by Laura Elliot
Once more, he agreed to enter rehabilitation. It was after midnight when I received a phone call. Killian had left of his own accord. I didn’t find him that night or the following one. I called to the Garda station and reported him missing. The guard on duty was bleary-eyed, impatient, uninterested when he heard Killian had walked voluntarily from the centre. Free will. He shrugged and scratched his head with a pen, his mind moving on to the next event, a city-centre knifing, perhaps, or a domestic brawl behind lace curtains.
I drove to the squat but there was no sign of him. A woman arrived while I was there and left a bag of groceries on the floor for Bozo. We walked outside and stood under a tree which had grown from a crack in the cement. The branches cast wounded shadows over the lager cans, whiskey bottles and mouldering food cartons at its base.
“You his da?” she enquired and shook her head ruefully when I nodded. “Kids! They break your heart when they’re under your feet and break it twice as hard when they scarper.” A denim mini-skirt rode high above her thighs and her solid legs were squashed into knee-high silver boots. “He’s a hard act to handle, your lad. If he were mine I’d lock him up and feck the key into the Liffey. He’s a goner if you don’t.”
She lit a cigarette. Her tough red face was silhouetted for an instant in flame. Her lipstick was purple, glossy. I suddenly remembered my mother painting her lips, the tube delicately balanced in her hand as she opened her mouth then lightly patted her lips on a white tissue. It must have been shortly before her death. The tissue was still on her dressing table after her funeral.
Killian came home eventually, as he always did, moving between my apartment and Laurel Heights and back to the centre of nowhere. My stereo and television set were stolen, money was taken from my pockets while I slept. For the first time the words “tough love” were mentioned. When all else fails tough love is the only option, said the counsellor. He was young and idealistic, a text-book talking. Tough love – such a convenient category. Not harsh like banishment. No, love was my prime motivation when I told my son to go. He’d broken every promise he made to me and broken my heart in the process.
I met Bozo Daly the following afternoon on Custom House Quay. He sat on a bench studying the flow of the river, his chin thrust downwards towards his chest, a bottle by his side. His age was indefinable, his face creased like a chamois on which the world had wiped its indifference. We crossed the bridge and headed for a sandwich bar. He walked with a shuffling gait, as if he was pushing paper with his feet. His hair was the colour of dead grass.
Ferryman is a good kid, he told me. A bit wild but he’d settle down soon enough. He could have been consoling a disappointed parent at a school meeting.
“He’s a thief and a drug addict,” I replied. “Apart from that I know nothing about my son.”
“F-ferryman doesn’t b-b-belong on the streets.” I heard a quick exhalation of breath before the words rushed from him, as if somewhere, in another life, he had acquired self-help techniques he still remembered. Some people choose it, he said, others have it thrust upon them.
“Killian has choices. He’s fucked up every one of them.” My anger, never far below the surface, was a zigzag of lightning. At times, I hated my son. How hard those words look on paper. But I write them as unflinchingly as I write about love. They are opposite sides of a damaged coin.
Bozo said he’d seen too many troubled lads not to know the difference between the hard cases and the ones who had simply lost their way. I asked him where he got his degree in family psychology and he smiled, displaying stumpy yellow teeth.
“1976. F-first class fu-fu-cking honours.” His laughter was a shield against my disbelief.
I wondered for the first time about his story, the road that brought him to a derelict squat and a ridiculous nickname. I ordered soup and baguettes. On high stools we sat together, our faces to the wall. He asked about my work. Killian had told him I wrote drama. His eyes glazed when I mentioned Nowhere Lodge. He’d never seen it, hardly a surprising discovery. He did, however, display a flicker of interest when I mentioned Regards to Aunt Anna. Vaguely he remembered something – he forced his mind back to a forgotten time – then shook his head, no longer interested. He promised to watch out for Killian. An odd choice of guardian – but needs must. We agreed a payment. He would get in touch with me at the first sign of trouble. Trouble is a relative term and my understanding of what constituted ‘trouble’ had changed radically. After a short while he grew jittery and left, having pocketed his first payment with an indifferent nod of thanks. He was going in one direction only but, at least, he knew where to find the nearest off-licence. Where Killian had travelled was impossible to imagine.
Perhaps it could have worked. Killian phoned regularly, talked about methadone programmes and rehabilitation. A new beginning, old routines. I’d had the same conversation too many times to feel anything other than weariness over having to parrot the familiar responses. But there was always the desperate belief that this time … this time … things would be different.
He rang late one night, sounding distraught, and asked me to meet him. His clothes were still in good condition, a bulky puffa jacket and jeans, strong trainers, but his hair was lank, unwashed, and his face spotted, some of the pimples turning into sores. Spittle had dried on his mouth. Every part of me cried out to take him home but I was holding out, following the dictates of tough love.
He was living with friends in the inner city. Rented accommodation, he needed money. The landlord was a shit, demanding an exorbitant deposit. It was obvious he was lying. His sing-song voice, the pat answers, the ever-shifting gaze, his sudden outburst of fury when I shook my head.
