The Woman Who Walked Into Doors (14 page)

We went to Courtown for our honeymoon. My idea. We had a week and very little money. The day after the wedding; the train to Gorey and a taxi the rest of the way. We said hardly anything, both of us wrecked from the day before, side by side, leaning into each other.

It had been the wedding day with no ending. There'd been no going-away. We were supposed to have changed into our outfits and pretended that we were leaving that night. I had a cream trouser suit; that's as much as I remember about it. There are no photographs of me in it. I think I had white shoes and a bag. Charlo had a jacket and trousers. It didn't happen. No down the stairs into the crowd of waiting friends and relations. No cheering. No kisses goodbye and dirty remarks. Charlo never came up to the room to collect me. I fell asleep. He came in at about three o'clock and blacked out before he hit the bed; I felt him landing. Our first full night together. No sex, no wrapped around one another. No synchronised breathing as we fell asleep together. I never threw the bouquet. It was the one thing I'd really been looking forward to. The triumph of it; I'm married and you're not, God love yis. I put the bouquet in the bin when I was tidying up the next morning, before we left for the train. Flowers first, stalks sticking up. I made sure it looked finished with.

I didn't mind it too much. I was married now and that was the important thing. My husband was lying beside me in the bed. My other half. His breath spread over my back; the first time we'd really shared a bed. I didn't mind it at all. It would be like this every morning from now on. Warmth and no rush; belonging together. The church had been great, and the meal after — the pavlova; Jesus — most of the day. Charlo was always very funny whenever he had a hangover. The sore head and stomach used to inspire him. He was hilarious. I waited for him to wake up. I was starving. I was gasping for a smoke but I didn't really want one. I never smoked in bed then; I had to be up and dressed first. He groaned and sank deeper below the covers. He knew I was there; he was doing this for me, a performance all for me. He was asking me to forgive him for the night before. And I did. No bother; it didn't matter any more. It was a laugh.

He sat up in the bed and looked around. He knew I was looking at him. He looked up at the ceiling, and around again. He closed his eyes, and groaned.

—Where's the fuckin' floor?

He pulled on his trousers, pretending at first that he didn't know what they were or how to get into them. He stood up, and dropped back. He went to the door and stuck his head out.

—I don't want to live here any more.

He left the door open. I sat in the bed and listened, his feet on the floor outside, heavier than if he'd been wearing shoes. He stopped, and I heard him, muttering for me.

—Wrong fuckin' way.

I heard him singing.

—I left my arse in San Fran —

Cisco —

We didn't stay in a caravan. I'd have liked that, just the two of us in a caravan made for eight, in an empty caravan park. There'd have been no log fire to lie in front of but it would have been lovely, the rain smashing down on the roof — there's nothing like rain on a caravan roof — and us inside, the curtains drawn and the wind to rock us. But it wouldn't have been quite right. Caravans were family things; there was nothing sexy or romantic about them, disappearing beds and water tanks that had to be filled. It would have been a bit weird, a honeymoon in a caravan, difficult to explain. Mind you, there was nothing sexy or romantic about the Bed and Breakfast we stayed in either. It was grand — clean and everything else — but it was nobody's love-nest. Mrs Doyle ran it; she owned it. She was a widow. She told us that before we got up to our room. She smiled at us when she opened the door. It was dark and raining. I sat on our case, fixing my shoe; the strap was killing me.
Our
case; our clothes mixed in together.

—You're a bit early for the sun, said Mrs Doyle.

—We booked, I said, in case she was telling us that they were closed. —Mr and Mrs Spencer.

—That's right, she said.

She was delighted when I told her that we were on our honeymoon.

—Ah lovely, she said. —Lovely. I could see you were a pair of love-birds. Not like some of the ones you get during the peak. Always shouting and roaring at one another and walloping the kiddies.

She stopped on the stairs and looked back down at us.

—I was married to Mr Doyle for twenty-seven years, God rest his soul.

—Is that right? said Charlo.

