The Mystery of Mercy Close (3 page)

Bella’s soft fingers plucked at my scalp and she clucked and fussed and eventually reached some sort of resolution that she was happy with.

‘Perfect! You look like a Mayan princess. Look.’ She thrust a hand-mirror at my face. I caught a quick glimpse of my hair in two long plaits and some sort of handwoven thing tied across my fringe. ‘Look at Helen,’ she canvassed the crowd. ‘Isn’t she beautiful?’

‘Beautiful,’ Vonnie said, sounding utterly sincere.

‘Like a Mayan princess,’ Bella stressed.

‘Is it true that the Mayans invented Magnums?’ I asked. There was a brief startled silence, then the conversation resumed as though I hadn’t said anything. I was
way
off my wavelength here.

‘She’s exactly like a Mayan princess,’ Vonnie said. ‘Except that Helen’s eyes are green and a Mayan princess’s would probably be brown. But the hair is perfect. Well done, Bella. More tea, Helen?’

To my surprise, I’d – at least for the moment – had it with the Devlins, with their good looks and grace and manners, with their board games and amicable break-ups and half-glasses-of-wine-at-dinner-for-the-children. I really wanted to get Artie on his own but it wasn’t going to happen and I couldn’t even muster the energy to be pissed off – it wasn’t his fault he had three kids and a demanding job. He didn’t know the day I’d had today. Or yesterday. Or indeed the week I’d had.

‘No tea, thanks, Vonnie. I’d better head off.’ I got to my feet.

‘You’re going?’ Artie looked concerned.

‘I’ll see you at the weekend.’ Or whenever Vonnie next had the kids. I’d lost track of their schedule, which was a very complicated one. Its basic premise was that the three kids spent scrupulously equal amounts of time at the homes of both their parents, but the actual days varied from week to
week to factor in things like Artie or Vonnie (mostly Vonnie, if you ask me) going on mini-breaks, weddings down the country, etc.

‘Are you okay?’ Artie was starting to look worried.

‘Fine.’ I couldn’t get into it now.

He caught my wrist. ‘Won’t you hang on a while?’ In a quieter voice he said, ‘I’ll ask Vonnie to leave. And the kids will have to go to bed at some stage.’

But it might be hours and hours. Artie and I never went to bed before them. Of course I was often there in the morning so it was obvious I’d stayed the night but we’d – all of us – fallen into a pretence that I’d slept in some imaginary spare bed and that Artie had spent the night alone. Even though I was Artie’s lovair we tended to behave as though I was just a family friend.

‘I’ve got to go.’ I couldn’t do any more deck-sitting, waiting to get Artie on his own, for the chance to take the clothes off his fine body. I’d burst.

But first, the farewells. They took about twenty minutes. I had no truck with lengthy valedictions; if it was up to me, I’d rather mutter something about going to the loo, then just slip away and be halfway home before anyone even noticed I was missing.

I find saying goodbye almost
unendurably
boring; in my head I’m already gone, so it seems like a total waste of time, all that ‘Be well’ and ‘Take care’ and smiling and stuff.

Sometimes I want to tear people’s hands from my shoulders and push them away and just bolt for freedom. But making a big production of it was the Devlin way – hugs and double kisses – even from Bruno, who clearly couldn’t entirely break free from his middle-class conditioning – and quadruple kisses (both cheeks, the forehead and the chin) from Bella, who suggested that we do a sleepover soon in her room.

‘I’ll loan you my strawberry shortcake pyjamas,’ she promised.

‘You’re nine,’ Bruno said, super-sneery. ‘She’s like, old. How’re your pyjamas going to fit her?’

‘We’re the same size,’ Bella said.

And the funny thing was, we practically were. I was short for my age and Bella was tall for hers. They were all tall, the Devlins; they got it from Artie.

‘Are you sure you should be on your own?’ Artie asked, as he walked me to the front door. ‘You’ve had a really bad day.’

‘Ah, yeah, I’m grand.’

He took my hand and rubbed the palm of it against his T-shirt, over his pecs, then down towards the muscles of his stomach.

‘Stop.’ I pulled away from him. ‘No point starting something we can’t finish.’

‘Oookay. But let’s just take this off before you go.’

‘Artie, I said –’

Tenderly he untied the Mayan headband that Bella had put on me, demonstrated it with a flourish, then let it drop to the floor.

