by Roddy Doyle
That's Carmel.
The Bewley's cafes closed down months ago.
—The hotel, says Denise. —Bewley's Hotel.
Paula nods.
—Newland's Cross, says Denise.
Paula doesn't know where that is. She's heard of it, on the radio; the young one with the traffic news, in the mornings. But she hasn't been there. It could be south or west. She doesn't know.
—What do you do? she says. —Not – I mean, that's your own business. But I mean, do you just go in and book a room?
—Jesus, Paula, says Carmel.
—I want to know, says Paula.
—Why?
Because it's a brilliant thing to do and I've never fuckin' done it.
—I just do, she says.
She looks at Denise.
—Over the phone, says Denise. —That's the way I do it.
—For the night? Or a few hours?
—Oh, the night.
—Waste of money, says Carmel. —Tea or coffee? Come on.
—Nothing for me, says Denise.
—The same, says Paula. —I'm grand.
—For fuck sake, says Carmel.
—I couldn't just ask for a couple of hours, says Denise. —I don't know if you can, anyway. I'd be too embarrassed.
Paula nods.
Carmel sits. She picks up her mobile. She looks at it.
—Are you going to tell Harry? says Paula.
She'll ask the questions. It might keep Carmel off Denise; there's something going on there.
—I don't know, says Denise. —I'm not in love with him or anything.
—Harry?
—No. Thomas.
—Oh.
—He's great and all.
Paula nods. She feels it. She's racing against Carmel. She doesn't look at her.
—It's an adventure, says Denise.
—Yeah, says Paula.
Fuck you and your adventure.
—Nothing serious, so? she says.
—Oh, it's serious, says Denise. —You can't do this and not be serious, Paula. D'you know what I mean?
And Paula looks at Carmel.
Carmel is crying.
—What's wrong?
—Oh, nothing, says Carmel. —Sorry for interrupting you.
—What's wrong?
—Honest, Paula, says Carmel.
She rubs the back of her hand across her eyes. She sighs, and rubs her eyes again.
—Honest to God now. I'd much rather listen to Denise than listen to myself just now.
She looks at Denise.
—You're right, you know. It's an adventure. I could do with one. Where's the corkscrew?
She's not crying now. She's Carmel again. She picks up the corkscrew.
—What's happened? says Paula.
It's her turn. She can listen, maybe say something. She can help. She puts her hand on Carmel's shoulder.
—Hang on, says Carmel. —Let me get the cork out here and then you can hug me.
Carmel again. Hard, sarcastic, loving; the tough nut with the heart of gold. She'll need no help from Paula.
—I wasn't going to hug you.
She's Paula again. There'll be no change. She's the one who needs the help. She doesn't give it. That's not what Paula does.
Carmel fills her glass. Paula loves the sound. It would be lovely on a tape or CD.
—So, says Carmel. —Poor Harry.
Jack's in the kitchen when Paula gets home.
—Not in bed, Jack?
Why does she say these stupid things? But it's after midnight. It's not stupid at all. She's asking him, gently, why he isn't in bed yet. Exactly what she should be asking, and exactly how.
Jack doesn't answer. He's eating a bowl of cornflakes.
They have the milk. They have the cornflakes, one of the huge boxes, nearly full. And it's two days to payday.
—Nothing wrong, no?
—No, says Jack.
She looks at him. She believes him.
—Just hungry, he says.
There's nothing wrong with one of her children. There's no need for concern or worry. He's healthy – it's there, in his skin. He's content – look at the way he's holding his spoon. He's hopping his foot. There's a song going on in his head as he eats. She'd love to ask him which one it is.
He's self-aware. He's bright. He's gorgeous.
She looks at Jack. She doesn't feel guilt. She'll never have to beg forgiveness.
She'll lose him. He'll crumble away on her.
Jesus, it's terrible.
She remembers. She has asked him to forgive her. More than once. More than twice. They all come tumbling, all the times, one over another. Drunk and sober.
It's fuckin' terrible. And it's funny. She sees that.
—Is Leanne in?
—Don't know.
—Fine.
She looks at the clock. She's in the kitchen. A minute left. She waits.
It's ten-past four.
She picks up the éclair. She licks the cream out of it.
She watches herself. It's fuckin' stupid.
But.
She bites into the chocolate, and the pastry that's been softened by the cream.
Jack's not home yet. Leanne's at work. Paula will be leaving, herself, in a bit.
