Fragile Lies (34 page)

B
rahms Ward
, Midnight

P
erhaps the experts are right
. Cannot be awoken … have not yet … Who am I to be the judge of anything? Reflex actions, fluttering eyelashes, your tight convulsive grip, I come here night after night seeking signs, hoping, praying, willing you – all of us willing you back to us. I’m no good tonight. Your grip gives me comfort but it changes nothing. My heart is a stone. She has left me bereft. The trail to the Great South Wall is dead.

I went back there today, back to where the sea laps the pier and seagulls swoop through fumes of gas and oil. Dublin is in the grip of a renaissance, Killian. Office blocks are mushrooming along the quays, apartments, hotels. The motorways are marching onwards for Ireland; cement labyrinths carrying traffic outwards to the four provinces. Under ground, over ground, tunnels, tracks and grid-lock. On the docklands there is a new heart beating and only the old Customs House sprawling white along the quays prevents this city becoming a stranger to me.

I walked the wall between the rocks and the sea and tried to imagine what you were trying to recapture each time you strayed there. Childish memories, stories of mysterious sea voyages – or was I weighing you down with my own dead memories? It rained while I was there. I let it wash over my face and when it stopped a rainbow spanned the lighthouses that guard the mouth of Dublin Bay. A white ferry passed beneath its arch. I saw you sliding deep into the indigo, hiding away from all of us, Jean, Terence, Laura and sulky brat Duncan who loves you so much he’s mixed it up with hate because that’s the only way he can cope. Love and hate, Killian. Two sides of a damaged coin. I spun a silver coin and found it to be baseless.

Afterwards, I collected my painting. The exhibition is over. A new artist will soon take her place on the walls.
Sand Blizzard
, she called it. Snow on sand and a woman slight as a twig looking upwards towards the old boathouse. The gallery owner said it’s a good choice.
Painting Dreams
was illusion, fantasy, unfulfilled desire. There was no strength in her paintings, only yearnings. This collection is different. Energy jumps from the canvases. The night is magic.

I stood among the cool white walls of the gallery and imagined a studio where donkeys used to live. I saw palettes of burnt sienna and yellow ochre, the luminous splashes on the walls, the canvases still drying. I saw her painting you … or was it me? That’s the way it will always be. I can deal with it. Rainbows are illusions. They disappear.

On the way down I shared the elevator with Virginia Blaide. If she remembered our last meeting she gave no sign. She smiled and wished me good day.

T
he tide has receded
. Black horses at rest. One by one, two, three and four, the stars appear, pinpricks shimmering, sparking. Dawn will come soon. The world will be green. What a colour that will be. A green new world. He stirs and reaches for the moon.

M
IRACLE RECOVERY
OF COMA VICTIM

A
courageous young
man has defied medical opinion and is recovering in hospital from horrific head injuries incurred when he was critically injured in a hit-and-run accident. For seventeen months Killian Devine-O’Malley lay in a post-coma vegetative state with little hope of recovery. Supported by his family and friends he fought back and is now in a stable condition. His reawakening has been greeted with amazement by the medical team at the Hammond Clinic.

“We never lost hope that he would recover,” said his father, Michael Carmody, whose TV series Nowhere Lodge has won him legions of young fans.

“For Killian to reawaken after such a traumatic injury is nothing short of a miracle,” said an overjoyed Ms Devine-O’Malley, whose vigil by her son’s bedside was constant.

The family plan a quiet celebration when Killian is released from hospital.

Gardaí hope to interview him when he is strong enough to answer questions. It is hoped he can provide them with relevant information on the circumstances surrounding his accident.

“In the meantime we are renewing our appeal to anyone who was in the vicinity of the Great South Wall on 20 November 2001 between 11 p.m. and midnight and noticed anything suspicious,” said Garda Sergeant Murray. “The case is still open and we are particularly interested in interviewing the owner of a silver car (make unknown) which was seen in the vicinity shortly before the accident occurred.”

T
he fax machine
in Virginia’s office clicked into receive mode. A document came through, slightly darkened in transmission. Not a muscle moved in her face as her eyes scanned the headline from the
Dublin Echo
. Adrian’s office was empty, his computer still on, a half-empty mug of coffee cooling. The faxed clipping had been shredded and flung into the wastepaper basket.

The touch of lace on her skin. The cool whisper of silk. Virginia fastened hooks and suspenders. She stepped into a dark purple dress that flattened across her stomach, outlined her breasts. She applied lipstick, a damson streak, and sprayed perfume on her pulses.

