Taken Away (14 page)

‘I thought . . . ' she said. ‘Wasn't . . . ?' She looked over at Dom and smiled uncertainly. ‘Francis?' she asked. She paused, then just drifted off, her eyes slipping over the surface of things, sliding absently to the right of us; remembering or forgetting, who knew? But not with us anymore. Not like she had just been.

There was a soft knock on the door, and it broke what threatened to become a heartbreaking silence. Ma leapt gratefully to her feet and went to answer it.

It was one of the old biddies. She came in laughing and shaking her head, scattering bright raindrops from the lacquered white helmet of her hair. It was the tiny one, half a head shorter than Ma, and all decked out in sprigged cotton, wafting floral scent. She brought the glittering sunshine of a fresh spring day through the door and stood in its radiance, hands clasped, looking around the room with an expectant smile on her face.

‘Well, now . . . ' she said.

Ma realised the old doll wanted an introduction and, with a tolerant little roll of her eyes, presented her to each of us in turn. ‘Margaret, you know our son, Dominick.'

Dom surprised us all by standing and gravely extending his hand. It was a gesture so alien to my brother that Ma actually laughed. But this
wasn't
Dom, was it? It was the Dominick-
thing
. It was the goblin-boy. It was
Francis
, and he had, it would appear, impeccable manners. He offered his hand as a matter of course; as a token of politeness so ingrained in him that only unconsciousness would have prevented it. You could tell by how quickly he was out of his chair and had his hand extended, by how smoothly he said, ‘Pleased to meet you, ma'am.'

The old biddy blushed like a girl and took his hand.

She'll feel how cold he is
, I thought
. She'll scream.

But the old lady just smiled. ‘What lovely manners,' she said, already turning her eyes to me.

‘This is our other boy,' said Ma. ‘Patrick.'

I nodded, incapable of a smile, and the old lady tilted her head. I could hear her thinking to herself,
Ah, here's a sullen one.

Dee played the shy cat and buried her head in Dad's shirt. Uncle Martin reached across the table and shook the old biddy's hand. ‘How do you do?' he asked.

‘Well, I'm fine, thank you,' she replied, turning her attention to Dad. ‘David, how are you?'

Dad forced a smile onto his face and shrugged. ‘I'm grand, Miss Conyngham. How's your sister?'

‘Oh, same as ever. At war with the world.' She laughed at her own joke, then turned her speculative gaze on Nan. ‘And who's this?' I knew by her voice that she could already tell Nan wasn't quite with us.

‘This is my mother,' said Dad. He got up and crossed the room to hunker by Nan's chair. He spoke gently to her, snagging a thread of her attention somehow. ‘Mam? This is Margaret Conyngham, from the back house.'

Nan blinked at him, then her eyes wandered in fits and starts to where the old biddy stood with her hand extended, a patient smile on her face. The two women looked at each other for a moment. Then I saw a jolt of unexpected recognition hit the old biddy. Her smile fell. ‘Oh my,' she said. She sank into a stiff crouch by Nan's knee, and took Nan's hand. She pressed it gently and gazed up into Nan's face.

Hello, dear,' she said. ‘How have you been?' ‘

Nan just kept staring with wary concentration. Eventually the old biddy nodded, cleared her throat and looked down. She spent a silent moment gazing at Nan's hand, which lay twined in her own. She seemed to be struck by this: the sight of two old ladies' hands, all naked joints, paper-thin skin and fine blue veins.

How strange to suddenly notice one's hands,' she murmured. ‘‘How fragile they look.'

She carefully placed Nan's hand back in her lap and straightened. Then she smoothed down her skirt and blinked, slowly looking around the kitchen at things only she could see.

‘God bless us and save us,' she said quietly to herself. ‘Isn't life a kick in the trousers?'

Dad went to ask something, but before he could speak the old biddy shook herself and laughed and filled with sunshine again. She turned a beaming smile on my mother, her teeth too perfect to be anything other than dentures. ‘You have a phone call, dear! Best not keep them waiting. They're calling from Dublin!' Ma raised her eyebrows in pleased surprise and began to escort her to the door.

‘Me come?' asked Dee, hopping down from her chair.

The old biddy held out her hand. Dee ran to take it, and they accompanied my mother up the garden path, disappearing together into the bright spring morning. The kitchen – filled with light now – was momentarily silent in the sparkling aftermath of the old lady.

