Less Than Perfect (34 page)

So many apologies. So much making up to do.

At least Matthew and I have moved past apologies.

‘Everyone in this ward must think I'm in trouble with the law,' I joke when he turns up later in the afternoon, in uniform again. He was here twice yesterday, before and after his shift, a figure of authority just like now. But only until he smiles, whips off his hat and squeezes me in a hug.

‘Well, you
were
in trouble with the law, Miss O'Reilly.' He grins. ‘I've received a number of complaints against you, but given the extenuating circumstances I've wiped your record clean.'

Suddenly I don't feel like joking around. There's something I need to say, and this feels as good a time as any. The words have
been bubbling inside me for days now. I reach to take his hand in mine. I'm shaking, petrified. ‘I love you,' I croak.

I wait, almost expecting the world to stop on its axis and everything in the room to come crashing down now that I've tempted fate by making such a bold declaration aloud. Nothing happens.

Matthew gathers me closer to him. ‘I know you do,' he says.

What a lovely, reassuring thing to say! Maybe he guessed all along that I loved him, or maybe he just figured it out over the past few days. Either way, Matthew officially now knows
everything
about me, my past, my present, plus a sketch of my future and his part in it. This makes me feel quite shy and exposed, but I know that's more to do with my emotional immaturity than anything else. I also know that in time this shyness will pass and what I've revealed – about the bomb, my father, Josh and Liam – won't seem so monumental. It will recede from the forefront of our lives and take its rightful place in the background.

Matthew is the ideal person to tell everything to. He has perspective, something which, quite frankly, I've lacked. He doesn't just see my story as one of wasted lives, simmering hatred, never-ending grief and a broken family. He sees survival, resilience, hope, and a better future that has, against the odds, been forged from all the loss.

Matthew sees the big picture, the higher cause. In that way he reminds me of my father.

‘I love you,' I tell him again, my voice muffled against his shoulder but definitely more confident.

*

I'm home, in my own bedroom, and I can see from my bed that it's a beautiful day outside. The sky is blue and cloudless, and the sun has genuine warmth. Jeanie is going to the races today, one of the first meetings of the season. I can picture the scene: girls in strappy dresses and high heels, men perspiring in shirts and trousers, flutes of champagne sparkling under the sun, commentary booming from the speakers as horses thunder around the course, the jockeys on their backs a moving blur of colour. I went with Jeanie to last year's meeting. It was a perfect day, too.

The phone rings. I don't want to talk to anyone but I answer, reluctantly. ‘Hello.' My voice is flat and verging on inaudible.

‘Caitlin! You're home. How are you? Are you okay?'

Tears spring to my eyes. ‘Yes, Mum. I'm okay.'

‘How are you feeling?'

Good question. I feel weak. Embarrassed. Stupid. ‘I'm okay.'

She knows that I'm not okay. ‘Jeanie told me that your sugar levels went too high?'

‘Yes.' I squirm and a wave of heat travels up through my body that has nothing to do with the blazing sun outside. ‘So high that I got ketoacidosis.'

‘Jesus, Caitlin. Jeanie didn't say anything about that.'

‘Jeanie wouldn't know the medical term, Mum.'

‘You could have died. Good God, Caitlin, you could have
died
…'

I don't know how to respond to this. Of course I've had this thought myself over the last few days, but it's different when you hear it aloud.

I could have died. Without seeing her. Or Maeve. Or even Dad.

‘You told me you were taking care of yourself, Caitlin.' She sounds angry and close to tears. ‘But you clearly weren't telling me the truth.'

I didn't tell her the truth. Not about my health. Not about my job. Not about Matthew. I was drinking too much and playing Russian roulette with my sugar levels. I was worried about my job for months before I lost it. I had feelings for a man that were so deep they scared me. She knows none of this.

‘Telling the truth is not always the right thing to do,' my father used to say at his lectern. ‘Not when it has catastrophic effects.' Of course I couldn't respond with this. She'd know I was quoting him.

