The Fall Girl (17 page)

‘Oh, my God.'

‘She was going to leave him, but then he promised her he'd change, and, like an eejit, she believed him.'

‘The poor woman.'

‘Huh.' Lesley looks offended. ‘After what she said about me, she can shag off. I can't stand either of them now.'

‘At least she's not as bad as my mother.'

‘Well, we can't choose our parents, can we?' she says, stamping on the butt of her cigarette, ‘but we can choose our friends.'

‘You're the best friend I've ever had, Lesley. And no matter what your mother says, I think you're …'

‘Go on,' she says when I hesitate. She has a big grin on her face.

‘Smashing,' I say, hoping that she won't think I'm stupid for being so corny.

‘I know you do,' she says, tossing back her hair. ‘You're not so bad yourself.'

Just to hear her say those words is such a big deal to me. I'm as close as I've ever been to bursting with joy, and I don't want the feeling to pass.

‘Fuck them all,' she says, winding the swing around tight,
‘your parents and mine.' She lifts her feet off the ground, throwing back her head as the chains unravel at speed.

She's smiling at me from upside-down. I can't take my eyes off her. I have to stop my hands from reaching out and stopping her mid-spin.

Don't be daft, I think, you're not a lesbian; you don't fancy her.

‘What are you thinking?' she says, sitting up straight as the swing squeaks to a halt.

‘Same as you,' I say, blushing with guilt over my private thoughts. ‘Fuck them all.'

I went to the shop to buy cigarettes this morning. There was a new woman behind the counter. Not very friendly. When she handed me my change, she shook her head and looked me up and down. I'm sure she was letting me know that she knows who I am and what I've done.

I gave him back
, I wanted to tell her. But I didn't. Instead, I hurried back to my room and smoked three cigarettes in a row.

I switch off the TV and sit on the end of the bed staring at the blank screen. My ears begin to buzz. I can't take in what I've just heard. I don't want to. Surely all that hysteria couldn't have been about me.

Don't be daft, I think. You only heard the tail end of the bulletin. You didn't get the whole story.

Baby boy … Henry Street … kidnapped
. Jesus!

My heart is pounding. I feel like I'm having one of those dreams where I've just fallen off a cliff. Oh God, please, wake me up before I hit the ground. The seconds tick away. The baby is getting restless. His head feels as if it's crushing the bones of my upper arm and I know it's no illusion.

‘Nathan,' I whisper, looking down at him, ‘what have I done?'

He doesn't care. All he wants is his soother. I find it in the baby-bag, put it into his mouth and lay him down between the two pillows. Without him in my arms, my chest feels cold and I shiver. The crying woman I've seen on the TV is knocking on my brain but I can't let her in; she'll have to wait.

I pace from one side of the bed to the other, trying to breathe properly: in through my nose … hold, out through my mouth … slowly. But my heart isn't fooled by my artificial composure; it's jumping about with my thoughts. The Gardaí are scouring the country for me. What if the receptionist suspected me? They could be on their way to the hotel right now.

I hear footsteps out on the corridor. Is that them already! No. No, it's OK. Whoever it is has just walked by my room. Thank Christ for that.

But what about the two old women in the coffee shop? They'd have no problem giving the Guards a detailed description of me and Nathan. They never took their prying eyes off us. Or the lad who helped me with the car seat – he might even remember my car registration. If he does, it'll not be long until they track me down. The thought makes my legs go rubbery and I have to sit down again. What if they find me? And arrest me? I just couldn't handle it. I'd crack up. All
I want now is to drive home, tiptoe up the stairs, climb into my bed and pull the blankets tight around me.

A rap on the door makes me yelp and Nathan opens his mouth and bawls.

‘Who is it?' I whimper, but no one answers.

I creep across the room and open the door, just a crack, to check who's there. When I see a waiter standing outside the next room with a tray in his hand, I shut the door and hurry back to comfort Nathan.

‘Please be quiet. Oh please, I'm begging you, be a good baby.'

He won't hold the soother in his mouth and he won't stop wailing. He's driving me mad because I can't think what to do. When I pick him up to rock him, it hits me that my feelings for him have changed. The bond is gone. I know now that he isn't mine and that he was never meant to be. I'm not even sure I like him any more. Part of me resents him for being there, in the wrong place at the wrong time.

