The Accident

by S D Monaghan

  ‘Uh-huh. Speaking.’

  ‘This is Christine Mulholland.’

  Jesus. Tara’s grip on the phone weakened. The silence built and accumulated, caught in the tight coils of cord.

  ‘Hallo?’

  ‘Yes. I’m Tara Brown.’ You should’ve said ‘wrong number’. You should’ve hung up.

  ‘So you know who I am?’ Her accent was plummy and severe; the voice of a woman who was used to not being disappointed.

  ‘Yes. You’re Ryan’s wife.’

  ‘Correct.’

  Correct? ‘I... I don’t think he’s here.’

  ‘Yes. He’s missing. Apparently.’

  ‘Oh. I’m sure he’ll...’ What’s the term? Turn up? Don’t say that. ‘Turn up?’

  ‘Well, yes, of course. But his car is parked outside your house. So they’ve told me.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So I thought that would be the place he’d... “turn up”.’

  ‘I suppose. Yes.’

  ‘And I would like to talk to you.’

  No kidding. ‘Talk to me? Sure.’ About what? Ask her. No. Don’t.

  ‘I know you’re busy today, so I’ll be around tomorrow morning. I assume Ryan will have graced us with his presence by then, but if not, I’ll collect the car. Thank you, Tara.’

  ‘Yeah. OK. Look forward to it.’ Jesus Christ! Tara hung up. She could barely breathe. She wants to talk to me? Why? Where the fuck is Ryan? She needed him here, on site, now. But how could Christine suspect anything? She couldn’t. Tara remembered Ryan saying that his wife liked to view the houses he’d worked on – at least, the more interesting ones. That must be it. She nodded in agreement with her thoughts, even though a part of her didn’t believe them.

  Tara scanned the blank front room and wished there was something to make her forget about Christine and Ryan and the toxic waste that threatened to spill all over her new carpets and freshly painted walls. There was a foreign weight in her shoulder bag that she wanted to relieve herself of. She took out the old clock that had belonged to her father and placed it above the fireplace. It was stuck at 10.45, its second hand trying to rise every so often before pathetically falling back to its original position. It reminded her of her home in the country – the place that, even when she was just twelve years old, she couldn’t wait to leave; the place that had made her swear never to put down roots anywhere, because settling would expose her to the possibility of becoming her parents. But then, out of the blue, she’d fallen in love with David and had immediately craved a home: a palace that would contain no dark drama, a fortress she would share with a man who appreciated that a life lived privately didn’t have to be secretive. This time, her home would be perfect. And now that they were having a baby, that child would grow up and one day leave with the intention of replicating its happy home rather than running from it.

  She repositioned the clock face down. Tara imagined showing her dad around the house, and part of her wished that she could insert her mother into that fantasy. But her mother had died of breast cancer when Tara had been four. It had been a torturous death that tainted every memory of Tara’s early years. Then one day, she and her father had stopped visiting the grave. Her mother was simply not there any more. It was just soil. And all that had remained were family photographs with her mother at the centre in a black devoré shawl, and reminiscences of the funeral, where Tara had felt like some kind of child star.

  Tara imagined her father pulling up in his old Ford. He would have been shocked at the amount of space that two people required for themselves. He’d joke that he’d stayed in smaller hotels. He would have no idea what underfloor heating was. He’d think the architectural flourishes, such as the phallic concrete column, were a waste of money. But he wouldn’t be unkind. He’d just raise his eyes at the stupidity of youth, as he’d still consider Tara as little more than a child. And underneath it all, he’d be proud of her. His daughter would have been the only person he’d ever known who had designed their own home.

  Her father had been a forester, and dead fifteen years; a hunting accident, only a mile from her family home. Tara still wondered why she hadn’t heard the shot. She must have. She’d been sitting on the stone wall when it happened, dreaming about finishing school in two years and moving to Dublin. Everywhere she went afterwards they’d talked about her father’s terrible accident: at the church, at the shops, in the local paper. She couldn’t even escape it in her aunt’s house, where she’d then had to live for twenty-four months. Within two weeks of burying her father, her best friend, the daughter of a local journalist, had told her that her dad had been found with his right boot and sock removed, his big toe on the trigger, the barrel in his mouth.

