Fragile Lies (17 page)

“I wish you wouldn’t be so calm,” she cries. “You’d discuss the break-up of a failed merger with more emotion.”

He gathers her against him, forces her to a standstill. “Believe me, Lorraine, it’s hatred that keeps me standing upright, nothing else.”

But the person Lorraine hates most is herself, poor deluded, pliable, pitiful, gullible fool, hiding in the hidey-hedge, hiding behind the sand dunes while Virginia skipped over the rocks and away with the prize.

F
erryman (an extract
from Michael Carmody’s memoir)

T
he phone call
from Bozo Daly came two nights after my last meeting with Killian. “F-f-
erry
man’s d-d-down on the wa-wa-
wall.
Better co-come, mate.” As usual, there was much stammering and puffing of breath. But I got the message. He hung up before I could ask questions. I wanted to roar into the silence that followed, strike the nearest object with my fists. I was weary of my son’s endless destructive games.

I drove along the quays. The peak traffic had long dispersed but the trucks still headed for the ferry terminals. I drove towards the South Port and into the industrial zone. Boulders positioned on sections of the road prevented travellers parking their caravans. But a few defiant families had managed to penetrate this fortress and closed their curtains against the settled world. I passed empty warehouses. Bulky containers and giant oil drums were visible beyond high walls. Outside the gates of the ESB generating station, a row of cannons offered a silent salute. My headlights swept over the pier, hoping I’d find Killian running wild, chasing the moon, perhaps. I walked the pier, searched the shadows. Apart from the silver car parked close to a shed, the place was deserted. I drove to a small car-park overlooking the bay and removed a torch from the boot. Its beam was a feeble light in the vast abyss my son had created between us.

The last car was leaving the car-park when I climbed over the rocks banking one side of the South Wall. Seaweed squelched beneath my feet. I slipped, my foot wedging between rocks, and imagined Killian sliding, falling, his mind lost, wandering back to his childhood when he had my steady hand to guide him back to safety. He played my emotions like a mandolin, strumming my love with brutal fingers. Yet I remembered those same fingers clasped in mine as we explored the murky green depths of rock pools, coaxing crabs from under the cover of seaweed and following the rippling flow of minnows.

From the pier I heard a car door slam. Footsteps sounded, voices argued. On a quiet night sounds carry. I saw them walk out of sight behind the high walls of the shed. I left them to their pleasure. If only I’d stayed a while longer. If only … only … ten minutes more could have made a difference. Two hours later the guards came to my apartment.

Since that night, medical terminology has become a familiar language. Killian’s neuro-surgeon uses words with a casual ease that terrified us at first; CAT scans, trauma, brain-stem damage, occipital lobe, Glasgow coma scores, the remote possibility of a “reawakening”. We’ve become attuned to the nuances of meaning, the pitch of his information. His skill at breaking bad news into small digestible pieces is well honed. Temporal-parietal subdural haematoma. How’s that for a mouthful? Killian was operated on in Beaumont Hospital and transferred to the Hammond Clinic when he was stable.

I saw Bozo Daly a few times after the accident. He walked past, his head down, not replying when I called his name. He had nothing to say or, to be more accurate, was incapable of saying anything. But he too had been searching that night for Killian. A short-lived search that ended when he found a shelter and settled down with a bottle. He heard the car alarm and later, against a skyline of high cranes and towering chimneys, he saw my son’s fallen body.

He was yellow-skinned and wizened as a tough old nut when I visited him in hospital. Finally, nearing his end, he was willing to talk. Our last conversation was not an easy one. He was dying with a stammer on his lips. It was no longer a hindrance to our conversation but lent authenticity to words that must be true when they took such an effort to produce. As he spoke the walls of the hospital ward seemed to bend towards me and straighten again. A woman in a blue overall came with a trolley and poured a cup of tea, handed it to me. But I couldn’t drink it and Bozo shifted on his hard hospital mattress, wishful, I suspect, for a sagging armchair in a dockside squat. He had stayed with my son until an ambulance arrived then slid back to the dark.