‘Stop crying, for Jesus' sake.'

He's getting worse.

‘Please, shut up,' I cry, laying him back down on the bed. Maybe a bottle would help. I open one of the new ones I've bought and rinse it under the tap. As soon as I have him settled, I think, while pouring in the formula, I'll pack my stuff and go.

My shoulders are burning with pain as I sit hunched on the bed feeding him for the last time. Careful not to upset him again, I don't bother taking the bottle away to wind him, and he guzzles it down to the last ounce without a break. His body feels relaxed now and he's beginning to fall asleep. I hum a lullaby and rock him gently, all the while thinking about my next move. I'll leave the room key on the bedside locker
and the door unlocked. Then I'll ring the Guards. But not from the hotel – that would be risky; I'll phone them from the nearest kiosk and let them know where Nathan is. By the time the child is fully asleep, I can see myself back on the motorway to Dublin. I sit him into his seat and fasten the buckle. Then I gather my stuff and throw a bag over each shoulder. A surge of relief washes over me as I walk towards the door.

‘Goodbye, Nathan,' I say, turning round to take a final look at the child. His head is leaning to one side. His lips and cheeks are twitching as if he's still sucking on the teat of the bottle. His two closed fists look as soft as teddy paws. He seems completely content.

‘Don't wake up,' I whisper, blowing him a kiss.

But what if he does? What if he wakes up before I even get as far as the car? He could be all on his own for ages. The thought of his big, blue, trusting eyes scanning the room for a motherly face, waiting to be touched, fed, comforted, breaks my heart.

‘You'll be home with your mammy soon, I promise,' I say, turning the doorknob.

He lets out a long, quivery sigh. Anyone would think it was his last breath. My shoulders slacken and I don't stop the two bags from sliding down my arms and plopping on to the floor. My body folds and I fall to my knees in tears.

By the time I stop crying, it's getting dark and I feel exhausted. All I want is to put an end to this nightmare. Nathan is still sleeping. I crawl across the room to the telephone, pick up the receiver and phone reception.

‘Reception.'

‘I need the number of the local Garda Station.'

She gives me the number and asks if I'm OK.

‘Fine,' I say and hang up.

After a few deep breaths, I pick up the receiver again and dial the number.

The rebellion against my mother was like dance. Once I started it, there was no turning back. I had to dance it out until the bitter end.

Over the following year, I'm not sure which galls my mother more: the humiliation of having a daughter who has, as far as our neighbours are concerned, gone wild, or the realization that she has, despite her best efforts, lost control of me.

Within three months, my grades have dropped considerably, and I'm moved from the honours to the pass classes for French, Maths, History and Irish, where Lesley is causing havoc. She has Mr Sweeney, our middle-aged, thick-spectacled, badly dressed Irish teacher, driven round the bend with her endless disruption. She arrives late for class most days, with the waistband of her skirt turned down so many times that there's only a few inches between the bottom of her jumper and the hem of her skirt. As she passes his desk, she drops a book and bends down to pick it up, groaning with the exertion. The rest of the class snigger behind the pages of
Peig
.

‘Why are you late for class again, Miss Kelly?'

‘Oh, I'm really sorry, sir, but I was feeling very dizzy. I think I must be due my –'

‘OK.' Mr Sweeney shifts about in his chair. ‘Just sit down quietly and get your book out.'

‘Right, sir. Sorry, sir. And pass no remarks on me if I'm a bit crabby today, sir, but you know how it is.'

‘That's enough, thank you very much, Miss Kelly.'

‘You're welcome, sir … any time.'

After that,
Peig
hasn't a hope in hell.

Sometimes Lesley drifts off on her own, without telling anyone, even me, where she's going or what she's up to.

‘I just wanted to be on my own,' she says huffily, when I question her about where she's been and, although I feel a little hurt that she's holding back on me, it makes me crave her company all the more. So, when she invites me to skive off with her, I jump at the opportunity. We spend ages creeping around the corridors, ‘dodging penguins' as she calls it. We go to the convent chapel and smoke in the confessional box. If we're peckish, we head down to Sister Bernadine, the old, wrinkly nun in the refectory who's half-deaf, and con her into giving us something to eat. She never remembers us from one time to the next.

