No Way to Say Goodbye (6 page)

“I’m not here, I’m next door – Neil asked us.” He pointed towards her neighbour’s home.

“Alina’s with you?” She almost cried.

“No, she’s with her dad in Cork. He’s not well.” He approached her, his hands in his pockets. “I wouldn’t have come but I wanted to see you.”

“We’re not getting back together,” she warned.

“I know.” He made it to the steps. “We’re leaving.” He couldn’t look at her.

“I don’t understand.” But her voice shook, suggesting she did.

“Alina knows.”

“What does she know?”

“About us.”

Penny’s legs felt as if they would fail her. “Five years we’ve been together. We finish and now she knows?” She couldn’t believe it.

“She found out a week ago. It was why I had to end it.”

That didn’t make any sense. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“She didn’t want me to.” His eyes rested on his feet.

“She didn’t want you to?” Penny repeated, the combination of confusion and abandonment becoming a little too much for her.

“She wants us to start afresh. There’s a business opportunity in Cork. Her dad’s there and she has some friends.”

“She didn’t
want
you to!” Penny repeated.

“Did you hear what I said? I’m moving to Cork!”

“You hate Cork.” She heard herself sounding childish.

“It’s not a choice. She’s going to take the kids. If we don’t make a go of it, she says she’ll go back to Holland. I can’t lose my kids. I’m so sorry.”

“You’re weak,” Penny said, with a trace of anger.

“Yes.”

“You make me weak,” she said, softening.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s really over.”

“Yes, it is,” he said.

Oh, God.
She closed her eyes. Sinéad O’Connor’s version of Elton John’s “Sacrifice” played around them; she hadn’t been able to escape Sinéad lately.

And suddenly they were dancing, holding each other tight under a half-moon, moving in circles that symbolized their relationship, both afraid to let go, both willing the song to continue while silently their insides tore.

When the song ended Adam reluctantly returned to the party, leaving Penny to get into her bed with a bottle of vodka.

It was after midnight when Mary found herself in the part of the forest she rarely visited. Just once a year, on 19 March, and that was enough. She’d brought a teddy she’d picked up two weeks previously before she’d allowed herself to lose track of time. She carried Ben’s favourite cloth, and a flashlight to navigate her way through the darkness. The tree stood tall and strong, aside from the broken limb, which had been amputated long ago. She took out the cloth and began to wipe the plaque bearing the name of her son, in the place he had died but, more importantly, the place where he had lived, laughing on the makeshift swing. A swing that every child in town had swung on at one time or another, until 19 March 1999 when the limb had given way, catapulting Mary’s baby high into the air before gravity pulled him back to earth in such a way that he’d landed on his neck, snapping it instantly. She laid the teddy by the flowers her father had put there earlier that day.
At least he could rely on you, Dad.

She touched the clean plaque tenderly, then looked around to make sure she was alone. It was cold enough for the mud beneath her to crystallize and she could see her breath forming a trail in the night air. She stood with a hand up each opposite sleeve, shivering despite her many layers of clothing. “I can’t believe it’s been six years,” she said.

“It seems like only yesterday,” came a whispered reply from the darkness.

Mary weed herself a little. “Hello?” she asked, in a voice that suggested mild hysteria.

“Is that you, Mary?”

The voice was muffled but more distinct and coming from behind her. She turned quickly and pointed her flashlight in a take-charge-while-shitting-it manner that reminded her of Dana Scully in
The
X-Files
circa 1993 before Dana’d lost the weight and was still a sceptic.

“Hello?” she said again, scanning the foliage with her flashlight, which was of little use because her eyes were closed.

“Mary, girl, if you don’t help me up I might freeze to death.” The voice was suddenly familiar.

“Tom?”

“I can’t get up,” he said, from the ditch that hid itself behind a large rhododendron.

Mary parted the bush to reveal Tom on his back, much like an upturned turtle, too drunk to negotiate his way onto his feet. She sat him up. “Jesus, Tom, you nearly killed me with the fright!”

“Sorry, pet,” he said sheepishly. “I just thought I’d call upon our boy on the way home and mistook that bush for a chair and the rest, as they say, is history.” His skin was frozen.