  ‘Tara!’ Gordon announced from the hall. ‘I felt a disturbance in the force, so I knew it was you. Come on – tell me: what is not to your satisfaction? I aim to please.’

  ‘And I aim to be pleased,’ she said affably, snapping out of her memories and glad to have something to keep her mind off Christine. She went out to greet him. ‘That’s why we get on so well.’

  Gordon air-kissed each cheek; Tara tried not to hold back, but she just wasn’t a hugger.

  ‘Tara, this is the dream home for David and you. The two of you already have a great life. This is going to make it go supernova. Tonight you’ll be sleeping upstairs in your amazing master bedroom. In the morning, you’ll be having breakfast here in this bespoke kitchen that House Magazine wants to do a spread on. Your landscaped garden is blooming. You have it all. You’ve got everything you ever wanted. So tell me, why is God so damned pleased with you both?’

  Tara blushed and lowered her head. She was never any good at taking a compliment. At her exhibitions she could only handle about five seconds of congratulations before passing the latest admirer on down the line like a sandbag.

  Gordon continued, ‘So once Mike has finished wiring up the hall, the gallery will be yours. I know I fought you on it. But it works. Now that I see it in action, I appreciate your vision. Very few of my clients have vision.’

  ‘So much praise!’

  ‘Suppose it’s all down to your artistic eye. Pity you wasted it on actual art when you could’ve done something useful with it, like designing buildings. When did you realise you were an artist?’

  Tara, who didn’t consider herself a proper artist, shrugged. ‘You don’t realise it – other people tell you.’

  ‘Jesus, can’t you people just answer a straightforward question?’

  ‘What? Did I just break your brain?’

  ‘When I passed my exams – that’s when I realised I was an architect.’

  ‘It’s hard to dislike you, Gordon. It shouldn’t be. But it is.’ It had, in fact, taken her a few months to warm to Gordon. She’d always been wary of charming people. Why did they need people to like them? Why did they want to seduce? What was hiding behind the charm? But Gordon had quickly figured out how to make Tara laugh, and she appreciated his eye for detail; the way he managed to blend artistic pretension with bullish leadership that kept the builders and budget under his thumb. The inescapable fact was that Gordon’s innate self-confidence was combined with a soaring IQ, and that inspired confidence and trust. As an architect, he had the perfect balance between practicality and creative adventure. When David had wanted a beautiful library lined floor-to-ceiling with books, Gordon had designed one that was not just decorative, but that was also excellent noise insulation should the entertainment centre be on full blast. However, throughout the build, Gordon had often demonstrated a crude delight when stomping through their home, like a connoisseur allowed to ramble about a museum after closing time. Sometimes Tara had resented that, because it seemed he was taking all the credit – as if it had all originated from his genius rather than from David and Tara’s initial sketches.

  Gordon spotted Bruno hovering in the kitchen and asked, ‘What’s the story?’

  Surprised, Bruno reddened like a spotty teenager who had been addressed by
a beautiful girl. During the build, Tara had noticed that a hush came over whatever room Gordon graced. It wasn’t that the builders would stop drilling, banging, pounding. They were just less casual about it. Gordon was feared and disliked by all on site – Gordon held the money.

  Almost inaudibly, Bruno muttered, ‘There is none.’

  ‘Nice job on the patio slabs this morning. I was genuinely worried about how the travertine would turn out. But it’s excellent. Looking at it actually puts a pep in my step. Seriously.’

  ‘Thank you, Gordon. But there will be change order coming down for that. Just want you to know because Ryan not here to tell you. So no surprise.’

  Gordon had already tired of listening to him before he’d even opened his mouth. ‘Jesus, I’m complimenting you. What is the matter with... Look, I don’t have time for this. I’ve a crucial meeting at ten thirty. Code red important. So just... Ah, forget it.’

  Gordon had already moved on as Bruno miserably tried to figure out how he’d so quickly turned his moment of triumph into a dismal reprimand. Finally he just sighed, a man used to disappointment.

