The Field of Blood (37 page)

“All the houses are facing each other, though. Don’t the neighbors all watch each other?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Paddy. “Everyone knows everything. Even the Prods know who’s skipping mass. Cheers for running me home.”

They looked at each other, a bold, bald stare, and she was dismayed to see a tiny ambivalent twitch on his chin.

“We did a good thing today, Terry.”

“I hope we did.”

They would be forever bound together by what they had done, and they both knew it.

She climbed out of the low car, regretting the fact that her fat arse was the last thing to leave his line of sight, and bent down to look at him once more. She saw him sitting in the sagging seat, his little pot belly straining through his T-shirt, saw herself lingering too long to talk, reluctant to leave his company. If Pete could see what there was between them, then other people could too. Sean would be hurt to his core.

“We’ll hear in the morning, anyway. I’ll see you then.” She withdrew and slammed the car door behind her.

She could see his face as he took the rickety car around the roundabout. He looked scared but bared his teeth in a smile as he came past. She waved back, watching the rusting backside of the car until Terry was gone.

They were still treating her like a walking sack of pitiful contagion. Marty wouldn’t speak or look at her when they were alone together, Con pressed his lips tightly together when they passed on the stairs, as if she were a stranger he had heard unpleasant things about. She had seen them do it to Marty and had happily participated in it herself, but she wasn’t going to let them wear her down.

She sat alone on her bed, looking at the engagement ring on her finger. The ring felt tight and cut into the skin— she had put on weight in the last week or so— but she kept it on. Sean might not help her otherwise. She could hear Marty listening to the radio in the next-door room, John Peel’s droning monotone interspersed with bursts of synth music and thrashing punk vocals.

She jumped up when she heard the doorbell downstairs. She heard her mother greeting Sean in the hall with a loud, cheerful whoop followed by a hundred tittering questions about his week, talking as if he had been away at sea for two years. The voices drew closer, and she heard their soft tread on the carpeted stairs.

They were almost up the stairs when Paddy suddenly fumbled the ring off her finger. She grabbed the little velvet box from the dresser and tried to fit the band back into the foam slit, but her hands were too jittery. She dropped the ring inside the box and snapped the lid shut just before the bedroom door opened.

Sean looked in at her. He was wearing formal clothes, his new shiny bomber jacket over a crisp orange Airtex shirt, troublingly close in tone to Terry Hewitt’s bedsheets. Trisha was standing behind him. “Here’s Sean to see you.” Her voice was manically cheerful.

“Hiya.”

Paddy stood up. “Let’s go, then.”

“Well, we’re a bit early,” said Sean, angling to come into the room for a snog.

“But the buses …”

Paddy looked vaguely at her mother, willing her to move out of the way. She didn’t want to talk to him here, not with her mother creeping past on the landing, downstairs praying to JC for a Catholic outcome, and smiling hopefully every time they came down for a cup of tea.

“Let’s go,” she said, keeping her eyes down stubbornly.

Down in the hall, Trisha helped them on with their coats. She patted Paddy on the arm, signaling a motherly message about compromise and keeping a man: Don’t let him go, perhaps; or, Agree to anything.

Outside in the crisp air Paddy looked back through the mottled glass and saw the outline of her mother standing still with her head bowed in prayer. She wanted to kick the fucking door in.

“Which cinema do you want to go to?” asked Sean, pulling up his collar.

“Can we go up the brae?”

Sean raised a suggestive eyebrow. There was never any evidence of it, but rumors abounded of sexy goings-on up the brae, just because it was dark and out of sight. Paddy didn’t giggle or respond the way he expected.

“I need to talk to you,” she said seriously.

His face tensed. For the first time since he shut his front door on her, Paddy felt that he was on the back foot, not her.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s go up the brae.”

They walked to the end of the street in silence, to the raw mud path leading up the hill. It was a long corridor, with bushes on either side. Sean took out his cigarettes to have something to do, and Paddy tapped him on the back.

“Give us a fag, eh?”

He looked surprised: he had never known her to smoke. He held out the packet and she took one, holding it between her lips and tipping her head to the side to take the light from the match in his cupped hand. She didn’t really like smoking. It made her teeth feel dirty and her blood pressure rise, but she liked the idea of being a narrow-eyed, knowing smoker.

