Gone (15 page)

—Because if you want to know I'll tell you. But if you don't want to know that's very good too. You can have it either way but you can't have it both ways.

Her father is exhausted. Even with the sun glinting off his heavy spectacles I can see the struggle to contain his anger. A woman passes by at the end of the drive looking at the house as if it's a dress she's considering buying. Gooooey, I yell, waving to her. She hurries on. The old man makes a decision. He's going to drop the pretence. He puts a hand on my shoulder.

—You do whatever you think is right in the eyes of God. Let's leave it at that.

He pats me on the shoulder and gets into the car. I am stunned, not by the aggressive hand on the shoulder (I am used to the patronising pats of other men) but by the mention of God. I expect God to appear and tell us all to go to hell. Rachel extends her hand. I want to hurt her, to make sure the old bastard's day worsens:

—Good luck, whore.

—It's not about luck, sweetie.

She winks, seats herself with ladylike aplomb in the car, and waves as she closes the door. I can tell he's asking her what was said. Drive David, she says loudly. The core of us in aloneness. Rachel is nearer than any of us. She knows herself and knows too she can live with him without compromising what matters most in her life. Strange, I never thought of Ursula's father having a first name. I sit on the garden bench long after they've gone. He was a child once, had a mother yelling
David
at teatime. A lawn is being mowed somewhere, far enough away to sound nothing more that a bee buzzing. The sun, exhausted, has given the last of its heat to the day. Night comes. The bathroom light goes on. Timid tinkling. The pull of the toilet chain and a clang. No flush. Another pull, more violent. Nothing. I rise to go and help her with it. The light goes out. I stop halfway across the lawn. Already back in bed by now.

Separate, it's what we both want.

I walk down to the village. The phone box is on the corner near Haverty's. Great craic going on inside. I push the phonecard in and punch the thirteen digits to reach Holfy's voice. Her machine comes on, more soothing than any drink.

—It's me. I'm here—

She picks up.

—Here? Where's here? You're never here.

—Funny.

—I'm just in. I was stuck in the Holland Tunnel for—

—I love you.

—Yeah?

I smile. The American intonation mixed with her Icelandic gravel charms me even now. I have a pain in my stomach with yearning for her. A group stumble out of the pub, roaring with drink. It's odd to see people drunk on the street. One of the women is pushing a pram, and yelling at her husband not to piss up against the wall.

—It's the locals out of the pub. It's noisy your end too.

—They're making another movie. I had to walk from Horatio with my equipment.

—Move away from the window. I can't hear you.

—I am away from the window. I'm in bed.

—In bed?

—On it. Want to do it?

We laugh the giddy, greedy laugh of happy lovers, rush to fill the precious silences to make the most of the call. There's a violent beating on the roof of the phone box. Rain, come thunderously without warning like the threat of a clenched fist.

—We need rain here. The humidity is worse since you left.

Finally, she asks about the funeral just as the phone pips. I give her the number and wait with an elbow on the cradle, the phone to my ear. Nothing but the fierceness of the rain belting down. The pubs are closed now, the streets deserted; lashed into silence by the sudden storm. Nothing but wetness. A car approaches; the glare of its headlamps catching me full in the face. Blackness. Slosh. Evidently, she can't get through. I decide to wait two more minutes. Shame whistles through the door and I hum to stop myself from thinking. My father is dead. The rain looks like it will go on forever. I'll wait until it ends. The phone rings, its loudness echoing.

—I'm sorry. A client called as soon as I hung up. She's a bitch. I had to take it.

—I want to be back with you. It's over with her. I've told her.

Silence. Tiny international beeps. Tell her it's over.

—Holfy?

—I'm here.

—I want to be with you. I've told her I'm leaving.

I bite my lip on the lie.

—It's not my call.

—Fuck that. What do you know? We're at each other's throats. I can't help her.

—Don't leave her for me. Leave her for you.

—Such devastating fucking wisdom.

—I mean it.

—I am leaving her for me.

—I don't believe that.

