Eager to Please (8 page)

But already the young doctor had left, gone back through the heavy swing doors, the draught blowing just for a moment as Rachel tried to think. Where was Martin and how could she tell him?

And still so cold four days later, huddling in the garage, waiting for Martin to fall asleep, for the alcohol in his bloodstream to travel to his brain. Listening to the sound of his voice,
shouting at her, screaming abuse. Waiting until there was silence, when she would know that he had lain down, his eyelids drooping, his body relaxing, that he had finally drifted off, so she could
come back into the house and phone for help. But she couldn’t be sure what he was doing in there. Every time she was just about to unlock the door that led into the kitchen she would hear a
sound, a noise that might be him. She couldn’t chance it. He had already hurt her. Punched her in the stomach, then kicked her as she lay on the ground, so that when she breathed in and out
she felt as if one of her ribs was piercing her lungs. And as she had begun to crawl away he had tried to stamp on her ankle, but the sudden movement had upset his balance and he too had fallen.
And as he lay on the ground, bellowing with anger, she had staggered to her feet and hurried into the kitchen, unlocking the connecting door into the garage, then hurriedly turning the key in the
lock so when he followed behind her and hammered and banged the door would not budge.

She sat on the cement floor, huddled shivering against the lawnmower in the corner. Her feet were bare, her nightie pulled tightly around her knees. She had been in bed when he arrived home,
trying to catch up on some of the sleep she had missed during those three days and nights when Amy had lain in intensive care, surrounded by tubes and wires and machines and blood had dripped from
the bag on the stand into her arm. Rachel had been with her when she opened her eyes for the first time, asked for water, smiled, then slept again. And she had at last allowed herself to listen to
the urgings of the nurses, to go home. She had crawled into bed and closed her eyes. And when she had opened them again Martin was standing beside her. She reached out her hand to him. But he
stepped back and she saw the look on his face. The expression that she knew so well. That transformed him. Turned his face dark, pinched his lips, made the bright blue of his eyes a murky grey.
Balled his hands into fists as he said, ‘Blood? Whose blood? Not mine. It couldn’t be mine.’

As he told her, explained very carefully to her as the doctor had explained it to him.

‘So you’re a blood donor, Mr Beckett. That’s great. We really appreciate people like you. And you’re O negative? Even better. We always need O negative. The universal
blood group, as you know, of course. Compatible with practically every other blood type.’ He looked down at Amy’s chart. ‘But your daughter, now she’s group A. So her mother
must be group A too, because A is always dominant. Did you know that?’

He smiled in that know-it-all way that doctors have.

‘But you aren’t, are you, Rachel? Remember how we were worried, all that stuff about rhesus negative and positive when you were pregnant. You remember, of course you remember. And we
found out that you were O positive. Isn’t that right? So there I was, sitting by Amy’s bed, watching her and wondering, thinking about it all, wondering if it was the jet lag that was
confusing me. So do you know what I did, Rachel? I made a phone call. I called my old friend Peter Browne – you remember Peter, the pathologist? And I said, I’ve a case that’s
worrying me. And I asked him about blood groups. And do you know what he said to me, Rachel?’

He leaned over and pulled her from the bed by her hair.

‘My old friend Peter Browne, he said to me. Father O negative, mother O positive, child’s blood group O. Child’s blood group A, then either father or mother must be blood group
A, because A is always dominant. Did you know that, Rachel? I bet you didn’t.’ He dragged her across the floor.

‘So next time you’re thinking about fucking around with someone else, watch your fucking blood group, do you hear me, you bitch?’

Now she heard him outside trying to open the metal roll-down door at the front of the garage. But she had locked that from the inside too. He banged a couple of times, but she knew he
wouldn’t want to make too much noise, that he wouldn’t want to attract the attention of the neighbours in the quiet cul-de-sac where they had lived since they married six years ago. In
the two-storey house with the red-tiled roof and the small garden at the front and the long stretch of lawn and shrubs at the back. The pond which she had dug herself and lined with thick black
plastic and filled with oxygenating plants and water lilies and fish. And the beautiful conservatory that she had designed and which Daniel had built, that first year when she and Martin had just
got married and Martin had been transferred to Letterkenny, to border duty.

