by Alex Coleman
“It just happened.”
“Yes. It sounds pathetic, but it’s the truth. I didn’t plan for it to happen and I was already regretting it as soon it started. And I’m sorry, I’m sorrier than I’ve ever been for anything in my life. I know an apology is as much use to you as a chocolate teapot, but it’s –”
“As much use as a what? You’re making jokes?”
“No! That wasn’t a joke, it’s just an expression. Please, Jackie …”
I tried to think of another question, but nothing came to mind. So I walked away, going through the staff door and the shop at speed, hoping Stephanie would be too mortified to even say goodbye. She was.
CHAPTER 22
When I screeched into the driveway in Ashbourne, I suddenly became convinced that I was going to bump into Lisa, home to pick up her laptop charger again. But there was no one around apart from Keano, the Raffertys’ Jack Russell. I got out of the car and stormed in to the house, keeping my eyes dead ahead, never so much as glancing at next-door. Inside, I hit 1985 – the year of our wedding, the year of the twins’ birth – on the alarm panel. The kitchen looked pretty much as I’d expected to find it – tidy enough, but hardly clean. There were a few dishes in the sink and the bin needed to be emptied. The microwave door was hanging open and inside I could detect the remnants of several poorly covered soups. There were crumbs and tea-stains on every surface and the air was horribly stale.
I stood in the kitchen for a few minutes, breathing heavily, then grabbed a pair of scissors and went upstairs. The bedroom was a real mess. There were socks and boxer shorts strewn all over the place and the bed looked as if it hadn’t been made all week; it looked as if it hadn’t been made ever. I threw the door open on Gerry’s side of the wardrobe and started throwing armfuls of his clothes onto the floor. When I thought the pile was big enough, I went at it with the scissors, slashing and gouging and ripping and chopping, working extra hard on the suits and the more expensive-looking shirts. My attack was what news reporters call “frenzied” to begin with, but I soon began to fear for the safety of my left hand and adopted a more methodical approach.
Ten minutes or more went by before, exhausted and sweaty, I finally dropped the scissors. As soon as it hit the floor, I started surveying the room, looking for something else to destroy. The only real candidate was Gerry’s old CD Walkman, which was on his bedside locker. He’d recently upgraded to an iPod, but that was nowhere to be seen. I pulled the Walkman to the floor and jumped on it with both feet. Nothing. It looked as good as new. I jumped on it again still nothing. Cursing Japanese production standards, I picked it up and hurled it against the wall. A small piece of debris flew away from the point of impact and for a moment, I felt as if I’d achieved something important. On closer inspection, however, I realised that the debris was a piece of plaster; the Walkman was still in perfect shape. I picked it up again and started trying to wrench the CD door off. But my fingers were too weak. I looked around for a blunt instrument. None was available. Last resort, I thought and went into the en-suite. I filled the sink with water, tapping my thumb on the edge as I waited, and then dropped my enemy in. The victory felt horribly hollow. The Walkman would never work again, I was sure, but still. I wanted Gerry to see it smashed to pieces, not having a bath. The visuals were all wrong. On the plus side, I spotted his collection of aftershaves, some of which had cost a small fortune, and began to feel a little better as I tossed them out of the window onto the patio below. With that done, I went downstairs again, to the front room. I paused at the doorway and poked my head in, my breath held, my heart thumping. The Cross-eyed Busker stared over at me (and, to be fair, at the sideboard to my left). I stared back for a moment, then walked over and took it down from its hook. Unsurprisingly, it smashed first time when I swung it against the door handle. I snatched a piece of broken glass from the frame and cut an X into the image, corner to corner.
