Less Than Perfect (26 page)

‘Obviously not as good an idea as
you
seem to think you have!' she sniffs.

‘My brother was unemployed …' I say without thinking.

‘I didn't know you had a brother.' Nicola's phone beeps. She casts her eyes down to check the message. ‘I'm wanted back on the floor. No rest for the wicked!'

I can hardly disguise my relief. Getting into a discussion about Liam was the last thing I intended. I usually go to great lengths to avoid talking about him, for fear I'll break down. Now, after this last-minute reprieve, I feel a sense of vertigo as I stand up from my stool, as though I've stood too close to the edge of a cliff, images from my past swirling in a fog below, waiting for me to lose my balance.

Sorry, Liam. I'm so, so sorry.

‘Don't forget that Harry Dixon is coming in on Friday,' I say on our way out, using work as a means of stabilising my feelings.

Nic doesn't seem to mind, or even notice, the change in subject. ‘I haven't forgotten.'

I take her arm and propel her across the street before the crossing light has changed to green.

‘We'll be of no use to Harry if we've both been run over,' she says when we reach the other side. ‘Do you always cross the road like that?'

I ignore the question. ‘Harry will have a few other people with him, maybe three or four in total.' We enter the building and walk into a waiting lift. ‘I want you to show him how easily the Telelink employees have been accommodated. Take him to the server room and introduce some of the technicians – he loves anything to do with IT. Afterwards sit him down in the breakout area for a coffee so he can get a real feel for the place.'

‘Anything else?' Nic asks sardonically. The lift stops at the fourth floor and the doors open.

‘Yes, there is something else.' I can feel the vertigo again, enhanced by the realisation I'm in a lift that's presently suspended a long way off the ground. But I can't let Nic go just yet, not without reiterating what I said earlier. ‘Don't be mean to David, Nic. Don't make him feel as though he's diminished in any way just because he doesn't have a job. Remember, he needs your support.'

I see David for myself in the Mitre on Friday after work. He's dressed in his usual corporate gear, designer suit, an expensivelooking pale blue shirt and a set of cufflinks I haven't seen before: for some strange reason, I keep a tally of David's cufflinks.

‘Have you got another job already?' I enquire, looking him up and down.

‘I wish.' He pulls a face as he glances down at his clothes. ‘I'm dressed like this because I went to see a recruitment agent today.'

‘And what did they say?'

‘That the market is virtually dead and I should expect to be out of work for a few months.'

‘Oh, I'm sorry, David.'

‘The worst thing is that I bumped into one of my ex-colleagues in the foyer and it brought home to me that there are thirty of us looking for work in this “virtually dead” market.'

Before I can think of another sympathetic response, Nicola has joined in on the conversation. ‘Whose turn is it to go to the bar?'

I shake my head at her. ‘That's all you ever think about.'

‘That's all that's important.' She has an edge to her voice.

‘I don't want anything,' I declare. ‘I'm going soon.'

‘Where are you going?'

‘Up town.' I've arranged to meet Matthew for dinner.

‘I'll go.' David puts down his drink on a nearby table and has soon melded into the crowd.

‘Oh, come on, stay a while longer,' Nicola pleads. ‘Let's drink to Harry Dixon and a very successful tour this morning.'

To her credit, Nicola did a superb job of impressing Harry: when I met him later on he was somewhat in awe of our facilities and technical capabilities. I don't want to be overly optimistic but I can't help feeling excited at how promising it looks.

‘I can't stay. Sorry.'

She eyes me suspiciously. ‘Why? Who are you meeting?'

She still doesn't know about Matthew. Neither does Jeanie. At the start I didn't say anything because I assumed it wouldn't last. If I told them now, almost three months later, they'd both be incredulous that I've kept him secret so long, and quite hurt too, I imagine. It's hard to find the right time for what feels like such a momentous discussion.

‘No one you know.' I gulp back my drink. Now is definitely not the right time to tell her. ‘I'll see you at work on Monday.'

On the main street outside there's a blustery wind that wasn't evident in the sheltered garden of the pub. Burrowing my chin into my jacket, I stride against the wind, my thoughts jumping around, a new one with each gust. Poor David; Nicola really should be nicer to him. I must tell Nicola about Matthew. And Jeanie too.
Especially
Jeanie. I'll tell her as soon as the rift with Kimmie is sorted out. She'll be in better form then.

