by Simon Bourke
She set off towards the woods, up the little hill that she’d been walking up and down since she was a toddler. Once she got there, she’d have the peace and quiet she needed. She’d gather her thoughts, have a little smoke and return home. Her only fear was being spotted, either by her parents or someone else. It’d be just her luck to encounter a nosy neighbour, someone who might offer to accompany her up the road.
Sure, I’m going that way too.
Worse still, someone might stop and offer her a lift. She’d have to refuse.
I’m not going to my mother’s, thanks.
Well, where are you going, then?
Just to the woods, that’s all. Don’t tell my Mammy you saw me.
But they would tell. They’d be straight on the phone to her.
I saw your Sinéad walking up the hill there, said she was going to the woods. Just thought you’d like to know, Patricia.
That was what they were like; you couldn’t do a thing without someone reporting it. Small town mentality. There was another option: she could hop over the wall and take a short-cut through the fields, weaving her way past the bemused cows, doing her best not to step in their crusty droppings. That would ensure safe passage. She could be in the woods in a matter of minutes, unseen and unnoticed. What if one of the farmers saw her, though?
Oh hello, young McLoughlin, what brings you here?
Nothing, Mícheal, just taking a short-cut through your field to avoid being seen by my parents. I’m 37 now, by the way.
No, that wouldn’t do. She would just have to carry on up the hill and hope no one saw her. But, if she was to succeed, she would have to move quickly. She set off at something approaching a sprint, doing her best to retain an air of dignity, hoping to convince any onlookers that she did this all the time. Whenever she heard a car approach she slowed to a brisk trot, making sure to keep her head down until they’d passed by. Mercifully, only a couple of vehicles passed and the road was free of pedestrians. The pathway leading to the woods wasn’t far now, less than fifty metres away. Dispensing with the last of her inhibitions she increased her pace, galloping like an unseated horse at the Grand National. A car approached from behind; its occupants could surely see her, but she couldn’t stop now. The pathway was almost within reach. Let them stare, it wouldn’t matter. They’d never know the identity of the mad sprinting woman. Maybe they’d think it was a ghost, a banshee that had stayed out too late and was looking for somewhere to hide until dark. She made it with a few seconds to spare, disappearing down the laneway as the car whizzed past, its driver gawping after her. But she was safe. They couldn’t get her now. She carried on up the lane, through the car park, onto the footpath and into the woods. With any luck the first set of benches would be unoccupied. She could take a seat, light up a fag and relax.
*
That first drag; Christ it felt good, she would have climbed Mount Everest for that hit. Whether it was the nicotine, the runner’s high or the joy of isolation, she now felt much better. Why had she been panicking? Everything was going to be fine. Phillip was right. Jonathan didn’t care about her circumstances. He just wanted to see her and get to know her. What did he care if she was frumpy or depressed, or having a panic attack? He was a kid; kids didn’t bother themselves with things like that. He’d probably just want money to buy CDs or a football or something. And she’d taken care of that already, buying him a little present to mark the occasion. She was good at buying presents, everyone said so, but it had been a real struggle buying for Jonathan. She’d fished for information, enquired about his hobbies, his interests, what he did in his spare time. There’d been nothing out of the ordinary; he liked football, music, girls, beer and cars, the usual. Normally, in a situation like this she would have turned to those close to him for ideas, but she couldn’t do that this time. Just when she’d resigned herself to putting €50 in a card and being done with it, she had an idea. He said he liked sports, so why not introduce him to a new sport? The sport of his forebears, hurling. At first she thought it would be enough to get him a jersey; he could wear it with pride back in England. But then she decided to buy him the whole kit, and sure what good was the kit without a hurley and a sliotar? In the finish she’d got him the lot, helmet and all.
