Fragile Lies (31 page)

“How can that be true?” Lorraine shrank from the agony in the woman’s voice. “It’s a merciless God who would punish you like this.”

“Could I ask you –?” Jean Devine-O’Malley fingered a cross hanging around her neck. The scent of rosemary was on her hands. “Would you pray with me for a short while. The power of prayer is all I’ve left.”

Lorraine resisted the urge to run. The conviction flowing from the woman made excuses meaningless. She thought of Emily riding her pony, running down the lane with Ibrahim and the goths, her endless chatter and moans about life being a bore, so much energy and noise from one young person. This woman’s son was a portrait, still and silent, framed by a bed from which there was no escape.

The prayer was short, intense. When it was over Jean Devine-O’Malley made the sign of the cross on her son’s forehead and closed her eyes. A tremendous weariness settled on her face.

“Why don’t you take a break for a little while?” On her way in Lorraine had noticed a small café off the reception area of the clinic. “I’ll sit with your son until you return.”

Sometimes he seemed peaceful, his body lying motionless beneath the cover, neither fidgeting nor flailing his limbs. His eyelids fluttered and a grimace, almost too subtle to notice, flashed over his face. She had noticed this fleeting expression a number of times when his mother was praying. It reminded her of the almost-imagined smiles that flit across a baby’s face and are often dismissed as wind. He flicked his fingers on one hand, as if they were lightly running over the keys of a piano. She was almost afraid to breathe in case she disturbed his concentration. Suddenly, his eyes opened. His intense stare, so instantly reminding her of his father, caused her to cry out in shock and he, in turn, moved his head slightly, as if the sound had brushed against him. She lifted his hand and pressed it against her cheek.

“My name is Lorraine,” she spoke softly. “Your father has told me about you.” The pads of his fingers jerked as if stung by faint currents of electricity. “Do you understand me, Killian? Squeeze my hand if you do.” The pressure he exerted was weak yet she could not mistake its meaning. She remained in that position for a moment, isolated from the sounds, smells and movements of the clinic.

“Killian, I rage at the thought of them together, driving away, leaving you. How terrified they must be. I don’t want them to escape. But Emily, my daughter, what about her? I’ve watched her struggle to find a way back to her father. This will break her heart. That’s the problem with truth. It hurts. Do you hear what I’m saying?”

He batted his eyelids once, a prolonged deliberate blink, before his hand became flaccid. A faint clanking sound outside on the corridor grew louder and stopped outside the door. She watched his long eyelashes flutter with excitement.

A woman entered the ward with a tea trolley and came towards Lorraine. “Jean thought you might fancy a cuppa.” She poured tea and laid two biscuits on the saucer. “Friend of the family, are you?”

“I’m keeping her son company for a little while,” Lorraine replied.

“He’s a real charmer is our Killian, with an eye for the women. Isn’t that right, Loveadove?” She tapped the xylophone, startling Lorraine as she struck a scale, then laid her hands on the boy’s face, smoothing his forehead with firm even strokes. From the curve of her hand to the turn of her cheek and her solid little body with its determined stance, she was linked to the boy. “See you later, Loveadove.”

Jean Devine-O’Malley returned shortly afterwards. She looked more resolute, calm.

“Thank you,” she said. “You’ve been incredibly understanding. What ward do you want? I know every corner of this clinic.”

“I was on the wrong floor. Don’t worry. I’ll find my own way there.”

She hurried along the corridor, following the exit sign, and entered the lift. On the ground floor visitors swarmed through the glass doors. Flowers spilled from the entrance of a gift shop. She noticed Michael standing inside the door. For an instant, the crowded vestibule seemed to shrink into a breathless space holding only the two of them. His leg was still in plaster. He moved awkwardly on a crutch towards the counter and spoke to the shop assistant, smiled at some comment she made. Their manner towards each other was familiar. He probably knew everyone, the security staff and nurses, the medical team who kept his son alive. He lifted his head and stared into the mirror behind the assistant’s back.

He had come to Trabawn seeking answers, information, building a profile of the woman he believed responsible for the destruction of his son. What if Emily had been tossed on the side of the road and left to die? She would have scoured the earth until she found who was responsible. Her breath shortened as if she could feel the thud of metal, hear the screech of brakes, the surging roar of acceleration. How could they … how could they … to drive away and leave him lying broken in the dark, intent only on keeping their secret world intact.

From the beginning deceit had marred her relationship with Michael Carmody, but now it had become a different kind of deceit. She remembered Adrian’s briefcase falling, the crumpled papers with the rust-coloured smears. Blood on their hands. The police would come to her house. They would confiscate her car. There would be forensic examinations, questions, statements, a court case, and Emily, struggling to make sense of her devastated world.

