‘Do you hear music?’
It is faint but it drifts from the fourth floor, a calm rhythmic bass.
Neither of us make a move.
‘So maybe this is a party,’ I say. ‘Do you think this is dangerous?’ We’re in a neglected part of town that should have been developed but wasn’t and then was left for dead, invited by a man who’s good with tools, who Lea met on the Internet. I wonder if goodwill has run out for the day.
The site is completely surrounded by fencing, the wooden construction kind, and it is too high to climb with no gaps to pass through. We circle the entire thing and find that it has been opened at one section, inviting us in. We slowly walk through the fence, pass the barrier where ghost cars collect their parking tickets, and into the darkness of the multistorey. The ground level has been completely covered by graffiti, every single inch of the concrete walls and supporting pillars have been sprayed. I don’t concentrate too much on the darkened corners, I don’t want to linger, I need to keep moving. We follow the signs for the stairs, choose to ignore the lifts, which I guess aren’t working anyway, and even if they are, I’m not interested.
Every scary movie I’ve ever seen has told me to be wary of car parks on my own late at night or even during the day, and yet here I am, going against every single instinct in my body. The sound of music and laughter gets increasingly loud as we tread lightly up the steps, not wanting to make a sound to alert them. There is a hum of conversation and that relaxing bass keeps us going, there is some kind of civilisation up there, one which doesn’t sound like murderous screaming, gunshots and violent gang dance-offs. I expect to happen upon a homeless community, with laptops on Skype; I have prepared myself to run, to give them my money, my phone, whatever, just in case they get angry at my intrusion.
Lea readies herself, checks her reflection in her pocket mirror and reapplies her thick lipstick that makes her look like she’s had collagen injections, then with a flick of her hair, she pushes open the door. I am stunned when we peek around at the inside. Everywhere I look I see trees, beautiful large greenery covering the grey concrete. They sit in stunning pots, Spanish and Mexican in style with beautiful mosaic tiles. Fairy lights run from tree to tree and candles light the meandering pathway through the trees. It feels like we’re in this wonderland in the middle of a concrete car park. Grey and green, dark and light, man-made and natural.
‘Hi, guys,’ a young man says beside us and we turn to him in surprise. ‘Can I see your invitation please?’
Our mouths open and shut, we are visibly shocked.
‘She’s a guest of Dara’s,’ I finally say, when Lea doesn’t say a word.
‘Oh, cool!’ He stands up. ‘Follow me. Sorry about the invitation thing, it’s Evelyn, she’s pretty insistent after last year. Apparently the party got crashed and it all got a little crazy.’
We follow him through the winding path, through the trees, and I feel like I’m in a dream.
‘You guys did all this?’ I ask.
‘Yeah. Cool isn’t it? Evelyn just got back from Thailand where she had full moon parties all the time. Doesn’t exactly feel like Thailand, but concrete jungle was the theme.’
The path ends as it opens up to what looks like a living room. An enormous chandelier of beautiful twisted glass hangs low from the concrete ceiling, large pillar candles sit in the chandelier, the wax dripping down over the sides. Below it is a large Oriental rug and copious brown battered leather couches where a dozen or more guests gather and chat like they’re at a house party. Music plays, not too loud chill-out music that we could hear from across the river, and a nymph-like girl in a sequined cat suit dances on her own with her eyes closed, fingers running through invisible harp strings in the air. Some look up to see us, most don’t, they’re a friendly bunch just checking us out and smiling their welcomes. A bunch of all ages, the artsy kind, very cool, very edgy, not at all like me and Lea, the mother of three and Nurse Kardashian.
‘There he is,’ she says, pointing quickly. Lea skitters over to Dara and they embrace. A moment later, out of their scrum, she shouts, ‘Marlow,’ to me.
I nod. Marlow. I’m here to see Marlow.
‘Marlow,’ Dara calls, then whistles and nods at me. A stunning man looks up from the group on the sofas. He’s dressed in tight black jeans, a charcoal T-shirt, workman’s boots, perfect physique, toned arms, long black hair, one side behind one ear, the other falling down over his face. Johnny Depp twenty years ago. He has one eye squinted as he inhales on a cigarette, and he holds a bottle of beer in the other hand. He looks at me, his eyes running over me. I shiver under his intense stare, don’t know where to look. Lea laughs.
