The Glorious Heresies (35 page)

It's a shithole, but of course it is, because it's cheap and Georgie doesn't work long enough or hard enough to afford anything else. Not since the first landlord, in her illustrious career as fucker and fuckee, has she had someone back to her own space, but she has already thought it through and accepted that Ryan's different. And besides, he's intimated that there will be cocaine, and a little party, and as weird as the whole thing is—and it is weird, because she's known him since he was a boy—she reckons he'll make it worth her while. Look, she should have known better than to try to shame morals into him. She thinks that a few decent lines will cushion the blow of reality winning out, yet again.

Ryan looks around him and notes that reality: ugly floral curtains; a coffee table stained with grey rings and round black burns; cream-coloured walls on which shadows have been made permanent through her negligence. There's a low, olive-green couch with wooden armrests; he sits down and clears crumbs and ash off the tabletop with an open palm.

“It's not like I was expecting anyone,” Georgie says.

“Don't worry about it.”

“You know, no one is ever let back here, Ryan.”

“Lucky me then.”

He takes a baggie out of his pocket and starts lining up.

“D'you want a drink or something?” she says.

“No.”

“I want a drink.”

She comes back as he finishes raking out, holding a glass of vodka or gin or whatever it is.

“OK, well, there's no point being coy,” she says. “What are you after?”

He continues staring at the lines. There's a beat in his head, echoing loud. He feels as if the control he has over his own body is about to give in, and that he'll puke, or cry, or snap or faint or fucking something; he's afraid of that, first of all. He can be afraid of consequences later.

“I don't know what I'm after,” he says.

“They usually know.” She takes a sip. “Did you fight with your girlfriend or something? Is that why you're here? You know, without your judge's wig on?”

“Don't,” he says.

“It's just that…
something's
changed.”

And she's just going to accept that, isn't she? Something's changed but she's not going to rethink her complicity. He's angry now, on top of everything else. It's beyond him how Georgie had the nerve to march up to his dad's front door barking questions, but not the nerve to find her way home again.

“I'm sure you have a price list,” he says. “You tell me.”

“Am I still allowed to think it's weird?” she says.

“I thought you said it was just a job?”

“It is. Still, though. We have history, you and me.”

She's sorry she said it as soon as it's out of her mouth. He looks up from the bars he's drawn on her table, and his top lip twitches at the corner as a snarl is caught and turned inwards.
He's going to be one of them,
she thinks. For a moment she considers telling him she's changed her mind, and that he's going to have to leave. She wants to preserve what she thinks he showed her on Saturday last. But she decides it's worth taking a chance on and even then she knows she's wrong, deep down, buried with the rest of her cunning.

She finishes her vodka.

“OK,” she says. “Well, when I go somewhere with a guy it's fifty for the hour. And that's, like, oral and whatever position. Not anal though.”

“That's extra, is it?”

She looks back down at the lines. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Fuck's sake,” he says.

He's glowering, and she's surprised it turned so soon. “If you're going to be a dick about it,” she says, “it's going to be horrible for both of us. You know? I mean, you're the one asking for it, you don't get to judge.”

“Take your line,” he says. “Before the fucking eyes fall out of your head.”

She kneels in front of the table. “I'm just saying,” she says. “I'm disappointed in you too, Ryan.”

She closes her eyes and as she snorts she hears the gentle clunk of something being placed on the table beside her.

She sits on her haunches, staring at the gun out of the corner of her eye, as he leans back on the couch and grinds out noises of disbelief and regret.

It's a while before he accepts she hasn't got a damn thing to say, so he says it for her.

“I'm not here to fuck you, Georgie.”

He leans forward.

“Why would I be? Didn't you tell me before I was never to buy a prostitute? If you really think your words are that weak, I suppose it explains why you couldn't stop asking Jimmy Phelan questions.”

“I don't work for J.P. anymore,” she whispers.

“He wants you dead,” Ryan says.

She twists her hands on her lap and looks at him with sinkhole eyes.

“How does he want me dead, Ryan? I've done everything he asked me to do. I haven't said anything. I haven't asked questions in years.”

“I don't know, Georgie.”

“J.P. told me the whole story. I accepted it. I let it go. I did! I did what he told me…It's been years, Ryan.”

Ryan shakes his head.

Georgie says, “Why you?”

“It's just a job.”

She says nothing for a long time and he has no more mind for leading her. He watches her quake and he hates her for it. He watches his gun on the table in front of her and he hates himself for having it. Most of all he hates what he's about to do but he knows there's no way around it.

He bows his head and sighs.

Georgie is in the horrors.

She sits on her haunches on the floor of her rented one-bed, crying, and distracting herself on and off with the stupidest of notions.
Sniff. Sob. That's it, it ends here. Gulp. Cough. Look how dirty the carpet is. I wish I had a hoover. I should have bought a hoover.
The fear-sweat leaves her shaking cold. She pulls her arms around herself.

