The Accident

by S D Monaghan

  Gordon said, ‘Let me make it simple for you. You’re not going to say anything to Tara, because you can’t trust her. She’s already fucked Ryan behind your back. What else has she done? What else would she do? You really think that when it comes to protecting her future – her baby’s future – that she wouldn’t toss you overboard like the toxic waste you are? And even if she doesn’t, you still can’t control her. She finds out about this and she’s a loose cannon. So, like I said, you are not going to say anything to Tara. You’re then going to pay me one point four million and you’re going to lose Lawrence Court. Either that, or you’re going to go to the police to tell them how you threw Ryan out the window. Now that would be something – coming clean. It always is. I just love when people cause a classic scandal by being caught telling the truth. This one has everything – murder, illicit sex, money, a once-renowned artist, a jealous husband. And you can also tell them that you buried the body on your property. You’ll have to take responsibility for that, too, because I certainly won’t. Burying the body? Try and claim manslaughter having done that. I dare you. I double-dare you.’

  ‘If I take out that much, Revenue will soon find out.’ David picked up the cigarette box and rotated it. ‘Especially with the bridging loan due.’

  ‘Don’t bore me. After budgeting your house, I know more about your finances than you do. The money’s in KLT. Your mortgage and loan are with the building society. KLT don’t care or know about the loan. And the building society can’t stop you investing with me instead of paying them. Because that’s what you’re going to do.’

  David saw a way to buy time. He grabbed it. ‘How do you think I’m supposed to get your money in just two days? Walk into the bank with a suitcase? It’ll take a week to order up that much cash.’

  Gordon didn’t move a muscle. ‘You seem to be labouring under the impression that I’m the kind of moron who would fall for a Nigerian email scam. So I’ll tell you exactly what’s going to happen. Tomorrow, I’m opening an account in your branch. The day after, you’re coming with me to the branch, where you will electronically transfer the cash from one internal account into the other. And that will be that.’

  David needed to find a hole in Gordon’s plan. ‘Ryan’s wife, Christine. She isn’t going to just—’

  ‘I’ve had Christine on the phone every thirty minutes this morning. She’s going out of her mind. You’re responsible for that. Christine is a good woman. She doesn’t deserve to be in this hell.’ Gordon’s fingers formed a triangle before his face. ‘But look, after a year or two, Christine might realise that Ryan being missing is the best thing that ever happened to her. She’ll move on to something else or someone better. Or maybe she won’t. It’s not my problem. And soon it won’t be yours either.’ Gordon gestured with his hand, flicking away the topic.

  ‘And what about the police?’

  ‘You honestly believe that there’s even a minute possibility that I don’t know what I’m doing? Bullshit – you know what kind of man I am. By taking the money, I’ll have implicated myself. It will make me an accessory. So, if somehow the police find out, then we both go down. And I’m not going down. We’re both on the same team – but it doesn’t have to be “Team Fuck Up”.’

  ‘They’ll have to start looking for Ryan soon. And they won’t just go away.’

  ‘Of course they will go away. Ryan’s not a young man. He’s not someone’s missing child. He’s not a gorgeous woman. He’s simply another guy with no kids. They disappear all the time. Guilt, heartache, mental illness; there’s lots of reasons men like Ryan walk into the sea and are never seen again. Some just get bored with afternoon TV. Others hook up with a girl half their age and they’re gone. They run from problems. Jump on a plane or a boat and disappear forever. It happens all the time, and no one fucking cares. And those of us who worked with him, who saw him regularly, who even liked him, we’ll have totally forgotten about him too.’

  The only sound in the room was that of the breeze blowing through the half-open window. David knew the power of silence. He remembered his father saying nothing. He remembered those silences more vividly than he remembered the things he said.

  Finally David said, ‘But why are you involved in any of this?’ When David pictured Gordon, he saw someone born male, rich, white and handsome – his entire life was a peaceful, comfy sleep. ‘The violence, lying, blackmailing; this is not your world. What are you doing? I can’t believe you’re doing this just for money.’

