by philip boyle
‘I kept that letter with me for – well, until recently. Finally threw it away.’ Eddie saw Angela frowning at him. ‘They wanted to know if I could look after her, being her only living relative. They were in need of space – as I’m sure you know – and she wasn’t considered a priority case. They wanted rid of her. I never answered. But I kept the letter.’
They stood on the steps of the hospital. Across the way, towards the sea, the wind was starting to rear on its hind legs and spit venom and toil across the rooftops of Brighton. This was neither the beginning nor the end. One chapter ends and another begins in the book that reads forever. He could not begin to explain to himself how his mother had come to that end in the wet sand, her life clearly taken from her against her wishes, because she was incapable of wishing on her own, had been for some time. There was no guilt left inside him for her. There was too little time left for that, they had all suffered enough. As the fog of disbelief began to lift, his mind drifted unpleasantly back to the reason he had come to Brighton, beyond coming back to find Edie, beyond coming back to where it had started. He had come to find Stephen Zinny and now a cracked TV high on a hospital wall had told him that the man was dead. He had spoken to Stephen Zinny and the man was dead. Like all the others. But no mention of Linda. Of all the people who’d come in contact with him she was one of the few to survive. A tough lady he knew.
He had no desire to run from it. They would find out eventually that he had met Zinny on the day he died. They would remember him in the café. He had nothing to hide and everything to tell. And what he had to tell them was about the curse that fell on everyone who came in contact with Eddie Brogan, and who the fuck was he? Who was he? He used to think he knew, used to believe that Eddie Brogan would be known and possibly remembered as the southpaw from the north side of Dublin, well-spoken, too shy for his own good, ordinary in every way, a boy and then a man who had stood on his own and got away from the vile stench of his childhood. Brawler, scrapper, fighter, boxer, then ex-boxer. Then nothing because there was no such thing as ex-boxer. He thought he had sunk to his lowest in the aftermath of the fight that brought him to the hospital in Brighton, that brought him in contact with Angela. Nothing more glamorous than a drunken fight where he had tried to show some kids that he was once an almost great boxer.
That had only been the beginning of it, not the end. If he’d left Edie alone, if he hadn’t gone back to her, if she hadn’t accepted his apology. Yeah, yeah, Eddie, drown in fucking self-pity. Luck, bad luck, fate, wait for something to happen and it never will, do something and sooner or later it’ll turn on you, so you do something else. And what if he had left Edie alone, what then? He would have returned to the back-end of bars looking to show them what he could have been. He would have staked out more bare-knuckle and been long dead. He—
‘Want me to go to the station with you?’ Angela snapped him awake. The wind screamed in angry circles around them. He nodded, unable to speak, all thoughts dived down inward at that moment. Where was she now, he wondered again as they approached the low, unremarkable building that lay under black and crimson streaked clouds? He hoped to God that Linda wasn’t inside, that she hadn’t done something. But she had been with him that day, with Zinny in the café, they had left together, he had watched them together, how she had brushed against him with the comfortable affection of long lovers. Was this the end, Eddie thought as he opened the heavy door of the police station. There was no-one left to hurt surely. Only himself.
She’s here, Eddie… She’s here.
Eddie lifted his eyes from the dull carpet, from his brown scuffed
shoes, from the eternal waiting in the corridor of the police station that
crackled with tension. He rehearsed his statement over and over in his
head, they would expect him to talk about his mother but he had something
else to tell. He had told this tale and what had come of it? Stephen Zinny
was dead. His mother was dead. How could these things have happened,
together, now, in this place? But there was something else this time,
something new. That knock at his hotel door, that voice that didn’t belong,
the distorted face of Tommy Pearson through the hole in the door. And
then Zinny had mentioned him, poured the blame for Edie on him. Angela
was talking beside him but he tried to block it out, tried to straighten things
out in his head. He wished somebody would do that for him instead,
explain everything.
She’s here, Eddie… She’s here.
He had definitely said that, there had been no cruel humour in Zinny’s
face, Eddie was certain of that. Then the woman’s body on the beach and
Eddie had thought that’s what he must have meant. His mother? He
couldn’t have known.
She’s her—
A door nearby squeaked open and a trail of voices followed, he heard
them nearby. Could they not leave him in peace for a little longer until he
had sorted it all out? Almost upon him now. She’s…
Here. Edie was only ten feet away from him. Her face was pallid, her
eyes red, her body tired. Her hair hung lifelessly down over her shoulders,
the buttons of her blouse carelessly arranged. She – she saw him finally.
