Bone and Blood (2 page)

Aisling reached out to shuffle forward the music searching for something to put her feet on the floor. Sharon Shannon pulled her back and forward with memories of Dad buying her complicit beer. Bitter enough to the tongue but delight in her throat at the sharing. Her brother, Michael, and Mum hated the diddle-de-do of the accordion and screamed with mock pain at the “Man of Constant Sorrow”, but it brought her comfort and raised her to her feet to look in the mirror.

Did she look a bit paler than usual? She felt like she had a bit of a hangover. She didn't remember having a lot to drink. Was it usual to feel a bit hung over after it? Maybe she had more than she thought. Sometimes she wasn't sure how much she'd pretended last night and how much was the real effect. She dived into bed again and reached for the new notebook she had bought herself. Maybe she shouldn't have been so cheap. She'd got it in an “everything for 2 euro” shop. It wasn't bad quality paper and she liked the hardcover black with red binding. She planned to put photos of her and Matt on the cover – faces amidst the telescope and planets and covering the Science Work Book words. Blank page opposite lined page so when she didn't feel like writing she could draw. This time for herself only. No sharing, no matter how much she laughed to herself. No-one to share with anyway. Blown it with Maeve and Matt away.

She missed Matt and his ramblings about electrons and neurons and fields of potentiality. He claimed there was a basis in physics for all the sub-atomic particles of humanity past and present being linked to all the particles of existence past or present and in theory we could tap into it through our consciousness of it. Sometimes she wasn't sure how much Matt was pulling her leg but she enjoyed the science fiction feel to it. No-one, not even Matt, would get access to this journal. No pretence.

20th August 2005.
No words came so draw the dance of death. Mum dancing around Michael memories. Dad dancing around one ear cocked as if he's listening but his eyes and hands texting away.

Aisling threw down the notebook with the cartoon strip half finished. Words were too banal like some gossip dialogue overheard in the pizzeria. She needed a joke with a jag and none came. No notebook. Try earphones and closed eyes but that led to an unwelcome re-screening of last night.

Cathy had called for her at the pizzeria – she'd arranged to get off at 10.30. It was Matt's last big night with them before he went off to Venezuela. When Cathy saw that she was about to sneeze, she shouted at her. ‘Don't! You'll waste it. You crazy cow! That's half of my line.' Cathy had wangled an invitation to Matt's farewell party at the club through Aisling. Matt would never have invited Cathy. Arms linked, Cathy kept needling about whether Matt was gay or not. How else could anyone explain his failure to look into her cleavage when she presented it under his nose? She wanted him, gay or not. Did Aisling? No! So Aisling was ally no 1 on the project of hooking him.

The only motivation for Cathy to share her line. Eyes closed now she could feel the lights in the club sparkling on her skin. They met at Cathy's house in Blackrock. Her parents were away for the weekend. The novelty of the black marble in the bathroom and getting into a new set plus her first trip to the club in Stillorgan added more edge. When it hit her, it was a fantastic feeling as if she was inside the rainbow and looking at herself in it at the same time. High as a kite, they all laughed at that, the laughter echoing inside her head.

Sparklers all the way to the club but Matt wasn't smiling. Are you on something? Dragging him into the light and music, dancing and laughing with him. Did she really tongue him or was that someone else? She hoped not because he would be sure then to think that she was on something. They didn't do tonguing. His face echoed near hers now. He was too good a friend to get into any sex thing. In a way she hoped Cathy was right and he was gay because she didn't want to lose him as a friend and a steady girlfriend would mean problems.

‘Don't look down,' Cathy had said later.

Why did she say that? Once Aisling did but it made her feel dizzy and sick. Looking up was better. Glamorous glass bouncing light back into her head. Dancing on air and beating out the blue, green, purple, red light from her head out of her feet. At one time she felt like she was skiing down a slope. Snow sharp on her face. Smug in saloppettes and taking a corner like a pro. Off-piste, out of bounds and the thrill of it whooshing through with blood bringing patches of colour to her face. The best feeling yet. It still beat snow on a line. ‘Snow in August,' she laughed into Matt's ear when she danced closer to hear what Cathy said to him.