Temple Bar was crowded with cinema-goers and diners. The night was mild enough for young people to gather on the pavements outside the pubs, where they converged in groups. She entered an apartment block and took the elevator to the top storey.

“I didn’t think you’d come.” Ralph opened the door wide and drew her inside.

“Just hold me,” she said . “We don’t have to talk.”

She knew his body intimately yet, now, it was as if she touched him for the first time. His lovemaking, once so demanding, moved at a slow, leisurely pace. She remained passive in his arms, willing to allow him control, knowing he was enjoying the languid lie of her body, her slow sensuous response. She remembered the violence of their early years, her delight when he twisted her arms above her head, locked her in a grim embrace, and how she had fought him, feigning resistance, teasing him into exhaustion, their excitement heightened to a point where it could no longer be contained. Youthful games that seemed so trivial after Jake died. Life taking its toll on fun and games, even war games.

It was after midnight when she phoned Adrian. “I won’t be home tonight,” she said. “I’m staying overnight with friends.” She hung up before he could reply.

“I never believed I could forgive you.” Ralph leaned on his elbow and stared down at her, smiling his sharp wolf smile.

“But you haven’t forgiven me.”

“If that’s what you believe why are you here?”

“We always played games, Ralph.”

“Games are for children.”

“Games are for those who want to play them.”

He pulled her roughly towards him. “Let’s play some more then.”

The bells for Sunday mass were ringing as she drove through the city and out towards Clontarf. Joggers ran along the promenade, elbows tight to their sides. A flotilla of yachts swooped past Howth Head, white sails billowing towards harbour. What had they talked about? So many subjects to be skirted. No-go areas where she must tread with caution. But it was possible to recreate those early days, move back to London, make a fresh start together. The Celtic Tiger economy was slowing down, companies cutting back, hi-tech US giants repatriating their profits or seeking cheaper labour markets further afield. It was only a matter of time before Bill Sheraton took action. She was tired of Ireland with its constant inward navel-gazing and scandals. Time to bale out.

Adrian was sitting by the window, a bottle of whiskey almost empty. All night long he had been waiting, she realised, looking at the overflowing ashtray, the congealed remains of an evening meal.

“Ah, Virginia, just in time to share the last glass.” He carefully poured the remaining whiskey into two glasses and handed one to her. “To us. To happiness. Are you going to tell me where you were?”

“I was with friends. I told you I was staying overnight with one of them.”

“Don’t make me laugh, Virginia. You have no friends.”

The weight of desolation dragged his face downwards, his eyes, his cheeks, his lips, everything sagging like a sad clown. Whiskey fumes, paint fumes, fumes of guilt; she was tired struggling. As he bent forward unsteadily to place his glass on the low marble-topped table it slipped from his fingers and shattered.

“Broken glass – look, broken glass. Better not touch.” He laughed wildly and held his hand before her, pointing to a white scar across his palm.

She forced him back from the table, suddenly terrified he would lift a shard and press it into his flesh or turn, in his befuddled and furious state, on her. “Leave it, Adrian. I’ll clear it up.”

He sank heavily back into the armchair, his head bent forward, watching her with a bleary but focused stare. “You were with a man last night. I can smell him on you.” He gripped her wrist, pulled her downwards with such force that she lost her balance and collapsed on top of him. “Leave me and I’m going straight to the police.”

“I’ve no intention of leaving you. You’re drunk, Adrian. We’ll discuss this again when you’re sober.”

“I’m drunk and I’m serious. For better or worse. That’s us, Virginia.”

“For better or worse,” she replied and opened the window to let the fresh morning air blow through.

L
orraine sat quietly
beside his bed. His eyelids flickered. A familiar sign, seen on her previous visit. He moved his head slowly against the pillows and coughed. How fine his skin looked, almost translucent. She noticed, for the first time, his damaged arms, scarred pinpricks, still fading. He lifted one arm, reached across to touch his other hand and squeezed it a number of times. Pins and needles, she wondered, watching his clutching movements becoming stronger. Holding on, she thought. Terrified he would slip away from them again. She placed his painting against the wall. He would see it as soon as he awoke.

His father’s voice had been choked with emotion when he rang. Unrecognisable until he gasped her name and said, “Lorraine, he’s awake. He opened his eyes and recognised me. Then he smiled and went back to sleep again. I thought it was my imagination and I waited … I waited until he woke up again. He spoke my name.”

