Fragile Lies (19 page)

K
illian

B
lack horses on the ocean
. Riding through the waves. The sea sings, drum-beat engines, fog horns call. The lighthouse flares the rocks. He watches the lady. Daisies in her eyes. And in the moon, Bozo tumbling.

S
ee where you’re going
, Ferryman. This road only has one signpost. I was your age once. The world in my hands. I flung it into an empty bottle.

Where’s your stammer, Bozo? Where’s your big fat red nose?

Left them on the shore. Stop asking stupid questions and go home to your family, you squandering, reckless boy. Don’t you know where you’re heading? One road, one signpost. Fuck off out of my sight. I want to sing with the angels.

Shady Lady, take me away. Smother me. Mother me.

I’ll be waiting for you, Killian. We’ve all the time in the great beyond. But my arms can’t hold you yet.

Why did you leave Michael? Why did you make him sad?

I reached too soon for heaven. I squandered the daisy days.

Stay … Shady … stay … stay …

Killian, I’m here beside you. Keep breathing, please keep breathing. Don’t leave us now. Not when you’ve endured so much. Feel my hand. Hold it tight. Jean rang. She said hurry … hurry. Pneumonia. They warned us it could happen. I scorched the miles from Trabawn, sparks on the road. I fought with my mother every inch of the way.

“Leave him with me,” I yelled. “Get off your fucking cloud and take a look below. What the hell do you think you’re doing? Why aren’t you watching out for me the way a proper mother should? Open your bruised eyes and see my son. He’s not ready, not near ready to go to you yet.”

How I raged, Killian. Right on the chin, I gave it to her. I told her what it was like to be without a mother and a father who passed like a ship through my nights. I demanded from her, temper tantrums, kicking, screaming, the way I never could when I was a child. I demanded your life in exchange for my anger. When I came here I was punch drunk, reeling.

Jean said, “You were praying,” and I laughed at the notion, even though there’s no room for laughter tonight. She’s drifted off to sleep on the chair beside your bed. Terence has gone to the kitchen to make tea and see if he can scrounge some biscuits. He loves you as much as I do. Love has no divisions. It’s a river, an effortless flowing river. Flow with it, Killian. Let it carry you back to us.

T
he men
, handsome in tuxedos and black ties, and the women, glittering in designer eveningwear, gathered in the reception room of the Congress Hotel to drink champagne. Bill Sheraton moved among the guests, an affable host, stopping here, stopping there, stepping out a skilful minuet between business and pleasure. Virginia cast her experienced gaze over the proceedings and welcomed a photographer from
Prestige
. He flirted with her, as he always did on such occasions, and obeyed her instructions to photograph Andrea. The Sheratons posed beside a prominent government minister. Lorcan, ordered by his mother to smile, looked as if his teeth were being pulled without an anaesthetic. His habitual look of boredom disappeared when a young woman shrieked his name and flung her arms around him. Marianne Caulfield. The name clicked instantly into Virginia’s mind. She had directed the film which would be shown later in the evening.

The guests swept towards the ballroom where tables were laid for the gala dinner. Chandeliers shone kindly on bare arms and there was much excitement over the foil-wrapped gift resting beside each place card. Despite Andrea’s insistence that the places at the top table could not be changed, Lorcan demanded that another setting be organised beside him for Marianne.

Waiters streamed from the kitchen with silver platters balanced on one hand. Throughout the meal the young couple sat closely together, locked in a conversation that excluded everyone at the table. Occasionally they giggled and lowered their voices in a conspiratorial whisper. No doubt the adults surrounding them were the source of their merriment.

