People in Season (13 page)

In a growing flurry, the beat of her heels accelerate the further she goes. Caught in perpetual motion, she can’t stop until she gets what she wants. Arriving at the end of the aisle she hears Alistair shout again.

‘Who the hell is that?!’

The languid shoppers that mill about turn their heads to look at him, dimly confused, and though Ava doesn’t stop to do the same, she feels him burning a hole into the back of her head. Kicking her way through the groceries that Francis left piled on the tiled floor, she sidesteps the shattered jar of sauce into the parking lot where the social agent turns a corner onto an unknown street. Breaking into a sprint, she ignores the sound of a car horn, dodges a van and trolleys along the way, and ignores the cry of the doctor again.

‘Francis!’ she calls.

Arriving at a shuttered charity shop on the bend she spots the social agent at the end of the road, a speedy figure on the winding city street, one hand pocketed, the other holding something, ticking it back and forth as a metronome for his stride. Hesitating to shout after him again, a cautioning voice tells her that it might be a bad idea to draw attention from the strangers with her cry.

‘Francis!’ she shouts anyway.

The shout seems to ricochet around the narrow road, hit the back of the social agent’s head and knocks the rhythm out of his walk. He falters on regardless. Ava is at full trot, a hair’s length from the man when the sound of her steps plummet down on him.

‘Francis,’ she says breathless, a tincture of amusement in her voice. ‘You’re going to make me think you don’t like me.’

‘We shouldn’t be talking outside of the office,’ he warns, stern.

His steps are long but hers are small and fast. She’s trying to outpace him, to get an angle on his face and capture him with a look, but he’s doing his best to keep his head forward, not letting her get a lock.

‘We talked outside the office before,’ she objects. ‘In the car park.’

Francis replies with a vicious snicker. It’s the kind of noise that could turn into a fit of hysterics, depending on which wires get crossed.

‘Why are you acting this way?’ she reaches out for his arm.

He flinches away. ‘The car park at work is different.’

He regrets the comment as soon as it’s out of his mouth. Aware that he’s opened himself up for a conversation that he doesn’t want to have, the man resolves to keep his lips shut. Do not engage, he tells himself. Freeze her out.

‘Why?’ she asks. ‘What’s changed?’

Not answering, only cold clouds of breath pass between the two. Shops at either side become decayed and vacant, faded for-sale signs decorate them and empty allotments are covered with billboards. Soon they’re on a pedestrian road. Redbrick townhouses to the left and right are guarded by wrought iron fences, streetlights buzz overhead, and a tree passes them every ten paces. Branches and power lines swipe their faces while odd numbered lampposts are counting down as they go. In the distance, the aircraft light of the spire in Dublin’s city centre blinks as they march toward it. The smell of rain is in the air and a dot of water flicks the pavement, hesitantly followed by another. Ava continuously talks at him, trying to find a soft spot. Francis feels the figures about them, other pedestrians hunched over for their walks home. Their presence help him keep his resolve to be silent but the deeper they go into the tree lined neighbourhood, the less of them there are and soon they disappear, one by one, emptying the street to avoid a coming downpour. Behind her, Ava can feel the doctor abandoned at the shop. Apprehensive, she checks down the way to assure herself he’s not out there, hiding and listening behind a tree, a rubbish bin, a car.

‘Is this because you saw me with that guy? Because you like me?’ she ventures shyly. ‘I like you too.’

It’s the worst thing she can say, because it makes Francis realise what a fool he was to ever think she could have. Didn’t a part of him know that already though? And wasn’t he thinking about taking a chance with her anyway? All the more reason to keep his stupid mouth buttoned shut. When Francis doesn’t respond she trips, emits a meek yelp, and falls into a limp.

‘These damn heels,’ she whimpers capriciously, tearing as she tries to keep up.