My phone rings. It's Matthew.

‘Hey.' I smile, a reflex whenever I hear his voice. ‘Are you there already?'

‘No. Sorry, Caitlin, I have to cancel on you.'

‘Why? What's up?'

‘I have the names.' He sounds elated.

‘The names?'

‘The names of the kids who beat up that boy. I want to keep going until we've brought them in. I'm really sorry. I hope you understand.'

I understand more than he could ever realise. ‘It's okay,' I assure him in a voice that reveals nothing of what I'm feeling. ‘I'm really glad for you. You've been waiting a long time for this.'

At home in bed, I stare wide-eyed into the shadows of my room, transported back to another time, another list of names, Mum jubilant as she announced the news over the phone.

‘He has the names, Caitlin. Your father has the names and he's given them to the police. Those murderers will be brought to justice.'

I remember holding the phone in my hand for a long time
afterwards. I imagined the names scrawled on the back of an envelope in blue ink. I wondered what those men were doing at that very moment. Were they filing out of Sunday morning mass, the choir still singing in their wake? Or setting the table for lunch, laying knives and forks neatly aside large white plates. Or reading the broadsheet Sunday papers, or maybe taking a moment to play with their young children. Did they have any inkling at all that the police, and my father, had their names? I pictured them as tall men with dark hair and pale skin. They wore jumpers and jeans and were good with their hands. But I had a problem conjuring up an image of their faces. What did the features of a murderer look like? Steely eyes? Ruthless mouth? Cheekbones sharp enough to cut?

Finally, I used the phone to call around my small circle of friends and rally them to go out that night. I desperately needed to take my mind off my mother and father and the names of those men. I stood in the pub, drinking rapidly and talking just as fast, trying to stay ahead of the thoughts in my head.

‘I think you've had enough.' The barman turned me down many drinks later. ‘Here's a glass of water instead.'

‘My father has their names,' I informed him importantly, picking up the glass of water with a flourish and spilling half of it on my hand.

Despite my cynicism and bitterness about my father and his cause, I felt hopeful that night, hopeful that justice would be done and that we could all move on. But nothing tangible eventuated from the list of names, certainly nothing that could remotely pass as closure. Ten years on my father is still seeking justice.

I hope Matthew has more success.

The weekend is quiet and relatively uneventful. Nicola's lying low in a bid to ‘be there' for David. Jeanie's away on a last-minute family visit, which threatens to be more confrontational than usual. And Matthew's absorbed with the names on his list, the face-to-face interviews, the charges being laid, the early-stage evidence, so critical for the prosecution cases that need to be built sufficiently watertight to withstand the system.

Over the weekend they all send me text messages, like progress reports.

From Nicola:

David totally down in the dumps. Doing my head in.

Trying to be nice to him but patience wearing very, very thin.

Want to meet for a quick drink? Need space from you-know-who!

Sighing at her short-lived attempt at being supportive, I respond to say that I don't want to go for a drink and tactfully
suggest that she ask David instead as it might be just the thing to cheer him up.

Jeanie, meanwhile, is embroiled in a major family fracas.

Mum doesn't believe that Kimmie has my phone. She says I'm being juvenile and ridiculous!

I've raided Kimmie's handbag and retrieved the stolen goods. Just presented Mum with the evidence (phone AND gigantic bill).

Big family fallout. Mary and Cathy are taking Kimmie's side, Kellie and Lizzy on mine, Sally and Wendy on fence. Mum furious with us all.

I smile indulgently as I read the messages. Despite all the drama, I know things will eventually settle down and the allegiances won't last past the next family argument. Jeanie is so lucky with her family.

Matthew's messages are sporadic, sent in snatched moments, punctuation missing in his haste.

these kids seem so normal cant believe they did something so vicious and unprovoked

feel sorry for parents theyre still in denial

sorry its been such a lousy weekend for you. promise to make it up next weekend. miss you.

Though I'm in bed and on the verge of sleep, I fumble in the dark for my phone and smile sleepily as I read his last message. I picture him at home, falling into bed at the end of a long, hard, emotional yet fulfilling couple of days.

Miss you too
, I text back and then succumb to sleep.

My working week starts on a bad note, with Tanya McManus announcing another drop in business levels and the need for a
renegotiated contract. This news worries me, as does the fact that Jarrod reacts much less stoically than the first time. But then something happens to compensate – Harry Dixon phones to announce that he's accepting the proposal. Though his tone is clipped and professional and decidedly unexcited, I'm so thrilled that I practically squeal down the phone.

