The People Next Door (19 page)

He shoved himself off from the wall and swayed in front of Kieran, blocking his way, breathing hot, beery gusts into Kieran’s face. He wore a thin black denim jacket missing the bottom button and baggy, well-worn jeans. Dark shoes underneath. His thinning brown hair was plastered to his head. Thinning already at – what? He must be about thirty.

Kieran gave a nod and stepped off the path, but Adam reached out and caught his arm and peered closely into his face. Kieran stood and waited – what else could he do? To free his arm would involve some
kind of tussle, and he shied away from that. Better to wait it out. No sense in antagonising a drunk man.

Adam’s hair smelled of smoke. A pocket of small white-headed spots curved around the base of one nostril. The edges of his mouth were brown-rimmed. His chin was studded with black stubble. There was a tiny, high-pitched wheeze at the end of each exhalation – asthma? Cigarettes?

He was taller than Kieran by about three inches now, but much thinner. The knuckles on the hand that clutched Kieran’s arm were bony. His grip was tight.

‘How’re you doing?’ As he slurred out the words, a fleck of spittle landed on Kieran’s chin. He tried to pull away, but Adam’s grip tightened. ‘Hey, no hard feelings, mate?’ He grinned loosely, showing narrow, yellow teeth. ‘Right?’

He poked Kieran painfully in the sternum with two braced fingers. ‘No hard feelings man, right?’ He dropped Kieran’s arm, but stayed planted in front of him. Swaying on the path, putting up a hand again to steady himself against the wall. ‘How’re you doing anyway?’

Kieran walked quickly past him, heart thudding, the after-feel of Adam’s fingers still on his chest. The last time they’d met properly had been about a week before the wedding that had never happened. Adam looking daggers at Kieran when he’d called to take Geraldine to the pictures.

‘Hey—hang on!’ Kieran realised, with a fresh lurch of dismay, that Adam was stumbling after him. ‘Hang on – hey, wait, I want to talk to you.’
Making surprisingly good progress despite his drunkenness. Stumbling against the wall every so often, but managing somehow to maintain the short distance between them. ‘Hang on, will you? Hey, I just want to talk, for fuck’s sake—’

Kieran crossed the street, quickening his step. Heading towards the river, almost running now.

‘Hey!’ How was Adam managing to keep up? ‘Fucking
wait,
will you? I just want to fucking well
talk
to you.’

Kieran reached the path that ran along by the river. The shopping centre car park was five hundred yards ahead – tonight was late opening so it would be busy. He’d cut in there and lose him, surely.

Beside him, barely three feet away, the river flowed, black and immense. Kieran could hear its soft splashing. Squares of yellow from the buildings on its opposite bank threw dancing blobs of light onto its surface. From somewhere a car horn, a burst of music.

‘Jesus—’ Adam was wheezing loudly now. Kieran could hear the high whistle clearly. ‘What the fuck is wrong with you? I just—’

Then a shout and, abruptly, silence.

Kieran risked a glance over his shoulder and, seeing nothing, stopped and stood breathing heavily.

The path was clear. Nobody was there, nobody yelling at him to slow down. And then he heard it – from the water, maybe a dozen feet behind him, a gurgled cut-off shout, a splash of frantic movement.

Adam was in the river. He must have fallen in.

An arm burst up, thrashing the water, scattering
the surface into a million dancing lights, causing an arc of drops to fly up, glittering beautifully. Another shout, very clear this time – ‘Help!’ More furious splashing.

Kieran stayed where he was, horrified, every limb frozen. Another eruption from the water again, another cut-off yell. He couldn’t move, couldn’t make a sound. Could only stand transfixed, listening to Adam drowning, straining to hear as the shouts died away, as the splashing stopped, as the soft
lap lap
of the water became audible again.

And then, from the direction he and Adam had come, he heard running footsteps, saw the dark shapes of two figures racing towards the place where Adam had fallen in. Heard a splash, heard shouts—

Any sign?’

‘Can’t see a thing.’

They hadn’t spotted him. Kieran forced his legs to move then, began to back away quietly until he could barely hear their voices. When he was sure he was out of sight, he turned and walked rapidly along the path.

As he reached the gateway that led into the shopping centre car park, a siren sounded in the distance, getting closer. Only then did he allow himself to sink onto the bonnet of a blue Ford Sierra, legs suddenly turned to rubber.