‘Oh,’ I said. Then ‘Oh,’ again, as he slid his hands under my hairline and over my poor tormented scalp, and began to free up the two plaits. I closed my eyes for a moment, letting his hands work their way through my hair. He circled his thumbs around my ears, on my forehead, on the frown lines between my eyebrows, at the tight spot where my neck met my scalp. My face began to soften and the hinge of my jaw started to unclamp, and when eventually he stopped I was so blissed out that a lesser woman would have toppled over.

I managed to stand up straight. ‘Did I dribble on you?’ I asked.

‘Not this time.’

‘Okay, I’m off.’

He bent his head and kissed me, a kiss that was more restrained than I would have preferred, but best not to start any fires.

I slid my hand up, to the back of his head. I liked tangling my fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck and pulling it, not hard enough to hurt. Not exactly.

When we drew apart I said, ‘I like your hair.’

‘Vonnie says I need a haircut.’

‘I say you don’t. And I am the decider.’

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Get some sleep. I’ll call you later.’

We’d got into a – well, I suppose it was a routine – over the past few weeks where we had a quick little chat just before we went to sleep.

‘And about your question,’ he said. ‘The answer is yes.’

‘What question?’

‘Did the Mayans invent Magnums?’

‘Oh …’

‘Yes, of course the Mayans invented Magnums.’

As soon as I started driving, I realized I had nowhere to go. I headed out on to the motorway but when the exit came up for my parents’ house I ignored it and just kept on going.

I liked driving. It was like being in a little bubble. I wasn’t in the place I’d left and I wasn’t in the place I was going to. It was as if I’d ceased existing when I left and I wouldn’t exist again until I arrived and I liked it, this state of non-being.

As I drove, I gasped for air through my mouth, trying to swallow it down, trying to stop my chest from closing in on top of itself.

When my phone rang, anxiety spiked within me. I picked it up and took a quick look at the screen: Caller Unknown. Which could potentially be lots of people – I’d been getting a fair few unwelcome calls over the past while, the way people with unpaid bills tend to do, but my gut was telling me exactly who this mystery caller was. And I wouldn’t be talking to him. After five rings the voicemail kicked in. I threw the phone on to the passenger seat and kept driving.

I turned on the radio, which was permanently tuned to Newstalk.
Off the Ball
, a sports show, was on, featuring items I cared nothing about – matches and running and stuff. I half listened to athletes and coaches talking away and you could hear in their voices how important it was to them. It made me think: It’s
so
important to you but it doesn’t affect me
at all
. And my stuff is vital to me but means nothing to you. So is anything really important?

For a moment I got some perspective. For them, the world will end if they don’t win the county final on Saturday.
They’re already terrified of defeat. They’re already practising their despair. But it doesn’t matter.

Nothing matters.

My phone rang again: Caller Unknown. As with the previous call, I’d a strong suspicion who it was. After five rings it stopped.

The motorway was almost empty at this time of night – heading up for ten – and the sun was starting to go down. That was early June for you; the days went on interminably. I hated this endless light. My phone started up again and I realized I’d been waiting for it to happen. It did the usual thing of ringing five times then stopping. A few minutes later it started again. Stopping and starting, stopping and starting, again and again, just like he always used to. Whenever he wanted anything he wanted it
now
. I grabbed the phone, so desperate to silence it that my fingers seemed to have swollen to ten times their normal size and couldn’t make the keys work.

Eventually I got the fecking thing switched off – that would put an end to Jay Parker – and I exhaled and kept on driving.

Strange clouds hung on the horizon. I couldn’t remember seeing formations like them before. The skies were alien and catastrophic, the dusk was lingering for ever, the light was taking too long to leave and I didn’t think I could stand it. A wave of the most appalling terribleness rushed up through me.

I was halfway to Wexford before the sun finally set and I felt safe enough to turn round and head back to Mum and Dad’s.

As I approached my new home, I let myself – for just the smallest split second – consider what it would be like if I lived with Artie. Instantly, like a guillotine coming down, I cut the thought off. I couldn’t think about it, I just couldn’t. It was too scary. Not that Artie had suggested any such thing; the only person who’d mentioned it had been Bella. But what
if I discovered that I wanted to and that Artie didn’t? Worse, what if he
did
want me to?

