by Laura Elliot
“But you had your own agency. Then all you wanted was a partner. Why are you never satisfied?”
“All I need is a little sympathy, not the sermon on the mount,” he says whenever she tries to lift him from his moods, which have the weight of stones while they last. For a man who makes his living through the meaning of language and its persuasive power, he has a curiously limited vocabulary when it comes to analysing his own marriage, she often thinks. She knows his body intimately yet his mind remains as mercurial as when they first met. Often, when he is doing some job around the house or undressing for bed, unaware that he is being watched, she has gazed objectively upon him and imagined him as a stranger, a blank canvas. She has observed his face, the long, narrow curve from cheek to chin, noticing how his facial bones had become more defined, his eyes deeper-set and hooded. But this is a gentle ravaging which adds to, rather than diminishes, his good looks. Even when he becomes an old man his face will still present that strong bone structure, the high Sphinx-like cheeks and sensuous eyes. His blonde hair, heavy on top and shaved close to his neck, shows no signs of thinning and regular work-outs in the gym have kept his body slim and supple. Observing him in this way, knowing he is not a stranger and that he will soon lie beside her – his body warm and responsive – gives her an intense, possessive happiness. Yet never once has she felt any inclination to paint him. She has not gazed upon his face and fixed on something – his nose, ears, mouth, the line of his neck or chin or the eyes that dance so easily away from her when she asks a direct question – nothing in him has ever challenged her to capture his essence on canvas. Sometimes, usually when she is premenstrual, she wonders if her reluctance to paint her husband comes from fear. Does she know, intuitively, that she will have to look beyond his handsome features and study what lies beneath.
In the busy rush of passing years, it is easy to ignore the little incidents that skim like pebbles over her marriage, spreading the ripples outwards and onwards until nothing remains except the smooth surface of denial.
For Adrian’s fortieth birthday they go to Venice with Ralph and Virginia. Pink domed palaces and churches glow in the afternoon sun. This is a city whose existence flows on the tide and history rots silently in stagnant waterways. A city of dazzling deceptions and intrigues, carnal liaisons, amorous eyes flashing behind butterfly masks. Lorraine’s mind is alive with impressions of a splendid, cruel time, paintings that glorify creation and the terror of annihilation.
They visit churches and art galleries, museums, restaurants. Gondoliers in their boater hats steer their gondolas beneath the Bridge of Sighs and in St Mark’s Square a woman dances in the shadow of the Campanile. The woman is old, an ancient crone with sunken mouth and haggard cheeks. High above her, a golden archangel glitters in the afternoon heat. Lorraine studies the woman’s wrinkled countenance and headscarf, wondering how she came to be among the pigeons and the violinists who play for the tourists under café awnings. The woman ceases her dance and begins to sing. Lorraine does not recognise the language. Not that it matters. Whatever nationality, whatever language, this is a thin, quavering lament that lifts the hairs on the back of her neck because the old woman is obviously mad – she holds a crucifix towards the sky and tears run from her eyes – yet her presence is as powerful as a dream, the discordant sounds hovering on the borders of reality. One truth. One vision.
Shaded by a canopy, Lorraine sketches the woman’s ecstatic stance. She draws in a notebook she keeps in her bag, a habit from years ago when she was inspired to capture such fleeting moments. Those days have gone. She has become a skilled portrait artist, intuitive and imaginative, with more commissions than she can handle. But there still remains that yearning for something more, something indefinable, haunting, unfinished.
Before her, Adrian and Virginia stand in the square, feeding pigeons. Virginia flings her hand wide, scattering crumbs. Pigeons strut around Adrian’s feet, swirl above him, and he laughs at their boldness, sharing his amusement with Virginia – and Lorraine, watching, feels something claw against her chest. The London summer is aeons away and if, in the years since then, it entered her mind she dismissed it as a distorted fragment of a distorted night. The high-pitched tuneless singing scrapes against her thoughts and, for an instant, she is infused with the woman’s madness. One vision, one truth. She sits under a café awning and watches Ralph walk towards his wife, slide his arm around her waist, point upwards to the archangel flashing gold. The naturalness of his actions, Virginia’s voice, Adrian’s smile as he strolls back and sits beside her, orders coffee for everyone, reduces her suspicions to the craziness of a raddled old woman singing songs of praise. She draws the woman with bold strokes and listens only to the voice, the joyous, tuneless voice singing a requiem for all that is to follow.
