Deceptions (2 page)

“It’ll be quiet there now.” He turns right at the end of the road. His smile washes over her. “We can’t let our night be completely ruined.”

She laughs, unsure whether or not he is serious. “You’re asking me to make out in a car?”

“It’s been a while, eh?” He is relaxed now, his hand teasing its way between her knees.

“A while,” she agrees. “And it’s a daft idea.”

“But a good one. What do you say?”

She nods and thinks, this is crazy, the two of them behaving so recklessly, but there is also the long-forgotten thrill of being in the open, playing perilous deceptive games.

He drives between houses and parklands, passes a factory with jagged rooftops, follows the flow of cars heading in the direction of the East-Link. Before reaching the toll-bridge which separates the north and south of the city he turns at the South Port roundabout and drives deep into the industrial zone.

The terrain changes, becomes darker, more isolated. This is a place with few charms, filled mainly with offices, oil-storage depots and an occasional abandoned factory site. He continues towards a small car-park overlooking the bay. A number of cars are already parked, possessively claiming space in the shadows. Without a word he reverses back out onto the pitted road leading to the Great South Wall. As he brakes beside a shed with high brick walls, the headlights flare into the dark recesses of the pier.

He cups her face and bends towards her. They are impatient now but she moves slowly, teasingly. He watches the sensuous glide of her dress along her legs, the revealing glimpse of lacy stocking tops and lingerie. He sighs, moves her hands aside to draw down the first stocking, then the other. She arches against him, knowing by the urgency with which they touch each other that this will not last long. They are not teenagers, even though they feel ageless, and there is some discomfort as they awkwardly manoeuvre themselves beyond the reach of steering-wheel and gear stick.

The headlights of an approaching car swamp them. The presence of strangers feels like shivery fingers on her neck. They are safe, hidden in steamy seclusion, but even the hint of exposure brings the all-too-familiar tension to the fore. The driver brakes and turns off the lights. A door is opened. Her stomach clenches, imagining the indignity of a vice-squad intrusion but there is no rap on the window, no gruff demand for identification. A voice does call out, male and almost inaudible. It floats towards them. There is something urgent in the sound that unsettles her. The driver returns to the car and once again illuminates them before departing.

When they kiss again there is no conviction in the feel of his mouth. His aftershave, her perfume, the cigarettes they smoked, even the subtle, intimate odour of sex, which she senses rather then smells, suddenly seem oppressive, heavy. She is only now beginning to notice the faint fumes of paint which grow stronger even as she tries to ignore them.

“Why couldn’t we spend the night in your house?” she demands.

He pulls away from her, peers at her face to see if she is joking. “You can’t
really
be serious.”

“Try me.” She hears her voice, sharper, demanding she knows not what. They are floundering, she suspects, within this intimate sphere they have created, unable to move back but equally incapable of moving forward. They need more from this relationship – yet when she tries to imagine what this “more” entails she is unable to give it shape or substance.

“Are we going to totally destroy the night with a row?” he demands.

“It was destroyed the moment they walked into the hotel,” she retorts. Ignoring his protests, she slips on her shoes, straightens her clothes and steps outside. The night air refreshes her. For November the weather is exceptionally mild. She begins to breathe freely again. Behind her, the tall Pigeon House chimneys funnel smoke into the atmosphere. This place, with its cracks and warning notices, is hazardous, he warns, following her, trying to calm her down. She allows him to catch up with her and soon they are walking with one step. He steers her towards the shelter of the shed. They walk cautiously along the narrow path surrounding it and stop when the pier is out of sight. Only the cry of seabirds and the wash of waves on the rocks below disturb their solitude. They are impatient now. No time or space for the slow removal of clothes. He opens her coat, pulls her dress to her waist. She is ready when he enters her and their pleasure, heightened by their argument and the events of the night, is swift and intense.

When it is over he lights two cigarettes, hands one to her. Their rituals are as exact as if they have been married for many years. But the familiarity created within marriage has never touched their relationship and even this simple act of smoking, their exhaled smoke mingling unseen in the dark, is imbued with meaning. They are about to return to the car when the shriek of the alarm freezes them. The noise ceases for an instant, almost teasingly, then starts to whirr again. The reverberations press against her ears. He begins to run. She flings her cigarette towards the sea and follows him.

When he presses the off-alarm the instant silence is almost as shocking as the high-pitched clamour. The door on the driver’s side is ajar, the window broken. Loose wires hang from the dashboard and there is a gap where the stereo has been pulled loose. She hadn’t locked the boot in her haste to leave the hotel and the intruder did not have to force it open. Inside it, wooden picture frames still lie on top of each other but their briefcases are missing. She is relieved to see their overnight bags have not been touched. The pier now seems deserted yet this only increases her nervousness. She senses eyes watching them, violence waiting, preparing to strike again.

A short distance away she finds their briefcases. Documents are scattered along the pier. Some have already blown into the sea. She gathers those she can find and watches the remainder flutter eerily above the water before floating away. Back in the car she glances through the salvaged documents, sorting them into individual batches and stuffing them back into the briefcases. Glass has been scattered across the driver’s seat. He carefully picks up the pieces, cries out when a shard cuts deep into his hand. His handkerchief is quickly saturated with blood and he reaches into his briefcase, cursing with frustration as he tries to locate a packet of tissues. Silencing him, she bandages the wound, finding a clean cloth among the jumble of paint-stained rags and brushes in the glove compartment. Her movements are swift and efficient. The night has turned into a fiasco which she wants to end as soon as possible.

