‘Oh, I forgot about that,’ Kimberly says, her usual bubbly self once again. ‘We should go there for a drink this weekend?’
‘Yeah, maybe.’ Eddie nods.
‘You should come too, Gillian,’ Kimberly says.
Eddie doesn’t comment, clearly unimpressed by the idea.
‘We should get back inside,’ Eddie says. ‘Whoever that was, I don’t think they’ll be back.’
‘It’s a pity you didn’t get to use some of your killer tae kwon do moves on that hedge,’ Kimberly teases, high-kicking her leg while slicing the air with her arms.
‘Ah, Kim, leave it out,’ Eddie grumbles.
Kimberly may only be messing around, but I’ve no doubt she could kick arse if she really needed to. I decide to bear that in mind, moving forward.
‘Right. C’mon, let’s get back to bed,’ Eddie says. ‘I’m wrecked.’
I feel my racing pulse ease.
‘Yeah. Me too,’ Kimberly says, linking her arm around Eddie’s and dropping her head on to his shoulder as if he’s her hero. ‘Na’night, Gillian.’
‘Goodnight,’ I say, reaching for the handle of my patio door, but I don’t go inside. I wait and listen.
‘What was she doing out here?’ Eddie whispers after they turn away.
I strain my neck trying to hear as much as I can before they walk out of earshot.
‘Long story. I’ll tell you about it in bed,’ Kimberly says.
Eddie groans. ‘Don’t get too friendly with her, eh, Kim. There’s something off about her. I don’t trust her.’
‘Don’t be silly. She’s lovely,’ Kimberly says with a sigh as they turn the corner.
Chapter Thirty-Six
GILLIAN
Thursday 11 July 2019
Inside, I press my back against the patio door and slide to the floor. I’m shivering and my teeth chatter. Drawing my knees close to my chest and tucking myself into a ball helps. I’ve no way of knowing how much time has passed before I’m calmer and warmer, but it’s dawn outside when I finally look up. I groan inwardly and close my eyes again when my messy flat greets me. It almost looks as if the place has been burgled, except, of course, the furniture hasn’t budged. Sheets of paper are strewn everywhere – on the floor, the couch, the kitchen countertop. It’s as if giant pieces of confetti have rained from the ceiling. They are in fact pages of old newspapers, crisp and yellowed with age. Some are large pages ripped from broadsheets and discarded on the floor. There are tabloid pages too, some ripped in half, some crumbled into misshapen crinkly balls, and some don’t seem to have been touched in years. I pick up the page nearest to me and check the date. 1999. I do the maths in my head. I would have been eighteen then and in my final year in school. There’s an article circled in red pen and the heading catches my attention immediately.
Extension Approved For Exclusive Private School in Dublin
Minister for Education Frances Black has today said she is delighted to announce the expansion of a science and enterprise wing at St Peter’s, the already large school in west County Dublin. Speaking from her office she said, ‘St Peter’s is a fantastic school which up until now has been private. However, from next September St Peter’s are proud to announce a scholarship for a number of children to attend without paying fees thanks to the generosity of businessman Andrew Buckley. The Buckley Bursary will be open for applications to children from any county and is based on academic achievement.
Mr Buckley is out of the country on business and unavailable to comment. However Mr Martin McEvoy, principal at St Peter’s, said he was confident speaking for both men when he said, ‘Andrew Buckley has long been a friend of St Peter’s. He is a man who places great emphasis on academic achievement. He is beyond pleased to offer this opportunity to deserving young people. And I very much look forward to welcoming Buckley Bursary students to our school in the coming academic year.’
Neither the school nor Buckley & Co would answer speculation that a large sum of money was offered to the council in order to obtain the necessary planning permission. They also refused to confirm if Buckley & Co are funding the new build.
One thing is for certain: some very lucky children will be crossing the steps of St Peter’s next autumn without paying a penny.