Only then did I take a proper look around the room. It was much cleaner than the kitchen. No crumbs, no dishes. I guessed that Gerry hadn’t been in there much, if at all, during the week. After doing a quick lap, I sat down on the sofa and looked out through the front window. This sofa, I thought. That window. I got up again. The hall floor felt rubbery and unreal under my feet, but I made it down into the kitchen. Sitting at the scratched and wobbly table that a week ago had seemed like a major problem, I tried to focus. Where, for a start, was I going to sleep? It seemed that I had no choice but to go back to Nancy’s. She would be perfectly welcoming, I knew. And yet it was not an appealing option. Even if she managed to stay off the topic of her wedding – which I wasn’t at all sure she could – I didn’t particularly want to talk to her about the mess I was in. Try as I might, I couldn’t dismiss the feeling that she had blown her chance. I wished I was back in the car in Ranelagh, talking to the kind old lady. Given another shot, I’d have taken her up on her offer of a chat – although she would have got a lot more than she bargained for.
With a heavy heart, I reached into my bag for my phone, intending to call Nancy. As I started to dial, I noticed that I had missed a call while I was in the studio. This time I recognised the number as Eddie’s. I rang my voice-mail and listened to his message.
“Hello, Jackie,” he said. Straight away, I knew that things had gone well with Margaret. His voice was so light and bright, so full of life. “I hope you’re feeling better, although I’m sure you’re not.” He darkened a little then. “I mean … oh, for … Good man Eddie. You know what I mean. I hope. Anyway. Give me a call if you feel up to it. See ya.”
I stared at the oven, lost in thought. Eddie. Could I? He wasn’t the complete stranger that I had wondered about talking to, but he was close enough. And, I reminded myself, he had already told me his deepest and darkest. I had told him quite a bit of mine. Granted, he wasn’t exactly worldly- wise, but he could listen, after a fashion, and that was what I wanted most. I argued back and forth with myself like this for a few minutes, then went into my Missed Calls and dialled his number. He answered on the first ring.
“Jackie?” “Hello, Eddie.”
“Are you all right? You don’t sound all right.”
I didn’t have the energy or even the will to lie. “No. I’m not all right.”
“What’s up? I mean … is it something new?”
“Eddie, I’d like to meet up with you. Tonight. Please.” There was a pause. “Of course. Where? What time?”
I gave it some thought. Nowhere public, in case I lost it entirely. That didn’t leave us much choice.
“Can I come round to yours?”
“Oh,” he said. “Okay. I’ll get some buns in.”
* * *
We’d arranged to meet at seven-thirty, which left me with a few hours to kill. Not knowing what else to do with the time, I went to the cinema in Coolock. It was handy for Eddie’s address in Beaumont, but that wasn’t its chief attraction. Its chief attraction was that it would allow me to be alone in the dark for a while. I plumped, more or less at random, for The Da Vinci Code. It was rubbish – at least the first half was. I fell asleep after about an hour and had to be shaken back to life by an usher. On the plus side, the nap did wonders for my hangover.
As I emerged blinking from the cinema, I realised that I hadn’t eaten since morning and wandered into a nearby pizza joint. I’d almost finished my double pepperoni with extra mushrooms when I spotted a familiar face making her way to a table in the corner. It was Carmel Quinn, a woman who’d left First Premier about six months previously. She was with two other women, one of whom I presumed to be her sister; they were the spit of each other. I hadn’t had many dealings with Carmel at work, but I guessed that she would remember me; I remembered her, after all. Although she had always struck me as a perfectly nice person, I didn’t want to talk to her. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. My best option, I decided, was to abandon the remainder of my meal and sneak away. It was a simple enough plan – couldn’t have been simpler, really – but I cocked i
t up completely. As I pushed back my chair, I somehow managed to take a swipe at my water glass, which shattered on the ground, attracting the attention of everyone in the restaurant, including Carmel.
“Jackie O?” she said with more amazement in her voice than the situation really warranted.
I made a big show of looking all around, as if I had no idea who could possibly be calling me. When I caught Carmel’s eye, I tossed my head back in fake delight.
“Carmel!” I said. “Well, well, well.” I walked over to her table.
“Fancy seeing you here!” she said, once again with unnecessary wonder.
“Small world,” I agreed. “How have you been?”
“Can’t complain, you know yourself. Oh, this is my friend Frances and my sister Julie.”
We exchanged nods and nice-to-meet-yous.
