The Betrayal (36 page)

T
he wall dividing
the hall was gone.
Cheap plasterboard disintegrated in clouds of dust when Hart and Reedy helped Jake to bring it down.
When the dust eventually cleared, he was able to appreciate the light streaming through the stained glass panels above the front door.
The stairs looked wide and elegant as they rose upwards to the empty rooms Nadine had once occupied.
She remained adamant about signing her share of Sea Aster over to him but he still believed she could change her mind when she saw the house returned to its original loveliness.

Daryl was interested in setting up a recording studio with him in the barn.
Times were tough for financial consultants, he confided to Jake.
Too many of his clients were being declared bankrupt.
With the way the recession was going that situation was unlikely to improve in the near future.
He needed to diversify.
They could form a partnership – his financial know-how and Jake’s creative talents.

The last band practice had been fractious.
Reedy looked more wizened than usual as he lectured Hart over his timing on a chord change and Hart, abandoning, for once, his Zen-like tranquillity, accused Reedy of being a ‘know-it-all prick,’ which was true, Reedy agreed, since he was the only one in Shard with a lifetime of musical knowledge, disillusionment, disappointment and street cred behind him.
Feral’s face looked wan under the light.
She performed a thunderous tattoo on her drums to silence the argument and announced that all this arguing was creating disharmony in her womb.

Shard’s success had taken them by surprise but it was creating its own problems.
Jake was afraid the band would not survive in its present format.
Reedy would go on, and Feral too.
They were born to be musicians but he was unsure about Hart, who was worried about Hartland to Health’s falling membership.
Touring was a problem for him and Daryl, and Mik Abel was already organising a Shard tour in Germany.
Jake, too, was beginning to wonder if there was a sell by date on a dream.
A moment when it turned from an achievement into something faintly ridiculous?
The memory of the
Core
feature and its consequences refused to fade away.

Tonight Shard had played The Bare Pit again.
A good gig, good crowd, good atmosphere.
Harmony seemed to have been restored to Feral’s womb and to the band.
Jake fought off a wave of tiredness as he passed under the motorway bridge straddling the estuary.
Years before, when news broke that it was to be built, Rosanna had actively protested against its erection.
She was convinced it would destroy the bird sanctuary she loved.
Her protests came to no avail but the wildlife now co-existed peacefully with the low rumble of traffic above them.

The sudden wail of a siren reverberated through the van.
Two blue lights revolved in the rear-view mirror.
Jake pulled sharply into the grass verge as a fire engine swerved past, followed a moment later by a second one.
Seabirds fluttered upwards like startled wraiths and the swans, disturbed from their trance-like glide, lifted their heads from under their wings.
Two garda cars sped past.
Jake’s anxiety grew as the blue lights momentarily disappeared around a bend before reappearing.
They were going in only one direction.

On Mallard Cove the hedgerows were in full leaf.
Branches whipped against the windows as he slowed.
The pot holes had not been repaired and seaweed was strewn on the road.
Smoke billowed upwards, caught in the glare of the headlights.
He had rounded the next bend before he saw the flames shooting skywards.
He skidded to a halt by the edge of the shore and ran across the road.
The honk of swans, familiar by now and, mostly, unnoticed, seemed to have an added urgency, as did the splash of water washing across the pebbled shoreline.
The back wall of the barn formed part of the boundary surrounding Sea Aster and he could see the fire raging within it.

When he had identified himself a female guard allowed him through the cordon.

‘The fire’s confined to the barn,’ she said.
‘They don’t think there’s any danger of it spreading any further.
No one appears to be in the house and – ’

‘It’s empty,’ Jake reassured her.

Firemen in yellow helmets surrounded the barn.
Water spiralled upwards from their hoses.
The howl of flames as they tried to gain new territory had a terrifying intensity.
Jake imagined the old sofa igniting, the Shard posters curling and kindling, the wooden floor crackling, the amplifiers and microphones sparking, melting, everything consumed in the flames.
His songs too, his laptop and the notebooks of rough notes he had not copied or recorded.
His mind was a blank when he tried to comprehend how much information he had lost and could never retrieve.

The guard urged him to keep back, let the experts deal with it.
The flames died quickly.
In the scale of a night’s work, this fire was easily contained, said one of the firemen as the hoses were wound up.
Chemicals, now those were a different story, he added.
They never knew what they were going to come up against in that kind of situation.

‘I suspect a faulty wire was to blame.’
He took off his helmet and rubbed his hand over his bald head, streaked it with soot.
‘Either that or you left a heater on.’

Jake shook his head.
He was meticulous about checking everything before he locked the barn after rehearsals.
The smell of smoke was strong enough to make him gag.
When the fire brigade and the squad cars finally left he rang Nadine.
Her answering machine came on.
The same thing happened when he tried to contact Ali, Brian and the twins.
Did anyone pick up anymore, he raged.
What was the sense in having a family unit if they were unavailable at times of intense stress?