The level of noise reached the animated pitch that accompanies good food and fine wine. How handsome Adrian looked compared to the other men present. Virginia willed him to meet her eyes across the floral centrepiece. How often in the past had they dined in company, separated by convention, yet linked by the magnetic pull of desire. He was seated next to Jennifer Dwyer, the financial controller of Sheraton Worldwide Travel. His gaze never wavered from her face as he talked knowledgeably about the breeding patterns of pure-bred Siamese. Her laughter suggested that his comments had a
risqué
edge but she seemed amused and behaved towards him in a mildly flirtatious manner. Virginia turned her attention to the accountant’s husband, a barrister who would always look insignificant without his wig.

Marianne gestured dismissively at the wine waiter. Her voice had an assertive ring when she demanded a jug of still mineral water with ice and slices of lime. She bestowed a contemptuous glare on those around her who were drugging legally and merrily on alcohol and explained to the table at large that she and Lorcan were on an addictive-substance recovery programme.

“Marianne,
really
. This is not the time or the place –” Andrea coughed warningly into a table napkin and left the perfect imprint of her shocked lips on white linen.

“This is a fund-raiser for the Patterson Centre.” Marianne was prettily defiant. “We have to talk about these issues.”

“Of course, dear. But is it necessary to do so tonight?”

“Why not?” Lorcan placed his arm protectively around his companion. “Marianne made the film we’re going to watch. I helped with the editing. I’m not ashamed to admit I’m in recovery.”

The barrister gazed slyly at Virginia’s cleavage and declared that addiction had many forms. He was occasionally tempted to steal items from Brown Thomas. In particular he enjoyed staking out the ladies’ shoe department. Not that he would ever attempt to steal anything, he hastened to assure her. Being a pillar of the legal establishment had its obligations. It was just an urge. Like the desire of a recovered alcoholic to lean his elbow on a bar – or a reformed smoker to breathe in the carcinogenic fumes of other people’s cigarettes. He glared peevishly at Bill Sheraton who unabashedly lit up his black cigarillos between each course.

At the end of the meal a large screen was lowered from the ceiling and the film began. Virginia had little interest in witnessing the daily routine of recovering junkies whose earnest revelations about life on the mean streets set her teeth on edge. Polite applause greeted the end of the film then increased to a crescendo when Sulki Puss, the drag queen who was conducting the charity auction, appeared.

Over six feet tall, Sulki Puss had become an overnight celebrity since the start of his late night game show on television. He cut a dramatic figure as he strode on stage in a red lamé dress, his height increased by an exotic turban in the same material. His dress was slit from ankle to hip and he was balanced gracefully on red stilettos, his muscular legs sleek under fishnet tights. Sonya and her red high heels. Virginia forced herself to concentrate on the auction but Sonya continued flickering like the faded rewind of an old long-forgotten film.

Sulki Puss was in full swing … titty-titty bang-bang … going, going, gone … he brought the hammer down on a black lace bustier donated by a famous cabaret singer.

“Jesus, I’d put myself on hard labour for those spikes.” The barrister, enraptured by the drag queen’s stilettos, chortled into his brandy. His wife cast a blistering glance in his direction before turning her attention back to Adrian.

“Why don’t you check them out in Brown Thomas?” Virginia smiled serenely and wondered how soon she could politely slip away or, preferably, curl into a quiet corner and sleep.

“As always, Virginia, a splendid occasion.” Finally, the night drew to a conclusion. Bill Sheraton was mildly intoxicated and jolly with it. He clasped her hand, glanced across the table where Adrian and the financial controller were still deep in conversation. “You can relax. Jennifer has assured me he’s a worthwhile investment.”

Energy surged through Virginia. “Wonderful. I promise you won’t regret your decision.”

“Don’t worry, Virginia.” His eyes glinted a warning. “I make sure I never regret my decisions.”

Andrea brushed her cheek in farewell. “Marianne was most indiscreet tonight. I’m sure you won’t mention –” She settled a steely glance on her son and his elfin companion who were talking animatedly to the director of the Patterson Centre.

“Of course not.” Virginia rushed to reassure her.