A group of people surged past Lorraine on their way to the exit. She moved behind them and walked in their footsteps, knowing it was not only physical distance she was putting between herself and Michael but also any hope they had of building a future together.

Ralph asked no questions when he entered her car. Lorraine drove towards the quays. Lights blazed from anchored ships. Small pleasure boats listed on the Liffey breeze. Massive cranes straddled the landscape like the bones of ancient dinosaurs. They walked the length of the pier and stopped at the red lighthouse. Lights spiralled along the headlands. Howth with its thrusting cliffs and hill-top houses and, far into the distance, the fading outlines of Dun Laoghaire winding upwards towards Killiney Head.

She adjusted her camera and began to take photographs. The wings of gulls wove ghostly flight patterns above the waves.

B
rahms Ward
,
7.30 p.m.

I
see her everywhere
. Her smile, her eyes, the shape of her head, her long straight back. It’s as if fragments of her being have been soldered to the bodies of strangers. I can’t escape her. Even on the way up here, a shake of red hair disappearing into the crowd.

You’re calm tonight, Killian. Can you see the fingers I’m holding in the air? Three blinks. Exactly right. Look, I bought you a CD. I rang Laura and asked her advice. She recommended The Streets. Says it’s your kind of music. I’m putting on your disc player. Do you like it? Thought you would.

I was on the Internet again last night. The message board was busy as I contacted others who have slept the deep sleep and awoke. Rip Van Winkles who answered my questions, gave me hope, encouraged me to be brave. Some of their stories fill me with terror. But there are also stories of courage and endurance that lift my spirits and keep me believing that miracles can happen.

Your specialist agrees that you are responding to stimuli but he remains cautious. How can he refuse to give us hope when there is hope all around us? I see it in your gaze. Our language is silent but we speak it well. He was outraged when I pointed out that Maggie was the first to communicate with you. Tea for two, two for tea, cha cha cha lady.

The cast is coming off soon. You wouldn’t believe the itch. All in all, I’m in good nick. Red hair … I thought for a moment … what the hell. The mind plays crazy tricks. It’s enough to make one believe in moving statues.

H
ear me
, daddy, hear me. She came into the ward. I smelled her perfume. I heard her voice.

T
he staff
of Ginia Communications officially recognised each other’s birthdays with a celebratory cake. A single sparkler was a diplomatic way of marking but not acknowledging the advances of time, and when Virginia’s office door opened on the afternoon of her birthday, a heavily decorated Black Forest Gâteau fizzed towards her desk. She switched on a grateful smile as her staff gathered around her and sang “Happy Birthday” and, less enthusiastically, “For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow”.

The sparkler spluttered into silence and the cake was ready for cutting. Paper plates were produced by Joanne. A bottle of champagne was held aloft by Adrian and uncorked. Lorcan clowned on the floor, pretending to drink the frothing liquid.

The toast was proposed by Adrian who spoke eloquently. “Raise your glasses to a woman who combines beauty, charm and success. To Virginia – who has carried us forward with her energy and dedication. May she remain an inspiration to us all.”

She searched his face for signs of mockery. How could he utter such nonsense and sound as if he meant every word? The staff sipped champagne and seemed infused with the same bubbling twaddle. No one appeared remotely inclined to leave her office or quell the party spirit. Helium balloons with her name and birthday wishes bobbed from the corners, and Lorcan reduced the staff to hysterical laughter by imitating a chipmunk. His linen suit was crumpled, but fashionably so, and accessorised with a crisp white shirt. Take away the prisoner-of-war hairstyle, change his belief that the world was a kip and Lorcan Sheraton could be quite a prepossessing young man.

Mara Robertson, the owner of the art gallery, arrived, armed with more champagne. Only for Kathleen, the receptionist, who had remained steadfast at her desk fielding phone calls, they might as well have closed the shutters for the next hour. As the noise level increased, Virginia slipped outside to the corridor and hurried towards the elevator. On the reception desk Kathleen was glumly painting her nails.

“How’s the party going?” she asked.

“It needs you to make it swing, Kathleen. I’ll take over while you have a glass of champagne.”

“Oh no, that’s not necessary, it’s your party. It wouldn’t be right –” Kathleen tried to hide her surprise at this unexpected gesture.

“One glass of champagne and a slice of Black Forest, then you report back here. And tell my staff that I want everyone’s heads bent over their desks by the time I return. Now scoot! You’re wasting precious time.”

Kathleen needed no further encouragement. For twenty minutes Virginia answered the phone. She clicked into her e-mail and noted that another one had arrived from Ralph. She read it twice before deleting it.

S
ent
: 7 March 2.00 p.m.