Struggling to compose herself she sank into a chair. “Thank God, Michael – oh thank God!”

“He spoke my name. I wanted you to know. Do you understand what I’m saying, Lorraine? Killian is awake.”

“It’s wonderful – wonderful. I’m so happy for you.” “Please come and see him. Share this with me. I’m only half alive without you. Please come now.”

She longed to drop the phone and run to her car, drive without stopping, breaking lights and speed limits, barriers, road-blocks, throwing caution helter-skelter out the window, not stopping until she was crushed against him, rejoicing together in this joyous moment. This longing, which he shared – she could hear it in his voice, in the anticipatory silence as he waited for her to speak – drained the last vestige of energy from her. The kitchen door opened. Emily entered and flung her bag into the corner. Afterwards, Lorraine was unable to remember what she said to him. Platitudes, probably, but they signalled the end of their conversation.

A week had passed since his phone call. At reception she had checked that his son was alone before entering his ward. She was about to leave when Killian stirred. His eyes opened and fixed on her, the glazed fear slowly clearing. Awake, he seemed frailer, his cheeks sunken, his mouth almost bloodless, but there was a strong rhythm to his breathing and his stare held knowledge. No longer a boy held captive in a realm beyond dreams.

The word he spoke was muffled, almost inaudible, and when he repeated it she realised it was his father’s name. His gaze slowly travelled over her face and onto a painting where shadows played across a fairy-tale forest of briars. Dense with dangerous thorns, the forest held him captive, but hanging from the briars Lorraine had painted many things: a xylophone and a cartoon-type cat with a hat, a manuscript, a prayer book, a teapot, get-well cards, medical equipment, a Walkman and, glinting with sapphire lights, a silver bracelet.

R
alph raised his wineglass
, tipped it towards her in a laconic salute. “To the most beautiful woman in the restaurant.”

To bask in her husband’s admiration. The irony was not lost on Virginia. Who would have believed it? She wondered what her mother would say if she knew. “Time is a great healer” seemed like a predictable response.

He had chosen a restaurant with horse prints on the walls and heavy oak beams stretched above them. Their table was secluded behind a partition with stained-glass portholes through which she glimpsed the other diners. Not that prying eyes should matter. She smiled inwardly but decided it would be unwise to share her thoughts with Ralph. He was only too aware that he was seducing his wife under her lover’s nose.

He signalled for the bill. She studied his hands, his broad knuckles, the flourish with which he signed his signature on the payment slip, adding a lavish tip for the waitress.

“Thank you for a wonderful meal, Ralph,” she said.

“My pleasure.” He quirked an eyebrow, smiled. “I hope you’re not going to play Cinderella tonight. I’ve booked somewhere private … intimate.”

He took her elbow and they walked from the restaurant. In the foyer the waiter brought her coat, held it out for her as she placed her arms into the sleeves and nestled the fur collar against her neck. Mock-antique lanterns shone from the walls and cast an amber glow over the mirror behind the reception desk. She glanced automatically into the dulled recess. They looked so perfect together it was possible to imagine they had never been sundered by her own foolish recklessness. She moved her head for a final look and saw her father staring back at her. She recognised his lips, the bloat of pleasure on them when he emerged from Sonya’s room, the room where Virginia must not go, the lazy satiated smile that Lorraine had painted with such devastating precision. Virginia locked into his dead gaze then slowly, deliberately, she forced him away until she saw only her own taut cheekbones and vivid mouth. The most beautiful face in the restaurant, Ralph had said, toasting her.

“We should never have come to Ireland,” she said as he drove from the car-park. “You’ve no idea how much I regret –”

“No regrets,” he said. “It’s not your style, Virginia.”

He switched on a CD of love ballads. The music was gentle, relaxing, but her face felt different, overlaid with her father’s stamp, and she cursed Lorraine who, with such cruel precision, had etched an indelible impression on her mind. He braked at the Merrion Gates. They watched the DART speeding southwards. A few dog owners were walking their pets on the Sandymount esplanade. A Yorkshire terrier and a large bulldog sniffed each other in mutual fascination until their owners jerked them apart. She wondered which hotel he had booked for the night. When she asked he winked and said, “Curiosity killed the cat,” which, as an answer, lacked a certain maturity but she purred against his shoulder, teasing him and gently clawing her nails down the side of his face.

“Have you told him yet?” Ralph asked.

“Not yet.”

