by S D Monaghan
Christine grimaced as Dora passed by and rubbed against her ankle. ‘Sorry. I have a rule concerning cats – anything smaller than a lion is vermin. No offence, of course.’
Tara smiled. Fuck you. ‘No problem,’ she said, and shooed Dora into the library.
Both women sat side by side at the island and folded their arms on the marble counter. Tara cleared her throat and just as she was going to ask about the latest on Ryan, Christine enquired, ‘So I take it you’re happy with your new house?’
‘It’s exactly what we wanted. Everything about it is fantastic.’ Tara blinked, warning herself not to use inappropriate adjectives around Ryan’s worried wife.
‘Yes. Lucky you had a genius for an architect. I mean, of course Gordon can be a trial. But you just have to remind yourself that it’s nothing personal – he’s like that with all humans.’ Christine looked back out into the hall, almost as if she was expecting Ryan to come down the stairs at any moment. ‘So Tara,’ she continued. ‘You were happy with my husband?’
Here we go. ‘The whole crew were fantastic.’
As Christine opened her coat and shrugged it off, Tara almost gasped at the sight of her large chest, now mostly exposed by the deep V of her tiger-print top. She tried not to stare, but it was like trying not to squint into direct sunlight. By shedding one layer of clothes, Christine had gone from faux-bohemian aristocrat to busty middle-aged barmaid. Tara could certainly see what Ryan had appreciated in her. He’d always liked the bad girls, especially the older ones.
Christine asked again, ‘But were you happy with him – Ryan?’
‘Of course. You do know we’re old friends?’
‘That’s why I’m here. Besides collecting his car. At least, I think it is. The truth is, it just feels like I’m doing something. It feels like I’m trying. You know?’
‘Trying?’
‘Trying to get him back.’ Christine delicately removed a tear without smudging her eyeliner. ‘I know he hasn’t been gone long, but I want to see what he saw before he vanished.’ For a moment Christine smiled, showing off straight teeth that were slightly stained from decades of coffee and red wine. But then her eyes welled again and she placed a forefinger horizontally beneath her nose. ‘It’s like, one day he was just taken from the earth. Literally.’
‘It must be awful for you. Not knowing anything. All kinds of things must be going through your head. You must be so worried.’
‘I passed “worried” yesterday. Now I’m at the “out of my fucking mind” stage.’
‘So when did you first... notice?’
‘I was out at a meeting in St James’ Home... the Future is our Youth centre?’
Tara shook her head and shrugged. She’d never heard of it.
‘I’m a counsellor there. It’s a special needs school for kids who never had a chance; kids with drug issues and the like.’
Tara suddenly remembered vaguely overhearing Gordon and Ryan chatting about Christine’s exalted reputation and sway in the world of the social services, and so nodded solemnly in acknowledgement of her good work.
‘Anyway, the meeting went on late and then we had to tidy up. No out-of-hours cleaners with the cutbacks. So I didn’t get home till one. Ryan’s SUV wasn’t there, but sometimes he works very late. And when he comes in, he stays up gaming to unwind. In the morning, Ryan usually gets up first, makes me breakfast, leaves with a sausage and bacon roll. But not yesterday. He just wasn’t there. So I phoned him and no answer. He was supposed to be here at your house to wrap up, but no one had a clue where he was. When did you last see him?’
‘It must’ve been the day he went missing. We just chatted briefly. He was in good form.’ Tara remembered his brown eyes drilling into hers. She pictured his smirk. She could smell his minty chewing-gum breath, the vague scent of stale but manly sweat on his work clothes. She remembered his touch – firm, knowing, wanting. She remembered the damp heat between her legs. She remembered experiencing a type of shame that she reckoned a clean junkie must feel when about to shoot up for the first time in ten years. She remembered Ryan lying across the floorboards, his naked, muscular body stretching to yawn. She’d liked that he was shaved of all pubic hair. Despite being the same age, it had made her feel like the older woman. Jesus, when did I learn to think so darkly?
