The Lake (12 page)

‘Huh.’ Peggy pushed against the door. Something about the familiar weight of it, the feel of the thick layers of paint under her hand, instilled a confidence in her. This was her door. The door to her pub. She had put that last layer of paint there, covering the previous layer that had been put there by her father, obscuring it, superseding it. This was her pub now, and she was inviting her guest in for a drink. And it felt good. ‘Of course he won’t mind,’ she said. And at that moment in time, Peggy didn’t care whether Jerome minded or not.

Peggy kept her head high as she walked in through the door ahead of Frank, although she could feel the edge of her bravado as she scanned the bar for any reaction to their entrance.

The room had thinned out considerably. The Delaneys were busy putting their musical instruments away, swaddling them like a mother might a child in cotton and felt. Half-finished pints sat on the table next to them. Enda O’Shea sat on a stool just adjacent, silently watching the brothers at their task, an absent-minded smile on his lips, his crossed legs swaying to the memory of music that had ceased. Bernie O’Shea was turned in her seat, clearly gossiping with another woman, but she stopped speaking at the sight of Frank. She laid a hand firmly on her husband’s shoulder and drained the glass she was holding. Peggy could guess that she was disgusted with herself for being caught by Frank drinking after closing time. Cow, she thought. She’s never in that much of a hurry to leave when it’s only me calling time. Peggy took an exaggerated look at the clock on the wall for added impact.

‘Goodnight now, Mrs. O’Shea,’ she called across the room. Bernie O’Shea’s face reddened as she glanced up at Frank who was making his way towards the door leading to the toilet, seemingly oblivious to it all.

Peggy went behind the bar and began pulling a pint. She ignored Jerome who had been clearing glasses from tables and was leaving them on the counter before her. Peggy noticed that most of the remaining locals were now standing and draining their glasses. None of them seemed too keen to hang around while there was a detective on the premises.

Frank reappeared, pausing for just a second before approaching the bar and settling himself up on a high stool. Peggy watched without comment as himself and Jerome silently acknowledged each other.

‘We could do with you around here every Saturday night,’ she said, tipping her head at the door where there was a minor crush of punters leaving. ‘I’ve never seen them so keen to get home.’

‘We’re not great for business, on the whole.’ Frank observed the full glass of stout Peggy left before him. Then almost as an afterthought, he leaned over on the stool and reached into his pocket.

‘Oh no,’ Peggy said a little too loudly. ‘We don’t entertain paying customers at this time of night. You’re a guest in our home now. No charge.’

She saw Jerome raise his eyes to heaven and shake his head, but she decided to ignore him. Her arms instinctively reached for the empties he had left on the counter, but then she stopped. Sod him. He could clear without her. She did it often enough. She turned and looked at the rows of bottles sitting innocently enough on the shelf in front of the mirror. It was unusual for her to observe them as a customer might, and she rarely drank anyway. But right now, that was what she wanted to do. She wanted to sit and have a drink. With Frank. She wondered for the briefest of moments about the type of girl that Frank usually socialized with. What she might drink. Something more sophisticated than might be found on Casey’s shelves, no doubt.

‘Too much choice?’

He was looking at her reflection in the mirror.

‘Oh, you know. Coals to Newcastle and all that.’ She grabbed a glass and held it under the neck of the upturned bottle of Cork Dry. Coals to Newcastle? Did that even make sense?

‘I’m actually not a big drinker.’ She opened and poured a bottle of tonic into her glass. ‘It’s not a great pastime for a publican.’

She hated the word ‘publican’. Why had she used it? Publicans were old men with rolled-up shirtsleeves and comb-overs. Publicans were not modern, self-sufficient women with business plans, and marketing models, and … and menus. She took her drink and walked around to Frank’s side of the bar. She sat on a stool next to him, crossing and then uncrossing her legs. Sitting this side of the bar felt odd, and she was unbearably conscious of Jerome’s raised eyebrows.

‘My father is a card-carrying Pioneer,’ Frank said. ‘He took his pledge at his confirmation, and he never touched a drop since. He won’t even eat my mother’s sherry trifle. Although,’ he smirked at Peggy, ‘I wouldn’t eat it and drive a car afterwards either.’

Peggy laughed far too loudly. She took a sip of her drink, feeling the fizz make its way down to her stomach. She also felt the accompanying flush in her cheeks. A good flush. A happy, confident flush. She took another sip.

‘No ice and lemon?’ he asked.

She looked at her glass in mortification. ‘Well, we do, of course, I didn’t … ’

Frank laughed. ‘I’m only teasing. My Da got one of those ice machines. The ones that automatically pop out ice cubes?’

