There was someone behind me, nearly on my heels. I thought of Fitzpatrick; he hadn’t been in the pub. I thought of him first, and I turned. But I knew it was a woman – the heels, the pace. I knew it was Brenda before I saw her.
—God, she said.—You go at a fair clip.
She’d walked into me. She was a bit drunk too. She was right into me and my hands were on her shoulders. She stepped back and I took my hands away. I liked her height. She was different. She wasn’t Rachel. She was fattish and human. And curious. And probably unhappy. And mad.
—I didn’t know you lived down this way, she said.
—Yeah, I said.—I’m in one of the apartments.
—Oh. What’re they like?
—Not too bad, I said.—They’re better than they look from the outside. Mine is, anyway.
—Good.
We walked beside each other – or tried to.
—You live down here too, obviously, I said.
—Well, I’m not following you, she said.—If that’s what you’re thinking.
She had that combination of come on and fuck off. It was years since I’d banged into it.
—Never occurred to me, I said.—There are limits to my imagination.
—Go ’way out of that, she said.—Are you living on your own in there?
—That’s it, I said.—All on my own.
—I wouldn’t like that, she said.
—It’s not too bad.
—It might be different for men.
—It might be. What about you?
—What about me?
—The domestic arrangements.
—Four bedrooms, two toilets, three kids, the dog, an occasional cat, one husband, and a mobile home in Cahore.
I laughed. We were at the railings and the gate to the car park. There was a cat sitting beside one of the wheelies.
—Is that one yours? I asked.
—No, she said.—Much more meat on our lad. Do they go in and out?
—The cats?
—Yeah. Into the apartments, like.
—Not that I’ve seen, I said.—They stay out here. And around the back.
—They give me the creeps.
—Me too, I said.—A bit. But I kind of like them as well. D’you want to come in?
—No.
She smiled.
—No.
I wasn’t disappointed. I was probably relieved. I was too drunk for any activity that involved precision or listening. I didn’t want to sit beside her and think that I’d soon have to get up and go for a piss.
—But d’you know what? she said.—It’s nice to be asked.
She held my arm. She stepped in and kissed me on the cheek.
—I’ll keep asking, so, I said.
—Do, she said.
I got into the flat. I went to the window, pulled back the curtain. I looked left, to see if I could spot Brenda on her way home. I opened the window, pushed it out – the hinge complained – and listened for her heels. Heard nothing like heels. I left the window open. I liked the wind in the branches, the odd car door slamming, a shout from up on the main road, a siren miles away. Music from above. A thump-thump-thump I didn’t have a name for – a band, a genre, I hadn’t a clue. There was someone on the other side of the street. Walking past. A man, a big guy. It was hard to see through the shadows and low branches. There was a gap in the trees, where there were two wide driveways side by side. He walked from behind the tree, across the gap. Fitzpatrick. He walked like he was listening to the music above me. Thump thump thump. He looked like a big kid on his way home from football. He didn’t slow down, he didn’t look back.
I saw him again. A few days later. Early morning – bright, but very quiet – it was just after six. I’d stayed at home the night before. I was wide awake and restless. I saw him. Down the street. He’d been crossing it, from my side. I saw the pink back, the shorts, before he went behind the trunk of a hundred-year-old tree. It was him. On his way home.
A taxi slid in from the opposite direction. It stopped, stalled. It wasn’t dark but the indicator lit the air under the trees. A girl got out. The girl I’d seen before. She shut the back passenger door. She didn’t let it slam. She had her shoes in one hand, her bag in the other. She walked across the car park. She walked carefully over the car-park stones. I looked for Fitzpatrick. He wasn’t there.
* * *
—Are you going to come up?
I saw her decide; I hoped she’d change her mind. I hoped she wouldn’t.
It was later that same day, the day I’d seen Fitzpatrick crossing the street.
—Yes, she said.—Okay. For a while, just.
I led the way across the car park. I’d slowed, to let her walk beside me. But she didn’t seem to want that. This was big; this was her street, her neighbours, her life. I didn’t feel drunk, or too drunk. I stopped hearing her steps on the stairs. I turned – I held the banister.
—I don’t know, she said.
She was halfway up the stairs.
I didn’t answer.
—I’ve to be up in the morning, she said.
I was willing to be rejected.
—Okay, I said.—Another time.
—Just a quick cuppa, she said.
She followed me up and stood back while I opened the door. I half hoped she’d change her mind again. And I didn’t. I wanted to put my hands on her back. I wanted to kiss the skin between her shoulder blades.
She closed the door with a little click. It really was a crummy place. The sad nest of a new, forced bachelor. But it wasn’t. I knew: every happily married man and woman wanted a place just like this.
We were five feet apart.
—You’re my first guest, I told her.
—I’m honoured, she said.
