Dublin is a city with eyes. A gossiping great-aunt who sees around corners or peers suspiciously through the walls of quiet pubs and dimly lit restaurants. For this reason he has booked overnight into their favourite hotel, a discreet, old-fashioned country house buried in the seclusion of the Wicklow hills. Over the years the Oakdale Arms has remained an oasis in their busy lives. They are familiar with the narrow corridors and thread-bare carpets, the flocked wallpaper that no longer has any discernable pattern and the grandfather clock in the lounge which, on the hour, gives forth a doleful boom, reminding them that time may only briefly be stolen. Its shabby ambience is due to neglect rather than a contrived nostalgia and, with no stylish attribute to lift it from the mundane, it remains a hidden place where none of their friends or acquaintances would dream of staying.
The bell jangles when they enter the lobby and a porter, stooped and worn as a cliché, insists on carrying their overnight bags to their room. They know him now, have laid an affectionate claim on him, as they would to a favourite pet, and have named him Igor. He exists in their minds only for the length of time they stay at the hotel and is as much a part of the furnishings as the curtains that drape with tired indifference from brass hoops or the faded paintings of fox hunts adorning the walls.
She showers and dresses for their evening meal. Satin and lace lingerie are concealed beneath a sheer silk dress of midnight-blue. She pirouettes before him, laughing in mock-protest and pointing at her watch when he tumbles her onto the bed. They tussle, not seriously – the night is only beginning and they are at an age where anticipation is more enjoyable when it smoulders across a restaurant table. His mobile phone rings as they are about to leave the room. His shoulder is hunched when he answers, his voice lowered, as if protecting her from the intrusion.
She closes the door behind her and walks towards the lift. The smell of turf smoke, pervasive and homely, reminds her that an open fire burns in the lounge. Later, after they have eaten, they will relax in the shabby chintz-covered armchairs with a glass of brandy before retiring for the night. A tour bus has arrived and the lobby is filled with big-boned American men in comfortable shoes, enquiring about the availability of ice-making machines. Their wives, an authoritative twang to their accents, busily supervise the removal of luggage to their rooms.
She has reached the restaurant when he calls her name, an apologetic sound, and catches up with her. Their waiter, deferential in black, greets them without a flicker of recognition and leads them to their favourite window seat. Weary-wise in the ways of illicit passion, and armed with a generous tip, he will forget their existence as soon as they walk from his table.
The food on offer is as unimaginative as ever, an emphasis on roast meats and over-boiled vegetables. The dessert menu reminds them of childhood treats: Banana Splits, Knickerbocker Glories, strawberry jelly and ice-cream. While they eat, their conversation skims over the names of forgotten toffee bars, sweets and biscuits. They regale each other with food horror stories, remembering their most hated meals and the tactics they used to avoid eating them. On holidays in Trabawn, she says, her uncle gathered mushrooms in the morning and fried them in butter for breakfast. Disgusting. They reminded her of slugs sliding down her throat. She makes a slight moue of disgust and traces her index finger across the rim of her wineglass. This is a trivial conversation yet preferable to long, tortuous discussions that move in a widening but nowhere circle. Surrounded by noisy tourists demanding jugs of iced water and a detailed analysis of the menu in case allergies lurk among the overcooked vegetables, they can relax and touch hands, lean over the table and stare into each other’s eyes, whisper words that promise much in the hours ahead.
Their meal is almost over when an elderly couple enter and are led to the only available table at the opposite end of the restaurant. Casually dressed in slacks and chunky sweaters, their sturdy boots well-worn and dusty, they have obviously been hill-walking. The shock of their arrival is so instantaneous that her hand freezes as she raises the wineglass to her lips. She remains in that position, her attention fixed on the couple who accept the menu and listen intently while the waiter describes a certain dish. Her companion has not yet noticed them. He continues talking until she quietly utters their names. His cutlery clatters against his plate. She winces, imagines the sound strumming across the room, can almost feel the jolt of disbelief between them and the couple should their eyes meet.