  Tara glanced outside to the garden. Where had her husband gone? ‘I noticed something yesterday. There’s a stain on the wall outside David’s office.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Just saying.’

  ‘Nobody who says, “I’m just saying”, is ever just saying.’

  ‘Your job is to make me happy – I’m not happy. Make it go away. So where’s my fella? Outside?’

  ‘Dave’s just gone.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yeah. He went out the side passageway before I noticed you. He wants to get something done at the university so he can leave early and get back here.’

  A cool breeze flowed down the staircase from an open window. For a moment Tara’s husband’s absence tugged at something deep in her. His touch was always warm – a fact of animalistic consequence for someone who was usually cold.

  In the kitchen there were four glass flutes laid out on the island counter. Pulling open the huge fridge door, Gordon removed a chilled bottle of Bollinger Rosé. ‘It’s a little early, but if you’re going to have a champagne breakfast, today’s the day.’

  ‘Oh Gordon, that’s so sweet.’

  ‘You know, I was just telling Dave, I’m going to miss it here. The development I’m starting is about to be a disaster. I’m project-managing the renovation of an entire row of council houses in the Cawley Estates near where Dave grew up. Depressing stuff altogether. How can we make people live like that? You can hear everything. No space to work, to read, to think. No wonder Dave’s dream was to design his own house.’

  ‘Wow – is Gordon having a crisis of ethics?’

  ‘No. Gordon is having a crisis of budget management. The city thinks they can do a million-euro upgrade for eight hundred thousand, and the builders think they can do a million-euro upgrade for one point two million. Fun times. Anyway, I’d assumed Dave would be here to share the fizzy money-water. And Ryan. You heard he’s MIA?’

  Tara swallowed and looked away. ‘Yeah. I heard. Wonder where he is?’

  ‘There’s only 86,400 seconds in a day. My margins are tight. Why couldn’t it be someone else? For example, him.’ Gordon nodded to Bruno outside on the patio. ‘Nobody misses a Polack.’

  ‘He’s not Polish, and his name is—’

  ‘Don’t tell me. He doesn’t deserve the space in my brain.’

  ‘Careful, Gordon, people might get the impression you’re some type of xenophobic asshole.’

  ‘Hey, I’m not xenophobic. I just stereotype. It’s faster.’

  ‘Don’t be a shit. Bruno is lovely. He’s just the quiet type.’

  ‘The what? Like, he thinks speech is a flashy affectation?’ Then Gordon called out, ‘Men, down tools. Daddy has a treat.’

  Gordon popped the cork and champagne blasted everywhere over the sink. As he poured, he said, ‘I actually hate the stuff. Usually I just pretend to sip it because appearances matter. Plus, and I may have said this already, but I have a very important meeting at ten thirty.’ However, he raised a flute to his lips and drained it in one mouthful. ‘What the hell – today is a great day. Today is when it all finally comes together.’

  * * *

  The rest of the morning and the afternoon were a blur for Tara, punctuated briefly here and there by lucid moments of sheer anxiety regarding Ryan’s wife. After Gordon left to make his 10.30 a.m. meeting, Tara walked through the house with Bruno, taking a snag list. Then, at midday, after she’d said goodbye to the few remaining crew, the removal truck arrived. She’d intended to slip off for her first spin session of the week, but as the day stretched on, she became engrossed as, piece by piece, her past began to take root in her new home. How she loved her house! She’d never get tired of it. Gordon had even made their walls work for them – there was a library on them, French doors plugged into them, neat hollowed cavities bored into them to mount sculptures and artefacts yet to be bought. And, of course, she treasured her walk-in closet, which was the size of a one-bed apartment.

  Maximum Building Services had hired a cleaner to help her for two hours. The young woman proceeded to pull everything out of cupboards that Tara had filled, before replacing their contents more neatly. A van from the Trop Shop arrived and two guys spent hours setting up David’s aquarium. By six thirty, everyone had gone and the front room had become an exquisitely crafted jewellery box, plush with red and black velvet and David’s precious fish.