Subject: Birthday wishes

Happy Birthday, Virginia. Did he bring you breakfast in bed? Was there a red rose on your tray? Did he lay you back against the pillows and kiss every inch of your delectable flesh? How well I remember my sexy birthday girl.

Razor

A
motorbike courier
obeyed the notice to remove his helmet before entering Blaide House and walked towards reception. From his satchel he removed a large foil-coloured envelope and handed it across the desk. She signed her name to the delivery form and laid it to one side.

Usually Ralph’s e-mails came at night or in the early hours, as if he too were sleepless, waiting for the dawn. They had started arriving two weeks ago. Sometimes she deleted his messages without reading them but he persisted, growing bolder, more demanding, signing himself by that ridiculous nickname, drawing her back into the rough embrace of another era. He would tire of the game eventually and leave her alone.

Kathleen returned to reception in a decidedly giddy frame of mind but the office staff had recovered some sense of decorum and were busily engaged in various functions when Virginia returned. Their busyness did not fool her for a moment. She resigned herself to a wasted working afternoon. It was time to call a halt to this ridiculous tradition of downing tools just because someone had added another year to life’s quota. She retreated into her own office to open the envelope that had been delivered by the courier. She lifted out a birthday card, a tasteless picture of balloons and champagne, similar in style to the scenario her staff had forced upon her. She scanned the card for a signature but there were only words written in block capitals.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY VIRGINIA. IS THE PAST FINALLY CATCHING UP WITH YOU? XXX.
A black and white photograph had been placed in the centre of the card.

Once, when she and Edward were small, they found a small bird caught in chicken wire at the bottom of their garden. She remembered the frantic beat of the bird’s wings as Edward tried to save it, beating away its rescuer even as it struggled desperately to be free. Her heart beat at the same frantic pace. She laid the photograph on her desk and stared down at the picture of a late-night ferry casting reflections on the water as it sailed towards the North Wall terminal.

She did not show the photograph to Adrian until they returned to the apartment that evening.

“Jesus Christ, Virginia. Someone knows.” His Adam’s apple jerked violently.

“Someone thinks they know,” she replied.

“How can you be so calm? Don’t you understand anything? Someone
knows
. What are we going to do?”

On the wall behind him a Picasso print hung slightly to one side. Her hands itched to straighten it. “We do nothing. Whoever sent this is trying to spook us. What can they prove?”

“What can they prove?” Savagely, he mocked her accent. “They can blackmail us, report us to the police, destroy our lives.” His expression reminded her of a cartoon rabbit, petrified at the end of a gun barrel.

“But first they need proof. Without proof they have nothing. This is bluff, Adrian. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“What if you’re wrong? We should have gone to the police as soon as it happened but you were so adamant, so sure of yourself. Oh Christ, why did I listen to you?”

“Stop it!” Her anger forced him into silence. “We had no option but to drive away. If we’d gone to the police it would have ruined everything.”

“It was ruined anyway.” His laughter verged on hysteria.

“Is that how you see us? A ruin?”

“Stop putting words into my mouth.”

“Then what do you mean?”

“We could have worked something out between us. Made up an explanation as to why we were on the pier –”

He was burrowing into her strength, diminishing it. “Don’t be ridiculous. There was only one reason why we were there. It wouldn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that one out.”

“I don’t care. The accident wasn’t our fault, as you’re so fond of reminding me. No judge would have blamed us.”

“Since when did you become an expert on the judicial system?”

“I’m telling you –”

“No! Let
me
tell you the consequences of what you’re suggesting. If he dies we’re on a murder charge, as well as being responsible for leaving the scene of an accident and hiding the evidence. We have to continue as normal. Otherwise –”

He seemed unable to hear her. “It’s damage limitation, Virginia. You of all people should understand the concept. We need a good lawyer –”

“Go to the police if that’s what you want to do. Go on –
go
! See what good that will do. It won’t make any difference to the boy. And what about Emily? What will she think of you? Forget any future with her. It’s over.”

“But it’s the past that’s the problem, Virginia. Not the future.”

S
ent
: 9 March 2.00 a.m
.

Subject: Loneliness

Virginia … remember? A Chinese takeaway, beanbags on the floor. We played the Buzzcocks over and over again. “Ever Fallen in Love” was our song. I tasted your hot mouth. Oh, how I tasted you. You laughed when we came together, laughed into my shoulder, bit hard into my flesh and rested – but only for a short while – in the crook of my arm. Remember Virginia – remember the magic? Rain on the windows, you and I locked indoors against the world. Answer me. My witch, my bitch. Tell me you’ve forgotten. I’m lonely tonight, Virginia.

Razor

V
irginia’s
personal assistant entered with the post and daily papers, which she laid across her employer’s desk. Most correspondence only needed a cursory glance before being passed on to various members of staff but it gave Virginia an overview of everything that was going on throughout her company. It also afforded her an opportunity to view the newspaper clippings supplied by the cutting agency employed to track publicity material about her clients.

