The Fall Girl (23 page)

She closes her eyes as if she's about to cry.

‘It's OK,' I say, touching her shoulder. ‘I'd probably have done the same thing.' That's a lie; I'm sure I wouldn't have.

‘As soon as we drove off, I got this real creepy feeling …'

‘Like
I
had when we got into that farmer's car.'

‘Yeah, only in your case it was a false alarm. This fella was the real McCoy. I told him I'd changed my mind, that I was worried about you and I wanted to go back. But he wouldn't listen. He kept saying, “Relax, will you? We're nearly there.” '

‘You must have been scared stiff.'

‘I was, especially when he rolled up his sleeves and I saw a big King Billy tattoo on his arm.'

‘Oh Jesus!'

‘I swear, I nearly fucking wet myself. I've heard about these boys – Proddies – who go hunting for Catholics to kill. I was sure I was dead.'

‘What did you do?'

‘There was fuck all I could do. The streets were deserted; he had muscles on him like the Incredible Hulk and a face on him like King Kong. There was only one thing for it.'

‘What?'

‘I had to talk my way out of it.'

‘But how? What did you say?'

‘I hadn't passed any remarks when I saw the tattoo, so I pretended to think he was a Catholic. I said “Ian,” that was his name, “can I tell you a secret? Only you've got to promise
not to tell anyone.” “Go on,” he said. “If my family find out,” I said, “I'm dead.” Next thing, he switches on the indicator and pulls over.'

‘Oh, my God.'

‘My heart was in my gob. “What is it?” he said. I wasn't sure if I was doing the right thing, cos you never really know what a Northerner is thinking. But it was too late to change my mind, so I just blurted it out.'

‘What?'

‘ “Johnny and me shouldn't be going out together,” I told him. He says, “Why the fuck not?” “Because I'm a Protestant,” says I. “Please don't fucking shoot me.” '

‘That was a flipping brilliant idea. What did he say?'

‘ “You're fucking joking me. So am I.” '

‘God, how did you think of it? You're deadly at stuff like that.'

‘But that wasn't the end of it. He was fucking ripping. He grabbed my hair and stared at me real threateningly. You should have seen the face of him. I was waiting for his bloody eyeballs to pop out on to my knee.'

‘Jesus, I'd have died of a heart attack.'

‘ “Are you screwing a fucking Catholic?” he said. At this stage, his face was so close to mine, I thought he was going to head-butt me. “No,” I said, “I've only met him a couple of times, but I'll break it off with him now, I promise.” “You'd better,” he roared, yanking my hair. It hurt like mad.'

‘The bastard.'

‘Then he told me to get out. When I opened the door, he practically kicked me out on to the footpath and said that if he ever saw me hanging around a Catholic area again, he'd …' She looks away and shivers.

‘What? What, Lesley?'

‘… rape me and then shoot me,' she blurts, flinging herself face down on to the pillow.

‘Oh, thank God you're OK,' I say, stroking her hair.

‘Thanks.' Her voice is muffled.

‘You must still be in shock.'

‘It hits me in waves.'

‘You poor thing. How did you get home in the end? Did you really get the bus?'

‘Yeah. It took me half the night to find the depot. And when I did, there wasn't a sinner there, only myself.'

‘It wasn't open?'

‘At that hour of the night? No. It was about seven o'clock before one of the bus drivers showed up.'

‘So you weren't lying to your mother after all. You just didn't tell her the whole story.'

‘It doesn't matter what I told her; she doesn't believe a word of it.'

‘She's not mad with you, though. I was talking to her earlier on and she was standing up for you.'

‘She's only doing that in front of you. She met me at the door this morning with a clout in the mouth. I bet she didn't tell you that, did she?'

‘You're joking!'

‘I am not,' she says, turning an offended face to me.

‘No, I believe you; it's just that … she seemed so understanding. She even asked me to keep an eye on you.'

‘The cow!' she says, rolling over on to her back. ‘She wants you to spy on me.'

‘I don't think she meant it that way. She –'

‘You just can't see through people, Frances. You're far too gullible.' She turns on her side and starts tweaking my fringe. ‘I told you what my mother's like. She hates me.'

‘The
bitch
,' I say, sighing with anger. ‘The rotten, two-faced bitch.'

‘Don't let it bother you,' she says, running her fingers down my cheek. ‘I don't.'

‘The sooner we get to Dublin, the better.'

‘Mmm. And listen, let's tell Jackie and Orla that we changed our minds about the Tropicana because you had a headache or something.'

‘Yeah, OK.'

‘Cos I can't bear to tell anyone else what happened.'

‘Even Johnny?'

‘Especially not Johnny.'

‘Don't worry,' I say, feeling closer to her at that moment than I ever had or would, ‘your secret is safe with me.'

By the time I get home, it's after eight o'clock, and the doubts I had the night before over the wisdom of my rebellious behaviour are now null and void. If anything, spending the day with Lesley has strengthened my resolve. When I told her about my parents having to come to collect me, she said, ‘You don't owe them an apology. They did you a favour, that's all.'

