High Dive

by Jonathan Lee

  “They were a German couple.”

  “The owners?”

  “Yeah,” he said.

  He’d been tasked with looking after their elderly red setter. Alas, the red setter had died on his watch, just lay down and died by the sofa on the Saturday. Died. He didn’t know what to do. It was dead. Shit, what should he do?

  “It definitely didn’t seem appropriate to disturb their holiday,” John said. “At least, not until I’d figured out what to say. You know, to soften their…their grief, or whatever.”

  On the Sunday, Wilhelm the red setter was rigid. Surfer John reasoned it wouldn’t be long before he began attracting the attention of flies. He found the Yellow Pages and phoned a vet, and the vet referred him to a pet cemetery, and a taxi was too expensive so he decided to get the Tube.

  “You got the Tube,” she said. “The London Underground, with a dead dog?”

  He was going to put the dog in its custom-made wicker dog basket. But what if kids wanted to say hi, what if kids on the Tube tried to pet the dead dog through the bars? That would badly suck. “That was my reasoning, Freya Finch.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I ended up putting Wilhelm in a suitcase.”

  “John!”

  “What? It seemed the right thing to do. What are the rules?”

  He took the suitcase on the London Underground. At Hammersmith the lift wasn’t working, so he began to lug the dog-filled suitcase up the stairs. An absolutely massive bald guy said, Let me give you a hand with that, son. No no, I’m fine, John said. But the bald guy insisted: I’ll take it ten steps and then you can take it ten; it’ll be a workout, mate. And then the bald guy took the suitcase and ran off with it.

  Doing voices for the dog owner, the dog owner’s husband, and at one stage for Wilhelm himself, John explained with new vitality how the post-holiday conversation with Mr. and Mrs. Mencken had gone. Yes, your dog is dead. Yes, your suitcase is gone. Unfortunately the suitcase and the dead dog were stolen at much the same time. He described all of this, and shared some of the swear words that were thrown his way in both German and English, and speculated as to what the thief must have thought when he opened the luggage with glee. From John’s description of the event there seemed to emerge, regardless of the truth or falsehood of the story, regardless of her giggles, regardless of the attentive timing with which he delivered his lines, a portrait Freya was surprised to recognise: Surfer John was lonely. It had never really occurred to her before that handsome, popular people could be lonely. John could work a room at a party, for sure, but maybe all this time he’d had dreams of different rooms.

  “Did you ever see the Germans again?”

  He blinked. “Yeah. They still come round for dinner with my parents sometimes. They like to have weekends by the sea. What’s weird is that Mrs. Mencken sometimes gets a little…despite the dog thing, she can get a little flirty.”

  “Well, you’re a good-looking guy, John.”

  He rearranged his legs. He put his hand on her knee. “You’re not too bad yourself, Freya Finch.”

  She looked at his hand. It had come out of nowhere, that hand.

  “You have nice legs,” he said.

  “Have you considered poetry, John? I really think that’s your true calling.”

  “I just think you’re very cool.”

  “Why?”

  “Did I already mention you’re pretty?”

  “What about my amazing wit? My brain? My drinking skills?”

  “It’s all connected,” he said. He sighed. “Sorry. Think I might be drunk.”

  She moved her foot so that it touched his foot. They sat looking at each other. She looked at his arms. She pictured him balanced on his board. To be balanced like that was what everyone wanted.

  She felt deep in the moment now, aware of every little gesture and breath, the seconds that flit by and the ones that fatten. There was a new energy within her, hustling for release. It wasn’t about him, exactly. It was about a sense of risk, was it? Everything felt improvised, their pauses and word choices, their voices stupid but clear.

  “I hope your dad gets, you know, completely better,” he said. “I like him, he’s like you, he’s funny.”

  “I don’t want to be funny.”

  “You make people smile.”

  There were times these last few nights when the house had seemed to grow around her. When it had seemed unbearable to be alone for another hour.

