The Swan Song of Doctor Malloy (10 page)

It was Padrig who encouraged her to join him at secret political meetings and who sowed the seed of action: direct action of bombs and guns, not just words and pamphlets, seminars and marches. It was with Padrig on a trip to Dublin, and the friends they met in the back room of a bar off O'Connell Street, that she committed to the cause, pledged her future to the struggle. Then, six months later, Padrig disappeared. The note he left was simple.

I love you, but I love my country even more. If you truly love me, follow my path.

Now, sitting in the half-light, chained to the waterpipe, Caitlin recalls her intensive training on capture. Disclose nothing. Comrades before yourself. Your life versus the lives of many. Think of Pearse, Collins, and the thousands who went before you. The irony that her captors were her erstwhile brothers-in-arms was not lost on Caitlin. She thought of all the books she had read on captives and hostages.
The Man in the Iron Mask,
doubly encased; Anatoly Marchenko's
My Testimony,
in Stalin's gulag, pacing the floor of his cell, imagining journeys across Europe and beyond, teaching himself to sleep standing upright with his eyes open to fool the guards. And then there were the two Colombian women, one a journalist, the other a lawyer's wife, tied to a putrid bed for months on end, boys from the barrios of Cali looking over them, endless cigarettes, football and soap operas on the television, one shower a week, ill-fitting yellow tracksuits and one change of knickers to wear. The women described a cocktail of extreme anxiety and crashing boredom, peppered with sexual tension and fatigue. During training she'd been shown reports and videos of released hostages who talked of beatings and privations, psychological damage, squabbles, mind games, masking tape and blindfolded transportation in the boots of cars. One that stood out for Caitlin was a young volunteer worker, held hostage in a damp cellar, who created an underwater world from a small pool that had collected on the earthen floor. Minuscule creatures bred and flourished; tiny anemone-like plants appeared on a small stone. The hostage recounted dropping a scab from a wound on her arm into the water. The tentacles of the anemone embraced and consumed it like the offering from a god. It was the defining moment of her captivity, she said after being released.

Caitlin knows her experience will be unique, coloured by her own life and expectations, her own human fabric. She wonders what her defining moment might be. She shudders. It is the feeling she once heard described as the devil shaking your coffin. She suddenly feels alone and scared. From deep inside her comes a short gulp of fear. In spite of her inner strength, her inner resources, she has never felt so alone, so unprotected. She lies still for hours on end, turning inwards to the place she created as a little girl. She is able to accept the pain and confusion for no more than it is and allows herself to curl up into a ball on the cold, cold floor and disappear into the garden of her dreams.

The next morning is sunny. I am woken up by the squawk of the seagulls fighting over the rubbish bins at the back of the hotel. I turn over on the pillow to check the time on the radio clock.

An hour later I open my eyes again from a dream of a harbour wall creaking from the weight of the waves beyond. I force myself under the shower, rehearsing the phone call. The photo is on the bedside table next to the packet of cocaine that I left unopened, yet found impossible to flush down the toilet. Caitlin's expression seems different: more pleading and entreating than resigned. I turn on the dictaphone once again and listen to the voice of my only sister.

‘I am reading this … I'm doing okay … The woman you will meet is for real … Do as she asks and I'll come to no harm … Don't try to contact the authorities … If you do, or if you refuse what she asks, then what she told you will happen to me. I have stopped reading now and they say I can speak a couple of words to you … What can I say? Another fine mess …?'

And then the tape clicks off.

I look again at photo and dial the number on Dr Foster's card. The phone rings, but then I hang up. Another adage from the Friary floats to mind. ‘Put thought between impulse and action.'

Going back to London on the train, the sea reels away behind me across the horizon. The same church spire, the same curve of the hill. Two days ago, the scene was so peaceful. Now it looks ragged, the rain slanting down the window, dulling and distorting the view.