‘Bullshit,’ I hiss, as if anyone is listening. ‘Utter bullshit.’ Andrew Buckley firmly believed in class. People had boxes and they should stay in them. Private education was for the wealthy. The special. I heard him say it with my own ears. This article makes him out to be something he wasn’t. He wasn’t understanding, that’s for sure.
I rip the paper in half and a long-overdue sense of relief washes over me. I tear again. Quarters. The sound of ripping paper hangs in the air for a moment like a glorious melody. I tear again and again, shrieking loudly with each satisfied rip.
When the pieces of paper are too small and finicky to tear any more, I flop out flat on the floor, exhausted. I’m about to close my eyes, content to drift to sleep on this very spot, when I notice something pinned to the fridge door. I pull myself up and drag myself over. I pull off the huge magnet that says ‘I Love Guinness’, and my hands are trembling as I catch the page underneath. It’s yellowish and somewhat crinkly, but I can tell it was once white. There are faint blue lines running horizontally across it. They’re so faded they’re hard to see, but I know this is a page once torn from a school exercise book. In the centre of the page is a large, red love heart. It’s hand drawn and bigger on one side than the other and inside are the words ‘Luke n Tina 4EVR’. I drop the page.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
TINA
Friday 14 April 2000
Today is usually my least-favourite day of the year. Awards day. We’re all crammed into the sports hall. The hum of a few hundred teenage voices whispering is low and deep and vibrates in my chest. There are medals for the sports teams and they all whoop and cheer each other like hooligans. Usually several students are singled out as sports stars of the year. Someone who scored the winning goal at the football final, or the captain of the hurling team. They still get a medal but a little something extra too, perhaps a book token that will inevitably land in the bin because heaven forbid they might be seen reading a book, they’d never live down the reputational damage.
There’s acknowledgment for academic achievements too. An English essay so well written the teacher just has to read it out onstage. Or the science geek who has been getting straight As all year. In my time at St Peter’s I’ve never once been invited onstage or received a medal or a voucher. I usually sit through the entire boring ceremony without talking to or cheering for a single person.
But this year is different.
A few months ago, when one of the girls from my English class said, ‘Oi, you’re that one who likes scrapbooks, aren’t you?’ I held my breath and waited for the inevitable teasing to follow, just like that last time she embarrassed me for collaging.
But when I didn’t reply, Gillian glared at me and said, ‘Well are ya?’
Realising it wasn’t just a rhetorical question I cleared my throat and said, ‘Erm. Yeah. I do like them. Yeah.’
‘Right,’ she said, her bright smile and straight teeth too close to my face. ‘Miss Arlington has asked us to put together a yearbook.’ She points to herself and then to some of her friends who have come to stand beside her and stare at me.
‘Oh.’ I smiled, thinking how exciting that task must be.
‘But,’ she said, scrunching her nose. ‘We’d rather boil our heads.’
My excitement plummeted and I wondered why she was telling me all this.
‘You like all that kind of crap though, dontcha?’
‘I’ve never made a yearbook before,’ I admitted, sensing where this was going.
‘Well, do you want to do it or not?’
‘Yeah. Yes. I’d love to.’
‘Jesus, relax,’ she said, and she turned to face her friends as they shared a giggle.
I took a deep
breath and tried to curb my enthusiasm.
‘Right, so. You’ve agreed to it. You can’t back out now,’ she said.
‘I won’t. I’ll do a great job. It will be really good, I promise.’
‘Yeah. Okay. Whatever. But this means we don’t have to do anything, right? I mean, you’re taking all the responsibility and you can’t change your mind.’
I nodded so enthusiastically my neck hurt and they all walked away laughing.
So, when the moment finally comes at the end of the long ceremony to hand out the yearbooks, I can barely contain my excitement. I haven’t been able to eat all morning. Bubbles of nervous energy pop in my stomach and my knees bob up and down, and I can tell I’m shaking the whole bench, as every now and then someone from the other end will stare at me with an angry scowl.
‘I must say this year’s yearbook has exceeded all expectations,’ Principal McEvoy says as he stands centre stage with a freshly printed yearbook clutched close to his chest.
It’s thick and glossy and it looks better than I even hoped.
