Cold Eye of Heaven, The (18 page)

He feels a knot in his stomach – could be hunger. Farley stands up, goes back into the kitchen, pours himself out a mug of milk, then looks at a not quite fresh slice of bread and wonders whether to toast it. He remembers then the leg of turkey Ma gave him yesterday to take home for the supper he didn't bother to have. He takes the foil package from the fridge and opens it out on the table, settling the salt and mustard around it. He eats from the foil with his fingers, dipping the shards of turkey flesh into the mustard and taking a bite now and then from the folded slice of bread, a slug from the milk. While he eats he thinks about yesterday, a different sort of a Christmas Day. For a start no Jackie and no Uncle Cal. Just him and Ma and the walls closing in. She'd sent him out to look for smokes, deciding that after all she may have been a bit hasty in giving up the fags before Christmas what with Mrs Kennedy, who smokes like a trooper, and her niece, God love her, with the gunner eye, coming in for her tea – it might look a bit mean if she'd none of her own to offer around.

He'd been glad to get out. Ma talking non-stop through her arse from the moment he put his foot through the door and the constant search party in between – O, where did I put this now? O, what am I after doin with that?

A sharp, bright day of shuttered shops and relentless church bells. In the end he'd had to bang on the door of that kip of an hotel in George's Street where a porter had grudgingly let him use the cigarette machine.

On the way home he had taken his time; not getting lost exactly, more enjoying the drive. The feel of the car only just serviced, the sound from the new radio that he'd had them install while they were at it; a string quartet on a BBC station. The sense that the music was sleighing him along through the deserted streets. An unnecessary turn here and there, a bridge there was no need to cross, a one-way sign defied, and he'd found himself somewhere at the back of Oliver Bond flats. Black narrow streets giving way to a sudden sunlit clearing. A derelict site. A halting site for travellers now that you'd never know was there unless you happened upon it. A large enclosure, maybe half an acre, fenced in green picket with a back-up lining of wire netting. A few caravans bunched to one side. He'd got out of the car. The sun spiked his eyes and he'd only then noticed the frost, a granulated coating of it all over the roof of the caravans, on the gas canisters lurking under the belly of each one, on the bank of tyres stashed to one side, the small red, windowless van. A piebald pony on a long rope had muck stuck to its coat and matted into the flare of its fetlock hair. This had puzzled him, because he couldn't see any muck, or any place for muck to be; only a big square of pebbles and cracked tar out of which grew a few hairs of grass. He'd been trying to remember what used to be there, because he had all these houses and warehouses in his mind and now that was something else gone for ever, when he saw the little girl coming out from behind a caravan. She was wearing a long dress or at least a dress that was too big for her; a boy's or a small man's jacket over it, and over that again, a manky Aran jumper. She was pushing a doll's pram; a new shiny thing with white wheels and hood. A present from Santy, no doubt. The pram wobbled over the uneven surface and the youngone pushed it on and on into the distance away from the caravans into the large open space at the other end of the site.

Farley pressed his hands on the wire, watching her. A child wandering around on her own, he had thought, anything could happen to her, anyone could get her. A child blue with the cold. He began to notice that she had a method of sorts, pushing the pram corner to corner, stopping at each one and adjusting the hood, bending to pick up things off the
ground; pebbles, he supposed. He wanted to wait for her to make her way back down the site and pass him by, maybe give her a few quid for herself. But the door of one of the caravans had snapped open. A man came out and took a step down, staring at him like he was some sort of a pervert. Farley gave a half-salute and got back into the car.

‘And that was Schubert's String Quintet in C Major on this bright and beautiful Christmas morning,' the announcer said when he'd turned the radio back on, each word delivered like a small carefully wrapped gift. He'd decided there and then what he'd do. He'd put it in a letter. Leave it into Slowey's house when he was at the races. That way he wouldn't have to see the reaction. Tomorrow. He'd told himself. He'd either do it tomorrow or the money was going back; half of it into the bank, the other half to a kids' charity.