She's a year off the drink. Exactly a year.
She looks at the clock.
A year and a minute.
She likes to start in the kitchen. Especially in the winter. She's not supposed to. Dympna told her to start at the top of the house and work her way down. But she doesn't. Dympna plays golf or something when Paula's in the house. Paula has her own key.
—Dympna?
Paula stands in the hall. She closes the door.
—Dympna?
She listens. She hears nothing. She's alone.
The kitchen is warm. The radio's on. Marian Finnucane. She's interviewing some women when Paula comes in and starts listening. They're the McCartney women, the sisters of the man who was murdered by the IRA in Belfast a few weeks ago. There's a note on the table. Hi Paula. Any chance of defrosting fridge? Many thanks. D. The money is under the note. Seventy euro. Paula puts it away, into her pocket. She puts on the kettle. She unplugs the fridge. It's an old one, much smaller than her own. She empties it. She puts everything on the table. It's not too bad. There's not much in it. Nothing gooey or half-alive. There are a few old vegetables in the bottom. Old carrots, spuds with hair. She drags the bin over and dirows them in. There's a compost heap out the back but it's cold out there and it's warm in here.
They've three coffee plungers. Four-cup, two-cup, one-cup. In a row, on the counter, against the wall tiles. The handles all point the same way, a bit like the cranes she sees every day from the window of the Dart. She takes the one-cup. She pours in some of the hot water from the kettle. She rolls it around in the plunger. She has all the moves. She pours out the water. There's a black plastic scoop in the coffee jar. She gives herself two scoops, into the plunger. She fills it with the water. She puts the plunger itself on the top, like a lid. The smell takes over the room. The outside cold is out of her nose.
The McCartney women are great. She hadn't noticed their brother's murder when it happened. There are so many murders. A murder in Limerick, a murder in Cork. Every day, it seems like. A murder in Dublin – she'll listen, to see if she knows the place where it happened. She heard Charlo's name on one of those news reports, when he murdered a woman and then got himself shot by the Guards. She's been through it. She used to listen out for John Paul's name. A young boy out there, with junkies, gangsters, unfortunates. Found dead. By the river, down a lane. She'd relax, she'd move again when they started on the sports results or the weather. But a murder in Belfast. The first part of the word – Bel – she's not listening any more. Only the really awful murders get through, like that child in Cork or the girl, Rachel, in north Dublin, whose husband was arrested and let go. She's not sure what happened there. And that just proves it.
Five miles from her house, she doesn't know what happened.
She didn't see Leanne this morning. She'd had to get out of the house early, to do a job, a once-off, in Sutton. A family moving back in, after the builders had moved out. Paula cleaned their new extension. She washed the floors and walls. It was cushy enough, just cement dust. She left when the removals truck arrived.
She can still feel the cement in her mouth. She pats her shoulder. She watches the dust. She's taken it out of one house, and dumped it in another. Cleaning the same dust twice in one morning. It's mad.
She has to know where Leanne is. All the time. She's on her own here, but she's never alone. And it's not just Leanne. Her children are all around her, all their different ages and faces. She has four, divided into thousands. There are so many Leannes. She sees and feels hundreds of her, every day – it's no exaggeration. The little girl clutching Paula's leg. The teenager painting nail varnish onto bleeding skin. The baby crying while her mammy tries to crawl under the cot. The wreck on the couch. The young woman hobbling to work. The little girl who never sits still, who makes everyone laugh. The little girl who wets the bed. The teenager who wets the bed. The woman who wets the bed. They're all there, all day. The young woman she'll see tomorrow morning. The skinny monster she might see tomorrow morning. The girl who hugs her. The woman who hit her. Jesus.
And John Paul. The little boy in his communion gear, counting his money. The boy with the flu, with a pair of cold, wet underpants on his forehead, to cool him out of the fever, water trickling into his eyes; the two of them laughing about it. The boy on the hospital trolley. The boy at the table, doing his homework. The baby, just born, lowered to her breast – We've a boy here, Mrs Spencer. The boy who didn't come home. The hole there, the cancer; the fuckin' little bastard. The junkie. The waster. The hope; the absence. The stranger at the door. The man. The father. The recovering addict. The boy who flew around, shouting and roaring. The man who stays still. The boy she couldn't ever stop hugging. The man she hasn't touched.
It's fuckin' exhausting.
There are other Nicolas. There are other Jacks. All there, too. Climbing all over her, prodding and patting and biting.
