Deceptions (38 page)

“I can’t believe I rescued the creator of
Nowhere Lodge
from certain death,” she said, noticing his manuscript on the table.” She carried it and the sandwich to the sofa where she read avidly for the rest of the morning. “My friends will never believe this.” Occasionally, she chortled. “I bet I’m the only person in the world who knows what’s going to happen in the next series. Can I visit him this afternoon? I’ve a number of suggestions to make. Some of his plot lines are way off target.”

“You certainly cannot visit him. He’s recovering from serious surgery.”

“Then I’ll make some notes. Be sure and give them to him. Tell him I’m prepared to accept ten Jason Judge autographs as payment. Otherwise –” she paused for dramatic effect, “I’ll reveal everything to the tabloids.”

“I’ll warn him.”

“I like it when you laugh and mean it.”

“Glad to know something meets with your approval.”

“Are you all right about me staying in Dad’s apartment next weekend?”

“I already told you. It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine at all. But he’s under house arrest. She’s such a calculating, conniving
cow
. No! That’s too insulting to the mother of my calf. She’s a blistering, bollocking bitch!”

“Emily!”

“Stop pretending to be Saint Lorraine. If I were in your shoes I’d take out a contract on her. She was supposed to be your best friend and all the time she was cheating behind your back.”

“Stop it immediately. Do you hear me?
Stop
it.”

“It’s never going to be all right again with Dad, is it?”

“Not the way it was. I can’t turn the clock back, no matter how much you want me to.”

“If you went for counselling, it could help. I read an article on mediation. This woman said it gave her and her husband a whole new perspective on their marriage. I cut the article out of the paper for you.”

Lorraine had a sudden desire to slap her daughter. A sharp smack on her backside which would silence her instantly, stop the aimless drivel she felt obligated to fling at her mother whenever the opportunity rose. With the pony, Adrian had broken through the last of Emily’s defences. Lorraine had been aware of a shifting in the balance of blame. Somehow, Adrian, working gently, persuasively, had managed to obtain his daughter’s support and the two women who had been in the centre of his life for more years than Lorraine cared to count were now assuming responsibility for his marriage break-up. She stared at the set of her daughter’s mouth, the wilful expression disguising her confusion, and knew that Emily was as adrift as she was, battling too many conflicting emotions, dreaming too many impossible dreams.

The sudden flash of anger drained away and Lorraine was overwhelmed by all they had lost. It was a pure feeling of loss. Nothing else, no fury, disbelief or jealousy. She sank to the sofa and began to weep. Emily held her close. The reversal of roles was instantaneous and her daughter’s arms were strong. Later, they could reclaim their rightful order in the echelons of family life but for the moment there was just the comforter and the comforted.

A phone call from the hospital came as Lorraine was preparing to leave the house. The nurse was apologetic. Complications had arisen and Michael was under observation until his temperature settled. Could Lorraine postpone her visit until tomorrow? The nurse was reassuring but her brisk voice did nothing to lessen Lorraine’s apprehension. She remembered the urgency in his voice when he mentioned his son, his anxiety to see her as soon as possible. She moved indecisively around the kitchen, unable to settle. The opportunity of painting for the afternoon held no appeal. The studio was cold and the earlier bout of weeping had drained her energy. Emily was also suffering from severe cabin fever and intended cycling through the slush to visit the friend whose house was closest to Stile’s Lane. She emerged from her bedroom in black cycling trousers, a yellow puffa jacket and bicycle helmet. “Don’t say it,” she warned her mother. “I know I look like an obese wasp but you will insist on the helmet. Can I sleep in Fran’s tonight?”

“That depends on whether we’re discussing a male or female,” Lorraine replied, still puzzled on the gender issues surrounding this particular friend.

“You think Fran’s a
girl
?” Outraged, Emily stared at her mother.

“It’s the eye shadow that makes me uncertain.”

“So? Has anyone ever stopped you wearing aftershave?”

