The Living

by Léan Cullinan

  Diane stopped him after a few phrases. ‘Relax,’ she said. ‘We’ll be miked up. It’ll be grand. Come on, shake yourself out. You’re as tight as a fiddle string.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Matthew said, and even his speaking voice rasped.

  ‘Don’t be afraid of it,’ Diane said. ‘It sounds great. Right, from the top, with everybody.’

  We started again. I felt so sorry for Matthew – he had done this with such ease in Dublin. We had thought him invincible. The rest of us were getting edgy. The tension mounted again. The mistakes returned.

  There were many more hitches before we got to the end of the piece. ‘We’ll have another run-through of that tomorrow,’ Diane said. ‘You’ll be fine. Don’t worry about it.’

  After our sound check we moved back to the choir platforms, where we were joined by everybody else. Things were chaotic for a bit, with members of all three choirs milling about and the orchestra arriving with their instruments. Both of the other choirs were significantly larger than Carmina Urbana: with the orchestra too, the stage was very crowded. I glanced round for Matthew, trying to catch his eye, but he was miles away. Diane and the other two choir conductors shouted instructions that crossed and cancelled each other.

  Eventually, we all got settled. The orchestra stood to attention as – thrill of thrills – Trevor Daintree himself took his place on the conductor’s podium. He was a squat, squashy-faced man with buck-teeth and what amounted to a mullet. He looked thirty-five going on sixty. He wore a big brown jumper and mustard-coloured cords. When he began to conduct, his face assumed a manic rictus, and his head jerked in time to the beat.

  Miraculously, the rehearsal went quite well. A Song of Ireland even began to make a mad sort of sense once the orchestra was added. The wailing of the sopranos was echoed by passages from the woodwinds, and there was a beautiful violin melody above the discordant choral crooning that had drawn such protest back in Dublin. The percussion accompaniment made the men’s section sound coherent – even impressive.

  We finished at ten. Most of the choir made for the bar as soon as we got back to the hotel. Matthew paused in the lobby to take a phone call, and I waited nearby. He rejoined me and said, ‘Let’s go to bed.’

  I grinned.

  He closed his eyes, shook his head. ‘Sleep, I mean.’

  He didn’t say a word in the lift or in the corridor on the way to our room. When we got inside he walked to the window and looked silently out.

  I sat on the bed. ‘You’ll be fine,’ I said.

  ‘Mmm. I hope so. To be honest, I feel rather as though I’ve bitten off more than I can chew. Foolish me.’

  ‘You’re not foolish.’

  ‘I never should have agreed to do that solo.’

  ‘You can do it,’ I said. ‘It was just nerves.’

  He spun round with a sudden energy and strode back to the bed. ‘Cate, I honestly don’t know if I’ll be able to do it.’ The harshness of his tone surprised me.

  ‘You’ll get out there tomorrow night, and the audience will be there, and there’ll be such a buzz – it’ll be great.’

  ‘If I get that far.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be silly.’

  He shook his head. ‘I wish I were being silly.’

  ‘Come on,’ I said, and I took his hand in both of mine, ran my thumbs over the knuckles. ‘Let’s forget about it. Sufficient unto the day be the solo thereof.’

  He softened at last. ‘Sweet Cate.’

  AT BREAKFAST ON Saturday morning we discussed what we’d do with our free day in Belfast. We were not due to meet until five, for a last rehearsal in the hotel. The day outside looked dull but dry. Joan and some of the others were keen to visit a museum. Val wanted to go shopping. I, silently, wanted to go for a long wander with Matthew, find lunch somewhere, see what there was to see. Talk, maybe. He’d been stern and monosyllabic all morning.

  Last night had been the first time we’d shared a bed without having sex. Oddly, I felt as though this had made us more intimate.

  Nicky Fay’s phone number nagged at the back of my mind. I’d bring Matthew along when I went to meet him. That would be fine, surely. I was only picking up a document … for George. Who wasn’t exactly Anglophile. From a Belfast county councillor who didn’t want to trust it to the electric mail.

  All right, then, maybe not. I’d work something out.

  I left the breakfast table early, and Matthew followed me into the lift. I leaned against him, clasped my hands behind his back. His body was unyielding. His arms swung slowly – almost half-heartedly – round my shoulders.

