Lying in Wait (19 page)

The streets and alleyways behind Termini that had seemed so lively earlier now took on a sinister glow and I thought, at first, that it was my malign thoughts that had brought this change in atmosphere, but then I noticed the girls. Lounging in groups of two or three, dressed inappropriately for their age in very short miniskirts and skimpy T-shirts and the highest of heels. The girls whistled at me as I approached, and I realized that they were for sale. A dangerous-looking man in a leather jacket sat in a Mercedes nearby, surveying his wares. He was clearly the pimp. The girls catcalled, hissed and followed me for a few yards. They tried several languages, including English, but I kept my head down and my hands stuffed into my trouser pockets. I knew that I didn’t look prosperous enough to mug, and I passed unscathed.

The encounter unnerved me. All I could think of was
Annie. Selling her body as if it was ice cream to the nearest buyer. I wondered about the man in the Mercedes. Was he there to mind them? Would he treat them well? Or beat them, kill them?

When I got back to my hotel, Mario was still on duty.

‘You telephone your mamma now, yes? She call four times.’ Christ. ‘I place call for you, yes?’

‘Thank you, but I will telephone in the morning.’

‘Not now?’

‘No. It is late. Tomorrow.’

He heaved a deep sigh. I suspected he would never have made his mother wait for a return call.

‘There is another message. A lady. Is name Helen.’

‘Helen? When?’

He seemed reluctant to tell me.

‘An half hour ago.’

Oh God, something was wrong.

‘I’m going to my room. Can you place a call to Dublin for me in five minutes?’

‘Yes. Helen or Mamma?’

I did not answer him, but took the stairs two at a time, dreading the news I was going to receive.

In my room, I picked up the receiver with a shaking hand. I was not in the humour for Mario’s impertinence and barked my home number to him. He put me through without delay. Helen answered.

‘Helen! What are you doing there? Is Mum OK?’ I heard her say ‘It’s him’, and then there was a grappling sound as somebody else took the phone, while voices babbled in the background.

‘Oh, Laurence, where have you been? We’ve been trying to get hold of you all day!’ My mother, breathless and excited.

‘What is it? What is so important?’

‘Try not to be upset, dear, but it’s your grandmother. She died this morning. Your Uncle Finn and Aunt Rosie are here. It’s all so awful. Such a lot has happened. It’s up to you of course, but I really think you ought to come home.’

Shit. Shit. Shit.

‘Yes, I will.’

‘Oh, that’s great, darling. I knew you would. Helen went to the travel agent and booked your ticket for first thing tomorrow morning.’

‘She … what?’

‘She’s been an enormous help. Would you like to speak to her? … Helen!’ Mum dropped the receiver and Helen took it up again.

‘Sorry about your granny, Lar. I know she was a fierce wagon like, but she was still your granny.’

‘Thanks. So what time is my flight tomorrow?’

‘It’s at 9.20 a.m. You can collect the ticket at the airport. Is that OK?’

I rang Mario and asked for an alarm call in the morning. I told him that I would be checking out. He was incensed that I was cancelling my week-long stay, but when I told him I had to go home to my mother because my grandmother had died, he understood immediately. I asked him to place a call to Karen’s hotel. The receptionist there refused to put me through, insisting that Karen had asked not to be disturbed. I guess ‘beauty sleep’ is a real thing. I left a message with the receptionist, apologizing for not being able to keep our breakfast appointment, explaining I had to return to Ireland.

I lay back on my bed, considering the last forty-eight hours of my life. Yesterday, Granny was alive and Karen’s husband physically attacked me, and now here I lay after spending the day with her in Rome. I was genuinely sad about Granny
Fitz. Despite her rudeness, I think she did always have my best interests at heart. When I was a boy, she doted on me in a way that made Mum jealous.

I knew that I would not be coming back to Rome after the funeral. The flights were too expensive.

Thankfully, Mario wasn’t on duty in the morning. A silent girl served me strong coffee with chocolate powder in it and a croissant, and hailed a taxi on the street to take me to the airport.

My mother greeted me tearfully when I arrived home. Helen had stayed the night in one of the spare rooms to keep her company.

‘Jesus, Lar, what happened to your face?’

I had forgotten about my bruise.

‘Laurence was mugged by some hoodlums,’ said my mother.

Later, Helen grilled me about the ‘mugging’. She couldn’t understand why they hadn’t taken my watch or wallet.

‘Come on, Lar, what really happened?’

‘I walked into a shelf at work.’

She hooted with laughter.