The train stops at Haywards Heath. On the platform opposite is a small boy, about eight years old. I can see him through the window, but he is looking straight ahead, standing still in the rain, his hair dripping wet, his school blazer soaked through. By his side is a brown leather suitcase. I try to catch his eye, but he just stares ahead, not moving from the spot where someone has left him. As the loudspeaker crackles an apology for our delay, a train pulls into the station, blocking my view of the boy. There is a hissing of engines and an opening and slamming of doors. The little boy settles down in his seat on the train. He looks out the window to where I sit in the train on the other track. There is a quiet sadness in his eyes as the train pulls away. I watch the carriages gathering speed, the rain and wind and sadness sucked down the tunnel between the two trains. On the empty platform is the suitcase. I look around, up and down, to see if there is a guard, a stationmaster, someone to tell. I bang on the window, but there is no one to hear. The train shudders and moves on, back towards London.

This evening the light is exquisite. The sky is a crazy mix of thick, black, rain-laden clouds, fluffy white cumulus, and broad swathes of blue. The emerald and lime greens of the trees and shrubs skirting the Ponds are exaggerated against the patchwork beauty of the sky. Its translucent light is a promise both of deluge and sunshine. Standing on the tip of the springboard, arms outstretched in praise of the healing waters, I spy the swans patrolling the perimeter. The cob eyes me suspiciously. As I prepare to dive the skies open up and the rains sweep across the surface of the pond like machine-gun fire. As if on cue I plunge into the water. In the depths, I can hear the muffled sound of the rain on the surface. I emerge into a world of water and air, rain, sunlight and vegetation. Hordes of mayflies circle above my head. A mallard swoops from above and then skis to a halt, a tiny tsunami exploding in its wake. There is a peculiar mist lingering on the surface of the pond and all the while the rain pummels down.

I am safe, but there is something unsettling about it. There is too much: the sun, the rain, the mist, the look in the eye of the cob.

I complete a circuit and turn on my back to look towards the only gap in the trees. Through the space I see the slope of grass rising to Parliament Hill. There are no kites flying this evening, no walkers on the brow. Just the curve of the ridge and the clouds clearing to the east. As suddenly as it came, the rain ceases, as if a stopcock has been wrenched shut. All is calm again, the pond refreshed, the air rejuvenated. This is swimming. This is magic.

Then unexpectedly, the water around me becomes turbulent. I turn to see the cob rising up behind me, his breast swollen full, his wings flapping around me. I kick my legs frantically to beat a retreat, and as I do he glides after me like a carnival float. I carry on kicking, the water lashing up from my legs, propelling me away from the onslaught. The cob slows down and gives me one last look before he heads back to his brood.

As I dry myself on my towel I think about what he is telling me: to beware where I swim and to keep looking over my shoulder.

5

Walkabout

Waking up and realising I don't have a hangover, I am glad to be clean and sober. It is Friday morning, time for a day off after the trip to Brighton. The next thought is of Caitlin and the terrible situation I've landed myself in. I pick up one of the leaflets by my bedside, given to me when I left the Friary. It tells me to have a plan for the day, even if I don't stick to it. To keep busy at all costs. I've already polished my shoes and cleaned out the kitchen and bathroom cupboards: activities highly recommended to keep the mind off the drink and the white powders. No work today. My only commitment is lunch with Matilda and an Aftercare Meeting. I dig around for some other good advice and hear the voice of my counsellor say, ‘If in doubt, go for a walk.' So I do.

To me, Bloomsbury's Gordon Square is like the Heath. Not as vast and expansive. No rolling hillocks and wooded glades. But still it makes me feel like I am no longer part of the city. Ever since coming here from Melbourne I've sought out open spaces. As soon as I enter the gates and hear the crunch of gravel beneath my feet I am in a secret garden. The bluebells massed on the small bank in the far corner are in full flower. The huge plane trees tower above, muting the sound of the traffic. Between their dappled trunks I can see the white facades of the elegant town houses of the square. I imagine Virginia Woolf standing at a first-floor window, watching me as I follow the path around the lawns, then weave my way back through the arch made by the rambling roses and on down the central path. Most of the benches are empty; the lunchtime visitors, the academics, students and passing tourists are an hour or so away. How many times have I walked around this wonderful garden? There is such a maturity about this square. How many footsteps have I followed? The trees stand ancient and proud; the lawns are worn and hardy. Here is a place to hold the mind in check. Even the bluebells convey a sense of assuredness. There is a solidity about this square that holds me and asks nothing. The sound of the stones underfoot is the melody for my unfolding thoughts.