She knows nothing about Leanne. She used to. She's sure she did. The happy ache, watching her move and think and eat, and all of it. Two years ago. Less. It was there, the love. She could lean in closer. Even when there was drink on the breath. It was harmless; she was growing up.
What happened?
What happens?
The McCartney murder won't go away. Paula knows all about it now. She's seen pictures of the pub where it started. She's seen the lane beside the pub where he was killed. He was from the Short Strand area, in Belfast. She hears the name. She's not sure if she knew it before. It sounds like North Strand, in Dublin. That makes it seem familiar. She's seen pictures of Robert McCartney's kids. She's seen his partner. She's there with the sisters, with Marian Finnucane.
There's hardly anything in the freezer. A couple of bits of – it looks like salmon, in a plastic bag; salmon steaks. She's never had salmon that way, only smoked. She's had that a few times, at weddings. She's not mad about fish. It's good for you but she doesn't like it. She remembers her mother gutting mackerel. She'd haul the guts out with her finger. It frightened Paula. That was why she watched. She thought her mother was amazing. Paula will never do it. But she might give salmon steaks a go. She rubs ice off the plastic. These steaks look solid and meaty. She could like them, she thinks. She's seen them in the supermarket. She knows where to find them.
There's a pizza and half a bag of garden peas. And fish fingers, way at the back. They don't put up much of a fight. It's just the ice she has to hack. Paula's fridge at home defrosts automatically. She'll tell Dympna about it the next time she sees her.
She presses down the coffee plunger. Her thumb aches, all the bones on that side of her hand. But she kind of likes this one. She can worry it without going back through the years. The pain is new, like the duvets and Jack's computer. She earned it. She knows that as she works. She can feel it charge and recede as she holds brush and mop handles, as she gets the lid off the disinfectant.
A thought drops through her. Richie Massey will be getting out of jail.
Richie Massey is the man who did the job with Charlo. Paula doesn't know him. She'd never heard of him until she began to find out what had happened that day. She's never even seen him, except on the telly, going into court. Even then, he had a jacket over his head.
She chooses a white mug.
What if he comes looking for her?
Another ring on the bell.
She pours. She gets the milk from where she left it on the table. It's a lovely table, very light wood. Blond, she thinks it's called. It's the centre of the kitchen. You can't help looking at it all the time. There's always stuff lying on it. Bills, schoolbooks, toys. She likes the mess. They must just shove the stuff out of the way when they're eating. Dympna never leaves the breakfast things for Paula. They're always in the dishwasher.
Richard 'Richie' Massey. That's the way his name was given in the Herald and the other papers. He'll be out soon; he'd have to be. He didn't kill anyone, he wasn't armed – it's twelve years ago. But there's no reason why he'd come after Paula. Charlo wasn't living at home when it happened. He'd been gone for more than a year. And it's not like they've been sharing a cell. Drop in on the missis, Richie. Make sure she's behaving herself. There's no story there at all. Charlo died immediately. Tell her I love her, Richie.
She sniffs the milk. It's grand. Dympna would be fuckin' stunned if she saw Paula sniffing her milk.
He might be out already. There's no real reason why she'd know. There's no one to tell her. He could walk past her today and she wouldn't recognise him.
She pours. Her hand is steady. Brown sugar. There's no other kind here. Paula doesn't use the brown at home. It hardens too quickly. It's like breaking cement.
She stirs. She sips. That's great.
She goes back to the freezer. She listens as she hacks. The women are talking about living in their part of Belfast. A Padre Pio is a bullet through the hand. Or the knee. She's not sure; it's been said before she fully takes it in. Probably the hand. Jesus though – enough.
But she doesn't turn off the radio. It would be too violent, turning off those voices. She leaves them on. She thinks, They'd listen to me. It's true. They probably would.
In another of her houses, they've a huge freezer, as well as the one that comes on top of the fridge. It's colossal, like a supermarket shelf stretched out on its back. She looks in it now and again. But she's never been asked to defrost it. She wouldn't anyway. It'd be too big a job, way beyond the call of duty. She always thinks of Christopher Lee when she lifts the lid. The cold lifts up, around her. It's like a tangle of bodies. Legs of lamb – she thinks. Huge slabs of darker meat. Deer, maybe – she's never had it. All packed in thick plastic. It's like forensic evidence, put there till the trial. It's too much, really. Paula wouldn't have it.