Then Nan snorted in amused disgust. ‘That wasn't May Conyngham,' she said.

‘May Conyngham?' cried Dom. He ran to the door, staring up the garden path as if trying to get another look at the old biddy. ‘May,' he whispered.

‘Imagine, Fran!' Nan said to him. ‘Imagine that old dear trying to pass as May.' She gave a sunny little laugh. ‘Oh, what a hoot!'

Dad sighed in exhausted frustration. ‘Come on, Mam, let's get you in by the fire.' Martin rose to his feet, with the intention of helping get Nan settled.

Dom dithered by the door, tense and wide-eyed, his attention torn between Nan and the garden where the others had disappeared. He was looking more than a little crazy. I went to stand by him.

‘Dom,' I murmured. ‘Let's go upstairs.'

‘Stop calling me that!' he hissed.

He watched as Dad and Martin manoeuvred Nan up and out of her chair. His eyes smouldered with rage as they took her by the arms, apparently infuriated by the sight of the two big men on either side of a fragile, confused old lady.

‘Where . . . where are you taking me?' she asked as they hustled her into the sitting room.

Dom went to shoot after them and I grabbed his arm to stop him. It was like grabbing ice. His flesh was so cold that my fingers sizzled. I let go, crying out and clutching my hand. He came to me immediately, leaning close to comfort me. ‘It's alright, Lorry,' he whispered. ‘I won't leave you.'

His breath was like dry ice on my face; his fingers burned as they touched my arm. I pulled away from him. How cold
was
he? How cold could anyone
get
without . . . ?

Dad called from the other room. ‘Stop fluting around, you two, and clear the table.'

Dom turned to glare through the door at him. ‘What will they do to her?' he said.

‘Dom,' I whispered. ‘Just go upstairs. Please? For me? Just go upstairs and wait while I clear the table.'

He shook his head, his eyes on the sitting-room door. ‘I'm not leaving you with them. Not anymore.'

He was standing with his back half turned to me, his shoulders hunched, his fists raised slightly. My fingers were still tingling from where I'd grabbed him. My cheek burned from where that icy breath had come from his mouth – from Dom's mouth – and frozen my skin.

‘Dom,' I said suddenly, ‘eat your breakfast!'

I didn't know where that had come from; the words sounded ridiculous even as I said them. But Dom was so cold. He was cold as a corpse. And I wanted him warm. I wanted him alive. And people who are alive
eat
, right?

Dom turned to me in surprise. Then he laughed. It wasn't a Dom laugh, by any means, but it wasn't a scary-movie-creature laugh, either. It was a genuine laugh, a kind of a delighted laugh.

‘Alright,' he said. ‘All right, Lorry. I'll eat my breakfast.'

Jesus, that made me want to punch him. ‘I am
not
Lorry,' I ground out. ‘I'm
Patrick
, and you're
Dominick
. You're
Dominick Finnerty
. Got it?'

He gave me a very level look, and sat down. ‘Eat your own breakfast,' he said, taking up his knife and fork.

It became a battle of wills to finish the congealed mess on our plates, and I was pretty sure we'd both be dead of heartburn by the end of the day. But I crammed it down so that he'd cram it down, maintaining eye contact all the time. When we were finished, he helped me clear the table and then stood behind me, emanating cold, while I washed the dishes. All his attention was focused on the sitting-room door. I could hear Dad and Martin in there, chatting; the TV was on.

‘Why are you just standing there?' I hissed, my elbows deep in suddy water, goose flesh in scattered patches up and down my back. ‘Why don't you just go upstairs?'

I'm looking after you,' he whispered. ‘I'm watching your ‘back.' He glanced at me briefly, looking me up and down with his dark eyes. ‘I'm keeping you safe, Lorry. Until you're back in your right mind again.'

Then he turned his attention back to the door, his shoulders hunched, his weight balanced evenly between his two feet, standing vigilant and ready should anyone try to get past him to me.

YOU CAN'T FREEZE A TOMATO

AS SOON AS
I could get the dishes done and my hands dry, I shooed Dom up the stairs and out of everyone's sight. I felt like I was herding a ticking bomb round the house. I felt like any minute now, everything would blow up. I needed time. I needed space. I needed to think things through.