Hart drove over immediately after he phoned, accompanied by Daryl and Reedy.
They surveyed the blackened interior, their expressions growing bleaker as they realised the extent of the damage.
They stayed with him for the night, drank beer and talked about the old days.
Daryl quoted verbatim
Hot Press
reviews the young Shard had received while a sober and sympathetic Hart did a fry-up for breakfast.
Reedy promised to contact a colleague who was an expert on data retrieval.
With a bit of luck the songs could be saved from the laptop hard drive.

After they left Jake showered and collapsed into bed.
He was unable to sleep yet unable to rise to face the blackened ruins.
Ali, waking to his message, rang immediately.
She kept crying, as if something precious had been stolen from her, and was too incoherent to be any comfort.
Nadine, full of apologies for not getting his message earlier, rang shortly afterwards.

‘It’s awful, Jake.
All your precious songs… it’s
awful
.
Have you any idea how it started?
Could it have been the wires?
The electrics always looked a bit shambolic.’

‘The wires didn’t cause the fire.’

‘What are you suggesting?’
Her voice dropped, as if she suspected they could be overheard.

‘I don’t know… I don’t
know
…’

‘If you believe what I think you believe then you must go to the police immediately.’

‘What can I tell them?
I’ve no proof.’

Later, after the loss adjuster had been and gone, Jake imagined the charge he would make.
The evidence he would be asked to present if he did report his suspicions to the police.
Nadine’s slashed paintings, now burned.
A piece of pottery, legally purchased and filled with memorabilia of a broken relationship.
The sense of an invisible presence in empty rooms, objects that he could have moved in absent-minded moments and displaced.
Visits to a theatre and a tapas bar, to nightclubs to hear her favourite band.
Those friendly and encouraging texts and emails.
A damaged van filed in a garda report as vandalism by persons unknown.
What else… oh yes… an unflattering magazine feature about Shard.
Eleanor’s stroke due to high blood pressure which she had ignored, despite medical advice… and the barn.
The loss adjuster had given his verdict.
The gas heater had been left on.
Indisputable evidence, the path of the flame a clear delineation.
The heater had burned on the lowest setting and probably would not have caused any damage except for the close proximity of a wicker bin filled to the brim with sheets of paper.
When they ignited the flames licked against the old sofa and its inflammable material had caused an immediate combustion… and then there was the pièce de résistance.
Her engagement had appeared last week in
The Irish Times
.

Liam Brett and Karin Moylan are pleased to announce….

Jake saw himself through the eyes of the guard who would file his report.
A delusional egotist, caught up in his fantasies about being stalked by a beautiful woman.
He would be laughed out of the garda station for making an accusation that had as many holes as a sieve.

I
keep
my fears at bay when I’m painting.
It’s become my escape.
Perhaps it always was, but it’s different now.
I don’t grow disheartened or indifferent as the course becomes more demanding.
I don’t feel the urge to drop out with half-baked excuses and hide half-finished canvases in crowded attics.
The students in Bonnard are young and giddy, happy to miss lectures and still-life classes.
The mature students are diligent.
Like me, they’re aware that time is relative and dangerously swift in its passing.

It’s a month since the fire yet the back of my neck tingles when I think of her.
Is it over now?
The scorching?
Have the flames sated her thirst or is she waiting for an appropriate moment to strike again?
Was it arson or an accident?
Jake sounds shaky when he rings.
He’s not sleeping well.
Night sounds startle him awake.
He has a sense of being observed without being able to observe the observer.

I’ve signed Sea Aster over to him.
I could feel the force of Eleanor’s decision dragging me down.
She meant well but some memories can’t be eradicated.
I’ll always see Karin Moylan in the bay window, sense her imprint on the furniture, in the attic, in Jake’s bed, the scorched barn.
Why would I need a house with such crushing associations?
I want Jake to use the attic as the recording studio.
It’s perfect for his needs.
I can visualise it already: skylights, a spiral staircase, one of the walls knocked down and converted into a picture window with a view over the estuary.
He has to put the fire behind him.
The insurance company will pay the claim without a quibble.
In the cold light of day it’s difficult… impossible… to believe she’s responsible.

Wharf Alley is busy this morning.
Saturday is a popular day for tourists who disembark from the tour boats to explore the art and craft centres.
Last week I met Chloe Laker, the curator of the Wharf Alley Art Gallery.
She’s planning an exhibition for later in the year and has invited me to submit four of my paintings.
I showed her my newer work.
They’re more experimental – we’re encouraged at Bonnard to think conceptually – but she picked the four Sea Aster paintings I’d been working on in my spare time.
I explained that they are personal and self-indulgent.
The portrayal of a life I’ve left behind.
Chloe is adamant.
They will fit the theme of emotional alienation the exhibition intends to explore.

At the Wharf Diner, many of the customers are also eating outside.
Not Seeing is Believing is doing a brisk trade.
Aurora said she gave Jake an angel.
I can imagine his expression.
He doesn’t believe in psychics who see metaphysical spirits in blank spaces.

A taxi pulls up beside the complex and I’m amused, as I always am, when I watch the amazed reaction of strangers, who survey the brightly painted containers.
But this young man is not a stranger.
My amusement turns to surprise when I recognise Peter Brennan.