I was mortified. He was slagging her, I knew it; but she didn't notice.

—That's right, she said back.

She opened the door and stood back for us to go in before her.

—Now don't worry about any mess you might make, she said. —You'll only ever have the one honeymoon.

I liked her. She told me later in the week that she had a daughter married in Gorey — to a lovely little man — two sons, one in Dublin and one in London, both with good jobs in offices. She had seven grandchildren, and another little granddaughter who'd climbed into an old fridge dumped in a field near her house in Dublin and had closed the door behind her and suffocated.

—She'd be seven now, said Mrs Doyle. —Her birthday's tomorrow.

Charlo couldn't understand why I was crying. He put his arm around me and sat on the bed till I stopped but he didn't understand; I could tell.

—She might be making it up, he said.

—How can you say that!

—Well, she might, he said. —I think she makes up half the things she says.

He was right, but not about her granddaughter. Her birthday's tomorrow. You didn't make up things like that. It was too plain. Too simple. I've never stopped thinking about it. Everytime I open the fridge; I'm bending to get the milk and it lights in my head; almost every time. A fridge in a field. The luxury of it as well, being able to throw away a fridge.

I remember, I put all the underwear together in a drawer, Charlo's and mine, and then I changed my mind. I put his into one, and mine into the one under it. I put the case under the bed. He was lying on the bed, his hands under his head.

—The life, wha'.

I pulled back the curtain and saw myself in the window. I turned off the light; it was only three or four steps to the switch. I went back to the window and looked out; the back garden and next-door's back garden. I switched the light back on.

—Well? said Charlo.

—Well what?

—What can you see?

—The sea and boats, I said.

—Very nice, said Charlo. —Only the best. Come over here.

We lay there for ages in the dark and listened to the noises above and under us and outside. We heard feet.

—The jacks, said Charlo.

We waited. A door was opened and closed. We waited for a flush, waited to laugh. Nothing.

—Haha; you were wrong.

—Didn't flush it, that's all.

—Hasn't come out yet either.

—Nothing unusual there; give him time. He's in no hurry. He's on his holliers.

—How d'you know it's a man?

—Shut up.

Nothing; no steps, no flush.

—He's after dying.

I switched off the light. It was cold. It was actually fuckin' freezing. I knew our breath was coming out like steam in the dark; I could feel mine spreading above me.

—Happy?

—Yep.

—Very happy?

—Yep yep.

—Very very happy?

—Yep yep yep.

It was a wonderful honeymoon, start, middle and finish, all of it. We went for walks, we played the slots — we were the only ones in the arcade — we ate chips, we ate ice-creams — all in the rain. We had a few drinks every night — people began to nod hello to us — and we were up in time for the rasher and sausage every morning. We spent most of the time in bed — back up straight after breakfast. I worried about it a bit; I kept expecting a knock on the door or even Mrs Doyle barging in so she could clean the room. But she left us alone. And she always tidied the room. She must have been in a room somewhere, waiting for us to go out. She must have been listening. She always smiled when she met us.

—How're my newly-weds?

—Grand, thanks, Mrs Doyle.

—Lovely. You don't mind the rain.

—No.

—You haven't even noticed it.

—It doesn't matter to us.

—Lovely.

—That much.

She told us that she was giving us more breakfast than we were entitled to but she wasn't showing off and fishing for gratitude. She liked us. Charlo was great with her.

—Ah now, look at this, he said when she put the breakfast in front of him.

—Jaysis.

She laughed. She loved the way Dublin people talked. She liked this time of year the best. It got a bit too hectic later on; she couldn't cope with the noise and fighting back the sand.

—It gets into everything, she said. —I get them to shake their kiddies before they come in but it makes no difference. It's like hoovering the Sahara, so it is,

—D'you ever get to go on holidays yourself? Charlo asked her.

—Oh, I do indeed.

She went to her sisters' houses in England every October; Coventry one week, Luton the next. She put her feet up and let herself be spoiled.