‘You’re some eejit. Why does your mum think you were mugged?’

‘If I tell her the truth, she’ll ban me from going to work. You know what she’s like.’

‘Are you going to sue them? The office?’

‘What? No.’

Helen shrugged. ‘I would.’

No doubt she would.

Helen grabbed me and gave me a hug. ‘Fuck’s sake,’ she whispered, ‘I thought your granny would live for ever. She was made of steel!’

Helen stayed all day, helping my mother. She even did some light housework before she came to say goodbye.

‘That’ll be twenty quid, please, Lar.’

It was easier to pay her than to fight about it.

Granny had been found by a neighbour. It was a heart attack. Probably the same congenital failure that had killed my father, although the stress of killing somebody was no doubt a contributing factor in his case. Mum was in stoic form, despite the tears. She and Uncle Finn and Aunt Rosie were coordinating the funeral arrangements. Aunt Rosie said something about every funeral you go to reminds you of all the other funerals you’ve ever been to. I’d only been to one.

‘You know, I hardly remember a thing about your father’s. I was in such a state!’ said Mum.

Before the funeral, out of respect for Granny, I asked Rosie to help me put make-up on my bruise. Rosie wanted to know all about the mugging. The funeral car arrived to take us to the church before I had to do too much explaining.

We stood at the top of the church as Granny’s friends and acquaintances shook our hands, mumbling their condolences. Granny’s coffin was closed. Apparently she had made her wishes known in case someone dressed her inappropriately. Mum said they’d given the undertakers Granny’s tweed skirt and mink stole. That seemed inappropriate to me. Being buried with an animal that was already dead was worse than wearing it, in my opinion.

After the obligatory shuffle around Uncle Finn and Aunt Rosie’s chaotic, sandwich-laden home, made worse by throngs of elderly people in various stages of decrepitude, shot through with their eight rowdy offspring, I drove Mum home.

‘What a day!’ she said, but she was almost cheerful. She’d got what she wanted. Her interfering mother-in-law was out
of the way and her son was home, back where he belonged. She didn’t try to fake her sorrow that my holiday had been aborted almost before it had even begun. She didn’t ask me how I had spent my twenty-four hours in Rome. My day with Karen was something I could keep to myself. She didn’t notice my mood, or if she did, she probably thought it was because I was missing my holiday or my grandmother. She was in good form, gossiping about what the mourners were wearing, which of Dad’s friends had come, how well Aunt Rosie had coped with having ‘all those people’ in her house. She fixed us both drinks.

‘I think we’re going to be all right now,’ she said.

I didn’t know what she meant. ‘What?’

‘Financially. Eleanor told me last year that she had changed her will to look after us. I just told Finn. He was furious about it. I don’t know exactly what she did, but she definitely said we’d be taken care of.’ Mum was quite gleeful about this. I had never realized before how mercenary she could be. We did OK on my management salary and her widow’s pension, but it was nothing like the scale my father used to earn, so even though we could cover our bills, there were no extras like the old days. No fine dining and designer clothing like Mum was used to. I didn’t miss that kind of thing, but my mother yearned for it.

‘Mum?’

‘Yes, darling?’

‘Annie’s family is not going to give up on looking for her. Her sister has been to Athlone looking for her and she’s going back to the midlands to continue the search as soon as she can.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, are they stupid?’ My mother was irritated and I was astonished by her callousness. ‘It’s ridiculous. Why can’t they just drop it?’

‘If I disappeared, would you stop looking for me?’

‘Darling! Of course not! I am just trying to protect you and the memory of your father. Send her another letter.’

‘What?’

‘The sister. What’s her name? Send her a direct letter from Annie, something that will stop her. We’ll compose it together. You’ll have to go back to Athlone to post it.’

My mother was being so practical and unemotional about this cover-up of her husband’s murderous history. It horrified me. And yet what could I do? She was right. It had to be done. And it also gave me the chance to give comfort to Karen.

‘Karen. Her name is Karen.’

Ma
and Da were sort of back together. He was so grateful to have her back, he smartened up, stayed out of the pub and went looking for a job in earnest. He had really missed her and was determined to keep her home. Dessie was trying to get me to come home too, and my mother was doing her best to help him. She was at me all the time. ‘Don’t make a mistake you’ll regret for the rest of your life. Dessie Fenlon is a good man and sure, doesn’t he love the bones of you?’

Dessie had doorstepped me shortly after Rome, but when I’d ignored him, he shouted down the street after me, ‘I sorted your man in the dole office, he won’t go near you now.’

I wheeled around. ‘You did what?’