They must leave immediately. She makes the decision without hesitation. Their love is a two-edged blade where discretion and passion hone each other to a dangerous edge. This balance must be respected. She will collect their luggage from the room. He will settle their bill at Reception. He nods agreement. Observing his stricken face, she hopes he will have the necessary self-control to leave the restaurant without attracting attention.
Sheltered by sturdy American shoulders, she looks neither to right or left as she walks away. Within a few minutes she has packed their clothes and switched off the light. She avoids the old-fashioned lift and moves swiftly down the back stairs, which are steep and have a way of meandering off into culs-de-sac or laundry rooms. Eventually, she exits from the side entrance of the hotel. She recognises the hill walkers’ red Toyota, which is parked behind bushes, and hurries onwards to where he is waiting for her, already strapped into the car and with the ignition running.
“Can you believe it? Jesus Christ! Can you credit that for a fucking incredible coincidence?” He drives down the avenue and out through the high spiked gates. Trees line the road on either side, oak, beech and chestnut, leafless now that November is here.
“Did they notice you leaving?” Her pulse still races and she releases her breath in a long drawn-out sigh when he shakes his head.
“What shall we do now?” he asks. “It’s too risky to stay around here.”
“We can’t risk a hotel in Dublin,” she replies.
“What then?”
“Your house is empty.”
“I think not.” His foot presses harder on the accelerator.
“Just a thought.” She rests her head against the back of the seat then slumps, relaxing her shoulders. “We should do the sensible thing and call it a night. I’m still in shock after that experience.”
“It could be difficult explaining why you’re home tonight instead of tomorrow?”
“Not really. I’ll tell him the seminar was so well organised it wasn’t necessary to stay overnight.”
“Will he believe you?”
“Oh yes, I expect he will.”
He leaves the quiet roads and speeds along the motorway. He bypasses Bray, heads towards Blackrock, stops at the level crossing beside the Merrion Gates. A DART speeds northwards, windows flashing. Traffic is light along Strand Road. They pass the Martello Tower and the tall palm trees, the empty park benches and esplanade, the sand palely gleaming on the retreating tide. She stares across the sea towards the jetties and wharfs glittering reflectively on the waters of Dublin Bay.
“Remember the time –” She touches his wrist and he nods, instantly picking up on the memory.
“It’ll be quiet there now.” He turns right at the end of the road. His smile washes over her. “We can’t let our night be completely ruined.”
She laughs, unsure whether or not he is serious. “You’re asking me to make out in a car?”
“It’s been a while, eh?” He is relaxed now, his hand teasing its way between her knees.
“A while,” she agrees. “And it’s a daft idea.”
“But a good one. What do you say?”
She nods and thinks, this is crazy, the two of them behaving so recklessly, but there is also the long-forgotten thrill of being in the open, playing perilous deceptive games.
He drives between houses and parklands, passes a factory with jagged rooftops, follows the flow of cars heading in the direction of the East-Link. Before reaching the toll-bridge which separates the north and south of the city he turns at the South Port roundabout and drives deep into the industrial zone.
The terrain changes, becomes darker, more isolated. This is a place with few charms, filled mainly with offices, oil-storage depots and an occasional abandoned factory site. He continues towards a small car-park overlooking the bay. A number of cars are already parked, possessively claiming space in the shadows. Without a word he reverses back out onto the pitted road leading to the Great South Wall. As he brakes beside a shed with high brick walls, the headlights flare into the dark recesses of the pier.
He cups her face and bends towards her. They are impatient now but she moves slowly, teasingly. He watches the sensuous glide of her dress along her legs, the revealing glimpse of lacy stocking tops and lingerie. He sighs, moves her hands aside to draw down the first stocking, then the other. She arches against him, knowing by the urgency with which they touch each other that this will not last long. They are not teenagers, even though they feel ageless, and there is some discomfort as they awkwardly manoeuvre themselves beyond the reach of steering-wheel and gear stick.
The headlights of an approaching car swamp them. The presence of strangers feels like shivery fingers on her neck. They are safe, hidden in steamy seclusion, but even the hint of exposure brings the all-too-familiar tension to the fore. The driver brakes and turns off the lights. A door is opened. Her stomach clenches, imagining the indignity of a vice-squad intrusion but there is no rap on the window, no gruff demand for identification. A voice does call out, male and almost inaudible. It floats towards them. There is something urgent in the sound that unsettles her. The driver returns to the car and once again illuminates them before departing.
