Deceptions

by Laura Elliot

  “I’ve lost my bracelet.”

  “Surely that’s not the reason for those shadows under your eyes?”

  “I was wondering where you left it after collecting it from Karl. I spoke to him yesterday. He has a record of the repair.”

  “I left it back in your jewellery box. Why?”

  “It’s not there now.”

  “Then you must have left it somewhere else.” He smiled across the table. “It’s a beautiful piece of jewellery but the memory I have of giving it to you is even more precious. Do you remember the night –”

  “Perfectly.” Her voice was expressionless. “I remember you presented it to me as a symbol of devotion and fidelity.”

  “I wish to Christ I could make amends and start again.”

  “Is the dream not living up to your expectations?”

  “I never stopped loving you … despite everything.”

  “We’ve already had this conversation, Adrian. Don’t bore me by repeating it. Just give my bracelet back to me.”

  She watched him run his finger nervously around the rim of his coffee mug. “I told you I don’t have it. Why are we fighting, Lorraine? We’ve hurt each other enough as it is. Surely there are more important things we can discuss?”

  “I only asked you to return what belongs to me.”

  “I gave it to you as a gift. Why should I take it back?”

  “You took my trust and flung it away. There’s no reason why you should respect a piece of jewellery.”

  “Jesus Christ, Lorraine.” His anger was as instant as she remembered. The flash of temper, the persuasive smile, the dismissive shrug. His gestures were as familiar as his ability to render her questions meaningless. A sleight of hand with the truth. “You can’t wait to serve divorce papers on me yet, when you finally decide to contact me, all you do is whinge about that bloody bracelet. What the hell is going on here?”

  “I want it back, Adrian. I’ll be in touch next week. Have it for me.”

  I loved this man, she thought, rising to her feet. I loved him to distraction and now, when I look at him, when I talk to him, I feel nothing. Emptiness. She rose from the table, fought against the nausea that threatened to overwhelm her. The fire burned brightly as she walked away, embers falling from the grate and settling into grey ash.

  A woman reading beside a bed. Photographs and cards pinned to a wall. The scent of flowers and aromatic oils. Impressions whirled before Lorraine’s eyes when she stepped into the ward. The young man lay stiff as an effigy, his body hardly raising the bedcover. Tubes from his body sustained him, drained him. His chin was shadowed with a faint stubble. How calmly he slept. As if aware of her presence his eyelids fluttered and his leg gave a sudden jerk, dislodging a panda bear propped at the foot of the bed. A mangy fur coat, one eye, obviously much loved, much used.

  Tears rushed to her eyes. Was he warm or cold, she wondered. Did his heart beat fast or in a slow, uncertain rhythm? A prayer came to her lips. She had never thought of herself as religious, especially since her teenage years, yet, in the presence of such unconsciousness, prayer seemed a natural response. An earthenware bowl filled with oil sat on the locker beside a xylophone. She stepped backwards as the woman raised her face from a book. The lucent quality of her skin added a frailness to her appearance, as if she was recovering from an illness or suffering from deep exhaustion. She wore loose trousers and a silk blouse tucked into the waist. A half-smile softened her mouth when she stood up. The material moved, billowed slightly then settled like a sigh around her.

  “Have you come to visit Killian?” she asked.

  “I’m sorry. Wrong corridor.” Lorraine backed from the ward. “Please forgive my intrusion.”

  How stilted she sounded, unconvincing. Outside in the corridor she leaned against the wall. The back of her neck was damp with perspiration.

  “Are you all right?” The woman quietly closed the door behind her and handed Lorraine a glass of water. “I thought you were going to faint. Would you like to sit down for a moment?”

  Lorraine straightened, pushed her hair from her forehead. “I’m fine … really.”

  “Drink the water. You’re still very pale. It’s probably the heating. So terribly stifling at times.”

  Lorraine sipped the water and laid the glass on the window ledge. Down below, beyond the hospital grounds, a swathe of green spread before her. The grey mountains fused into grey cloud. Unable to stop herself, she stared at the closed door of the small private ward. “The young man – he seems so still.”