‘Gave him the hiding he deserved.’

I remembered the bruise under Laurence’s eye and his explanation of the ledgers falling on top of him at work. ‘You stupid bastard,’ I said. ‘He’s only a friend.’

‘Yeah, well, he won’t be anything more than that after I’ve finished with him.’ And Dessie sauntered away, hands in his pockets and head up, as if he’d just had a good day at the dog track.

In my head, I was reliving my day in Rome with Laurence. It had been such a brilliant time and a real shame that it had to be cut short. When I got back, he explained about his granny dying, but I found myself thinking about him all the time. I felt terrible about Bridget. Laurence could have kissed me any time that day, he could have taken my hand, made some gesture of affection, but he didn’t. I thought I had been
misreading the signals, but I felt like he and I were involved in some way. And yet any time I had tried to reach a higher level of friendship with him, he had gently turned me away – like when I’d asked for his home phone number, he had mumbled that I could always get him in the office. It struck me now that Dessie had scared him off. Or maybe Laurence just didn’t like me in that way. Maybe the modelling business had given me too much confidence.

I rang Laurence at work and asked him straight out if Dessie had assaulted him. He sheepishly confirmed it.

‘But why didn’t you tell me?’

‘It would have ruined our trip.’

‘I’m so sorry, Laurence.’

‘Don’t be. It’s not your fault, but do me a favour and don’t go back to him.’

‘I … I won’t.’

‘Good.’

Mixed messages again. Laurence didn’t want me to get back with my husband.

I was still looking for Annie, but I was looking for a flat too. Yvonne told me my shoot in Rome had been a huge success, and I had more money than I’d ever had and more offers of work in Milan and Paris. Yvonne was worried that I’d move to London and change agent, and maybe I would have if I hadn’t still been looking for Annie. Also, I felt a loyalty to Yvonne. I would still have been in the dry-cleaner’s and living with Dessie if she hadn’t taken me under her wing. I hadn’t told her that Annie was still alive. I didn’t want her to know that her son had been wrong.

The weekend after I got back from Rome, Bridget rang to tell me that she’d got an office transfer to Mullingar in the meantime and that I should come see her there and stay in
her new flat to continue my search for Annie. I agreed to go, and on the first Friday night of my visit, I admired her new home. It was a shared house on a new housing estate just outside the town. She shared with two other girls, who were watching
Blind Date
on TV. We took a bottle of wine up to her room, where she had a pull-out mattress for me on the floor. I drank too much and told her that Laurence had come to Rome with me. I immediately regretted it.

‘He … what?’

‘I was going anyway, and he said he needed a holiday, so he just booked the same flight as me. It made sense. I should have told you before, but I didn’t want you jumping to conclusions. I mean, we met for a drink one night after you split up …’ With every word, I was making it worse, over-explaining everything. ‘But there’s nothing going on, I promise. You believe me, don’t you?’

I didn’t know until then that it was possible to tell the truth and still feel like a liar. She was distant with me for the rest of the weekend. She said she had a cold the next day, so I went around the town on my own, showing Annie’s photo, asking if anyone had seen her. I got more or less the same response as I’d had in Athlone. Annie looked like someone they used to know. What was wrong with her mouth? Why was I looking for her? Had I reported it to the guards? This time I didn’t go into any explanations.

I went back to Bridget’s house wet, cold and disheartened. She spoke little to me that evening. Eventually, I broached the subject of Laurence again.

‘I should have known,’ she said. ‘I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid. He was always so much nicer when you were around. And he spent so much time and effort trying to find your sister’s murderer. I always thought it was ridiculous. Like you were playing at being detectives.’

‘It isn’t a game!’

‘The two of you have made a fool out of me. You can lie to yourself that he’s not interested in you, but look at us.’ She pointed to the mirror behind us. ‘Who would you choose if you were him?’

‘Please, Bridget, he’s never made a move on me, I swear –’

‘Give him time, he’s just waiting. God knows, he wouldn’t want to do anything inappropriate. You’re a married woman.’ There was a bitterness to her tone.

The next morning I returned to Dublin utterly miserable. I told Ma and Da that I was going to be moving into my own place. Ma cried and said I should be moving back in with my husband, but Da understood. I warned Ma not to give Dessie any more information about me or my friends. My new apartment was on Appian Way.

‘But sure, we don’t know anyone who lives around there,’ said Ma. She was uncomfortable with the idea of me living where I didn’t belong.

‘I’ll get the keys soon and then you can come over for dinner, Ma. You’ll love it.’