‘I'm sorry, Mum. I didn't want to worry you, that's all.'

‘You didn't want to worry me …' She repeats in a high-pitched voice. ‘Do you have any idea what it's like for me? Can you imagine how it feels to be thousands and thousands of miles away, and getting only a glossed-up version of my daughter's life? Do you know how powerless that makes me feel, how useless? Don't I deserve more? Whether it's pretty or not, don't you think I deserve the truth?'

‘I'm sorry, Mum,' I say again, and I mean it. I see now that she's always done her best to tell me the truth: about herself, Maeve, my father, and all the ups and downs of the last ten years. As a result, our conversations have sometimes been uncomfortable and painful, but she's ultimately done the right thing in letting me know what I ought to know. When Liam died, our family came apart at the seams: I ran away, Dad had the affair, Maeve became disengaged. As Mum put it, instead of pulling together, we pulled apart. But Maeve and Dad have since returned to the
fold, Maeve with a new level of maturity, Dad as a friend and coparent. I'm the only one who hasn't come back. I
want
to be back in their midst, at least emotionally if not physically. I'm ready to be pulled back in. I've been lonely a long, long time.

‘I was in a relationship again … I met someone – Matthew – and we'd had a fight that day.' I belatedly try to explain. ‘And I lost my job, Mum. You of all people would know the impact that had on me …'

Later, when I've hung up the phone and tears are streaming down my face, Jeanie comes in. She's wearing a sexy black and white print dress, precariously high shoes, her outfit topped off with an oversized hat of silky black feathers that stick out at all angles. The hat would have me doubled up in laughter if it weren't for the fact I'm crying.

‘I'll stay with you,' she offers when she sees the state of me. ‘I can watch the races on the TV.'

I should tell her not to worry about me, to go and have some fun, but I don't. She kicks off her heels; for some reason, though, she doesn't think to take off the hat. The bed sinks with her weight, her arm around my shoulders is firm and reassuring and I know how lucky I am to have her as my friend.

I'm holding the paper sleeve with Maeve's handwriting on it:
Dad – BBC news.
I slide the disc into the DVD player and sit back on my heels as I wait for it to load. The picture is fuzzy at the beginning but the colours eventually become clearer. Standing outside a courthouse the reporter, holding a black umbrella to shield himself from heavy sheets of rain, speaks in a strong Northern accent.

‘In a landmark civil case, a high court judge in Northern Ireland has found four leaders of a paramilitary organisation responsible for the 1998 Clonmegan bombing that killed fifty-three people and injured hundreds more. The attackers phoned in the bomb threat but gave police the wrong location, which led to the evacuation of people from the centre of town to the top of Chapel Street, right next to where the bomb went off. The bomb happened just months after the signing of
the Good Friday Peace Agreement that promised a new era of peace between Catholics and Protestants in Northern Ireland. The paramilitary organisation claimed responsibility for the bombing but no one was found guilty in a criminal court. In 2001, the families of some of the victims decided to go down another route to seek justice and brought a civil case to the high court.'

The camera moves from the reporter to the man standing next to him. I feel a lump in my throat when I see my father. He's older, his hair more grey than brown, his skin pale and finely lined, his dark trench coat doing nothing for its tone. It seems like he has aged by more than the ten years it's been since I last saw him.

Professor Jonathan O'Reilly lost his 22-year-old son, Liam, in the attack
, I read at the bottom of the screen.

‘The families of the victims are very pleased with today's result,' my father begins, his eyes staring out of the TV and into my soul. ‘Finally, we've got justice. Finally, we have recognition of the terrible crime these men committed. I stand before you wearing the cost of that crime, a son that's lost to me, a family that's broken. I, and everyone else involved in this lawsuit, would have preferred a criminal conviction, but today's verdict at least shows that terrorism is a costly business, and the people who fund it and carry it out are liable for
all
the costs involved.'

He's tired; I can tell by the droop of his shoulders that this trial and the years leading up to it have taken their toll. I can also tell how proud he is from the angle at which he's holding his chin.