‘What's your name?' She has her hand on Lesley's elbow and is looking up into her face.

‘Kimberley,' Lesley says. ‘Kimberley Wilde. But you can call me Kim.'

‘What's that?'

‘Kimberley, Sister,' Lesley shouts. ‘Like the biscuits.'

‘Oh.' She looks confused. ‘Why did your mother call you after a biscuit?'

‘Because it's her favourite biscuit, Sister. She eats them morning, noon and night.'

‘Does she not have a favourite saint?'

‘No, Sister, more's the pity,' Lesley shakes her head, ‘but I suppose I'm lucky that she's not too fond of Fig Rolls.'

Sister Bernadine is won over. Again. She strokes Lesley's arm, turns to me and says, ‘You're not called after a biscuit, are you, like this poor child?'

‘No, Sister. I'm –'

‘Kate,' Lesley says into her ear. ‘Kate Bush. Isn't she lucky to have such a lovely name, Sister?'

‘It's a grand name all right. But never mind, Kimberley, you got the looks.'

‘Oh, thank you, Sister.' Lesley hugs the nun gently, sticking out her tongue at me as she leans over the little woman's shoulder.

‘I know I shouldn't ask, Sister,' she pulls back, looks at the ground and twiddles her thumbs, ‘and I wouldn't only you're so kind, but have you any leftovers that I could have for my lunch? My stomach's rumbling. Can you hear it, Sister? Listen.' She lifts up her jumper and exposes her midriff.

Sister Bernadine looks at it with a squint, as if somehow her eyes might do the job of her ears.

‘Ah, I'm a bit hard of hearing,' she says after a few seconds' silence.

‘Can
you
hear it, Kate?'

I walk over and put my ear to Lesley's stomach. ‘God, it's like an orchestra in there.'

‘Come on, come on.' Sister Bernadine ushers us over to the long dining table.

‘Anything but bread and jam, Sister,' Lesley shouts when
she sees the nun with her hand on the lid of the bread bin. ‘I can't look at the likes of that at this time of the month.'

‘What was that?'

‘I said, that's all we've had to eat at home for the last month.'

‘Poor wee mite,' Sister Bernadine says, shuffling across the refectory towards the refrigerator.

I learn how to take a good dressing-down from both my parents and my teachers, without being in any way affected by their anger. As Lesley says, ‘What can they do, only eat the arse off ya?'

Absolutely nothing. I'm beyond their control.

Lesley fixes me up with boys and I kiss them up against the wall at the back of the youth club hall. I don't hate it, but it doesn't do a whole pile for me either. Maybe that's because she always keeps the best-looking boys for herself.

She's delighted when one of Keith's friends tells her that, from what he's heard, I'm a mighty good shift. ‘Isn't it great?' she says. ‘At last you're getting a reputation.'

I stop bothering to get permission off my parents to go into town to meet Lesley; I just walk out the front door and hitch a lift from the outskirts of the village. When he cops me leaving the house, my father follows me in the car and offers me a lift.

‘You don't have to.'

‘I don't like you taking lifts from strangers,' he says. ‘Now, hop in.'

He offers to collect me when I'm ready to go home. I tell him that I'll give him a ring if I'm stuck for a lift.

‘Promise,' he says, as I get out of the car.

‘OK, OK.' I wish he'd stop caring so much. It makes me feel guilty.

‘You know, it's not right what you're putting your mother and me through. All we have ever –'

‘Goodbye, Daddy,' I say, slamming the car door.

I watch him drive away. My heart aches. I wish I could make him understand that I'm not trying to hurt him, but that I can't avoid it either. He's always there between myself and my mother; he's in my line of fire.

When I'm at home, I spend endless hours alone in my bedroom. I don't do much besides listen to music, daydream and wait for Lesley to ring. Sometimes I pick up one of my schoolbooks and flick through the pages, but I've no inclination to study; I find it hard to see the point. I've lost all interest in getting good grades. What difference would it make? The only thing that matters to me now is being popular, or being with Lesley; they're much of a muchness.