‘Thanks, Harry. That's wonderful. I'm really delighted. I'll ask our lawyers to start working on the contracts straightaway.'

As soon as I hang up, I perform an impromptu victory dance around the office. Zoe takes off her headphones and joins in, dancing in her own peculiar indie style. And Jarrod, wearing a rare smile as he comes out of his office to witness the scene, pops open a bottle of champagne. The week, which started out so badly, ends on a high.

The phone rings close to my ear, jolting me awake on Saturday morning. I groan and reach a heavy arm to pick it up. ‘Mum?'

‘Hello, love. Did I wake you?'

‘Yes.' I blink at the clock: 6 am. No wonder I feel so tired. To be honest, I'm a little hungover too. Quite a few bottles of champagne were consumed at the office before the celebrations moved on to the Mitre. ‘It's very early here, Mum!'

‘Sorry.' She sounds barely apologetic. ‘How was your week, love?'

‘Good and bad.' I yawn loudly. ‘And yours?'

‘It was good, excellent in fact. The reason I rang so early is that I have news. I couldn't wait any longer to tell you.'

‘What news?' I feel a tinge of wariness though I'm still halfasleep. All too often Mum's ‘news' is somehow related to Dad.

‘They won the case, love,' she exclaims, proving me right. ‘They won the civil case. The high court judge found four men responsible for the bombing and the families have been awarded damages.'

The last shreds of sleepiness fall away and I'm awake, horribly awake. ‘
What?
'

‘They won damages of 2.5 million pounds. Your father was on the television – Maeve recorded him. She'll send a copy over to you.'

I check that I've understood correctly. ‘You mean Dad's got
money
from them?'

‘The money's not for your father, it's for all the families. We don't know how it will be divided up yet.'

I shake my head in bewilderment. ‘Money does nothing, Mum.'

‘Money is the only thing those people understand, it's the only way to reach them.'

‘But money won't bring them back, Mum. Money won't bring any of the people who died back to life. Money does
nothing
.'

She's gentle but determined. ‘It's a landmark case, love – you'll understand when you see the footage for yourself.'

‘I'll never understand this.' I'm just as obstinate as she is.

‘Maeve will send you the disc. You'll be proud when you see it.'

‘You're wrong. I have nothing to be proud of.
Nothing at all
.'

Neither of us has anything else to say. I hang up the phone and realise that I'm crying, tears that feel strangely disassociated from my eyes, silently and stealthily creeping down my face.

*

All day I feel off kilter. I try to centre myself by doing my usual Saturday chores and determinedly set about cleaning the apartment. But as I vacuum and mop the floors, flashbacks persistently blot my thoughts. I see my mother's face in an array of different expressions: laughing, creased with a small worry, softened with love, shocked and distraught. I see my father's face with just the one expression, sombre, preoccupied, slightly frowning. I can't begin to comprehend how either of them can be pleased with this result. Money isn't justice, it's an insult. No price can be put on the lives lost that day in Clonmegan, or on the destroyed happiness and peace of mind of those of us left behind.

I scour the surfaces in the kitchen and bathroom, my fingers red and stinging from detergent; I should have worn plastic gloves. I see Maeve's reflection in the shower screen, looking young and lost in her baggy school uniform, with reddened eyes and a wan face. I see Liam holding a cue in one hand and a pint of Guinness in the other, standing in the shadows but yet his relief at being out of the house clearly discernible. I see Josh, racing down the line of the soccer pitch, recognisable only by the fluidity of his movements, his face a blur but real, so very real that I feel as though I can reach out and touch him right here in the bathroom. This feeling, this conviction that he's close is nothing new. It happens mostly when I'm vulnerable or when my guard is down. I sense that he's alongside me, a whisper away. Sometimes I find myself compulsively searching for his face, once even imagining him in the TV audience of
Top Gear
, his hands clapping madly, his face grinning and distinct though the show was recorded well after his death. More than once I've been convinced that he's working on one of the building sites I
pass on my way to work and I've stopped to scan the plasterers in their splattered clothes smoothing crevices and other imperfections from the bricks. Obviously I don't find him but I know that he's close, still with me. We always communicated on a different level. Being dead doesn't change that.