The idea of him returning home bedecked in the black-and-amber made her smile. What if his mother didn’t like her buying him clothes, though? What if she disapproved of sportswear and thought it tacky? There was so much to consider. Even if she did like the jersey, she’d most likely be horrified when he produced a heavy wooden stick and a ball made of iron, and told her he was off out for a game of fuckin’ hurling! She’d never let him go to Ireland again.
I’m not having you go over there so that they can arm you with more weapons, the crazy Irish bastards.
Well, it was done now; his presents were lying in her flat, all wrapped up and ready to go.
She checked her watch, it was half ten now. Twenty minutes of smoking and she’d head for home. She’d be there by eleven, giving her plenty of time to have some lunch, get ready and set off for the park. Her outfit had already been chosen: a brand new jacket and a dress she’d bought for ‘good wear’ two years ago, which had yet to see the light of day. Some judiciously applied make-up, a few squirts of Estée Lauder White Linen, and an hour spent straightening her hair would ensure she looked passable when her son laid eyes on her for the first time.
She must look a right state now, though. Had she looked in the mirror before leaving the flat? She probably looked like a vagrant and smelled like one, too. The frantic dash up the hill had caused her to sweat profusely. Her clothes were stuck to her skin and she felt itchy and grimy. If anyone saw her perched on a bench at this hour, puffing on a cigarette, her hair stuck to her head with sweat, they’d wonder where her flagon of cider was. All that could be fixed, though. By the time she’d finished doing herself up, she’d be restored to former glories. A MILF, that’s what she’d be.
As she sat and smoked, she fantasised about how the day might go. In her dreams she saw them taking a little stroll together, idly chit-chatting, sharing the odd joke. They’d feed the ducks, skim stones and she’d point out some of the park’s interesting features, like the tree planted in the memory of the recently deceased mayor or the stone monument bearing the names of local men who had fought in the Easter Rising. He’d like that; he’d said he was interested in history, especially military history. Once they’d exhausted what the park had to offer, she’d suggest they went for a drink somewhere, maybe with Malcolm; it would be easier with three of them, take some of the pressure off. From there, they could play it by ear. If they were really getting on, they might go for dinner. The restaurant in their hotel did a fine three-course on week nights.
Her mother, of course, had got it into her head that they’d all be having their dinner at her house that evening, despite being told no such thing. What do they like to eat, Sinéad? Does the boy like lamb chops? How about mint sauce? She would have to introduce Jonathan to his grandmother at some stage, but it wouldn’t be tonight and certainly not over dinner. She liked the idea of showing him off, though, bringing him to Adele’s house and Patrick’s, maybe even to Valerie’s. Even just walking down the main street with him would be lovely. Some oul’ biddy would surely stop and ask who the handsome young man was: Oh, this is my son; handsome chap, isn’t he? Of course, she couldn’t do that, she couldn’t refer to him as her son. Not yet, maybe not ever. Technically he was her son and she was his mother, but you had to earn the right to be someone’s mother, and she hadn’t done anything to deserve such an accolade. No, for the time being she would be Sinéad and he would be Jonathan. They were friends. They could figure out her title later on.
She’d smoked four cigarettes, each more delicious than the last, but she was growing hungry and a little thirsty, too. She hadn’t really thought this out, storming out of the flat without so much as a slice of toast
in her belly. If she hadn’t been so preoccupied with getting fags, she might have thought to pick up something from the deli in the newsagents. A sandwich. A cup of tea. She could have had a picnic, but all she’d been able to think about were the fags. Now here she was in the middle of the woods, starving, dehydrated and too tired to walk back home. Here, in the middle of the woods, none of that stuff really mattered, however. She was in splendid isolation, away from the prying eyes of humanity, where no one could see her and no one could judge her. If only she could live up here, like a hermit, she would be happy.