“Wrecking the joint, are you?” Carmel said. “Not happy with the service?”
“That’s me,” I said. “All thumbs and knees.”
“I wouldn’t be far behind you. So – you escaped from First Premier, did you?”
My thoughts ran away from me, tripped up, ran again, tripped again. I could say that I had, but that would only lead me into further lies. It seemed simpler to tell the one quick one.
“No, no. Day off, that’s all.”
“Good woman. You’ll get as much thanks.” “You said it.”
“Jackie works for the same crowd I used to work for,” she explained to Frances. (Julie had immediately lost interest in me and was perusing the menu with the look of a woman whose day had involved too much shopping and not enough eating.) “Oh, very good,” Frances said. “The old …” She mimed fingers tapping on a keyboard.
“Yeah,” I said. “Data entry.” Even saying the words made my head droop. “It pays the bills.”
“That’s about all you could say for it,” Carmel said. She frowned then, afraid she’d been offensive. “I mean, it’s grand and all, you know, it’s –”
“No, I know what you’re saying,” I assured her. “It’s not exactly challenging. Where did you move on to, Carmel, I forget?”
“I went back to child-minding. A crèche in Artane. Don’t know why I ever gave it up in the first place, to tell you the truth. Just got fed up, I suppose.”
I nodded. “A year or two with First Premier changed your mind.”
“You can sing that one. Is Jenny still there?”
“Jenny? Jenny will only leave the place feet first. She’s my manager now.”
Carmel closed her eyes and shook her head, signalling both sorrow and pity. It was as if I’d told her about the death of a loved one. “I thought that was on the cards when I was leaving. Just goes to show you, doesn’t it? If you didn’t know anything else about the place and someone told you that that yoke was a manager, you’d come to the right conclusions, wouldn’t you? End of story.”
“Yeah. Oh well. What can you do?” Carmel raised one shoulder. “Leave?”
“Hmmm,” I said, pushing my one little lie a bit further. “The day off has been nice …”
“There you go. Sure take a few thousand more of them.”
I smiled. Carmel smiled. Frances smiled. Julie kept looking at the menu.
“Anyway,” I said. “I’d better head on. Nice to see you again, Carmel. Take care.”
“All right then,” she said. “Be good.”
I nodded goodbye to Frances and the top of Julie’s head, and left.
CHAPTER 23
Eddie’s street wasn’t easy to find. I’d been creeping around the enormous estate for fifteen minutes and had driven down four different cul-de-sacs before I finally spotted the heavily graffitied bench that he’d told me look out for. I swung a left there and imagined I heard a choir of angels when I saw the words “Hanley Gardens” on a kerbside sign-post. The house itself was easier to locate. Even if Eddie hadn’t given me the number – which he had, several times – I would have spotted it, no problem. It was the only one with a middle-aged man standing on the front step wearing a pink apron and waving both arms above his head so frantically that he looked as if he might get airborne. “You found me all right,” Eddie said as I approached the door.
“Yeah. Just about.”
He stepped around to my side and put his hand in the small of my back. “Come in, come in, please.”
“What’s with the apron?” I said as I went (or was pushed, rather) inside.
“You don’t like my tie, you don’t like my apron –”
I turned to apologise and saw that he was joking. “I’ve been baking,” he declared with some pride.
“Not for me, I hope.”
“Well, for me too. But yes, for you.”
“There was no need to go to any trouble, Eddie.”
“The buns in the shop were brutal-looking. And besides, we did a bit of baking in cookery class and I never bothered trying it out at home. I hope they’re all right. Scones. They’ll be done any minute.”
“I’m sure they’ll be lovely,” I said. “Straight ahead?” “Straight ahead, that’s us.”
I moved on down the hall and into the kitchen. Eddie followed so closely behind that he stood on my heel.
“Sorry! Sorry!” he said. “Now, take a seat. What can I get you, tea or coffee? Or wine? Vodka? I think there’s gin here somewhere. Beer? Orange juice?”
