Close My Eyes (15 page)

‘Good.’ I shrug, suddenly embarrassed by my lack of activity. All I’ve done since the party, it seems, is eat out. No wonder Morgan looked at me so disdainfully; I never seem
to get anywhere with anything.

I fetch some beers while Art takes the curry into the kitchen to unload the cartons onto a tray.

Lorcan sits on the sofa in exactly the same place as when we talked at the party. He pulls a Swiss Army knife from his pocket and flicks out the bottle opener attachment. He opens one of the
beers, pushes it towards me, then puts the knife on the table in front of him. Intrigued by its compact design, I reach over and pick it up.

‘Careful!’ Lorcan’s too late. The blade of the knife is sticking out just under the bottle opener. It slices my skin. I drop the knife onto the table and stare at my finger. A
globe of blood rises up at me.

‘That’s lethal,’ I say, sucking at the wound.

‘I know, sorry.’ Lorcan coughs. ‘I wouldn’t . . . it’s just Cal, my son, gave it to me. He sharpens the knife whenever he gets a chance. Are you all
right?’

‘Sure.’ I examine the cut. A fresh drop of blood is oozing up to take the place of the previous one. I press it against my thumb. ‘Only a scratch.’

Lorcan picks up the knife again. I notice how carefully he holds it as he concentrates on prising the top off the second bottle. He’s wearing dark blue jeans, slightly faded. He has taken
his jacket off and his jumper is charcoal grey. Loose round the neck. There is red in the dark of his stubble. It catches in the light as a curl of hair falls over his forehead.

He glances up at me. ‘Tired?’ He smiles as he puts my bottle in front of me.

I shake my head, feeling myself blushing. ‘No, it’s nice you’re here.’

Lorcan laughs. ‘I meant were you tired from the party. You sounded fed up just now when I asked about your day.’

‘Did I?’ I squirm. ‘No, today’s been fine, I just haven’t done much.’

‘Hey, I’m not getting at you.’ He laughs again and holds up his bottle. ‘
Sláinte
.’

‘Cheers.’

Lorcan grins. ‘Beer is my only remaining vice. How about you?’

‘Alcohol generally, I’d say, though beer and wine more than anything else.’

‘Grand.’ Lorcan reaches for a third bottle, for Art. ‘No other vices?’

I shrug. ‘Nah, I’m very boring.’

Lorcan looks up. ‘I don’t believe that for a moment.’ He pauses. ‘So how are you, really?’

‘Today wasn’t great, I guess.’ I hesitate, not sure what or how much to say. ‘I guess I’m a bit tired from the party, and Morgan, as you know, can be full-on, but
we saw Kyle and Vicky earlier which was nice. There’s just something . . . something on my mind . . .’ I tail off.

Lorcan raises his eyes. ‘Sounds complicated.’

‘It is.’ I look away.

‘So,’ Lorcan lowers his voice. ‘Is the thing on your mind something you don’t want Art to know about?’

I stare at him, my heart thudding.

How does he know I’m keeping secrets from Art?

I open my mouth to ask him what he means, but just at that moment Art walks back in the room.

I look away, embarrassed that Lorcan has seen through me.

‘We bought far too much food.’ Art’s hands are clamped around a large tray laden with cartons of curry. He clearly hasn’t heard what Lorcan just said, but one look at my
face will give me away.

‘I’ll get the plates.’ My voice is too high. I scurry off to the kitchen, feeling unsettled. Lorcan can’t possibly know that I’m obsessing over what Lucy
O’Donnell told me. He’s just fishing.

I reach into the cupboard and pull out three plates.

‘Hey, you all right?’ It’s him. His fingers rest on my arm for a moment. ‘Thought you might like a hand.’

‘Thanks.’ I give him the plates, then walk over to the cutlery drawer.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’

‘You didn’t.’ I open the drawer and grab a handful of spoons and forks.

‘I was only asking because I know how hard it is keeping a secret,’ Lorcan says in a low voice. ‘You don’t have to tell me anything, I’m just saying I get
it.’

‘Right, thanks.’ I tuck a roll of kitchen towel under my arm and head back to the living room. Lorcan follows.

We sit and chat over the food. I don’t eat much. I still feel too troubled. It’s not just Lorcan’s intuition, I realize. It’s my own inaction. The weekend is almost over,
it’s been almost a week since I saw Lucy O’Donnell and I’ve done nothing except rifle through Art’s bank statements, fail to track down Dr Rodriguez and worry a lot.

The worst thing is that I don’t know what else to do, just that I have to do something.