Tara felt herself blush, and the more aware she became of it, the redder she became. ‘Anyway, you mustn’t think negative thoughts. Wait till you see. Everything will be fine.’
‘Do I look like a woman who jumps to conclusions?’
Tara was startled by the blaze in Christine’s eyes. So she was angry. Tara wondered if underneath it all she ever felt any other way. ‘No. I’m sorry. I just meant that... I guarantee you, Ryan is fine.’
‘And you know this how?’
‘Because I’ve worked with him closely over the last six months. The guy is earthed.’
‘So Ryan is sane and therefore can’t be missing? Bad things cannot happen to him? Is that what you’re saying?’
Already the conversation was going exactly where Tara didn’t want it to go. ‘No. Sorry. I’m just…’ She suddenly had a brainwave. ‘Oh, a detective called in last night to ask about Ryan.’ Tara smiled, almost triumphantly. Christine could now feel secure in the knowledge that while she was sitting there being difficult, the police were working away at finding her husband.
‘A detective? Here? Asking about Ryan? My Ryan?’
‘Yes.’ Tara abruptly sensed that there was something she’d overlooked. Something that she hadn’t taken into consideration. ‘Detective Fenton. He’d mentioned talking to you.’
‘What did he ask you?’
‘He didn’t have much to say, really... Just that Ryan was a person of interest.’ And suddenly Tara reckoned that she understood Christine’s guarded behaviour – her husband was obviously mired in an embarrassing legal investigation that she’d hoped to keep private.
‘Right…’ Christine looked as if she was fighting against the urge to lose herself in her thoughts.
‘Have you any idea as to what’s going on?’
‘Yes, I have my suspicions. There are things... There are people... whom Ryan didn’t like. People whom he had difficulties with. I know I’m being all wishy-washy, but…’ Listening to Christine talk was like drowning in euphemisms. ‘I can’t really go into it.’
Tara failed to suppress a trace of annoyance in her expression. If things are private, then don’t bring them up in the first place. But not wanting to embarrass Christine any further about her husband being a ‘person of interest’, Tara put the kettle on and asked, ‘Coffee? Tea? Or a glass of something?’
‘I noticed the impressive bar in the front room. Like, I really noticed it. And with all this stress, I could murder a drink. So if you’re partaking, I shall too.’
‘Oh, not with my pregnancy. Boring old herbal tea, I’m afraid.’
Christine looked as if she’d just experienced the downer of having met someone for a night out and the first thing they’d said was that they were ‘taking it easy’. Her fingers, all ten of them, were on the edge of the island counter. ‘God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. Just kidding. Red, please. I know it’s before noon… But with all that’s happening, what the hell.’
The cork creaked and then popped. Tara placed the full glass and the bottle on the counter next to her own herbal tea, the bag still wrapped in its paper envelope at the edge of the saucer. Christine visibly struggled not to lick her lips. She lifted her wine glass with one rock-encrusted hand and downed half of it like she was necking a pint. Then she topped up her glass, raised it in a toast and announced, ‘So, here’s to you.’
Tara filled a bowl with crisps, then raised her herbal tea and clinked cup against glass.
Christine continued, ‘To Tara Brown – the cunt who fucked my husband.’
Chapter Five
David spe
nt the morning wandering the streets near the university, drifting by shop displays containing all the things that people wanted him to want next. He was exhausted. Six hours ago, he’d chased a man over the back wall of his garden and watched as he’d disappeared between two houses to the road outside. For a moment it had felt like a real victory; David had gone down there to the woodland and successfully expelled the intruder. But who was he, and why was he sending a message that could only be read as, ‘You’re gettable’? Throughout the morning, David had returned again and again to the possibility that Gordon had sent him. But the architect had no reason to, and anyway, that type of intimidation just wasn’t his style. But there had to be a connection. Ryan was missing. The police were already looking for him. Why?