I think of my daughter Lottie and how scared she looked when it all turned so bitter between her mother and me. When the whiskey did all the talking and the furniture began to fly. She retreated all the more into her music, told me she loved me, but hated the way I was with Matilda when I drank. What is it that binds us together? Father and daughter, brother and sister, husband and wife? What are the limits of our responsibility for each other? Even when it is over, even when it is finished?

I leave the orbit of the square at Gordon Street and cross the road to the tiny chapel of the Apostolic Church of Christ. Here is another place to seek some peace and tranquillity, where I can quieten the storm in my mind. Outside the sign tells me, ‘The chapel is open for private prayer.' I walk down the corridor. When I reach the door to the chapel I pause to dab my forehead with some holy water from the font set in the wall. For good luck, for the Catholic in me. Inside, I sit down on one of the cushioned pews. The main church seems to have been under renovation forever, but, as is often the case, someone is playing the organ in a far corner on the other side of the chapel wall. The chapel itself is small, with it wooden ceiling rising to a sharp-angled apex. I look up at the familiar stained-glass images of the windows. The bull and the serpent, the father and the son. Etched into the glass are the words I recite like a mantra. ‘Seek and you will find, ask and you will be heard.'

I wait for a feeling of calm to waft over me, but it is not easy in the coming. Thoughts of Caitlin merge with the words on the stained glass. ‘Suffer unto me little children.' I remember the desperate days of our childhood, before she left to stay with Uncle Declan. When we would hold each other tight against the storms in our house, as the glass shattered and the cries from our parents' bedroom roared around our ears. Now she lies waiting somewhere for me to find her and hold her again. The sound of the organ reminds me of Lottie's concert next week, the first round of competition. I look at the row of carved faces lining the perimeter of the chapel and, to distract myself, fancy them as all the lovers I have had and will have in the future. I count them and pair them with riotous nights and desperate mornings. Each has its own expression, its own story to tell. Mouths open, words frozen in the air. The altar has been set for the Eucharist. A plain white sheet, a silver cup. A shaft of sunlight trickles down the wall, refracting greens and blues, a vein of softest pink in the grey stonework.

Does all this thinking we do ever make a difference? All the toing and froing, the weighing up and setting down? I check my watch. It is more than time to go.

Back outside it seems strange to join the throngs of people hurrying along towards Gower Street, Tottenham Court Road, and beyond. I feel like a monk who has been tossed from the abbey to the outside world. As I cross Soho Square the lunchtime crowds are gathering, in pairs or groups, or alone with a pre-packed sandwich. On to Old Compton Street and its constant flow of crazies: the sex workers and drug users, hustlers and tourists. Beer and coffee is in the air and a sniff of violence for those with a nose for it.

When I get to Poon's in Lisle Street, Matilda is already there. She looks elegant in a mauve turtle-necked sweater and a yellow silk scarf. She seems younger than her years and has done something interesting to her hair. I decide not to comment on it, for fear of a look.

‘You're half an hour late,' she says. ‘I've already ordered some soup.'

‘Sorry,' I reply, sitting down opposite her, looking out onto the street. ‘I've been thinking.'

‘Well, think about this,' she says, pushing a letter across the table to me.

I notice the logo. It's the builder.

‘You missed the last payment.'

‘If you remember, I've paid all the others.'

The soup arrives. The waitress ignores the icy atmosphere at our table and smiles at me. I do not want anything, but I order some vegetable noodles. Outside, the rain has begun, splattering against the window. Inside, the only other couple stand up, caress, and leave the restaurant hand-in-hand.

‘Well?' says Matilda, raising an eyebrow and slurping her soup.

‘I'll pay when I can.'

‘It's Lottie's new room.'

‘I know that. How is she?' Our only really safe ground.