Losing my flat had been bad enough in itself without it triggering any upheavals with Artie. It was fragile, this thing with me and him, but we were doing fine. Forcing us to consider living together just to discover that we both thought it was too soon – that couldn’t be good for us. Even if we were just deferring the decision, it would still feel like a vote of no-confidence. Or what if I
did
move in and we discovered that, yes, it was a bad idea? Was there any coming back from a situation like that?

I sighed heavily. I wanted to have not lost my flat. I wanted Artie to be able to come and stay with me in my home whenever I felt like it. But that arrangement was gone now, gone for ever. There was no way he and I could bunk up together in Mum and Dad’s – actually have sex while they were across the landing! It would be too weird. It would never work.

Effing winds of change, I hated them for coming along and upending everything.

An unfamiliar car, a sleek, low-slung sporty yoke, was parked outside Mum and Dad’s house and a man was lurking in the shadows. It could have been some mad rapist, but when I got out of the car it didn’t come as too much of a surprise (category: unpleasant) when he stepped into the light and transpired to be Jay Parker. It was nearly a year since I’d seen him – not that I’d been keeping track – and he hadn’t changed a bit. With his skinny-cut hipster suit, his dark, dancing eyes and his ready smile he looked like what he was: a con man.

‘I’ve been ringing you,’ he said. ‘Do you ever answer your phone?’

I didn’t bother breaking stride. ‘What do you want?’

‘I need your help.’

‘You can’t have it.’

‘I’ll pay you.’

‘You can’t afford me.’ Not now that I’d suddenly invented a special and very expensive Jay Parker rate.

‘Guess what? I can. I know your fees. I’ll pay double. In advance. Cash.’ He produced a fat roll of money, fat enough to stop me in my tracks.

I looked at the money, then I looked at him. I didn’t want to work for Jay Parker. I wanted nothing to do with him.

But it was an awful lot of money.

Petrol in your car. Credit on your phone. A visit to the doctor.

Suspiciously I asked, ‘What are you looking to have done?’

It was bound to be something dodgy.

‘I need you to find someone.’

‘Who?’

He hesitated. ‘It’s confidential.’

I dead-eyed him. How was I meant to find someone whose identity was so confidential he couldn’t tell me who it was?

‘What I mean is, it’s sensitive …’ He moved a couple of pebbles around with the toe of his pointy shoe. ‘It needs to be kept out of the press …’

‘Who is it?’ I was genuinely curious.

A few anguished looks crossed his face.

‘Who?’ I prompted.

Suddenly he kicked one of the pebbles, sending it flying in a wide, graceful arc. ‘Ah, feck it, I might as well tell you. It’s Wayne Diffney.’

Wayne Diffney! I’d heard of him. In fact I knew lots about him. A long, long time ago, probably back in the mid-nineties, he’d been in Laddz. Laddz had been one of the most popular of all the Irish boy bands. Never quite in the same league as Boyzone or Westlife, but massive nonetheless. Obviously their glory days were long behind them and they were now so old and talentless and risible that they’d broken through the crapness barrier and gone so far round the other side that most people thought of them with great affection. They’d sort of become a national treasure.

‘I’m sure you know but Laddz are getting back together next week for three mega reunion gigs. Wednesday, Thursday and Friday.’

A Laddz reunion! I
hadn’t
known it was on the cards – I’d had one or two other things on my mind – but all of a sudden, a couple of things made sense: their songs on the radio every four seconds, and my own mother pestering me to go to the gig.

‘Hundred euro a head, merchandising out the door,’ Jay said wistfully. ‘It’s a licence to print money.’

So far so typical of Jay Parker, grubby little hustler that he was.

‘And?’ I prompted.

‘I’m their manager. But Wayne didn’t – doesn’t – want to do it. He’s –’ Jay paused.

‘– ashamed?’

‘Well … reluctant.’

Reluctant. I could imagine. In Laddz, as in all generic boy bands, you have five types. The Talented One. The Cute One. The Gay One. The Wacky One. And the Other One.

Wayne had been the Wacky One. The only thing that could have been worse would have been to be the Other One.

Wayne’s wackiness was expressed mostly through his hair. He’d been made to do it like the Sydney Opera House and he’d seemed to comply willingly enough. In his defence he’d been young, he’d known no better and in recent years he’d atoned by having a perfectly normal do.