“Tea’s fine,” I said. “Vodka and scones wouldn’t go so well.”
“You might have a point.”
I took a seat at his doll-sized kitchen table and tried not to make it obvious that I was having a good look around. There were touches here and there that were just what I would have expected to find – a cutesy kitten calendar, luridly floral tea-towels, a radio from about 1976 – but generally speaking, I was impressed. The place was brightly lit and spotlessly clean.
“This is lovely, Eddie,” I said, trying not to sound surprised.
“I make an effort to keep it tidy, at least,” he said, reluctant to take the compliment. “And we won’t be in here long, we’ll move into the sitting room in a minute. I just want to keep an eye on the boyos.”
I looked around for a pair of pet cats or a fish-tank. Then I realised he was talking about his scones.
“Don’t move on my account,” I said. “I’m grand here.” “Okay then. If you’re sure.”
As Eddie busied himself making tea and getting plates and cutlery together, I found myself turning mute. I wanted to hear how he’d got on with Margaret after our last phone call but was afraid of setting him off the way I’d set Nancy off. He didn’t seem to mind the silence. I did.
“So, how did it work out with Margaret?” I asked before very long. “Did she go for the tragedy and mystery angle?”
He put a teapot and two mugs down the table. “That can wait. What about you?”
I could have kissed him. “Me? Ah, you know … Things haven’t been … I mean, the last couple of days …”
The oven pinged.
“Sorry,” Eddie said. “Won’t be a minute.”
He was true to his word. The ping was still echoing around the room when he deposited the scones on to the table and sat down opposite me.
“Wow,” I said, nodding at his handiwork. “They look lovely. Smell lovely too.”
“They do, don’t they?” he said with a smile. “Beginner’s luck, maybe. Tuck in, tuck in.”
I grabbed and quickly buttered a scone, hoping for all I was worth that I wouldn’t have to fake a positive review. But there was no danger of that.
“Eddie!” I said, not caring that my mouth was full. “They’re delicious!”
He took an experimental nibble of his own. “Christ, they are as well,” he said. “I don’t believe it.”
“You could go into business with these.” “Well, now …”
“They’re fantastic. Just fantastic.” “I can’t say I’m not chuffed.” “Lovely straight from the oven …” “Yeah.”
“Much nicer than mine. You’ll have to show
me what you did.”
“No problem.”
“Little hint of cinnamon in there …” “A wee bit, yeah.”
“Not too overpowering though.” “No.”
“Just right.”
We ran through this exchange at speed. When it was over, I realised that I had been stalling. Eddie seemed to cotton on at exactly the same moment. He gave me another quick smile over the top of his mug. I averted my gaze.
“Anyway,” he said. “You were about to tell me something.”
I drank some tea and was horrified by the slurp I managed to produce. “Yeah.”
“About Gerry, I presume?”
“Yes. No. Sort of. It’s about me, really.”
He popped a hunk of scone into his mouth and chewed patiently, waiting for me to start.
“All week long,” I began, “I’ve been doing something I’m not proud of.”
“Oh?”
“And I want to talk to someone about it. It’s … embarrassing.”
“You sound like me,” he said. “Before I told you about my … y’know.”
“Maybe that’s why I’m talking to you. Partly at least. Because of the way you confided in me. That and – don’t take this the wrong way.”
He moved in his chair and straightened his face, getting ready to be offended.
“But you’re still practically a stranger to me,” I went on. “That’s what I want, really. Someone I can talk to who doesn’t have any, what do they call it, baggage – I mean, baggage in relation to me. Someone who’ll just listen and tell me what they think. Honestly.”
“I can do that,” Eddie said.
“And you have to promise me that you won’t tell a soul.”
He crossed his heart. “I promise. Why would I? Sure look at the goods you’ve got on me.”
“I would never tell anyone that,” I said solemnly.
“And I’d never tell anyone about your … whatever it is.” “OK.”
I took some more tea and clasped my hands together on the table. “Last Friday,” I began, “when I caught Gerry with your woman, Lisa, I was … shocked. Obviously.”