Does it even matter? Tomorrow, I’ll be in jail. I can’t give it all away – the house, our future, everything we’d ever got. I can’t do that to my wife and child. But... but…
David scanned through his address book and pressed ‘call’. As he waited, he looked up at the face of the Shelbourne Hotel. Despite passing it by several times a week, he hadn’t been inside it in over three years. How close had Ryan come to picking Tara up that day instead of me? Maybe there hadn’t been that enigmatic spark between me and Tara after all. Maybe there had only been good timing.
Listening to the options, he pressed the required number and a human answered. ‘KLT Deposits. Sandra Mahony speaking.’ Sandra had first met with David and Tara when the money had begun falling from the sky. Now, after David gave her twenty-four-hour notice of a possible transfer, Sandra said, ‘Of course we can do that. But it’s a highly unusual request.’
‘I have plans. It’s an investment. If I’m going ahead with it, I’ll see you tomorrow morning. I’ll call you if I’m not. I’ll decide today what I’m doing. Talk to you then.’
What have I just done? Wait – it means nothing. It’s just an option. That’s all. To have an option you’ll never use is better than having no options at all.
He walked on, leaving the Shelbourne behind. It surprised David, how alone he felt. All he’d really ever had was Tara and now she wasn’t there for him any more. He suddenly realised that she hadn’t yet set up her easel in Lawrence Court. In fact, he hadn’t seen her paint in months. David had always liked Tara’s tripod and trestle by their apartment window, where she would use her narrowest brush to sprinkle subtlety across the swathes of colour, as if tapping out the Morse code of the zeitgeist. But there was also a small part of him that had been relieved Tara was no longer painting. A critic had once told him that the existence of art and literature was proof that life was not enough. Did Tara believe that? Was he not enough?
Outside of Cawley, David had managed to live without conflict or enemies. But now he suddenly realised that having no enemies was not the same as having a lot of friends. David’s family couldn’t help him either. His father had died when he was eighteen and he wasn’t even Facebook friends with his sister, who hadn’t bothered to come back from Sydney for his wedding. Yet suddenly David was missing her as if she’d always been there but had recently vanished. As for his mother, it amazed him that people like her still existed: going to Mass, praying, walking the earth as if man had a soul and there was real hope. His mother lived in a world of community meetings, church groups and coffee mornings, and David wanted to keep her in that happy land of la-la until her final moment. He thought of the bills he’d recently settled for her nursing care, her meals on wheels, the minibus that packed her up off to the community centre three times a week. How am I going to do that now?
On his way back to the university car park, he glanced over at the fast-food joint where it had all really begun. He took out his mobile, dialled and after two rings, Gordon picked up.
‘What do you want, Dave? I said that I’d be in touch. Why are you calling me?’
‘You said the police wouldn’t care about Ryan being missing.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Well, the police seemed to care when they were round with us last night.’
‘The police? How many? What did they say?’
‘A detective. He asked us about Ryan.’
Silence.
‘Gordon, you still there?’
‘Who was he?’
‘As in his name? It doesn’t matter.’
‘Of course it matters.’
‘Jesus, I don’t know…’ David immediately knew from Gordon’s tone that he knew nothing about the man who’d been in David’s garden aiming an invisible rifle up at his bedroom at five that morning.
‘Maybe he gave Tara a card,’ David suggested, though knew he hadn’t. ‘Detective Fenton, I think. He said Ryan was a “person of interest”. His absence had been noted and they were concerned.’
Gordon’s tongue loudly probed the marshy floor of his mouth as he sought a way to take control of the conversation again. ‘Don’t worry about it. They’re just going through the motions. They’ll be in touch with me next. I’ll just waffle the shit out of it. Look, I’ll text you tomorrow morning – just before we meet at the bank.’
David could feel Gordon’s impatience to hang up, his desire to get his thoughts in order. So David disconnected first, denying his architect the opportunity to carry out one of life’s great joys – slamming down the phone.