“How long have you been out here?” she asked, worried that her son’s paternal grandfather would fall victim to pneumonia.

“Not long,” he said, patting her shoulder.

“I’ll take you home,” she said.

“In a minute,” he said.

“OK.”

She’d always been fond of Robert’s father, and he and his wife had been good to her and Ben. For a while they had even felt like family, but when Ben had died, Tom’s wife, Monica, couldn’t bear to stay in the town that had robbed her of so much. They had moved to Spain where they spent most of their time, only visiting Kenmare once or twice a year. It had been five years now since they’d gone and in that time Mary and her child’s grandparents had drifted apart.

Tom wasn’t a drinker. In fact, he had been a Pioneer of Total Abstinence up until Robert had died. After that he took a drink each year in his memory and when Ben joined Robert he did the same. So, twice a year Tom drank and even then he could only manage three pints before he was helpless.

He stood in front of the plaque, with his hands knotted in prayer. Mary stood back and allowed him his moment.

“Mary,” he said, swaying.

“Tom,” she responded.

“Do you think he ever looks down?” he asked, eyes brimming.

“I know he does,” she said kindly.

“You do?” he said, perking up.

“They all do,” she said, taking his arm and guiding him down the path that would lead him home.

“Do you really believe that?”

“I do.”

“Do you see them?” he asked conspiratorially – he knew about her cryptic dreams.

“No,” she admitted, “but sometimes I feel them around me.”

He nearly stumbled on a root but she caught him in time and steadied him.

“I don’t,” he confessed, and a tear escaped. “I’d love to,” his voice shook, “one last time – just to see them both one last time.” He tried to collect himself.

“You’ll see them again.” She smiled sadly. “I know they’re waiting.”

He wiped a tear from her cheek. She hadn’t even noticed she was crying. “Some say you’re a bit of a weird one,” he said, smiling at her, “but I’ve always thought you were lovely, just lovely.”

She laughed at his honesty.

He squeezed her arm and they walked on together.

It hadn’t been the visit she’d expected: it had been nicer.

Sam enjoyed a late meal courtesy of his reluctant neighbour and then, by the light of a log fire and a small reading lamp, he opened the book that led him to a place called Deptford. There, he basked in magic, murder and intrigue, and he didn’t have to think about the mess he’d made of his life. He didn’t worry about the people he’d trodden on or the lives he’d had a hand in ruining. Most importantly, sitting in the half-light, lost in another man’s world, he didn’t have to address what he’d done and why he’d done it. He could pretend that his life to date had been one long accident and that he was better now. The ghosts that had haunted him were silenced – at least for the time being.

5. Looking down

It had been a long, hard night and, if Mary was right and those who had left this world sometimes looked down from the skies above, they must have seen that respite was necessary. From a distance these five souls would have seemed wretched in their own quiet way, and looking down, they would have wept to see what had become of the children the five had once been: Sam, the American boy who had been so full of promise, now hiding terrible secrets that would hold him hostage, clean or not; Penny, alone and covered with vomit, hugging a bottle instead of the man she had lost to unfulfilled ambition; Ivan, the cheeky chap, a father of two at twenty-four and terribly alone in his thirties; Adam, the boy who had dreamed of being a hero only to mess it all up; and Mary, born unlucky, once luminous but now dulled by pain.

In this world, Mary had been tested more than most, born to a dead mother, her father wailing and traumatized. He hadn’t picked her up for six months but once he did she would be loved like any other child by a doting father. And although she’d felt her mother’s absence, it was mostly in her teenage years, and her auntie Sheila was always on hand to provide the necessary feminine influence. Auntie Sheila was her father’s brother’s wife and Ivan’s mother.

