Holding

by Graham Norton

  Abigail reached over and switched the radio on, turning the volume high. Lyric FM blared out some jaunty light operetta. Gilbert and Sullivan maybe? PJ undid his seat belt. The car had cleared the hedges and was hurtling towards the pier.

  ‘For the love of God, woman!’ PJ shouted above the music and reached across to grab the steering wheel. Abigail fought back, stronger than he had expected. The low wall of the pier was just feet away. He yanked the steering wheel as hard as he could to the left, and the car veered away from the pier, bouncing across the rough grass. Desperate, he seized the handbrake and pulled. The car spun once, twice, and then on the third turn everything went eerily quiet as they flew off the edge of the cliff into the air above the churning sea below.

  As PJ clawed at the door handle, time seemed to stop. Moments from his life flashed into his mind. Emma Fitzmaurice’s laughing face in the darkness of the cinema. His mother crying with pride the first time he put on his uniform. The sweat falling from his face on to Brid’s pale skin. Then he was engulfed by a sudden deafening roar as the car hit the waves.

  The cliff was deserted. There was no one to see the car being swallowed whole by the ocean. No one to hear the strains of ‘The Queen of the Night’ coming from beneath the waves that slapped the cold rocks at the foot of the cliff.

  14

  Two funerals in one week. The weather had turned and a dark gloom had descended on Duneen. Petra looked at the digital clock on her till. They’d all be up there now, she thought. So strange that the whole village wanted to pay their last respects to that woman. She was a killer. Maybe that was why Mrs O’Driscoll had decided not to shut the shop. Petra chewed the end of her long bleached hair. Ireland was a mysterious country.

  Up in the cemetery, Evelyn leaned against Florence as the priest finished his prayers. Both women remembered the last time they had stood by this grave. Then it had been their father and his death by misadventure. Abigail had stood between them, her arms like angels’ wings draped over their shoulders to shelter them from the large crowd of mourners that surrounded the grave. Now it was Abigail who lay before them. Florence had wondered if the village would come given the circumstances, but she needn’t have doubted them. A funeral was always going to be more important than the person who was being buried.

  Mrs O’Driscoll joined the long line of mourners. When it was her turn, she shook hands with the sisters. ‘Sorry for your loss.’ Florence gave her a small smile and mouthed ‘thank you’, but Evelyn didn’t even raise her head. As she turned away from the two women and began to descend the steps, she wondered what they’d do now. Sell up? She knew that was what she would have done. Ard Carraig was cursed. They’d find no happiness there.

  Back at Ard Carraig, the ticking of a clock and the motor in the fridge suddenly starting up were the only sounds. Florence fussed around Evelyn, making her cups of tea that went undrunk and meals that went uneaten. She read or marked exercise books, stealing glances at her sister. Evelyn just sat with her hands in her lap, sometimes staring at the floor, at other times into the middle distance. Bobby had quickly learnt that crying or pawing at her leg no longer resulted in a treat or even a stroking of his ears. He transferred his affection to Florence and curled up beside her, his chin resting on her foot.

  Evelyn felt numb and defeated. What was the point in caring or trying or believing or loving when the odds were so clearly stacked against her? All of this couldn’t have just randomly happened to her; somehow, she reasoned, it must be her fault. To try was to fail. To care was to get hurt.

  The darkness of early evening had crept over them and Florence put down her book and walked across to switch on a light. Evelyn didn’t flinch. It was as if she hadn’t seen it.

  Linus wasn’t sure why he was here. There were heaps of paperwork on his desk and he had hoped he would never have to see Ballytorne again, and yet here he was driving into the hospital car park.

  He walked up the steps carrying the small bag of green grapes he had bought in the SuperValu on the square. Why did sick people get grapes? He felt like a fool. At least he had stopped short of bringing a bottle of Lucozade as well. He approached the nurse at reception.

  ‘I’m looking for Sergeant PJ Collins.’