“We’re never getting to the pictures, are we?”

Paddy exhaled, looking down the dark path.

“Is it because it’s a boxing flick? We don’t need to go and see that one; we could go and see a romance if you like.”

“No, no, I liked that film.”

“Ye saw it already?”

“Yeah.” He looked suspicious. “I went on my own. It’s been a lonely week.”

She scratched her nose and saw his eye fall on her naked ring finger.

“Come on,” she said, pushing him forwards, following him along the wild path until the bushes cleared.

They found their way along the steep hillside until the lights from the Eastfield Star were eclipsed by the bushes and trees behind them. Paddy found a flat shelf of rock and sat down on it, crossing her legs and clearing her coat next to her to leave room for Sean. Less elegantly, he lowered himself beside her, stiff from a hard day’s carrying.

“Since when do you smoke?”

Paddy shrugged, staring out at the flat valley below them. She started to speak and stopped, taking a smoky draw before starting again. She felt in her pocket and found the engagement ring box. She held it out to him, afraid to look in his eyes and see the hurt there.

“I need to give you this back, Sean. I’m not getting married.”

He laughed at the abruptness of it and looked at her, hoping for a moment that she’d laugh back and it would be all right. She didn’t. She stared ahead, squinting at the road below them, tucking her hands into her sleeves.

“It’s not you, you’re wonderful. If I wanted to get married to anyone, it would be you, but I don’t. I’m too young.”

“We’re only engaged,” he pleaded.

“Sean, I don’t want to get married.”

“You feel that way now—”

“I might never want to get married.”

He stopped, grasping for the first time the enormity of the change in her. “Have you turned lesbian or something?”

Paddy looked at the man she might have spent her life with. He didn’t mean to be unkind. He was handsome and noble and decent, but, God help him, just not very bright.

“I want a career and I don’t think I can get married and have one, so I’m choosing the career.”

He shot her a warning look. “Why do you need to try and be a man? What’s wrong with just being a woman?”

“That’s stupid, Sean.”

“It’s good enough for every other girl in the family.”

“Shut up.”

“Your mum’s gonnae—”

“Don’t! Don’t bring my family into this, Seanie. This is about you and me and everything we’ve meant to each other.” Her eyes ran despite her, filling her nose and making her breathless. “I can’t talk to you without thousands of relatives invading the pitch. Never mind my mum and dad and the Pope and all our future children, we need to talk about you and me. Just you and me.”

“I only bring them in because we’re getting married, Paddy. I only do that because I’m serious about ye.”

She was crying openly now, her face wet, crying not just for the loss of Sean, but for the fright she’d had, and for Dr. Pete and Thomas Dempsie, crying for the loss of certainty. Sean fumbled for her hand, pulling it out of the sleeve of her duffel coat and holding it in both of his. Her fingers were cold, and as he rubbed them to warm her, he felt the smooth skin where her ring should have been and began to cry himself.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” he said.

“It’s not what I want.”

“I got punched at work because of you.”

“It’s not what I want.”

“But I love you.”

They held hands and wept, unaccustomed to sharp emotion, looking away from each other into the dark.

When the tears had stopped, her hand was swollen red with all the rubbing. Sean took out his cigarettes again and lit one without offering, dropping the packet back in his jacket pocket.

“Why did you agree to marry me, then, if you didn’t want to?” he said bitterly.

Paddy leaned over and took out the cigarette packet, helping herself to one, making him smile. She put it in her mouth and pointed it at him.

“Give us a light.”

Sean leaned into her, touching the red tip of his cigarette to hers. She inhaled, sucking in her cheeks, drawing fire from him.

“I want you to get me in to see Callum Ogilvy.” She exhaled and waited for him to shout at her.

“I can’t get you in,” he said softly.

“Yes you can. You’re his family. You could get to see him now he’s in hospital.”

Sean wrapped his arms around his knees, pulling them into his chest, touching a knee to his forehead. “I can’t believe you’re asking me for help with your career.”