‘Can I come and see you in Venezuela – I've heard that there is a great night life there.'

Matt looked Cathy straight in the eye, ‘Depends who you talk to. Cokeheads can have sparkling lights and puke in the gutter anywhere – no need to go to Venezuela. Getting their kicks while someone else is getting kicked for them. They're the link in the chain that keeps all the racketeers going – dinner-party druggies, who fund child prostitution, people trafficking and the rest.'

‘And global warming maybe too?' Aisling intervened. Cathy laughed as if she didn't hear, or didn't care, and danced off.

‘You didn't tell me he was such a Holy Joe,' she muttered in her ear later. So Cathy didn't get her fling with Matt. Another friendship lost. Though if Maeve had an inkling of her name in the same breath as Cathy's there would be even less of a chance of rekindling those ashes.

Shit! It wouldn't have mattered if Matt were still around because he was best of all for hanging out with. Would Maeve ever forgive her? Not that there was anything to forgive for Gawd's sake. Both of them were drunk when it started. It didn't mean anything. She wasn't thinking of him as Maeve's father – he was just a man with a hard-on. If he'd left it at that and hadn't bloody stalked her – taking her for cocktails so as they could screw in the back of his BMW.

And of course she couldn't tell Maeve about getting rid of the evidence. Her mother didn't even want to know who the father was. The fact that he was married and old enough to be Aisling's father was the killer factor. Her mother said no-one was to know. NO-ONE NOT EVEN MAEVE. Did she guess? Not even Dad knew the reason for the girlie weekend in London. The whole weekend was hell – even the shopping they had to get to bring home as evidence of innocence. Aisling pretended to have more pain than she had. She did have cramps and bleeding but it was more like a bad period. She hated shopping when she had her monthlies. Mum insisting that she wore those ridiculous pads instead of a tampon post sprout removal.

Vacuum extraction. Thankfully in the early stages. Thanks be to Mum and her extra eagle eye. The clinic was efficient. Mum prattling about her days in London. Women's rights including the right to abortion. No clinic in Ireland. The waiting room full of dreary mistakes didn't take her on. Aisling tried to nudge her to shut it.

Another side to the perfect mother managing family and career back in Dublin. They never talked about it after. Confidential is confidential, Mum said. Nobody should be put in the position of keeping such a secret not even Dad. Nobody to talk to about her regrets. Sometimes she wandered around Mothercare imagining herself shopping with the baby. ‘Loser,' she said and drew a series of abortion stories for mothers of monsters. Strips on how the world would be different if Hitler, Mussolini and Stalin had been aborted.

Her nose felt sensitive. She took a small mirror from the top drawer of her bedside locker and looked up it. Nothing unusual there. An image of photos of the inside of peoples' noses completely worn away came back from some health lecture. ‘Don't be such a baby,' she mouthed at the mirror. No more. Been there, done that. Matt had made her promise before he said goodbye. He knew she didn't make promises so why did he ask? It'd do her head in whether she kept it or not. She'd told him she didn't take much – it wasn't a full line or anything and she'd sneezed too.

‘Just as well,' he said, ‘If you get into it, the only thing you can be sure about with coke is that you'll want more. Having a good time depends on the coke, not on you or on anybody or anything else.'

‘Speaking from experience then are we?' Aisling regretted the sarcastic tone. The last thing she wanted was to fall out with Matt now – especially just before he headed off to work on some street project in a dangerous part of the world.

‘It wouldn't make sense for me to try it, if I know it would make me want more and it would mean I'd become just another cokehead.' Matt shrugged, ‘I've seen enough of what it has done to my friends and I don't want it for me. It's up to you to decide for yourself. Just don't come crying to me saying it's the only thing that makes you feel alive.'

‘It does though – make you feel alive, I mean – though not as good as skiing.'

‘Well, if you need coke to make you feel alive it's your choice. Why not stick to skiing?'

‘You're talking like we have choice in everything. Most things we don't.'