“Fuck you … you’re my father. You want to see me lying on the edge of the road, is that what you want? This is a chance to make it back. It’s the least you can do seeing as how you kicked me out.”
This meeting was no different to the others. In the past I’d given in, handing over the money in the belief that it would give him a roof over his head. My anger carried me swiftly into the night. I did not turn around when he called my name. It was the last time we spoke.
What did you do this week? Not playing bloody rugby again! Jesus Christ! Is he trying to turn you into a clone?
He left me Killian! He never wanted you! Never – wanted – you!
Ferryman is my name. Nicer than Killian. Too many Killians …
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
In New York, Lorraine stares at an obscene gap on the skyline. Photographs of lost faces flutter from walls and railings. Standing close to where it happened, just breathing in the stultifying air, brings home to her the enormity of what has occurred more than the most horrifying television images which had reduced the collapse of the Twin Towers to a tormented, iconic image of a billowing curtsy. Two months have passed since September 11 and the city still vibrates with shock. A new vocabulary is being created. War on Terror. Axis of Evil. Global Terrorism.
In the aftermath of the tragedy, life grimly continues. Sally Jones has persuaded Lorraine to stay in her loft apartment for five days. They have been friends since they worked in the artists’ co-operative and keep regular contact with each other through e-mail. Sally has organised a workshop on metaphysical art and believes Lorraine’s work will benefit from participating in it. The challenge of being analysed and criticised, of having to justify and defend her work-in-progress, appeals to Lorraine but her main reason for making the trip is to be with Sally. She was the first person Lorraine tried to contact when news of the attack came through. The phone in her apartment rang out and it took two days before an e-mail from Sally arrived to her friends, assuring them that she was still alive. She had been swept along in the debris of the attack, had wandered through parks where candles flamed and people gathered to comfort and calm each other. She plans to return to Ireland in the spring and set up an artists’ colony in a remote Wicklow location.
The workshops are as stimulating as she promised. Lorraine fin
ds herself caught up in debates on surrealism, the power of the absurd and the enigmatic dream. The artists break early on the last day and arrange to meet in a nearby bar for a farewell drink. Later that night, she and Sally will attend a piano recital by Eoin Ruane and meet beforehand with Meg for a meal. She finds a quiet spot in the bar and phones home. She leaves a message when the land line rings out but, when she calls Emily’s mobile, her daughter answers immediately.
“I’m sleeping overnight with Sharon,” she announces. “We’re watching Home and Away. Dad’s on a business trip. How’s it going with you?”
“Fine. Where is he?” Adrian had not mentioned any impending business trip.
“It’s some big deal he’s doing. I think he said Cork.”
“I thought his car was being serviced.”
“He took yours. Anyway, he’s back tomorrow. Miss you, Mum.” From her tone it is obvious she wants to turn her attention back to the television.
On his mobile, Adrian speaks so softly she has difficulty hearing him. He is dining with a client and promises to ring her later. She is unable to hear cutlery clinking or the murmur of voices in the background. The only sound that penetrates is his guarded tone and the click of a door closing.
Two bodies writhing on an old battered sofa. The image is so instantaneous that her breath thickens and she is forced to suck deep into her lungs. Suddenly she needs to speak to Virginia. Virginia is the only person who can calm her down.
Ralph answers the phone. He talks about a seminar. Virginia won’t be home until tomorrow afternoon.
“So sorry to have missed you.” Virginia’s voice does not sound in the least apologetic when Lorraine rings her mobile number. “Leave a message and I’ll return your call as soon as I’m free.”
She hangs up without speaking and returns to the bar.
Over the following weeks Lorraine listens for words, for meanings behind words, for gestures that display little but convey much. Denial is still an option. If there is something going on then surely Ralph, so worldly-wise, so perceptive and possessive, will know. She is unable to utter her suspicions aloud. If she is right – what then? The destruction of her marriage, the breaking of a friendship, never to be renewed. The severing of a business partnership that has stretched their finances to the limit.
She does not find them kissing in hidden corners or making love on the marital bed. There are no unexplained Visa payments, hotel receipts, lipstick marks on shirt collars, no silent phone calls. Instead, on a dull morning in November, shortly after she returns from New York, Adrian lifts his briefcase from the kitchen floor and balances it across his knee. He is searching for something, car keys or his mobile phone, his movements growing more impatient as he rustles the documents. The briefcase slips from his grasp. Sheets of paper scatter across the kitchen tiles. Lorraine picks up a report which contains a five-year development plan for Strong–Blaide Advertising. A jagged rust-coloured stain has smeared the cover. Beside it lies a press release. Virginia’s distinctive company logo is visible on the front, a logo which Lorraine designed for her the previous year. The press release has “Sheraton Worldwide Travel” written on the top with “Confidential” stamped in bold print above the headline. It is in draft stage. There are handwritten notations in the margins. Lorraine glances down at the same faint but unmistakable stain. Blood, she realises, smeared and splattered.
“Why is this in your briefcase?” She hands it to him and awaits his reply. She is curiously disconnected from the question, an unnatural calmness descending on her as she watches him scrutinise the document before tearing it into pieces.