She smiled. She put hair behind an ear. She glanced at the other two doors.
—We’d better celebrate, I said.—I’ve no beer, or wine – sorry. Tea or Bovril?
—D’you have Bovril?
—No.
—I haven’t had Bovril in years, she said.—I used to like a mug of Bovril.
—Is this where we’re at? I asked, as I filled the kettle.—Two secret lovers talking about Bovril.
She laughed.
—We’re not lovers – excuse me.
—And we’ve no Bovril.
She sat down on the couch. I sat beside her.
—A cuddle’ll do me, she said.
—Me too.
—I can’t stay.
—Grand.
—Like – I don’t want to stay.
—Fine.
—What’s she like?
—Who?
—Rachel, of course. Your Rachel.
* * *
—The man himself, he said.
We were in SuperValu. I was in SuperValu and he was suddenly right beside me, bang up against me. I’d just opened a high fridge door, to get at a carton of cream of tomato soup. I noticed the pink cloud – the shirt – in the fridge glass before I knew it was him. I thought I was being pushed in, I thought I was being robbed. He was vast, away from the shadows of the pub. His feet were apart because they had to be. There was a grass stain on one leg of his shorts.
—Doing the shop, he said.
—Yep.
—Same as meself.
—A pain in the arse, I said.
He looked in my basket. There was brown bread in there, and apples, and flat peaches.
—You’re looking after yourself, anyway, he said.—I’ve seen you with your new buddies.
I tried to think of something to say. He didn’t push, but I had to get out of his way as he leaned in and took down the soup that I’d been aiming at. He looked at it – he actually stared at the carton and tossed it back up on its sh
elf.
—Did you tell them yet? he said.
—Tell them what?
—About the Brother playing with your mickey.
There was no one else near us. I stepped back out of his heat.
—Don’t start, I said.
—Start what? he said.—Start what? I thought it was your fuckin’ party piece.
I wanted to walk but I was afraid he’d thump the back of my head, kick the back of my leg, trip me up, drop on me. I was afraid.
—I’m only messing with you, he said.
He smiled. He shrugged. He didn’t have a basket. He didn’t have anything. He’d followed me. And I remembered him then – the shrug, the grin; I remembered the boy inside the bulk. I thought I did.
—The fucker got to all of us, he said.—He went right through the fuckin’ roll book. Are you going down tonight?
I didn’t know what he meant at first.
—What?
—Are you going to the pub? Hello – ?
—I don’t know –
—Will I call for you? he said.—I know where you live.
The grin was back.
—Don’t mind me, he said.—I’m just acting the prick. Go on ahead with your shopping.
He didn’t move. I had to do it. It took effort, decision. I wasn’t sure how I walked away.
I kept going.
—See you later, he shouted.
I shouted too.
—Okay.
* * *
He was waiting for me, standing between me and the men. I’d stayed away the night before, after I’d seen him in SuperValu. But I wasn’t going to stay away for good. I liked what I was starting to have. Friends. Banter. Brenda. I’d put up with him; I’d have to. I’d accommodate him, roll with him. I couldn’t spend my time looking out the window, half expecting to see him in the trees. I couldn’t be scared of him.
I bought him a pint when I was buying my own. I’d chat to him, give him the bit of attention, then I’d move across to the men. If he came with me, fine; I’d bring him. They could deal with him. He’d been a fixture in the pub for years. I put his Heineken in front of him, on the counter. My pint was settling.
—Do you remember the last day? I asked him.—I was thinking about it a few days ago.
—What last day?
—Last day of school, I said.
—Jesus, he said.—The land before fuckin’ time.
—There was – I don’t know. I suppose, a reception. A do. Us and all the teachers, and the Brothers. In the hall.
—What hall?
—The new hall they built.
—It wasn’t a hall, he said.
—It was.
—No.
—Where the tea and cakes were. It was – it was definitely in the hall.
—Sports complex.
—Was that what they called it?
—Yep.
—Christ.
—Four walls and a fuckin’ roof.
—I hated it, I said.
—School?
—Yeah.
He stared at me, and shrugged.
—Can you remember who told the Head Brother to fuck off? I asked him.
He stared at me again. But it was actually hard to know if he was staring. It was as if he turned off for a second or two in mid-look.
—The last day, I said.—Before the Leaving. Do you remember?
—Yeah, he said eventually.
I’d looked across at the men while I was waiting for him to answer.
—Am I fuckin’ detaining you? he said.
I looked at him properly.
—No.
—Grand. That was me.
—What?
—I told the fucker to fuck off.
—It was you?
—I told you – yeah. It was me.
I’d been thinking about that day, thinking about working some version of it into the story – the novel – I was writing. I could hear the words, the voices. I could see a path opening. I remembered that – people getting out of the way. The words tumbling down the passage ahead of him, the silence closing in after him. The sun coming through the window glass high up on each of the walls. But I couldn’t see him. I couldn’t see Fitzpatrick storming out.
