In Too Deep

by Bradd Chambers

  “Darrell Boyle?” the bald guy with the glasses far too big for him screeches hysterically.

  “The very one,” Paul flicks his drink towards him, spilling a little down his wrist. “It seems he doesn’t give her a penny.”

  “She should have her own job and not rely on his wealth,” a lady whose name escapes Ava says, scrunching her shoulders up and pouting in distain.

  “I agree with you 100%,” Paul nods, his blinking elongated, the whiskey definitely taking more of an effect. “What does that slabber do anyway? I saw him in the paper this week for something… What was it? Something to do with lifeboats or…”

  “Increasing the height of the new bridge, or putting nets down,” the first boy speaks again.

  Ava fidgets uncomfortably, Mark moving slightly into her in his own way of protecting her, as if she couldn’t hear them if he did so.

  “That was it, that was it,” Paul hiccups. “I mean, preposterous that there’s anyone out there that has a problem with that, for Christ’s sake. All those druggies that end up falling into the Foyle, or topping off it. Do the community a favour anyway.”

  A few people nod as he takes another sip of his drink.

  “All a waste of energy, if you ask me. And the dole’s money. And the emergency services. How can your life be that bad that you would rather swim with God only knows what at the bottom of that Foyle. The smell of it too,” he titters, a few joining him.

  “There was someone trying to openly stop him,” another lady in a suede suit interjects. “Says that it isn’t the right solution.”

  “And so they’re right,” Paul lags his head in her direction, although Ava believes he’s that far gone he’s not quite sure which woman said it. “Leave the beautiful picturesque view of our city alone. Instead, put a bullet in the stupid narrowminded heads of those who want to be in the front of the newspapers and trending on Twitter and Facebook so badly that they throw themselves off it.”

  At that, Ava shoves Mark’s arm off her, not caring that she accidently knocks him into Paul, and hurries to the toilets, angry tears stinging at her eyes.

  Chapter Twenty-Two:

  Bursting into the bathroom and slamming the cubicle door shut, she sits and lets the silent tears fall. Bastards like that are the narrowminded ones, she thinks. Just because he grew up with wealth and status, he thinks anyone dealing with mental health issues are instantly drug users.

  She can’t believe what she’s just heard. She can’t believe she let him away with it. She has half a mind to march back out there and make a scene. Throw a drink in his face. Scream all the accusations running through her head right now… But that would ruin Mark’s night. Potentially taint his career. She isn’t going to be that girlfriend, especially after the past few days.

  She gets to work on her makeup, drying her eyes and adding a little more to conceal the fact that she had been crying. Just as she’s about to stand up, she hears the door to the bathroom opening and two women walk in. She immediately recognises the voice of the woman she was standing with. The woman whose name she couldn’t recollect.

  “Aye, she’s Fiona McFeely’s daughter. Remember? Your woman who topped herself three years ago?”

  “The name rings a bell…”

  It’s the second woman who had been joining in on the conversation with the suede suit.

  “Oh, come on, Rochelle. There aren’t many women who take their own lives, now are there? Especially at her age.”

  “Well, regardless, what about her?”

  “That’s why she stormed out. He was saying those things and she couldn’t deal with it, obviously.”

  “But they were the truth?”

  “I know that, darling. Everyone knows that. But you can’t throw it in her face like that.”

  “And it was her who was petitioning to stop the expansion?”

  “Yeah, she had a meeting with him and her gob was flashed across the Letter yesterday. Honestly, how do you not keep up with local news?”

  “It doesn’t interest me, Grace. It’s no Downton Abbey, now is it?” Rochelle giggles.

  The two ladies continue their laughter and mutter torts like ‘selfish girl,’ just as Ava flushes the toilet and clicks open the door. They’re stood at the mirror reapplying their lipstick, and when they both see her they halt, eyes widening, mouths open. Coughing politely, making sure they see her staring at their reflections, Ava marches straight past them and out the door.