‘Good luck!’ She throws me a thumbs up and heads towards the barrel of beer in ice.
I swallow hard. Marlow smiles and leaves the company of a cool butterfly girl with body jewellery wrapped around her toned abs. He stops right in front of me, standing quite close for an absolute stranger.
‘Hi.’
‘Hi.’ He smiles and sits down on the back of the couch so we’re at the same eye level. He looks like I amuse him, but not in a teasing way.
‘My name is Sabrina.’
I look around and see Lea settling down on a couch with a group of people, beer in hand, relaxed as anything. I try to relax too.
‘I’ve lost my marbles,’ I say with a smile.
‘Well you’ve come to the right place,’ he grins. ‘Why don’t we go into my studio.’ He stands.
I laugh at that and he seems confused by my reaction, but walks away anyway. I look at Lea, who motions at me to follow Marlow. I follow him through the trees on the other side of the gathering and discover he hasn’t been lying. Hugging the walls of the car park are offices and art studios.
‘What is this place?’
‘The art council let us work here. They came up with a great idea to utilise the space. The plan was to put something new on each floor, exhibitions on the third level, theatrical performances on the fifth floor … We’ve been here a year.’
He unlocks the door and steps inside.
There is glass everywhere, it glistens as the moonlight hits it.
‘Wow, this is beautiful!’ I look around, unable to stop as everywhere I turn is a glass masterpiece, either a jug, glasses, vases, panes, chandeliers – a myriad of gorgeous colours, some smashed and put back together again to make stunning creations.
He’s sitting up on a counter, legs hanging, watching me.
‘You make marbles,’ I say, spotting a cabinet in the corner, little globes winking in the light, my heart suddenly pounding.
I remove my bag from my shoulder and take the inventory out, feeling on fire. I walk towards him, offering the folder. ‘My dad was a marble collector. I found this inventory in his things, including the marbles, but there were two collections missing.’ I try to rush to the exact pages that list the missing marbles but he stops me, a hand on my hand, which he keeps a hold of while reading at his own pace.
‘This is incredible,’ he says, after a while.
‘I know,’ I say proudly, and uncertainly, looking at his hand wrapped around mine like he doesn’t notice it’s happening, as though it’s the most natural, normal thing in the world. He turns page after page, fingers running over my knuckles, which makes me nervous and thrilled at the same time. I’m a married woman, I shouldn’t be standing here close to midnight holding hands with a handsome cool dude, but I am and I don’t want to let go. He takes his time reading through the inventory, his fingers still slowly moving over mine.
The moon made me do it.
‘This is quite the collection,’ he says, finally looking up. ‘So he was only a fan of glass.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Marbles were also made from clay, steel, plastic. But he only collects glass.’
‘Oh yes. I didn’t realise.’
‘Apart from steelies – he’s got a few of them. But the most beautiful ones are handmade glass,’ he says
with a smile, ‘then again, I’m biased. Which ones are missing?’
Tragically, I must let go of his hand to leaf through the pages and point them out. ‘This. And this.’
He whistles when he sees the price. ‘I can try to replicate them, but it’s impossible for me to make them look exactly the same, and he’ll notice the difference,’ he says. ‘A collector like him will know straight away.’
‘He won’t,’ I swallow. ‘He hasn’t been well recently. Actually, I was hoping to find something new. I want him to make some new memories.’ Don’t go back, Sabrina, move forward. Make new.
‘With pleasure.’ He smiles, eyes playful, and I have to look away. ‘So, Sabrina, I see here that the thing your dad was beginning to collect was contemporary marbles. He only has one, which is damaged – a heart, which is rather ironic, isn’t it? This is where I feel I can come in. I can make you a contemporary art marble. See over there.’
He points to the display cabinet and I’m entranced by the variety he has. It’s like a treasure trove of precious gems. So many intricate swirls and designs, colours and reflections bounce from the glass.
