In Too Deep

by Bradd Chambers

  “Have you heard anything from Damien?” she asks when there’s a lull in the conversation while Robyn takes a sip of her tea.

  Robyn follows her gaze to the wedding picture, smiling gently.

  “No.”

  “Where did he go, Rob?”

  Robyn shrugs.

  “Last I heard he was up and about around Letterkenny direction doing a bit of work.”

  Damien is a self-proclaimed business man who mastered all skills. You could call him and ask him about anything from electrical to plumbing. When Ava moved into her house, Damien was the first over to inspect it with her. Whispering to himself more than to her about what ‘just won’t do’ and what he could ‘get fixed in no time.’ It had been a long five months since she’d heard anything from him.

  “Don’t you miss him?”

  Robyn pretends she didn’t hear her.

  “I do,” Ava admits, staring at her aunt.

  Robyn sighs, wiping her eyes.

  “What happened that night, Rob?”

  Robyn looks longingly at her. For a second, she thinks she actually will find comfort in her niece. She’s never told anyone the facts about that night. But she decides against it.

  “I told you. Nothing critical. We were just not happy for quite some time.”

  “Was it because of Mum?”

  Robyn jumps like she heard a gunshot.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course it wasn’t. And it had nothing to do with you either, before you think such silly things.”

  “It’s just… When I lived here… Sorry, Robyn, but I couldn’t help but overhear your arguments. The walls are thin.”

  Ava remembers the nights she’d lie awake, insomnia brought on by grief. She’d hear the whispered but heated conversations from the other room. Damien would call Robyn looped, tell her she needed help. But the next day at breakfast he’d be all smiles.

  “Why did he leave you?”

  Robyn stares at the TV again, shaking her head.

  “He just… Wasn’t a very nice man, Ave.”

  “Did he hit you?”

  “God no, pet. You need to stop overthinking things. Things weren’t right with us for a while. But we just kept it behind closed doors. Put up a front. You lived here for a few years, you obviously saw the cracks in the relationship. But they were there a long, long time. They weren’t fresh.”

  Ava nods, knowing her aunt well. Knowing she wants this conversation to draw to a close.

  Chapter Twenty-Six:

  “Well, I better get off,” she stands after the forced small talk runs dry, leaving the fork on the side plate with a light clatter. “Mark’s bringing over a Chinese tonight. I’m a bit hungover, so hopefully the curry sauce can do its wonders.”

  Robyn beams up at her as she too rises to her feet.

  “Right, love. Well, don’t be a stranger. You know you’re always more than welcome here. Oh, I almost forgot…”

  And with that, she skirts around the corner and up the stairs. Ava listens to the creaks of the ceiling, following the noises with her eyes before they come to a stop. She waits for several more moments before joining her. As she turns right on the landing, she sees Robyn sitting in her old bedroom. Well… Not her old bedroom, but Robyn’s spare room that housed her for several years after her mother’s death.

  She stands under the threshold, examining the room and comparing it to the one in her old home. The home she shared with her mum. Her old room’s walls were plastered with pictures of her and her friends, mirrors and fairy lights, posters of Kanye West. These things never made it back onto the walls of this room. The lick of cream paint left untainted. Her eyes rest on Robyn perched on the side of the bed. Her hands submerged in an old shoe box. The merlot red heels flashing back unwantedly in her mind, Ava struggling to push them back down.

  “I found this when I was cleaning up the other week. I thought you might like it.”

  Robyn finds what she’s looking for and wields it in front of her. Ava takes it gratefully. A photograph of a much younger looking Robyn and Ava on the Portrush Harbour. Ava mustn’t be much older than three or four. Green mint ice cream stains the front of Ava’s Barbie top. Still she giggles on, Robyn’s arms wrapped around her. A huge grin on her face. Ava’s eyes rest on the shadow on the bottom right side of the photo. Her mother, behind the camera.

  “Thanks, Rob. This is so nice.”