‘Too right, most things we don't, so where we do have a bit of choice, it's worth something. All I'm saying is you have a choice to become a cokehead or not, now. If you get addicted to it, the choice is gone.'

Matt didn't need to be right but he often was. She couldn't remember what he said next. Was that the coke? If only he was still here. She looked at her bedside clock. He'd be on the flight to Shannon already. She'd be bawling in a minute if she didn't do something. Time for breakfast but maybe a shower first.

‘You should go.' Mary pulled the cord of her bathrobe tighter before opening the oven to take out the warm ciabatta. Recreating the normality of Saturday morning breakfast with the Review section of the Irish Times. Hoping the smell of coffee would tempt Aisling down.

‘Won't you come too? I'm not much good at that sort of thing,' Diarmuid tossed his mobile phone from one hand to another.

Mary carried the smell of coffee to the table in the stainless steel percolator, the genuine article bought in the Italian shop. ‘Diarmuid, would you put that damn phone away until after breakfast at least. And you know there's no way I can go to a funeral, when I don't have to. It would bring it all back.'

‘And it won't for me I suppose.'

‘Well, it's different and it's your cousin who has died, not mine.'

‘Why should I go to be with an aunt that I've met about three times in my life at funerals? Aunt Bridget, or Brigitte she calls herself now, went to Germany before I was even born. It would be quite enough to send a Mass card. I don't even know if she's still a Catholic, for God's sake. I know nothing about her. I don't speak German. What use would I be?'

‘Well, your mother thinks someone should go to represent the family and for once I think she's right. She's lost her only child.' The lines around Mary's mouth and eyes tightened making her look older than her 50 years.

‘Some child; her daughter was nearly sixty.'

‘Still her child.'

‘I think I'll ask Willie: they must have loads of direct flights to Berlin. I've got his mobile number here. He might even get there and back in a day. If not, the most he would have to stay would be one night,' Diarmuid scrolled down his contact numbers.

‘Willie? Are you serious? Your brother Willie should be banned from funerals, weddings and all social occasions until he has dried out completely. He's worse than your Uncle Michael or maybe you thought of asking him to go? Maybe your mother asked you because she wants to make sure that Willie
doesn't
go. She knows that you're the only one she can trust who's close enough. Your sister Val is hardly going to fly over from New York to the funeral of a cousin she hasn't met and your brother Conor would hardly take the time to go to his own mother's funeral never mind someone he probably has never even heard of.'

Aisling switched off the music she used to drown out calls for breakfast and crossed the landing. The kitchen door was open. She could hear them arguing, ignoring Lisa Hannigan playing in the background. Good music and her favourite track. Lisa the exception for overlap with Mum's taste in music. Not enough to drown him out. She wished she had the house to herself. The face looked at her from the mirror again. She wanted space to shake off his white face, looking at her, just looking. She covered it with a towel to stop it dissolving into water.

She had pushed him under often enough. It was her favourite sport in the swimming pool when they were on holidays in the apartment in Spain. He didn't dare call out or tell. He would thrash in silence. Then he learnt to hold his breath. She would count silently to the point that she knew he would be bursting and the squirming would start. He would come up then, his eyes reproachful but only air in his mouth. He never came in the pool when she was there before him. He would leave after she caught him if he didn't manage to escape before she got in. She loved it when he was there, floating on the airbed, and didn't see her at all until she tipped him off.

They were arguing last night when she came in from work. Some story about a strange aunt of her father's in Berlin. The aunt was even older than Granny. Her daughter had died. Chug-chug, a new thought made his face dissolve and vanish down the plughole. Why not? She would offer to go to the funeral with her father. Better than being stuck in Dublin with her Mum. The job was beginning to bore her. She would be glad to get away from it for a few days.

Aisling abandoned the shower and pulled on a bathrobe, her bare feet drying on the stair carpet before she reached the kitchen. Maybe she should ring Aunt Lizzie first. Her mother's sister, Elizabeth, who was the main organiser of family events, hated being called Lizzie. Everyone loved that she hated it. She was too efficient and bossy but indispensable on an occasion like this. At Michael's funeral, she had organised everything and everyone – even Gran.