  ‘Think I’m being cheap?’

  ‘For someone like you it seems a big risk – a messy business to get involved in.’ He was aware that Gordon had been silver-spooned his whole life. Gordon knew what freedom was. His grandfather had designed the early air force bases for France’s Service Aéronautique, while his father had been a favoured architect of the RAF. David had heard all about Gordon’s wonderful childhood in a fantastic home in the middle of what his parents had considered permissible Dublin – a small neighbourhood into which the nation’s tributaries of wealth and privilege emptied. ‘A million-plus is a lot of money. Sure,’ David continued. ‘But successful architects who come from your type of background don’t get their hands dirty like this.’

  ‘Yeah, OK. It’s a weird one, right Dave? The fact is, all I have is about one hundred k.’

  ‘One hundred k? That’s just walking-around money in your neighbourhood.’

  ‘Used to be. Alas, Father lost it all in the crash. The banks took most of it. The government took the rest. Jesus, my father had a complete breakdown last year. And, as you know, my family have a proud lineage. Now they’re only letting the old man stay in his “family seat” until he dies – which should be soon. He’s already had two triple bypasses. Basically there’s nothing left for me here. So my hundred k, plus your generous donation, is one and a half million euros. And just what I need. See, I’ve had some offers already in the US. Now I just need the capital to launch me and keep me in the manner to which I’m accustomed.’

  For a moment, David was sure that something like remorse or sadness had passed before Gordon’s eyes. He leapt on it. ‘Gordon, we got on. I know we did. You’re not that good a liar. Don’t do this to us.’

  ‘You mistook my professionalism for friendship when I was making all your “gimme” dreams come true. Easy thing to misinterpret. I mean, it’s because of me that your house seems like a gorgeous boutique hotel rather than a draughty ghost home for a couple with zero kids. I suppose people like you – who care that much about money – can only be punished by losing it.’

  ‘We don’t care about money. Not in the way you mean. Tara wouldn’t have been selling her paintings outside of a city park if she cared about money. She would’ve stayed in insurance. Instead, she followed her heart and—’

  ‘“Followed her heart?” You think that’s a good thing? It’s just pure egotism.’

  ‘And if I cared about money, I would’ve done something with a future. I wouldn’t have used my scholarship to study history. I would’ve slaved away in a warehouse every night so I could’ve become an actuary or whatever during the day. We were lucky. Tara and I know that. And we decided to use our good luck to build a house and put a kid in it. That’s hardly insatiable gluttony.’

  ‘You genuinely believe that you’re the hero of your own story, don’t you? But what you don’t realise, Mister Historian, is that it’s a tragedy. A tragedy for the rest of us that you’re not off in a dingy bar in Cawley, or at the bookies’, or feeding the fucking pigeons in some council park.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, just what is your beef with me and the Cawley Estates? Fine, I was born there. Raised there. Deal with it. I have.’

  ‘What’s my beef with you and the Cawley Estates? Let me tell you – if you’d never crawled out of them to fail at living like a civilised human, then Ryan – my friend and work colleague – would still be alive. You are aware, Dave, that in this society of ours, this world that you inhabit with the rest of us, that throwing
a man out of a second-floor window is about as socially acceptable as – Mister Historian – toasting the Führer at a bar mitzvah?’

  David stared at his architect and tried to gather in his thoughts. He had two choices – pay the money or go to jail for murder. But the more he tried to think, the more Gordon’s smile exasperated him. He needed to wipe it away, if only temporarily.

  David said, ‘Am I being lectured on ethics by a man with a second-class degree from a pay-as-you-go college? I checked up on you, Gordon, right back when Ryan recommended you to Tara. Sure, you have the reputation, references and experience. But if we go all the way back to where you began, then you’re just another indulged prick who bought his way in.’