  ‘All right?’ I said.

  ‘Hm.’

  ‘Matthew, what’s got into you? I’ve never seen you like this.’

  ‘There’s a lot you haven’t seen.’

  That stung, but for once I managed to keep a grip. I reached up and squeezed the back of his neck. ‘We’re on your side,’ I said.

  ‘Yes.’ He looked down at me, dark-eyed, frowning. ‘I believe you are.’

  Perhaps this was why he had originally been reluctant to share a room with me. Maybe he always got like this before a big performance. Why would he be in such a state about his solo, though? It wasn’t even complicated – he was hardly going to fluff the notes.

  I hadn’t washed yet. As soon as we got back to the room I made a beeline for the shower, stood under the firm needles of water, letting them crash on to my scalp, deafen me, merge and run down my body in hot ribbons. I sang some scales, then a couple of phrases from our programme, enjoying the way my voice bounced off the tiles. I turned the heat up as high as I could bear.

  When I came out of the bathroom, it took me a moment to register that Matthew was gone. I started towards the balcony, hugging the towel around me, but the glass door was closed, and I could see that there was nobody out there. I was disoriented, standing damp and barefoot at the end of the bed.

  His note was on my pillow. ‘Cate, I’m sorry, but I need some headspace before the gig. I’ll see you later. 990’

  I made the best of it. I should not take this lunacy personally. I dressed as calmly as I could and went down to the lobby. If I met any of the others, I would defend his honour. They didn’t need to know that he was being a prima donna.

  AT LEAST THIS gave me the chance I’d been looking for to contact Nicky Fay. I marched out of the hotel into a bright, cold day and walked along in the approximate direction of the Waterfront until I saw a payphone. As I got closer, however, I saw that the phone had been vandalized, its receiver ripped off. The next one had chewing gum stuffed into the coin slot, and the one after that was smashed.

  I decided to use my mobile. The tune I’d learned from George played back in my mind as I dialled the number.

  ‘Nicky Fay’s office, hello.’ The voice was male, flat, bored. Or guarded, perhaps.

  ‘Oh, hello,’ I said, heart thumping, ‘I wonder is Mr Fay available?’

  ‘Who’s speaking?’

  ‘My name is Cate Houlihan – I work for Bell Books—’

  ‘George Sweeney, is it?’ The tone had changed completely, the pitch of the sentence swooping upwards, like song.

  ‘That’s right,’ I said. There was a brief silence. ‘Is that … Mr Fay? I’m in Belfast for the day, and George asked me … to meet you.’ I was trying to be guarded too.

  ‘Aye, he told me, so he did. Now, I’m tied up until four o’clock. Could you meet me at about … say, four-fifteen, four-twenty?’

  ‘That sounds fine,’ I said. I should have time to get back to the hotel for the rehearsal.

  ‘How well do you know Belfast?’

  I hesitated. Was this a test of some kind? ‘Not at all, I’m afraid – it’s my first time here,’ I admitted.

  ‘Well. Where are you now?’

  I looked around. ‘Em …’ Couldn’t see a street name. ‘I’m just beside the Public … Prosecution Service …’ (gosh, this is going well) ‘ah … I can see a pub called Magennis’s … there’s a H&M up th
e street …’ I swallowed.

  ‘Right. If you leave the Prosecution Service to your right, walk away from Magennis’s, past H&M, take your one-two-three, third left, on to Victoria Square, you’ll see a Starbucks. Do you think you’ll be able to find your way there this afternoon?’

  I was mesmerized by his accent: the slack, open vowels, the snuffed consonants. Twayenty. Squrr. ‘That should be no problem,’ I managed.

  ‘Right. What are you wearing?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘What are you wearing?’ he repeated, more slowly. When I didn’t answer, he said, ‘How will I recognize you?’

  ‘Oh! A red coat. It’s corduroy. It has … a big fluffy collar.’

  ‘Good enough. I’ll see you later, OK?’

  ‘Goodbye,’ I said, but he had already hung up. I tingled with embarrassment. After that first impression, it would be a wonder if he thought it worth his while to come and meet me.

