‘There it is,’ Tom points to his watch. It is next to a tray of invoices to the right of the desk.
Fiona picks it up, her face drawn in confusion.
‘I told you,’ he says. ‘Here, I’ll swap you.’
Tom hands over the flowers and she slowly hands over the watch.
He cleans the face with his sleeve, small circles in an anticlockwise motion.
‘Jesus, I’m sorry Tom,’ she says softly. ‘I didn’t see it there.’ She rubs her upper arm absently. ‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘It never left the hotel,’ Tom says and examines the back of the watch and the strap.
‘Maria had stolen it?’
‘Maria?’
‘The blonde woman. The woman you spoke to.’
‘Not really. Karl had it. And she knew that Karl had it. He’s staying in one of the rooms I think.’
She dwells on this information for a moment, her mouth open, eyebrows raised.
‘Maria’s married,’ she says.
‘So is Karl.’
‘This sounds complicated.’
‘It always is.’
‘Jesus, Tom. I’m really sorry.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘I know but,’ she shakes her head, casts her eyes downwards. ‘You know what I mean.’
‘It’s grand,’ Tom straps the watch to his wrist. He brings it to his ear and feels the small vibration of the hand moving.
‘I’ll let Barry know about the watch,’ her tone is serious. ‘Clear things up and all.’
‘Good,’ Tom says.