“Why won’t you just go, walk away?”

“He’s sick, Ralph. It’s all been too much for him. I need some more time but it’s over, finished.”

The love songs ended. Ralph replaced the CD with a tape. The clashing screams of punk filled the car, music once so familiar, now so alienating. Sulphuric Acid. Blast from the past. She drew back from the savagery of the lyrics, uneasy when he sang along, his voice older now, a deeper resonance. As he turned right and drove swiftly in the direction of the East Link Bridge, he slapped his hand off the steering-wheel in a rhythmic drum beat. She liked speed but not on a road with bends and roundabouts.

“Where are we going, Ralph?” She spoke loudly above the music.

“As I said, Virginia, somewhere special.”

“Then take it easy.” She laid her hand warningly on his arm. “We’ll get there soon enough.”

She watched the speedometer climb higher. “Why can’t we go to your apartment?”

“It needs redecorating.”

“It’s only new. Why should it need to be redecorated?”

He swerved sharply at the South Port roundabout. “You stayed there, Virginia.” His smile flashed in the darkened interior. “You left your perfume on my sheets. You contaminated my air.”

She pressed down on the belt clasp but her hands trembled so much she was unable to release it. “Stop the car immediately. I don’t know what you’re playing at but it’s not remotely funny.”

She opened the belt but he was driving too fast for her to do anything except stare in horror as he drove past the oil depots and container yards, the traveller families safe in their caravans, past the derelict buildings with their murky, empty doorways and the sprawling outlines of the generating station. The Pigeon House chimneys spilled smoke into the air and, in the distance, standing squat and alert at the foot of the Great South Wall, a red lighthouse flung a warning beam across Dublin Bay.

“You’re mad,” she sobbed when he braked, tyres screeching, at the entrance to the pier. “Insane. We could have been killed.”

“Imagine that,” he said. “Dead on the pier and no one to tell.”

She gulped, forcing moisture into her mouth, but still she felt her throat contracting. Everything depended on her staying in control. The alternative was to run screaming into the night.

“You’ve had your fun, Ralph.” Finally, she managed to speak. “I want to go home now.”

“Our home is in rubble, Virginia.”

“Please, Ralph, this is crazy –”

“Revenge is a dish best served cold.” She flinched from the mockery in his voice. “Get out of my car, Virginia.” His voice rose impatiently when she refused to move. “Get out before I drag you out.”

She stepped onto the surface of the pier. To run was useless. Once she was outside the cone of light she would be unable to see in front of her. He moved quickly from his side of the car and grabbed her arm, walked her into the shelter of the shed.

“Was this where you fucked him?” He cupped her face in his hand, tilted her chin towards him. “Or did you do it in the car? Fill me in on the details, please.”

It was too dark to see his expression but she imagined it, wolfish, a casual brutality, raw and sexual. Her angry punk with his contrived fury, spewing his lyrics above the heads of his fans and she, holding him on the reins of her pleasure, controlling him.

“Answer me, Virginia.”

“Make me,” she whispered. She grasped his hair, dragged her mouth across his throat. “Is this what you want?” Her moist lips opened to him and he, in turn, lowered his face, his hands on her buttocks as he pressed her forcefully against the wall.

“You betrayed me with indifference,” he whispered into her ear, his breath hot against her skin. “You betrayed me with ease. Time and time again you came to my bed and lay down beside me, held me, looked into my eyes, lied to me. So many,
many
times.” Still holding her with his body, he encircled her neck with his hand, his thumb and fingers tightening.

“Why are you doing this, Ralph? I don’t understand.”

“Stop lying, Virginia.” His tone suggested he was chastising a mischievous child and was more terrifying in its gentleness. “No more games.” One by one he lifted his fingers from her throat until only his thumb remained impaled on her skin. “I could kill you with that same indifference, that same ease. I could leave you lying here, helpless, then drive away, just as you did, and never think about you again.” His thumb eased away. “But I know I can’t. You’d haunt me forever. Cold and hard and beautiful as a diamond, that’s what you are, Virginia. So I’m walking away. You’re not worth a single day of pain. You never were.”

His footsteps rang against the concrete. Already he was disappearing into the darkness. Unable to believe he was abandoning her, she called after him. Her legs trembled as she ran forward to the centre of the pier. She watched him climb into his car and start the engine. Her foot caught against a wedge of concrete and she fell, her ankle twisting, one shoe off, her stockings torn. Desperately, she crawled away from the engulfing headlights, screamed into her hands as he drove past, the wheels spraying grit and dust over her. He stopped, reversed and turned, came towards her again. Then he was gone and she was alone in the darkness.