“Sometimes I wonder … it’s not easy being a mother.” She pursed her thin mouth, which was beginning to develop deep-set commas on either side. “You’re lucky, Virginia. No worries on that score.”

No worries indeed. If Jake had lived he would be a few years older than Lorcan, handsome, charming, witty, polished. His hair had been black, like her own. She had never seen the colour of his eyes. It was so long ago, compartmentalised, placed tenderly out of sight.

As Josephine was fond of saying, “Into every life a little pain must fall.”

Virginia closed her eyes on a velvet night. Velvet was how she classified events that flowed through her hands without a hitch. Tonight had been exhausting but worth the effort. Adrian was jubilant when he returned to the apartment and carried her into the bedroom. Her body still felt delightfully invaded and Adrian, always the first to drift away, uttered a languorous moan, as if his body was still infused with their pleasure.

Time to count sheep. There was something peaceful about their plump white bodies jumping over endless hurdles. She began to float with them, rising and falling, rising and falling. Wolves and red high heels. Her body jerked awake. Already the dream was fragmenting, leaving just a fleeting impression of Sonya in her red shoes and prowling wolves. Virginia did not believe in the significance of dreams. Life was complex enough without it being dominated by Jungian theories and in-depth analysis of the id. Unlike Lorraine, she had no intention of daubing her surreal fantasies across a canvas for all the world to view and dreams, when they did invade her sleeping hours, did so discreetly and had the good sense to be gone by morning, leaving nothing, not even a shadow of the unconscious to weight her down. She awoke refreshed, ready to take on the demands of a new day – or so she had believed until … well … she sighed and attempted to banish the vision of Sonya in her red high heels and laddered tights mincing across the floor of her little house in Blandsford Crescent. The image reminded her of one of Lorraine’s painting – which was enough to banish any lingering hope of sleep.

Painting Dreams
should have been another velvet night. Virginia had worked tirelessly to make the opening of Lorraine’s exhibition a success. As always, her finger was steady on the promotional pulse of the evening – but the exhibition made her uneasy. There was a wildness in Lorraine’s paintings, an unfettered imagination utterly at war with the portraits upon which she had built her reputation.

Adrian had moved purposefully through the crush and stood beside Virginia, his words muffled, inaudible. She smiled across the gallery at a photographer from the
Evening Herald
and noted with pleasure an art critic from
The Irish Times
, another from the
Dublin Echo
. Standing slightly apart from the main gathering, Lorraine and the crew from
Artistically Speaking
were engaged in the interview.

“Have you seen it?” Adrian repeated, insisting on Virginia’s attention when she had so much to oversee.

She whispered, “We’ll talk later,” and waved to Bill and Andrea Sheraton, who had just arrived.

But he persisted, holding her arm until she stood still and allowed his words to blow warningly against her cheek. “He was mentioned again in the papers this morning.” His voice shook suddenly. “His photograph was on the front page. Eighteen years of age. He’s on a life-support machine, a vegetable from the sound of it.”

She whispered that he must be calm. She touched his hand, forced him to listen. No one knew. No one would ever know. She reassured him, strengthened him, told him there was nothing to fear but fear itself and resisted the longing to smooth the worried expression from his face.

Lorraine had turned from the camera, her eyes moving slowly, deliberately over them and in that instant, as Adrian moved away, Virginia felt on her skin the quivering pressure of velvet being gently stroked in the wrong direction.

L
orraine arranged a still
-life of fruit and wine in the centre of the circle.

“Study the basic shape of each object before you attempt to draw anything,” she advised. “Always take time to observe. It’s only when you have a clear vision of what’s before you that you can interpret it in your own individual style.” Lorraine had forgotten how much she used to enjoy teaching and the people who turned up each Thursday evening settled easily around her. After each class they adjourned to O’Callaghan’s for a drink, crowding together into an alcove that jokingly became known as The Artist’s Colony. She was carried along on their laughter, their good-natured banter. A car pool had been organised with Noeleen and Sophie, the three of them taking turns to drive each other to the school on alternate weeks. The needs of the group were diverse. Sophie wanted to paint the Sudanese landscape she had left behind, Angie from O’Callaghan’s restaurant was interested in fantasy illustrations and Lorraine noted with amusement that the vivid hallucinatory images produced by Máirtín Mullarkey definitely belonged to his Mad Dog phase. Noeleen wrestled gamely with her portrait of Frank and worried about the proportions of his nose.