‘Could the team behind this clever masterpiece please stand up,’ Mr McEvoy asks.
My smile is so big my jaw aches. I think about how surprised our principal and teachers will be to discover I single-handedly put the book together. They’ll be more impressed than ever, no doubt.
I’m just about to get to my feet when loud cheering and clapping erupts, and I look behind me to see Gillian and her friends standing up behind me.
‘Come up here girls,’ Mr McEvoy says, beckoning to them. ‘Not only have you done yourselves proud, you’ve done the whole school proud.’
I shake my head as the girls shuffle out from their position on the bench and begin walking towards the stage. A couple of them snigger as they pass me. Someone taps my shoulder and tears gather in the corners of my eyes as they pass me a yearbook. I turn it over and read the names printed on the back. Gillian Buckley is printed in cheery comic sans. There are several others below. The names of all the girls currently walking up onstage are there. But my name is missing.
I flick through the pages, stopping to sniffle back tears or to drag the sleeve of my jumper across my eyes to catch the ones I hold back. All my work is here. The articles I wrote about the hurling team. The collage of science equipment and experiments spans a double page. I’ve done my best to make sure every single student is mentioned at least once. I flick right to the back page as the girls reach the stage and the principal and vice-principal pass them a huge bouquet of colourful flowers each and sing their praises.
I shake my head and look away, my eyes dropping to the final page in the yearbook. My name is here after all. Gillian must have added this part at the last minute. It’s only a single page, but she hasn’t forgotten me, after all. It’s such a lovely surprise and I can feel excitement return. There’s a photo of me that I think was taken when I started in the first year. I’m young and innocent and smiling as I faced an unknown future. There’s a subheading under my name in brackets. It says ‘Most Likely To Be Alone’ in a large, bold font. And there is an unmissable black arrow pointing towards my photo. Underneath my smiling face is a hand-drawn love heart with the words ‘Luke n Tina 4EVR’ scribbled inside. My heart flinches as I recognise it. It’s one of the doodles from my scrapbook.
I’m surrounded by laughter. Loud, throaty guffaws ring in my ears as other students discover the back page. Some of them point and stare, others don’t even care. But everyone has seen it. Everyone. My cheeks are on fire and I feel as if Gillian’s hands are curled tightly around my neck. I can’t breathe. I glance over my shoulder at the door of the gym. It seems miles away through a sea of laughing kids. But I’m about to stand up and make a run for it, when I feel a hand on my shoulder.
My heart sinks lower when I discover it’s Darcy Flynn. No doubt she wants to have a go at me over the stupid Luke and Tina doodle. God, why am I so pathetic?
‘Are you okay?’ Darcy asks.
Her simple question rattles me.
‘Don’t let them get to you. They’re just bullies.’
My mouth is open but no words are coming out. I can’t understand why Darcy isn’t annoyed. I would be. She must be embarrassed at the very least. I can hear whispering about her and Luke too.
‘We only have another couple of months left in school and then you never have to see or think about them ever again,’ Darcy says.
I clutch the yearbook close to my chest, Darcy’s words hurting more than anything Gillian has done. She’s right. I don’t have long left at St Peter’s and what am I supposed to do then? Oh God.
‘You’re better than them,’ she says. ‘The yearbook is lovely. The best one yet.’
‘You know I did this?’
Darcy nods. ‘Yeah. Course. I remember you like collaging and I saw you working on something most nights recently. It’s great, Tina. You should be proud.’
Luke catches Darcy and me talking from the corner of his eye and slight horror flashes across his face. ‘Darcy, c’mere,’ he calls to her as if I’m a bacterium and getting too close to me might make her ill.
‘Coming,’ Darcy chirps. ‘See ya round, Tee,’ she adds, patting my arm fondly with the back of her hand.
Tee, I think. Tee. I’ve never had a nickname before. I like it.