  Chapter Twenty-Three:

  Hammering back down the stairs, she sends Mark a quick text to let him know that she is getting a taxi home and to not bother coming after her.

  ‘Enjoy your night xx’ she adds to ensure he knows she isn’t angry at him. Just as she’s about to put her phone back in her bag, she looks up to come face to back with someone waiting by the doors. However, she’s moving too fast and isn’t able to stop on time.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so, so, so sorry,” she holds both hands to her head as he turns around. “Cathal?”

  “We have to stop… Running into each other like this,” he winks.

  She manages to snigger lightly, despite her mood.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Eoin, the photographer, had other plans. So muggins here has the job of coming and taking photos of the event upstairs. But I don’t have my press pass, and the bouncer won’t let me in without it.”

  “Dick!”

  “No, no. It’s not his fault. It’s my own. My subconscious probably tried to forget it on purpose so I wouldn’t have to do it. I’m a journalist, not a photographer. They’re just getting me to do it as a scapegoat. Passing it off as improving my experience, when really they all have something better to do on a Saturday night. And to be honest with you, I don’t have the money to spend on the taxi home, never mind getting in to take photographs. I’m sure they’ll be on Facebook in the morning.”

  He wolf-whistles as he looks Ava up and down.

  “Are you a member of the party?”

  “I was, yeah.”

  Taken aback a little by Ava’s bluntness, she apologises to him immediately.

  “Sorry… It’s just… Can I buy you a drink?”

  Chapter Twenty-Four:

  A little over an hour later, they’re already several drinks in. The commotion upstairs at the back of Ava’s mind. Cathal managed to calm her down and they had a good rant about Paul and all his minions. Talking about different tragic or unfortunate circumstances they would love to see them in.

  Ava has just stopped telling him about her mother, what a great woman she was. He smiles and fiddles with his glass. She clicks her head to the side to examine him, the drink forcing her to close one eye to see him better.

  “Tell me about your ma, Cathal.”

  He shrugs.

  “Not a lot to talk about.”

  “No, that’s not true. Now my ma? That’s not a lot to talk about. Not anymore, anyway,” she smiles.

  “I never met her,” he begins to pick at the damp coaster. “She left shortly after I was born.”

  Ava’s heart sinks.

  “Oh… Cathal. I… I’m sorry.”

  “Never worry. You didn’t know.”

  “What happened?”

  “My da says it’s ‘cause she wasn’t right. Always wanted something she couldn’t have or be somewhere she couldn’t get to. In the end, we weren’t enough for her.”

  The familiarity of his confession hurts Ava’s chest.

  “We?”

  “Me and my da.”

  “You mentioned a little sister last night?”

  “Aye, Orla. She’s only 14.”

  Ava nods, feeling like there’s more to the story that he wants to tell. Reading his body language like she was taught in the counselling courses she took at the Tech before opening the charity.

  “Yep… It’s just me and her,” he blows out, lifting his drink and draining it.

  “Oh… Your da… Is he?”

  He looks ba
ck up at her.

  “As good as.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Fucked off one day. Left me with her. I was only 15 myself.”

  Ava shakes her head, revulsion collecting in her stomach.

  “I take it you went into care?”

  “Nope,” he shakes his head. “I couldn’t do it to her. Or myself. I just pretended like nothing happened. Forged his signature on school documents. Said he was sick for parent’s evenings. Luckily, he never showed his face around school much anyway, and his mate Jimmy works in the dole office, so he knew me well. I used to go in and collect it for him and take it to the bar or wherever he was that day. So, after he left… I just continued doing it. Nothing really changed that. Jimmy would just say ‘tell him I was asking about him.’

  “Used the money on food and that before I got a part time job when I turned 16. Worked in the shop down the road from me. Then, when I turned 18, I started telling people he’d gone missing. Not for years, like. But acting like he hasn’t come back from a mad weekend. Luckily, people around my parts don’t ring the cops or ask a lot of questions, so it’s grand. They still think he’ll come back soon. Either way, I don’t care. Now I’m the guardian of Orla… Not officially, anyway.”