It’s a lie of course. Another fabrication ready to flick off the tip of her tongue. She probably didn’t even think about it, just initiated the act in a flash of inspiration. Francis knows that much, and still, it’s not enough. There are certain sounds in nature, so universal, so painful, the cry of a baby or squeal of an animal, that even in a man who knows a fake, a shiver is sent down the spine. ‘Francis, slow down,’ she cries, the shrillness of her voice triggering Francis in this way so that all at once there’s a lump in his throat.

He stops and faces her.

‘I knew you were untouched. You don’t need a government cert to see that much,’ he laments. ‘But I didn’t think you could get involved with something this seedy. This loathsome.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘That man. That doctor. You think I wouldn’t know who he is? That’s not a face you can forget. He’s a murderer.’

‘He’s a story,’ she says, emphatic. A story. The suggestion hangs in the air, waiting to be taken. Everything it could mean. All of this a misunderstanding. A chance for her to redeem herself. To prove her innocence. She’s a picture of virtue as she pushes the idea on him. ‘Just a story.’

Francis screws up his lips, expecting her to go on, but she lets him take what he can from the defence without adding any more to it. The soft sell. It isn’t until he tries to walk away from her again that she pipes up.

‘I want to know everything about the scumbag before we take a shot at him. I don’t know what you think is going on, but that’s all it is. We don’t have any solid paperwork. No safe witnesses. Just a bunch of rumours and gossip. I’m trying to get a concrete lead. We need to take him down, Francis. ChatterFive can do it if only we had more to go on.’

‘And I thought investigative journalism was dead.’

‘I’m bringing it back,’ she quips, trying to make light of his sarcasm.

‘So if I rang Joanne Victoria, she’d know what you’re up to?’

Francis is sure he’s trapped the woman now. At last, he can move on without her.

‘She wouldn’t let me do something like this,’ Ava, not missing a beat, balks at the idea. ‘Spending weeks on a story she doesn’t have the guts to publish? Risking an even bigger lawsuit? I’m out here on my own, doing what needs to be done. She’ll be happy to use it when I find more dirt on him though, you can be sure of that. Let me do all the leg work and give ChatterFive all the glory.’

Francis quickens his pace, ‘This is pathetic.’

He’s admonishing himself as much as he is Ava’s attempts to wriggle out of being caught. It gives him the strength to renew his walk.

‘This isn’t a joke, Francis,’ her voice sharp as she catches up with him, her limp miraculously healed. ‘You can’t just go around judging people for doing their job, living their lives. I’m a human being.’

That’s exactly what I do, Francis realises with a sinking feeling in his chest.

‘I haven’t done anything wrong,’ she insists, rabid, her breath hard at the end of the sentence. ‘Who are you to say I have? You’re freaking out because I didn’t follow some arbitrary journalistic code of conduct you’ve made up? It doesn’t exist, Francis. The only code is don’t lose the company money. I can do what needs to be done without that happening. And you can’t even look at me. You’ve got some nerve.’

‘He’s a monster, Ava!’ Francis shouts, desperate to see an honest reaction in her face.

Missing her cue, she simply replies, ‘Well I’m not.’

And all he could say to that is she is. But he can’t. He doesn’t even know if he believes it. Incapable of convincing either she nor he of anything, Francis holds his arms up and lets them drop to his side.

‘You don’t put a murderers lover on trial, do you? And I didn’t even sleep with him. All I did was try to get to know him better. Oh I forgot, this must mean I’m UPD, that I’d let the world burn to get a kick out of it,’ she says, cynical.

‘Yes!’ he screams, struck by the feeling that they’re talking in different languages. ‘That’s the general idea. You don’t give a damn about any of us. About me!’

‘You don’t believe that,’ she says, hurt.

His head shakes weakly in response. It’s a feeble reaction but he can’t think of a rebuttal, when really, all he has to say is, ‘I do.’ He doesn’t even have to believe it. The statement is not one to be considered. It’s a deflection designed to give him space until he can think about it privately. They’re stood in the empty street, considering each other tiredly. He falters again under her determination by breaking eye contact.

‘You don’t,’ she spots the chink in his armour. It’s as much of a revelation to her as it is to him. ‘You don’t think I should be punished but you’re going to anyway.’