“I don’t wear aftershave.”

“But Fran wouldn’t stop you if you wanted to. Why can’t he wear eye shadow? Your generation are always labelling people. It’s so …
so
old age stuff.”

“All I asked was – oh, never mind. I’ll ring his mother and check if it’s OK.”

“We’re planning a surprise birthday party for the goths.” She bared her teeth, stuck two index fingers to the sides of her mouth. “We’re going to dress up as vampires and invite them over to his house. Then we’re going to jump out on them from behind the kitchen door.”

“Have you considered the possibility that Janis and Joplin could drop dead from shock?”

“Then we suck their blood.” She guffawed heartily.

Mother and daughter had reverted to their natural roles.

C
HAPTER
F
IFTY

Killian

Snowflakes in a glass orb. Still and peaceful, shining like a diamond on his grandmother’s mantelpiece. He shakes the world. Shakes it in his fist. Watches the snowflakes swirl. Watches them settle. He waits for the night shift.

A broken tibia, Killian. What on earth was your father doing in Trabawn? Never heard of the place. Don’t fret, he’ll be back soon. Duncan got a star in school today. Best boy in class. He’s with me now. Say hello to Killian.

Hello … hello … can we go home now?

Another boy band in the charts, Killian. White suits, ugh! I’ve got a rose tattooed on my shoulder. See? Mum is threatening to lock me up and throw away the key. Lorcan’s a suit. Can you believe it? He showed me his business card. Advertising Executive. He’s even carrying a briefcase. Says it impresses the hell out of his old man.

Knock Knock. Who’s there? B-4. B-4 who? Let me in B-4 I freeze to death. Ha Ha Ha.

The job’s crap, my mate. Guy’s a snowflake. He doesn’t see me. Just the old man’s money. She’s a bit of all right but a real ball breaker. Wake up, Killian. Wake up! I want to talk to you proper.

My daughter text tonight. She has a boyfriend now. A biker boy. Angel from hell. I worry he will go too fast. Soon I see my family. Soon, little soldier, soon.

Killian, it’s Meg. See what I’ve got.
The Cat in the Hat
! Bet you remember every word. But I’m going to read it again, anyway. Eoin’s here too. He brought you a xylophone. Listen to the notes … doh ray me fah soh lah tee doh. Listen again … and again … sing with your heart, Killian, and we will hear you.

I’ve put on weight. Comfort eating. My wedding dress is too tight. Fuck! Why did I ever say yes?

There you are, Loveadove. I’ll park my trolley and we’ll begin. Am I holding biscuits in my hand? One blink for yes, two for no.

Blink
.

How many biscuits am I holding up?

Blink! Blink! Blink!

Three it is. A genius … a bleedin’ genius, that’s what you are! What’s with those goats in their white coats? Don’t know their arses from their elbows. Goats in white coats – listen to me. I’m a bleedin’ poet. Isn’t that what I am?

Blink!

Killian my wandering boy. Where have you gone? Further than any of us, I should imagine. Wait till I tell you about the Milford Sound! Such magnificence. Such adventures. I’ll bring you with me next time. Maggie says you’re counting. How many fingers have I got? Three, you say. Three fingers and a thumb. Lost one in Alaska. Bet it’s preserved better than I am. Where on earth is your father? Lucky I had the key to his apartment or I’d have spent the night on the corridor. His phone is off. It’s not like him to be out of contact. Must ring Jean, see what’s going on.

P
ART
F
OUR

C
HAPTER
F
IFTY
-O
NE

“Is this Michael’s phone?” The voice at the other end had the huskiness of a heavy smoker.

“Yes, it is,” Lorraine replied.

“Can I speak to him, please? I’ve been trying to contact him since last night.”

She had been clearing the breakfast dishes from the table when she remembered his mobile phone. The call came shortly after she removed it from the charger and switched it on.

“I’m afraid he’s still in hospital.”

“Jean told me about his accident. How is he?”