Having forgotten my key, I have to ring the doorbell. The hall light goes on, and through the frosted glass I see my mother approaching the door. She delays a few seconds before letting me in, clearing her throat as if she's about to deliver a speech.

‘Jesus!' I cringe at the rawness of the bruise over her left eyebrow. ‘I didn't realize …'

‘Well, how would you?' she says, her tone ridiculously formal. ‘You were drunk.'

‘It was dark,' I say, unzipping my jacket and wondering if her strange mood could be the result of delayed concussion.

‘There's someone here to see you.'

‘Where?'

‘The sitting-room.'

‘Who?'

She nods towards the door, intimating that I should see for myself. Warily, I pass her, stopping outside the sitting-room door to reconsider.

‘Excuse me,' she says.

When I step back, she opens the door and walks in ahead of me, bowing like a housemaid delivering a guest.

‘Ah, there she is,' Father Vincent says, sounding surprised, as if he hadn't heard the doorbell, or my voice in the hall. He folds his newspaper and tosses it on to the coffee table. ‘Where have you been till this hour at all at all?'

His podgy cheeks look like two big lumps of cooked ham. He must have been sitting by the fire all day waiting for my return. The living-room door clicks shut. I look behind me to find that my mother has vanished. I hadn't heard her move.

‘I was in town,' I say. ‘Why?'

‘With young Kelly, I suppose.'

‘So?'

‘Why don't you sit down?'

‘I've things to do upstairs.'

‘I'm sure you can spare five minutes.'

Rolling my eyes, I perch myself on the armrest of the sofa.

‘Did you fall?'

‘No. Why?'

‘I thought maybe,' he points to the rip in my jeans, ‘you tore your slacks on something.'

I have to turn away to laugh.

‘Did I say something funny?' He's irritated.

I shake my head.

‘Well then, what are you laughing at?'

‘Nothing,' I giggle.

‘Begod, I can see why your mother is worried about you so.'

It suddenly dawns on me that that's why my parents had called to Nancy's house earlier on. She could persuade her brother to intervene on their behalf. Surely I'd listen to him. Everyone listens to him, a man of the cloth, full of wisdom, understanding and, above all, clout. Apart from the Bishop himself, there isn't a man in the county could compete with Father Vincent in the ‘clout' department. As a child, I felt privileged that such an important person was a regular visitor to our house. Now all I can see is a middle-aged, red-faced man with no neck, struggling to be taken seriously, and I can't help feeling sorry for him.

‘Sorry, Father. What was it you wanted to talk to me about?'

‘Alcohol.'

‘Oh,' I say, trying to look serious.

He shifts awkwardly in the armchair and rests his interlocking hands on his lap. ‘And young fellas.'

Without interrupting him, I listen to his lecture, though I switch off half-way through it. From the outset, I know it's pointless, but I don't want to be nasty to him; he's never done me any harm.

‘Do you see what I'm saying, Frances?' he says every so often.

‘Mmm.'

I'm thinking about Lesley again, about the softness of her breast, about the way she looked at me and played with my hair. I close my eyes and breathe deeply.

‘You're not falling asleep on me, are you?'

‘No, Father.'

She and I have so much in common – we both love to dance, we've the same taste in clothes, music. Neither of us can wait to leave for Dublin. Both our mothers hate us, though I'd still rather have hers than mine. And then there's the gingerbread man.

‘… because in my experience, and I've been around a while, as soon as a lassie gives a boy what he's looking for, he heads for the hills – him and his promises.'

Never mind him and his promises. What about her and her promises?

Sometimes Jackie or Orla tag along, but usually it's just me who hangs around the bread van keeping an eye out for the nuns and lay-teachers. Although I cannot see them, I can hear Lesley and Johnny kissing hurriedly inside the van like forbidden lovers. Afterwards her mouth looks red and swollen. Once he bites her lower lip so hard it bleeds.

‘It stings like mad,' she says, licking away the spot of blood. ‘He'll pay for that.'

‘How do you mean? You're not dumping him, are you?'

‘No way!' she says, looking at me wide-eyed. ‘Never. I'm gonna bite him back.'

‘You wouldn't!'

‘Yes I would. He's tasted my blood, so why shouldn't I taste his?'

We meet up with Jackie and Orla and spend the rest of the lunch break sitting on a bench that faces out on to the sports field. A few yards away, girls are charging up and down the pitch shouting at one another and swinging their camogie sticks.

‘Did you see that?' I say, when one of the players drops to her knees after getting belted in the stomach with the ball.

Lesley doesn't answer. She's staring straight through the action to the far side of the pitch, where a cluster of trees obscures the neighbouring field. It's as if she's looking through a telescope at something or someone none of the rest of us can see. I wish I knew what was going on inside her head.