I was woken early the following week when Ma came into my room. Her hands were shaking. ‘There’s another letter, with a parcel. From Annie. It’s for you.’

I turned the package over in my hands. The postmark was Athlone. The wrapping on the parcel was torn on one corner and, without ripping the paper away, I could see it was a set of oil paints in a clear plastic case.

Dear Karen

I wrote to ma a few weeks ago and im sure you probabley herd about it. i bin thinking about you a lot and I know I should have writen to
you and da as well. i know I done a terrible thing running away and leaving you all to worrie about me and i keep tinking about that art set i never got you like i said i would. im never going to be able to make it up to you for the trouble I coused but I hope youll get to use these paints some time. the thing is I herd that someones bin loking for me and I think its you. if you love me your to leave me alone don’t worrie about me im safe and happy and even thow I miss all of youss even da I know he never ment to be croull to me.

Its bette that you let me do my owen thing. One day I mite surprise you and pae a viset but please don’t look for me. ill come to you when im readie.

Love your Annie.

I passed the letter to Ma, who read it out to Da. He looked at the shapes of the letters and said for the first time that I could recall, ‘I wish I could read.’

‘Amn’t I forever offering to teach you?’ said Ma. ‘But you were always too proud.’

‘Not any more,’ he said.

They held each other and it was as if they were losing Annie all over again, but they’d found each other. I left them alone and went to my room.

She was in Mullingar, or thereabouts. She had to be. Someone I showed the photo to had recognized her and reported back. I wondered if it was the shifty-looking fella in the betting shop. He had been really uncomfortable about the whole thing. I wondered why she wouldn’t let me into her life. I knew from the letter to Ma that she had a new name, so she had probably made up a history for herself that didn’t match the truth and, when I thought about it, it made sense.

I rang Bridget. I expected her to be frosty with me, but she sounded more relaxed. I told her about the letter.

‘She’s in Mullingar, or somewhere around there. Do you still have the photo I left? Will you keep an eye out for her?’

‘Yeah, of course I will. I’m glad you’re a bit closer to finding her.’

‘I’ll probably leave her alone now. She doesn’t want to know me, but I’m sort of less annoyed with her now, if that makes any sense?’

‘Yeah.’

There was a pause.

‘Have you seen Laurence?’

I could answer honestly: ‘No, haven’t seen him since I last talked to you.’

‘Right.’

‘Why?’

‘I think … I’m sorry I was suspicious of you two.’

‘It’s OK, it must have seemed weird.’

‘Yeah, it’s just that I think he wants to get back with me.’

I inhaled deeply. ‘Yeah?’

‘Josie spotted him down the town in Athlone on Saturday. I think he was probably thinking of coming to my house, but he lost his nerve. He probably didn’t know I’d moved to Mullingar.’ Bridget was breathless with excitement.

‘But he never went to your folks’ house?’

‘No, you know how nervous he can get, and after what happened last time I don’t blame him. I rang him last night and left a message, but the bitch of a mother probably never passed it on. I’ll ring him in work tomorrow.’

I tried to keep the disappointment out of my voice. ‘Great, that’s great. I’m really pleased for you. Honestly,’ I said, dishonestly.

I didn’t ring Laurence and he didn’t ring me. I moved into my new apartment, and as I unpacked my boxes and suitcases
and surveyed my new home, I looked at the set of paints, posted with Annie’s letter from Athlone. They were oil paints. Annie had forgotten that I hated using oils. I took out the letter again. I had saved all the parcel wrapping. I looked at the clear plastic package that the paints had come in. It was a far cry from the antique box that had sat in Clarks’s window, but maybe she was only buying what she could afford. I looked at the postmark again. Athlone, dated Saturday three weeks ago. Something bothered me. Hadn’t Laurence …?

As I went over the details in my mind, I felt a fever develop until I thought my head might explode. The question was suddenly painfully obvious. Had Laurence sent the letter – not just this one, but the first one too? Had he copied Annie’s handwriting from the notebook I’d let him borrow? I remembered him telling me and Bridget about being forced to forge other boys’ school reports back in the day. He was really good at it. He must have taken note of every detail I had told him about her and used them all to convince me that Annie was still alive. I phoned him at the office.

‘Laurence?’

‘Hi!’

‘Hi.’

‘Are you OK?’

‘Yes, I just need to ask you something, and I need you to be really honest with me, OK? I mean, if the answer is yes, well, that’s fine, but I just need to know.’

There was silence on the other end of the line.

‘Laurence?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Did you write those letters pretending to be my sister?’