Deceptions (40 page)

“Possible?” Fred’s nostrils narrowed. She had offended him again. “I don’t deal in possibilities. If I did my customers could end up in a ditch on the side of the road –
dead
.”

She swallowed, forced the words from her. “My car
was
involved in an accident. I’d really appreciate it if you could show me what made you suspicious?”

Fred marched from his office to the forecourt. All that was missing from his demeanour was the wag of a triumphant tail. He lifted the bonnet of her car and peered into the interior.

“It’s the little tell-tale signs that give it away. Look closely, now, and see what I’m about. The grommets should be black but they’re silver. So are these bolts. It’s a dead giveaway that the bonnet’s been resprayed. A car would never leave the production line in that condition.”

As Lorraine followed his directions she also noticed tiny slivers of silver paint adhered to the front window frame.

“It’s a botched job, if ever I saw one.” Fred snorted derisively and pointed to a bend in a bar stretching across the front of the engine. “The cross member’s dented. The bonnet must have taken a right dint to bend it. And, like I said before, the stereo was ripped out at some stage. I knew it as soon as I started working on the wiring. I’d have a word with the dealer who sold you this car. If you like I’ll write down everything and you can show him my signature on the bottom. Cowboys, some of them bastards.” He slammed the bonnet closed.

“Thanks, Mr Byrne. You’ve been very helpful. I’ll follow it up.”

“No trouble at all. Call me Fred. I hear the art classes are great gas altogether. The wife was talking about maybe giving them a go.”

She tried to concentrate on what he was saying. His face swam in and out of her line of vision. She accepted the signed sheet of paper and drove home.

The following day she travelled to Dublin.

The title
Dublin Echo
had always reminded Lorraine of paperboys with sandwich boards. The interior of the newspaper office with its warren of dark corridors did little to banish this perception. She eventually found the library where the back issues of the newspapers were filed. A frail elderly man led her towards a viewfinder and stooped over her, demonstrating how it should be used. His pasty face blended into a fuzzy white beard. She imagined him living his life within the archival reaches of the building, seldom venturing into the brash modern world outside. She found the reports she needed without any difficulty and paid at reception for the back issues. Then she walked the short distance to Temple Bar where Karl Hyland’s jewellery design studio was located.

Karl greeted her with open arms. “Darling girl, too long –
too
long. What’s this I hear about you becoming a rustic maiden?” He removed imaginary straw from her hair and hugged her again. “How long are you staying? We have to do dinner. But not tonight. Tomorrow? No? Oh dear, cows calling you back so soon? My heart broke when I heard about you and Adrian. As for Virginia, darling – with friends like that who needs a very best enemy? How’s the little one? Cute as ever or has she become one of those revolting teenagers with tongue studs?”

He led her through his shop into the back room where his studio was located. The clutter was in marked contrast to the shop floor where the hushed reverence of a tomb prevailed and an austere young woman in black laid his designs before the public. Karl’s patter remained as fast-paced as ever. He filled Lorraine in on who was doing what and living where and with whom, and how they should all get together for a reunion – a suggestion that filled them both with instant enthusiasm and the guilty knowledge that it would probably never happen.

“I wanted to ask about my bracelet.” She finally managed to interrupt him.

He stared at her wrist and shook his head in mock disappointment. “An inspired design. Why aren’t you wearing it?”

“I’ve mislaid it for the moment. But I’ll find it, don’t worry.” She stilled his horrified reaction with a smile. “I just wanted to enquire if you’d made any other bracelets using that particular design?”

“
What?
I’m mortally wounded. When Karl Hyland says
unique
that’s exactly what he means. How could you even
ask
such a question?”

“I thought there might be others with a similar pattern.”

“Not with my name on it, how could there be?”

“Did Adrian leave it in to be repaired?”

“It’s some time ago, but I remember. Seeing it again reminded me that I was born to design beautiful things.”

“When did he leave it in?”

“Can’t remember exactly. Let me check the records.” He clicked into a computer, scrolled through names. “Last year, November 20th. Paid for and collected. I’ll cut my throat if you tell me he never gave it back to you.”