  There was something about the hospital bed with its side rails and high mound of pillows that made PJ look even more enormous than usual. Linus was reminded of those nature documentaries where they had to transport giant mammals under sedation back to their natural habitat.

  PJ’s head was thrown back and his eyes were closed. Linus hesitated, not sure what to do. Should he wake him? He decided to sit on the high-backed chair by the bed and wait. He picked absent-mindedly at the grapes.

  After about ten minutes PJ raised his head and didn’t seem at all surprised to see the detective superintendent sitting beside his bed.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hello, Sergeant. How are you feeling?’

  ‘Not too bad. I should be out soon. It’s good of you to come.’

  ‘Don’t be mad. We’re just glad that you’re alive. I brought you a few grapes.’ He held out the bag.

  PJ peered down at the mixture of grapes and bare stalks.

  ‘Sorry. I had a few of them there when I was waiting for you to wake up.’

  Both men chuckled. There was an easiness between them that had been absent before.

  Linus had been genuinely happy when he found out that PJ had survived the crash. The alarm had been raised by a trawler that saw the car come off the cliff, but by the time the coastguard had arrived, PJ was already sitting in a shivering heap on the rocks. He had managed to open the door just before impact and been half out of the car as it sank to the bottom of the bay. He had broken his collarbone against the frame of the car and cracked three ribs. He now had a plate and screws holding his clavicle together.

  During his days in hospital, as he drifted in and out of sleep induced by painkillers and the after-effects of his general anaesthetic, he thought a great deal about the accident. He wondered if he should have tried harder to save Abigail from the car. In fact he had made no effort whatsoever to return to the vehicle. He had sat huddled, his flesh stinging from the glacial salt water, grateful to be alive and cursing the woman who had tried so hard to kill him. It didn’t cross his mind at the time that he should risk his life to try and rescue her.

  He wondered too what he had done wrong. How as a guard he might have seen the warning signs; was there a way he could have avoided the situation? When the Ballytorne boys had recovered his car from the hospital car park, they had discovered that every wire below and around the steering wheel had been neatly cut. They guessed that someone had used something small like nail scissors. It shocked him to recall how long it was before he realised he was in real danger. Clearly she had been planning his demise from the moment they left the hospital.

  ‘When do you think you’ll be back at work?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ This was something else that PJ had spent a long time considering. ‘To be honest, I don’t know if I’ll be going back at all.’

  Linus was taken aback. ‘Really? Why? I thought you liked the job.’

  ‘I do. I did. All of this has done my head in a bit, to be honest.’

  ‘The accident?’

  ‘No. No, the whole investigation really. I’ve been lying here thinking and remembering why I wanted to join the gardaí. I thought I could help. You know, be of service. The whole village thing appealed to me back then. I liked the idea that I’d be part of the community. Helping. Like I say, providing a service. But then I just got on with the job and somehow over the years didn’t notice that what I was doing day to day wasn’t like that at all. I just issue licences and check tax discs. A monkey could do it. Having you around – the technical guys – it made me realise what the job could be. I really don’t think I can go back to setting up checkpoints for speeding or getting people out of the pub. I’d lose my mind. Do you understand?’

  ‘Of course. I co
uldn’t stick all that when I joined first. Still, think about it. We’d be sorry to lose you.’

  ‘I will,’ PJ said, though he had in fact already made up his mind.

  Linus stood. ‘Well, I should be getting back. Good to see you in one piece.’

  ‘Thanks for coming. I do appreciate it.’

  ‘Take care.’

  Linus had his hand on the door when he turned.

  ‘What about Cork?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If I put in a word for you, would you consider moving up to Cork?’

  PJ didn’t know what to say, but Linus was warming to his plan.

  ‘You’ve got the skills. I’d say you’d make detective without much bother.’

  PJ flicked through the pages of a life not yet lived. He thought he liked the sound of this chapter.

  ‘Really? You could do that?’

  ‘No promises, like, but I could give it a shot. Do you want me to try?’

  ‘Yes. Yes please.’ PJ was beaming.