As soon as they return home, she begins her dream paintings. The theme further clarifies in her mind when she attends a ballet performance with Emily. She is captivated by the effortless poise of the dancers, their graceful movements that can only be achieved through a punishing regime of fitness and near-starvation. As she watches their flamboyant leaps and subtle gestures, she is aware of images fleeing through her mind with the same ephemeral grace. The ballerinas are co-operative, allowing her access to rehearsals. She studies the movements of muscle, sinew and flesh. Dancers pose before her, moving freely, expressively. Through the language of dance she absorbs the complexities of touch, the hidden intimacy of a glance, the subtle gesture that has meaning only to the beloved.
She becomes friends with Cherie, a lap dancer who is perfectly at ease demonstrating her act in the privacy of the basement club where she dances at night. Watch, don’t touch. Sex neatly, safely packaged. Loneliness briefly alleviated in the swing of a woman’s hips, the velocity of satisfaction always out of reach. Yet it also has its own precise chorography and Lorraine, in a shocked but pleasurable fluster, sketches this lithe young woman who can move with the decorum of a ballerina or the gyrating energy of a women on the verge of orgasm.
Her imagination is riotous. She knows this is her strongest collection to date. In Venice she drew a dancing woman whose madness was a living dream and she is excited in a way that has not been possible for years.
When Adrian arrives home she is already in bed. She awakens as he slides in beside her. He had been dining a potential client. He describes the food as “indifferent” and turns to the wall. When she slides her arm around his waist and moves closely into him, he presses his face into the pillow, mutters goodnight. His body smells of smoke and something more subtle, fleeting. The seed in her mind takes root but still remains beneath the clay.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Ferryman
(an extract from Michael Carmody’s memoir)
Is there such a thing as an instant revelation? A thunderbolt from the blue? Or does the truth reach us by a more circuitous route, ring-fencing our vision until we are ready to confront it? The night was humid when I entered Killian’s bedroom to check if he had borrowed one of my compact discs. He had just turned thirteen and his visits to my apartment had continued uninterrupted over the years. He turned in his bed when I switched on the light, disturbed but not awakening to my presence. He was sleeping naked, the sheet thrown back from his chest. Bruises spread like a flight of amber moths across his shoulders and arms. I pulled the sheet further down and saw the marks on his legs. I shook him awake, demanded to know what had happened.
He sat up in bed, the duvet clutched around his chest. Only the slight lift of his bony shoulder blades revealed his agitation. He’d fallen down the stairs in the middle of the night. I imagined his body shuddering from one step to the next and finally lying still at the bottom. No bones were broken but Jean had driven him to the hospital where he’d been X-rayed and later discharged.
Throughout Sunday she refused to take my calls. On Monday morning I rang Devine-O’Malley Financial Services and spoke to her personal assistant. Could Ms Devine-O’Malley contact the Society for the
Prevention of Cruelty to Children. An official wished to speak to her on a personal matter regarding her eldest son. Jean allowed ten minutes to pass before she rang me back. We arranged to meet as soon as she finished work.
In the Westbury Hotel we faced each other. Her gaze was steady, revealing nothing, her explanation unwavering. A highly polished timber staircase and a young boy who never walked when he could run. Such a dangerous combination, she said. Killian had been going downstairs for a drink of milk when the accident occurred. A pianist played softly behind us as she discussed his X-rays, the doctor’s diagnosis, the fuss made of him by the nurses. I wanted to believe her. Anything else was too appalling to contemplate. In a nearby armchair a Japanese businessman slept, his mouth drooping slightly, his ankles tucked neatly over his briefcase. Ice tinkled as Jean raised a glass of tonic water to her lips.
I accused her of beating our son. The skin on her neck tautened. She laid the glass carefully down on the table.
“You foul-mouthed bastard! How dare you make such an accusation.” Her voice chilled me with its fury. She stared at the sleeping Japanese man, who awoke with a startled snort then allowed his head to droop forward again. “You’ll have the full medical report posted to you by the end of the week.”