What was that? Someone was behind her, watching. She could sense them, standing there, where the path bent, about a hundred metres away. A chill went down her spine. This was all she needed, a homicidal maniac out looking for fresh meat. Any second now she’d be bundled in the back of a van, driven to a secluded location and murdered in cold blood. And on today of all days. It hadn’t occurred to her how vulnerable she was, up here on her own. But, as her mother constantly reminded her, times had changed; there were all sorts of loonies on the prowl nowadays. She thought of turning to face her tormentor, but that would have encouraged him, given him the stimulus he needed to come and grab her. So she stayed put, staring into the distance, pretending not to notice him. With any luck he’d turn on his heel and leave her be, deciding he could find someone better elsewhere, someone younger and prettier. That was how men thought, they always assumed they could find someone better. In this instance, her bedraggled appearance might work in her favour.
But ignoring him didn’t appear to have worked. He was coming closer now; she could hear the gravel scrunching under his feet as he made his way towards her. He was slowly hunting her down, ready to strike once he came within touching distance. She remained rigid, not turning around to face him. He probably couldn’t believe his luck. She wasn’t even going to put up a fight; the perfect victim. He was very close now. She could hear him breathing, steadily and evenly, the calm cadence of the killer. His footsteps were light and uncertain, almost delicate. Maybe it was his first time? She would be his first, what a privilege! He’d go on to murder dozens of women but everyone remembered the first; she would go down in history as the first victim of the Dooncurra Butcher. She could see him now from the corner of her eye, he was tall and thin, quite young. Could she beat him in a fight? She’d soon find out. Please walk past, please walk past. But he didn’t. He stopped a couple of feet away.
“Sinéad?” he asked. “Is that you?”
25
She spun to look at him, ash flying from her cigarette. It wasn’t a murderer or a rapist, or anyone planning to throw her into the back of a van. It was her son, her beautiful blue-eyed boy. He stood there staring at her with those same eyes, the ones she’d stared into before, briefly. They hadn’t changed, he hadn’t changed, not to her. It was as if they’d spent seconds apart instead of years. Her life had ended when he’d gone, but now it was ready to resume. She tried to speak but nothing came out; her mouth was dry, her throat empty. What did it matter? She could see him and he could see her. They could remain like this for the rest of eternity and she would be happy.
“Is it you, Sinéad?” he asked, wondering if he’d got it wrong and was talking to one of Dooncurra’s most notorious tramps.
Still she stared, her eyes fixed unblinkingly on his.
“Oh, God,” she said, rising to her feet.
Jonathan shifted uneasily. Was it her or not? He’d been so certain, but now he was doubting himself. She came towards him, tears welling in her eyes, rolling gently down her cheeks. Relief swept over him. It was her.
“Sinéad,” he said, as she laid her head on his chest and wrapped her arms around his waist. She wept softly but contentedly, like a child rescued from a bad dream. He held her in his arms and, as he listened to her cry and felt the warmth of her body on his, he began to cry too. He held her tight, laid his head on hers and they cried together. There was no awkwardness or unease, just an overpowering sense of relief. It was over. They had found each other.
Malcolm came trotting round the corner, ready to admit defeat, wanting to wave the white flag and return to their gentle amble through the woods. He had expected to see Jonathan ahead in the distance, waving at him, goading him. Instead his son was standing at a picnic area, in the arms of a strange woman. Now that was impressive, he’d managed to acquire a new lady friend and reach the hugging stage in the time it had taken Malcolm to run less than a hundred metres. That was kids today for you. This mysterious female had her head burrowed into his chest, and all Malcolm could see was a shaggy mane poking out through his son’s arms. Although he couldn’t see their faces, he could tell they were both crying. They seemed to shudder and tremble as they held one another, their bodies heaving and lurching like a ship caught in a storm. Had they broken up already? Were they saying goodbye? He was mystified.
He walked towards them, wondering if it would be rude to interrupt. As he drew closer, he saw that the woman was older than he’d first thought. He could see some of her face now, a tear-streaked cheek, a partially closed eye. Her slight frame had led him to believe that she was a young girl, around Jonathan’s age, but this woman was older. Then it clicked. It had to be her. Had to be. Why hadn’t he spotted it? From here the resemblance was obvious, but even from a distance you could see the similarities. He cleared his throat, loud enough for them to hear but not so loud as to appear insistent.
