Keep Your Friends Close

by Janelle Harris

  ‘Look at the card,’ Luke says.

  My hands are trembling and it makes something as simple as uncurling my fingers a monstrous task. But I finally unlock my hand and stare at the shiny gold card resting on my palm.

  ‘Read it,’ he says.

  I run my finger over the embossed gold lettering. ‘Buckley & Co.’

  Luke’s eyebrows raise dramatically. ‘You’re right, honey. The bracelet is a gift. It’s for the baby.’

  My head is spinning.

  ‘Go on. Turn it over. Read it.’

  I flip the card and read aloud: ‘Many congratulations on your impending arrival. Warm wishes, Andrew.’

  ‘How thoughtful,’ Luke says. ‘He asked all about the baby when I met him. I get the impression he likes kids.’

  I stare at the card. ‘Does Andrew Buckley have our home address?’

  ‘Hey, do you think this means he’s going to send the payment through?’ Luke says. ‘I think this means we’ll be hearing something soon. It’s been a long week waiting, hasn’t it?’

  ‘Someone dropped this to the door,’ I say, thinking out loud. ‘They knew where we lived.’

  ‘I doubt Buckley delivered it himself.’ Luke sniggers. ‘Courier, I’m sure. Or maybe he has people for that sort of thing.’

  ‘But how does he know where we live?’

  ‘Our address is on all the investment paperwork, Darcy. Stick it in Google maps and it will bring you right to the door.’

  ‘That’s the factory address, Luke,’ I say, shaking more than ever. ‘Not our home. Andrew doesn’t have our home address.’

  Luke drags a hand around his face and exhales loudly as if he’s exhausted. ‘Well maybe he asked someone. I don’t know.’

  I want to remind Luke that most of the staff at Darcy’s Dishes wouldn’t have a clue about our home address. And none of them know Andrew Buckley is investing. We plan to make an announcement when the deal is done. To them, Andrew Buckley is a stranger, and no one there would give our address to a stranger.

  I bite my tongue. Luke already thinks I’m some kind of pregnant porcelain doll, too fragile for the real world right now. No matter how I phrase it, arguing about addresses makes me sound paranoid and delicate and he will only try even harder to wrap me in cotton wool and insist on bed rest or something.

  ‘Can’t we just accept the lovely gift and be happy that Andrew went to so much trouble?’ Luke says, smiling brightly. ‘He likes us, honey. He must really like us.’

  I say nothing.

  ‘Why don’t you go watch some TV or have a lie-down. You’re still pale,’ Luke says. ‘I’ll clean up all this mess.’

  ‘Yeah. Okay,’ I say, my mind wandering to the mound of paperwork on my dressing table. It’s copies of all our correspondence with Buckley & Co. Maybe our home address really is on something.

  Chapter Ten

  GILLIAN

  Tuesday 18 June 2019

  I drag myself out of bed and shuffle sleepily into the kitchen in my bare feet and oversized T-shirt that I’ve had for years. Mornings have never really been my thing, but I appear to struggle with them more as I get older. Every morning it seems to take me a little longer to peel myself off the bed. And since I can rarely remember flopping into bed the night before after far too much supermarket own-brand vodka, I often can’t make head or tail of what day it is. Thankfully, I usually wake up to find painfully efficient notes – dotted haphazardly around the flat. ‘Pick your stuff up, lazy.’ Or ‘You were drunk again last night, stupid.’ That one usually comes with a frowning, hand-drawn emoji.

  Today, I check the fridge first, and unsurprisingly find an oversized magnet securing today’s memo in place. This morning’s piece of paper is cut precisely into the shape of a Hoover and I know it’s a not-so-subtle hint to clean up.

  I run my fingers over the neat, cursive handwriting: black ink on ivory paper as I’ve come to expect. I read aloud – as if anyone other than me is listening. ‘Moving day. Clean and pack. Don’t leave a trace.’

  I groan inwardly. As if I could forget it’s moving day. I often worry about how expensive the new place is in comparison to this little steal, but I’m wasting my time. Besides, the new place is lovely. All these gorgeous, Georgian red-brick houses converted into flats line both sides of the street. Two up, one down – usually. Some lucky feckers own the odd whole house but they’re few and far between, the disgustingly wealthy. Rich and famous, and all that. A ground-floor flat with a purple front door will have to do. And very snazzy it is too.