In the middle of the night, I wake up to go to the toilet. While I'm at the sink washing my hands, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the vanity mirror and suddenly feel irritated, I don't know why. After drying my hands, I go back and look again. Now I know. It's my eyes. They look so soft, so stupidly vulnerable. It's like looking into clear water – you can see right through me. In a fit of annoyance, I start pulling faces, trying to make myself look strong, provocative, unfathomable. Like Lesley. Her eyes are so dark, so deep, you cannot see where the dark brown begins and the black ends. It's well for her, being able to look in the mirror and see what she sees. Squeezing my eyes shut, I take a deep breath and imagine myself inside her body. Then, pursing my lips, I lean forward and kiss the cold glass.

‘Idiot,' I murmur, opening my eyes and quickly wiping away the condensation. ‘Stupid idiot.'

I pace the bathroom floor in a rage. I can't get Lesley out of my mind. The way she's been carrying on lately, it's ridiculous. The girl is obsessed. She hasn't the space in her head for anything or anyone else these days but the bloody
gingerbread man. She hasn't the space for me. Feck him! Who does he think he is, coming between us like this? Teasing her, teasing me. I hold my bottom lip between my teeth, loosely at first, but gradually biting down harder. The pain makes my eyes water. Go on, I think, standing back in front of the mirror, bite harder. She says they're going to do it; they're going to go all the way. He's coming down to Castleowen on Monday evening. It'll be their first proper date.

‘Ouch!' I put my hand over my mouth.

I don't know if I've drawn blood or not until I take my hand away and examine my bottom lip in the mirror.

Spineless coward, I think, creeping back across the landing to my bedroom. You just haven't got what it takes.

On Saturday night Lesley stays at home waiting for his call. He says he'll be ringing her to make sure she's not out with anyone else. She asks me to call to her house to keep her company.

‘He's so possessive,' she says, beaming. ‘If he thought I as much as looked at another man, he'd kill him, and then he'd kill me.'

‘He said that?'

‘Yeah,' she says, stretching out on the bed.

‘Jesus!'

‘I know,' she says, blowing smoke at the ceiling, ‘what a cool way to die.'

‘It was the best night of my life,' she says.

My skin begins to prickle.

Jackie, Orla and myself are huddled around Lesley in the cloakroom.

‘So did youse do it?' Jackie asks.

‘Twice.'

‘Get out of here,' Orla says.

‘Honest. Once in the front of the car and once in the back.'

Jackie looks over her shoulder to make sure no one is listening. ‘What was his willy like?'

Lesley starts giggling. I can tell she's loving every minute of it – being the first of us to lose her virginity; having had the nerve to go through with it.

‘Come on, quit laughing and tell us,' Orla says, nudging her.

‘A fucking microphone … with hair.'

‘Holy fuck!' Jackie screeches. ‘What did you do – start singing into it?'

‘Ah jaysus, that's disgusting,' Orla says, puckering her face. ‘I think I'll join the fucking convent.'

A girl from third year with prominent teeth, who's sitting on the opposite bench, is smiling over at us. She reminds me of myself a couple of years earlier – the curious spectator, eager to join in the conversation, but much too shy to try.

‘Oy, Bright Eyes,' Lesley says, giving her daggers, ‘go nibble a lettuce leaf and keep your twitchy nose out of our business.'

The girl's face turns scarlet as she picks up her books and walks away.

‘That's right, hop along. Just follow the signs for Watership Down.'

‘Oh, you bitch!' Orla titters, when the girl is out of sight. ‘That was lousy.'

‘Too bad,' Lesley says, shrugging. ‘She'll be all right if nothing falls on her.'

‘How do you know?' I ask.

‘What?'

‘How do you know she'll be all right? She could be down the corridor crying her eyes out for all you know.'

‘If she is, she's a fucking wimp.'

‘If she is, it's your fault.'

‘OK, OK, take it easy,' Jackie says. ‘It's not the end –'

Lesley looks at me suspiciously. ‘What's your problem, Frances?'

‘I don't have a problem. I just feel sorry for the girl, that's all.'

‘Why? What is
she
to
you
?'

‘Nothing. I just don't like the way you –'

‘The way I what?'

‘Hurt people.'

‘Oh,
people
now, is it?'

‘You know what I mean.'

‘No I don't. Tell me what you mean.'

‘Ah, quit, girls, will youse?' Orla says. ‘She's not worth falling out over.'

‘Oh, but Frances thinks she is,' Lesley says, folding her arms and eyeballing me. ‘Don't you?'

I've never challenged Lesley before and find it impossible to hold her stare. I have two choices. I can stick to my guns, insist that what she did was wrong and walk away. Or I can apologize for making a big deal over nothing. If I do the former, I know our friendship is over.

‘Ah, don't mind me,' I say. ‘I'm just in a bad mood.'

‘It's all right,' she says, her face instantly softening. ‘But next time, don't take it out on me, OK?'

‘OK.'

‘Thank God for that,' Jackie says. ‘I thought we'd never get back to talking about sex. So, tell us more. Did it hurt?'

‘A bit. But the sensation, I'm not joking youse, girls …' she says, closing her eyes, taking a deep dramatic breath and holding it for several seconds, ‘I thought I'd died and gone to heaven.'