Sinéad looked up and they locked eyes. It felt like he’d been struck by lightning. He’d seen that look a thousand times, stared into those eyes a million times. Seeing them now in the face of another chilled him to the bone.
“Hi,” she said, shakily.
“Hello,” said Malcolm.
They were still hugging; Jonathan didn’t seem to realise they had company. It was only when Sinéad pulled away and nodded in Malcolm’s direction that he acknowledged his presence.
“Dad,” he said with a smile, “this is Sinéad.”
“I guessed that much,” Malcolm replied, holding out a hand for her to shake.
He was trying not to stare, but it was difficult. They were so alike; the bright, sparkling eyes, full of mischief and mirth, the pursed mouth ready to pout or smirk depending on their mood, and the peculiar little pixie nose. It went beyond their features, though. It was their manner, their demeanour, their stance as they stood side by side, waiting for someone to take control of the situation. Each was a mirror image of the other; one leg slightly bent, both hands fidgeting behind their backs, blinking in unison, like a comedy duo mimicking each other for the audience’s titillation. He could have stood and watched them all day, and if it were left to them he probably would have. But he had been handed the reins now, he had to assume command. They had momentarily become embarrassed, sheepish in one another’s company, and dared not look at one another, casting their gaze downwards, upwards, at Malcolm and anywhere else.
“Well, I see you’ve already met,” Malcolm said with a smile.
“Yes,” Sinéad replied. “Though not quite like I imagined it.”
Jonathan smiled meekly, stealing a furtive glance at her.
“We just decided to come up here to kill some time,” Malcolm explained.
“Me too,” said Sinéad. “I didn’t expect to see ye up here, as you can see.” She held out her arms and looked down at her clothes. “The feckin’ state of me.”
Jonathan giggled and Sinéad shook her head mournfully. “Years of preparing for this day and I still get caught on the hop.”
“It’s okay,” Jonathan said. “You look fine.”
“No, I do not. Yesterday’s clothes, last night’s hair and reeking of cigarettes!”
They were all laughing now. Jonathan used the moment to edge closer to Sinéad, so close that their hands almost touched. Without thinking, Sinéad allowed her fingers to find his. Jonathan felt the touch of her hand and clasped it gratef
ully.
“Shall we head back into town, then?” Sinéad asked when the laughter had died down. “I’ve got an important meeting at half one.”
It took Malcolm a second to catch on. “Oh, have you? We’d better go, then.”
“Dad!” Jonathan said, rolling his eyes skyward.
“Oh, right,” he replied, finally getting the joke.
They walked back down the path, Jonathan and Sinéad still holding hands, Malcolm doing his best to make the situation less awkward. But now it was only he who felt awkward. Mother and son could have walked like this forever, hand in hand, in perfect silence. Neither felt the need to speak, words couldn’t convey what they were feeling. They continued all the way through the woods, occasionally stopping to point out a squirrel or marvel at the view.
It would be the first of many walks together. They would walk these paths again and again, through winter and summer, sunshine and rain. They would walk them just as they had on this first day; hand in hand, content and at one with the world. A time would come when she could walk no more and he would have to drive her there, grandchildren in tow, fighting for the right to wheel her along the path. Eventually she would become too sick to visit the woods at all, her days now few, their time together more precious than ever. But, even then, she never lost that feeling, that feeling which had visited her on that first day and never departed. It was the feeling of coming home, of entering a place where she knew she was loved and nothing bad could ever happen to her. It was the best feeling she had ever known.
Acknowledgements
The author would like to thank the following people.
My mother, for her unflinching support, eternal belief and unconditional love. Jill Bourke, for instilling me with confidence and strength when it was most needed.