  I pull off the magnet and set the irritatingly Hoover-shaped paper on the counter. My tummy rumbles, reminding me it’s God knows when since I last ate, and my chicken-drumstick-like legs are a hint that it’s been a while. I wasn’t always this thin. Just recently.

  I open the fridge door and sigh despondently as I stare inside. The shelves are laden with numerous brown boxes of equal size. I pull out the nearest one and read the label. ‘Darcy’s Dishes Shepherd’s Pie’. I groan at the sight of a generic, unappetising ready meal. I reach for the next. ‘Darcy’s Dishes Shepherd’s Pie’. The next is the same and the next. As I empty the fridge and realise there is nothing else in here, I long for some fresh vegetables and meat. I really, really miss meat. I slowly put everything back in the fridge as I found it.

  Still hungry, I glance at the cardboard boxes littered around the kitchen tiles. I wonder how often cardboard boxes sum up lives. Deciding I best get on with packing, I grab some newspaper off the shelf nearest to me and open the cupboard to fetch a glass. I start wrapping when a headline in the paper catches my eye: ‘No Teeth. No Fingertips. No Face’.

  I unwrap the glass, spread out the newspaper and read on . . .

  Further to recent reports, the body of an unidentified male found earlier this week in Glenmallow, Co. Wicklow, remains under investigation. The man, believed to be in his late 50s or early 60s, was wearing a dark suit and white shirt. A bowtie was found in his pocket. ‘The man was not carrying any identification, was not wearing any distinctive jewellery and he does not have any identifiable tattoos or piercings,’ a detective on the case said. ‘He was however missing all teeth and fingerprints.’

  The state pathologist is yet to issue a report. Gardaí have renewed their appeal for anyone with information to contact their local Gardaí station.

  ‘Oh God,’ I puff out. ‘Oh. My. God.’

  Chapter Eleven

  DARCY

  Tuesday 18 June 2019

  The sun is glorious as it shines on my face. It’s that not-too-hot, not-too-cold kind of weather that even my pregnant self can’t complain about. Although I know if I’m enjoying temperatures this much so early in the morning, my feet will be a swollen mess by the time I get home later. I sigh and try not to think about how much I can’t wait to feel normal again.

  I got up before Luke this morning; I left a note on the bedside table, reminding him to let Jinx out for a wee, and then letting him know that if he’s looking for me I’ve set out for the local coffee shop. I’m hoping to bump into my friend Rose. I know she usually stops in for a coffee before going to pregnancy Pilates class. I want to ask her advice about Tina. Rose is a Garda. She’s quite high up. Detective, I think. I’m wondering if I should get a barring order or if I’m just a paranoid mess. And if anyone will tell me honestly, I know Rose will.

  I’ve left the car for Luke and suggested he join me later. I quite fancy the walk. The trees have lost their delicate pink blossoms, but they are nonetheless aesthetic – all green and leafy and smelling of summer. They line the streets in beautiful contrast to the red-brick houses behind them like a watercolour painting. I’m enjoying the fresh air after spending much too much time cooped up in the house recently.

  A removals van pulls into the house at the end of our road. The driver honks the horn as if he hasn’t just cut across me on the footpath, almost taking my toes with him. I walk on, ignoring how he glares out of the window at me. I hope our new neighbours h
ave kids, I think as I instinctively reach for my bump. There aren’t many children living locally. Our neighbours are mostly retired couples with grown-up children who come and go independently. Or young, renting couples. And people generally keep to themselves.

  I glance over my shoulder, hoping to get a clue about who’s moving in as I walk past the largest house on our road. The van parks in the driveway and the driver hops out to open the shutter at the back, revealing neatly stacked and sealed cardboard boxes. There are so few boxes I wonder why they bothered with a van at all. The driver and the guy helping him begin to unload the van. The driver’s eyes shift towards me as he says something I can’t hear to the other man. They’re both looking at me now and the driver is smirking and laughing. I look away and pick up pace. I’m about to cross the road when brakes screech and a passing car swerves and scarcely avoids colliding with the tree closest to me. I scream and jump out of the way, and losing my footing on the kerb I fall backwards and hit my coccyx. Pain shoots up my spine as I try to see into the car. I can’t see much of the driver except red hair and hands gripping the steering wheel tightly as the car straightens again and is driven away speedily. It’s all over in the blink of an eye. An accident narrowly dodged.