‘It’s on my list,’ she said. ‘After the telly.’

‘I wouldn’t bother. Gets jammed up more often than not. It’s more of a hindrance than anything else.’

Peggy nodded, trying to look earnest. In reality, she had just noticed that she could see both of their reflections in the mirror at the back of the bar. She tried to observe them from a third party’s perspective. Did they look like two people who might have a drink together? A couple even? She didn’t think he looked much older than she was. A little older, sure, but that was a good thing, wasn’t it? And although he was sitting facing the bar, his eyes fixed on his emptying glass before him, his body was turned ever so slightly towards her. Yes, if some stranger were to walk in here right now and see them sitting together, there was nothing to suggest that Peggy and Frank were not a couple, enjoying a quiet evening in their local bar.

Although he did look very fair against her dark head of hair. And his tanned, warm skin contrasted strongly to her own pale countenance. Not that her cheeks were pale. Christ, they were the colour of the gin bottle label now, Peggy thought. She pressed her glass against her left cheek, wishing she had put the damned ice-making machine higher on her list of priorities.

Suddenly, her reflection was blocked by Jerome.

‘So, you must be kept busy these days in Dublin?’ His eyes were fixed on Frank as he rinsed glasses under a running tap. ‘I’m surprised they could spare you to attend to something so trifling as a dead body in Crumm. What about all the law-breaking hooligans in Dublin that need corralling and locking up? On a Saturday night? It must be anarchy up there without you?’

Peggy’s jaw dropped. Not again. What was he doing?

Frank took a drink from his glass. ‘The guards are only interested in arresting genuine lawbreakers,’ he said. His tone was flat. Uninterested. Like he had had this argument a thousand times before.

Jerome put down the two glasses he was holding. ‘Yes. And you might think, what with all the IRA lads hanging around, making real trouble, that the Garda Síochána would concentrate their resources on real criminals.’

The tap was still running, but Jerome didn’t seem to notice. Frank stayed quiet, his eyes focused on his pint glass.

‘What would you say, Detective?’ Jerome said in a softer tone. ‘What would you say if I told you the story of a man, innocently walking home one night past Saint Stephen’s Green with a friend, not overly intoxicated, not being noisy or violent in any way, simply walking home after a night out with his friends. What would you say if I told you that an unmarked squad car drove up next to where those two men were innocently walking home, and that one of your colleagues got out, and, without any explanation, shoved that man into the back seat of that unmarked squad car, and drove off with him? His friend was left standing on the footpath with no idea what had happened to the man, until he shows up at their flat the next morning with a black eye and a split lip? And on that very same night, Detective, while your colleagues were busy torturing an innocent man, the IRA were busy abducting and knee-capping some poor fool on the other side of the city. I needn’t tell you, sir, what they are capable of. It’s no time since they gunned down one of your own in cold blood, in broad daylight. Now tell me, Detective. Wouldn’t you say that An Garda Síochána’s time might be better spent trying to stop real criminals from committing real crimes, as opposed to exhausting their resources abducting innocent people as they walk home from a night out in town?’ He took a step closer to Frank and leaned over the bar towards him. Frank didn’t flinch; he kept twisting his glass on the coaster in front of him. ‘Well?’

Peggy looked at Frank. She had wanted to throttle Jerome to get him to stop talking, but now she wanted to hear what Frank was going to say. Her brother took a small step back and picked up a dishcloth. Peggy was grateful for the distance created between them.

‘That man’, Jerome went on, ‘had been wearing a gold chain given to him by his mother.’ He picked up a glass and started drying it. ‘It had a medal of Saint Christopher on it. One of the Garda ripped it from around his neck. It cut him badly. He had to get stitches the next day. No one would dress the wound for him in the station.’ He put the glass down gently on a shelf behind him and waved at the two Delaney brothers who were quietly making their way towards the door.

‘Night lads. Great session.’

Peggy remained silent, but kept sipping her drink.

‘So, Detective. What do you say? Or have you no opinion on it at all? Do you just sit there and hide behind your badge and ignore all that is wrong and evil with your lot?’

Peggy could sense that Jerome was looking at her, but she couldn’t meet his eyes. What did he want from her? What did he expect her to do? Join him in his interrogation of Frank, the same man that she had just invited into the pub as her guest, in the hope that they might, what? She didn’t really know what. Her glass was empty and she set it down quietly on the bar.

‘You say the man was innocent.’ Frank’s voice was steady. Peggy couldn’t help but be impressed at how calm he remained under such an unwarranted tirade from her brother. ‘Maybe he was.’ He looked up from his glass to meet Jerome’s stare. ‘But maybe he wasn’t.’ He sat back on his stool. She saw him notice her empty glass, before leaning onto the counter and standing up.