She looked momentarily at the others, thinking they had brought her to see
this. A moan escaped her and her legs gave out beneath her. Eddie rushed
to her first, caught her before she could fall and carried her to his chair. She’s here, Eddie.
She’s here.
Epilogue
Why? Why not? For want of something better to do, for love, for money, for lack of those things, boredom, hatred, jealousy, loneliness. All of those perhaps but mostly he thought because of disappointment.
Disappointment. How did other people live with it? How did they eat, sleep, get up the next morning and do it all again knowing that was all it was going to amount to?
If he couldn’t have it himself, he would have it through others. That’s what he had rationalized.
He had dreamt of many things, but mostly love and thought he had found it. Only he hadn’t found it, he had just seen the possibility of it, for a second, no longer, and it destroyed him. He loved but was not loved in return.
Why not tell them all this? It had crossed his mind. He could see the headlines, the magazines, the photographs, the interviews with those who had worked for him, how they’d always thought there was something odd about him, or how he’d always looked after them, he was normal, he was a monster, he was born that way, fell in with the wrong people, etc, etc. But it would all come back to why. So why not tell them?
No.
He was cold. The house was old, draughty, there was no protection from the wind that knocked on the door day and night. He was sick, from the gas. He wondered if anyone passing would smell it and contact the police. He didn’t want to take the chance so he called the police himself and pretended he was a concerned neighbour. He could have simply told them who he was. He supposed that if they came it would mean another life but what did that matter now?
He was afraid of passing out before they came. He thought of putting on some music. Would it not calm him at the end? He decided not, he didn’t want to spoil the memories of it.
He had a box of matches in his hand and if they didn’t come soon— There it was, someone at the door. He’d left it open, just an inch, just enough.
He felt sorry for the kid, whoever he was.
‘Hello?’ said the visitor and he did sound like a kid. ‘Sir?’
Tommy Pearson rode the waves of nausea and dragged the match against the edge of the box. Closed his eyes and searched for a tune to ease him on his way.
They turned at the sound. Eddie thought he saw a flash in the corner of his eye but it may have been nothing.
‘Fireworks?’ Edie
said.
‘Maybe. Or a car. Sounded louder though,’ Eddie answered. Past the amusement arcade which still jigged with life after dark. Past the rides and the stalls all closed for the night. Eddie had never been this far down, had never been to the end of the pier. Never had a reason to. Edie was quiet beside him, staring into the sea that was a shapeless mystery.
They had promised they wouldn’t leave Brighton, and the police hadn’t needed much persuading.
They still hadn’t talked much. There had been so much said by others about them that it was difficult to talk about it when they were alone. The story didn’t seem to belong to them anymore.
They were staying in a guesthouse near the centre of town. A room with twin beds and neither had strayed from their own yet. She was cautious, hesitant and induced the same in him. Yet she remained with him, for protection at least. For the moment.
‘I’m going to head back now,’ she said. She meant alone.
‘Are you feeling okay?’ he said. He had to stop asking that. He knew it was starting to annoy her.
‘I’m fine. Just tired.’ A hint of anger but she lessened the impact with a smile. Then she touched him on the arm and went on her way.
He heard sirens behind him on the road. He seemed to hear little else these days. He thought of Tommy, of the stories he’d heard and his own brief experiences with the man.
Eddie set his mind on other things. Felt the spray from the water on his face. Hoped she’d made it back alright, knowing it was only a ten minute walk. He turned and started walking back down the pier, thinking he might pay a quick visit to the slots on his way. It was the noise and the light that attracted him and the prospect of empty distraction. He’d have a drink before going back to the guesthouse. He found that it helped him sleep better. Stopped him dreaming too much.
~
The End
About the Author A lifelong resident of Dublin, Philip Boyle, 47, is steeped in the literature of both the city and his country. A passionate photographer and avid cineaste, Philip brings to his writing a sharp visual and cinematic sensibility, with a razor sharp satiric eye. After twenty years of a busy working career, and a period of writing screenplays, 2013 saw the publication of his first 2 works, the paperback, The Boxer’s Dreams of Love, and the e-book, The Body Politic.
With The Woman of Rivoli, he continues his evolution as a writer.