Blood And Water (8 page)

“Just do as you’re told, for once.”

“Sorry?”

“I asked you to move, so move seats, find somewhere else to sit. I don’t want you beside him. Is that clear?”

There was no recognition of her being there for him, no offer to help her find an alternative place to sit, no suggestion she might join him at his table.

‘Move’
was all Enya heard. If he hadn’t been so nasty in his request, she might have politely complied. But his conduct triggered the quirk peculiar to her that ran through her like a river, provoking an instinctive no, and without another word she returned to the table.

A chivalrous Cathal rose and pushed in her chair as she sat.

“Interesting,” he remarked, nodding towards his retreating and fuming opponent. He sat down and reached for the wine to fill her glass.

“Really? In what way?” Enya replied, casually accepting the wine with a grateful bow of her head.

“Oh, it was easy to interpret that body language,” he said with a smile. “Hmmm … I didn’t think I’d ever meet anyone who’d say no to William Bertram.”

“Well, you hadn’t met me, had you?” she said.

So began what was initially an unexpressed symbiotic relationship, each with their own ulterior motive: to irritate Minister Bertram. Each more childish than the other.

On their first date they made a pact not to talk about him, which in itself Enya saw as an indirect insult to him.

“It would kill him to know we’re
not
talking about him,” she laughed as they sealed their agreement with a toast and moved on to find out more about each other. It was remarkably easy not to mention him and the cynic in her was silenced by the amount of things she and Cathal actually had in common. By the end of the night Enya found herself looking at her relationship with her father’s opponent in a different light: less as an act of rebellion, more a prospect she might actually enjoy.

Not surprised by her father’s refusal to accept their relationship, Enya found herself exiled to the family peripheries. Even after William by the tiniest of margins won the political battle at the polls, he still refused to acknowledge her. She was still, of course, invited to family get-togethers but Cathal was never made feel wholly welcome and in the end he made his excuses and nobody lamented his absence. Insulted, he forced Enya to choose: stand with him or with her father. With no other option, uncomfortably and with silent misgivings, she made her choice and stopped going altogether. Ciara was devastated at the time while the others, including Seb, said it was for the best. Although they were disappointed by her absence, no one liked the atmosphere that Cathal and their father created – the mood became explosive when they were present in the same room at the same time. Many years later, after their relationship began to disintegrate, she wondered if their marriage lasted as long as it had out of sheer defiance of her father.

In hindsight, with the exception of having Lia, she regretted almost every single minute of her time with Cathal. Her charming man with his handsome good looks and irresistible grin turned out to be nothing more than an arrogant, self-obsessed schmuck. A classic Aston Martin shell with a rusty, knocked-off Skoda engine underneath. Enya hated the way he managed to tie her in emotional knots, making her feel inferior to his apparent greatness. Like a ferret he burrowed under her confidence, taking it down from its foundations up until she wasn’t sure of anything anymore. It was only after he was gone that she realised just how much of herself he had emasculated and, more devastatingly, how much she had let him.

It took William, who neither forgot nor forgave, with his festering resentment and bruised pride, to exact his revenge and bring Enya’s world tumbling down.

He called her on her mobile when she was overnighting at a conference in Galway.

“Nothing to worry about, but Lia’s not well,” he told her. “She’s with your mother back at the house.”

“Where’s Cathal?” Enya asked, concerned but not worried – his tone lacked the urgency to suggest it was an emergency.

“The crèche tried to call him but he’s off air. I know he’s been involved in this constituency think-tank thing out in the back of beyond so he won’t have coverage. That’s how come we’ve got her. She’s with your mother at the house, so nothing to panic about.”

The idea of Lia with Barbara on her own in the house was disconcerting. It wasn’t that her mother would intentionally upset Lia but, without knowing her state of inebriation, it could go either way. Eyeing up the remainder of the conference agenda, Enya reckoned it wasn’t worth the stress or the guilt if anything happened to Lia while in her grandmother’s care. So, checking out early, she made her way home. It was a two-hour drive during which she tried to remember giving the crèche her parents’ number but couldn’t, but was glad she had, wondering what would have happened otherwise. Taking her father at his word, she didn’t try to contact Cathal. There was no point. She’d see him soon enough and then, she decided, they needed some sort of contingency plan for next time she was away and he had to work.

