Offcomer

Longbourn

The Undertow

The Mermaid’s Child

The Telling

Claire sat on the edge of the bath, her skirt hooked up around her thighs, her left foot balanced on her right knee, holding a razorblade between her thumb and forefinger. The bathroom door was locked. The house, all three floors of it, was empty. Beside her, balanced on the edge of the bath, were a box of tissues, an empty plastic bag, a sticking plaster, unwrapped but with its translucent backing still in place, and a thick fleecy roll of cotton wool, also unwrapped.

She let her hand drop down against her ankle, where the skin was pale and translucent, and began to cut. Her face, through the screen of mid-brown hair, was tight with concentration, but what she drew on the skin seemed unconsidered, undesigned, a doodle. A small, neat spiral, such as people draw on notepads while talking on the phone. Blood welled up, dripped round the ankle, onto the supporting knee, trickling down the leg.

When the spiral had twisted itself out to the size of her thumbnail, she lifted away the razor, and put it down on the side of the bath. Then she closed her eyes and took a couple of deep, shaky breaths, as if she had just surfaced.

She tore off a tuft of cotton wool and pressed it to the cut, then began mopping up the thinnish blood from her leg with a dampened tissue. She stuck a plaster down over the broken skin, stood up, shook down her skirt. She folded the used razorblade into its waxed-paper envelope and slotted it into the back of the box that the blades came in. She wrapped the bloody tissues and cotton wool in the plastic bag, crumpled it in her hand.

She stepped away, checking over the bath and cork tiles for splashes and drips, then unlocked the door and padded downstairs in her bare feet. In the back yard, she dropped her plastic bag into the wheelie bin, pushed back her hair and lifted her face to the sun.

ONE
 

Claire Thomas walked down Stranmillis Road. It was a soft, sticky evening, the eighteenth of June, nine months since she had arrived in Belfast, and she was pacing out her route to work.

At the bottom of Stranmillis she turned onto University Road. The old lime trees were dropping a gentle drizzle of cool sap; she felt it freckle her face, felt the pavement sticky underfoot. She slipped through the gap between blistery, rusted wrought-iron gates and cut across Queen’s front quad, onto University Square. Passers-by crowded her peripheral vision, indigo-denim-blue, files and folders clasped to their chests, bubbling with jittery half-heard phrases. It was exam time, Claire remembered.

And at any moment, Alan might appear. The door of the Philosophy Department might lurch open and Alan come
stumbling out of the dark interior, a bundle of marking clutched to his chest, squinting in the bright sunlight. If he caught sight of her, he would stop dead. Unnoticed, a couple of essays would slither out of his grip. His mouth would fall slightly open. He would half turn to go back, then change his mind and hurry on, papers fluttering. He would pretend not to see her. While all the time she would walk on, head down, pretending not to have seen him. Looking down, she noticed that the paving stones were worn away in layers, like old leather soles. She watched her feet stepping over them, her slightly shiny suede shoes. She would get as far as the corner before looking up, she told herself, before taking another breath. Just in case he was there. Just in case he’d seen her.

On Botanic Avenue, chairs and tables had been set out in the sun outside the bars and cafés. They looked awkward and angular, like teenagers at their first party. A few seats were already occupied. As Claire passed Vincent’s, a sunglassed young woman dressed in immaculate black stood to greet a friend with a kiss on both cheeks. Outside Maggie May’s a pair of collies lay in the slatted shade of a table.

The railway station was closed. The tracks had been lifted; from the bridge a grey-blue line of slatey gravel stretched towards the City Hospital. Massive drills, stationary, higher than the buildings around them. She crossed Shaftesbury Square, a noisy muddle of junctions and traffic islands and dodging pedestrians, and overhead the giant telescreen played out a silent advert for Coca-Cola. Then the Stena HSS appeared, carving its way through pixelated waves,
the shortest, fastest crossing
. The temperature flashed across the screen. 24°. The traffic lights changed, cars slowed, halted, others slipped into gear and streamed away, out into the city haze.

The traffic fumes made the tip of Claire’s tongue taste
metallic, like old coins. The cut was chafing slightly against the cuff of her shoe, and, although she tried to walk evenly, she still favoured her left leg. She felt hot. Her blouse was tight across her chest, the buttons gaping. Her trousers stuck to her as she walked. The rolled-up apron, clutched in her right hand, grew damp and limp with sweat.

She was heading for Conroys, down on the quay. There were probably shorter, faster routes to work, ones which would carry a smaller risk of meeting Alan, but Claire didn’t know them. She was almost superstitiously cautious about straying off her beaten track. Outside her narrow familiar slice of Belfast, the city was hazy, indefinite. On her mental map there was a great deal of terra incognita, calligraphed with
here be dragons
.

Dublin Road was cooler: the breeze drifted in between the buttons of her shirt and touched her skin. It seemed like she was the only one heading into town. One-way traffic streamed towards her. A steady march of pedestrians passed by: suited office workers, jackets off and sleeves rolled, mothers pushing buggies, a solitary shambling bearded young man in dirty zipped-up parka and battered trainers, who wrapped his arms around himself and shivered.

A woman came towards her, smiling, bright lipstick.

“Excuse me—”

Claire slowed. The accent was foreign.

“Yes?”

“Can I interest you in coming to a Bible class?”

“No, thank you.”

Claire walked past her. The woman stepped back, smiling.

“We meet every Friday night: it’s great fun; there’s singing—”

“No, really, thank you. I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

Claire made to slip past her again; the woman stepped into her way.

“If you’d just give me your phone number, I’ll call you: we can meet up and talk when it’s more convenient.”

“No. Really. Thank you. Actually, I’m Jewish.”

The woman hesitated. Claire managed to duck past her, heart pounding.

“Hear the word of the Lord when He cries out to you in your darkness.”

Claire, breathless and trying not to hear, walked uncomfortably on, shifted her crumpled apron to her other hand. There must be something odd about her face, she thought, something different, some reason why they always seemed to home in on her. And, every time, she let herself be stopped, and smiled politely, and still expected to be asked directions.

Bedford Street was cold. There was always a gale blowing down there, even when the rest of Belfast was without a breath of air. At the end of the street, the City Hall stood, all acanthus leaves and pillars and green copper domes, lavish as a wedding cake. A right turn, and now only a couple of cars, a couple of stragglers late from the office. Everyone else had got where they were going.

She turned up towards the Waterfront Hall. The glass front reflected the young trees, the chalky limestone paving. The open sky surrounding it was blurred with traffic fumes, the sun was low. Claire saw a tiny distant silhouette walk the length of the upper balcony, turn and disappear into the cool dark interior. The hall still looked impermanent, as if it had just landed. As she got nearer, the yellowbrick towers of the Hilton and the multi-storey carpark loomed into sight, overshadowing the low smooth dome.

She turned the corner, and she was at work. From the moment she could see the bouncers outside Conroys, everything felt green and dark and slightly slimy, as if she had taken a wrong step and tumbled foolishly off the quayside, and was stumbling through old riverwater instead of air.

There were two of them, bulky and vivid in their purple shirts. They stood with their hands clasped in front of them like nuns, shifting from foot to foot, the sunlight reflecting off their shaven heads.

“How’s about ye?” said Dave. He pushed the heavy door open for her, held it as she passed. Claire smelt something sweet on his breath, like peardrops.

“I’m fine,” Claire said, awkwardly, half inside, half out, never quite knowing how to answer this. “How are you?”

“Grand.” But she was still moving past him, into the noisy bar, blinking in the dark. She smiled back at him unevenly, over her shoulder, but couldn’t quite be sure if he had noticed.