  “And Orla’s mum?”

  “She left too. She was from Dublin. She went with my da for a while, but in the end… She just wanted to go home.”

  “That’s sad. Did Orla know her?”

  “Not really, she must’ve only been about three when she left.”

  “Were they together long? Your da and Orla’s ma?”

  “She never even lived with us. They just kind of saw each other when it suited them. She was an alcoholic. Used to hang around John Street, from what my da told me. I saw her there once. It was weird. She didn’t even recognise me. That’s how Orla came to live with us.”

  “And she doesn’t try to make contact? With you or Orla?”

  “Nope, just left one day and haven’t heard anything from her since.”

  Ava shakes her head as he finishes his story. Seemingly everyone pivotal in Cathal’s life has disappeared. How did he manage to cope? And with Orla under his wing?

  “I can’t believe you had the nerve to call me brave last night after everything you’ve been through. You should be so proud of yourself, Cathal. I’m serious,” her tone turns dead as he snorts and looks away, making him glance back at her.

  Their eyes meet for a few seconds and Ava questions whether this is a good idea. Especially after last night. Fresh guilt rising after him telling her about his money problems, then paying her drinks tab.

  “Thanks,” he coughs, standing.

  Did he read her mind? Or was it something in her eyes?

  “Just gonna nip to the bog here, be two ticks.”

  As she watches him leave, she pulls out her phone to see no new messages from Mark. Slightly pissed that he’d read the last one from herself, she forces down her annoyance. He needs to show his face, make more clients, do business. She wouldn’t understand the politics of it all.

  Tucking her phone away, she looks around at the downstairs bar area, smiling at people as she meets eyes with them. Turning almost 180 in her seat, she sees the same doorman standing at the door, looking a little bored. He’s arguing with a drunken teenager, not letting him in. Some people have some nerve.

  Just as she’s about to turn back around she sees him. Mark. Scurrying across to the front door. She turns back in her seat again and presses herself as much as she can against the wall beside her, wishing she could just melt into it.

  When the coast is clear, she fires Cathal a quick excuse through text, after programming his number into her phone last night in the back of the taxi, before trotting up to the bar and throwing two dog-eared £20 notes at the barman.

  Did he see her? Is that why he left? She thanks God that he doesn’t smoke or he would’ve walked right past her towards the smoking area. Checking that he’s definitely not still outside, she jogs across the street, taking solace in the dark secluded car park, before sliding down Queen’s Quay and rounding the back of the Guildhall, thumbing a taxi down from the bottom of Shipquay Street.

  As she finally exhales and gives the driver her address, she tries to calm her beating heart. She isn’t doing anything wrong. What does she have to feel guilty about? Cathal is just a friend… A work colleague. A member of the media to help with her business. She doesn’t find him attractive in anyway. So why does she feel like she’s betraying Mark’s trust?

  ****

  Chris and I were inseparable from then on in. The first date was sloppy, awkward and clumsy. The bowling didn’t help. But I started to open up again after a few of the cocktails. I relaxed. And I let him kiss me again before I went home. Actually before stepping into the taxi, this time.

  He changed something in me. I found myself strangely bubblier. Not that I was miserable to start off with. He just made me happy. Happier. He made me laugh like no-one I’d ever met before. Proper belly laugh until my sides were sore and I had to run to the toilet in fear of peeing myself. He was just my favourite person. I wanted to be around him all the time.

  Everyone noticed the difference in me. The girls slyly giggling that all I needed was ‘a bit,’ but it took us weeks to sleep together. It would’ve been longer, but I ended up getting really drunk and he brought me home in the taxi. I wouldn’t let him leave. He refused to do anything, but he slept beside me, pushing me to the side every time I rolled over in case I was sick.