  ‘You all right?’ the van driver shouts, hurrying past the gate.

  My heart is pounding and I can’t form words but I manage to nod. His gaze drops to my round bump and he’s suddenly ashen.

  ‘Oh God,’ he says. ‘Can you stand?’

  Tears stream down my cheeks but I’m not crying. At least, I don’t think I am. Is this what shock feels like, I wonder? There’s loud ringing in my ears and I have to concentrate hard not to faint. He places his hand on my shoulder and I think he’s going to try to help me to my feet. I’m not ready. Thankfully, a familiar voice provides a positive distraction.

  ‘Darcy. Oh my goodness, Darcy.’ My elderly neighbour, Mr Robinson, crosses the street to come to my aid.

  Between them they help me up.

  ‘Oh Darcy you’re shaking like a leaf, you are,’ Mr Robinson says as he slips off his cardigan and drapes it over my shoulders.

  ‘Thank you,’ I whisper, slowly steadying myself on my feet.

  ‘Did you see that?’ the van driver asks.

  I’m about to answer when I realise he’s talking to my neighbour.

  ‘I did. Crazy driving. Much too fast for a residential area,’ Mr Robinson says.

  ‘I swear it looked as if the car was aiming straight for her,’ the van driver says. ‘I really thought it was gonna hit her.’

  ‘Did you get the registration number?’ Mr Robinson asks.

  ‘Couldn’t,’ the van driver says. ‘They drove away so bloody fast.’

  ‘Pity,’ Mr Robinson says. ‘That sort of driving needs to be reported before they kill someone.’

  The van driver places his hands on his hips and shakes his head as he says, ‘You wouldn’t believe some of the lethal eejits I see on the roads day in, day out. No wonder there are so many accidents. Usually texting or something like that. Madness.’

  When I’m less shaky Mr Robinson thanks the van driver for his help and suggests I go around to his house for a cup of tea.

  ‘I’ll call Luke, then,’ he says, as he places his arm around me in a fatherly way.

  ‘That was yer wan off the telly,’ I hear the van driver tell his colleague as we walk away.

  ‘The vegan one,’ the other man says. ‘Phwoah, she’s even hotter in real life, isn’t she?’

  Chapter Twelve

  TINA

  Wednesday 19 June 2019

  The new flat is smaller than I thought it would be. It was advertised as a spacious two-bedroomed home in a sought-after area. When in reality it is a cramped, dimly lit ground-floor flat with two narrow rooms masquerading as bedrooms to make space for a stupid open-plan kitchen and living area. Still, I can’t argue with the location. It is very much sought-after, although probably not sought by anyone else quite as much as me. I can’t believe my luck. Not only is this house in Darcy Hogan’s neighbourhood, it’s at the end of her road. Of course, it’s crazy expensive like all accommodation so close to the city. I just about have enough to cover the first three months’ rent, but hopefully I won’t be here long.

  I’ve been unpacking for hours. Some of the stuff in the boxes I’d forgotten I had. Like a scrapbook of old newspaper articles. I used to love collaging when I was younger. Maybe I should take that up again, I think, opening the scrapbook to read the first article.

  The Irish Informer

  23rd May 2000

  Gardaí Appeal for Public’s Help Tracing Missing Teenager

  Gardaí in Westrow, Dublin renew their appeal for missing 18-year-old Gillian Buckley. Gillian has not been seen by friends and family for eleven days.

  Updated sightings suggest Gillian may still have been on the school grounds as late as 10.30 p.m. on the day she went missing. Gardaí are following all leads, and they appeal for anyone who may have been in or around the area at the rear of the school building on 12th May to come forward for questioning.

  ‘We believe Gillian left the grounds with someone she knew,’ a leading detective on the case said today. Gardaí are also particularly anxious to speak to a group of youths who appear to have been drinking at the extremity of the property.

  I shake my head as I skip the rest of the article and flick through the scrapbook. There are some photos of St Peter’s. The grounds, mostly. Or the grand, alluring building with its sandstone walls and latticed windows, like a giant gingerbread house. Only there was nothing ever sweet about St Peter’s.

