Alexandra, Gone (6 page)

Half an hour before midnight he found Jane in the hallway studying a picture on the wall.

“That was taken on a day out in Bray in 1983,” she said. “It was such a hot day, the beach was mobbed, and we’d run into the arcade and onto the bumper cars just to cool down. Alexandra ate so much cotton candy she puked pink all the way home.”

Tom looked at the picture and recognized Jane. Her hair was so blond it was almost white, and it was braided to her waist. She was hugging Alexandra, whose rich, wavy chestnut hair shone in the sun. Both girls were facing the camera and grinning so hard they had dimples. He shook his head. “It’s a funny old world,” he said, but nobody was laughing.

Midnight came and went and the new year was celebrated. As soon as the clock struck one, Tom and Jane made their excuses and left.

In the car, Jane asked Tom about his relationship with Alexandra’s family.

“Ben and Eamonn need someone to blame,” he said.

“Why you?”

“Why not me? She was my wife.”

“And what about Breda?”

“Breda blames herself.”

“And you?”

“It depends on the day.”

When they got to Jane’s house, he thanked her once more for coming. “It meant so much to Breda.”

She nodded and told him that she’d be in touch the following week with an update about the benefit. He nodded, and she got out of the car. She closed the gate behind her and waved, and she made her way up the steps of her house. She could hear Bing Crosby’s voice singing “You Are My Sunshine,” punctuated by laughter and chatter, coming from her mother’s basement flat. She didn’t stop to say hello. Instead she went inside, took off her shoes that were pretty but painful, poured herself a whiskey, and took it to bed.

When the clock turned midnight Elle raised her bottle and toasted the sky. She spun around the beach in bare feet with a bottle of vodka pressed closely to her chest. When she stopped spinning, she fell on her ass, still managing to hold on to the bottle. She got up as quickly as a drunkard can and sprayed some alcohol on the fire so that the flames danced higher and higher. The car engine had already exploded, and so now she and a homeless man who called himself Buns watched the shell burn out. She sat beside the old man and clinked her bottle against his.

“Happy New Year, Buns!”

“Happy New Year, my dear!”

They sat in silence listening to the flames crackle and the low hush of the sea as it swept in and out. Elle lit a cigarette and passed it to Buns. He refused with a wave of his hands. “Those things will kill you.”

She laughed a little. “Sleeping on a pavement in December will kill you quicker.”

“Ah well, it’s January now, so roll on spring!” He took a slug from the bottle of vodka the strange girl had bought for him. “Vincent must be a right bastard,” he said after a minute or two.

“Depends on who you ask,” she said, getting up and dancing around again.

“How much would you say that car cost?” he asked.

“Around forty grand.” She could have answered with precise figures if she had wished, as she had bought him the car.

“Jesus. He’ll be sorry he messed with you.”

She smiled. “That’s the hope.”

They both heard the police sirens. Buns drained his bottle before the cops could take his booze off him. Elle continued to dance to the music she could hear in her head. The police approached them cautiously, but Elle smiled and waved them over as though they were at a party and she was asking them to join in. Once they had established that Elle had stolen her ex-boyfriend’s car and burned it out, they put her and Buns, who happily claimed himself as a willing accessory, in the back of the police car. Buns was delighted that he would have at least a night inside, or even two if he was lucky, because he’d seen the weather forecast in the window of Dixon’s electrical shop and it was set to fall below zero. Elle was focused on the sights, sounds, and smells around her. Everything seemed so vivid; she was giddy, high on revenge and adventure. The city moved quickly past the window and the siren pealed, not because there was an emergency but just to get through the drunkards on the streets. The car smelled of disinfectant, and she breathed in deeply. Buns smelled of something else entirely, a little sweat, a little oil, a little damp, and a little puke, and still she inhaled and smiled as though it was the sweetest of perfume.

“I’ve never been in a jail cell,” she said, excited by the notion. “I’ve always wondered about it.”

The female officer looked over her shoulder. “Well, you won’t have to wonder anymore.”

“True.” Elle smiled.

Jane woke with a start. Kurt was standing above her with his hand on her shoulder, shaking her. “Mum, Mum, Mum!”

She bolted upright. “Kurt?” She looked at the clock beside her bed: four ten a.m. “What the hell?”

“It’s Elle. She’s been arrested.”