  “He’s my son.”

  “I’m so sorry. What you’re going through must be unendurable.”

  “Every day I keep thinking it will happen. When I rise in the morning, I believe today will be the day. He’ll call my name, look into my eyes and see me. If it’s not today I won’t be able to go on. But I do. Day after day after day, wondering if he’s dreaming, remembering, feeling pain, hearing noises. If his thoughts are peaceful or tormented.” She walked to the window and stared through the glass. “Do you think it will rain this evening? It seems to be coming down from the mountain.”

  “According to the forecast, yes.”

  “My younger son can’t handle it any more. If it wasn’t for my daughter – do you have children?”

  “I have a daughter.”

  “An only child?”

  “Yes. I wanted more children but my husband –” Lorraine stopped, took a step backwards. The outpouring of emotion from the woman had released a similar need in her. “I’m keeping you from your son. I’ll pray he recovers soon.”

  “It’s our punishment. We demanded from our son what we had no right to demand. Children are God’s possessions, not ours. When Jesus is ready to forgive us he will awaken Killian.”

  “How can that be true?” Lorraine shrank from the agony in the woman’s voice. “It’s a merciless God who would punish you like this.”

  “Could I ask you –?” Jean Devine-O’Malley fingered a cross hanging around her neck. The scent of rosemary was on her hands. “Would you pray with me for a short while. The power of prayer is all I’ve left.”

  Lorraine resisted the urge to run. The conviction flowing from the woman made excuses meaningless. She thought of Emily riding her pony, running down the lane with Ibrahim and the goths, her endless chatter and moans about life being a bore, so much energy and noise from one young person. This woman’s son was a portrait, still and silent, framed by a bed from which there was no escape.

  The prayer was short, intense. When it was over Jean Devine-O’Malley made the sign of the cross on her son’s forehead and closed her eyes. A tremendous weariness settled on her face.

  “Why don’t you take a break for a little while?” On her way in Lorraine had noticed a small café off the reception area of the clinic. “I’ll sit with your son until you return.”

  Sometimes he seemed peaceful, his body lying motionless beneath the cover, neither fidgeting nor flailing his limbs. His eyelids fluttered and a grimace, almost too subtle to notice, flashed over his face. She had noticed this fleeting expression a number of times when his mother was praying. It reminded her of the almost-imagined smiles that flit across a baby’s face and are often dismissed as wind. He flicked his fingers on one hand, as if they were lightly running over the keys of a piano. She was almost afraid to breathe in case she disturbed his concentration. Suddenly, his eyes opened. His intense stare, so instantly reminding her of his father, caused her to cry out in shock and he, in turn, moved his head slightly, as if the sound had brushed against him. She lifted his hand and pressed it against her cheek.

  “My name is Lorraine,” she spoke softly. “Your father has told me about you.” The pads of his fingers jerked as if stung by faint currents of electricity. “Do you understand me, Killian? Squeeze my hand if you do.” The pressure he exerted was weak yet she could not mistake its meaning. She remained in that position for a moment, isolated from the sounds, smells and movements of the clinic.
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  “Killian, I rage at the thought of them together, driving away, leaving you. How terrified they must be. I don’t want them to escape. But Emily, my daughter, what about her? I’ve watched her struggle to find a way back to her father. This will break her heart. That’s the problem with truth. It hurts. Do you hear what I’m saying?”

  He batted his eyelids once, a prolonged deliberate blink, before his hand became flaccid. A faint clanking sound outside on the corridor grew louder and stopped outside the door. She watched his long eyelashes flutter with excitement.

  A woman entered the ward with a tea trolley and came towards Lorraine. “Jean thought you might fancy a cuppa.” She poured tea and laid two biscuits on the saucer. “Friend of the family, are you?”

  “I’m keeping her son company for a little while,” Lorraine replied.