‘I'll go if you like,' she sat down at the other end of the table with her back to the glass wall and the jungle on the other side. It was the only part of the house that she liked. This corner where the tropical plants in the new conservatory were reflected in the mirror on the wall created an extravagance of green and provided speckled sunlight for the whole kitchen. Hothouse feel from outside in. It caught enough sun to bring summer warmth to the damp August morning.

She reached down to stroke Mitten, who had roused himself from the basket in the sunspot. He'd started out as Mitten Too from the day she said, “I'm going to call him Mitten too,” but he'd rubbed and licked his way to the number one spot. She didn't forget number one Mitten. Mitten Too was a reminder every time of the sensation of soft, limp flesh, warm in her bare hands. Feeling a mess of raw meat, guts, furry blood, something squashed. Concentrate on the dry furry coat that kept it together. Hearing again his voice – it's dead. “Mitten's not an it,” she retorted and held the flesh up to him, threatening to throw it at him so that he would run away frightened. He did. Run away to Mammy. He always said Mammy. She used Mum like everyone normal did. She hated it because it was his way of claiming her for himself. If he hadn't chased Mitten onto the road, she would be still alive. Their mother could only thank God that it was Mitten and not Michael who had run out in front of the car. She had nightmares even now. Giving birth to Mitten who came out as squashy limp flesh.

‘You what?' Her mother looked at her, distracted by something missing in the backcloth of greenery – a part of the house where there were no memories of Michael – an extension outwards and upwards instead of moving house. Aisling knew it was her father's way of forcing her mother to sort out Michael's things and to move on from his death.

‘I'll go to the funeral of this cousin.'

Now that she had the idea, Aisling wanted it agreed. She was mentally making a list of things she would need. Surely with a funeral there wouldn't be time for her mother's usual dithering. No time for those deflected memories to be centre spread again. Her mother looked at her uncomprehendingly.

‘I thought I could go with Dad and then stay around for a few days – have a look at Berlin.' Aisling kept her voice level – a new discipline – a sugar coating on her impatience. A way to get out of this ridiculous Mum-sitting. She had to move out of the flat because of the to-do with Maeve but she'd have found something else if it wasn't for bloody Michael.

‘You! Go to Berlin?' Motherly incomprehension.

Aisling looked to her father. She was sure she could rely on him for this one. She had her information. If he wanted she would go alone. Would prefer it in fact.

He leapt at it, ‘She's right, she could go – if it's only a family representative we want – why not? She'd be great and even knows German, which is more than you could say for me. Didn't she get honours in her Leaving Cert! Great idea! Why didn't I think of it? I must ring and find out when the funeral is. We can get some tickets arranged and a hotel. You could stay until the weekend – or until it's over. We don't even know when the funeral is yet.'

‘You mean that both of you could go? Maybe you're right. It would be company for you.'

‘Well, it's up to Dad. I'd like to go that's all,' Aisling kept her focus on getting out of here somehow soon.

‘Well you know my view on it. I'm not convinced that anyone needs to go,' Aisling gave her father a warning look and he added hastily, ‘but it would be great if Aisling agreed to represent the family. It would be a good opportunity for her to see a bit of Berlin too while she was there. There's no rush on her coming back. There's certainly no need for me to go as well.'

‘But Aisling's never been to Berlin,' she turned to Aisling, ‘You've never even met Aunt Bridget. Where would you stay in Berlin? And what about your job?'

Her mother‘s anxiety hit the highest note on the wind chime above Aisling's head. Treating her like a child. Ridiculous! Mental fragility or not.

Aisling darted under the defences, ‘Job! You must be joking; there's a queue of other students waiting to pick it up.'

‘Well it was good of Jim to take you. You can't just throw it back in his face like that.'

‘Look, Mum, I know he made it seem like a special favour to you and Dad because you are regular customers but waiting on tables is not highly sophisticated work and he's not paying me any more than anyone else. There are plenty more where I came from.'

‘I thought you liked it.'