—There's no sand in Coventry, she said. —I love it.

She had three brothers in America — Boston, Buffalo and San Francisco — and another one was dead.

—Cancer; cancer.

She hadn't seen her brothers in years. They didn't write. One of them was divorced and had re-married, a Mexican woman.

—Can you imagine it? She'd go down well here in Courtown. She looks lovely in the photograph.

I waited for her to get the photographs out for us but she never did. Maybe Charlo was right; she was making it all up. She always went to Gorey for Christmas, to her daughter; except the Christmas after the little girl died in the fridge, when she went to Dublin.

—That's the Christmas I'd like to forget, she said. — That kind of thing ruins all Christmases. And my husband died on Saint Patrick's Day.

She started laughing.

—I've only Easter left.

The things I remember. The plates at breakfast. White with a yellow edge. I got the same plate two days in a row, the same chip. I wondered would I be given the same plate for the whole holiday. A stain in Charlo's underpants when they were on the floor. The shock of it, then the comfort: I knew him that well now; we were that close. The feel of the one-armed bandit as I pulled the handle towards me. The heat of the chips coming through the paper in my hand. A car light from somewhere going across the ceiling. The different creaks of the stairs. Mrs Doyle's Sunday clothes and her prayer book and beads. Standing on a sharp stone in my bare feet. Charlo throwing the stone into the sea and yelling after it to fuck off. Looking around to see if anyone had heard him, laughing. Rain. A swan in the harbour, looking miserable. The cold of the water when I paddled.

Nicola was conceived on the Tuesday night. I'm absolutely certain about that. I knew — I drew something into me. Something rushed into my head and made me slam my eyes closed, a mix of pain and happiness. She started then. Nothing will ever prove me wrong. I felt her. Then nothing for weeks, just the knowledge, waiting; what I brought home to Dublin. (I haven't told Nicola yet. I don't know if I ever will. I'm not sure that she'd want to know; I don't know. I'll tell her some time when she's annoying me.) Sex all week. Me as much as him. I tired him out. Four, five goes a day. Twice after we got back from the pub. I'd never done it twice in a row before; I never knew you could. Neither did Charlo. It was never the same after, when we got home from the holiday; the sex. It was good but it was never the first time again. It wasn't the first time then either, strictly speaking, but it was the first proper time. Going to bed; waking up together. Not worrying. Feeling each other. Not hurrying. Lying cuddled up for ever and ever.

Before we got married it had always been a dash. Quick, before they came home, before it got cold, before the last bus. No no no, not here, not yet. Is there a smell? Is there a stain? Is there grass on my back? It couldn't be helped. We didn't have anywhere to go. It had to be quick. It had to end with him. He came, and we went. It wasn't his fault. He wasn't being a pig. The quicker the better. I liked the feel of him coming; I'd made him do it and we could get in out of the rain. Married, it was different. We didn't go anywhere when we were finished. We lay beside each other. We cooled down. We giggled. The noise of the bed, the squeaks and creaks, made us howl. I put my hand over his mouth. He held it with his teeth. It never scared me. He turned to me and held one of my tits.

—You're a ride, he said. —D'you know that?

—So are you, I said. —D'you know that?

—So are you. D'you know that?

I couldn't get enough of him. I was tired and sore but I didn't care. I didn't want to sleep. I wanted the ache. I wanted him in me, all the time. His weight on top of me. I wanted to squeeze him in further and further. I wanted to watch his face. I wanted his sweat to drop onto me. I wanted to drop mine on him. I got on top of him. I'd never done it before. I couldn't really believe it; I was doing this. I was inventing something. I held him and put him in. He felt deeper in me. I'll never forget it. I was in charge and he liked it. I held his hands down. He pretended he was trying to break free. I let my tits touch his face. He went mad; he bucked. He split me in two. I pushed down. I couldn't believe it. One of his fingers flicked over my bum. I did it to him. He lifted and heaved. I couldn't believe it. There was no end to it, no end to the new things. He did something. I copied him. I did something. He did it back. He took me from behind. I pushed back, forced more of him into me. I sucked him. He licked me. I made him come on my stomach. He sucked my toes. The whole room rocked and Mrs Doyle smiled at us every morning.