When they kiss again there is no conviction in the feel of his mouth. His aftershave, her perfume, the cigarettes they smoked, even the subtle, intimate odour of sex, which she senses rather then smells, suddenly seem oppressive, heavy. She is only now beginning to notice the faint fumes of paint which grow stronger even as she tries to ignore them.
“Why couldn’t we spend the night in your house?” she demands.
He pulls away from her, peers at her face to see if she is joking. “You can’t really be serious.”
“Try me.” She hears her voice, sharper, demanding she knows not what. They are floundering, she suspects, within this intimate sphere they have created, unable to move back but equally incapable of moving forward. They need more from this relationship – yet when she tries to imagine what this “more” entails she is unable to give it shape or substance.
“Are we going to totally destroy the night with a row?” he demands.
“It was destroyed the moment they walked into the hotel,” she retorts. Ignoring his protests, she slips on her shoes, straightens her clothes and steps outside. The night air refreshes her. For November the weather is exceptionally mild. She begins to breathe freely again. Behind her, the tall Pigeon House chimneys funnel smoke into the atmosphere. This place, with its cracks and warning notices, is hazardous, he warns, following her, trying to calm her down. She allows him to catch up with her and soon they are walking with one step. He steers her towards the shelter of the shed. They walk cautiously along the narrow path surrounding it and stop when the pier is out of sight. Only the cry of seabirds and the wash of waves on the rocks below disturb their solitude. They are impatient now. No time or space for the slow removal of clothes. He opens her coat, pulls her dress to her waist. She is ready when he enters her and their pleasure, heightened by their argument and the events of the night, is swift and intense.
When it is over he lights two cigarettes, hands one to her. Their rituals are as exact as if they have been married for many years. But the familiarity created within marriage has never touched their relationship and even this simple act of smoking, their exhaled smoke mingling unseen in the dark, is imbued with meaning. They are about to return to the car when the shriek of the alarm freezes them. The noise ceases for an instant, almost teasingly, then starts to whirr again. The reverberations press against her ears. He begins to run. She flings her cigarette towards the sea and follows him.
When he presses the off-alarm the instant silence is almost as shocking as the high-pitched clamour. The door on the driver’s side is ajar, the window broken. Loose wires hang from the dashboard and there is a gap where the stereo has been pulled loose. She hadn’t locked the boot in her haste to leave the hotel and the intruder did not have to force it open. Inside it, wooden picture frames still lie on top of each other but their briefcases are missing. She is relieved to see their overnight bags have not been touched. The pier now seems deserted yet this only increases her nervousness. She senses eyes watching them, violence waiting, preparing to strike again.
A short distance away she finds their briefcases. Documents are scattered along the pier. Some have already blown into the sea. She gathers those she can find and watches the remainder flutter eerily above the water before floating away. Back in the car she glances through the salvaged documents, sorting them into individual batches and stuffing them back into the briefcases. Glass has been scattered across the driver’s seat. He carefully picks up the pieces, cries out when a shard cuts deep into his hand. His handkerchief is quickly saturated with blood and he reaches into his briefcase, cursing with frustration as he tries to locate a packet of tissues. Silencing him, she bandages the wound, finding a clean cloth among the jumble of paint-stained rags and brushes in the glove compartment. Her movements are swift and efficient. The night has turned into a fiasco which she wants to end as soon as possible.
Ignoring his protests, she insists on driving. On the first try the engine fails to start. She gently coaxes it into life and drives carefully towards the road. In the distance a ferry looms out of the night, sailing towards the North Wall terminal. Its lights glitter on the black sea. It begins to rain. The wipers are no longer working but the rain is light, a slight drizzle gleaming on the windscreen. Across the bay the lights from the ferry terminal blur against the glass. She accelerates, passes the car-park, empty now, and wonders if any of the other cars were vandalised in the same random way. He is still clasping his hand but blood has not yet seeped through the wad of tissues.