  “I found it amongst old things, put it in here for safe keeping. Thought you might like it,” she beams. “Memories.”

  “Thanks, I’ll find a frame for it and put it up. We hardly have any pictures together.”

  Robyn waves away the statement. She’s always hated having her photograph taken. She makes a move to go out of the door, but Ava’s attention lands on what was resting just behind where she sat seconds before. Obstructed by her body. Mr Ted. The teddy her mum won for her on the claw machines in Barry’s Amusements the same day this photograph was taken. His ear looks a bit frayed from when Ava used to drag him around by it. But otherwise he’s still in relatively good condition. All his eyes, paws and the original stuffing.

  “You loved Mr Ted,” Robyn says from behind her. “Why don’t you bring him too?”

  Ava gives herself a shake. She’s 20-years-old. She doesn’t need a cuddly toy.

  “I’m fine. I know he’s safe here,” she winks back at her.

  As they descend the stairs, Ava finally decides to quash her fears.

  “This might seem weird, Rob. But can I ask you something?”

  She’s decided she’ll ask her now when she’s in good form. If these mysterious items aren’t her aunt’s work, she won’t panic. But she just needs to know whether all that worrying was for nothing.

  “Of course, darling. Anything.”

  “A pair of shoes landed at my door the other day. Addressed to me. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about them, would you?”

  Robyn turns to look up at her as she reaches the bottom of the stairs. Her face gives Ava the answer before she vocalises it.

  “No, love. Should I?”

  “Just trying to figure out who left me them, that’s all,” she smiles. “And on Friday when you came around to collect your car, you didn’t happen to leave a copy of the Letter at my back door? Open at my mum’s picture?”

  Robyn looks taken aback.

  “Of course not, Ave. You know I don’t read the papers.”

  Ava nods, making her way to the front door.

  “Didn’t they leave a note?”

  “Sorry?”

  “The person who left the shoes? Left the newspaper?”

  “Just with the shoes. It didn’t say much, only ‘I love you’ and signed ‘M.’”

  Robyn’s mouth falls open. Several seconds pass before she starts laughing.

  “You takin’ the piss?” she stutters. “I’m guessing it was Mark?”

  “No, no. Mark denied it.”

  “Mark… Mark… Mark… Who’s Mark? I know that name?” she presses a finger to her lips and gazes out of the window.

  Ava stares at her blankly.

  “Mark? My boyfriend?”

  She looks back at her and smiles.

  “Don’t know when Damien’s back, do you, love? That boiler’s been on the brink again.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven:

  The smell of takeaway fills the kitchen as Mark busies himself with getting plates, forks and glasses of milk. Ava opens the foil cartons, moaning slightly as she licks the side of her thumb from the leakage of sauce. Plopping the fried rice and chips onto a plate, she takes the small satisfaction of covering her entire dinner with curry, the odd bit of chicken or pea splattering onto the scene.

  Her own complete, she turns to Mark’s, only to find it missing. Looking back, she sees him already sitting at the table, digging into his salted chilli chicken. Shrugging her shoulders, she slips the plate into her hand, exhaling heavily in sharp bursts at the heat of it. She’d had the plates resting in the oven whilst
she waited for Mark’s arrival. An odd habit her mum had passed down to her. Dropping it onto the table beside Mark’s, she joins him, placing a hand on his leg.

  “Thanks, Mark. I needed this.”

  He nods, slurping up stray noodles that fell from his fork. Is she imagining it, or is there tension? An atmosphere? She turns to see her own glass empty, his filled to the brim with milk. The carton’s lid clumsily left on.

  “Erm… Is everything alright?”

  Mark nods again, picking at a pepper stuck in his teeth. Raising an eyebrow, she makes a start on her meal, not able to deny her groaning stomach the pleasure any longer. Ava questions whether to tell him about visiting Robyn. More specifically, that she denies sending the shoes. But something about his demeanour tells her that it isn’t the right time, so they eat in silence

  Chapter Twenty-Eight:

  When dinner is over, he scrapes the leftovers into the takeaway bag, before tossing it into the open bin. He fights with the hot water, jiggling his leg impatiently, waiting for it to heat up. When he’s done washing his own, he marches over and snatches Ava’s plate from her hands.