‘You can touch them,’ he says.
Opening the case, I’m drawn to a chocolate brown marble, like a snooker ball, and I’m surprised by the weight. They’re larger than Dad’s collection, not your usual playing marbles, but their colours and design are far more intense and intricate. Swirls and bubbles, they are hypnotising to look at and when I hold them up to the moonlight it seems they have even more depth, glowing from the inside.
‘Interesting you picked that one,’ he says. ‘Is that your favourite?’
I nod, wrapping my fingers around it. It’s almost as if I can feel the heat of the fire inside. ‘But it’s not for me.’ I examine the collection again. ‘He’d love any of these, I’m sure.’
It’s not what I began the day searching for, but it feels right, like a better solution to driving myself insane looking for lost marbles that I probably will never find.
‘No, no,’ he takes the brown marble from me gently, and he places a hand on my waist as he examines it from behind me. ‘I’ll make you a new one now.’
‘Now?’
‘Sure. Have you somewhere else to be?’
I look out at Lea; she’s lost in Dara’s eyes, Dara running his fingers through her hair. It’s almost midnight, I’m going home to an empty house anyway. I need to end my night with some kind of conclusion. Learning about Dad was satisfying, exhausting, draining, but I need to find a solution. I’ve opened a wound and I need to find something to help heal it. If I can’t complete Dad’s collection, then I must complete my own personal mission.
‘How long will it take to make?’
He shrugs, coolly. ‘Let’s see.’
He doesn’t walk around, he kind of glides, drags his feet but not noisily, like he’s too relaxed to lift them. He turns on a gas canister, leaves me momentarily, disappearing behind the trees in the car park and returns with a six-pack of beer, a joint and a mischievous look in his eye.
I hear Aidan’s voice in my head. I just don’t know if you’re happy, Sabrina. You’re distant. I love you. Do you hear me? Do you love me?
Maybe I should leave, but if I haven’t learned anything else from today, I’ve learned that I’m my father’s daughter. I stay.
I’m sitting before Larry Brennan, aka Lampy, known as such due to his teenage pastime of lamping animals late at night, usually rabbits, when we were teenagers. He had an uncle in Meath that he used to be sent to on weekends; his dad was an alcoholic and his ma had a nervous breakdown and couldn’t cope with much, so he was sent to his uncle, his sister sent to their aunt. His sister got the better deal. They were thinking he’d be in a better place than at home but they were wrong. His uncle wasn’t much better than his da, he just seemed more responsible because he didn’t have his own family to care for. He was functioning okay by himself. He was fond of the drink, too fond of Larry too, though I don’t think I realised that until I was older and looked back on it. Larry always wanted me to go with him, I think his uncle didn’t bother with him if he had a friend there, but I didn’t like his uncle one bit. Tom was his name. I went once for the weekend and, despite the adventure, the misadventure, the freedom to do and eat and drink whatever we wished at whatever time of the day or night, I wouldn’t go back whenever he asked. His uncle wasn’t right. I should have known what was going on but I didn’t.
The lamping was fun. Larry would take his uncle’s air rifle and we’d go out to the fields in the pitch-black of night. It was my job to hold the light, one-million-candle strength, and stun the rabbits, then he’d shoot them. Half the time he didn’t even get their bodies. I always remember thinking Ma would make a great stew with it, but I had no way of keeping it fresh and bringing it back, or I didn’t ever ask anyone how. It wasn’t about the food for Larry, it was about the kill, and I’m sure every rabbit he shot was really his uncle or his dad, or his ma or whoever else was letting him down in the world. Maybe even me for being right there and not doing anything about it.
Lamping was best done at the darkest hour; cloudy nights were good, but the best conditions were when the moon was new. I remember Larry checking the weather as it got close to the weekend, almost going mental and causing all kinds of hell in school when the weather wasn’t good for lamping. I suppose he knew that he’d have to stay in the house all night and he knew what that meant. Hamish wasn’t around then. I was sixteen and he’d headed off to Liverpool, but he would have loved it there, he would have come with me. And he would have sorted Larry’s uncle out too.