Jane stared blankly at her son; the words coming from his mouth seemed to lose meaning. “Excuse me?”

“Sit up,” he ordered, and she noticed he was slurring, but at that moment her drunken teenage son was the least of her worries.

“Did you say ‘arrested?’” she asked, silently praying she’d misheard him.

He nodded.

She swung her legs around and sat at the edge of the bed and held her head in her hands. “Oh for fuck’s sake,” she said before she sighed a sigh that seemed to come from her very core. “Where is she?”

“Clontarf.”

“Clontarf,” she repeated, and got out of bed. “And why not? Clontarf is as good as anyplace to get arrested.”

Jane talked to herself and bumped into things while trying to locate something to wear. She said “ouch” twice and “for fhu” a number of times before Kurt took his leave so that she could get dressed.

Jane entered the sitting room in search of her handbag. Kurt and his girlfriend, Irene, were lying on the sofa together listening to music.

“Hi, Jane,” Irene said with a big grin that suggested she had imbibed one too many alcopops.

“Hi, Irene,” she said to the grinning teen. “Does your mother know where you are?”

“She’s in Venice,” Irene said, slurring a little.

“Nice.”

“Not really,” Irene said. “She found out that Dad was sleeping with some woman he met on the Internet, and she’s gone over there to spend as much of his money as possible before kicking him out of the house.”

“Oh my God, that’s awful,” Jane said, truly shocked and momentarily forgetting her sister was in a jail cell. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Irene waved her hands dismissively.

“Well, if things get a bit rough at home you can always come and stay here—in the spare room, not Kurt’s.”

“Ah Jane, that is so nice of you, thank you.” She burped. “Excuse you!” she said, pointing at Jane before she burst out laughing. Kurt laughed too.

Jane raised her eyes to heaven and grabbed her bag, but before she left she stood in front of the two drunk teenagers wagging her finger. “No sex in here, no sex in your room, no sex in this entire house. And don’t think I won’t know, because I will know.” She left the room.

Irene looked at Kurt and wagged her finger. “And yet she didn’t cop to the fact that we’ve just done it on this sofa.”

Jane could hear Kurt and Irene laugh as she left the house.
Of course they’re laughing. It’s four in the morning, they’re seventeen, drunk, and awake, and they’ve probably had more sex in the past five hours than I’ve had in two years.

At the police station, Jane waited for more than two hours before she even got to speak to someone. It was then that she was informed that her sister faced possible charges of theft and arson. Jane closed her eyes and didn’t speak for what seemed to be the longest time. The policeman queried whether she was all right.

“I hate my life,” she said.

“I know the feeling.”

She sat in the waiting area for another hour. She was freezing and tired and so pissed off that she actually wanted to weep. The man beside her smelled of feet and the woman opposite stared at her in a manner that suggested she might wish to hurt her. Jane would have loved to be bold enough to square up to the stranger and demand an explanation as to what she wanted, but she didn’t have the balls.
The story of my life,
she thought while keeping her head hung low to avoid her aggressive opposite’s gaze.

Elle appeared a little after eight o’clock. She was yawning and stretching. She grinned when she saw Jane, who in turn stood up, grabbed her sister’s arm, and dragged her out of the station.

“Do not grin, do not speak, do not even bollocking whimper!” she ordered Elle, who seemed to be veering between alarm and amusement. “I am cold and tired and I’ve just about had it up to here. So just shut up.”

“Okay,” Elle agreed.

They sat into the car. Jane started the engine.

“Can I smoke?” Elle asked.

“Shut up,” Jane said.

“I’ll take that as a yes then,” Elle said, lighting up.

Jane drove in silence. Elle smoked and stared out the window. When they were less than a mile from their house, Jane pulled the car to the side of the road and parked. She turned to her sister and began the rant she had practiced while sitting in the station and attempting to avoid being head-butted.

“You have done some unbelievable things in your time—stupid, stupid things that have left me wide-eyed and openmouthed. But my God, this one has really topped the lot. You burned out Vincent’s car? No, hold on, you
stole
, then you burned out, Vincent’s car? What is wrong with you? How insane does a person have to be?” She noticed tears streaming from Elle’s eyes, and they silenced her.

Elle took the card out of her pocket and passed it to Jane. Jane read it aloud.