“No need for such drastic action. I’ll find it. Moving house has been such an upheaval. Everything’s misplaced.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.” He sighed dramatically. “Twice in the last year I’ve pulled up roots. The first place was a hole, an absolute coal hole, and the cost! Darling, you wouldn’t believe what I was shelling out in rent.” She allowed his voice to wash over her. Karl was easy to be around. No hidden fissures.

Adrian was waiting outside Bewley’s Café. They entered and made their way towards the self-service counter. The din of voices rising towards the stained-glass windows, the aroma of coffee, croissants and bacon, the glow from the open fire, the rustle of newspapers, everything was comfortingly familiar. Breakfast in Bewley’s on a Sunday morning was a treat when Emily was a child yet the very core of their lives had changed and the bustling café was filled with uneasy ghosts. She was not hungry but Adrian insisted on ordering coffee and croissants. He emptied sugar into his cup and stirred it rapidly before speaking again. “You look exhausted. What’s wrong?”

“I’ve lost my bracelet.”

“Surely that’s not the reason for those shadows under your eyes?”

“I was wondering where you left it after collecting it from Karl. I spoke to him yesterday. He has a record of the repair.”

“I left it back in your jewellery box. Why?”

“It’s not there now.”

“Then you must have left it somewhere else.” He smiled across the table. “It’s a beautiful piece of jewellery but the memory I have of giving it to you is even more precious. Do you remember the night –”

“Perfectly.” Her voice was expressionless. “I remember you presented it to me as a symbol of devotion and fidelity.”

“I wish to Christ I could make amends and start again.”

“Is the dream not living up to your expectations?”

“I never stopped loving you … despite everything.”

“We’ve already had this conversation, Adrian. Don’t bore me by repeating it. Just give my bracelet back to me.”

She watched him run his finger nervously around the rim of his coffee mug. “I told you I don’t have it. Why are we fighting, Lorraine? We’ve hurt each other enough as it is. Surely there are more important things we can discuss?”

“I only asked you to return what belongs to me.”

“I gave it to you as a gift. Why should I take it back?”

“You took my trust and flung it away. There’s no reason why you should respect a piece of jewellery.”

“Jesus Christ, Lorraine.” His anger was as instant as she remembered. The flash of temper, the persuasive smile, the dismissive shrug. His gestures were as familiar as his ability to render her questions meaningless. A sleight of hand with the truth. “You can’t wait to serve divorce papers on me yet, when you finally decide to contact me, all you do is whinge about that bloody bracelet. What the hell is going on here?”

“I want it back, Adrian. I’ll be in touch next week. Have it for me.”

I loved this man, she thought, rising to her feet. I loved him to distraction and now, when I look at him, when I talk to him, I feel nothing. Emptiness. She rose from the table, fought against the nausea that threatened to overwhelm her. The fire burned brightly as she walked away, embers falling from the grate and settling into grey ash.

A woman reading beside a bed. Photographs and cards pinned to a wall. The scent of flowers and aromatic oils. Impressions whirled before Lorraine’s eyes when she stepped into the ward. The young man lay stiff as an effigy, his body hardly raising the bedcover. Tubes from his body sustained him, drained him. His chin was shadowed with a faint stubble. How calmly he slept. As if aware of her presence his eyelids fluttered and his leg gave a sudden jerk, dislodging a panda bear propped at the foot of the bed. A mangy fur coat, one eye, obviously much loved, much used.

Tears rushed to her eyes. Was he warm or cold, she wondered. Did his heart beat fast or in a slow, uncertain rhythm? A prayer came to her lips. She had never thought of herself as religious, especially since her teenage years, yet, in the presence of such unconsciousness, prayer seemed a natural response. An earthenware bowl filled with oil sat on the locker beside a xylophone. She stepped backwards as the woman raised her face from a book. The lucent quality of her skin added a frailness to her appearance, as if she was recovering from an illness or suffering from deep exhaustion. She wore loose trousers and a silk blouse tucked into the waist. A half-smile softened her mouth when she stood up. The material moved, billowed slightly then settled like a sigh around her.

“Have you come to visit Killian?” she asked.

“I’m sorry. Wrong corridor.” Lorraine backed from the ward. “Please forgive my intrusion.”