  “Babe… Honestly? What’s wrong?”

  Mark stares into the sink, aggressively rubbing her plate with the brush.

  “Mark? Talk to me?”

  He physically tenses, the glass in his hand clinking off the side of the sink. His jaw finally relaxes as he turns to face her.

  “Who were you out with on Friday night?”

  Ava blinks several times, panic rising within her. Then she stops herself. She’s done nothing wrong.

  “A mate.”

  “You said you were out with friends,” he emphasises the ‘s.’

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “You did.”

  “No, I told you I went out for drinks. You never asked me who with. Why?”

  “Tom saw you.”

  Her face remains defiant.

  “In the Icon. With another man.”

  She nods.

  “And?”

  “You aren’t even going to apologise?”

  “Why should I apologise?”

  “You’ve been caught out.”

  “No, I haven’t-”

  “Crying onto me about all these presents being left at your door. Hiding text messages and phone calls. Me acting like I don’t see it, like a dick. Too scared to offend you. Well, I’m not taking it anymore, Ava. I’m not. I’m no longer walking on eggshells around you. You’ve been through a hard time, I get that. I sympathise with that. But it doesn’t give you the right to treat me like shit. I know everything!

  “Tom sent me a picture of you with him on Friday night. Then you have the audacity to sit downstairs in the hotel last night with him and drink away. After completely embarrassing me in front of my work ones, and potential clients. But no, you’d rather sit and have a drink and a laugh with your man. Literally right under my nose.

  “Aidan saw you when he went out for a smoke. Came up and told me you hadn’t left at all. After me making some bullshit excuse about you not feeling well and wanting to go home. As if I wasn’t embarrassed enough. You could’ve at least gone to a different bar, for fuck sake. Do I look stupid to you, Ava? Who is he?”

  Ava stares at him, mouth open. So much information in such a short outburst. Mark grimaces.

  “I can’t even look at you,” he makes for the door.

  “No, Mark. Stop, please!”

  But it’s too late, he’s already out the front door and making for his car. She watches from the step, silently willing and begging him to come back. There are still a few of the neighbouring kids out in their gardens playing, and the family two doors down are standing at the barbeque. She won’t embarrass herself. Her stomach churns, and not with the hangover, as she catches the glare of his stare as he reverses out of her drive and speeds off, leaving her with a hollow chest and wet eyes.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine:

  The next few days go by in a blur of frenzy in work and lonely nights at home. Mark won’t answer his phone anytime she tries to ring him and hasn’t responded to any of her texts. She has half a mind to show up at the Carlisle Road space but can’t face the humiliation of seeing any of his work friends, if they know. And if they don’t, she doesn’t want them to witness the cold blank stare he would give her before walking away. She tried his house a few times, but he’s either not been home or intentionally hasn’t come to the door.

  She sits on her laptop in the spare bedroom. She calls it the spare bedroom, but it’s merely a box room with a tidy rail filled with her over spilling clothes from her wardrobe and a single desk plucked from an eBay seller’s house just outside Greencastle. She jumps between Facebook and Twitter, reading and liking the comments about the fundraiser tomorrow.

  She’d found it so hard the past two days to paint a smile on her face. Acting like everything was fine and the fundraiser was the next best thing. If she’s honest, she would rather lie in bed all day tomorrow and let the other four coax their way through it. But she can’t do that. She has to show her face. It’s her day. Her mother’s name. Her charity.

  She’s just after retweeting the guy who came fifth on The X Factor seven years ago, who has voiced his excitement on his verified Twitter account. Although he’s from Omagh, he’s agreed to come up tomorrow and perform a few songs. Hopefully he sings covers, she thinks, as none of his originals even charted. Not even in Ireland. That’s when she sees the ‘1’ beside the envelope, indicating a new personal message. She hovers over the name.