We were almost at the top when Dad's quiet voice called up to us: ‘Lads.' He was peering at us from the turn in the stairs. ‘Martin's leaving. Stay with your nan while I walk him to the car, will you?'

Damn.

‘Dom's not feeling well, Dad. He was going to lie down.'

Dom's voice came flat and deliberate from the stairs above me. ‘No, I wasn't,' he said. ‘You're the one who needs to lie down.'

Dad looked from one to the other of us with a confused frown. ‘What's up with you two? You're like the hormone sisters this morning.'

Normally that would have made me laugh, but I was stretched a little thin for chuckles today. Instead, I blinked down at the old man, trying to give nothing away, hoping he'd relent and let us escape upstairs. Exactly how creepy we looked, standing one above the other in the gloom, staring down at him with our identical faces, I can only guess. Pretty bloody creepy, I'd say.

Dad's eyes lifted to Dom, and my heart sped up a bit as something crossed his face – some fraction of understanding. ‘Whu . . . ?' he said uncertainly. His eyes widened, his pupils spread, and he stared past me to where Dom stood, cold and silent, on the stairs above us.

I took a step downwards.
Can you see it, Dad?
I thought.
Jesus, Dad! Try and see it!

But he only frowned and shook himself, scrubbing his hands through his hair, and let his eyes slip away from us. ‘Whew,' he said. ‘Weirdness.'

My heart fell.
Oh Dad.

He turned his back on us. ‘Come on down to your nan,' he said. ‘Just for a minute while I walk Martin to the car.'

‘Dad!' I called, and he looked back. ‘Are you leaving today?'

‘Yeah. After dinner.'

‘Stay 'til tomorrow, Dad. Please.'

If I'd said that in front of Ma, she'd have lost the rag with me, entirely; told me to get a grip and stop acting like a baby. Dad just grimaced in helpless sympathy and spread his hands. ‘Can't, bud. Sorry. Justin needs me.'

We need you! Dom and me! We need you!

‘Just 'til tomorrow, Dad? Just one more day?'
Just one more night?

He locked eyes with me, and for a moment I thought he'd stay. Then he gave a shrug of those expressive shoulders and tilted his head in apology. ‘Sorry, bud. I'll stay a bit late and watch
Dr Who
with you, if you like?'

I nodded. Dom, standing behind me like a black hole, said nothing.

Dad half laughed. ‘Jesus!' he said ‘What are you like? All you need is a river of dry ice and a full moon and we'll have the total
Hammer House
effect. Cheer up! You'd swear I was heading off to war or something.' He clapped his hands as if to cleanse the air. ‘Come on down now! Sit with Nan for me.'

Then he was gone.

Dom stayed silent, and when I started back down the steps he made no move to follow me. ‘Come on,' I said, without looking at him.

‘Wouldn't you rather I went upstairs?'

The bitterness in his voice made me glance around, and I caught a diluted glimpse of what had creeped Dad out. Dom was almost lost in shadows, his face and his hands ghostly highlights, his eyes black-light pinpoints in the gloom. I wondered if I'd looked the same when I was standing there. Of course I had – we were twins, weren't we? I shuddered. Imagine staring up at two of
that
; it was amazing the old fella hadn't run a mile.

‘Just keep your mouth shut and don't touch anyone,' I said and made my way to the sitting room without waiting to see if he'd follow.

He didn't, not right away, and I had time to do two prowling circuits of the cramped room, my hands in my hair, before I found enough composure to sit. Nan was sitting on the sofa, drowsing already. The TV was on, the sound turned down. The fire was low and hot in the grate.

I chose the threadbare armchair facing the door and sat waiting. My arse had hardly hit the cushions before I was fighting the urge to leap to my feet again. It felt like I was trapped in an airless room without windows or doors, and I wanted to
pace
. I grabbed the arms of my chair and dug in hard, forcing myself to sit still, because I could walk myself to the moon and back and still not escape this.

He came in quietly. Dom and not at all Dom. My brother's lazy, C-shouldered slouch squared off somehow and tilted forward now, so that he led the way with shoulder rather than hip; Dom's under-the-eyes, affectionately mocking smirk replaced with dark-eyed speculation – like someone sizing you up from behind partially opened shutters.