The following morning Killian’s friend arrived at the squat. They had robbed the contents of the silver car. A stereo and a bracelet were the only things of value they had time to steal before they were disturbed. The lad was terrified, anxious to dispose of the proceeds of the robbery. Bozo shook his head when I asked his name. He’d occasionally seen him with Killian but he never stayed overnight in the squat. The stereo fetched a small sum, hardly worth the effort. But the bracelet was a different story. Bozo Daly knew about jewellery, having handled enough of it in his day, and this was a piece with a very specific design, probably unique, with the initials LC carved into the clasp. It fetched a tidy sum. Killian’s accomplice never returned to collect his cut.

He had no idea who owned the bracelet until he saw a programme called
Artistically Speaking
. It was repeat of the original programme and he watched it from his hospital bed. He used to paint once. He shuffled the words as if he understood my disbelief, conjuring, as they did, the study of still waters and bowls of luscious fruit. He recognised the bracelet. It was a chunky, distinctive piece of jewellery with strands of silver intricately criss-crossed. The effect was the same as an Aran-type stitch, with sapphires embedded into its curious weave.

“Why didn’t you bring it to the police?” I asked. “They could have traced the owner.”

He laughed thickly and coughed. He did not bother replying. It was a stupid question. The bracelet is gone, sold on, money spent, a dead trail.

I’ve watched the video seven, perhaps eight times. I look at the bracelet flashing on her arm and think of drowned sailors. Mothers in black shawls identifying their sons’ cold bones by the pattern they once lovingly knitted into their jumpers – and I think also of the Synge-like vengeance they keened towards the bitter sea.

Clips of earlier interviews were shown. She was shy of the camera in those days, uncomfortable when it stayed too long on her face. I heard and understood the struggle for acknowledgement in her voice. The bracelet hung on her wrist. The interviewer commented on its design and the camera focused when she moved her arm. Apparently, the silversmith was well known to them both. How could Bozo be sure it was the same bracelet? I asked him that question many times. He was definite it was the one he’d handled and Killian’s friend had spoken about painting materials in the boot of the car.

The programme covered her entire career, analysed how her work had evolved to the present day. Her fascination with dreams was evident in her early work but in those days she painted nightmares. Then, as if a steady hand had calmed the beast, her work changed. The presenter referred to her portraits as “quirky and cheekily Cheeverish”, an expression that made her wince and push her hair from her forehead, as if weary of its weight. She paints people in repose, smiling, pensive, animated. Knowledge of one’s sitter, she stated, is the key to a successful portrait – and so she seeks to capture the essence of her subject’s personality. He asked why she changed direction so dramatically for her last exhibition and she spoke of influences, the fantasy of Surrealism, the grip of imagination, the sexual ambiguity of the unconscious which has always fascinated her.

I understand why
Painting Dreams
created such controversy. Her paintings breathe with yearnings; a provocative dance of seven veils, evoking fantasies that cling to the senses long after the dreamer awakens. On the opening night of her exhibition she spoke with the assurance of a successful artist. Thin black straps rested on her shoulders. There were pearls at her neck. She looked older, weary, as if her thoughts were elsewhere. She gesticulated a lot, making language with her hands. Anticipation, perhaps, of the furore her paintings would create in the weeks ahead. Or perhaps she was remembering a desolate pier and the secret she left behind. She no longer wore a bracelet on her wrist.

K
illian

H
ands cover him
, lull him, keep the pain away. They come and they go. Sound and silence. He sinks below the tide and rises. Light and dark. The moon is always out of reach.

M
erciful Jesus
, we have gathered around Killian’s bedside to plead with you, in your divine mercy, to return him to his family and friends. If it is not your will that he be cured then carry him safely and painlessly into your everlasting light. Goodnight, darling. I must leave now. Duncan is being difficult again.

Knock knock. Who’s there? Dill. Dill who? Dill we meet again … ha ha ha.

Listen mate, I’m going out with Marianne now. I’m sorry, Killian. Don’t be mad. She’s here with me now. You have to wake up! I miss you, mate.

I planted primroses on Bozo’s grave today. They’ll bloom in the spring. Remember the film Killian? It won an award. I’m going to bring it in and show it to you soon. Bozo liked you. Said you had the makings of a great director. He was right, Killian. You have to keep believing.

I tell my daughter about you, little soldier. She is going to pray to the Madonna. Like your mama, she has the faith. Smile, yes, you smile from your heart. No matter what they say I know you smile for me.

There you are, Loveadove. Did you hear me rattling down the corridor? Your da calls me the late-night express. How many fingers am I holding up? Is that a blink or a wink? Don’t fret, Loveadove. You’ll do it yet. Some things take time but it’s worth the wait.