  I got back to the hotel just as the museum party – consisting of Joan, Tom, Linda and Donal – was assembling in the foyer. I joined them, thinking to distract myself from Matthew’s absence. Joan raised a quiet eyebrow when I said he needed headspace, but asked me no further questions.

  By mid-afternoon I was irritated. We had traipsed around a selection of museums and minor sights before stopping for a late, expensive, inadequate and mediocre lunch. I had no heart for the banter the others kept up so effortlessly. I wished I’d joined the shopping trip instead.

  The police presence on the streets was really quite noticeable, in comparison with Dublin, and although we were fairly sure it was larger than usual on account of the summit, it made us uncomfortable. All the more so as every police officer we saw was armed. Donal was especially jumpy: he seemed to fear that each new turn would bring us slap bang into the heart of Catholic-hunting country.

  I phoned Matthew a few times, but it went to voicemail. I refused to leave a message. I tried to maintain my poise, my spirit of tolerance and calm, but I got crosser and crosser as the day wore on. It was so selfish to put himself out of reach like this.

  The others ran out of touristic zeal at last, and we returned to the hotel. There was still no sign of Matthew. I went upstairs to our bedroom, which was dark and deserted – and preternaturally tidy, in the manner peculiar to hotel rooms. I noted with a sinking heart that his suit bag was still hanging in the wardrobe. I rang him again and this time left a message, which I hoped wouldn’t make matters worse.

  It was time to meet Nicky Fay. I found Starbucks easily enough, bought a tall skinny latte and installed myself and my red coat in easy view of the main door. I was sipping away when a small man entered and caught my eye. He looked perhaps sixty, with a mane of reddish hair and the most unlikely moustache – like a section of fox-pelt glued to his upper lip. He wore a navy suit, with shirt and tie, under a scuffed brown leather jacket. He advanced towards me with a swinging gait, which I eventually read as a limp.

  ‘Cate, is it?’ The voice was unmistakable, though he spoke much more softly than he had on the phone.

  ‘That’s right,’ I said, half standing up before being waved back into my seat.

  ‘Nicky Fay,’ he announced, and we shook hands across the table as he eased himself into the chair opposite. He looked sharply at me through rimless spectacles. ‘Cate Sullivan?’

  ‘No, Houlihan.’

  ‘Houlihan, of course.’

  ‘But my mother is Sullivan, actually.’

  ‘Is that so?’ He nodded, gathering his lips into a knowing pout, then slapped his hand on the table. ‘Listen, I’ll not stay. I just came to give you this.’ He reached inside his jacket and withdrew a tiny package, which he slid across the table to me.

  I looked at it. It was a little pellet of some kind, swathed in paper and shiny brown tape. Nothing was written on it. I hesitated.

  Nicky Fay gave a throaty chuckle. ‘I know – it looks a wee bit dodgy, so it does. It’s one of them thumb drives. It’ll not bite you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  ‘You’ll give that straight into George’s hand, won’t you?’

  ‘I will, of course. First thing on Monday.’

  ‘And listen, next time you see Fintan Sullivan, tell him not to be worrying – this’ll not cause him any more trouble.’ He stood up. ‘I’ll be on my way. Don’t lose that, all right?’ He pointed a large, hairy finger at me, and his look flashed sincerity. I felt warned.

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘Bye, now,’ he said. ‘Pleasure meeting you, Cate Houlihan.’

  I put the packet in my pocket and finished my coffee.

  Back at the hotel room I took the thing out and looked at it. A document, George had said, connected to the MacDevitt book.

  I was suddenly very thankful that Matthew had not been with me at the meeting.

  Nicky Fay’s face remained in my mind – the pointed look he shot me as he enjoined me not to lose this packet. I would need to keep it on me until I got back to Dublin. My concert clothes had no pockets. I’d keep it in my coat, then, or maybe my handbag. The thought of it falling out, or being taken, made me feel a little ill. It was amazing how much force Nicky Fay had packed into that one look.

  It was just a memory stick, wasn’t it? That’s what he’d said, but I decided to make sure. Using the scissors from the hotel sewing kit I found in a drawer, I snipped at the tape that bound the packet until I was able to extract the contents. One small grey and blue memory stick, as advertised. I stuffed it deep into my handbag and headed downstairs to our rehearsal.