Deny … accuse … deny … accuse … deny … She walked towards the staircase without another word. A week later the medical report arrived as promised, complete with X-rays and medical diagnosis.
I watched over Killian. I checked his body while he slept, minutely scanning his skin for signs of bruising. Instead, I found only the early evidence of puberty, the thickening of his penis and thighs, the faint growth of pubic hair, the musky scent of sweat which rose from his body when he moved, realising, perhaps, at some unconscious level, that his privacy was being invaded.
A year passed before I met Jean again. She rang me in the small hours of a Sunday morning to enquire if Killian was in my apartment. Her anxiety became more obvious when I assured her I hadn’t seen him since the previous weekend. He’d slipped noiselessly from the house while they were sleeping. Duncan, his younger brother, had awoken from a nightmare and gone to his brother’s room for comfort. He woke his parents when he discovered the empty bed stuffed with pillows.
I drove immediately to Laurel Heights. Outdoor lamps curved in an S below an avenue of laurel trees. A tennis net was slung across the lawn. By the time I arrived Killian had been discovered in a field about a mile from the house, drinking cider with a gang of older boys. Jean stood in the doorway, unwilling to allow me in. Everything was under control, she assured me, and attempted to close the door in my face. Terence came into the hall when he heard our raised voices. Overriding her protests, he invited me inside. I entered, knowing I was in the eye of a storm, and wondered what Killian had done to disturb the even rhythm of their lives. I followed him into a long drawing-room with oil paintings on the walls and scattered rugs covering polished floorboards. Velvet curtains blocked out the night. Jean left the room. I heard her footsteps on the stairs as she went upstairs to check on Killian.
I felt a tight glow of satisfaction as I listened to Terence. This perfect house had its own imperfections. Haltingly, as if he was betraying his family’s privacy but unable to stop, he laid their problems before me.
Killian was becoming increasingly difficult to handle, bad school reports, his grades down on the previous year – which was not surprising, since he refused to study in the evenings. He demanded his meals in his room and refused to eat if he was forced to sit at the same table as everyone else. Terence was troubled and helpless. He was capable of flooring a rugby opponent with a lethal elbow but useless when it came to handling a young boy. As he poured whiskey and handed me a glass, I finally understood the reason for the bruises. This was not the first time Killian had left the house when everyone was sleeping and returned, drunk on cider and whatever tabs he’d taken. The bruises I’d seen occurred one night when he’d fallen down the stairs on his return. Terence had found him unconscious at the bottom of the staircase.
He walked with me to the front door. Perhaps, in other circumstances, we could have become friends, two uneventful men living out our uneventful lives. Except for Killian. He pulled us along routes we never envisaged. Perhaps there had been evidence beforehand that he was a doomed reckless youth, the signs already in place, genetically programmed while he was still forming in his mother’s womb, a spoken word away from being an abortion. Genetics. That’s what everything is about these days, a predisposition to cancer, heart disease, thrombosis, addiction, dandruff. Yet Killian showed little disposition towards any form of addiction. As a child he objected strenuously to my smoking, arriving at weekends with pamphlets and opening windows as soon as I lit up. I’d been amused by his crusade, the earnest nagging which, eventually, did succeed in making me abolish the habit.
He was older now, disturbed, a rebellious adolescent but I was on his wavelength. I refused to believe we were facing a crisis. Had I not dealt with similar problems through my characters in Nowhere Lodge? My research had been extensive. I knew that during those crucial teen years the risk factor was balanced against the survival factor. Under my care he would emerge bruised but complete. I knew everything in theory but nothing about the emotional wrecking of the heart that chronic addiction creates. I should have remembered. Instead, I’d locked those memories away, refused to travel back along the turbulent path of my early childhood. The apprenticeship that followed was swift and punishing. But that was all before me and, as I drove down the winding mountain road from Laurel Heights, I believed it was just a matter of time before Killian made his own decisions and belonged finally to me. I’d yet to come to the realisation that the son we’d created from a careless passion and loved with bitter possessiveness was already lost to both of us.