Killian, it’s just too much. My veil still hasn’t arrived. They promised delivery from France a week ago. And the invitations have a spelling mistake! I could chop straws with my tail. There you go. Isn’t that more comfortable? God, I envy you. Lying there with fuck all to worry about.

Lullaby and goodnight, thy mother’s delight. Bright angels around, my darling, shall guard. Don’t be afraid, pet. I’ll always be here to sing for you, just as I always watched out for you. I was your buffer zone as well as your granny. They will guide thee from harm, thou art safe in my arms. They will guide thee from harm, thou art safe in my arms.

Mr Carmody, I understand your anxiety but I must ask you to refrain from exciting the boy. That was a reflex action, not a conscious movement. Recovery of conscious awareness after a patient has been in a vegetative state as long as Killian is exceeding rare. I’m not suggesting it never happens but it is rare indeed. To give you hope would be cruel. I’m afraid Killian is in another world, a deep black hole. You must accept the reality of his situation.

H
is breathing was
quiet and relaxed. Virginia was glad he did not snore. What was acceptable in a husband was intolerable in a lover. She traced her hand lightly across his chest and felt the regular thud of his heartbeat. He stirred, as if he sensed her restlessness, then settled into a deeper sleep. For a while she lay like this, buried in his warmth.

She looked at the clock, dismayed to realise it was only three in the morning. A busy day awaited her in the office. She focused on her meeting with Bill Sheraton, rehearsed in her mind the points she would make. Their business could just as easily have been discussed in his office but she was anxious to speak to him in a more relaxed environment and he had agreed readily to a working lunch. Her promotional skills guaranteed excellent coverage for his company and he had reason to be grateful to her. She was his bailiwick against troublesome journalists who asked awkward questions about his third-rate package holidays. How many times had she batted for him on radio phone-ins when clients complained of shoddy service? Too many to remember. As for his wife’s hunger for publicity! Only someone with Virginia’s numerous media contacts could satisfy it.

She slipped quietly from her bed and entered the living-room. The large sandblasted mirror on the wall reflected the elegant simplicity of the furnishings. She adjusted a painting and moved an occasional table into its allotted space. Minimalism, the interior designer had urged when she was commissioned to turn the dull square rooms with their boring magenta walls into a home. Clean lines, cool glass, pale wood, the clarity of chrome. Everything in the apartment should be a feature with a purpose, even if it was simply to gladden the eye. The idea of minimalism appealed to Virginia, suggesting, as it did, the removal of baggage, a new beginning without clutter or mementoes.

Insomnia was a new experience. Even at the height of their affair, when an inadvertent word or action would have brought the whole edifice tumbling down, Virginia had been able to sleep soundly, untroubled by the realisation that she was living a lie. Lies had not been an issue. She had stepped unhesitatingly across that threshold when she realised what the future demanded of her.

She opened the french doors and stood on the balcony. The globe-headed security lamps in the courtyard below her reminded her of pale winter moons shining over the lives of invisible people who lived side-by-side, enjoying neither communication nor contact with each other. Even now, six months later, it was difficult to accept that the world they had crafted with such care had collapsed around them like a house of cards. Their love had cost a high price but if she had learned anything from her mother it was that change and challenge walked hand in hand. Eyes to the front, Virginia. Remember what happened to Lot’s wife when she looked behind. Salt of the earth she was, poor thing.

Not that Josephine was prepared to apply that criteria to her daughter’s decision. No phone call from London was complete without the terse reminder that a friend indeed was worth two in the bush – or that old friends were as scarce as gold bullion. Josephine’s determination to condense life into an abused proverb has not lessened with age. If she did not catch Virginia in the office she left messages on her voice mail.

Virginia did not need constant reminders from her mother that she had destroyed both her marriage and the most important friendship of her life. Of course there was guilt and regret. Friends did not attach themselves easily to her. Acquaintances, yes, satisfying, socially acceptable and fun. Lorraine was not always fun to be around. She had a dark side that brooded and tended to go off the deep end, like those crazy dream paintings and her decision to cut loose and head for the hills.

“Why Trabawn of all places?” she had demanded when Adrian told her where Lorraine intended moving. “It’s a hole in the wall. She’ll go crazy living there.”