The camera moves to another member of the committee and I feel bereft without my father. Tears trickle down my face and I'm vaguely aware that I must make a strange sight, kneeling in front of the telly in the middle of the day, crying like a baby.

The reporter is speaking again. ‘In his judgment, Mr Justice Devlin found there was overwhelming evidence that the four men bear responsibility for the Clonmegan bomb … And he concluded that he was “satisfied to a very high degree” that the paramilitary organisation itself was also liable for the deaths. The families were awarded more than 2.5 million pounds in damages.'

Finally, the camera comes back to Dad and this time I'm ready to take in every detail. His features, especially his eyes, are as striking as ever. His voice is rich and articulate. He may be older and somewhat tired, but my father still presents as a very attractive and intelligent man.

‘Yes, we will be pursuing compensation,' he confirms, ‘though this case has never been about the money. It's about what's right and wrong. What happened in Clonmegan was wrong, and the only way to right the wrong was to seek justice, some form of punishment for those involved.'

There is more news coverage on the disc and I watch and cry my way through every minute of it. I can see now that this civil case wasn't about money; it was about finding a realistic way of hurting and punishing those responsible for killing Liam and Josh and all the other victims. I feel guilt and sadness that I've only just realised this important fact, only now when I can see the end result for myself. No one but my father
could have got this far. No one else would have had the requisite strength, commitment, intelligence, political expertise or that driving sense of right and wrong. I, for one, thought he'd never get anywhere, that he was banging his head against a brick wall and that he'd cast his family aside for nothing. But he achieved what he set out to do: the impossible, justice. I thought he wasn't there for me, that he'd done nothing to help me and cared about me in only a cursory way, when all the time he was seeking justice, putting everything he had on the line, including his family. I realise now, from the deep, deep relief and the sensation of lightness that's pervading both my body and my mind, that I needed justice every bit as much as he did. The truth, stunning enough to momentarily quell my tears, is that my father could not have done more for me than this.

The next day I'm up from bed and clearly on the mend. I make myself breakfast and then do some small chores: unload the dishwasher, sweep the kitchen floor, wipe the bathroom basin. I read a little and fall asleep with the book in my hand.

At four o'clock the phone rings. It's Nicola, sounding a little sheepish. ‘Hey, how are you feeling?'

‘Good, thanks. Much better.'

‘I'm thinking of finishing early today and coming around to see you, if that's okay.'

‘That would be great.'

I haven't seen Nicola since the night I blacked out. She phoned me while I was at hospital and arranged a time to call in and
visit, but something came up with work at the last minute and she had to cancel.

I do another mini tidy-up as I wait for her to come, wiping down the kitchen table and setting out two cups and some nuts and grapes left over from a basket that Jeanie sent to me at the hospital while she was away in Brisbane.

Nicola arrives at five thirty, her expression rueful. ‘Sorry, it was harder to get out the door than I thought.' She kisses my cheek awkwardly. ‘But you'd know that better than anyone!'

Well, I used to know, but not anymore. Nicola walks towards the kitchen in her black shirt, pencil skirt and stiletto shoes. I'm wearing jeans and a plain white T-shirt, and right at this moment I feel very unemployed.

She fishes in her large shoulder bag and puts a box of chocolates on the table. ‘I brought you these …'

‘Thanks,' I say indifferently.

She's even more ill at ease now. ‘You
can
eat chocolate, can't you?'

‘Yes, in very limited amounts.' I fill the kettle and switch it on. ‘How's work?'

‘Oh, you know, same as ever.'

I wait for her to expand. I wait for details on Zoe and Jarrod and all the others but she doesn't provide them. It feels as though a line has been drawn, and she's on the inside of the line and I'm on the outside.

‘Tea or coffee?'

‘Coffee, thanks.'

I busy myself making two coffees. We sit across from each other at the table. I open the chocolates but neither of us takes one.

‘What are you going to do with yourself now that you're a lady of leisure?' she asks in a more conversational tone.