‘You’ll never guess where Martin’s taking me for our anniversary.’

They were in the room to the left of Yvonne’s reception desk. It was officially a staffroom, but it doubled as a store room, so anytime they ate lunch there, on the days it was too wet or cold to go to the park, they had to thread their way through boxes of medical supplies to the steel-legged table at the far side of the room.

On the table there was a kettle and a small fridge. A tiny sink was wedged into the corner. Nobody except Yvonne and Dolores ever used the room for lunch.

Yvonne filled the kettle and plugged it in. Dolores and her guessing games. ‘Somewhere in Ireland?’

‘Oh no – we’re flying there.’

‘Paris? Rome?’

‘Venice. He told me last night. We’re staying in a hotel right on a canal.’

Yvonne smiled. ‘That’ll be lovely. The highlight of my weekend will be picking gooseberries and making a tart. Who’ll look after your kids?’

‘His mother. She’s a real pet.’

Yvonne listened to how wonderful Dolores’s mother-in-law was and how fabulous Dolores and Martin’s weekend was going to be. She thought about Grainne in number nine, the bane of Kathryn’s life. She thought of her own mother-in-law – or rather, thankfully, ex-mother-in-law, who hadn’t crossed her threshold for more than sixteen years.

Jim and Peggy were in Lisdoonvarna for their usual two weeks, doing whatever people did in Lisdoonvarna – could you still drink the sulphur water? They were staying in the bed and breakfast they always stayed in – it must be pretty impressive for Peggy to go back every summer. Yvonne bet she kept the owners on their toes.

Dolores tapped the shell of her hard-boiled egg with a spoon. ‘How’s your glamorous daughter?’ She’d met Clara once or twice, when Clara had called around to the clinic to talk to Yvonne.

Yvonne peeled the clingfilm from her sandwich. ‘Oh, fine. Between boyfriends at the moment, but that doesn’t usually last long.’

‘But nobody special so far?’

‘Nobody special, no.’

Lately, though, Clara had definitely been preoccupied. Maybe there was someone else whom Yvonne didn’t know about yet. Well, he’d show up sooner or later.

‘Kettle’s boiling. You’re miles away.’ Dolores dropped bit of eggshell into her lunchbox. ‘Bet I know who you’re thinking of.’

Yvonne poured water over her teabag. ‘Actually, I was wondering what I’d have for dinner tonight.’

Dolores snorted. ‘Like fun you were. So is he back from Tuscany?’

‘He got back a few days ago. I haven’t met him yet – he’s in Dublin.’

‘But he’ll be down soon?’

‘He will – in a week or two, he said.’ Yvonne squeezed her teabag against the side of her cup and dropped it onto the crumpled clingfilm that had held her sandwich. ‘So tell me more about Venice. Have you seen any pictures of the hotel?’

Imagine what Dolores would say if she knew Yvonne was keeping a much juicier piece of information from her. Imagine her face if Yvonne said, ‘Actually, around the time that you and Martin will be taking off for Venice, I’ll be going out to dinner with a man I’ve never met. I’ve been internet dating, you see. This is the second man I’ve agreed to meet – the first was Pawel, although we didn’t know we were emailing each other because we’d both changed our names.’

Dolores would probably keel over, or at least be totally speechless. Yvonne was almost tempted – just to see her face.

Joe had finally suggested meeting up, almost six weeks after he’d first made contact. I’ll be in your neck of the woods on business on Friday, he’d written. Maybe we could grab a bite to eat?

He’d asked her to suggest a restaurant in Charleton, and Yvonne had picked one she hadn’t been to before, at the far end of the town from where she’d met Pawel.
They’d arranged to meet in the restaurant at half past seven. Joe would book himself into a hotel in Charleton for the night.

He’d put his photo on the site. He had thinning dark hair, cut short, and a small, neat moustache. In the photo he wore a pale blue polo shirt and he was smiling. He didn’t look psychotic and he wasn’t anyone she knew. Hopefully her second attempt at finding love on the internet would be a little more successful than the first.

She sipped her tea and listened to Dolores telling her why it wasn’t a bit fair that her Fionn hadn’t won the painting competition after all.

Grainne looked up from her book as Justin walked into the sitting room. ‘Is she back yet?’

‘No.’

Kathryn had gone into town to use Yvonne’s birthday massage voucher.