“He’s over his operation. Yesterday, his temperature was still high but I’ve been speaking to him this morning and he sounds fine.”

“Who are you, my dear?”

“My name is Lorraine Cheevers. Michael’s accident happened close to where I live. I’ll be visiting him shortly.”

“I’m his aunt, Harriet Carmody. Could you give me the telephone number for the hospital? I flew in from New Zealand late last night but he wasn’t expecting me back for some weeks yet.”

Lorraine flicked among the papers on the telephone table and called out the hospital number.

“I’ll ring him right away.” The woman thanked her. “He must be extremely worried about Killian.”

“Is Killian all right?”

“There’s no change, at least not that I can notice. But I’m afraid the prognosis remains as bleak as ever.”

“Prognosis?”

“I’m in the clinic with him at the moment. How long does Michael expect to be in hospital?”

“I’m not sure … are you saying there’s something
seriously
wrong with Killian?”

“There’s no deterioration in his condition, if that’s what you mean. He’s still in a deep coma but I was talking to the tea lady before I rang you and she insists there are signs of an increased response. She may have something there. It’s so hard to be certain. If the doctors knew what she’s doing they’d have apoplexy.”

“But Michael said … are you telling me that Killian is in a
coma
?” Lorraine’s voice faltered, fell silent.

“Hasn’t Michael told you about his son?” The woman sounded surprised.

“No.” His mobile phone was heavy in her hand. “What happened to him?”

After the phone call ended, she sat at the table and stared towards the window. Her skin felt hot, attacked by a heat rash or a fever. Water dripped like tears from the eaves, shimmered in the glare of winter sunshine. Her eyes were dry as she left the house and drove towards the hospital.

She knew the Hammond Clinic, a small private hospital where one of Donna’s friends had died after being in a coma for a month. Afterwards, a short memorial service had been held in the oratory. Her abiding memory of that occasion was the deep peaceful silence that filled the corridors. A deceptive silence, born out of desperation as relations waited for a signal, a sigh, a whisper from their loved ones who lay sleeping behind closed doors.

Snow lingered on the hospital roof but the flower beds were splashed with green. Early crocuses poked spiky stalks above the earth and the snowdrops were once again visible. He sat outside the bedcover. One leg was heavily encased in plaster of Paris from thigh to shin. The devastation on his face confirmed that his aunt had already been in touch.

He winced when she flung his mobile phone on the bed. “You have to give me a chance to explain,” he said. “Please sit down, Lorraine.”

“Why?” she demanded. “What possible explanation can you give me? You wanted me to meet your son. To paint his portrait. I don’t understand –” She was unmindful of the other patients, the visitors who paused in their conversations to glance curiously in their direction.

“I was going to tell you today. I don’t know what I was going to say – but I hoped to make you understand. I’d no idea Harriet was returning so soon from New Zealand.”

“She said Killian was knocked down in a hit-and-run accident.”

“Yes.”

“Why did you lie to me? What possible reason could there be to tell such a terrible lie?”

“I believed you were responsible for his accident.” The words fell dully, shockingly, between them.

Seeing her expression grow more incredulous, he pleaded. “Please give me time to explain properly, Lorraine.”

She tried to concentrate on what he was saying. His voice seemed far away, unconnected. She pushed the chair back from his bed. She needed distance if she was to hold herself together. He stretched out his hand to comfort her, a jerking movement that disturbed the cast. The pull of his cheeks revealed his pain.

“Where did the accident happen?” she asked.

“On the Great South Wall.”

A boy on the pier, the ferry sailing towards the horizon. Every word they had spoken was meaningless, every gesture misunderstood. Their loving … she closed her eyes, unable any longer to look at him. How he must have hated her, even as he kissed her mouth and stirred her with emotions she believed had been buried forever. He had raped her with his thoughts, desired what he despised, swallowed her in his dark, deep eyes. “Don’t say anything else. I can’t bear to hear another word. Every time we were together I sensed it. But I couldn’t understand –”