  Gordon’s mouth opened but nothing emerged. There was a shift of power in the conversation and David was intent on milking it. He continued: ‘You may be clever, but like so many spoilt brats, you were lazy, preferring to go out spending daddy’s money rather than actually studying. So of course, you didn’t have the points for university. One of your colleagues at the Royal Academy told me that. But to be fair, he wasn’t bitching. He was trying to say that results weren’t everything – “sure, look at Gordon”. So this guy told me that when you didn’t get into university, daddy sent you to London. And even then it was daddy who got you the work experience and then it was daddy who got you your first contracts.’ David kept going. He was always happy to keep punching in the clinch. ‘Gordon, the only reason you’re not hanging shirts in Zara is because of an accident of birth.’

  Gordon seemed perturbed that David’s fear had vanished. He wasn’t the type of predator that wanted to admire his quarry. A rich claret stain spread up his neck and flushed across his cheeks. ‘Fuck you, Dave. Do you know what real historians call you? Do you know what real professors call a charity-scholarship degenerate like you? “Who the fuck is Dave Miller?” That’s what they call you. Yeah, that’s right. Never forget that you’re from Cawley, one of the scummiest areas in Dublin. Because the rest of us never will. It’s always you new money people who get too loud, too quickly in the restaurant. You start itching and scratching at your designer suits, because no matter how fitted it is, it just doesn’t fit you. Jesus – you know you don’t belong here in this university or in Lawrence Court. You belong in Cawley. You always have. When I was up there scoping out that project for the council, every time I saw a fifteen-year-old cockroach scuttle by, I saw you. Up there it’s just the holy trinity of drinking, fighting, mating – eat, kill, fuck. The poor fighting the poor as they’ve always done. They spend their whole lives wanting and wanting, scratching “them” lottery cards, placing “them” bets. And then you come along thinking you can change the status quo because you “read real good” compared to the other inbred fuck-tards in your school. And because of that, you get sent to university for free. And what do you do? You fucking kill a man. With your bare hands. You get everything you ever wanted and yeah, you still have to go and kill a man. And just because he messed with your woman. Do you know how working-class that is? You are scum, Dave. Useless fucking scum.’

  So is that it? Gordon is going to destroy me and Tara because his father lost him his inheritance, and because he despises where I come from? It’s more than enough, I suppose. But there still seemed to David to be something missing from Gordon’s motive. A small piece. Something as minor as a biro mark on the architect’s sleeve, or his eyes blinking too quickly. But even if there was something else, then so what? It didn’t matter any more. The only thing that was important was that all Tara and he had worked for was about to be taken away – either by the police, or by Gordon.

  Gordon caught his breath and stretched with loud exaggeration. Calmly, he said, ‘So I think we’ve covered all the reasons why you’re going to give me the money. Oh wait, there’s another. The most important one. You Don’t Have A Fucking Choice.’ The architect let the quiet that followed dot the full-stop. He rose to his feet and backed towards the door. ‘Have the funds ready to transfer, Dave, or have your affairs in order. One or the other. Adios, boss.’

  David watched through the opened door as the architect strode towards the elevator with the arrogance of a man who had designed much better structures than this arts block. David considered how easy life would be if one knew what to do to make people disappear. Any random examination of history reveals how man’s greatest achievements have come from making violence more violent. Is it possible to kill Gordon, too? He was beginning to think like a murderer. David rubbed his eyes. What’s the matter with me?

  So, things had got even worse. Things had become even more complicated. David leaned back into his chair, took Tara’s panties from his pocket and dropped them into the waste bin. What time was it? Could he start drinking yet? It was only ten. He needed air. He needed more cigarettes. But most of all, he needed a Scotch. He crossed the car park, his shoulders hunched and bent forward. The cost of shame – it was like carrying an old, rotting house on his back. He envied all those students who were avoiding their desks for as long as possible, lying on the grass between the buildings, storing up on the sunlight for the nearing winter. From such a distance, the heat made them look as if they’d been sprayed gold.