‘I tried ringing but your phone was off,’ he says when he’s made his way along the walkway to my balcony.
‘When Ali said you were living in a shipping container I thought she was joking.
But this place is fantastic.’

I switch on my mobile.
Three missed calls, all from Peter.
I’m flattered but surprised that he should visit me.

‘I’m just about to have my lunch.’
I gesture towards the table.
‘Would you like some pasta?’

‘If it’s not any trouble.’

‘No trouble at all.’
I set an extra place and we eat together, easy as old friends with a history to share.

‘How’s Madge?’
I ask.
His mother was known on Oakdale Terrace as a force of nature, always knee-deep in community activities.

‘Busy as ever organising everyone,’ Peter replies and smiles ruefully.

‘And Luke?’

‘Dad’s retiring soon and looking forward to it.’

‘Were they surprised to hear Jake and I had split up?’

‘A bit,’ he admits.

‘Madge used to call us children playing adult games when we first moved in.’

He nodded.
‘You and Jake were so young compared to the other parents.’

‘That’s because we were.’

‘All the lads thought you were hot.’

‘I find that very flattering, Peter, and quite enlightening.
I was under the impression you all wanted to marry Ali.’

‘That was before puberty hit.
Once the hormones got a grip we had you in our sights.’
He laughs then clears his throat.
‘I’d planned to spend today with her.’
At last he’s got to the point of his visit.

‘But I can’t contact her,’ he says.
‘She’s not answering her phone.’

‘She’s probably sleeping late after last night’s performance.’

‘Here’s the thing.’
Peter walks to the railing and stares across the river.
‘I booked a ticket to see
The Arboretum Affair
.
I was hoping to surprise her but she wasn’t performing.’

‘It must have been her night off?’

‘I spoke to one of the sylphs afterwards.’
He shook his head, his eyes glazing slightly.
‘There’re something else, those sylphs.’

‘And?’
I prompt him.

‘Christine is her name.
She shares with Ali.
Anyway, she said Ali left the cast a fortnight ago.’

‘That can’t be right.’
I’m unable to hide my shock as I join him at the railing.
‘She would have told me.
I’ll give her a ring now.
See what’s going on.’

‘You’ll need better luck than me.
She’s not picking up.’

He’s right.
Ali’s phone rings out, even her message machine is inactive.

‘I’m sorry you’ve had a wasted trip, Peter.
I’ve no idea what’s going on.’

‘Do you have an address for her?
I can call around and see what’s up.’

I write down her address.
‘She may not be there,’ I warn him.
‘But ring me and let me know if you make contact… or if you don’t.’

I fight back my uneasiness and clear away the lunch dishes.
It’s a month since I’ve seen Ali.
She’s cancelled on three occasions when we were supposed to meet.
I could understand her cancelling a coffee date but not Stuart’s posthumous photography exhibition.
We had planned to eat beforehand but she rang just as I was leaving Wharf Alley and said she was coming down with a cold.
She sounded croaky and kept blowing her nose, as if to reaffirm how wretched she felt.
I was more upset than annoyed.
I needed her with me.
Seeing Stuart’s photographs was going to be an emotional experience and I couldn’t understand why she couldn’t battle her germs with a packet of Lemsip for one night.

The exhibition was wonderful.
I rang Daveth afterwards, unable any longer to put off hearing his voice.
He’s in Glacier Park at the moment with a group of environmentalists.
When the season is over he’s coming to Cornwall for his grandmother’s hundredth birthday celebration.
That’s where his roots are.
He’d like to spend some time in London, talk about us, our future, if such a possibility exists.
He hesitated when he said that and waited for my reaction.

‘Yes,’ I replied.
Yes, oh, yes.
Knowing that I would see him again allowed me to admit how much I missed him.
His brawny arms, the relaxed slant of his eyelids, his smile, intimate and knowing.
I saw us… and the space where we once lay together.
Small and closed off from an immeasurable vastness.
The smell of oil and brine and, faintly underneath, the scent of the cedar wood soap he always uses.
But I can’t think of him now.
Ali is to the forefront of my mind.

Her emails are breezy and funny, filled with anecdotes about Mark and Christine and other members of Barnstormers.
Not once has she hinted that she’s unhappy or considering leaving the play.
But she’s an actress.
We paid a fortune to train her to pretend.

Peter rings.
He spoke to Christine.
Ali is spending the weekend with friends.
I know this is untrue and Peter probably knows it too.
He’s hurt, disappointed that she should treat him so casually.
Their arrangement to spend the day together was made some months ago.

Jake is in Germany, the first leg of the German tour, but he answers immediately.

‘I rang her before I left for Germany.’
He sounds as surprised as I am.
‘She never mentioned leaving the play.
Not that I’m objecting.
I’m relieved she’s got sense at last.
It was a piece of exploitative – ’

‘Jake, stop thinking like an outraged father.
Being in that play was a big deal for Ali.
She wouldn’t have left without a good reason.
I’ll ring you as soon as I get in touch with her.
How’s the tour going?
Any sign…you know?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Okay.
I’ll be in touch.’

We’re incapable of a normal conversation.
Just brief exchanges that break under the burden of an unspoken name.