‘I feel like a treat,’ she’d said the night before. She was applying cream to her throat, using long, upward strokes with the backs of her fingers. Justin was lying on the bed, watching her. ‘I need a treat.’

He got up and stood behind her, put his hands on her shoulders. ‘You’ve been working too hard.’ He tried to meet her eyes in the mirror. ‘Kath?’

‘Yes?’ She looked up then, screwing the lid back onto the jar.

‘You OK?’

She stood up quickly and shook off her slippers. ‘I wish you’d stop asking me that.’ She turned back the duvet and got into bed. ‘I’m tired, that’s all. Can we have the light off, or are you going to read?’

And when he’d slipped in beside her, she’d turned away from him, like she’d been doing for weeks.

Grainne folded down the corner of her page and closed the book. ‘Sit down. I want to talk to you about something.’

‘What?’

‘Sit down – I can’t talk to you when you’re standing over me.’

He sat in an armchair across from her and waited.

‘I’m concerned about Kathryn.’

Exactly what he’d been expecting. ‘Are you? Why?’

‘She’s not been herself. You must have noticed it.’

Justin nodded slowly, reluctantly, not wanting to say anything to his mother that might sound negative towards Kathryn. ‘She seems a bit out of sorts, I suppose.’

‘I think I know what’s wrong.’ Grainne stopped. ‘Although I’m not sure I should be telling you.’

Justin waited. Of course she’d tell him.

‘You see, I think …’ Grainne ran a finger up and down the spine of her book. ‘I think she may be going through the menopause.’

‘What?’

Grainne put up a hand. ‘Well, we can’t rule it out, you know. She is heading into her late forties, it’s not unheard of. And remember, I can recognise the signs.’

Justin tried to stifle his annoyance. ‘No. It can’t possibly be the menopause, she’s much too young.’ He wanted to slap her hand down. ‘It can’t be that.’

‘She’s almost ten years older than you.’ His mother’s voice took on a new edge. ‘You seem to forget that quite a lot.’

He let his anger out then. ‘Why do I need to remember it? You never miss an opportunity to remind
me – or Kathryn. You make sure she never forgets how old she is.’ He stopped, appalled. They never spoke to each other like this. ‘I’m sorry, it’s just – you do go on about it a bit.’

Grainne sounded offended. ‘I’m only looking out for you. I know how much you always wanted children—’

He opened his mouth, but she put up a hand again to stop him.

‘No, hear me out. You have to accept that in all probability Kathryn is not going to give you a child. Whether this is the menopause or not – and I’m pretty sure it is – she can’t carry a baby to full term. We both know that.’

‘I don’t care about children.’ But he avoided her eye.

Grainne said nothing. After a minute, Justin stood up and left the room.

He was sitting on the patio with a glass of beer when Kathryn got back. She came out carrying a paper bag. ‘I bought you this.’

It was the autobiography they’d seen reviewed a few days earlier in the paper that Justin had said he must get. He smiled up at her, touched. ‘Hey, thanks, love. How was your massage?’

‘Good. I enjoyed it.’

He stood. ‘Will you have a glass of wine?’

‘Ah no, I think I’ll have a lie-down.’

‘Want me to come up?’

She smiled faintly. ‘No, I think I need to sleep. See you later.’

Justin watched her walk indoors. It couldn’t possibly be the menopause. Wasn’t forty-five much too young?
But something was wrong, that much was obvious. Something she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, talk to him about.

Which made two of them. Some couple they were, these days. He drank his beer and listened to the music coming faintly from two gardens away.

Upstairs, Kathryn looked out of their bedroom window and saw Clara O’Mahony lying, half naked, on a cream blanket in the garden. She took in the gleaming, butterscotch skin, the firm curve of Clara’s buttocks, barely covered by a pair of bikini bottoms. The feet, twitching in time to whatever music was playing on the little radio beside her.

From this distance, it was impossible to say whether there was any cellulite on the slim thighs, but Kathryn was willing to bet that the skin there was perfectly silky and undimpled.

She wondered how much Justin could see from where he sat. Was that what had brought him out the back? Had he seen Clara through the window, maybe, going out to lie down?

She imagined him stroking Clara’s thighs. She imagined him kissing his way down her smooth, golden back, cupping her breasts, slipping off her briefs—

No. She turned quickly from the window and began to unbutton her top with angry, trembling fingers.