  He leaned forward and she closed her eyes, but not the whole way; she could still see a version of John brushed by lashes. She waited. She sensed him assessing her. What if he didn’t like what he saw? People saw different things at different moments in different ways. There were all sorts of ways of seeing. A stray fragment of poppadom crunched under his legs, or her legs; she wasn’t sure. It would be seriously massively mortifying if he didn’t, after this, make a move. There were heartbeats. Lots of them. Fuck’s sake. I mean honestly. She moved against him. Pressed her lips to his. Warm taste of the almost-champagne. Wheatier hint of beer. Spice of sauce. He didn’t use his tongue straight away, which was the sign of a good kisser. When the proper kiss came it was warm and deep, hungry. They were intertwined. He was on top of her. They kissed like that, her body taking his weight. It felt good, liberating, not to be able to move.

  His left hand was under her skirt. He placed it between her legs and kissed her neck. His hand was warm between her legs. She kept thinking someone might see through the living-room window. They moved upstairs to her bedroom.

  On the bed she was trying to decide if it was worse at this stage to risk being called a slut or risk being called a tease. She wished there was some safe position in between those two bald judgements where a person could simply be. The carpet was covered with her clothes, bags. There were water glasses everywhere, each in a different stage of fullness. She had tidied the room this afternoon. This counted to her mind as tidy.

  His chest was broad and smooth. The elastic waistband of his boxer shorts left a pink line of pressure on his hips. His tan-line ran just below. He kissed her breasts. He pressed himself against her thigh. He was more handsome with his clothes off than he’d ever been with them on. This probably couldn’t be said of most people. It stood in his favour. So did the volume of other girls who fancied him. She needed someone to need her. She didn’t want to dwell on the vast unoriginality of that. It was nice to feel swept up into someone else’s concentration. She had a sense that she’d been trying to stay away from mistakes, and that it might be better to let them occur.

  The best part of the evening was lying in bed with him, watching her little black-and-white TV, their bodies almost touching. He seemed fine with the fact she didn’t want to go the whole way. He had produced a condom in case it was needed, and the only passive-aggressive thing he’d done after that was to unwrap it and keep it nearby. He didn’t try and twiddle her nipples. She was grateful for that. The unused condom lay there now on her yellow bed sheets, in the thin light of the TV screen, like a dead jellyfish, or a scrap of litter, or a length of sun-bleached seaweed—something the sea had coughed up in the night for beach walkers and dogs to behold.

  FOUR

  The Grand

  1984

  1

  From the back garden came the sound of splintering wood. Ancient Jones had hired someone to rip down his fence. He wanted it replaced with a tall stone wall and had ignored Dan’s offer of help, and also his advice about planning permission. So many of Belfast’s elderly saw no profit in the concept of compliance. A wall was a wall and if they needed one they’d have one.

  “We got another threat,” he said.

  His mother was reading a book entitled The Complete Encyclopedia of Practical Palmistry. On a side table a plate of toast crumbs was positioned on a copy of IRIS magazine. “No no,” she said.

  “We did, Ma. In the night. You know we did.”

  “I know nothing. I’m a washerwoman.”

  “Letter
box went. A note.”

  Her empty gaze floated up over the spine of the book. “You’ll give yourself a headache, Dan.”

  “A headache’s the least of our worries.”

  She sighed. “It’s a mystery, is what it is. Mystery’s all there is. People like making their threats. It’s the same as the ideas about emigrating. They enjoy—Kathy’s your example—talking up these ideas of emigrating to Australia, to all sorts, a load of made-up places.”

  “Australia’s as real as Ireland, Ma.”

  “Like hell it is. Didgeri-bloody-doo.”

  “Some really do emigrate.”

  “And others don’t.”

  “You’ll play the percentages, is that it?”

  With her slippered foot she nudged at a mug on the floor. “Will we go again?”

  “Not for me.”

  “Go on now, wet the tea if we’ll talk.”

  “I’ve no thirst,” he said.