A post mortem by the State pathologist found that Mrs Fleming had been struck twice across the face but there was no evidence of a sexual assault.

He killed her when he saw the Guards coming. The shot was heard. By neighbours and some of the Guards on the Coast Road. A loud crack. Not what she'd have expected, one of the neighbours said. Maybe when he saw them coming over the wall at the back, from the kitchen window; men sliding soundlessly over the wall, experts. He panicked. The way they moved. There might have been sirens. He shot her. A shotgun. He blew her middle away. When he saw them coming. Experts coming over the wall. He panicked. She started shouting, screaming. His finger pressed the trigger. He'd never done it before. She was running at him, screaming. He did it before he knew what he'd done. She was dead before he understood it.

It didn't work. I couldn't convince myself. I couldn't deny or believe it. I hadn't a clue. I kept starting at the beginning and trying to get to an end, an ending that wasn't appalling. I wanted an ending that included the facts. There was only one big fact: he had shot her. No; there was another one:

. .. Mrs Fleming had been struck twice across the face. . .

Not slapped,
struck.
He'd struck her twice before he killed her. Why? He'd struck her hard enough for the State pathologist to say definitely what had happened. He'd left the marks, like places on a map. Two marks? Both sides? One on top of the other? Slapped, punched, kicked? Why? The papers didn't say. Why had he hit her? There'd have been no need — the sight of the gun and Charlo's eyes breaking through the balaclava would have been more than enough to stop her doing anything stupid. When he'd hit me he'd been keeping me in my place, putting me back in my box. I said there was a smell off his breath: whack. I signed up to do a night class, I gave him a too-soft egg: whack. I went to the doctor: whack. He followed me. There's nothing wrong with you; what's your problem? Whack. And I loved him when he didn't do it; I loved him with all my heart. He was so kind. He just lost his temper sometimes. He loved me. He bought me things. He bought me clothes. Why didn't I wear them? Whack. But why did he whack poor Mrs Fleming? He wasn't married to her. He hit her twice. What had happened?

I wanted none of the answers that started to breathe in me; I smothered them. They were all horrible. They were all just savage and brutal. Nasty and sick. They mocked my marriage, my love; they mocked my whole life.

. . . but there was no evidence of a sexual assault.

No evidence.

What did that mean? Nothing. Had he struck her because she'd tried to stop him? To soften her up? The marks on her face
were
the evidence. Then he'd seen the Guards sliding over the wall. Then he'd shot her. Because she'd have told them. He'd shot her so she couldn't say anything.

No.

Yes.

No.

She was nearly the same age as my mother, only six years younger. The photographs in the papers, the same two again and again; she looked like the granny she was, a nice granny — old, round, finished. A shy smile — don't waste your time photographing me. He'd hit her because she started making noise. He'd panicked, or he'd just hit her to shut her up. There was
no evidence
because there was nothing else. He'd just hit her.

But she'd played tennis every day. She went swimming. She was active. She was very popular. She did things. She had her own car. She whizzed around. Photographs were misleading; I'd seen some of me. I've seen bad ones of Nicola, and she's beautiful. You couldn't tell from photographs, especially in newspapers; they were spotted and dull, photographs of photographs. Mr Fleming would have given them the first ones he'd found.

I knew Charlo.

