But I break off here a bit.
‘Secondly what?’ she asks weakly, suddenly white-faced underneath her suntan.
‘Well … I know Jack is hoping that you’ll make a statement. A full statement, about everything that happened to you.’
She visibly winces at this, but I’ve started so I’ll finish.
‘It’s all for your own protection,’ I tell her gently. ‘Just in the unlikely event that McGuinness ever did track you down again, so that he can be prosecuted and brought to trial for what he’s done. Because Kit— Sorry! It’s bloody hard trying to call you Jean the whole time. You’ll always be Kitty to me.’
A faint smile from her.
‘You think that’s weird? Try being me,’ she says wryly.
‘Jean,’ I say, a bit more confidently now, ‘the thing is, you can’t keep doing this to yourself any more. Never mind to others around you. You can’t just plant down roots somewhere, make friends and then walk away from it, all over again. You certainly have no reason to any more. You’re safe, you’re really safe! Finally. And what’s more, you always will be. The running is over. All those lies and deceptions are in the past. It’s time to move on for good. And come on, aren’t you the girl who used to preach to me that we’ll all be a long time dead?’
I actually think she might start getting teary now, which I’m not sure I could handle. Because she never used to; was famous for it.
‘Did I ever really used to say that?’ she says, shaking her head. ‘Pity I couldn’t have practised what I preached.’
‘Jean,’ I ask her, beside myself to blurt out the one question that I’ve been burning to ask her, more than anything, ‘why did you stay with him all that time? With McGuinness, I mean. You could have left him before, when he first … well, when things first turned nasty for you. You could have got help. You had only to ask, hon.’
She focuses on the middle distance and it takes her an age to answer.
‘I spent countless nights asking myself that very same question, believe me. But you’ve no idea what it was like. The pull he had over me back then, how entwined our lives were. I was someone who’d basically been alone and fighting her own battles since about the age of sixteen and suddenly this older man walks into my life and says he’ll take care of me. And he did; when things were good between us, they were unbelievable. It was, I suppose, a first love thing for me, but God, it actually got to a point where I really thought my whole life wasn’t worth living without him. And I know that makes me sound so frail and pathetic and weak, like one of those women you’d see on daytime TV trying to defend an abusive relationship by coming out with crap like, “But I love him!” But there you go, it’s the God’s honest truth. And if it could happen to someone like me, who was always such a battler, it could happen to anyone.’
I lean over and instinctively give her hand a tight squeeze.
‘I completely understand,’ I tell her softly, ‘though for what it’s worth, you could have trusted me back then. When we first met and got so friendly, I mean, you could have told me, you know. I’d have done everything I could to protect you. Sure, you were my best pal. I’d have done anything for you.’
‘You were the best friend I ever had,’ she says wistfully.
‘I know it won’t be easy for you,’ I tell her, feeling like I’m slowly winning her over. ‘Talking about it, I mean. After so long. But if you’d like, I’ll even come with you to the cop shop. And I promise, it won’t be half as bad as you think. Jack Crown is a nice guy, trust me. He’s on your side and he’s one of us.’
Still in the Exchequer Bar, 1.25 p.m.
Feck lunch anyway, we’ve moved onto the G and Ts. Dunno about Jean, but I sure as hell need one to get me through this. I knew it was only a matter of time before the giant elephant in the room reared its ugly head and sure enough, after a big, nerve-calming gulp from the glass in front of her, Jean turns to me. Not v. hard to guess what’s coming next.
‘So,’ she says, meeting my gaze head on in that fearless way she always had. ‘You and Simon.’
I clench my bum and look anywhere except at her. But what she says next absolutely astonishes me.
‘Look, Angie, I’m going to be out of your hair in no time. And that’s a promise. But before I go, I want you to know that I’m genuinely happy for you. Both of you. I mean that so sincerely. Jesus, would you ever look at me when I’m trying to say this?’