She picked up a large manila envelope and slit it open. The newspaper clipping was heavily underlined.
POLICE SEEK INFORMATION ON HIT-AND-RUN ACCIDENT
. The same anonymous message that accompanied the birthday card was stapled to the clipping. Not a muscle moved in her face as she read the report. She glanced towards her assistant, wondering if she too was aware that the air had suddenly been sucked from the office, but the young woman was breathing calmly as she moved to the window and opened the blinds to the exact angle ordained by Virginia.

The afternoon passed. Adrian’s mobile phone had been switched off. Lorcan said he was at a meeting. She discussed a forthcoming product launch with Joanne. A rapid-bonding adhesive, no matter how sticky and revolutionary, was such an uninteresting product to promote that even Virginia’s professionalism had faltered when assembling the press kit. It was late in the afternoon when Lorcan rang through. Adrian had returned to his office. He would see her now.

He stood with his back to the door, absorbed in watching the progress of a blue-bottle across the windowpane. When she called his name he turned and walked towards his desk. She noted its tidiness, empty of clutter, no ideas roughly sketched, no catchy slogans, storyboards, transparencies. He slumped into his chair and waved her into an armchair with wide-angled arms. She sank deeply into soft cushions. The fly swept over her head and dive-bombed around the office before fluttering back to the window.

“Poor bastard.” Adrian sighed. “How long will it take before the light dawns?”

“Fly watching may be an interesting pastime but it’s not going to solve our problems.” She did not like sitting in such a low chair. “I assume your untimely departure from your office had to do with this.” She struggled to her feet and laid the clipping before him.

He gestured towards the litter bin where he had dumped the shredded clippings from his own copy. “What can I say, Virginia? We’re fucked and it’s all your fault.”

S
ent
: 13 March 5.30 p.m.

Subject: Sighting

Another day over, Virginia. Did you miss me … even for a moment? At lunch-time today I caught a glimpse of you crossing Nassau Street. Your hair was blowing in the wind. I followed you past Trinity College, watched your long legs striding ahead of me. You broke the lights. Impetuous, as always.

I miss my vampire bitch.

Razor

T
he lure
of good wine and tasty canapés brought a sizable gathering of journalists to the Congress Hotel to launch the revolutionary adhesive. Virginia’s experienced eyes gauged the numbers. They were mainly from trade publications but two social diarists from the nationals had made an appearance and a consumer-affairs journalist from RTÉ. They were handed vellum folders, bound with the new adhesive, and a gift box of the company’s products. One journalist, arriving late, addressed her as Veronica and brushed aside the press release with a dismissive flick of her hand.

“Don’t add to my clutter, Veronica. I can only give the product a few lines, if at all.” She tapped her pen impatiently. “Surely it’s not beyond your reach to condense it for me.”

“Which publication do you represent?” Years of experience in the business of public relations helped maintain Virginia’s composure.

“
Dublin Echo
.”

“I thought they were sending their science correspondent, not their social diarist?”

“You thought correctly.” The journalist’s smile flashed warningly.

“Then you’ll find everything you need, including photographs, in the press release. If you have any problem with the information, please contact my office.”

“You PR types would denude the world of trees if you had your way.” The journalist shrugged and shoved the press release into her briefcase. “So much paper and not a sentence worth reading.” She glided into the press reception where she was loudly greeted by friends.

The speeches were over and the journalists had scoffed the canapés when Ralph arrived.

“I wasn’t aware your name was on my invitation list.” She glanced pointedly at the list in front of her.

“I haven’t been on your invitation list for a long while, Virginia.”

“Then why are you here?”

“To see you, of course. I miss my sparring partner.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m busy running a press launch.”

“A sticky situation, what?”

“I’m not in the mood for jokes, Ralph.”

“I keep hoping you’ll reply to my e-mails.”

“I delete them instantly.”

“Not even a sneaky little look?” He smiled. His teeth looked whiter than she remembered.

“What do you want from me?”

“I thought we could engage in a little light banter over dinner.”

“I hate to dash a man’s hopes but needs must.”

“You can tell me all about tonight’s success.” He glanced towards the open doors of the Ivy Suite where the hum of a large gathering was audible. “It has been successful, hasn’t it? Only my Virginia could persuade a bunch of free-loading journalists that glue was a worthwhile present to carry home in their goody-bags.”

She found herself smiling. How the smile reached her lips, let alone her eyes, astonished her. The evening had been successful, despite the attitude of the
Dublin Echo
reporter whose svelte body and Bambi eyes had reminded Virginia of a faun and filled her with a hunter’s instinct to aim and fire.