At 1 p.m. David left the university car park and drove to the Cawley corporation pitches, where he was due to patrol the sideline for his under-12s’ crucial league match, and to try and give game time to all the substitutes on the panel, most of whom were beyond useless. St Augustine’s, his team of under-12s from the estates, were gathered inside the concrete bunker that was the changing room. David remained outside smoking, watching his shadow stretch before him like a beanstalk as the blaze of the sun hit his back.
Out of pure habit, he checked his voicemail. ‘Dave, it’s Carla. There’s a package couriered over from University College Galway for you. And the dean still wants to know if you’ll speak at the symposium. No hurry or anything. But when—’
MESSAGE DELETED. NEXT MESSAGE.
‘David, it’s Tod in Boston. The Soho Gallery ain’t biting. Not interested. And Solar have three returns outta four. Gotta say, that’s disappointing. But I suppose, if we manage—’
MESSAGE DELETED. NEXT MESSAGE.
‘Davy, it’s your mam. A mad thing, really. Just read somethin’ in the Indo about that auld pop singer you liked back when. Ya remember? With his awful orange hair and make-up. All those posters – you were a gas one, Davy. I’ve cut it out and kept it. Will give it to ya Sunday. Make sure to remind me. Ya know what I’m like. All my love to lovely Tara.’
MESSAGE SAVED.
The kids jogged out, their studs clicking on the concrete like stilettos. Their jerseys were emblazoned with the Downey’s Warehouse Importation logo; an honour for which David had ensured that the company he’d slaved nights for supplied the club with their entire kit.
Some of the kids passed without acknowledgement, others offered a gruff, ‘Gaffer.’ David nodded at his favourite kid: a shy, gangly Somalian whose father had been stabbed to death a year ago on a day trip to a playground. His name was Arthur Lord. It was the type of masculine name a young black lad needed to get by in a white-ruled working-class estate.
Today’s fixture was a must-win match, as they’d already lost their first three games. David watched the opposition – Foxrock Rovers – disembark from their bus, most of them plugged into MP3 players. St Augustine’s had to rely on volunteers to taxi them to away games. The Foxrock players were bigger than David’s team. They were better conditioned and had cooler haircuts and leather gym-bags. Their parents gathered round the bus, clapping the boys as they landed on the asphalt. ‘Attaboy, Ross,’ a father shouted, like he was cheering his own racehorse. ‘Do your best, Marcus,’ called out a mother in jodhpurs.
Bruno emerged from the bunker adorned in a Downey’s tracksuit, the rolled-up sleeves revealing pale hairy skin. He handed David his red coaching
vest and then sighed. ‘Did you hear Gordon yesterday?’ asked Bruno. ‘He does not know that men like me have to work hard to be this poor.’
David wanted to agree. He wanted to add his own condemnations to Bruno’s. But he knew he had to play it smart. ‘Gordon’s fine. He’s just a perfectionist. The fact that he chooses you to do stuff over the others means that he likes you. It means that you’re great at your job.’ Could it have been one of Bruno’s mates who was in my garden this morning? An attempt to wank off some of his resentment? But David looked into his old friend’s eyes and saw only the decency that had always been there.
As the team gathered round Bruno, David stared down the pitch to where the Foxrock Rovers were warming up. He counted seven members of their backroom team. They’re better than us because they don’t know how to mess up like we do. Their factory settings don’t permit them to put their future at risk by doing something insane like throwing a man out of the top window of their home. People like me are cautionary tales to people like them.
David was suddenly very aware of the background he shared with his own team of young boys. With them, there were no holidays abroad or family meals out. With them, their parents greeted every windowed envelope with a dismal sigh. David’s mum and dad had never owned passports or contraceptives or illegal narcotics, seen pornography or imagined life without betters. When David had informed his father that he wanted to be a historian it had been like saying, ‘I’ve decided to be a ballerina.’ His father had actually got chest pains. He’d almost literally had a heart attack.