I bring myself to meet her eyes and see she’s smiling back at me. Actually smiling. A big broad smile too, a genuine smile, not a fake Miss World runner-up one. No, I think wildly, this isn’t supposed to happen … She’s surely supposed to be overturning tables and accusing me of being a big boyfriend stealer! I wasn’t expecting niceness and encouragement!
For some reason, I’m completely incapable of saying anything back to her, though; it’s like my jaw is suddenly wired shut. She’s not supposed to be this sweet about it, no matter what she did on us two years ago.
‘Angie, you’re one of the loveliest and most loyal women I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing,’ she says, taking my hand now and pressing it affectionately. ‘No one deserves happiness more, absolutely no one. And Simon … well, he’s the best there is. So I suppose what I’m trying to say is that, in spite of everything I put you through, I just couldn’t leave without wishing you well. Both of you.’
‘That’s … well … what I mean is, thanks, I manage to stammer. For being so understanding about this whole mess.’
‘Well, what did you think I was going to do? Accuse you of being a boyfriend stealer and start smashing gin glasses into your face?’
Exactly what I’d thought, as matter of fact.
And now she’s laughing, her big belly laugh too, giving me a lightning-quick, momentary flashback to the old Kitty and the way she could always find the humour in anything.
‘Sure, what right have I to start laying down the law with you or with anyone else, for that matter?’ she says. ‘Christ, I count myself lucky you still agreed to meet me today. And as for Simon, I thought he was going to physically throw me out of the house when I went round there last night. He’s so bitter, so angry. Still.’
‘Just give him time,’ I tell her. Although I find myself not automatically able to tack on, ‘because am certain he’ll get over it and get over you and all will be rosy again.’
‘Anyway, I hope you’ll both be very happy,’ she’s v. generously saying. ‘You’re two lovely people who deserve no less. So, I just wanted you to know that there’s someone all the way down in Cape Town wishing you well. ’ And now she’s raising her glass and actually toasting us as a couple.
I just shift uncomfortably round in the seat.
Because suddenly this is all starting to feel v., v. wrong. Jean’s making it sound like Simon and I will be engaged in a matter of months and will go on to live happily ever after, in a suburban starter home with an interest-only mortgage and a shedload of crap from IKEA.
So why am I not feeling that too? And moreover, why don’t I feel as upset about it as I was so certain I would?
But that’s when it hits me square in the face. As soon as I’ve somehow finally managed to catch onto one of the worries that have been swirling round my head, suddenly I can make order out of chaos and can see with perfect clarity. See everything.
Because the truth is that Simon and I were a bit like two bereaved people who grew closer and closer, to somehow help each other get by. When Kitty first disappeared, I suppose we were both in a kind of state of mourning, and now that there’s no need to grieve her loss any more, I find myself looking at him with brand-new eyes. We’re fundamentally two friends who crossed a line that I now seriously doubt we should ever have gone near in the first place.
Jean’s looking back at me now, a bit puzzled and confused. Probably wondering why I’m gone so quiet all of a sudden. Why I’m not acting like one half of a loving, devoted couple.
‘If it makes the slightest difference,�
� I eventually find words enough to tell her, ‘all we mostly did was talk about you.’
Still in the Exchequer Bar, 2.55 p.m.
Two gin and tonics later and suddenly it’s like the past two years have just rolled away. We’re chatting away just like we used to, somehow managing to keep approx. five conversational balls up in the air all at once. Jean (and it’s only now I’ve finally got used to calling her that) is filling me in all about her life in Cape Town, which sounds on the surface so exotic and glam but which she swears is anything but.
She chats away about the Cape Grace Hotel where she works as a chambermaid by day and which she says is a fabulous place to work; you were valued and respected, even in the humblest job like hers. But there was a major downside; they’d nearly be sending you off for counselling if you didn’t bounce in seven days a week singing ‘Oh, What a Beautiful Morning’ at the top of your lungs.
Then she makes me smile when she talks about a stunningly gorgeous flatmate she shares with called Paige, and how panicky she’s getting about blokes in spite of her effortless beauty, given that she’s living in a city where everyone’s so bloody good-looking it’s a level playing field. If you happen to be six foot tall, look like Georgia Jagger and weigh approx a hundred and three pounds, that is.