  The second funeral had three mourners. Three women. Each one stood slightly apart from the others. Nearest the grave was Mrs Meany. She had borrowed a black coat from a neighbour. It was slightly too big for her, and just the tips of her fingers poked from the sleeves as she stood with her head bowed. Little Lizzie Meany was finally putting her baby to bed.

  At the end of the prayers she approached the graveside and threw a handful of the dark red soil on to the coffin lid. In her mind’s eye she saw Mrs Burke holding a gurgling bundle. This coffin seemed so big and cold.

  Behind her, standing about ten feet apart, were Evelyn and Brid. As the old lady stood looking into the grave, Brid went over to Evelyn and gave her a hug. She felt she had enough going on in her life without holding on to her teenage anger at Evelyn Ross. Immediately she regretted it. Evelyn’s arms remained hanging limply at her sides and Brid had to force herself to maintain her hold for a second or two before stepping back. Evelyn looked awful. Her eyes had dark bags under them and she stared back at Brid with no flicker of recognition.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her voice was a whisper.

  ‘Can I give you a lift home or anything?’

  Before Evelyn could answer, Florence had come around the side of the chapel.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Riordan. I’ll take her. Don’t worry.’ She put her arm around Evelyn’s shoulders and began to lead her away. ‘Such a sad day.’

  Mrs Meany was at Brid’s side now.

  ‘Oh, are the Ross girls leaving?’

  ‘Yes. I don’t think Evelyn is feeling very well.’

  ‘Oh. I see.’

  The two women stood in silence, neither sure what to say next. The mother he never knew. The bride he never wed.

  ‘I don’t know if it’s the right thing, but if you wanted to come back to the house, I made a few sandwiches.’

  ‘Oh, thank you very much, but I’ve got to pick up the children now.’

  ‘Of course. Of course.’

  Brid decided against attempting another hug so just shook the old lady’s hand.

  Back in her cottage, Mrs Meany took off her borrowed coat and hung it carefully on the wooden hanger that was waiting on the back of the kitchen door. She stood and looked at the table. Her best china was laid out. Six cups and saucers, a small stack of plates. Beside them a damp tea towel was draped over two plates of sandwiches, and on the kitchen counter by the bread bin was a tin with a freshly iced carrot cake in it.

  She sat heavily in a chair by the table and peeled back the corner of the tea towel. She retrieved a small triangular sandwich with the crusts removed. It was ham. She nibbled at the corner, then put it down. With a deep sigh she stood and took the plates over to the bin. What a waste, she thought.

  One large green suitcase and two small canvas bags was all he took with him. He looked at them squashed into the boot of his car. They were the same cases he had packed when he had headed off to training at Templemore all those years before. That was a lifetime ago. PJ wondered if he had done enough. Had he lived a life in those intervening years? He suspected that he hadn’t, but it didn’t matter because he was starting one now. He slammed the lid shut. It felt good to finally be leaving after the months of waiting.

  At first the delay was because they were looking for someone to replace him, but eventually it was decided that the Garda barracks in Duneen would be closed and the village and surrounding townlands would be covered by the officers in Ballytorne. PJ had raised his eyebrows when he heard. It turned out he was irreplaceable, or else, he thought, trying to suppress any feelings of bitterness or regret, the job he had been doing for the last fifteen years had been pointless. He decided he was being too harsh on himself. Certainly the way people had spoken to him when the news of his transfer got out convinced him that his job had been worthwhile. He felt he would be missed. Would he miss them? He thought he might.

  He locked the front door of the bungalow and got into his car. Every silly thing had taken on a ponderous sense of history; it didn’t matter what he did that day – brushing his teeth, boiling the kettle, lacing his shoes – everything was accompanied by a running commentary of ‘This is the last time I will …’

  The leaves had already begun to turn, but there was still some heat in the sun that meant Duneen was looking its best for his departure. He drove slowly down Main Street, taking it all in.

  Will I ever be back here? he wondered.