A plastic bag, bloated with air, startles her as it flaps past the broken window. It flutters like the wings of an injured seagull and forces her eyes off the road. At first, when the figure looms before the car, she believes he is in her imagination; a spectre born from terror and the mixed emotions of the night. Somewhere at the back of her mind she knows this is a man, his figure elongated in the glare of headlights, but it takes a heart-stopping instant before she brakes. Her companion appears to be in the same suspended state of disbelief and shouts a warning when it is too late. The figure rises in the effortless poise of a dancer, pirouettes before them with an almost-obscene gracefulness before sinking back again to the road. Even the squeal of brakes, the shouts of her companion who has covered his eyes, fail to banish the impression that she is witnessing a surreal ballet sequence performed on a wet, glistening stage. But this is a fleeting impression, instantly registered then forgotten, and all she will remember in the months to come are the crack of his body hitting the bonnet and a duller thud when he tumbles back to the road. The car seems possessed of a manic energy, shuddering, screeching, bucking against her hands as she fights to bring it under control. She brakes and slumps across the wheel. A guttural sound rises from her abdomen and escapes from her mouth. She is disassociated from the sound yet she knows it belongs to her – and to the horror that awaits her when she steps outside.
Her companion is already bent over the sprawled body. The young man lies to the right-hand side of the car. In the headlights, she sees blood trickling down the side of his mouth. Otherwise, his face seems unmarked. A woolly hat is low on his forehead. His head appears dwarfed by the width of a padded anorak and his hands, in fingerless gloves, are limply splayed across the concrete. Compact discs, stolen from the glove compartment, have fallen from his pockets – The Chieftains, U2, Bob Dylan, Billie Holiday – but there is no sign of the stereo.
She pulls her coat collar over her cheeks. The wind sweeps in from the sea and lifts her hair, blowing it over her eyes, offering a blinkered protection from the sight in front of her. Darkness presses down, threatens to engulf her. Her companion shudders as he reaches out to touch the young man’s wrist. His breath escapes in a sob. He draws back on his heels, sways unsteadily to his feet. The horror of what has occurred makes words impossible. Fear and self-preservation overwhelm her. Already she is thinking like a different person. She ignores his protests and insists they leave now, before they are discovered. The car is a beacon, flaring a signal for anyone to witness. She takes his arm and pulls him towards its protection. Once again she moves into the driver’s seat. This time he does not protest.
When they reach the roundabout he looks around, as if awakening from a nightmare.
“We have to make a call.” He searches his jacket pockets for coins, fumbling loose change which spills across the seat.
“Not here,” she says, pressing harder on the accelerator. “It’s too close … too close –”
“Jesus Christ! We must call an ambulance. He could still be alive.”
“He’s dead.” Her voice fills the car. “It doesn’t matter when the ambulance gets there.”
For an instant she thinks he will wrench the steering-wheel from her. Instead, he stares through the window, defeated by her determination. She does not stop driving until they reach a road filled with small terraced houses and a phone kiosk. The houses are in darkness, the road empty. She parks the car and picks up the coins, unable to remember the last time she used a public phone. It will provide anonymity and, if their call is traced, they will be many miles away. She holds a scarf before her mouth and names the location of the accident, wondering how long it will take an ambulance to arrive. Not that it matters. The twisted angle of the tramp’s body, his utter stillness, can mean only one thing. Street lights illuminate the car. She notices a deep dent in the bonnet but the main damage was done during the robbery.
Her companion is back in the driver’s seat. His injured hand is clenched painfully on the steering-wheel. His face remains expressionless as he drives towards the late-night car-park where they met earlier when their night held nothing but promise. They do not kiss each other goodbye.
An ambulance should have arrived by now. The police will find shattered glass and a shattered life. Nothing else. She does not hover on the edge of this chasm but leaps it cleanly. The young man had been drinking. A vagrant, homeless. She knew by the smell underlying the alcohol, unclean, musty. Probably a junkie as well as a thief. A deliberate criminal act had been committed, not by them but by a vagrant who believed he had the right to violate their property before staggering drugged and drunk into their path. They will not be held responsible for the consequences. Too much is at stake: reputations, marriages, investments, friendships, their future.
