Can Anybody Help Me? (35 page)

‘You know the drugs they gave me could have hurt the baby?'

Yvonne looked down at Róisín, fast asleep on her lap. She hadn't been out of her arms in two days.

Her mother-in-law shivered, and clasped a shaking hand to her mouth.

‘Don't say that. Please don't.'

‘Why not? It's the truth.'

‘The doctors checked her out though?'

‘They're hoping there's no long-term damage. To either of us.'

Bill heard the ice in her voice, and winced. He brushed the hair away from his forehead, and she saw Gerry in the gesture. Inhaling deeply, he attempted to steady his voice.

‘Thank you for coming today. I … we wanted to apologise.'

Yvonne stroked her daughter's pink, flawless cheek and then looked up at him. She remained silent, but her eyes asked the question.

‘I know what you're thinking, God no, we didn't know he was going to do this. Jesus, Yvonne, don't think that, please. But … I guess what we're trying to say is that we should have been more careful.'

Hannah had started to cry again, small muffled sobs, which caused her body to shake inside her faded, stained cardigan.

‘Gerry should never have married you.'

‘You think?'

Bill flinched, and rubbed his hands wearily over his face.

‘It's hard to explain. Look … he was always a bit off, you know? A bit different. Back in school … he got kicked out of a few different places. There was talk of bullying and that. We thought … well, Mam thought she could handle it.'

He looked towards his mother for support, but she was rocking back and forth now, a low keening escaping her throat.

‘He gave Mam a few belts as well, when he was a kid.'

The keening got louder, and Bill shot her a fierce look.

‘He did, Mam, you know he did. There's no point in denying it, sure it'll all come out in court. Thing is …'

Bill looked directly at Yvonne for the first time.

‘It was always my job to keep an eye on her, you know? To keep an eye on things. Put it this way, there's a reason I'm thirty-five and still living with my mother.'

He attempted a smile.

It wasn't returned.

‘Anyway. When he went to England, we thought he'd copped himself on, you know? Pulled himself together. And then when he rang home and said he was getting married, and that there was a baby on the way …'

He looked at Róisín, reached out as if to touch her and then pulled his arm back sharply.

‘We were hoping all the other stuff was behind him. But … maybe we shouldn't have trusted him.'

‘No.'

Yvonne's voice was flat, emotionless. But a number of things were becoming clear.

‘You were both keeping an eye on me. That was why you called over so often. You wanted to make sure we were okay. Me and Róisín. You knew this was going to happen, didn't you?'

‘No.'

The word was a soft sigh.

‘Not this. Not this. We wanted to keep an eye, alright, but – no. I never thought it would go this far. Yvonne, you have to believe me. All I can say is how sorry we are.'

‘Well. Whatever.'

Yvonne bent down and kissed Róisín on the forehead.
Then she stood up and began to gather the baby's belongings: her changing bag, spare bottle, soft toy. There'd be a limit to the amount of stuff she'd be allowed to bring on the plane. At least she wouldn't be travelling on her own. Rebecca had flown over as soon as she heard what had happened and they would go back to London together the following day. It would be easier, bringing the baby through the airport if she had another adult in tow. And Rebecca had proved herself an adept babysitter. She had even changed several nappies, without complaint. People, thought Yvonne, were always surprising you.

‘How long will you be gone?'

Yvonne didn't answer. Rebecca said she could stay with her as long as she wanted. After that? Well, she had money to do whatever she wanted. Oh, she had money alright. That, at least, was a certainty.

Bill spoke again.

‘You will be back?'

She lifted her head and looked at two sets of blue eyes.

‘For the court case. That's all.'

‘We will — We will get to see Róisín?'

Hannah's voice sounded tired, and old.

Yvonne shook her head.

‘I don't think so.'

‘You won't keep my grandchild from me. I can't lose her as well.'

Yvonne hoisted the little girl up onto one shoulder and her bag onto the other. Róisín, as if aware of the atmosphere in the room, looked around solemnly, and didn't cry.

‘I'm going to go.'

Back straight, Yvonne opened the door and walked out of the apartment. She didn't look back. This time, she knew nobody would be waving goodbye.

Sunday morning

She was thinking of Réaltín as her eyes closed. She sank back into the sofa and felt Gerry's hand tighten its grip on her shoulder. It felt nice, protective. He was taking care of her. Like she took care of her daughter
.

She had dreams for Réaltín, dreams as fierce and as optimistic as the ones her own mother had once had for her. The university education, the good job. That bloody photograph on the sitting-room wall with the mortarboard that had been so hard to keep on in the wind. It had all worked out so very well
.

It would break her mother's heart if she knew how depressed Miriam had been these past two years. It was just all so difficult. The rushing around, the mad dash from bed to childminder to work and then back again. The evenings spent changing nappies, making bottles, scraping half-eaten dinners off the kitchen floor, picking up toys when the child was finally down before collapsing into bed and waiting to be dragged from sleep again. Endless. She loved Réaltín, loved every inch of her, but it was hard, doing it on your own
.

So when MammyNo1 had sent her the message about the night out, it had sounded like a great idea. She needed a laugh. A few drinks, a chat with girls who all knew what she was going through. A bit of fun.
And then they hadn't bloody showed up, and while she'd been sitting there on her own, looking like a complete eejit, who'd walked into the pub? Only Gerry Mulhern, from the UCD days. Alone, and looking for a quick drink before heading home
.

He was broader than he had been in college, better dressed, more polished somehow. She could almost imagine he was taller, if that didn't sound ridiculous. Gerry
.