Ignoring his protests, she insists on driving. On the first try the engine fails to start. She gently coaxes it into life and drives carefully towards the road. In the distance a ferry looms out of the night, sailing towards the North Wall terminal. Its lights glitter on the black sea. It begins to rain. The wipers are no longer working but the rain is light, a slight drizzle gleaming on the windscreen. Across the bay the lights from the ferry terminal blur against the glass. She accelerates, passes the car-park, empty now, and wonders if any of the other cars were vandalised in the same random way. He is still clasping his hand but blood has not yet seeped through the wad of tissues.

A plastic bag, bloated with air, startles her as it flaps past the broken window. It flutters like the wings of an injured seagull and forces her eyes off the road. At first, when the figure looms before the car, she believes he is in her imagination; a spectre born from terror and the mixed emotions of the night. Somewhere at the back of her mind she knows this is a man, his figure elongated in the glare of headlights, but it takes a heart-stopping instant before she brakes. Her companion appears to be in the same suspended state of disbelief and shouts a warning when it is too late. The figure rises in the effortless poise of a dancer, pirouettes before them with an almost-obscene gracefulness before sinking back again to the road. Even the squeal of brakes, the shouts of her companion who has covered his eyes, fail to banish the impression that she is witnessing a surreal ballet sequence performed on a wet, glistening stage. But this is a fleeting impression, instantly registered then forgotten, and all she will remember in the months to come are the crack of his body hitting the bonnet and a duller thud when he tumbles back to the road. The car seems possessed of a manic energy, shuddering, screeching, bucking against her hands as she fights to bring it under control. She brakes and slumps across the wheel. A guttural sound rises from her abdomen and escapes from her mouth. She is disassociated from the sound yet she knows it belongs to her – and to the horror that awaits her when she steps outside.

Her companion is already bent over the sprawled body. The young man lies to the right-hand side of the car. In the headlights, she sees blood trickling down the side of his mouth. Otherwise, his face seems unmarked. A woolly hat is low on his forehead. His head appears dwarfed by the width of a padded anorak and his hands, in fingerless gloves, are limply splayed across the concrete. Compact discs, stolen from the glove compartment, have fallen from his pockets – The Chieftains, U2, Bob Dylan, Billie Holiday – but there is no sign of the stereo.

She pulls her coat collar over her cheeks. The wind sweeps in from the sea and lifts her hair, blowing it over her eyes, offering a blinkered protection from the sight in front of her. Darkness presses down, threatens to engulf her. Her companion shudders as he reaches out to touch the young man’s wrist. His breath escapes in a sob. He draws back on his heels, sways unsteadily to his feet. The horror of what has occurred makes words impossible. Fear and self-preservation overwhelm her. Already she is thinking like a different person. She ignores his protests and insists they leave now, before they are discovered. The car is a beacon, flaring a signal for anyone to witness. She takes his arm and pulls him towards its protection. Once again she moves into the driver’s seat. This time he does not protest.

When they reach the roundabout he looks around, as if awakening from a nightmare.

“We have to make a call.” He searches his jacket pockets for coins, fumbling loose change which spills across the seat.

“Not here,” she says, pressing harder on the accelerator. “It’s too close … too close –”

“Jesus Christ! We must call an ambulance. He could still be alive.”

“He’s dead.” Her voice fills the car. “It doesn’t matter when the ambulance gets there.”

For an instant she thinks he will wrench the steering-wheel from her. Instead, he stares through the window, defeated by her determination. She does not stop driving until they reach a road filled with small terraced houses and a phone kiosk. The houses are in darkness, the road empty. She parks the car and picks up the coins, unable to remember the last time she used a public phone. It will provide anonymity and, if their call is traced, they will be many miles away. She holds a scarf before her mouth and names the location of the accident, wondering how long it will take an ambulance to arrive. Not that it matters. The twisted angle of the tramp’s body, his utter stillness, can mean only one thing. Street lights illuminate the car. She notices a deep dent in the bonnet but the main damage was done during the robbery.

Her companion is back in the driver’s seat. His injured hand is clenched painfully on the steering-wheel. His face remains expressionless as he drives towards the late-night car-park where they met earlier when their night held nothing but promise. They do not kiss each other goodbye.

An ambulance should have arrived by now. The police will find shattered glass and a shattered life. Nothing else. She does not hover on the edge of this chasm but leaps it cleanly. The young man had been drinking. A vagrant, homeless. She knew by the smell underlying the alcohol, unclean, musty. Probably a junkie as well as a thief. A deliberate criminal act had been committed, not by them but by a vagrant who believed he had the right to violate their property before staggering drugged and drunk into their path. They will not be held responsible for the consequences. Too much is at stake: reputations, marriages, investments, friendships, their future.

When she reaches her house the outside lantern is shining. She steps into the amber glow and glances at her watch. It is later than she thought. Stolen property, stolen hours; thievery has many faces. She opens her front door and closes it quietly behind her.

P
ART
O
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C
HAPTER
O
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Dublin Echo

10 January 2002

POLICE SEEK INFORMATION ON HIT-AND-RUN ACCIDENT

The parents of a young man critically injured in a hit-and-run accident which took place on 20 November 2001 between 11 p.m. and midnight on the approach to the Great South Wall have renewed their appeal for witnesses. Killian Devine-O’Malley (18) remains in a coma, having suffered serious head injuries, a cracked pelvis and severe bruising to his body.

Shortly after midnight on the night of the accident a telephone call was received by the emergency services from an anonymous female caller. The Gardaí have appealed to this woman to come forward to help with their inquiries. They are also anxious to contact any persons who were in the vicinity at that time and may have noticed anything suspicious, especially the occupants of a silver car, make unknown, which was seen on the pier shortly before the accident occurred.

The victim is the son of financial analyst Jean Devine-O’Malley and screen writer Michael Carmody, best known for his cult teen TV series Nowhere Lodge.