  There are more articles and more photos. But I close the scrapbook before I can flick through them all. Besides, I know how this story goes. Renewed appeals for information became less frequent as time passed. They dwindled to a mention on an anniversary, and after a few years there was nothing at all. It was almost as if everyone forgot about her. Even I was guilty of forgetting, until recently.

  The sound of the microwave pinging in the kitchen reminds me that it’s time for dinner. I take a deep breath and exhale with satisfaction as the smell of shepherd’s pie wafts towards me. I haven’t quite finished sticking all my photos and posters to the wall yet, but my stomach growls and I know I need a break. I glance around at my handiwork. My bedroom is wallpapered with the life of Darcy Hogan. Her radiant skin sparkles at me from a shiny magazine interview that I’ve cut out and hung above my bed. Her blue eyes pop in a photo I took on my phone a few weeks ago while I was watching her and Luke in the park. She even manages to shine in the black-and-white newspaper article from last year. ‘Businesswoman of the Year’ is printed in dark, bold font above a photo of Darcy holding her chunky, crystal award. On each side of the article I’ve hung a page torn out of our yearbook. Darcy is on page seventeen. Even with her flat, sandy-brown hair that she hadn’t yet bleached, she was still voted ‘Most Likely to Succeed as an Entrepreneur’. The font is less assertive and has faded over the years, but nonetheless the title resides above her ever-perfect face. On the opposite page is a photo of me. Or the old me. I look nothing like that helpless nerd any more. Above my shiny, greasy face and equally flat hair it reads ‘Most Likely to Be Alone’.

  It used to bother me every time I read those words. But it doesn’t any more. Mostly because I know they’re mixed up. Wrong. Reversed. Because I will succeed and Darcy will die alone. And as the microwave beeps again, nagging me not to forget my dinner, I decide to leave the space next to my bedroom window blank for now. I’ll need it for the most important article of all. The one not printed yet. Darcy’s obituary.

  Chapter Thirteen

  DARCY

  Thursday 20 June 2019

  Luke is pottering about in the kitchen when I wake up. I can smell coffee and pastry. My stomach rumbles loudly and reminds me that I’m famished. I haven’t been able to eat much recently. I was so shaken after the incident outside our new neighbour’s house. Every time I close my eyes I se
e the car swerving towards me, and I keep thinking about what could have been.

  Even worse, when I told Luke about what happened he said it proved his point that I shouldn’t be out and about, and he reminded me that the doctor suggested bed rest as much as possible for the remainder of the pregnancy. But with just a few more weeks until my due date, going into labour can only be a positive thing. Like getting a sentence reduced for good behaviour. And I have been well behaved. My God, I miss soft cheese and red wine.

  It’s a mammoth task to roll out of bed, and I groan audibly when I find a note on the bedside table from Luke.

  Honey,

  Jinx is outside. He was sick again last night. Everything clean now, but house stinks of puke and antibac. All windows open. Have a good rest today. See you after work.

  Love,

  L x

  My poor boy. I think of Jinx being sick in the utility room last night and I feel so guilty that he was all alone. Luke says we have to train him to sleep downstairs for when the baby comes but I’d much rather have him in our room with us. I pull something comfortable on and hurry downstairs just in time to hear the rumble of car tyres driving over the neat pebble-like stones in our driveway. I peer through the glass in the front door and I sigh with disappointment as Luke’s car pulls on to the road.

  ‘Here, Jinx, here, boy,’ I call, turning away from the door and clicking my fingers.

  Jinx bounds into the hall. He’s clean, dry and smells okay. He’s not the vomit monster I was expecting. Downstairs smells fine too. It’s a little cold as the morning breeze whips through the open windows, but I’m not getting the smell of anything other than coffee. I hurry around, closing all the windows, and restore order to the flying curtains. The house is calmer – silent. I make my way into the kitchen.

  There are freshly made croissants waiting on the table with jam and cream. Albeit they’re the frozen variety bunged in the oven for ten minutes. But Luke still gets sex tonight for effort, I decide. I pause and exhale, realising how long it’s been since I made love with my husband. A month. Two, maybe. And overall, we’ve only been intimate a handful of times since I’ve been pregnant. But Luke never complains. I think he’s too excited about the baby to think about much else.