‘
Y'okay there?
'

She must have said his name out loud. She smiled sleepily and nestled closer to him. Gerry Mulhern. It had taken him a moment to recognise her. The past five years hadn't been as kind to her as they had to him. But then he did the whole kiss on the cheek, howerya doing, my God it must be how long? thing. And she decided to stay and chat for a while. He was on his own, he said. Lived in the area, often dropped in for a quick pint. The place was convenient if nothing else. They'd both looked around then, at the sticky tables and smeared counter, and laughed at the same time. She had said hers was a G. and T. And then he insisted on buying a second round
.

The last time they had met, that night in the college bar, had been horrible. She hadn't been able to see past Paul in those days, and Gerry had just been one of the lads, Eamonn Teevan's slightly gawky mate. But after a feed of pints and a couple of shots that someone thought would be a great idea, he told her he was in love with her. She had been so taken aback she had laughed, right in his face, and called him ridiculous. She still remembered how shattered he'd looked as he fished the words out of the tequila. And then the rage. He had been so angry. He said terrible things to her that night, words that echoed around the bar and sent her hurtling first for the door and then the safety of Deirdre's bedsit. At the time she had thought it was the worst thing that had ever happened to her
.

But that had been a long time ago. Now five years, one child and a broken relationship later, she knew what real misery felt like. That night in UCD had been typical drunken student stuff, nothing more. A bit of drama. And it looked like Gerry was cool with it now as well. He worked in TV, he told her. Still mates with Eamonn Teevan after all these years. He wasn't married, wasn't in a relationship. No time, he grimaced, and mentioned his fourteen-hour days
.

It sounded like an interesting life, nothing like her own. She was, what? A mammy? A lecturer? The head of a single-parent family, according to the census form. Once, she had been the best-looking girl in third-year English. Most of the lads in the class had fancied her; she had known it, deep down, even though she had been too wrapped up in Paul to take advantage. They wouldn't fancy her today, not if they saw her carrying the extra two stone that had been an unwanted gift from her daughter, wearing the wornout clothes she had neither time nor money to replace. Gerry Mulhern said all the right things though. Told her she hadn't changed. Comforting lies
.

He put his wine glass on the table and his hand brushed against her chest, softly enough for it to appear accidental. Then he stroked her in a way that wasn't accidental at all. She shivered. It had been a long time since anyone other than Réaltín had touched her. She was just so tired though. Struggling to stay awake. Gerry was lovely. But this wasn't the right time
.

His hand was caressing now. Stroking and smoothing. She felt warm breath on her cheekbone. A kiss descended
.

She had only wanted a drink, and a chat. A laugh. She had wanted to remember what it felt like to be that girl in third-year English. Nothing more
.

‘
No
.'

But the word was slurred, her tongue thick in her mouth. Alarmed,
she realised she was finding it difficult to open her eyes. The pressure on her breast increased as he found the nipple and pinched it roughly
.

‘
No, Ger
.'

She shook her head, moved forward on the sofa
.

‘
Gottagohome …
'

The arm pulled her back, pinning her down
.

She took a deep breath and concentrated on getting the words out without slurring
.

‘
Serioushly, no. It's been really lovely, but …
'

‘
You're not going anywhere
.'

It was then she realised that he didn't sound drunk at all
.

‘
Hey
.'

She kept her voice soft, anxious not to antagonise him
.

‘
Not tonight, okay? Maybe I can get your number?
'

‘
Yes. Tonight
.'

She was gone then, for a moment, and then there was corduroy under her cheek. She was lying on the sofa and his hands were raking at her waist
.

‘
Jesus, Gerry …
'

She heard, as if from a great distance, how weak her voice sounded, and then realised he was laughing
.

‘
You haven't changed that much, have you, Miriam? Still the prick tease. You're not running out of here tonight though
.'

Her eyes closed again. She had to move. But his weight was pressing her down and there was something else, a fog, a heavy blanket covering her, immobilizing her. His hands moved downwards
.

‘
No, Gerry
.'

He laughed, patted her on the hip almost playfully and asked the question again
.

‘
What's your Netmammy password?
'

It was so incongruous, so irrelevant to the situation that she would have laughed if she hadn't been so shit-scared
.

‘
Why …?
'

‘
Just tell me! Stop with the questions and just tell me
.'

She thought it was best, to do what he told her
.

‘
Sheep! It's sheep. Now, please, let me go
.'

‘
You always had a great imagination, didn't you, Miriam? Well, imagine this
.'

Roughness between her legs, the seam of her jeans being forced upwards
.

She needed her voice back, needed to scream. Lay still for a moment and then lunged forward, her knee connecting with his body. He hadn't been expecting the movement and fell back, just a fraction, but it was enough to give her space to move
.

‘
You stupid bitch …
'

Air against her face, she forced open her eyelids
.

And felt his grip on her arms
.

‘
You're not getting away again
.'

Five years had made no difference at all
.

She struggled as he carried her into the bedroom. She was reminded once more of her baby girl, how she protested when she didn't want to sit into her buggy, arched her back, kicked, screamed. But Mammy was always bigger and Mammy always got her own way. A jerk, and his fingernail ripped against her cheek. A kick, which connected only with the bedpost. And then there was blackness, and falling. Réaltín. She had so many dreams for her little girl. Her eyes grew heavy. Réaltín. She was thinking of her baby as they closed
.

‘So, ehm, how are you feeling?'

‘Grand, grand.'

Claire knew that her voice sounded overly gruff, hearty even, but she didn't care. There wasn't any protocol for meeting a junior colleague in your pyjamas, particularly maternity ones that your mother had chosen. But Matt hadn't given her a choice in the matter. It had taken her a long time to persuade her husband to let her talk to Flynn in the first place, there was no way he was going to allow her to get dressed and go downstairs to meet him. Under the circumstances, Claire thought he was being pretty fair.