—It was you? I said.
—Yep.
—Why?
He let go of some breath. He shrugged.
—Why not?
—Did you plan on saying it? I asked.
—Are you fuckin’ serious? he said.—I never planned a thing in my fuckin’ life.
He slapped my shoulder, hard.
—That’s my fuckin’ problem.
His eyes were wet as he laughed.
—What fuckin’ consequences!
I laughed with him. I didn’t want to leave him alone. There was something raw there, open in front of me.
—Did you do the Leaving after that? I asked him.—Did they let you?
—You don’t remember.
He was staring at me again.
—I do, but —
—Fuck the Leaving, he said.—Enough of that shite. Life’s too fuckin’ short. What do you think of Brenda?
—What?
—Fuck off now. I have eyes, you know. The walls have fuckin’ ears. She’s a great knitter, you know. House full of fuckin’ wool. She’d knit here if she could get away with it. They all would. The sexy oul’ ones over there.
He clapped his hands.
—Fuckin’ great, he said.
I laughed. There was something about him, something I’d been trying to avoid. I was liking him.
—Come here, he said.—Did you ever get a tug from a woman that knits? You probably have.
—No.
—No?
—I don’t know.
—Oh, you would, he said.—Believe me. Nothing like it. No supermodel could come close to a fifty-year-old bird that knits. Ask Brenda. She’ll demonstrate it for you.
He wasn’t being quiet; he didn’t care.
—Has to be real wool, mind. Fuck the synthetic fibres.
He wasn’t offering to get us the next round. I was drinking more since I’d met the other men; I was able to. It was strange, but that made me feel fitter. I looked across at them.
—Am I keeping you? he said again.
—We might as well go over, I said.
I took what was left of my pint. I knew he’d follow. I’d buy the next round and include him. He’d be getting two pints out of me. I’d been leaving the flat with an extra twenty euro in my pocket, just in case. I was running out of money. It was Thursday night and the place was busy, the way I’d begun to like it. All four were in – Harry, Martin, Pat, Liam. I put my glass down carefully among the other glasses. I nodded at the table and the glasses.
—We ready?
—Stupid question.
—Go on ahead.
I turned to Fitzpatrick, but he hadn’t followed me. He was standing where we’d been, staring down at his phone. I went back over, smiled at one of Brenda’s pals on the way. I could tell: she didn’t know. And there’d been no swapped looks from the men. No one knew about myself and Brenda. So, how had Fitzpatrick known?
—D’you want a pint? I asked him.
He was slow bringing his eyes, and his head, up from the screen. His back was fully straight before he turned his head to look at me.
—Yeah.
One of the lounge girls was at the counter. I gave her the order, five pints of Guinness and a pint of Heineken, and pointed to where I wanted them delivered.
—Perfect, she said.
Fitzpatrick had gone back to his phone.
—You coming over? I asked him.
He looked up, then back down,
without looking at me.
—No, he said.—Go on.
I took the Heineken off the lounge girl’s tray and handed it to him. He said nothing. I said nothing. I waited, hesitated, a second, two seconds, then went. I’d been watched.
—What’s up with your man? said Liam.
—Well, I said.—You know, yourself.
—No.
—Who is he, anyway? Pat asked.
There was glee in the question. The others weren’t as eager but they all wanted the answer. But the question had knocked me.
—I thought you knew him, I said.
I looked at them. I looked at Harry, hoping he’d nod, smile – I wasn’t sure why. Things were suddenly missing. I felt dizzy, as I sometimes did when I stood up too quickly.
—No, said Pat.
—Like, we’ve seen him around, said Liam.—In here. And around.
—Ed, said Martin.—That’s his name, isn’t it?
—Yeah, I said.—Fitzpatrick. I went to school with him.
—Is that it? said Martin.—I thought you might be cousins or something.
—No, I said.—I hardly know him. Just when we were kids. Actually – he introduced us.
—Introduced?
—Over there, I said, and I nodded at the bar.—When we met.
I looked, but Fitzpatrick was gone.
* * *
She liked the adventure, she liked being a bit scared. She liked to think that she was tiptoeing along a cliff edge, that her husband would care. But she liked me too. And I liked her.
She leaned out and took up her tea.
—It’s silly, she said.—But you kind of expect famous people to be a bit obnoxious.
—Why?
—Because they can be, she said.
She sipped from the mug.
—Would you be like that? I asked her.
—If I was famous?
—Yeah.
—Famous for what? Driving the kids to school?
—I’d say you excel at it, I said.
—Driving the kids?
—Yeah.
—You’re gas.
—But just imagine you’re famous, I said.—Would you misbehave – be obnoxious?
—God, yeah.
—Really.
—Oh, yeah.