When she reaches her house the outside lantern is shining. She steps into the amber glow and glances at her watch. It is later than she thought. Stolen property, stolen hours; thievery has many faces. She opens her front door and closes it quietly behind her.
Dublin Echo, 10 January 2002
POLICE SEEK INFORMATION ON HIT-AND-RUN ACCIDENT
The parents of a young man critically injured in a hit-and-run accident which took place on 20 November 2001 between 11 p.m. and midnight on the approach to the Great South Wall have renewed their appeal for witnesses. Killian Devine-O’Malley (18) remains in a coma, having suffered serious head injuries, a cracked pelvis and severe bruising to his body.
Shortly after midnight on the night of the accident a telephone call was received by the emergency services from an anonymous female caller. The Gardaí have appealed to this woman to come forward to help with their inquiries. They are also anxious to contact any persons who were in the vicinity at that time and may have noticed anything suspicious, especially the occupants of a silver car, make unknown, which was seen on the pier shortly before the accident occurred.
The victim is the son of financial analyst Jean Devine-O’Malley and screen writer Michael Carmody, best known for his cult teen TV series Nowhere Lodge.
Brahms Ward, 9.30 p.m.
Your name was in the papers again this morning, Killian. Eddie used the same photograph. Not one of your best, I’m afraid. The Gardaí have sent out another plea for information. No response, as yet, but we live in hope. I rang Eddie and thanked him for the coverage. He’s good at keeping your name to the forefront. Killian Devine-O’Malley. Your mother’s name, not mine. Eighteen years of age, hazel eyes, short auburn hair, freckles, of medium build, loved.
Did it shock them, that headline, when they opened the paper this morning? I’ll bet it curdled their milk, snapped and crackled their crispies. They probably hoped you’d fallen into the great void the media leaves behind when the headline changes. But Eddie is a pal and he’ll stay on your watch until there is an ending to your story.
I saw their car that night. I know it was the one. Only problem was that I was too preoccupied to notice anything that would later prove invaluable in tracing it, no toy dog nodding in the back window, no furry dice dangling from the rear view mirror. Nothing except a fleeting glimpse of silver, steamy windows and an arm raised protectively. No wonder my information is gathering dust in a police file.
I’d been searching for you, Killian. High and low along the pier, the same hopeless search. I shouted your name until I was hoarse. You never answered. I left too soon … too soon. I was thinking about the deceived when I left them to their pleasure. You were the only thing on my mind that night but, just for an instant, I found myself wondering. A wife, a husband, who knows? There had to be the deceived, the trusting partner waiting at home, counting down the hours, believing lies, excuses, the false smiles of reassurance. Why else would they hide in furtive places? Why else would they drive away and leave you crushed like a wind-blown leaf under the wheels of their car? Hit and run. The crunch of metal on flesh, no competition.
Can you hear me, Killian, wherever you are? Is my voice reaching beyond the black drift of your mind? Are you sleeping in the past, reaching into the present, dreaming of the future? Is your memory short term, long term, long forgotten? Are you listening to me, my lost boy? My foolish … foolish boy.
Black … black … black night … black hole … black eyes … eyes … drowning eyes …
March 2002
The removal men arrived on time, their truck almost filling the width of the small terrace. They were efficient, descending like a swarm of locusts to divide the bric-à-brac of sixteen years of marriage into two halves. They packed them neatly into separate crates and departed, leaving nothing but a skeletal frame behind.
Lorraine Cheevers gazed around her house for the last time. Bare walls surrounded her, stripped of paintings, posters, calendars and the many photographs that charted the years of family life. Already, the walls were expanding away from her, the bare windows glinting coldly; even her footsteps on the wooden floorboards sent back an unfamiliar tread.
“Running away never solved anything,” Donna Cheevers declared when she heard about her daughter’s decision to move to Trabawn. “It’s not easy breaking into a closed community. Trabawn was holiday time, nothing else. You’ll suffer on your own instead of allowing us to support you through this.”