But there was no ‘
think-tank thing’
at all. William watched from the opposite side of the road, his Mercedes tucked in behind a van. From there he saw Enya pull into the driveway and look curiously at Cathal’s car parked in its usual spot and, less than ten minutes later, Cathal and his half-dressed and dishevelled secretary leaving the house in a flurry of arms and shirttails.

“Gotcha!” William declared and, beaming, he started the engine and pulled out into the road, delighted he’d discovered the malicious rumours were true after all.

His phone rang not long after he’d driven away.

“
Where is she?
” Enya shouted without introduction.

Expecting it, William replied simply, “She’s at the crèche.”

“How could you?” she spat.

“What? You’d prefer that he carried on behind your back, making a fool out of you, out of me?”

“Admit it, Dad, you don’t give a damn about me, or Lia for that matter. All you’re interested in is settling the score, isn’t that right?”

“It’s for your own good,” he told her smugly without an ounce of remorse.

“Oh, fuck off, Dad,” she spat and hung up the phone.

The memory of that day and those that followed still made her want to throw up.

Hearing a key in the door she dried her face and busied herself at the sink, pouring the now stone-cold coffee down the drain and rinsing her mug.

Ciara trudged into the kitchen, calling her name only to stop as she spied her at the sink.

“Oh, you’re in here.” She heaved two large shopping bags onto the island countertop. “It’s murder out there,” she puffed, slightly out of breath, oblivious to the state of her sister. “Bloody traffic on Mercer Street is mental, lights are out and everyone’s going berserk!” She stopped to take a breath, looking at Enya’s face for the first time. “You okay?” she asked, noting her red eyes and the scarlet hue on her cheeks.

“I’m grand,” Enya replied, pointing to the wall of pictures by way of distracting her sister. “I was just taking a walk down memory lane. You’ve got quite a collection.”

It worked a treat: like a magpie lured by shiny pretty things Ciara was off on a tangent, delighted Enya had noticed the effort she’d put into collating them. Out of all the family Ciara made most effort to keep everyone together.

“So,” Enya asked, needing a definitive distraction, “have you heard from Cormac yet?”

“Actually,” Ciara replied thoughtfully, “no. No, I haven’t, the little fecker.” Her curiosity was once again triggered by his as yet unexplained disappearance from Seb’s house at the weekend. “Give him a bell there while I empty these bags and let’s see what happened.” It was only as she was leaving the room to hang up her coat that she noticed the silver frame out of place. The image of her beautiful goddaughter on her third birthday leapt up at her. She threw a look back at Enya busy dialling their brother’s number and realised she had disturbed a long-awaited and much-needed moment between mother and daughter.

Chapter 8

Cormac couldn’t ignore her. He’d already dodged her two earlier calls and knew her well enough to know she’d keep calling till he answered, so he might as well get it over with. Sitting upright, he picked up his phone and took a deep breath to armour himself. Swallowing hard to moisten his parched throat and disguise the tell-tale still-in-bed rasp in his voice, he answered her call, checking his watch to establish the time.

“Hey, Sis, how’s it going?”

“Where have you been? Didn’t you get my calls? Ciara and I, we were worried about you. What happened to you last night?”

Knowing this grilling was bound to happen and despite his inebriation the evening before, he’d had the foresight to prepare an elaborate and relatively credible tale. But panic and the smell of his own fear ripped the story right out of his head and he had no idea what to say.

“Something just came up,” he blurted, saying the first thing that came into his mind, instantly cringing, knowing full well she was unlikely to swallow such a feeble excuse of an excuse. “You know me, always somewhere to be,” he tried cheekily and when she didn’t respond he felt silently pressured down a more likely route. “To be honest, Dad was driving me nuts. I don’t know why you let him talk to you like that.”