  The corner of the room had the new 40-inch TV sitting on top of the control centre that was loaded with raging Wi-Fi and a premium cable package. Tara scanned the bookshelf, which held David’s current reading pile – all military history – and his ornate chess set, the blue and red pieces representing the armies of Napoleon and Wellington. Then there was his drinks cabinet; Tara had never seen such a well-stocked private bar. There were at least ten different brands of Scotch, plus certain liqueurs that she’d never even heard of, never mind tasted. Waiting next to it was David’s beautiful leather Eames chair and the Noguchi coffee table – he’d always had such good taste for a man.

  The front room and the adjoining library had some of their old furniture, too, and yet everything seemed unfamiliar and exciting. Of course, Tara was aware of what was kicked beneath the sofas and flung into cupboards, but she liked that too, the fact that she knew what was behind it all – such as old love letters from former boyfriends, including Ryan.

  Tara was impatient for David to get home so she could show him the result of her labours. He was due soon, but it was strange that he hadn’t called during the afternoon. She’d tried him several times but it had rung out. He’s just busy – he has his students to teach, his PhD to write, my paintings to sell.

  She went out into the front driveway and opened up the side passageway to get Dora.

  ‘Ah, Tara,’ a man’s voice called out. ‘Tara Brown.’

  Shay Doran, a next-door neighbour of their detached Georgian palace, was standing at the fence, smiling a friendly grin beneath his glasses. His presence hit Tara with the irritation of having to share a single armrest with a stranger at the cinema. After finally getting the house to herself, she just wanted to be alone with it all until David got home.

  ‘Oh hi,’ Tara said, and then asked how his wife was because she really should. The wife’s name was Stephanie, but people called her ‘Mrs Doran’ as if she wore a name tag. However, the Dorans seemed harmless enough. They were a couple in their seventies. Shay liked gardening, Stephanie watched TV and their two adult sons now lived abroad.

  ‘Fine, fine,’ Shay said, in response to her enquiry about his wife. Adjusting his glasses, he added, ‘I see you have a pet.’

  She held up the cage so the unspectacular tabby could stare at him. ‘Say hallo, Dora. This is our lovely new neighbour. Unfortunately, little Dora suffers from an incurable case of adorable-itis. So all we can do for the poor creature is give her whatever she wants, w
henever she wants it.’

  Shay blinked slowly, already picturing the cat spraying his flowers. ‘I’m more of a dog man myself. Not that we have one. It’s nice to live in a quiet area. Now, I know you’ll be all busy moving in today, but…’

  Tara put down the cage and wished he’d get to the point. Then she smiled, offering him the face of a woman who would do everything in her power to put things right in the world for him.

  ‘… but I can’t find Ryan and he needs to sort out the sewers. I think he’s hiding from me. In fact, I know he’s hiding from me. We’ve called him about twenty times.’

  Ryan. Her pulse quickened. ‘Believe it or not, no one can find him.’

  ‘Ah, for god’s sake, this is ridiculous. You might believe that, but I certainly don’t. How can the head of a construction company be AWOL? It’s ludicrous. And he doesn’t even know what the problem is. Which means that you don’t know what the problem is. It just happened this morning…’

  Tara’s eyes widened at the sudden realisation of the colossal boredom she was about to be put through. She tried to concentrate, but it was like listening to the shipping forecast. Shay began to relay each detail of what he considered to be a plumbing disaster, but was in fact just a single blocked drain outside on his decking. The piping had backed up earlier in the day and Shay had of course immediately called the emergency drains crew. But they had only been able to fix the situation temporarily by using suction pumps because, according to Shay, there was something irremovable blocking the sewer on Tara’s side of the boundary – beneath their new patio. Concluding his detailed story, Shay said, ‘You can understand my frustration. It’s our turn for dinner tomorrow, and now our friends will have to dine indoors because of the smell. It’s not too bad now. But it could get worse. And that will be embarrassing, as I’m sure you can imagine. Ah, but what do you care?’

  Shay shrugged as if his troubles wouldn’t, and never had, interested his neighbour. That irritated Tara – she thought that she’d successfully disguised her disinterest. ‘But are you one hundred per cent sure it’s our build that has caused it?’