‘You okay, Gen?’ Art asks. ‘’Cause normally you’re a pig for the chana masala.’ He’s trying to sound light-hearted but there’s a harsh edge to his
voice. I get the sense he’s still uncomfortable in Lorcan’s presence, just like he was at the party.

‘I’m fine.’ I dig my spoon into the dish of chickpeas and haul out a second helping. I force myself to eat another mouthful.

Lorcan starts reminiscing about the trip he and Art made to America in their early twenties, a Greyhound bus tour of the East Coast, punctuated by a short stay at Morgan’s holiday home in
Martha’s Vineyard.

‘Was Morgan there?’ I ask, trying to remember what Art has told me about the trip.

‘She was,’ Art said. ‘I’d only met her that once before, but we’d kept in touch, as you know. And when she knew I was coming on holiday to the States she offered us
use of the house.’ As he speaks, he looks down at the table. I’m sure he’s remembering how, unlike Morgan, their father had rejected him.

I catch Lorcan’s eye. He senses my concern and gives me a swift nod. ‘We had a laugh all right, didn’t we, man?’ He punches Art’s arm playfully.

But Art seems lost in thought. ‘We didn’t expect Morgan to be there, but you know Morgan – even then she was jet-setting about, working for her . . . our dad. She was at some
conference in New York and flew down for a couple of days.’

‘It was good of her to put us up, considering the state we were in.’ Lorcan turns to me, chuckling. ‘We were off our tits most of the time we were there.’

Art nods. He looks uncharacteristically awkward.

‘D’you remember that weird guy we met in that bar near Morgan’s house?’ Lorcan asks. ‘The one who sold us that E mixed with acid?’

I stare at Art. In all the time I’ve known him, he’s never taken so much as a single puff on a spliff. He’d mentioned vaguely being a little bit more experimental with drugs
when he was younger, but I’d kind of assumed he’d meant trying out cannabis, not getting high on class As.

‘Sort of.’ Art’s avoiding my gaze.

Lorcan shakes his head, his whole face expressing manic delight. ‘That was crazy.’ He turns to me. ‘We were so out of it we built an entire imaginary wall in the middle of this
fancy bar.’

Art nods again, but says nothing. Lorcan chuckles. ‘You were yelling instructions at me like a sergeant major: “Set that brick straight, you fucker”; “Spread that cement
smooth, you piece of shit”. I had no idea what I was doing.’

‘It was a long time ago,’ Art says. He still hasn’t looked at me.

‘Then your sister turned up and tried to get us out of the bar and you swore at her.’ Lorcan turns to me. ‘I’ve never seen anyone look so angry. There were death rays
coming out of her eyes, man.’

I suddenly remember what Lorcan said about Morgan not liking him. Well, that makes more sense now. I grin to myself, imagining Morgan’s fury when faced with a brother she hardly knew,
under the influence of hardcore substances, and a big, swearing Irishman in a smart East Coast bar.

‘D’you still do that stuff?’ I ask.

Lorcan shakes his head. ‘No . . . well, maybe the occasional toke on a joint, but nothing major. Not for years. What about you, Art?’

‘No.’ Art rubs his temple.

Lorcan grins. ‘Fair play. You’re a wise man.’

I get up to fetch more beers. Art’s bent over his plate, shovelling in a mouthful of curry, but Lorcan watches me as I walk to the door. I turn and meet his gaze – it’s full of
curiosity and . . . and recognition.
I know you
.

I’m transfixed. Then Lorcan looks away and I hurry into the kitchen. Hands suddenly trembling, I take three more beers from the fridge. As I come back into the living room, Lorcan is
laughing. He glances up at me, just for a split second, without meeting my eyes properly. Then he turns back to Art, all cheery and chatty again.

I sit with them for a few more minutes. I didn’t imagine that look of Lorcan’s. It was the kind of look you only get from someone who’s interested in you.
Properly
interested. My hands are still shaking. I sit on them and try to calm myself.
Jesus, Gen, get a grip
. It was only a bloody glance. It didn’t mean anything. It’s just been a
long time since someone looked at me like that.

Lorcan’s talking about his acting job – a long-running TV drama set in Cork. The show is broadcast exclusively in Ireland, so I don’t know anything about it. Neither does Art,
though he claims to have caught Lorcan in a few episodes on various business visits to Dublin.

Lorcan is charmingly self-deprecating about both the show and his own role in it. ‘I play this troubled ex-rock star who’s been in and out of rehab since series one,’ he
explains. ‘The lead is my son and I pop up every now and then to offer him advice based on my years of therapy . . .’