“Virginia ran it by me once. I thought it was fine as it was but you know how fussy she can be. If the ‘i’ is dotted she wants a second dot to be on the safe side.” His gaze slides away and his voice – persuasive, drawing her inwards to share the joke – sounds as empty as his explanation. He flings the press release into the rubbish bin with the swivel lid and slaps his hands together. “I must have forgotten to hand it back to her.”
He leaves the house in a hurry, his waxed coat flapping open against his legs. He is a busy man with a business to run.
For the opening night of Painting Dreams a large crowd gathers in the gallery. Journalists arrive, tabloid diarists, critics from the arts pages, the television crew from Artistically Speaking. Virginia sails effortlessly through the crowd, a bird of paradise in her bright colours, her short black hair brushed upwards and highlighted in a titian quiff that would look outrageous on anyone else.
“You’ll get the coverage,” she whispers, gliding past. “It’ll be serious and salacious. Keep smiling.” She has organised the publicity and is delighted by the ripple of shock that reaches from one guest to the next as they view the exhibition.
“Sold” stickers are already on some of the paintings when Lorraine faces a television camera and the crew from Artistically Speaking gather around her. As the interview continues she glances beyond the spot where Adrian and Virginia stand together. Adrian’s body language alerts her, the rapt concentration on his face as if he wants to block out every other sound in the gallery. Virginia touches his hand, a warning pressure, and he moves away, just a step or two, to stand before one of the paintings. A casual drifting apart that has been played out many times before Lorraine’s eyes but this time she recognises the casual touch a husband gives to a wife, a wife to a husband, as if they are flesh on flesh, so familiar to each other that such gestures are exchanged with thoughtless ease.
She struggles to concentrate on the interview, to see only what is there before her eyes – an interviewer whose voice seems glazed with honey and whose every question is delivered like a speech from the dock – but all she can see is Adrian, his back now turned to her as he stands before a painting, intrigued, perhaps, by the flaunting impression of Cherie exposed on canvas. She watches him engage in conversation with the man standing next to him. Why does his laughter ring false and the set of his shoulders look tense rather than relaxed? Virginia is now at the opposite end of the gallery yet, in the beat of an eyelid and the touch of a hand, everything has changed and Lorraine knows with chilling conviction that her husband and her best friend are bound together by an unbroken thread that stretches back to another era when the air around her trembled with every breath she took, and how, standing in the doorway, the ceiling spinning above her, the floor swaying, she saw them, his supple back arched like a bow that will snap if not released, the dew of sweat on his shoulders and, as she moved closer, Virginia’s upturned face, ecstatic. Her slender legs wrapped him secure and – before he reached for a cushion to press against her mouth – a cry soft as cat’s purr crept across the room towards Lorraine. Dawn washed over the ceiling and in the milky light of a new day she left them, flitting from the room as silently as she entered. She closed her eyes on the tableau she had witnessed, allowed it to vaporise, to fade into the ether of oblivion.
But it was not oblivion, nor a frozen tableau: there had been much thrashing of limbs on the old four-seater sofa and that memory, quiescent for so long, is powerful enough to weaken her knees and cause her to wonder if she will collapse in front of the assembled gathering who have lifted the level of noise so that they too can be part of the televised proceedings. She pushes her hair from her forehead, the lighting is too hot, her face burns, she must concentrate. When the filming ends, she shakes hands, accepts congratulations, moves through the crowd – but she is a young girl again, lost in the summer of ’82, and the pain is unendurable.
“How long has this been going on?” When they return home she confronts him. Her voice takes on an unfamiliar cadence. “I want the truth, Adrian.”
“What on earth do you mean?” Of course he sounds perplexed, quizzical, his forehead wrinkling in bemusement. She feels nothing – that will surely come later when she has time to absorb the enormity of what is taking place.
“How long have you been having an affair with Virginia?” She links into his gaze, holding it. �
�Don’t ask me to repeat myself. Just answer my question.”
“Jesus Christ!” Colour floods his face. He draws back as if he can feel her fury blasting him. He will argue, bluster, fight for survival, tell her she is crazy, possessed, neurotic – but in the involuntary twist of his mouth she has seen the truth.
“How long?” she screams. She has never screamed before, not as far as she can remember. As a cherished only child it was not necessary to do battle with siblings or fight for parental attention.
“The apple of my eye,” her father used to say, lavishing her with love, just as Adrian had placed his own daughter at the centre of his world. Or so she had believed. Emily, whey-faced, hearing her mother scream, refuses to leave her bedroom for two days and is finally coaxed from her retreat by Donna, who tries to explain what is taking place.
Adrian too attempts to rationalise, to talk his way through the myriad emotions swirling around them. He has always loved two women. It is as simple and as complex as that. The eternal dilemma, the cruel triangle, and so he agonised, prevaricated, fought with his conscience. Impossible to make decisions. She, in turn, drifted through the summers of Trabawn, through the airless streets of London, through the years of marriage, floating high above the scent of his betrayal.