A woman alone. A challenge. A laugh. He was wearing his woolly balaclava; he was hidden, Superman. (He bought his balaclava. It was in the papers a few days later; putting the whole thing, all the events together. He bought the balaclava in Alpha Bargains on Liffey Street. He murdered a woman, he used a stolen shotgun, he tried to rob twenty-five thousand pounds, but he bought the balaclava. That was just Charlo all over. The fuckin' eejit.) Even if she was as old and dumpy as the photographs said she was. It didn't matter. It didn't have anything to do with it. Young men raped old women. It happened, it had happened before. The mother of a neighbour of mine was raped and nearly killed by a young lad of nineteen, out of his head on drugs, in her old-folk's flat. He'd broken in for money and he'd raped the poor woman, then beaten her up and left her for dead. It happened. Looks and age had nothing to do with it. Men raped women.

He'd killed her because she'd have told them. He weighed up his options; her alive, or dead. Then he'd shot her. Aimed. No panic. Right in the middle. He'd ripped her apart.

Yes.

It had happened that way.

Yes.

No.

Even if he had been doing something, thinking about doing something — there was
no evidence
— he'd never have killed her just for that. He wouldn't have cared. He never cared when I knew that he'd been with other women, when I could smell them off him; he didn't care. He laughed; he denied it and winked. Just as long as I kept my mouth shut and didn't annoy him. He loved it; he thought it was hilarious. Some of those women were no paintings, and I'm not boasting; I was better-looking than most of them. I told him that; I couldn't understand it. And he laughed again. He'd have laughed at her when she was telling the police. He'd have looked at them; he'd have nodded at her. Will yis listen to her. The state of her. I can hear him. He'd have taken off the balaclava to show them his face. There was no evidence. He knew these things. He didn't know what embarrassment was. He'd have laughed right at her.

He saw the police. He panicked. He shot her.

Charlo never panicked.

He panicked this time, the first time in his life; he didn't understand what was happening to him. He saw them coming and it hit him, and she was dead before he knew what the sound of the shotgun was. He looked at her. Under the low roof, the noise shocked him. Guards running. Guns. Better-looking guns than his. He looked at her settling on the floor; her head hitting, and rising, and landing. The blood. The walls. The floor. The mess of her clothes. And he ran.

He ran to the front door. The smell of the gun had spread all through the house. He opened the door. He heard cars. The Guards weren't there yet; they were late getting to the front of the house. He ran. To the right, away from the approaching cars. A car turning into the cul-de-sac. Others after it. He ran away from them. To the end of the road and the castle-house. He could run; he was fit. He played football. The cars emptied. Wheels skidding, doors opening. He looked back. Uniforms and plain-clothes. Hiding behind the doors, gliding along the walls. Used to all this. After him. He ran. To the left, away, off the road, over the little park, to the other road, to the car, where they'd left it. He ran, slid a bit on the wet. The ground would have been soggy. He'd have worried about muck getting on his trousers; I knew Charlo. He wasn't as fit as he thought he was; too much drink and takeaways. He was gasping. Feeling heavy. The shotgun weighed a ton. The rifle. He didn't know how to run and carry it properly. They were after him. He could feel their feet when his touched the ground. He was near the car now. The driver's door was on the path side. Was it locked? No. He opened the door. He looked back.

—Stop!

What did they yell at him? Stop? Halt? Stick'm up? It never said. Hey, you with the shotgun. I don't know. It doesn't matter.

—Stop!

He turned and pointed the gun at them. They were coming up behind him now as well. He was surrounded, by the police and the car; the houses, the clouds and the facts. He pointed the shotgun at them. They stopped and dived. He got into the car. He got out again; he never shut the door. He was getting out. One leg out on the road; the other stuck inside, under a pedal, caught on the mat.

—Fuck it!

The shotgun pointing. Empty. They didn't know that.

One of them shot him. Two more bullets as he fell out of the car. He was falling anyway, his foot stuck. The shots came too late to push him back into the car. He fell face first onto the path. He was dead. He must have really smacked it, face first, no hands out to break his fall. He was dead.

They covered him with a blanket.

There were no last words. Top of the world, Ma! Fuck, Jaysis or Hang on. He just hit the path. Bang; dead.

The State pathologist examined him too, when he was finished with Mrs Fleming. Did the balaclava stop any cutting and bruising? The papers didn't say.