  David got into his car and drove. Ryan didn’t deserve to die. But I don’t care that he’s dead. I just care that it was me who killed him. Why couldn’t someone else have punched him out the window? Immediately he remembered that Ryan had a wife. He had sisters and friends. Incredibly, he had people who cared about him.

  Throughout the morning and all through lunch, David sat in a Starbucks, pondering the long drawn-out nightmare his life had become. He remembered standing in the parish priest’s house with his mother, who’d volunteered to clean it once a week, and being amazed that all that space was just for one man – plus he had two toilets at his disposal. One upstairs. One downstairs. In each council house that his ill-suited parents, sister and himself had called ‘home’ there had been just one tiny, freezing toilet. That was why his father would sneak off to urinate at the kitchen sink when the toilet was engaged, not knowing that everyone else knew about his dirty habit. But then, most fathers in the Cawley Estates got a pass for their mucky diversions.

  At three, David took an alcove in a Hyatt hotel bar and somehow made two Scotches and a sandwich last the afternoon. His thoughts circled and circled – jail for murder, or pay Gordon. If he went to jail, he’d lose his wife and child. If he paid Gordon, he’d probably lose his wife and child and ensure that they had no money, no house and no hope for their future. The best-case scenario would be that he paid Gordon and that whenever Tara found out, she would decide to stay with him. But then all our savings would be gone. We’d be broke. We’d be parents with no home for their kid, no credit rating, no future whatsoever. My kid would be me.

  As a boy, it had never even occurred to David that it was possible for people like him to own a home. That was something only for the people who visited the local shopping centre in their big cars, who had kids who would stay tight to their mothers as they glanced at David and his friends prowling by, unaccompanied by adults. Their fear had made him feel invincible. It was true that David and his friends had been good for nothing, which was unfortunate for them. But they had also been scared of nothing, which was unfortunate for everyone else. And then one day, David had realised that it was society’s fear that would keep him in the grime and clamouring violence of the Cawley Estates for the rest of his life. If he wanted to get out, he had to make society unafraid of him. And the only way to do that was to become part of it somehow. Perhaps it really was possible – after all, his father’s stories about the Irish Rebellions were full of figures who had come from nothing and yet changed a country. His father had often told him, ‘The Brits don’t mind the French and the Krauts. Know why? Because they beat them. But us Micks? They’ll always have a problem with the Irish.’ David had realised that he just had to read more about the Rebels of yore, learn more about them and then, maybe, he’d dis
cover their secret.

  Getting into his car at six that evening, David knew he had just over a day to decide what to do. He turned on his phone, which immediately received Tara’s latest message. After he’d read it, his mobile seemed to take ten seconds to hit his lap.

  ‘Why aren’t you picking up? The police are here. Want to talk to you about Ryan NOW. I said you were only twenty minutes away. Come quick.’

  Had the decision already been made for him? The road stretched out darkly all the way back to Lawrence Court. David’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel, a cigarette jammed between his fingers. Would he get to hold Tara before they took him away? Would she kiss him? Would he want her to? He closed his eyes and imagined her kiss. It was the sweetest taste in the world. Would she hate him for killing her lover? Would she wish that it was her husband, rather than Ryan, buried beneath the patio? Would they cuff him on the way out?

  Why did I go inside after she left? Why do I always have to know what’s going on? I could’ve just gone back to the apartment. I could’ve just sunk into the lovely bed of her lies – and lies are harmless when you don’t know you’ve been lied to. If I had just done that, then today and tomorrow and all the days to follow would’ve been the most exciting, brilliant time of my life.

  David picked up speed and the Dublin suburbs zipped past him in a torrent of earth tones, ambers, ochres. An ambulance wailed by, turning his face into a blue mask. He turned onto Lawrence Court, passed Ryan’s abandoned white SUV and watched as his house expanded before him. He parked behind Tara’s Ford. Next to it was a black Skoda. At least the police hadn’t arrived in a marked car.

  ‘David!’ It was his neighbour, Mr Doran, who strode purposefully to the garden fence, folded his arms and napalmed the driveway with his disapproval.