Energy radiated from the group. Their rapt expressions and concentrated silence suddenly reminded her of Michael Carmody. She had heard nothing from him since his abrupt departure. His discovery of her self-portraits had obviously scared him off. Noeleen waited until the class dispersed in the direction of O’Callaghan’s before producing the portrait of her husband.

“His bloody honker is driving me to drink.” She pointed to a rock-like structure that threatened to dominate her painting. Lorraine diplomatically pointed out that Frank’s nose was one of his most noble features and made suggestions as to how it could be modified by cheating slightly on the brow, cheeks and upper lip. With a few deft rubs and strokes she demonstrated what she meant. Noeleen agreed it made all the difference and they joined the group in O’Callaghan’s. An hour later, with Lorraine at the wheel, they left for home.

Sophie’s house was the first stop. Lorraine had only driven a short distance from the O’Dohertys’ farm when the dashboard blacked out, the headlights failing in the same instant. The sudden enveloping darkness terrified her. As Lorraine braked to a standstill she was unsure if she had swerved too close to the middle or the side of the road. Noeleen was also subdued as she peered through the windscreen.

“The speed some people drive around here they’ll be into the back of us in no time at all. Have you got a torch? I can stand behind the car and shine it as a warning.”

Lorraine removed a torch from the glove compartment and they stepped outside. By the torch beam Noeleen checked her mobile phone and tapped a number. “I’ll give Fred a ring. He might still be in the garage.”

Fred Byrne had closed his garage for the night but he promised to be with them as soon as possible. Ten minutes later he arrived in his jeep.

“If it’s the electrics it’ll take time to sort out,” he said. “The best thing to do is leave it with me. I’ll tow you back to the garage then drop you home.”

The journey back to the village was short and passed without incident.

“I’m sorry to cause so much trouble,” Lorraine said when Fred braked outside her house.

“Not a bit of trouble in the world. You should get that bumper fixed while you’re about it.” Once again Michael Carmody placed himself smoothly in the centre of her thoughts. “I’ve been meaning to do so. It’s so slight I keep forgetting.”

Fred nodded. “Still and all, it takes from the appearance, not to mention the value. Ring me tomorrow afternoon and I’ll let you know how I’m getting on.”

The repairs took longer than anticipated. Two days later Noeleen drove her to the garage.

“Tricky thing, the electrics.” Fred tapped the dashboard, which was, he assured Lorraine, now in perfect working order. “Whoever did the last repairs made a right botch of the job. I’m surprised you haven’t had problems before now.”

“But this is the first time I’ve had the car repaired,” Lorraine protested. “Apart from a knock on the bumper, it’s never had a scratch.”

“Maybe the previous owner didn’t mention it.” Fred rubbed a chamois over the wing mirror. “The bonnet took a right dent and the stereo was ripped out at some stage. That’s what damaged the electrics.”

“But this is a one-owner car. It was new when I bought it.”

He seemed about to argue further then changed his mind. “Far be it from me to contradict a lady such as yourself. If you’d like to settle the bill we’ll agree to disagree.”

His friendliness had been replaced by a brusque, business-like manner. When she wrote a cheque and handed him a bottle of whiskey as a thank-you gesture for rescuing her, he remained aloof.

“He’s got the hump,” said Noeleen when Lorraine left the office. “Around here you don’t contradict Fred.”

“Even when he’s wrong?”

“Well, that’s the thing,” said Noeleen quietly. “He never is.”