She's sick knowing it won't work but still she tries. “But me and you, Ryan…We're friends. Aren't we?”

He picks up the gun.

“What makes you think I have friends?”

“I saw you with them, on Saturday. All walking down the street, going out or whatever. You have friends because you're a normal guy. You're not…this.”

He's standing up. She doesn't move. She cries onto her lap and he moves around the table and over to the window.

“This is normality,” he snaps. The volume makes her jump. She blinks and he comes back into focus; he's staring, hard, his brow furrowed and his lips trembling. “People do what they have to do. But not me. Fuck this, not me!”

He doesn't raise the gun. He cradles it against his right thigh. With his left hand he covers his eyes.

Ryan's failed and he knows he's not going to get away with it, even here where God fucking damn it, it could still be fixed, if he had the balls for it.

She's weeping with fright, and he feeds off it, pacing so he takes up as much air as he can, here in her dingy set.

He's pushed her into her bedroom and she stands with a bag and her passport. He's booked a flight. The next one out of Cork is to London Stansted. It'll do.

“Ryan,” she blubs. “I can't. My daughter's here. All of this is so that I can get her back. You telling me I can't see her again is just insanity—”

“Me leaving you live is fucking insanity!”

“I'm a mother,” Georgie insists. “What about my daughter?”

“What about her!” He points at her, his mobile clutched tight in his hand like another useless weapon. “She's better off, isn't she? You're no mother, Georgie. Mothers don't go around getting fucked for coke money!”

“That's not fair, Ryan; how else am I going to get by? There are no jobs out there, there's no way I can go to college…Be realistic! This is all I'm able to do right now. I'll get it together!”

“You haven't a notion of getting it together! Don't try this one on me, girl. My mam was taken off me so I know what that's like and I wouldn't wish it on anyone so don't for a second think this is because I'm being sentimental about you and your kid; she's better off without you and I don't say that lightly.”

“What if I go home? Back to my mam and dad's. It's in the middle of nowhere, Ryan. No one'll ever see me again. I won't ever come to the city, I swear it!”

“Only now you're thinking of going home, girl? You couldn't go home before you fucked my life up, no? Fuck you. You're going. You're gone.”

Georgie crumples.

“You're not saving me, Ryan. You're killing me.”

“I'm counting on it,” he says. “And if you come back here, fucking ever,
ever
Georgie, you'll find me a lot less cowardly about putting one in your brain. And your daughter's. And your mam and dad in Millstreet. D'you hear me?”

She holds a hand over her mouth and the tears fall onto it and over her knuckles and slide onto the brown cloth over her wrist.

“I will do it,” he says. “The only thing wrong with me can be fixed by growing up a bit. You're just damn lucky you caught me when I was too stupid to pull the trigger. You're just damn lucky Jimmy Phelan got me to do the job.”

“I'm not lucky,” she cries. “This isn't fair—”

“I know it's not fair, girl. But that's the way of things in this rotten city. I barely know what this fuck-up is about, but it's going to take someone. And it's gonna have to be you.”

Ryan has to contact his father afterwards for Jimmy Phelan's number, and he can only do so via text; he realises, up in his old estate, parked thirty feet from his old driveway, that he doesn't want to talk to Tony.

When the reply comes through he puts his hand back on the key in the ignition and freezes.

He's not sure why he didn't notice it—perhaps because he's not been around enough for the alternative to become the norm—but there are lights on in Tara Duane's house, and Tara hasn't been there in ages. She took off the Christmas before last. Someone said she was seeing this Indian guy so she probably ran off to become a Hindu. Tara was flighty that way, and she's done shit like that before, so even her daughter Linda can't call bullshit on the theory.

For a moment he thinks:
She's back.

After a while the facts begin to settle. The car in the driveway isn't Tara's. There are no curtains or blinds up in the front room, and he can see people, none of whom he recognises, walking past the window. He realises that someone's moving in.

It's been months since Joseph's friend Izzy recommended he seek answers from Tara.

He's conducted the conversation in his head a dozen times but it's made a poor substitute. In fairness, he hasn't cheated on Karine since that neon-lit conversation in the living woods, so it hasn't escaped him that Izzy was right. He's been trying to own it, trying hard, reclassifying it as an indulgent mistake made by a new man driven temporarily mad with the possibilities.

He tells himself, sitting in his car down from his father's house with worse deeds now to his name, that what happened in Tara Duane's house five years ago doesn't matter, not in the grand, fucking dark scheme of things.

He imagines it now again anyway, seeing as she's never coming back.

In her sitting room she hands him a mug of tea and sits there with her vacant smile as he tells her
Hey, I fucked you. I did it. I wanted to. That's what happened, OK?

It kills him, though. He knows it shouldn't but he feels it like a kick to the gut now that he realises she's gone and his chance for making sense of it's gone with her.

I just want her to confirm it,
he thinks; his lips move with it.
Tell me I went for it, that I wanted it, let me have this one, oh God, please, give me this one.