“‘
Elle, like the song says, I want you, I need you, but let’s face it, I’m never going to love you.
’” She faced her sister, who was still crying. “Like the song says?” She looked back at the page. “Let’s face it?” She shook her head. “Oh, Elle!”

She pitied her sister because even though Vincent was a pig, Elle loved him deeply. “Let’s face it,” Jane repeated, “he’s obviously back on drugs.”

Elle didn’t respond.

Jane handed the card back to Elle, whose nose was now running. She took some tissue from her pocket and wiped Elle’s nose and then hugged her. “It’s all right, Elle, we’ll sort it all out.” But she knew there was nothing she could do.

Elle shook her head. “He’s really gone this time, Janey.” Then she sobbed on her sister’s shoulder until her tears ran dry.

5
“Authentic Fake”

Pillows bursting at the seams,

feathers floating like dreams,

naked on the wooden floor,

night porters banging at the door,

and we just turn the music up.

Jack L,
Broken Songs

January 2008

Although it was cold, the sky was blue and there wasn’t a cloud in sight. Jane particularly favored cold dry days, and they were so few and far between. She wasn’t a fan of central heating, as it made her skin itchy and dry. She liked a nip in the air and couldn’t understand when her son complained that he was cold, because she had spent so much money on clothes for him to wear and yet he had the audacity to stand in front of her in a T-shirt and boxer shorts wondering what it would take for her to put on some heat. The kitchen was warm because she had spent the morning baking. Kurt came in, rubbing his hands together and blowing into them for effect.

“Put on a sweater and jeans,” she said with her back to him.

“Who’s coming?” he asked, ignoring her and putting on the kettle.

“Tom and Leslie.”

“Oh them.” He made a face.

“‘Oh them,’” she repeated, amused. “What’s wrong with them?”

“He’s haunted and she’s a bit of a freak,” he said, spooning coffee into a cup. “Oh, and Gran thinks he’s a murderer.”

“Oh for God’s sake, stop listening to that twisted woman!”

“Well, you can’t say it hasn’t crossed your mind.”

“I can say it hasn’t crossed my mind,” she replied. “Alexandra disappeared when Tom was at work, and he has witnesses.”

“So it has crossed your mind, but you’re satisfied with his alibi.” Kurt pointed his spoon at his mother.

“Fine.” She put her hands up. “I’m satisfied by his alibi.”

“Lots of people have good alibis, and then those alibis turn out to be crap.”

“Kurt,” Jane said, “please stop calling Mammy’s new friend a murderer.”

Kurt laughed a little. “Okay, but be careful—you don’t want to be a Nicky Pelley to his Joe O’Reilly.” He poured boiling water into the cup and then gripped it tightly. “God, Mum, it’s freezing in here.”

He went to his room to sit at his computer with his duvet strategically wrapped around his body and arms while his hands remained uncovered and unencumbered. Jane remained in the kitchen cleaning the spilled coffee grounds from the counter while keeping an eye on the oven and clock.

This would be the third time Leslie and Tom had come to her house to discuss their project’s progress. Elle had been there both times before, but she was taking her breakup with Vincent pretty hard and so when Jane spotted her
GONE FISHING
sign on her door earlier that morning, she knew it meant that Elle might be gone a week or a month. She wasn’t sure how she was going to break this news to Tom.

Tom had become incredibly excited at the last meeting when Elle had revealed the painting she had done of Alexandra. He had previously given Elle a box of photos of his wife, and she’d gone through all of Jane’s from when Alexandra was younger, and after spending a week looking at the woman’s face, she spent another week working on capturing it. According to Tom, Jane, and even Leslie, she had done so beautifully.

“I made her look sad,” Elle said. “I hope you don’t mind because I know she is a happy sort, but I think she needed to look sad.”

“I don’t mind—she’s beautiful,” Tom said, staring at the painting that leaned against Jane’s kitchen wall. “How did you do that? How did you make her look lost?”

Elle stared at the face she had come to know so well and hunched her shoulders. “I don’t know.”

Tom bit the side of his mouth so hard there was an indent in his cheek. He nodded and looked at Elle. “You’re incredible.”

Elle loved it when people complimented her. She’d blush and say she hated it, but her heart would flutter, her pulse would race, and for a moment she’d feel a great high that she’d come down from all too soon.