I slam the phone down. Her voice goes on in my head. I hope she calls back to hang up on me. The rain has a grudging ceaseless look at it. It's weakened, running noiselessly down the phone box. The phone doesn't ring. I rifle my wallet for a phone card but know already I used the last one. It feels like winter has slipped inside my coat. If Ursula is up, she might be worried. Still enough feeling left for worry, perhaps. I tear the cover off the telephone book to use as a hat and set off up the hill. At the top of the first steep rise, where the car stalls, I pause. I look out across the city. A scattering of higgledypiggledy goldenwhite lights that is Dublin. Lights sparkling as if they have nothing better to do than look magical. To the east, nothing but blackness, the scooped neckline of Dublin Bay and its seawaves washing up against the city. A ship far out in the bay. The tremendous noise of the sea slapping against Bray harbour, slapping too into the scoop of Sandycove, into Scotsman's Bay, into Dun Laoghaire pier where it washed clean over us that day and we kissing near the lighthouse, and across the bay; slapping its old song against Howth. And deep in the middle of its waters, away from the bobbing city, the sea is silent. The sea is nothing but silence. Silence and waiting. So much is hidden.

The light's on in the kitchen. I go up to the bathroom and dry myself, put on a dressing gown I haven't worn in almost two years, am surprised by the shortness of the sleeves. She's sitting there with a glass of brandy and a hot-water bottle cradled to her stomach. I can't bear the silence, the silence of last day.

—Any better?

—No. But no worse.

She manages to smile at herself, at me, at old quotes.

—You were out?

—Yes. It's pouring.

I look down at the floor, count the tiles. No lies. No lies anymore.

—I don't want to be scared walking down the street. I don't want to lose who I am to them.

She starts to cry; a horrible wail, out of her stomach, out of an untouchable pain. She rocks forward on the chair. I look away from her, at the russian doll. Too much said already. Say no more. Say no more. My hands tremble.

—Walk away. Walk away. You'll be walking away your whole life. Prick. You're a prick.

I close the door quietly through her screaming.

—Next time, ring her from here. Prick. You'll get your death of cold walking up that hill in the rain. What would the cunts of America do, then? You twofaced Prick.

I go into the study. A crash. Another one. Flipflap of the cat door. Another crash. She starts to howl. I lie on the sofa and cover my ears. I leap up and run into her as she is hobbling to me.

—What do you want me to do, walk the street in search of them and kill them? It happened. There's nothing we can do. It's a sick place. It's life.

—It's not about that. Jesus you've got better—worse—at changing the subject. It's over. We've ended this so many times. Just go. You'll have your cut soon enough. Then go. Just go.

—Fuck the money.

Vomit jumps off the bed and goes out.

*   *   *

I wake to exhaustion. Darkness. For a horrible moment I wonder why the street is so quiet, thinking I am in New York. It's still night. Not a sound. Not even a gurgle from the water tank. £1,263 for his funeral. More money for Jennings. Great business, have to do nothing but wait. The garden sensor light comes on like a question; a black flash past the window; a light tink on the gutter. The birds are awake, waiting for something to happen. It's nearly six. I can't work out if it's morning or evening. At this time of year it could be either. The sky is untelling. A freight boat out in the bay, small moving lights offering hope like a thick delivery of post. A black flash startles me; I hold my hand up against the expected blow. But it's just a bird, diving. She lands, pecks amongst the foliage, traps a twig in her beak and rises up. Another tink and teeny scratchings as she finds her place; a flutter, a coo of happiness. There's a perceptible lightness in the sky but perhaps I'm adjusting to the night. No, it is morning; disc of a sun, no bigger than a penny, slipping palely from the sea. Rising with regal deliberation. It was like this in the beginning. The sun glints and is lost to the hopeless Dublin clouds. I lie down again. We fucked like there was no tomorrow once upon a time. Threw her prosthesis out the window one night because she wouldn't turn around to me. What fun it all was. No more. No more any of it. I turn over on my side. No more will her lap mold itself into the elbow of my knees. I turn over on my other side towards the back of the sofa and emptiness. No more will I smell her after sleep. In Dorset Street, we had to do it just before eight o'clock in the morning otherwise Mrs. Tweedy upstairs might hear us. Of a weekday morning she'd be up and down to Mass in St. Saviour's in Dominic Street. Ursula didn't want her hearing anything and Mr. Tweedy off half the time with Mrs. Arkins from Joseph's Mansions. We knew by the church bell we had to stop and get up because she'd be on her way back with the
Irish Independent
and twenty John Player Blue.