But Lorraine always clung to nostalgia. Sometimes, talking about those childhood summers spent in a hamlet – where even the sight of one horse was an amazing apparition – Virginia wondered if they could possibly be discussing the same experience. In the midst of publicity and controversy, just when her career was on the cusp, Lorraine Cheevers had turned her face away and hid. As if pain could be banished so easily.

W
hen Virginia remembered
the instant that shaped her future with Adrian Strong, she saw the past and the future connecting in a seamless join and the years in between – the lives that were lived within them to the full – were suddenly condensed and seen as marking time until that moment.

She and Ralph were spending a long weekend in Churchview Terrace. The days had followed the same lazy, predictable pattern and, after a late brunch on Sunday afternoon, they decided to walk the Great South Wall. Emily ran along the pier. Dressed in baggy dungarees, her hair in ponytails, she screeched with excitement as she released the kite Ralph had bought her. He had many nephews and nieces but Virginia often thought his affection for Emily was deeper than any familial one. He helped Emily ply the string between her hands, a falcon-faced kite, fierce eyes staring down on them. Lorraine’s hair, tossing in the breeze, was as unruly as ever and she was smiling, sharing Ralph’s pleasure as the kite quivered high above them.

Virginia walked at a slower pace, aware of Adrian beside her, talking about some play he had seen in the Abbey. Their footsteps slowed so that the distance between them and the others increased, and when she stumbled – the rutted pavement catching in the toe of her sandal – he steadied her, held her against him for an instant.

In Trabawn she had called him a little boy, taunting him when he kissed her behind the rocks, and he had turned to Lorraine with her day-dreamy innocent eyes that only ever saw what she wanted to see. Two years later, when he came to London, he held a bottle of sangria in one hand and a tacky toy donkey tucked under his arm.

“I’m not sure whether he’s Plato or Aristotle.” He presented the donkey to Virginia and bowed, sweeping an outrageously large sombrero from his head.

“Let me guess.” She laughed and invited him into the flat she shared with Razor. “You’ve been to Iceland on your holidays?”

He smiled his lazy, sexy smile and stepped inside. His holiday in Spain was a respite before he started working for the summer in London. She cooked pasta and they drank the sangria which he poured into their mouths through a long thin nozzle and then, when they drank their fill, he licked the fruity taste from her lips. When Razor, on an overnight gig with his band, returned the following day, the bed was neatly made, fresh sheets in place. How torn she had been, how excited. Wings on her feet as she ran between the two of them. Razor, engrossed in his band, recording his divisive songs, never suspected. He did not register the laden silences or notice the sideways glances.

Adrian left at the end of the summer, returning home to complete his studies. He was back again the following year. Lorraine arrived shortly afterwards, shaking her mermaid hair, more attractive than Virginia remembered, and she had watched Adrian come adrift, swing between the two of them, but, always, returning to her. Jake had been conceived, she suspected, on a sultry night when reason, like their clothes, was flung aside. In a game of strip poker Virginia held a full deck. She had slipped from Razor’s bed and quietly entered the living room where she found Adrian in the dark, sleepless, ready for her. She had plundered desire that night, thrown caution to the wind as she stormed high on the passion of two men, and, afterwards – how was she to know which one had fathered her child?

While Razor toured with his band and Lorraine wilted, lovesick and confused, she ignored the reality of her pregnancy and discussed a different future with Adrian. They would move to California. His enthusiasm was contagious: open-topped jeeps and rollers, people dancing bare-foot on the beach, breath-taking sunsets, falling asleep to the sounds of the ocean. She wanted the fleet-footed happiness he could give her, or so she believed until she returned to her flat and collapsed to her knees, suddenly overcome with an incredible feeling of loss. This creature – not yet life and conceived in a maelstrom of lust, without thought or consideration – was assuming an identity that could no longer be denied. And there she was, her head against the bath, a towel clutched in her hands, when Lorraine discovered her.

Razor held her gently when he heard, no longer her rough, tough punk but a young man in love, awed by the realisation that he was to become a father. As soon as she made her decision to stay with him she knew it was the right one. Shortly afterwards, Adrian moved to California.

“How would you react if this was your child?” she asked, before he left.

“I’d stay with you, of course,” he replied. “We’d work something out together.”

“A termination?” she said.

His eyes glazed over at her direct question. “It would have to be a consideration. But only if it was what you wanted. Why are you putting me through this? It’s not my child, not my decision to make.”