  “He’s a real charmer is our Killian, with an eye for the women. Isn’t that right, Loveadove?” She tapped the xylophone, startling Lorraine as she struck a scale, then laid her hands on the boy’s face, smoothing his forehead with firm even strokes. From the curve of her hand to the turn of her cheek and her solid little body with its determined stance, she was linked to the boy. “See you later, Loveadove.”

  Jean Devine-O’Malley returned shortly afterwards. She looked more resolute, calm.

  “Thank you,” she said. “You’ve been incredibly understanding. What ward do you want? I know every corner of this clinic.”

  “I was on the wrong floor. Don’t worry. I’ll find my own way there.”

  She hurried along the corridor, following the exit sign, and entered the lift. On the ground floor visitors swarmed through the glass doors. Flowers spilled from the entrance of a gift shop. She noticed Michael standing inside the door. For an instant, the crowded vestibule seemed to shrink into a breathless space holding only the two of them. His leg was still in plaster. He moved awkwardly on a crutch towards the counter and spoke to the shop assistant, smiled at some comment she made. Their manner towards each other was familiar. He probably knew everyone, the security staff and nurses, the medical team who kept his son alive. He lifted his head and stared into the mirror behind the assistant’s back.

  He had come to Trabawn seeking answers, information, building a profile of the woman he believed responsible for the destruction of his son. What if Emily had been tossed on the side of the road and left to die? She would have scoured the earth until she found who was responsible. Her breath shortened as if she could feel the thud of metal, hear the screech of brakes, the surging roar of acceleration. How could they … how could they … to drive away and leave him lying broken in the dark, intent only on keeping their secret world intact.

  From the beginning deceit had marred her relationship with Michael Carmody, but now it had become a different kind of deceit. She remembered Adrian’s briefcase falling, the crumpled papers with the rust-coloured smears. Blood on their hands. The police would come to her house. They would confiscate her car. There would be forensic examinations, questions, statements, a court case, and Emily, struggling to make sense of her devastated world.

  A group of people surged past Lorraine on their way to the exit. She moved behind them and walked in their footsteps, knowing it was not only physical distance she was putting between herself and Michael but also any hope they had of building a future together.

  Ralph asked no questions when he entered her car. Lorraine drove towards the quays. Lights blazed from anchored ships. Small pleasure boats listed on the Liffey breeze. Massive cranes straddled the landscape like the bones of ancient dinosaurs. They walked the length of the pier and stopped at the red lighthouse. Lights spiralled along the headlands. Howth with its thrusting cliffs and hill-top houses and, far into the distance, the fading outlines of Dun Laoghaire winding upwards towards Killiney Head.

  She adjusted her camera and began to take photographs. The wings of gulls wove ghostly flight patterns above the waves.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  Brahms Ward

  7.30 p.m.

  I see her everywhere. Her smile, her eyes, the shape of her head, her long straight back. It’s as if fragments of her being have been soldered to the bodies of strangers. I can’t escape her. Even on the way up here, a shake of red hair disappearing into the crowd.

  You’re calm tonight, Killian. Can you see the fingers I’m holding in the air? Three blinks. Exactly right. Look, I bought you a CD. I rang Laura and asked her advice. She recommended The Streets. Says it’s your kind of music. I’m putting on your disc player. Do you like it? Thought you would.

  I was on the Internet again last night. The message board was busy as I contacted others who have slept the deep sleep and awoke. Rip Van Winkles who answered my questions, gave me hope, encouraged me to be brave. Some of their stories fill me with terror. But there are also stories of courage and endurance that lift my spirits and keep me believing that miracles can happen.

  Your specialist agrees that you are responding to stimuli but he remains cautious. How can he refuse to give us hope when there is hope all around us? I see it in your gaze. Our language is silent but we speak it well. He was outraged when I pointed out that Maggie was the first to communicate with you. Tea for two, two for tea, cha cha cha lady.

  The cast is coming off soon. You wouldn’t believe the itch. All in all, I’m in good nick. Red hair … I thought for a moment … what the hell. The mind plays crazy tricks. It’s enough to make one believe in moving statues.