Farley bundles the turkey bones and gristle into the foil and wipes the back of his hand across his greasy lips. The garden has grown quiet again; a shudder from the fridge or the sound of his heartbeat, that's all he hears. The afternoon already coming on. He feels shadows all around him; Slowey on one side, Jackie on the other, behind him stands his father, before him Uncle Cal. And it occurs to him then that all his life he's been surrounded by men more intelligent than he is. Even
in absentia
they continue to watch out for his mistakes. And he's never quite been sure if it's out of concern or if it's out of disdain. He pushes the plate away and pulls a new page to him. ‘Frank – here's 25,000 quid. If you want a partner, you have one. If not, just send back the bank draft and we'll say no more. Best, Farley.'

He notes a small thumbprint of grease in the corner but doesn't really give a fuck now. Placing the bank draft back in the envelope he slips the folded page in beside it and draws a slow tongue over the flap.

She opens the door in her pyjamas, a talc-sweet smell like she's just out of
the bath, hair in a bunch on top of her head. He tries to work out how old she'd be now – the years since Martina's death, the few years between the two sisters – and reckons on thirty-nine.

When he sees her – God, every time he sees her now. ‘I thought you'd be at the races?' he says, looking and not looking at her face.

‘Ah, didn't bother. Prefer to take advantage of the bit of peace.'

‘I won't come in,' he says. ‘In a hurry actually. Just wanted to leave this message for Frank. Well, maybe just for a minute then,' he says when she stands back and holds the door open.

He follows her into a lamplit sitting room; the telly, the galaxy of lights on the tree, the flames go-go dancing in the grate. There's a bottle of red wine shaped like a vase on the table, her glass, half full beside it. News -papers spread on the floor, an ashtray and smokes.

‘You're all nicely set up here,' he says.

‘Will you have a glass?' she asks.

‘Ah no. I won't bother.'

‘Jesus, Farley, one glass is not going to set you mad.'

‘Ah yea, I know but.'

‘I felt like it today. Just one or two. No fun on your own, but. Don't worry I'm not locked.' She grins and he wonders if she's making a reference to that night last May.

‘Yea, alright then, go on, I'll have one.'

He sits on the sofa and looks at the telly; Kirk Douglas talking through gritted teeth. ‘Any good this?'

‘Not bad. One of those Roman yarns, you know?' She turns the sound down and comes back with a glass, fills it and holds it out.

‘Kids not here?'

‘Miriam's taken Michael to Funderland and then to me ma's for their tea. Tony's at Leopardstown with his da. Jamesie's out somewhere, prob -ably on one of his marches.'

‘I thought the hunger strike was over?'

‘Ah, you know Jamesie – South Africa, the hunger strike, workers' rights – there's always somethin.'

She lights a cigarette. And looks at him. ‘So you heard the new house is off?'

‘Are you disappointed?'

‘Not much. Jaysus, Farley, what would I be doin out there anyway in the arsehole of nowhere? I mean to say. Between you and me I was just as pleased. You'd be all day cleaning a house that size. Anyway, there's enough room here since we got that last extension and the boys will be moving out soon enough. Jamesie is talkin about going away – did you know that?'

‘I heard something alright.'

She shrugs. ‘In anyway.'

He takes a sip of the wine and nods.

‘See what I'm resorted to here?' she says, lifting a box off the fireside chair before she sits down; a flat rectangle with a picture of Santy on it. ‘Eatin Michael's selection boxes. God, I'm so hungry. Couldn't be bothered making anything of course after half of yesterday spent in the kitchen.' She sits down. ‘Unless you're…?'

‘No. No, I'm grand.'

‘Sure? Because I can make something now if you like.'

‘I had a bit before I came out.'

‘Right.'

He takes another sip; the bang of it wincing up his nostrils. ‘How did the Christmas go?'

‘Don't you mean – how did you get over the Christmas? Isn't that what all the oulfellas say?'

‘Thanks very much.'

‘We were expectin you to drop in.'

‘I was over with the ma, you know yourself. First Christmas without Uncle Cal and what with Jackie away and…'

‘We don't see much of you these days – thought you might have a woman stashed away somewhere?'

‘No,' he says and looks down into his glass.

After a few seconds she speaks again. ‘Did you go up to the grave yesterday?'