‘I’m not going to stand here and pretend to you that no Garda has ever been guilty of cruelty, Jerome. But it isn’t an easy time to be in the guards either. And most of us are just trying to do our job. Uphold the law. We’re not all out to get you.’

Jerome just stood there, eyeballing Frank. Peggy sat watching as everything fell apart in front of her.

‘Peggy,’ Frank lifted his bar stool in under the counter. ‘I think it’s time I was off. Thank you. For the drink. And … and for all your help.’ He tipped his head towards Jerome, and smiled once more at Peggy. ‘See you,’ he said.

Peggy found she couldn’t speak. It was only when he was halfway across the floor that she managed to get the two words ‘Bye, Frank’ past her lips. Her eyes never left his back until it disappeared out through the front door and out of her life. She was still staring at the inside of the door when the last two customers crept quietly out a moment later. Then Jerome was in her field of vision and she watched as he threw the bolt after them, leaving the two of them alone in the bar. She hadn’t realized that she was crying until she saw Jerome stop and stare at her.

‘Ah, Peggy,’ he said, his voice full of tenderness. ‘What is it? Don’t cry.’

He went to approach her with open arms, but she sat straight on her stool and put her two hands out to stop him.

‘No,’ she said, her voice broken with tears. ‘Don’t come near me. Leave me alone.’ She pivoted on the stool until she had her back to her brother, her hands lost in her hair, her elbows resting on the bar. She pushed a full ashtray away from her and held her head in her hands again.

‘Peggy. Peggy?’

She could hear him standing at her shoulder.

‘Peggy? What is it? What’s upsetting you?’

She wondered if her brother could really be so stupid. Could he really not know? He had watched Frank leave, just like her. He had seen him go. Had he not understood? She had thought Frank might be someone … someone special. She had known that he was. They had only talked a couple of times; Christ, she had only met him the previous day. Could that be right? But sometimes you just knew. And he had felt it too, she was certain. He had asked her to walk down to the lake. He had shown up again here this evening, for no obvious reason, other than to see her. They had definitely shared something. He could have been … something. Someone. And now, he was gone. And Jerome had practically chased him out. And he had made it pretty clear that he wasn’t welcome back. Oh no, Detective Sergeant Frank Ryan was unlikely ever to return to The Angler’s Rest after that episode. Why would he? Why would he bother involving himself with someone whose family were clearly psychotic and irrational? Peggy lifted her head to look at her brother’s reflection.

‘Are you serious?’ she said. ‘What’s upsetting me? Why did you do that?’ Her face crumpled and she started to sob. The sound almost surprised her, but then something within decided that she didn’t care, and she gave into it and wept loudly, her tears dripping into little pools on the stained counter top between her elbows.

‘Peggy.’ Jerome attempted to put his hand on his sister’s shoulder, but she shrugged him off. ‘Peggy. I’m sorry.’

The note of alarm in his voice only made her cry more loudly. They stayed there like that, Jerome standing helplessly behind his distraught sister, Peggy past caring about the scene she was making. After a moment, she put her hands to her eyes and stopped sobbing. She sniffled and wiped her nose with the back of her hand, before reaching across the counter for the dishcloth that Jerome had been using. She wiped her eyes with it. When her vision was clear, she could see that Jerome was still standing behind her, his face even paler than normal.

‘What are you sorry for?’ she asked him. ‘For Frank? For never seeing that I might have needs, or plans too? For leaving me to cope with everything on my own?’ She turned and held her arms out to the empty room with empty glasses and full ashtrays, and a fire almost dead in its grate.

‘For this?’ she said. ‘For this, Jerome?’

‘Peggy … ’

‘No. No. It’s been two years now, Jerome. You know, I just realized that today? Two years. What did you expect? What did you all expect? That I would just sit here, every day of every week of every month, keeping things going, placing orders, paying bills, fixing roofs?’ Tears started to form in her eyes again, and she brushed them away with the dishcloth. ‘Changing bloody light bulbs?’ She noticed a slightly bewildered look flicker across Jerome’s face, but he said nothing. ‘You and Carla and Hugo, you all have your own lives … Carla,’ she sniffed loudly; ‘I don’t even know why Carla bothers coming back each weekend. She doesn’t want to be here.’ She looked at Jerome. ‘She certainly doesn’t come back to see me. Her life is in Wexford. Clearly!’ She gestured wildly at the door into the house. ‘And Hugo,’ she paused, ‘Hugo’s gone. Hugo would have been just as happy for this place to be at the bottom of the lake too.’