  She yawned and put the book down. Spit sparkled on her dentures. Her chair had been in a different position yesterday, a yard or two closer to the lamp. She was always moving tables and chairs around the living room, repositioning the footstool and the porcelain, half killing herself with the effort. The optimum layout eluded her. He was not sure if she had a notion of perfection in mind, or if she simply liked the feeling of not-quite.

  He was correct to tell her about the letters and phone calls. He judged that something could happen soon. There’d been dog shit through the letter box on Tuesday and again on Wednesday and if things were about to get worse she needed to know. There was the bomb too, due to go off in about forty hours—assuming this, assuming that. The bomb: an implausible afterthought. But it was the afterthoughts that tired you out, arriving as they did on top of your ordinary worries. No one would suspect him of being involved, but that didn’t mean there wouldn’t be recriminations for the community.

  He’d held his mother’s bony shoulders yesterday and tried to emphasise that the risk of burnout now was high. And what had she said, lifting his dad’s golf club half an inch off the ground? “I’ve got the five iron to protect me.”

  It was almost funny. Acceptance, acquiescence: for a woman like his mother these were hitches in the swing.

  He pulled the letter out of his pocket and read from it. “Burn you Fenian cunts. More or less plain, Ma? More or less blunt?”

  “I saw it on the kitchen table.”

  “Good.”

  “I’ve read and understood the thing.”

  “And?”

  “I thought it could’ve done with a comma.”

  “This house, gone. The value, gone. I’m not sure you get it. The memories.”

  With the word “memories” he saw her expression harden. She pitched herself forward, shaky, refusing his help, the golf club taking her weight. “Jesus,” she said. “Is that…?” She was eyeing the patio doors, her shoulders rolled, a twitching in her hands.

  “What?” he said.

  “No,” she said.

  “Yes,” he said.

  She was contemplating, probably, her own reflection in the glass. Reality sinking in.

  “Jesus,” she repeated. “No, no. I really think it is. Can it be? You’ve stirred it up, Dan. We’re in all kinds of hell now. King of over-kings.”

  “What?”

  “God save us.”

  “Ma?”

  “Jesus Mary Joseph. We’ve no control, none.”

  She instructed him to open the patio doors. Seeing the mad voltage in her eyes he obeyed. He followed her outside. Chimneys were ranged against a pewter sky. A magpie was marching mutely along a length of rain-bright guttering.

  “What are you on about?”

  She shook her head and leaned on the five iron. “Knotweed.”

  “Not what?”

  “Weed! That’s what this is, Dan! The stuff you’ve been saying is bamboo! It’s Japanese knotweed is what it is. I’m only now seeing this clearly.”

  What was she telling him? How should he read her? He tried to shut out the sounds of the fence coming down next door.

  “This is the worst thing that could be happening to us, Dan. The McCluskeys have had a terrible time with the stuff. Terrible. They couldn’t remortgage! And forget selling. Forget it. With this, forget it all.” She looked one way and then the next. Raised a weathered hand and let it fall.

  “We’re talking about the threats, or what?”

  “Knotweed! Against the fence! You stirred it up with your whipping.”

  “But—”

  “This is the worst thing, Dan. The worst. This’ll cost us what we’ve got.”

  There was actual foam in the corners of her mouth. The worst thing. A weed. Did she really believe it to be true? He felt he was witnessing the culmination of some strange process. She’d been drifting day by day away from the woman she used to be, and now she was deep in some other realm, bobbing on illogical waters, utterly beyond the reach of reason. Her mouth was trembling. She was whispering “knotweed” over and over, different shifts of emphasis, forming it into questions, exclamations, prayers, protestations. Last night’s rainwater sang in the downpipe. He heard it in gaps between the destruction next door. What the fuck did weeds have to do with mortgages, with moving her somewhere safe? He asked her. She didn’t answer. What did Japan have to do with Ireland? Knots? Weeds? The McCluskeys? She was mumbling, pacing, conversing only with herself. He laid out each constituent piece of the puzzle but could not make a picture emerge.