‘So what about you, then?’ I nudge her. Bit cheeky, I know, but then the gin and tonics are finally starting to make me v. confident now. Also, everything’s out in the open anyway; what’s left for the girl to hide?
‘Come on, Jean, I’ve told you everything, so fair’s fair! Fess up time; is there a lovely man on the scene that you want to tell your Auntie Angie about?’
She nearly guffaws into her drink. A tiny gesture, but one so exactly like the way she used to, that I suddenly feel an overwhelming urge to give her a big bear hug.
‘Have I a boyfriend? Are you taking the piss?’ she grins.
‘Come off it, I don’t believe you! You always had fellas salivating over you everywhere you went! And the more you ran away from them, the more they’d chase you. It was unbelievable. To this day, I’ve never seen anything quite like it!’
She doesn’t answer me, though. Just shakes her head then starts crunching lump of ice from bottom of her drink.
‘Well, no offence, but I’m certainly glad I don’t live in Cape Town,’ I shrug back at her in the silence. ‘If you’re single, then what possible chance would someone like me have, surrounded by all those glamour hammer-y ones? It’s bad enough here in Dublin!’
‘But you’ve got a partner now. A lovely one who treats you like the goddess you are.’
‘Oh. Yes, of course. Yeah, I do.’
I find myself going a bit quiet at that. And then I wonder … is it a bad sign that she had to remind me?
Now on our third gin and tonic, 3.40 p.m.
Yeah, yeah, I know, I’m a shameless lush for getting sozzled in the day, but somehow I don’t care that I have to go back to work; we’re just having way too much craic here. Every now and then, I keep half-heartedly getting up to leave, pleading that it’s not fair to leave Sarah in The Chocolate Bar high and dry and just bunk off for the afternoon, etc, etc. But then Jean will just yank me back down beside her and tell me to stop acting like such a bloody head girl; that one boozy lunch won’t kill me.
Just like old times.
Besides, Sarah v. kindly texts to see how I’m getting on and to check that no back-up, SWAT teams, etc. are necessary. She also stresses that I’m to take rest of the day off, that between herself and Jamie, everything’s under control, bless her.
The chat’s seriously loosening up now. Not even certain how it happened, but we’re now yakking about the old days, swapping stories, telling tales out of school. Girl talk.
Turns out to be the best afternoon I’ve had in I don’t know how long.
5.10 p.m.
Phone rings, and it’s Jack Crown. I apologise to Jean but explain that I have to take it, it’s important.
‘Angie?’ he asks, and I have to strain a bit to hear him, it’s that noisy in here by now. ‘Are you OK? I just wanted to check up on you. Everything all right?’
‘Waaaaay better than all right, everything’s bloody fantastic!’ I slur a bit down the phone. ‘I’m here with Jean and it’s brilliant, we’re having such a laugh … catching up with each other, telling stories about the old days …’
‘You sure you’re OK? You sound a bit … ahem. Well, you know …’
‘Never been better!’
‘Look, I just wondered if you got a chance yet to ask Jean to come into the station to make a statement. But if you can’t talk, I understand. Don’t worry, I’ll call you back later.’
‘Em … look … Oh … just hang on a minute, would you?’
I fill Jean in. It’s that copper I was telling you about, I mouth silently at her. Wants you to go in to him, as soon as you can. Whaddya think?
What, now? Jean mimes back at me.
Yeah, now.
She thinks for a minute, then knocks back the dregs of her G and T and grabs her coat, all set to leave.
Come with me, she mouths, scooping her backpack up off the floor.
As if I’d let you go in there alone, I mime back.
‘Let’s get it over with now, then,’ she says out loud, looking defiant. Strong. Much more like the girl I used to know. And love.
‘Atta girl.’
‘Besides, the drunker I am for this, the better.’
‘That sounded like a yes?’ Jack says hopefully into the phone, pulling me back to the call.
‘We’re on our way,’ I tell him.