‘It’s not punishment,’ he says, holding up the fact like a shield. ‘It’s the law.’

‘The law,’ she repeats, swiping the shield away.

Lost in the street he clearly knows, Francis can’t get his baring. Blindfolded and spun around, he’s being pushed left and right. Taking the cover off now, he notices a post box, and disoriented, he spots the door to his building, the paint peeled off in chips. If only he could get inside and lock her out. All he has to do is stomp up the steps and go in. She wouldn’t follow him, surely? It might as well be on the other side of Ireland for all the distance he sees between him and his flat. If only the landlord would come out and swat the woman away. Francis could shout up to him, ask to be rescued. Instead, he fingers the keys in his pocket. They jingle as considers a run for it. He can slip in and slam it before she knows what’s happening. So why does he feel trapped? What is it in the woman that has a hold on him? Ava reads his mind.

‘This is where you live.’ She points to the bottle he holds. ‘Is that the drink you owe me? Chilean, just like I said.’

Discovering the bottle in his hand, it’s as if he’s only just found it. Francis backtracks to figure out where it had come from. Remembering that he’d left the flat to do some shopping, he wonders where all the groceries he bought have gone to, and then, oh yes, he sees them scattered on the floor of the supermarket. At a loss for what to do, he looks right into what he’s been trying to escape.

‘It’s cold out here, and I heard there might be a flash riot tonight,’ Ava says. ‘Let’s sit down with a drink inside, where it’s safe. It doesn’t have to be like it’s been, this silly argument. We can chat about it till the trouble passes, alone together, can’t we?’

Dizzy, he’s trying to see something he can’t quite make out, something under that iridescent skin she wears. It’s frightful as a ghost but he’s drawn to its purity nonetheless. Leaning forward to get a better view, he almost falls, but manages to catch himself. She tries to make him focus on her but as he answers her, he continues to speak from faraway.

‘There’s nothing to talk about.’

She steps closer. ‘It’s my life.’

‘Nobody’s taking that from you.’

Another step. ‘They are if I can’t work where I want.’

‘There are other jobs,’ he says quietly.

Her hand goes up to his arm. Hypnotised, he doesn’t think to wrench her off.

‘This is my career and you are going to take it away from me. You’re going to convict me for being good at my work. For a law you know isn’t right. You think it isn’t something that can just be forgotten. You’re all wrapped up in it, bowing down to some imaginary concept. But you can make a difference. You can let me pass. Things can change.’

‘This isn’t how things get changed though.’

‘When the law goes this wrong it’s just a shared delusion. They’ve taken people and turned them into numbers, you can see that, surely. Oh no, damn the consequences, just do your job and protest against this turgid mess the slow way, meanwhile my life’s been devastated. Everything I’ve built is swept away because you don’t think my motivations worthy. Well damn you, Francis, you’re a coward. Hiding behind a title and a piece of paper.’

He doesn’t hear her, petrified as he is.

Seeing as much, Ava takes her chance, the final stab at Francis Mullen. He lets her hand move him toward the door of his building. His key goes into the lock, setting the springs and traps open. He forces himself to try and find what it is behind those eyes one more time. Is it loneliness that’s sparking desperately in her synapses? Believing that would be a foolish projection of emotions based on the only model he really knows – himself. No, it’s not loneliness that’s in her. If it can’t be cured, if the love offered can’t be understood and returned in kind then it is something altogether different. All he could give her is matter to be devoured and forgotten. Francis has a secret. He became a social agent because all of his life he’s been afraid. Something out there was so powerful that it’s pull on him was impossible to escape. Behind the title of his job he has had some protection from it, a constant reminder of the dangers it represented. In his work he has been granted the power of logic and reason, but with no tablet to hold between them now, he’s robbed of the certainty it lent, and pulled into the black of her eyes, he’s left with nothing but her grip to bolster him. Veering forward, he’s on the edge when he realises what it is he’s really feared all this time. With her hand guiding him, supported by the strength of a thousand, he’s forced to step off, and falls all the way into its infinite depths.