Her ankle throbbed painfully. Already, it was beginning to swell above her shoe. She searched through her bag for her mobile phone, her movements becoming more frantic as she realised it was missing from its customary pocket. It must have fallen on the pier when she tripped. She scrabbled in the dark, concrete grazing her fingers. Unable to find it, she realised he must have removed it from her bag at some stage during the night. She wept with the indignity he had imposed upon her but mainly she raged against herself. How could she have allowed herself to be so deceived? Honeyed e-mails eating up her sleepless hours. Anonymous mail eating up her days. Worn out with worry and lack of sleep she had allowed him to gradually chip away at her defences and, oh, how he had chipped, teasing, flirting, enticing her back into his arms.

Rain began to fall. She huddled against the wall. She imagined him in jail, kidnapping and assault, locked safely behind bars, his wolf smile banished forever. In the distance she saw headlights dipping and swaying towards the pier. She huddled deeper against the wall, terrified he had returned.

The car drew closer. She heard tyres thudding over the ridged entrance to the pier. A door banged, a voice called her name. She shielded her eyes, limped forward.

“He phoned me, told me I’d find you here.” Adrian led her, weeping, towards his car.

She collapsed against the passenger seat, her hands over her eyes as he turned and left the pier behind. The wheels buckled over the uneven surface, creating a thudding sound that jolted her body against the seat.

“He forced me to come here –”

“Ralph has never forced you to do anything in your life, Virginia. He spared no details when he phoned. But then why should he? I stole his whore.”

Warm air from the heater blasted her face. She felt her colour rise, her scalp prickling. “You believe I’m here by
choice
? Answer me,” she shrieked. “Do you believe I deliberately asked him to bring me here?”

“I believe you were with him tonight by your own choice. I believe he made a fool of us.” His fury seared through her. “I believe it would be a relief if I never set eyes on you again. I believe you’ve plundered my soul.”

“Plundered!” She mocked him with her laughter. “I thought he was going to kill me and all you can do is talk about your
plundered
soul.”

“Be quiet.” His tone was dismissive. “This madness has to stop somewhere. We’re going straight to the police.”

“The only reason we’ll go to the police is to charge him with assault and kidnapping.”

“Stop lying, Virginia. I’ve made up my mind. Ralph knows. Lorraine knows. It’s only a matter of time before it’s general knowledge. I’ll confess to driving the car. I don’t give a tinker’s curse any more.” The weariness with which he spoke was more frightening than his earlier anger. “If we don’t stop it now it will go on forever. I can’t take it any more.”

“Yes, you can. And you will. Everything passes, Adrian. Everything! The kid is recovering. He’ll be out of hospital soon. It will pass and be forgotten. Listen to me –”

“It’s over. I don’t hear you any more.”

“But you must – you must. You can’t do this, Adrian. I won’t let you.”

“There’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

Across the black sea she smelled the fumes. Such a pungent, suffocating smell of paint rising above the pier wall and rolling towards her. Its oily residue was in her nostrils, her throat. Adrian turned a corner and there, leaping from the shadows, turning to stand motionless before them, was the young man, his mouth open on a scream, his woollen cap low over his eyes, but not low enough to prevent him staring, such a fierce penetrating stare, into her eyes, and she screamed a warning, screamed before it was too late, forced Adrian to swerve, dragged at the wheel with all her strength until the tyres skidded, spun haplessly across the empty road towards the looming steel barrier on the far side. She watched as the steering wheel wrenched free from his hands and he bent forward, graceful as a dancer accepting applause, to meet it with his chest.

The crunch, she would always remember the crunch, and the sense of utter incredulity that life could be so whimsical; so easily given and arbitrarily taken away. Adrian died instantly. She knew he was gone before she touched his slumped body. She heard someone screaming. The sound was far away and there was an empty road before her … empty … empty …

Later, minutes, maybe hours, a car braked. Footsteps ran towards her then slowed cautiously. She heard voices and was able to call back, to tell them she was injured but safe. A man forced open the passenger door, turned her face into his shoulder when she began to shake. The ambulance came quickly.

“A miracle,” said the driver as she was lifted onto a stretcher. They laid a blanket over Adrian’s face. It seemed insulting to cry. So utterly futile. He would still be dead, no matter how violently she rent her grief into the night.