She waited and waited until there was silence, then she opened the boot of the car and took out Martin’s gun. He shouldn’t leave it there, she was always telling him. It’s
dangerous. He of all people should know that. But he had laughed and said, ‘Only when it’s loaded, for God’s sake. A gun without ammunition is as harmless as a dog without teeth.
Didn’t your father tell you that when he was teaching you to shoot?’

If she could just get to the cupboard in his study where he kept the cartridges. If she could just load the gun and keep him quiet and still, while she explained. While she told him what had
happened. That it didn’t matter. It would never happen again. It didn’t mean anything. That they could have other children. That anyway he loved Amy and she loved him. He was her
father, no matter what. If she could just keep him there, keep him still, hold him at bay, while she begged him to listen, begged him to forgive her. Waited for his expression to change. The way it
always did, eventually. Whenever she had done something wrong, made a mistake, given him cause to be angry. Whenever she hadn’t pleased him, she could always make him come round,
eventually.

But he was awake when she crept from the garage, through the kitchen into the hall. Lying back on the sofa, in the sitting room, a glass of whiskey in his hand. And he called out to her, and
laughed at her as she stood in front of him with the gun in her hands. And said, ‘You stupid bitch, what do you think you’re doing with that? You couldn’t shoot me to save your
life. Not you, a liar and a cheat and a coward. Come on, tell me. Who was it? Spit it out. I’ve a right to know. After all these years of playing daddy to a kid who isn’t mine. Tell
me.’

So she told him. Blurted it out. Thinking that somehow it would be better that it wasn’t just anyone. That it was someone who he knew. Thinking that he might feel he could forgive her. He
could accept what had happened. That it might be all right again. The way things used to be. But she had forgotten. For some reason she could never understand, she had forgotten the way he felt
about Daniel.

‘That bastard who calls himself my brother. You and him, together. Where? Here in this house? Here in my bed, in my room? Here, under this roof? My roof? You and him? Of all people. How
could you? If I had known that he had touched you, you know, don’t you, that I would never have touched you again. Ever. You know, don’t you, that he’s literally a bastard,
don’t you? My mother told me about his mother. A fifteen-year-old somewhere in the sticks who got into trouble. But we know nothing about his father. Some lucky bollocks who had a bit of fun,
then buggered off before he had to face the consequences. Just what I should have done with you, Rachel. I don’t know what I was thinking about, marrying you. I must have been
crazy.’

He reached out and took hold of the barrel of the gun, pulling it towards himself, pulling her with it.

‘Here, let me give you a hand. Let me show you what to do with this. What I would do with this.’

They moved together, out of the kitchen, along the passage to the small room at the front of the house. His room, where he kept his books and his papers, his private possessions as he always
said.

‘Here.’ He pulled open the top drawer of the desk. He took out a box of cartridges. He opened it. He jerked the gun from her grasp. He broke it open, pushed the cartridges into the
chamber. He snapped it shut. He held it out to her.

‘Here.’ He smiled at her. ‘Now, that’s what I call a weapon.’

The cars were rushing past her now as she stood at the junction of Merrion Square and Clare Street. She tried to judge their distance but it was hopeless. For twelve years she
had never looked further than the walls of the prison yard. Nothing within their confines moved at a speed that wasn’t human. How to know how far a moving object was from her, how to
determine its relative speed? She put one foot on to the road, then hesitated. Lurched forward, drew back. Remembered the sound of the car as it had hit Amy. And the elderly man who was driving,
who had wept as he saw the child on the ground and kept on saying, over and over again, ‘She just ran out in front of me, there was nothing I could do.’

Now Rachel hung back, waiting. There must be something wrong with the lights. They didn’t change. All around her other pedestrians passed her out, passed her by. Occasionally someone would
look back at her, curiously. She wanted to reach out and tug at a sleeve, a coat, ask for help. It was getting late. Amy would be walking down Leeson Street to school, any minute now. She had to
make a move or else she’d miss her. And then she’d have to wait until she came out at lunchtime.