I look at Larry ‘Lampy’ Brennan now, the same age as me, fifty-seven, but slim, trim, respectable. I’m sitting across from him at his desk, and I think of all of the things that I know about him. He’s wearing a smart suit, employs a few dozen people, he’s doing well for himself, dragged himself out of the shit and washed himself off. My heart pounds as he smooths down his tie with manicured fingernails as he waits for my response, and I feel the tension in my chest that just never goes away and I’m so heavy these days I’m constantly wheezing, trying to catch my breath.
‘I bet there’s no one in your life now that knows where we came from,’ I say.
He pauses, unsure of what I mean.
‘You know what I mean, Lampy.’
He freezes then and I know that I’ve brought him back to being someone he’s tried so hard to run away from in an instant. He’s sixteen again. He’s Lampy Brennan and it’s mayhem in his head, the world is against him and he’s fighting for himself against everybody and everything.
‘What are you saying, Fergus?’ he asks quietly.
I feel the sweat trickle down my right temple and I want to catch it but to do so would be to bring attention to it. ‘I’m just saying that I’m sure a few people would be surprised by the things I know about you. That’s all.’
He leans forward slowly. ‘Are you threatening me, Fergus?’
I fix him with a stare, a long hard look, I don’t need to answer, let him take from it what he may. I need this to work, I’m fifty-seven years old, I’ve cashed in every single favour everyone ever owed me and more, now I owe more favours than I’ll ever have time to repay. I’ve hit a wall, this is the last trick up my sleeve, reduced to threats like the desperate lowlife I’ve become.
‘Fergus,’ he says quietly, looking down at his desk. ‘This decision isn’t personal. These are difficult times. I took you on because I wanted to help you out, out of loyalty.’ He seems shaken. ‘We said we’d look at it after six months. After six months I told you you had to up your game, you were selling the least – and yes, I know it was early days. But it’s been nine months now, it’s not good here, I have to start losing people. You were the last person in, which means you’re the first person out. And frankly,’ the anger seems to explode from nowhere as if he realises he should forget about being polite to me, ‘threatening me isn’t going to endear you to me, and it doesn�
�t take away the fact that you are the worst salesman on the floor and you have earned the company the least amount of money.’
‘You need to give me more time,’ I say, feeling the panic rise, trying to sound cool, assured, like I’m someone he can trust. ‘I’m still finding my feet. The first year is hard, but I’m getting there now. I have a real understanding of how things work around here.’
‘I can’t afford to give you more time,’ he says. ‘I just can’t.’
I fight it out some more with him, but the more I push, the further he backs away, the tougher he becomes.
‘When?’ I ask quietly, feeling my entire world cave in on me.
‘I was giving you one month’s notice,’ he says, and I think about one more month until it all falls apart. ‘But in light of your threat, I am suggesting immediate termination.’
I have one more trick up my sleeve, the worst one of all, the one I have never wanted to resort to all of my life.
‘Please,’ I say and he looks at me in surprise, the anger evaporated, ‘Larry please. I beg you.’
Favours, threats and, last but not least, begging.
‘What on earth is going on here?’ Cat yelps as she finds me on the floor of my apartment.
I’ve pushed all the furniture to one wall. The armchairs are piled up on the couch, the coffee table is filling the tiny cubby kitchen and the rug is rolled up and out on the balcony. A perfectly large space has been cleared before me on the floor and I have a Sharpie in hand and am about to deface the wooden floors.
I’ve drawn a small circle eight inches wide and am in the middle of drawing a larger circle around it eleven foot in diameter. I can’t talk to her because I’m concentrating.
‘Fergus!’ she looks around, eyes wide, mouth open. ‘We were supposed to have lunch with Joe and Finn, remember? We were all waiting for you at the restaurant. I called and called you. I ate with them alone. Fergus? Can you hear me? I went to your work, they said you’d gone home.’
I ignore her, working on the circle.
‘Did you forget, Fergus?’ her voice softer. ‘Did you forget again? This has happened a few times now, are you well, my love? Something is not right.’
The Marble Collector Page 21