  Mrs O’Driscoll was outside her shop. He waved at her. She looked a bit puzzled and raised her hand in return. PJ smiled to himself. Clearly she had forgotten that today was the day. To his left was the hill that led up to the old Burke farm. The development was finished now and, in a move that had surprised many, Florence and Evelyn had sold Ard Carraig and bought one of the new houses. Of course it was very handy for the primary school, but people still questioned if it was the best place for them to be. PJ had called up the week before to tell the sisters that he was leaving, but Florence had said Evelyn wasn’t well so he hadn’t seen her to say goodbye. In fact very few people saw Evelyn any more.

  Florence had almost taken on the role of carer. Each evening she picked up a few things in O’Driscoll’s and headed back to the new house. She liked how clean everything was. The kitchen, the bathroom, the windows: nothing was covered in a thick layer of memories. She wasn’t sure what to do about Evelyn. Clearly she needed help, but she refused to go and see a specialist. The local doctor had called out a few times and prescribed some anti-anxiety medication, but it didn’t seem to make much difference. Occasionally someone would report having seen Evelyn out walking the dog either very early in the morning or after dark, but other than that she had vanished from village life. Her sister was no longer Florence. She was, and would remain, ‘poor Florence’.

  Once through the village, PJ sped up and thought about his new life in Cork. He had rented a small one-bedroomed flat in a new development on the outskirts of the city. He was looking forward to having a home that was separate from where he worked. He wondered if he would maybe lose a bit of weight without Mrs Meany cooking all his meals. He hoped so.

  He passed the turning that led up to Brid Riordan’s farm. He had wanted to go and say his farewells, but he knew that things weren’t easy for her. It would be just his luck that he would arrive at the same time as Anthony.

  Anthony had been staying with his mother for a while, but once the work building him a small house on the farm was under way, Brid had relented and let him move back into the farmhouse. The children seemed happier with everyone under the one roof, even though they knew their father was sleeping in the spare bedroom.

  Brid had been surprised by their reaction at first. She had thought Cathal would be the most upset, but in fact it was Carmel who had taken it hardest. Brid and Anthony had told them together. Cathal had just nodded. Brid could tell he was trying very hard not to cry. She hated that she was doing something that hurt him. Carmel had decided that her father was
leaving because her mother was so awful. She had screamed at Brid. Called her a bitch and a drunk. Anthony had tried to reprimand her and tell her that it was what Mummy and Daddy had both agreed, but she was having none of it. Mummy had driven her daddy away.

  Over the months things had calmed down, and she was at least civil to Brid now. Sometimes it was tempting to tell her about Daddy and the nurse, but Brid knew she would probably blame her for that as well.

  Another big change was that Brid was earning money. Apparently she had inherited her mother’s flair for baking, and after a few of the other mothers had asked her for her recipes, one of them offered to pay her to make a cake for a birthday. Other requests followed, and with her confidence riding high, Brid had gone into the little deli in Ballytorne called the Coffee Nook and showed them samples of muffins and cakes. She now had a regular order. It wasn’t enough money to live on, but she could tell Anthony was impressed and she liked the feeling of being busy.

  Once, quite soon after he had moved back in, Anthony had tried to kiss her. Brid had come out of the bathroom ready for bed and found him standing on the landing. She wasn’t sure if it was planned or if he had just been waiting to brush his teeth and then the physical proximity had prompted him to lean in and plant his lips on hers. Brid hadn’t pushed him away, but somehow they had both just sensed that it was not the right thing to do. He drew back from her, closed the bathroom door and had never tried again.

  The road curved around the side of the valley and left Duneen behind. The sun was getting lower in the sky and long shadows draped themselves across the fields. PJ felt strangely self-conscious. It was as if he was being watched guiding the car around the bends. He leaned back and spaced his hands evenly on the steering wheel. It felt like he was in a movie, but he couldn’t be sure if this was the beginning or the end.

  Epilogue

  PJ hated this. Sitting alone in a restaurant was something he tried to avoid. The way the other diners looked at him when he walked in. They didn’t even try to disguise their amusement and disgust. What did this man want with any more food?