  We did it the next morning. I woke up and saw him beside me, the memories flooding back. But instead of being embarrassed, I found a level of respect for him that no-one else ever reached. I told him I loved him as he snored on, planting a kiss on his lips.

  Of course, after that it was like clockwork. Daily. Cheeky phone calls during work hours. Rushing home knowing one of us would be waiting beneath the sheets. I’m not afraid to say he was the best I ever had. Not that the list was overly long. But those other boys were only after somewhere to fill. Chris nurtured me. Satisfied me. Made my toes curl. I genuinely felt like we were set for life. That was, until…

  Chapter Twenty-Five:

  Robyn’s face is bright as she steps aside to let Ava through her front door.

  “Ave, it’s so good to see you. But, you know you’re more than welcome in this house. Any time. No doorbells. Just waltz in.”

  “I know, Rob. I just don’t want to take you by surprise is all,” she smiles.

  In Robyn’s condition, she can’t be too careful.

  “The only surprise I get is wondering who’s at my door. I don’t get much visitors, love.”

  She shuffles through the living room into the conjoining kitchen, Ava following at a safe distance. She gazes out at the impressive view from Robyn’s living room window. The beautiful twinkle of the River Foyle in the summer’s sun in the distance. The Foyle Bridge scaling across the water like a serpent, except for the several cement piers impaling the water.

  She watches as dozens of cars speed across it, looking as small as ants from here. Going about their lives. Blissfully unaware of the ominousness of the river they cross to get from A to B. She remembers staring from this exact spot and watching the Foyle Search and Rescue patrolling the fastest flowing river in Europe. Looking for her mother.

  “Your tea,” Robyn nods towards the rickety table that has been plucked from a nest of three that have been part of this sitting room for as long as Ava can remember.

  That’s the good thing about Robyn. She’s plain. Predictable. Doesn’t like change. Maybe that’s why her sister’s death struck her so hard. She hasn’t been the same since. Ava could see it from behind her eyes even when she was acting tough for Ava’s sake. She walked in on her a few times looking at pictures of Ava’s mother on her phone with a tissue pressed against her face. But once she saw Ava watching, Robyn jostled herself with making dinner or a hot drink, the sniffle the only inclination that something was wrong. />
  “How’ve you been?” Ava smiles over at her.

  “A bit better, aye,” she stretches her feet over the gold pouffe. “My tablets knocked me out for a good nine hours last night.”

  Ava wishes she could have such a luxury. Sleeping tablets only make her groggy, she has yet to try some that knock her out completely.

  “How was the fancy shindig last night?”

  Ava busies herself with dunking her digestive into the drink, sucking at the dissolving biscuit as it crumbles in her mouth. Still Robyn stares over, relentlessly.

  “Was grand, aye.”

  Robyn’s eyebrows raise.

  “What happened?”

  Ava sighs. She didn’t come over to talk about what happened last night.

  “Just some posh twats not having a clue about what they’re talking about.”

  Robyn shifts her head to the side, an indication to continue.

  “They were talking about my battle with Boyle. Basically, saying that it’s a waste of time because everyone and anyone who jumps the bridge are on drugs.”

  Robyn’s eyes expand as she struggles out of her chair, hurrying to the kitchen. Moments later, she reappears with two thick slices of apple tart.

  “Freshly made this morning. Not by myself, of course. Got it down the road at the Spar.”

  Ava thanks her aunt. She always remembers requesting pies when Robyn babysat her. The sickly feeling she got when she secretly bit into a rhubarb one before dinner once, mistakenly thinking it was apple. Her comeuppance, Uncle Damien had called it.

  Robyn returns to her chair and busies herself with talking about the TV programme she has on mute. Asking Ava if she’s seen it, not bothering to wait for an answer as she depicts what the character on screen is up to. Ava nods along politely, her eyes moving from the TV screen and settling on the cabinet it rests on. The ornaments and picture frames. The one resting on the VCR of particular interest.