‘I haven't been for a while to be honest.'

‘No, neither have I,' she says and looks into the fire. ‘I just – well, you know.'

‘Yea, I know.'

He takes another sip and she curls one pyjama leg up under her arse on the seat, a slow drift of smoke coming towards him. And the thought comes into his head again, as it's done so many times since, of the night last May, after Michael's communion. They'd all gone to a do in the Terenure Inn and she'd asked him up for a dance. A fella in a two-tone suit bursting his boiler trying to sound like Rod Stewart, giving himself laryngitis. One of those slow, sleepy numbers. She'd felt a bit loose in his arms, a few jars on her. The shape and peculiar weight of a woman; the feel of the silk dress under his hand; the smell of her. And her voice softly singing, ‘I don't wanna talk about it…' breath coming out with the words on his neck. It was like an electric jolt. He had panicked, almost walked off and left her standing there on her own but instead he'd started acting the eejit, swinging her around the place, pretending to be Lionel Blair or someone, trying to turn it all into a joke anyhow.

‘Stop,' she had said, coming back into him on an underarm twirl. ‘Stop, Farley. Just hold me.' Just hold me – fuck. And she'd looked into his eyes and said, ‘You never look at me. Why don't you ever look at me?'

‘I do. I do look at you, of course I do.'

‘Well, I wish you'd look at me more. And I wish…'

‘What?'

‘I wish you could kiss me.'

‘Ah Jaysus, Kathleen,' he'd said. ‘Ah, come on now. Jaysus.'

Farley takes a bigger swig from the wine, lowering one eye against the whack of it.

‘Do you not like it?' she asks.

‘Yea, it's nice.'

‘It's from California.'

‘That right?'

‘Yea.'

‘Look, I better go. Let you get a rest.'

‘Ah no, stay. Just for a little while.'

He nods and takes another sip.

‘Do you know what I'd love now?' she says.

He clears his throat. ‘What's that, Kathleen?'

‘A few chips. Not ones I make meself, but chipper chips, you know.'

‘Do you want me to go down to Filangi's for you?'

‘Would they be open?'

‘I could always try.'

‘Alright, but only if you have some too.'

He nods and stands up. ‘O, in case I forget I'll just leave this for Frank here behind the clock.'

He slides the envelope in and she looks at him. ‘You sure now, you'll be back? Because I don't want to go to the trouble of making tea and all if—'

‘What are you talking about? Of course I'll be back.'

He feels his face redden and turns it away towards the hall, because it had crossed his mind of course, that once he got out, he could stay out, worry about the excuses later. He just wanted to be away from her. Her in her pyjamas, with her pinky bath face and her talcumed skin, and her sleek black bun starting to loosen on top of her head.

‘Won't be long,' he says over his shoulder.

He's only in the car when he wishes he was back inside with her. ‘Fuck, fuck and fuck it anyway,' he says to the steering wheel. ‘I mean, what the fuck am I supposed to do now?'

He drives to the end of the road, indicates to turn right towards his own house, then changes his mind and indicates left for the chipper. He'll leave it to chance, that's what he'll do. And the chances of the chipper being open are slim enough. If it is open he'll get the chips, bring them
back to her, but won't stay. And if it's closed he'll drive straight by, go home, phone her from there and tell her he had something to do that he'd only just thought of.

He drives through a gauze of dusk, lights beginning to pop out from houses; windows, Christmas trees, porches and, when he turns for the shops, in one yellow blatant glare, from the window of Filangi's chipper.

Behind the counter, Filangi clatters and bangs.

‘I didn't think you'd be open today,' Farley says, half hoping to hear that he's not, that this is just preparation for tomorrow, that in fact it's strictly against the law for a chipper to trade on Stephen's day.

‘What else I do?' Filangi shrugs, turning just long enough to show a scowl. He lifts the basket out of the bubbling oil, gives it a shuffle and then an angry bang against the stainless steel sides.

Farley looks up at the menu, a childish arrangement of block letters, and orders whatever comes into his head – two singles, spice burgers. He remembers when she was a kid she used to love spice burgers.