  WHEN I REALIZED that Matthew was not downstairs, I was flooded with alarm and shame. Not engaging in organized fun was one thing; missing rehearsal was quite another. But how could I admit to Diane – to anyone – that my own boyfriend had left me in the dark like this? I avoided everyone’s eye.

  A small mercy for which to be thankful: we sang much better than last night. There was, perhaps, hope for us. After we finished we ate a buffet dinner. I sat with Donal, Linda and Mircea and made minimal contributions. As soon as I could I bolted upstairs. Surely he’d be there, with rueful explanations of whatever madcap adventures had kept him from communicating all day. Surely he wasn’t going to leave us in the lurch altogether.

  He was not there.

  We were to walk to the Waterfront, to arrive by half past seven. I changed into my concert clothes and face, picked up my music and headed back downstairs. My heart was beating hard. Matthew knew the schedule. He should have been back long before now. I couldn’t help dwelling on the fact that this was Belfast. He might have wandered into the wrong area, been set upon for speaking with the wrong accent.

  I found Joan, Val, Tom and Anja in the lobby. ‘We’re the last,’ Joan said. ‘Shall we go on, or should we wait for Matthew?’

  ‘No point in waiting,’ I said. ‘He’ll follow us over.’ I saw them noting my grim tone.

  Joan fell into step with me as we got outside. ‘Is everything all right? Where is Matthew, anyway?’

  I took a deep breath. ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I haven’t been able to raise him.’

  ‘He’ll probably meet us there,’ Joan said.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘except his music and his suit are still at the hotel.’

  ‘Oops.’

  We walked in silence for a few minutes. ‘He’s in a very strange mood,’ I said eventually. ‘I don’t know what’s got into him.’

  ‘You two are getting on OK, though?’

  ‘Yes, very well.’ I thought about our recent talks. ‘Mostly,’ I qualified.

  ‘He’d better show up,’ Joan said.

  ‘He will.’ I hoped I was right.

  We arrived just after the London choir, and had to queue for ages at the security check. It was, if anything, tighter than last night – almost like an airport.

  All three choirs waited in a large fluorescent-lit room backstage, where we wandered aimlessly or chatted in little knots. My eyes kept flicking to the door, where I
was sure that at any minute Matthew would be shown in by one of the venue staff.

  He was lying in a lane somewhere, bleeding and concussed, while motorists drove by, too afraid to stop and help.

  He was tied to a chair in a dark basement, eyes so swollen he could barely see his captors, waiting for them to decide how to dispose of him.

  Nonsense. The truth was, I was disgusted at him, his irresponsibility. Elusive he might be, but he had never been unreliable in this way since I’d known him, and it was depressing to discover that he had it in him.

  Tension coursed up and down my body like columns of ants.

  Joan caught my eye. ‘No sign?’

  I shook my head. ‘Maybe I’d better talk to Diane.’

  ‘Might be no harm.’

  ‘It feels a bit strange, acting like his spokesperson.’

  ‘Goes with the territory.’

  Diane was sitting at the edge of the room, fussing over music. I took the chair next to her.

  ‘Diane, I’m a bit worried that Matthew hasn’t shown up. He’s not answering his phone.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be along any second. Don’t worry about it, OK?’ She gripped my arm. ‘Sure, if he doesn’t turn up, we’ll just do the show without him.’ She was shaking her head like a teacher, eyebrows raised, voice bright.

  She turned back to her music; I was dismissed.

  I went over to my coat and fished my phone out of the pocket. The signal here was very weak. I stepped out into the corridor and walked along it a little way, watching the screen of the phone to see if there was any improvement. I was heading away from the stage. The corridor opened into a high windowed space, yellow lights bouncing off sheet glass. I couldn’t see out at all.

  The signal here was better. I dialled Matthew’s number, for perhaps the fifth time since he’d left this morning, and for the first time I got a ringing tone.

  After three rings, however, the sound was choked off, and the voicemail greeting cut in. Matthew had rejected my call. Shocked, I tried again. Again, he rejected it.

  I was alone, as far as I could see, so it was safe to let out a muffled shriek of rage and to stamp my foot, hard. Neither measure helped – indeed, my foot let me know that these were not shoes in which to pound the floor.