The ceremony seems to come to a sudden, abrupt end and everyone stands up. It’s noisy and crowded as people push and shove their way towards the door. Gillian is swallowed into the crowd and soon all I can see is the back of her head as she chats with friends. I wait for the familiar, empty feeling of loneliness to encompass me, the one that holds me tightly in its clutches, sometimes for days. But it doesn’t come. Instead a warm, satisfied feeling fizzes in my veins and I stare at Gillian, so glad her back is turned. I hope she keeps it that way because then she won’t see me coming.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
DARCY
Friday 12 July 2019
Luke’s suitcase is open on the bed. I said I thought he needed a bigger one if he’s going to be away for a couple of weeks, but he didn’t take my advice. There’s no method to his packing. He has several shirts in an array of colours folded and placed to one side, but he hasn’t decided what suits to bring or what ties. I’ve tried making suggestions about which tie is best with which shirt but Luke grunts and turns his back, and I can tell he’s flustered and doesn’t want to be going.
I try to make it easier for him, telling him how excited I am that Gillian will be staying while he’s away, but he can see through my lies as if I am made of glass.
‘How many pairs of socks do you think I’ll need?’ Luke asks, as he opens his underwear drawer.
I laugh at the mundane question. ‘Seven,’ I suggest.
‘Seven?’ Luke squeaks as if I’m mad. ‘For a fortnight.’
I laugh louder. ‘I’m sure they have washing machines in Ohio, Luke.’
Luke scowls, clearly not finding me funny. ‘I suppose I can pick up anything I need in the shops when I get there.’
‘Exactly,’ I say.
Luke opens the top drawer of the chest of drawers. It’s my underwear drawer, not his.
‘Oops,’ he says, closing it again. ‘Wrong drawer.’
But before he walks away he opens it again and pulls out a screwdriver, asking, ‘What’s this?’
‘It’s a screwdriver,’ I say.
I completely forgot they were there, I think, hating that Luke has found them at the worst possible time with his flight in just a few hours. I don’t want to get into a conversation about money and bills today. A shiver runs down my spine as I’m reminded of the rat problem too. I haven’t heard from the exterminator. He was supposed to be back from his holidays by now. I must give him another call.
‘I know what it is, Darcy,’ Luke says, pointing the silver end of the tool towards me. ‘But I don’t know why it’s hiding among your thongs.’
‘Oh, erm . . . ’ I can’t seem to think quickly. Damn baby brain. �
�I was measuring up for the new television.’
‘Really?’ Luke raises a single eyebrow.
‘Mm-hmm,’ I say.
‘Measuring for the new television you said you didn’t want and asked me not to buy.’
‘Well, maybe I changed my mind.’
‘And you were measuring with a screwdriver.’
I shrug as Luke stares at me, waiting for a better explanation. ‘I just grabbed whatever tools were nearest. That place gives me the creeps – it’s so dark. And what’s that smell? Do you know it smells rank in there?’
‘This is why we should have bought the shed with the window,’ Luke says. ‘I told you.’
I feel awful for lying but I’ll open up the floor again, and while Luke’s away I’ll go through all the bills he has stashed down there. Hopefully they won’t even be an issue by the time he gets back. Gillian’s funds should be transferred soon and then I can get us back in the black. It will be a nice surprise for Luke to come home to and it will help me to feel useful again. I’m so excited thinking about the company being solvent again.
Luke pulls out the chisel and wrench. He tuts and shakes his head. ‘Right, I’ll put these back so you don’t have to go in the shed again.’
‘Your taxi will be here soon,’ I say. ‘Why don’t you leave the tools there?’ I point to the top of the dresser. ‘You need to finish packing. Do you have your passport and tickets?’
Luke places the tools down and walks towards the wardrobe. ‘Passport in my suit pocket. Tickets on my phone. And Gillian says a driver is picking me up at the airport when I arrive so I won’t have any trouble finding the hotel.’
‘Sounds good,’ I say, my eyes dropping to the wonky floorboard that bounces every time Luke steps on it. He doesn’t seem to notice.
‘Speaking of Gillian, I thought she’d be here by now,’ Luke says. ‘Did she say what time she was coming?’
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