‘So you’re there to provide the show with a bit of psychoanalytical depth?’ I say.

‘Yeah, except when I fall off the wagon when I’m there to provide a drunken man getting into a fist-fight.’

I laugh. ‘So d’you like the part?’

‘It pays the bills.’ Lorcan shrugs. ‘It’s not exactly what I imagined I’d be doing when I gave up everything to go to drama school. Still, most actors don’t
even manage to make a living from acting so I shouldn’t moan.’

Art snorts. He seems more relaxed now that Lorcan – rather than their shared past – is the subject of the conversation. ‘You’re lucky to be working at all, you ginger
bastard.’

Lorcan tips his head back and laughs. I’m transfixed again by the way his smile fills his whole face.

‘He’s not ginger,’ I protest. ‘It’s auburn. Chestnut.’

‘Well, whatever you call it, Art’s right. My hair made a difference when I was younger,’ Lorcan says.

‘No way.’ I take a swig of my beer.

‘No?’ Lorcan eyes me. ‘How many leading men with red hair can you name?’

I nod, taking his point. ‘Not many,’ I say. ‘Ginger. The last taboo.’

‘Oh, yeah,’ Lorcan says. ‘Way bigger than incest . . .’

‘Or paedophiles,’ I add.

We both laugh. I glance at Art. He’s smiling but the smile seems a little forced again.

‘So when’s your next job?’ I ask Lorcan.

‘I don’t have to be back in Cork till June. I’m hoping something will come up here; I’ve got a meeting in a couple of days, actually.’

‘You don’t fancy another stint at Loxley Benson, then?’

Shit
. I wish the words back as soon as I’ve said them.

Art glowers, while Lorcan utters a sardonic ‘not really.’

I look out of the window. The thin layer of white has vanished from the roof of the house opposite.

‘Maybe it won’t snow tomorrow, after all,’ I say, then flush at how obvious I sound, trying to change the subject by talking about the weather.

‘What?’ Art sounds rankled.

‘She’s embarrassed at her inner Englishness,’ Lorcan says with an easy chuckle.

I get up without looking at him. ‘I’m going to bed,’ I say. ‘Nice to see you again, Lorcan.’

He holds his hand up in a wave.

Art yawns. ‘’Night, Gen. I won’t be long.’

A shiver snakes down my spine as I walk away. Why do I find Lorcan so unsettling? I can’t believe I was on the verge of confiding in him at the party. I climb the stairs, still feeling
uneasy. Then I reach the bedroom and remember Dr Rodriguez’s business card tucked under the mattress and all my focus turns to one thing: how on earth am I going to track him down?

Monday morning brings with it no sign of the threatened snow. In fact it’s a beautiful day, cold but clear and brilliantly sunny. I call Fair Angel again. I can’t
think what else to do. Dr Rodriguez isn’t registered on any medical directory I can find, nor is his name on the electoral roll. At least the office manager is in today. I start by saying
that I’d like to make an appointment with the doctor but she cuts in impatiently with the news that Dr Rodriguez left the hospital several years ago. And ‘no’, she has ‘no
idea where he works now’.

‘What about where he lives?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t give out personal information,’ she says.

There’s no point in pushing her, I can hear it in her voice.

The whole thing is still on my mind when the doorbell rings a couple of hours later. It’s Lorcan on the sun-drenched step outside.

‘Hi.’ A dark red curl falls over one eye. He brushes it back off his face.

‘Hi.’ I step away, conscious that my breath must smell garlicky from the leftover curry I just had for lunch.

‘Hi.’ Lorcan pauses. ‘Look, I’m sorry to just turn up like this, but I’ve only got Art’s mobile number and . . .’ He stops and I know, without any
doubt, he’d been going to say that he hadn’t wanted to speak to Art.

I back away into the hall, now horribly aware that I’m wearing sweatpants and that the line of my knickers is probably showing.

‘I left that lethal Swiss Army knife here.’ Lorcan strides ahead of me, towards the living room. ‘I wouldn’t be bothered but Cal gave it to me.’ He glances at me
over his shoulder. ‘My son. Did I tell you about him?’

‘No, not really.’ I scuttle after him, quickly pulling on a long cardigan.

‘He’s fourteen and a total computer geek. Doesn’t have all that much to say to me at the moment but the Swiss Army knife was the first present he bought me without his mum
involved and I’m always giving out to him when he loses stuff, so . . .’

‘No problem.’

We’re in the living room now. Lorcan is pulling at the sofa cushions, sliding his hands down the sides. ‘I’m sorry.’ He glances up at me again. ‘I’ll be out
of your hair in a minute.’