‘Just tell me where you both are, and I’ll send one of our lads to pick you up.’
‘You did say this Jack Crown would go easy on me, now didn’t you?’ Jean says, suddenly a bit anxious. ‘I mean, he’s a nice guy, isn’t he? Because if he starts giving me any shit about what I did, I’m so out of there.’
‘Trust me, he’s not going to. And yes, Jack’s very nice. Actually, lovely.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
5.25 p.m.
Drunketty-drunk, drunk, drunk. Jean and I are sat in the back of an actual squad car, being whizzed at speed through traffic all the way up to Harcourt Street Garda HQ. V. exciting, I have to say, like being a paid extra in a cop opera. Also, hysterically funny. Jean keeps rolling down the window every time we’re stopped at traffic lights, sticking her head out and screeching, ‘Help! It’s a terrible miscarriage of justice! I’m being held against my will! Call my TD, call a parish priest, get Sky News here, do anything, just help meeeee pleeeease!!!’
Am convulsed with giggles till the stony-faced copper driving us tells us to stop messing or else the pair of us can get out and walk.
Harcourt Street Station, 5.35 p.m.
Jack’s just inside the main entrance, waiting on us. He helps Jean out of the car, shakes hands and introduces himself. And is gentle and sensitive with her, I notice, which of course is absolutely the right way to handle her. Weird, but for all Jean’s messing and larking about earlier, now that we’re actually here, it’s like the enormity of what lies ahead has really started to hit home. And somehow Jack seems to sense this, so he thanks her for coming in, promises her that it’ll all be over before she knows it and reassures her that she’s absolutely done the right thing. For her part, Jean just nods and manages a smile, head held high, looking like she’s ready to face anyone. A firing squad, anything.
‘Well, I’ve come this far,’ she tells him stoutly, so much like her old self. ‘So let’s just do it.’
Then Jack comes over to me, grins and in a second seems to guess that the pair of us have been merrily boozing away for the whole afternoon.
‘Enjoy your lunch then?’ he asks, mouth twitching downwards.
‘Eh … lovely, thanks,’ I say, trying my level best to sound sober.
‘Come on inside then, ladies,’ he smiles. ‘And I think we might just get you both some strong coffee before we start.’
>
‘If it’s OK,’ Jean says, ‘I’d really like Angie to sit in on this too?’
‘Of course. If that makes you feel more comfortable.’
‘I kept secrets from my friends for long enough,’ she says, as we’re ushered down a long, snaking corridor. ‘And all that ends today.’
Police interview room, 5.55 p.m.
Just myself, Jean, Jack and an older Bangarda who introduces herself as Stella and instantly puts us at ease by explaining she’s a liaison officer, specially trained in dealing with domestic abuse cases. Lovely woman, and I can practically see Jean instantly warming to her. She has that firm-but-fair wise-mammy thing going on; you could v. easily see this one putting manners on any man who ever dared inflict even a quarter of what poor Jean had to suffer through.
It’s completely weird. Turns out to be exactly the same interview room where Simon and I sat time and again, all that time ago. Being here with Jean beside me now somehow brings it all full circle.
And by the way, I must have waltzed in here like Liz Taylor after a skinful of gin, because the next thing, a tray of coffee is brought in and Jack makes sure that the two of us drink it down to the very last drop.
6.40 p.m.
I’m seriously sobering up now that Jean’s finally making her statement. And in spite of the fact I’ve already heard her tell it before, is somehow even more harrowing second time round. Jean’s amazing, too; sounds fearless, brave, not a bit like a victim at all. She talks about the abuse, the pain she went through, and how trapped she felt; how she really had been boxed into a corner and that there was absolutely no one for her to turn to for help. And how that was almost worse than anything else: the complete and utter isolation. My heart goes out to her when she talks about discovering she was pregnant so young, then losing the baby so violently. And how eventually that decided her enough was enough. She made up her mind to grab her chance and to get away the second she could, and if it meant changing her whole identity, then that was a small price to pay.
Me and You Page 31