I fought with Jean over her decision to send him to boarding school. He ran away and was discovered by the police sleeping rough in a field. Sometimes he went missing for days. He walked out of counselling sessions or failed to turn up for appointments. He no longer came to my apartment for weekends but would arrive mid-week in the small hours, often accompanied by Lorcan, their eyes glazed, their movements hyper.
He agreed to enter the Patterson Rehabilitation Centre, where he made friends with Marianne Caulfield. She’d dropped out of college where she had been doing a media studies course and was in the process of kicking a coke habit. Her spiky bleached hair and thin face reminded me of a dandelion puff but when she shook my hand her grip hurt. She left the centre rehabilitated and carrying the evangelical zeal of one who has seen the light. Killian, also, appeared to have settled down. For a while there was peace. The prelude to the storm. Marianne went back to her media studies course and began making a documentary about street life and drug culture. Killian had fallen in love with her. So had Lorcan. They wanted to be part of the film crew, currying favour with her, accompanying her on her nightly forays into the streets. Bozo Daly was the guide who brought them through the tunnels of a sub-culture my son was soon to join.
Jean rang one night from her mobile phone and told me to be ready in fifteen minutes. I met her outside my apartment. When I opened the car door her face, in the overhead light, was tense with exhaustion. I thought of her snobbery and acquired wealth, balancing it against the vulnerability I could see in her defeated shoulders. She refused to answer my questions as she drove along the quays.
“You’ll find out soon enough,” she warned. “Just settle back and enjoy the ride. This is your territory.” She drove deeper into the side streets adjoining the docklands and braked outside a house with boarded-up windows. A favourite haunt, she said. She’d been there before with Terence, persuading Killian, bullying him, pleading with him to return home. She gripped my hand as she banged on the front door. Suddenly, we were parents together, staring into a terrifying vista. The years in between, the ugly struggles and petty manoeuvrings counted for nothing. It was a momentary ceasefire that could not last but, as we w
aited for someone to open the door, it was comforting.
Killian’s body, wrapped in a sleeping-bag, was pressed tightly against the wall. Candles guttered in plastic containers. A gas ring hissed blue flame. The smell of a meat stew rising from a saucepan was surprisingly appetising. Bozo Daly sat down on a sagging armchair and lifted a bottle of cheap whiskey from the window ledge. He held the bottle towards Jean. It was obvious they’d met before. She shook her head and pulled the hood of the sleeping-bag from our son’s face. I was shocked by his pallor. He looked so young and defenceless in sleep, his eyelids hiding the hard, focused stare I’d learned to dread. As if my thoughts had entered his dreams he opened his eyes. With the ease of a snake shedding old skin, he slid from his sleeping-bag and demanded money. He cursed us when we refused, forced Jean away when she tried to prevent him leaving the squat.
“You wanted him.” She turned towards me. “He’s yours. You keep claiming you have all the answers, demanding he move in with you. See if you can do any better. I’ve nothing left to give him.” Her grief had an ugly, helpless sound. Tears ran down her cheeks. She made no effort to wipe them away. “This is where you’ll find him when he runs away again.”
Our son was seventeen years of age. He’d moved from Laurel Heights to an inner-city squat in a seamless journey while I sat idly by and wrote the script.
I soon became familiar with the pattern: his sudden disappearances, the lies, the missing money, the promises so quickly broken. I followed him into the streets. We walked beneath dangerous walls where his friends gathered. The blank stare, the menacing stance, I was familiar with it all. Graffiti was sprayed across the wall – cryptic messages, abusive threats, pleas to be fucked, shagged, screwed, an incongruous heart entwining Decco and Anita’s undying love, and the not-so-cryptic demands, “Brits Out” and “Up the Provos”. Someone had dumped a fridge against the wall. A burned-out car was a rusting hulk beside it. They called Killian Ferryman, those friends he made, those street-wise young men with their thin faces and hard eyes. Ferryman was a nickname with impact and power, capable of carrying travellers over dangerous waters. But I watched my son fade behind it until he was simply another lost face hanging around the quays. We tried again – and again. He begged my forgiveness, asked for one more chance. Over the next year, I clung to an emotional pendulum that veered between optimism and despair.