Leslie had created a fantastic website—
www.findingalexandra.com
—that incorporated Alexandra’s most recent photos and a map of her last movements. She’d even managed to attach the CCTV footage from Tara Street and Dalkey DART stations. She created a blog space for Tom to update if and when he wanted and a chat room for anyone who wanted to post a comment, and of course there was an e-mail address for anyone with information. Tom was overwhelmed, especially when Leslie revealed the link to Jack Lukeman’s website, and when she clicked on Jack’s site there was a link to Finding Alexandra. Tom was dumbfounded. Jack’s website even mentioned Alexandra and asked his visitors to check out the Finding Alexandra site to see if they had seen her.

“How?” Tom asked.

“I designed Jack’s site.”

“Wow, that’s fantastic. Absolutely fantastic.”

“And you said you couldn’t help!” Elle teased.

“Well, I’m glad you’re happy,” Leslie said, a little pleased with herself.

“How did you get Jack to agree?” Jane asked.

“Alexandra’s a Jack fan, and I got Myra in his office to agree, and once she agreed it was pretty much done and, by the by, they asked if there was anything else that they could do.”

“You are shitting me!” Elle said.

“No,” Leslie said. “And I’m not sure I even know or care to know what shitting a person is.”

“Of course there’s something else they can do,” Jane said suddenly.

“Yeah,” Elle said, beating Jane to it. “Jack can sing at the Missing Exhibition opening.”

“It would make the PR a cinch,” Jane said.

“I’ll talk to Myra,” Leslie said.

Tom didn’t know what to say. He was bowled over. In the few short weeks he had known these three women, his search for his wife had taken on a whole new life, and he was so grateful that he found it hard to express it.

Jane smiled at him when he became tongue-tied and slightly teary. “We’ll find her,” she promised.

Now, less than a month later, her promise appeared slightly premature if not a tad arrogant. Elle was missing in action, and that meant she wasn’t painting, and if she wasn’t painting the exhibition might not happen in April as had been planned, and if the exhibition didn’t happen in April Jack wouldn’t be available to play at it again until after he’d finished with the European festivals in September, and he was key to publicity. She had tried to call Elle, but to no avail.
GONE FISHING
meant no contact.

Jane felt sick about having to disappoint Tom and Leslie after all the work Leslie had put into promoting the exhibition on the website, and she wasn’t even sure if she should tell them.
Maybe I’ll give it a week,
she thought.
I’ll give it a week and see what happens and then, if I have to tell them and break Tom’s heart, I’ll do it. Damn it, Elle, this is no time for your selfish crap. Come home.

Leslie was the first to arrive. Jane opened the door, and Leslie pointed to the basement and asked if Jane knew who the old woman was.

“My mother.”

Leslie nodded. “Oh,” she said. “She has Tom.”

“Sweet Jesus! There’s coffee made. I’ll be a minute.” Jane took off down the front steps like a hare before Leslie could even respond.

Tom was sitting in a chair opposite her mother when she burst into the room as though she was a gangbuster.

Rose was swirling liquid in her mug, and Jane prayed it was tea. Tom was silent and had his hands clasped and resting on his knee.

“What has she said?” Jane asked Tom.

“I asked him if he’d killed his wife,” Rose said. “I further inquired whether or not he had any intention of killing you.”

“Oh God.” Jane sighed and closed her eyes for a moment to compose herself.

“I said no on both counts,” Tom said, and thankfully he seemed a little amused.

“You see, Jane,” Rose said, “we are only having a nice quiet chat. There’s no need to run down here like your anus is on fire.”

Tom laughed a little.

“Tom,” Jane said, “time to leave.”

Tom stood up.

“Rose, I’ll talk to you later,” Jane said.

Tom said good-bye to Rose and followed Jane out into Rose’s small hallway, where he managed to kick over her stack of unsolicited mail. He stooped to pile it all back together, and before Jane could tell him to ignore the mess and move on, her mother shouted from her sitting room.

“And Tom dear!”

“Yes?” He moved back to the doorway.

“If my daughter happens to go missing, you’ll die roaring. I’ll make sure of it,” she said in an airy and sweet tone as though she was promising to take him out to dinner.

“I understand.”

“I’m so sorry,” Jane apologized as she drew him away from the door and slammed it shut. “I really am so very sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Tom said.

“You need locking up!” she screamed at her mother through the closed sitting-room door. She opened Rose’s front door, and Tom followed her into the cold air. He was both a little miffed and a little entertained.