How stilted she sounded, unconvincing. Outside in the corridor she leaned against the wall. The back of her neck was damp with perspiration.

“Are you all right?” The woman quietly closed the door behind her and handed Lorraine a glass of water. “I thought you were going to faint. Would you like to sit down for a moment?”

Lorraine straightened, pushed her hair from her forehead. “I’m fine … really.”

“Drink the water. You’re still very pale. It’s probably the heating. So terribly stifling at times.”

Lorraine sipped the water and laid the glass on the window ledge. Down below, beyond the hospital grounds, a swathe of green spread before her. The grey mountains fused into grey cloud. Unable to stop herself, she stared at the closed door of the small private ward. “The young man – he seems so still.”

“He’s my son.”

“I’m so sorry. What you’re going through must be unendurable.”

“Every day I keep thinking it will happen. When I rise in the morning, I believe today will be the day. He’ll call my name, look into my eyes and see me. If it’s not today I won’t be able to go on. But I do. Day after day after day, wondering if he’s dreaming, remembering, feeling pain, hearing noises. If his thoughts are peaceful or tormented.” She walked to the window and stared through the glass. “Do you think it will rain this evening? It seems to be coming down from the mountain.”

“According to the forecast, yes.”

“My younger son can’t handle it any more. If it wasn’t for my daughter – do you have children?”

“I have a daughter.”

“An only child?”

“Yes. I wanted more children but my husband –” Lorraine stopped, took a step backwards. The outpouring of emotion from the woman had released a similar need in her. “I’m keeping you from your son. I’ll pray he recovers soon.”

“It’s our punishment. We demanded from our son what we had no right to demand. Children are God’s possessions, not ours. When Jesus is ready to forgive us he will awaken Killian.”

“How can that be true?” Lorraine shrank from the agony in the woman’s voice. “It’s a merciless God who would punish you like this.”

“Could I ask you –?” Jean Devine-O’Malley fingered a cross hanging around her neck. The scent of rosemary was on her hands. “Would you pray with me for a short while. The power of prayer is all I’ve left.”

Lorraine resisted the urge to run. The conviction flowing from the woman made excuses meaningless. She thought of Emily riding her pony, running down the lane with Ibrahim and the goths, her endless chatter and moans about life being a bore, so much energy and noise from one young person. This woman’s son was a portrait, still and silent, framed by a bed from which there was no escape.

The prayer was short, intense. When it was over Jean Devine-O’Malley made the sign of the cross on her son’s forehead and closed her eyes. A tremendous weariness settled on her face.

“Why don’t you take a break for a little while?” On her way in Lorraine had noticed a small café off the reception area of the clinic. “I’ll sit with your son until you return.”

Sometimes he seemed peaceful, his body lying motionless beneath the cover, neither fidgeting nor flailing his limbs. His eyelids fluttered and a grimace, almost too subtle to notice, flashed over his face. She had noticed this fleeting expression a number of times when his mother was praying. It reminded her of the almost-imagined smiles that flit across a baby’s face and are often dismissed as wind. He flicked his fingers on one hand, as if they were lightly running over the keys of a piano. She was almost afraid to breathe in case she disturbed his concentration. Suddenly, his eyes opened. His intense stare, so instantly reminding her of his father, caused her to cry out in shock and he, in turn, moved his head slightly, as if the sound had brushed against him. She lifted his hand and pressed it against her cheek.

“My name is Lorraine,” she spoke softly. “Your father has told me about you.” The pads of his fingers jerked as if stung by faint currents of electricity. “Do you understand me, Killian? Squeeze my hand if you do.” The pressure he exerted was weak yet she could not mistake its meaning. She remained in that position for a moment, isolated from the sounds, smells and movements of the clinic.

“Killian, I rage at the thought of them together, driving away, leaving you. How terrified they must be. I don’t want them to escape. But Emily, my daughter, what about her? I’ve watched her struggle to find a way back to her father. This will break her heart. That’s the problem with truth. It hurts. Do you hear what I’m saying?”

He batted his eyelids once, a prolonged deliberate blink, before his hand became flaccid. A faint clanking sound outside on the corridor grew louder and stopped outside the door. She watched his long eyelashes flutter with excitement.