Tears dripped down her cheeks. She twisted and turned. How stupid she must look, she thought. A mad woman with grey hair and a grey face, making a fool of herself in a busy city street. The cars
streamed past, then slowed and stopped. A buzzer sounded, a high-pitched shriek. The green man flashed up. She took a deep breath and ran, dodging through the traffic. She kept on running, holding
her denim jacket, hearing her keys jangling together in her pocket. The laces from her runners flopped from side to side. She stared at her feet as she ran and saw shoes of all shapes and sizes
pass by. Black leather, shiny, expensive. Buckles, decorative punching, heels stacked and stiletto. Toes squared off, narrow, tapered. Once she had worn shoes like these. Presents from Martin.
Elegant, sophisticated. Now she saw herself reflected in a large mirror in the window of the chemist on the corner of Merrion Row, framed by photographs of beautiful women advertising make-up and
perfume, and her own face, lined and drawn, staring out at her.

What had she done all those years ago on that cold day in March when Martin had died? She had thrown away her own life when she pointed the shotgun at him and pulled the trigger. Why had she
done it? What had possessed her? The doorbell had rung as they moved together into the hall. She could see the shape of a man through the frosted glass.

‘Oh,’ Martin jerked his head dismissively, ‘I see. You couldn’t handle this on your own. You had to call in the cavalry. Well, what are you waiting for? Let the bastard
in.’

She put her hand out to the lock. Hesitated. Heard Martin walk away towards the kitchen. Heard the sound of crockery and glass breaking. Turned back, saw that he was taking everything from the
cupboards. Dropping the plates, the bowls, the dishes. Dropping them on to the tiled floor. Stamping on the shards of china and glass with his shoes. She turned and opened the door and stood back
to let Daniel pass her by. She heard the shouts of anger, the screams of abuse. Heard the rage of years pour out from both of them. She walked into the sitting room, the gun in her hands. Heard her
husband’s voice, the disgust, the revulsion, the bitterness. Felt shame like she had never felt before. Heard him say, ‘The cuckoo in the nest, a neat trick that one was, wasn’t
it? Laying your egg in another man’s basket, getting that man to raise your foundling chick for you. Pretty fucking neat. But then you know all about that, don’t you, Daniel, or
whatever your name really is? Do you realize,’ and here he paused and looked towards Rachel, ‘do you realize just how much you owe this family? If my mother hadn’t been so
desperate for a baby and she hadn’t convinced my father that any old leftover bit of rubbish was worth it, what would have happened to you, I wonder? Answer me that if you can. Well, I think
we all know, don’t we? You’d have been brought up in that children’s home, wouldn’t you? The one where the priests beat the little boys, bugger them when they’re bold
and turn them into little perverts. And what kind of a future would you have had?’

She looked at Daniel. He was very pale and very still.

‘And you took it all, didn’t you? Took it and threw it back in their faces. Always trouble. Never did what you were told. Nearly broke my mother’s heart with the way you
behaved.’

‘Stop it, Martin. Stop it.’ She had found her voice at last.

‘Stop it? I haven’t even started.’ He turned towards her and moved closer. ‘Never at home. Couldn’t mix with decent people. Found your own kind. That gang of
joyriders you hung out with, who drove into that woman and child, out for a walk on a fine summer’s evening, left them for dead, wasn’t that what you did?’

‘No, Martin, stop, please stop!’ she screamed at him.

‘Why should I? You didn’t stop, did you? You unbelievable, disgusting little bitch. How could you sleep with him, when you know the way I feel about him? And then passing that kid
off on me. I should have realized she wasn’t mine. She’s the image of him, isn’t she?’

‘Don’t.’ Daniel had moved too. Moved closer. ‘Just don’t.’

‘Don’t what, Danny boy? Don’t you tell me what to do. I’ll do the telling now, and in the future. Because do you know what, Danny boy? I’ve just made a decision, a
very important decision. I’m going to take my father up on his offer. I’m going to pack in the guards and take over the business. And do you know what that means? That means that you
will have a new boss, a new man in the back of the Merc. A new man to take to the golfing dinners, to the girls in the massage parlours. A new man to live out your life for, waiting on his every
whim and every move for as long as you can stomach it. But somehow, Danny boy, I don’t think it will be for very long, because, somehow, I think you’re suddenly going to be made
redundant.’