Jane was pissed off. “Sorry you had to witness that.”

“It’s fine,” he said. “Worth it. After all, without you and Elle I’d still be handing out leaflets at gigs.”

Oh God, Elle! Come home for Christ’s sake, just come home!

Jane smiled at Tom and pretended everything was okay. He followed her up the steps and into the house and to the kitchen, where Leslie was hugging her cup of coffee.

“Is the heating broken?” she asked.

“I’ll just put it on.” Jane went into the hall and turned on the heat.

Kurt heard the familiar clicking and came out of his bedroom dressed in his duvet. “Oh yeah, Mum, you’ll put on the heat for visitors but not your only son. Nice.”

Jane ignored her son, and after taking a detour into her bedroom to quickly smear her face with moisturizer for extra-dry skin, she made her way back to the kitchen in time to hear Leslie inform Tom that the hits on the Finding Alexandra site had increased by seventy percent since they’d linked up with Jack Lukeman’s site.

Jane offered them a choice of carrot cake, chocolate log, or coffee cupcakes and brewed fresh coffee, and once they’d munched on cake and complimented Jane on her baking skills, Leslie revealed that before she’d left her apartment she’d received an e-mail from someone who believed that she’d spotted Alexandra at a Jack Lukeman gig in London the previous week.

“I think it’s important not to get excited,” Leslie warned, producing a printout of the e-mail. “It could have been anyone.”

“But it could have been Alexandra,” Tom said. “Please read it.” He lowered his head so that he could focus on the floor.

Leslie began to read:

“Hi, my name is Michelle Radley. I work at the Pigalle Club in London. Last month Jack Lukeman was playing. It was a busy night, two of the girls were off sick, and the toilet attendant didn’t show up. There was a young girl who’d had too much to drink and she was getting sick in the toilets. I was called in to help her but the club was so busy I couldn’t really stay with her. So a woman who looked exactly like the one in your picture said that she would. We talked for a minute or two. She said her name was Alex. She really did look like the woman in your picture, but she was thinner and her hair was shorter. When I returned to the toilet, she and the sick girl were gone. My phone number is 20 77326531 if you want to talk about it. Jack Lukeman is returning to play a show on Saturday, March 1, and I’ll be working so I’ll watch out for her. If you would like to give me a telephone number, I could phone you if she returns. Regards, Michelle.”

Leslie looked at Tom, who was still staring at the floor. She looked at Jane, who was wiping her hands on a tea towel for a little longer than necessary.

“This could be it,” Jane said, and she threw the towel on the counter.

“It’s her,” Tom said.

“Hang on,” Leslie said, “hang on one second. This is a thin, short-haired woman who just looks like Alexandra.”

“She called herself Alex,” Jane said.

“But Tom told us she hasn’t called herself Alex since she was a teenager,” Leslie said.

“But helping some drunken girl in the toilet is something she’d do,” Tom said.

“It’s something a lot of people would do,” Leslie said. “I really think it’s important not to get ahead of ourselves here. We should just pass the information on to the police and let them handle it.”

Tom looked up from the floor. “I’m going to London for the show.”

“I’ll come with you,” Jane said.

“Really?” he asked.

“Absolutely.”
It’s the least I can do considering my sister has gone AWOL.

“Oh for God’s sake,” Leslie said. “You pair haven’t listened to one word I’ve said.”

“We have,” Tom said. “Look, Leslie, I will pass on the e-mail to the police, but I can’t just leave it at that. We’re so close!”

“But you might not be,” Leslie said.

“But we might be,” Jane said.

“I give up!” Leslie got up and cut herself another slice of carrot cake even though she’d been watching what she ate since Elle had sat her down in a coffee shop the week before Christmas and told her that not only did she need her hair dyed and styled and a complete new wardrobe, but she also needed to lose a minimum of six pounds. When Leslie had argued that she was happy the way she was, Elle was having none of it and asked her new friend one simple question: “Do you ever want to have sex again?”

Leslie had thought about this question for a long time before answering, because she really wasn’t sure. It had been so long since she’d had sex with anything that wasn’t battery operated that it seemed like it might be a little too much work. After serious consideration, during which time Elle had managed to finish her cappuccino, order another one, go to the loo, and send two text messages, she had admitted that yes, she probably would like to have sex again in her lifetime.