  ‘@heathermoore71.’

  She doesn’t know a Heather Moore. Clicking onto the profile, she sees she has no followers, no tweets and no pictures. Probably some hoax. Trying to get Ava to send her money. Clicking onto the message to get rid of the notification, she looks at the simple two letters.

  ‘Hi.’

  Shaking her head, she clicks out of the message and back onto her homepage. Liking and retweeting a few more people excited about the fundraiser, she checks the time. It’s almost gone 11pm. She needs to be up early tomorrow to sort out the event, held in St Columb’s Park off the Limavady Road. There’s so much to do and so many people to meet. She needs to sleep. A bottle of wine helped her doze off the past few nights, but after waking today with a splitting headache and an icky tummy, she decided she’d try going au naturale tonight.

  Clicking her laptop down, she picks up her bottle of water and crosses the landing into her own bedroom. She goes about her night time routine, applying lotions and potions her mum used to swear by. And why not? The woman was in her forties when she died and could have still passed for her late twenties. The hairs on the back of her neck stand up as she pulls off her top, beauty regime complete. She registers the fresh goose bumps on her arms. Something isn’t right. She flicks her head to the side, towards the window. The blinds aren’t closed, and sway in the August breeze.

  That’s when she gasps. Something just moved. Right there, beside the street light. In front of the bushes. Rushing over and yanking the plug of the lamp out of the wall, no time for trailing behind her bedside cabinet for the switch. Sliding over on her haunches towards the window, she peaks over her dressing table. Out into the darkness. The night is still. The only sign of life coming from Mrs McVeigh’s TV in the living room. She could’ve sworn she saw a dark figure right there, beside her bushes. In her garden. She weighs her options. Call Mark? He won’t answer. The police? Dermott? They’d think she’s mad. She sits there a while longer, but nothing short of the small tree on her lawn moves with the wind.

  Finally admitting defeat some moments later, she climbs into bed. Only when she’s safely below the covers does she take off her jeans, slipping into the pyjamas stashed safely below her pillow. She gazes out of her window for several more minutes before, adrenaline extinguished, sleep overpowers her. She turns her back to it, letting herself drift off. A ping in the darkness makes her eyes shoot open. At the foot of her bed lies her discarded phone. Reaching f
or it, intent on putting it on silent, she can’t help but steal a glance at the notification on her screen. From Twitter.

  ‘@heathermoore71: good luck tomorrow x.’

  ****

  It came as quite a shock that I fell pregnant. We were always careful. I started taking pills when I knew we were getting serious and we never had sex without a condom.

  “These things can happen,” the doctor explained when I went for confirmation, even though I knew within myself that I was.

  As if that was supposed to make it okay that the contraceptives hadn’t done their job. I thought of how I would break the news to Chris. We were exclusive, but we were only together for three, nearing four, months. We’d had our first fight. And our second. To be honest, I lost track of how many we’d had. The honeymoon period was over as quickly as it had started. Everything about me seemed to irritate him. He’d tell me all the time.

  How was I supposed to drop a bombshell like this on him? I decided a trip away would be the best thing. So, marching into the travel agents, I booked us a B&B in Dublin, the last of my parent’s will money spent, and went to surprise him outside his work.

  He worked in the council buildings at the time. I waited outside, knowing he was finished at six. Shortly after half, he marched out, his jacket swung over his shoulder, laughing along with a woman in a revolting tweed skirt. When he saw me, his smile dropped. Excusing himself, he took my arm and led me away.

  “What’re you doing here?” he said sharpish.

  “Who’s she?” I eyed her territorially.

  “Lindsay, a girl I work with. Anyway, that doesn’t matter. What’s going on?” he registered the envelope in my hand.

  I brandished it in front of me, trying to bring the conversation back to a light discussion. Like we were in love. After opening the envelope and examining the print out, he scratched his moustache thoughtfully.

  “This weekend?”