  Hear me, daddy, hear me. She came into the ward. I smelled her perfume. I heard her voice.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  The staff of Ginia Communications officially recognised each other’s birthdays with a celebratory cake. A single sparkler was a diplomatic way of marking but not acknowledging the advances of time, and when Virginia’s office door opened on the afternoon of her birthday, a heavily decorated Black Forest Gâteau fizzed towards her desk. She switched on a grateful smile as her staff gathered around her and sang “Happy Birthday” and, less enthusiastically, “For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow”.

  The sparkler spluttered into silence and the cake was ready for cutting. Paper plates were produced by Joanne. A bottle of champagne was held aloft by Adrian and uncorked. Lorcan clowned on the floor, pretending to drink the frothing liquid.

  The toast was proposed by Adrian who spoke eloquently. “Raise your glasses to a woman who combines beauty, charm and success. To Virginia – who has carried us forward with her energy and dedication. May she remain an inspiration to us all.”

  She searched his face for signs of mockery. How could he utter such nonsense and sound as if he meant every word? The staff sipped champagne and seemed infused with the same bubbling twaddle. No one appeared remotely inclined to leave her office or quell the party spirit. Helium balloons with her name and birthday wishes bobbed from the corners, and Lorcan reduced the staff to hysterical laughter by imitating a chipmunk. His linen suit was crumpled, but fashionably so, and accessorised with a crisp white shirt. Take away the prisoner-of-war hairstyle, change his belief that the world was a kip and Lorcan Sheraton could be quite a prepossessing young man.

  Mara Robertson, the owner of the art gallery, arrived, armed with more champagne. Only for Kathleen, the receptionist, who had remained steadfast at her desk fielding phone calls, they might as well have closed the shutters for the next hour. As the noise level increased, Virginia slipped outside to the corridor and hurried towards the elevator. On the reception desk Kathleen was glumly painting her nails.

  “How’s the party going?” she asked.

  “It needs you to make it swing, Kathleen. I’ll take over while you have a glass of champagne.”

  “Oh no, that’s not necessary, it’s your party. It wouldn’t be right –” Kathleen tried to hide her surprise at this unexpected gesture.

  “One glass of champagne and a slice of Black Forest, then you report back here. And tell my staff that I want everyone’s heads bent over their desks by the time I re
turn. Now scoot! You’re wasting precious time.”

  Kathleen needed no further encouragement. For twenty minutes Virginia answered the phone. She clicked into her e-mail and noted that another one had arrived from Ralph. She read it twice before deleting it.

  Sent: 7 March 2.00 p.m.

  Subject: Birthday wishes

  Happy Birthday, Virginia. Did he bring you breakfast in bed? Was there a red rose on your tray? Did he lay you back against the pillows and kiss every inch of your delectable flesh? How well I remember my sexy birthday girl.

  Razor

  A motorbike courier obeyed the notice to remove his helmet before entering Blaide House and walked towards reception. From his satchel he removed a large foil-coloured envelope and handed it across the desk. She signed her name to the delivery form and laid it to one side.

  Usually Ralph’s e-mails came at night or in the early hours, as if he too were sleepless, waiting for the dawn. They had started arriving two weeks ago. Sometimes she deleted his messages without reading them but he persisted, growing bolder, more demanding, signing himself by that ridiculous nickname, drawing her back into the rough embrace of another era. He would tire of the game eventually and leave her alone.

  Kathleen returned to reception in a decidedly giddy frame of mind but the office staff had recovered some sense of decorum and were busily engaged in various functions when Virginia returned. Their busyness did not fool her for a moment. She resigned herself to a wasted working afternoon. It was time to call a halt to this ridiculous tradition of downing tools just because someone had added another year to life’s quota. She retreated into her own office to open the envelope that had been delivered by the courier. She lifted out a birthday card, a tasteless picture of balloons and champagne, similar in style to the scenario her staff had forced upon her. She scanned the card for a signature but there were only words written in block capitals. HAPPY BIRTHDAY VIRGINIA. IS THE PAST FINALLY CATCHING UP WITH YOU? XXX. A black and white photograph had been placed in the centre of the card.