  The low murmur she used for Hail Marys. The chainsaw starting up again next door.

  She turned to face the house, eyes down. She poked at the patio glass with the end of her stick. Another insect squashed, work lost.

  “I ran the shammy over that. What’s the point in me cleaning if—”

  “You’re going to have to sort it out, Dan. You’ll have to be sure to sort this out.”

  “Me?”

  “You. Who else? My only son.”

  Only one left here, she meant.

  “Ma, I’m not sure you’re with me. The letters. The phone calls. They’re telling us we’re on notice. This knotweed thing is not imp—”

  “Notice,” she said, vicious. He watched as the power returned to her eyes. Impossible not to be impressed, ever since he was a little boy, by the gravity of this woman’s dissatisfaction.

  “Mother,” he said.

  “You’re telling me you can’t protect an old woman from some little shites?”

  “Calm down now.”

  “You’re saying, Daniel, you can’t get some of your friends to help protect ourselves?”

  He looked at her.

  “The fact I’m old doesn’t make me the fool. If you think me a fool you’re not paying attention, Daniel. I’ve got the Bridge Club quarter-finals. An important match. A cake to bake. Cake. You’ll deal with it alone, this one thing for me, one, sometimes, at last.”

  “We’ve an abundance of cake. We’ve got cake coming out of our fucking ears.”

  “It’s one I’m doing for Annie, isn’t it? Broken into again. Bakewells.”

  “Broken into?”

  “Again.”

  She looked like she might cry.

  “Who by?” he said.

  “What a question.”

  “You mean?”

  A further burst: “Will you sort the knotweed?” She wiped her mouth with the sleeve of her cardigan.

  Holding last night’s letter between forefinger and thumb he said, “But I have jobs to do. I’ve to find us a place to move to. Be safe.”

  “If we sold the house today with those damn roots, those roots wrecking our foundations, your father’s Beatles records and Rolling Stones records and all his furniture too? We’d be laughed at. Laughed. Same thing we should do to the teenagers.”

  “Who?”

  “Letter writers. Scare-mongers. Children them all.”

  “They’re not children.”

  “Oh, they are. Every man in this cit
y’s a child.”

  “Let me make you a cup.”

  “You’ll have time enough to sort the garden and your jobs. You’re lying low, are you not, now this mystery trip to the mainland’s over? You’re keeping yourself free? Dawson McCartland no longer lives in my garden.”

  Silence.

  She showed him her cheek. He kissed it.

  —

  While she was upstairs he sat on the floor in the hallway. He called Dawson. No answer. There had been no contact since the debrief, no news at all for days. He had done what he’d been told. He had stayed the extra nights. He had passed on information about the Prime Minister’s schedule in case Plan B, whatever that was, was needed. They had asked him to get into conversation with the receptionist girl again, and he’d done that, found a few useful things out, so why had they then seemed so annoyed? Visibility, yes, but for the greater good—the bar was where he found her, it wasn’t a matter of choice—and if there was a Plan B then the scheduling could be useful for the Plan B, and if the Plan A worked then what exactly was lost? It was him that stood to suffer if his face was remembered. It was him that stood to suffer if he remembered the girl’s face. The cause would not be harmed.

  Putting the phone down, picking it up again, trying to call Colum Allen to no avail. He dialled some of Colum’s people in finance, planning, intelligence, ordnance. He saw the receptionist girl swimming in a lake. He saw her smiling. He saw her thrown across the room by the blast. Finally he tried John C, one of Dawson’s more lowly job-doers, the last man whose number he could remember by heart.

  “Danny! Good to hear from you. I’m trying to unblock the old toilet. Same trouble as before. Did I tell you?”

  John was one of those people who reported so many details about his life, minor and major—his allergy to shellfish, the moles he’d had removed, the latest fornications of his sex-addict sister—that you could easily be conned into considering him a friend. He was admired for his command of Gaelic and known for his collection of weapons.