She is in the garden, weeding. The electric kettle is hanging by its flex on the trellis. Cutlery is scattered on the lawn, a fork stuck in the grass like a bizarre game. The wooden wine rack caught in the bushes. Vomit is sniffing at the steam iron lying on its wounded side. Wedding presents, all of it. No matter.

—You were on the phone to her last night.

—On the phone to whom?

She nods and keeps weeding.

—I don't care. Really. Do whatever you like. Out in the open. Hide it. Whatever you like.

—I was out walking.

*   *   *

Her mother is the first to come. She doesn't bring Mulvany, for once tactful. Ursula and I are sitting in the kitchen with Muriel. The funeral was horribly quiet. No eager handshaking. I get up to put the kettle on. Muriel gets up too. Ursula's mother looks at me.

—They'll want sandwiches, she says, pushing the bag across the table. I look at her, at the bag; cheese, tomatoes, ham, mustard, bread, butter, lettuce. I start making sandwiches. Through the open window, my eye catches sight of the kettle hanging out of the fence. Go easy on the butter, Muriel says. You can tell he didn't pay for it. I concentrate fiercely on the job. This will all be over soon. Holfy: we will never be like this.

The hall door is shoved in, discreetly. Uncle Aidan. He puts his arms around me, the smell of stale cigarette smoke coming off him. Memory of Ruth. I try not to lean against his solid comfort. He holds me longer than I want and I feel myself stabbed inside. I push away from him.

—What are you doing here?

—Acting the fool. Is the tea on?

I look over at Ursula.

—You need a bit of makeup, he says, his voice going soft. Ursula laughs through a torn voice.

—That priest was full of shite. No offence anyone.

He lights up, looks for an ashtray.

—There's no smoking here, you.

—I'll go out, so.

He makes a face at Muriel and goes out into the garden.

We pile up the sandwiches. Aidan hisses at the cats, picks up the kitchen utensils and shouts in the window.

—I haven't ruined your garden installation, have I?

She looks out in the garden and shakes her head, laughing.

—Is it alright then if I bring in the kettle for a cup of tea before we're all parched?

He always has the right tone.

Nothing left here now. Nothing.

I visit Medbh and Brefini. They have television now, something they never believed in, that he never believed in his Trinity days when he was all
up the workers.
She mutes the sound on the box. They have another child whose name I don't know. I hand the single toy to Una.

—You're to share that with the baby.

—Her name is Hazel.

We all laugh except Una. She stares at me, a vagueness in her eyes, remembering me. She rattles the toy for sound.

—His name is Lamp Chops. He's on the telly in America.

She looks again at Lamp Chop and fires him in the corner. Little bitch, applerot of her mother's eye. Brefini cooks a bit of dinner and no one mentions Ursula. They are going to enroll Una in Irish dancing classes. Brefini plays the piano they've just bought so he can play and his daughter can dance along to it. I dislike them, a couple I've always liked. I drink most of the bottle of wine I brought and tell them funny stories about New York. Brefini offers to drive me home but I insist on a taxi to avoid any meaningful talk that Brefini might have planned. Standing up to go I see a face I know on the television. Medbh turns and looks at the screen and asks me what's up. It's Mr. O'Neill, the Taoiseach's press secretary, fat-faced, hurrying through a door. Have you not been following it, ask Medbh. He's great entertainment—one of the brown envelope brigade. Look at the scowl on him.

—He did my father out of money. I don't need a tribunal to tell me who he is.

I tell the taximan to drive through town in the hope something will show me the Dublin I left. Nothing. The party's over. O'Neill in court. Maybe Da was right, what goes around comes around. Jesus. Becoming the father. Medbh is the great force in the home, Brefini relegated to husband, father, man to be organised. No intimacy between them. How utterly awful to be able to read the life of a couple. Like brother and sister. Maybe it gets that way with all marriages. I tell the taximan to drive out to the old house in Irishtown. A light on and music. I'm tempted to ring the bell, tell them it's my house—my wife sold it without permission. Just to see their faces.