Lightness and air against solid rock. She had made the right choice. No time for regrets. Life was too full, too swift, to waste time wondering.

But that afternoon on the South Wall the past leapt upon her unawares and Adrian, as if tuned to her thoughts, turned her towards him, and she knew from the sultry touch of his hands that he too was remembering. Without speaking, they moved out of sight behind the walls of a shed. They kissed, an ardent furtive embrace, and emerged again, shaken by the realisation that a summer madness was still upon them.

Emily’s kite was lowered. Reluctantly, the falcon dipped, swooped once more, as if defying the pull of the string, and then settled with a last desperate flutter at their feet. Lorraine walked towards them. Did her step falter for an instant, her smile become more fixed? Virginia braced herself, steadied her nerve. She knew how to carry a secret. Sonya and her red high heels.

A small terrier dashed forward and tore at the kite. Emily sobbed as Ralph wrestled the kite from the dog. Adrian and Lorraine took her hands and swung her forwards and backwards, a well-practised manoeuvre, effortless, and Emily’s tears turned to laughter. Lorraine’s voice floated back, floated lightly past Virginia, who paused and stared towards the sea, aware there was a choice that could still be made. When she walked from the pier that afternoon, she had severed a lifetime of friendship. She exchanged it for the coded world of lovers, where innocuous words spoken in company had the power to transfix them with desire and the foreplay of yearning glances in crowded places was an unspoken language only they could interpret. Six months later she had persuaded Ralph to move to Ireland. The future had been ordained.

I
n the Blue Oyster restaurant
, Bill Sheraton was waiting when she arrived. She ordered salmon and crab terrine with a dill mayonnaise. Easy to digest, no bones or flaky pieces that might drop inelegantly from her fork and stain her silk blouse. The businessman, having no such worries, wrapped a linen napkin around his neck and tucked into a steaming plate of Moules Marinière. It was their final meeting before the Sheraton Worldwide Travel fund-raising ball and memorabilia auction. The response to tickets had been excellent. Celebrities had offered personal possessions for the auction and a film made by an ex-patient of the Patterson Rehabilitation Centre would be premiered on the night. Virginia had already viewed the film with some distaste but – as the proceeds of the auction were going to the centre – her voice betrayed no such emotion when she discussed it with the businessman.

She politely waved aside the dessert menu and ordered an espresso.

“Same for me.” Bill nodded brusquely at the waiter. “Make it strong enough to kick-start the afternoon.” After a quick glance at his watch he turned his attention back to her. “You mentioned there was another matter you wished to discuss with me.”

“It’s a business proposition concerning Adrian’s company.”

“Ah yes. Strong–Blaide. But not any more, eh?”

“No indeed.” Virginia offered him a rueful smile. “It’s been a difficult time for all of us.”

Understatement was an art she had polished to perfection in the early years of her career. Adrian’s accountant had warned that closure was inevitable unless a sizable investment was made. She fell silent until the waiter served their coffee then leaned towards the businessman. “But life moves on, Bill. Adrian is restructuring his company and –”

“And you think I’d be interested in putting a rescue package together?” His non-committal tone interrupted her prepared speech, increased her nervousness. She smiled brightly, the espresso cup poised precisely in her hand. He was difficult to fathom, abrasive and rude when publicity was not to his satisfaction, and also capable of bringing business meetings to an abrupt conclusion when the point was not reached in the first few minutes.

“It would certainly
not
be a rescue package.” She spoke more quickly than she intended and forced herself to slow down. “You’ve always been able to recognise a good investment. Adrian has some very exciting ideas in the pipeline. I was hoping you’d meet him, hear what he has to offer.”

His questions came in rapid succession, stimulating and challenging her. She was always at her best when it came to selling ideas, influencing decisions, bringing like-minded people together, and Bill Sheraton, like Adrian, had a creative vision. There was no reason why the dynamic partnership created by Strong–Blaide could not continue in a different form. The two Cs, Ralph used to call it – creative genius and commercial sense. Ralph, the dynamic force, had provided the perfect balance for Adrian’s ideas but with his departure a number of important accounts had been lost. Adrian had tried without success to interest two potential investors in his new agency but both men changed their minds at the last minute. Their excuses did not fool Virginia. She was certain Ralph was in the background, pulling strings, a subtle whispering campaign. His reputation as a ruthless competitor was well established.