“It will help my career.” She nodded guiltily. “It will, I can’t deny that. On the other hand, it’ll make a big difference to Callum. Eventually he’ll be interviewed, and if it’s by anyone else they’ll make him out to be an evil child and he’ll be stuck with it for the rest of his life. At least this way we can control how he’s portrayed.”

“And you get a big exclusive?”

“We could fight about it,” she said, taking the cigarette out of her mouth and blowing on the tip to encourage it, “or we can accept that’s how it is and stay pals.”

“You’re choosing your career over me?”

“Sean, I’m not what you want.” She felt energetic suddenly, excited that she was out of the yoke of her engagement. “I’d have been a rotten wife. I’d make your life a misery. I’d have been the worst Catholic wife in history.”

He nudged her with his elbow. “You’d be a good mum.”

“Not a Catholic mother, not me.”

He touched her ankle, stroking the back of his fingers down her tights, testing to see if it was okay to touch. “Aye, ye would.”

She rocked towards his ear. “I don’t even believe in Jesus.”

He looked incredulous. “Get tae hell.”

“Honestly.”

“But you were in the Sacred Heart prayer group for a year.”

“I only went because you were there.”

He slapped her arm, exaggerating his surprise to have an excuse to touch her. “But you always bless yourself when you go in or out of a house.”

“My mum likes it. I’ve never had a drop of faith. I knew I was lying when I made my first communion.” She grinned, relieved that someone finally knew. “I’ve never told a soul that. You’re the only one who knows. Now you know why I’m trying to get away from the family all the time.”

“Bloody hell.”

“I know.” She raised her hands skyward. “I’ve spent half my life on my knees thinking it was rubbish.”

They smiled at each other. The wind blew Sean’s hair the wrong way, and a train passed in the valley below. Paddy raised her shoulders and snuggled inside her coat. It felt different with Terry: she felt close to Sean, but there was no fire.

“One thing, though, and I know I don’t have any right to ask ye favors right now, but about the engagement: gonnae not tell my mum?”

He looked at her for a moment and his eyes softened. “That’s no bother, wee pal.”

She reached up and touched his cheek with her chilly fingertips. “Look at ye. You’re so handsome, Sean. I’m not even good-looking enough to go out with you.”

Sean took a draw on his cigarette. “You know what, Paddy. I always let you say things like that ’cause I liked it that you’re modest. But you’re a good-looking girl. You’ve got a small waist and big lips. People say it all the time.”

It felt like a warm bubble bursting in her head. She searched her memory for corroborating evidence that she was attractive but couldn’t find any. The boys at school weren’t mad for her. Men didn’t approach her on the street. She didn’t ever remember being complimented before.

She laughed awkwardly and hit his arm.

“Piss off.”

“You are.” He looked away, uncomfortable that she was making him elaborate. “You’re beautiful to me.”

“Only to you, though?”

“Eh?”

“Am I only beautiful to you?”

Sean nudged her gently.

“No. You’re beautiful, Paddy. Just beautiful.”

They sat together quietly, smoking cigarettes and looking out over the valley. Every time she thought about what he’d said, Paddy felt dizzy. It could change everything if it was true. She had always hated her face. She hated her looks so much she was embarrassed to leave the house some mornings. They sat, and during a couple of quiet pauses she felt a burst of gratitude so overwhelming that she almost asked him to marry her.

DON’T LIKE MONDAYS

She woke up more aware of the day ahead than the weekend that had passed. Terry was going in early to get out all the Dempsie clippings and stop anyone else’s using them. He was going to phone around the police stations and then try to speak to McVie and Billy, who was probably a less self-interested source of information, to find out if anything had happened overnight to Naismith. Then he was going to approach Farquarson and ask if they could write the story themselves. She hoped Terry would be enough of a draw. She certainly wasn’t on her own.

The family didn’t notice a difference in her as they ate breakfast. Trisha boiled her three eggs as an act of reconciliation, and Gerald passed her the milk for her coffee before she asked for it. She sat and ate among them, watching the toast rack pass from person to person and Trisha dishing out the porridge. She acted normally, her mind back in the weekend, thinking her way through Naismith’s van, the riot, and Terry Hewitt’s bed.