“I’ve a broken marriage, not a broken leg,” Lorraine retorted. “I don’t need a crutch.”
“Yes you do,” Donna stoutly replied. “You need strong shoulders to cry on. Your life is here. And your work, what about that?”
“I can work anywhere. Trabawn’s not exactly on the other side of the moon.”
“Think carefully,” her mother warned. “And if you can’t think about yourself, think about Emily. Fifteen is the worse possible age to uproot anyone.”
“Emily will be fine.” Lorraine brought the argument to a decisive close. “You have to allow me to be the judge of what’s best for my daughter.”
Donna’s expression left her in no doubt that such judgement was way beyond her grasp and, when it came to parting, she had held Lorraine fiercely, dry-eyed, knowing the utter futility of uttering banal words of comfort.
Even in her numbed state of mind, Lorraine had been impressed by the amount of money people were willing to pay to live so close to the city. Only ten minutes walk from the city centre, the terrace of red-brick houses where she and Adrian had lived throughout their marriage was as drowsy as a suburb at night. Their neighbours, mainly elderly, retired people, were a close-knit community, watching over the house when they were on holidays and always willing to look after her daughter if Lorraine was delayed at her studio. Their street mascot, they called Emily, remembering her birthdays, fussing over her with presents at Christmas and Easter.
As the estate agent predicted, the house was sold within a few days of going on the market. The couple who bought it were young professional types. He mentioned something about the law library. She worked in the Financial Centre. A starter home, they said, their eyes dismissing the fixtures and fittings, assessing how soon it could be refurbished in their own image.
With the ease of long practice, Lorraine reversed from the terrace. Goodbyes had already been said but her neighbours came to their gates to wave them off. An elderly man walked past and raised his cane in salute. The Liffey had a sullen gleam as it channelled through the quays. Seagulls swooped between dun-coloured walls, fanning their wings against the high-tide markings. Emily clasped her hands on her lap. She stared straight ahead when they passed Blaide House. Fine blue veins etched against her skin. The quays dwindled behind them and the car surged forward, racing westwards towards Trabawn.
Brahms Ward, 9 p.m.
The clinic is quiet tonight. There’s stubble on your chin and your nails are growing long again. Your fingers move, clutching the sheet, knuckles braced against imaginary foes. So much life still within you. Skin dying and being renewed, your heart beating steadily. Your hands are beginning to clench inwards. Do you feel us massaging you, straightening your fingers, trimming your nails? Those are the good days, Killian. A sense of purpose to our visits.
They know me now, the staff. They’ve become my extended family. There’s the nurse whose heart has been broken three times since you came here and another who can speak of nothing but her forthcoming wedding. Camila, the little nurse from the Philippines, is my favourite. She’s sad and gentle, misses her family like crazy. I suspect you also love her quiet ways. I found her crying one night in the nurse’s station. She was sending an e-mail to her daughter who hopes to go to university on her mother’s earnings. Soon … soon, she said, she’ll be able to go home.
Maggie is another stalwart. She handles that tea trolley like a runaway train approaching a tunnel. Your fingers twitch when you hear her coming. We’re tuned to the nuances of your movements, the flicker of your eyelids, the depth of your breath as it brushes the air around us.
The word “coma” is derived from the Greek. Koma: a sleep-like state. How benign it sounds, resting peacefully, ready to awaken to a new day. Brahms Ward, that’s what I call this silent place where we wait out time with you. A place of lullabies and lost souls. Your medical team tell us you cannot be roused. They speak of vegetative states and the dim possibilities of an “awakening”. We refuse to believe those experts with their charts and stethoscopes dangling like chains of office from their necks. Our belief is that you have not yet been roused from this sleep-like state – have not yet – have not yet! Hold on to our belief in you, Killian. Hold on.
Hold on … hold hands … hands … join hands … clap hands … daddy home … cakes … pocket …
In the mornings Lorraine awoke to the crowing of a rooster and the barking of a dog. Rooster and dog seemed determined to outdo each other in verbal energy, and even the birds created a shriller chorus than their city cousins, as if driven by a need to fill the vast empty s
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