Mary’s teenage life was promising. She had a father who was wrapped around her little finger. She had a best friend in Penny, who shared her life at a boarding-school in Dublin. And when she came home, her older cousin Ivan was waiting with all his attractive friends lined up to hang out with the two glamorous girls who were at school in the capital. She was popular, attractive, quick-witted, curious and infectiously giddy. She loved photography, was a dab hand with a paintbrush and intelligent too, winning praise in most subjects. It was thought that she could be anything she wanted to be once her mind was made up. And at sixteen it was: she would move to New York City and become a photo-journalist. She would study photography and imaging at NYU, using the money her mother’s family had left her to pay for her dream. In the meantime, she had given her heart to Robert Casey the first time he smiled at her.

They had got together six months later at a party in her cousin’s house. He had guided her into the toilet under the stairs. They had kissed under a blue light on a white porcelain toilet while inhaling lavender. Meat Loaf was playing in the background and a queue formed outside, with teenagers banging on the door and pleading for the sake of their bladders. A little over a year later they lost their virginity to one another on a patch of grass under a summer moon where the forest met the water, which was lapping in the distance as they experimented with rubber. When she left for school their teenage hearts would break and promises were made. When she returned, they made up for lost time, desperately in love, the education system ensuring a burning fervour. Mary was passionate then. She was wild and free, believing the world to be some sort of giant playpen.

She had just turned seventeen when she discovered she was pregnant, doing the test in the toilets with shaking hands, an uncooperative bladder and three minutes of concentrated prayer.

“Oh, bollocks!”

Panic ensued. She knew the exact moment of conception. It had been the night she’d spent in the boathouse, having snuck past her friends, who were standing around the flames of a barbecue and chatting over her favourite band, Take That, singing “Pray”.

“Damn you, Take That!”

They hadn’t wasted time so the condom wasn’t properly positioned. It came away easily but they didn’t notice until it was too late. They had discussed the morning-after pill but agreed that the risk of exposure through visiting a local GP was greater than the threat of reproduction. This proved to have been a mistake.

It was two weeks before Easter. Penny was stuck at school, working on a project she had avoided for far too long, so Mary had returned home alone. Robert picked her up at Killarney station, proud of his newly acquired driving licence.

She broke the news on the mountain. He had stopped the car and pulled in dangerously close to the cliff edge. His face had changed colour and his relaxed demeanour had metamorphosed into something twisted. Their conversation quickly descended into screaming and shouting, and he had taken off his seatbelt so that he could face her. He also had plans: he was set to become an architect. They acknowledged that their perfect futures were in terrible jeopardy. After a while, their debate in deadlock, he decided to start the car. Without thinking, he rammed it into first gear, needing to get back onto the road and drive fast to clear his head. He put his foot on the accelerator and the car drove straight over the cliff.

If you’d asked Mary about the accident she wouldn’t remember anything after the argument, but those looking down from the skies could tell you every horrifying moment. Mary had heard Robert roar and saw him turn the wheel in mid-air. She felt the terrible drop as the car plummeted. She watched the glass in front of her shatter and her boyfriend sail through it, leaving her alone to face the ground below. She braced herself to smash and die.
Oh, Dad, I’m so sorry!
And then for her there was nothing. A busload of German tourists had witnessed their fall and, in a world before the mobile telephone, the bus driver radioed the depot. The staff there informed the police and ambulance. One of the tourists, a doctor, had insisted on being winched down on a climbing rope to where the boy lay broken, the other tourists and bus driver holding the end, praying they wouldn’t let him fall and wondering where in hell the rescue team were. The boy was dead, the girl far down in the gorge and the doctor’s rope too short. His fellow holidaymakers wanted to pull him up and away from the body but he insisted on staying with the boy until the ambulance sirens could be heard in the distance.

Mary was cut out of the car. They said it was a miracle she had emerged at all. Both her legs were broken and her left arm had shattered against the windscreen but it had been Robert, grazing the side of her head at 200 m.p.h., who had induced the coma. The car should have crumpled and she should have been dead, but its frame had somehow managed to withstand the impact, and when the rescue team made it down the mountain, they found her unconscious but alive. Later in the hospital her father discovered that not only had his daughter survived against all odds but, unbelievably, so had his surprise grandchild. As Robert’s mother roared and screamed in the background and his father pleaded with the doctor to turn back the clock, Mary’s dad had held her hand and prayed she would survive childbirth, unlike her mother.