‘It's fine; the tips are good and I can walk to work. I've nothing to complain about but I wouldn't pine if I never had to go back in the place again. It's a holiday job and Jim's used to people like me coming and going. I was thinking of taking a couple of weeks off anyway. I have a bit saved. Living at home, working in the evenings .. and all… means that I've hardly gone out.'

‘Well, I still think the two of you should go.'

‘Now Mary, there's no way we're going to go and leave you here on your own. Aisling's talking a lot of sense – it would be a good experience for her. Why not a couple of weeks in Berlin – the amount we'd save on my flights and hotel would keep her going for a bit longer?' Her father turned to her, ‘It might even give you some ideas about what you want to do when you finish your degree.'

‘Yeah, it might.' Aisling kept her voice bright but was careful to make no concessions to her father's attempt to score a goal for himself. She had only just finished her first year in DCU and already they were planning her future. She hadn't told them yet how wrong the course was for her. She wasn't nerdy enough for it. When she applied, Marketing and Business seemed the way to go, to combine her drawing with techno tools. Bound to be a money spinner too. Get a well-paid job in a global operation or set up as a freelance. Wrong choice. There was not a single person interested in hand-drawn cartoon graphics and their potential for use in marketing products. She knew if she went back next term, she wouldn't last. Wrong time to tell the parents. Maybe after Berlin.

‘It's only a funeral! Why would she hang about Berlin after that? You'd be on your own, Aisling – it's not like you'd be with one of your friends.'

‘Well there's Aunt Bridget too,' her father was struggling but keeping his eye on the ball.

‘Now it's Aunt Bridget – before it was a complete stranger whom you met a few times at funerals. You said it yourself; she's a woman in her eighties. It's hard enough to persuade Aisling to go and visit your mother in Drumcondra.'

‘That's different.'

‘I don't like the idea of her all alone in Berlin.'

Aisling came in fresh, ‘Mum, I can look after myself. I'll find a student hostel or something on the Internet. And I don't even need Dad to find me a flight; I'll get that on the Internet too. I'll just go and have a look now.'

‘She's right, Mary. It would be a good experience for her. As you said, she's never been to Berlin. Aunt Bridget would appreciate a younger person around.'

‘Everybody has good ideas – the breeding ground for disaster,' Mary wiped condensation from the new window and put on the fan to expel the droplets of ‘smother mother' in the air. She knew they thought it. No point in letting Diarmuid see how worried she was about Aisling too. She had good reason to be. Michael's death came so quickly after the other business.

Aisling's father gave her the raised eyebrow behind her mother's back. It was the signal to back off. Be the other grown up. Bloody Michael. Even dead she had to dance around him. She hated him. The fishing trip was their father's idea. He had to live with his decision to turn over in bed that morning. Michael was probably glad of the chance to top himself. Nobody even breathed suicide but Aisling knew even if they didn't. No tragic accident. He'd left everything too tidy – even tidier than you would expect from Michael. The torn out pages from his journal clinched it. She was sure the pages had bits about her he didn't want anyone else to read. And all that sugary stuff about Mum and Dad – even about her – in the last few pages, she didn't believe it for one minute. It was all too neat – almost like a suicide note without admitting to the suicide. Now her mother had him practically canonised. She hated all this pussyfooting around. She hated him for not being there.

‘Whatever… I'll go and have a look for flights.'

‘Good idea, I'll come up in a minute.'

And so it was. Special offer on a direct Aer Lingus flight to Berlin. Too good to miss. Aisling waited just long enough to hustle her mother into confirmation before reserving it. Booked for two weeks. It was really cheap so even if she had to change it later, it would be no problem. Nobody knew when exactly the funeral would be.

‘The funeral could be any day. We have to go for it.'

When he got enough agreement, his relief bounded upstairs and whipped out his credit card. Done. He rang his aunt then to offer his sympathy and tell her Aisling was coming. The aunt was insistent Aisling should come and stay with her. The spare room was hers as long as she wanted. Aisling was annoyed about that. She didn't really want to stay there, but she'd sort that out when she got there. And it would be handy to have somewhere to stay when she arrived. Her parents had never been to Berlin either. It was going to be her place, her show.