“But why did you have to leave?” she argued. “He was driving everyone mad, but we stayed.”

“I know, I know, I just couldn’t hack it. He’s so bloody self-righteous.”

“If I can put up with it, so can you. Seriously though, are you alright, really?”

“I’m grand,” he assured her. “Really, I’m fine.” And for a split second he thought about telling her. For a split second he imagined the relief that sharing with her might bring. For a split second he wondered what exactly she might be able to do to help. What would she say? What could she say? ‘
You absolute idiot!’
he imagined her shout. ‘
How could you have been so stupid?’
And she would be right. How could he have been so stupid? But he didn’t have the answer and didn’t even know where he should start to look for it. Neither did he have the courage nor the humility to say the words out loud: ‘
Enya, I’m in real trouble here. I need your help.’

“Are you even listening?” Enya huffed sharply down the phone.

“Sorry, I was miles away.”

“I said I’m already back a few days but we haven’t had a chance yet to catch up. What’s the matter? Are you avoiding me or something?” When he didn’t answer she pushed him, irritated and more than a little cross. “Are you even still there?”

“Seriously, Enya, I’m grand.”

“Grand? You keep saying that. So if you’re so grand then tell me where you got to yesterday?”

“I had somewhere to be, that’s all. Nothing to worry about, honestly,” he told her. Then salvaging a small part of his intended story he continued, “I have a problem with one of my students. He’s buggered up his thesis and I’m trying to help him fix it up. That’s it. I swear.”

Despite the silence her suspicion was palpable. “All right so,” she said, more determined than before, “come over later – call it a late lunch.”

“I can’t later, I’ve got classes all afternoon,” he lied.

“Tomorrow then? Ciara’s cooking.”

“I’m not sure I can.”

“Of course you can and, anyway, I’m not going to take no for an answer.”

“Fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Perfect! Call over about six. Dinner will be around seven thirty.”

“Sure,” he replied, already thinking of potential excuses to bow out.

Casting aside the phone, feeling like he was teetering on the edge of a cliff, he flopped back into the pillows, exhausted and hung-over. Last night’s brandy bottle lay empty on its side on the duvet beside him, its wafting woody aroma a dull reminder as to why his mouth felt so woolly and his bladder so full. He needed to pee. Picking up the bottle he dragged himself from the bed and padded barefoot through the shimmering room to the toilet, placing the bottle on the dressing table as he passed. Without turning on the light in the bathroom he stood in the dark and let himself go, watching his shadow in the mirror before him. This was a reflection more used to being admired than castigated. With his back to the light he studied the structure of his darkened frame. Where his face should be was nothing more than an oval black mass wrapped in the outline of his tussled hair. No features. No shame. No words.

He imagined the stream carrying all the waste from his body. He wished it all out and away, wishing he was man enough to cry and be done with it.

One hundred thousand euro, he mused tragically. One hundred thousand euro. It wasn’t much in the grand scheme of things but to him, personally, it was massive. He repeated the words aloud. And what for? For a collection of slightly out-of-focus photographs. Was that four or five zeros, he wondered as he shook off the last few drops and tried to visualise the vastness of the amount in his head.

And there was likely to be plenty more images to come, he presumed, thinking of the four that he had already received. He didn’t need his phone to see them; they were indelibly imprinted in his mind. Their naked flesh and co-joined bodies, the white powdery line, dull but apparent in the seedy darkness around him, his face leaning over the glass table with the rolled-up twenty at his nose. Ugly.

Done, he returned to the safety of his bed and throwing himself face down cast his mind back to what had been one of the most salacious nights of his life. The mere thought of it gave him a hard-on, which he didn’t have the energy to suppress, and he felt it press into the bed, its head rubbing rough against the fabric of his shorts. He moved, just a little bit: a slight hip shift to the left, then to the right, enough to feel his tantalisingly sensitive skin spark. Inhaling deeply, Cormac let the sensation tickle up his spine but kept his hands where they rested above his head, torturing himself, punishing his error of judgement by not letting those expert hands indulge his building lustful hunger. Out of bounds.