Deceptions (45 page)

“What happened to Killian no longer has anything to do with us.” When she made no reply he moved closer. “I’ve never been in love until now. I’ll never fall in love again. This will stay with me until I die.”

The love he demanded would be soldered with passion and tenderness. Her love would be fiercely insistent on honesty, trust. One vision, one truth. If she stood with him a minute longer she would never be able to leave. Her voice shook then steadied. “I can’t give you the love you need, Michael. And anything less between us would be a sham. We’ve said goodbye so often. This has to be the last time. Forgive me.”

The river tossed seagulls on its crest, eddies spinning, twisting and turning as it wended under the luminous arch of the Ha’penny Bridge and continued its restless passage towards the sea.

C
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NE

Brahms Ward
Midnight

Perhaps the experts are right. Cannot be awoken … have not yet … Who am I to be the judge of anything? Reflex actions, fluttering eyelashes, your tight convulsive grip, I come here night after night seeking signs, hoping, praying, willing you – all of us willing you back to us. I’m no good tonight. Your grip gives me comfort but it changes nothing. My heart is a stone. She has left me bereft. The trail to the Great South Wall is dead.

I went back there today, back to where the sea laps the pier and seagulls swoop through fumes of gas and oil. Dublin is in the grip of a renaissance, Killian. Office blocks are mushrooming along the quays, apartments, hotels. The motorways are marching onwards for Ireland; cement labyrinths carrying traffic outwards to the four provinces. Under ground, over ground, tunnels, tracks and grid-lock. On the docklands there is a new heart beating and only the old Customs House sprawling white along the quays prevents this city becoming a stranger to me.

I walked the wall between the rocks and the sea and tried to imagine what you were trying to recapture each time you strayed there. Childish memories, stories of mysterious sea voyages – or was I weighing you down with my own dead memories? It rained while I was there. I let it wash over my face and when it stopped a rainbow spanned the lighthouses that guard the mouth of Dublin Bay. A white ferry passed beneath its arch. I saw you sliding deep into the indigo, hiding away from all of us, Jean, terence, Laura and sulky brat Duncan who loves you so much he’s mixed it up with hate because that’s the only way he can cope. Love and hate, Killian. Two sides of a damaged coin. I spun a silver coin and found it to be baseless.

Afterwards, I collected my painting. The exhibition is over. A new artist will soon take her place on the walls.
Sand Blizzard
, she called it. Snow on sand and a woman slight as a twig looking upwards towards the old boathouse. The gallery owner said it’s a good choice.
Painting Dreams
was illusion, fantasy, unfulfilled desire. There was no strength in her paintings, only yearnings. This collection is different. Energy jumps from the canvases. The night is magic.

I stood among the cool white walls of the gallery and imagined a studio where donkeys used to live. I saw palettes of burnt sienna and yellow ochre, the luminous splashes on the walls, the canvases still drying. I saw her painting you … or was it me? That’s the way it will always be. I can deal with it. Rainbows are illusions. They disappear.

On the way down I shared the elevator with Virginia Blaide. If she remembered our last meeting she gave no sign. She smiled and wished me good day.

The tide has receded. Black horses at rest. One by one, two, three and four, the stars appear, pinpricks shimmering, sparking. Dawn will come soon. The world will be green. What a colour that will be. A green new world. He stirs and reaches for the moon.

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WO

MIRACLE RECOVERY OF COMA VICTIM

A courageous young man has defied medical opinion and is recovering in hospital from horrific head injuries incurred when he was critically injured in a hit-and-run accident. For seventeen months Killian Devine-O’Malley lay in a post-coma vegetative state with little hope of recovery. Supported by his family and friends he fought back and is now in a stable condition. His reawakening has been greeted with amazement by the medical team at the Hammond Clinic.

“We never lost hope that he would recover,” said his father, Michael Carmody, whose TV series Nowhere Lodge has won him legions of young fans.

“For Killian to reawaken after such a traumatic injury is nothing short of a miracle,” said an overjoyed Ms Devine-O’Malley, whose vigil by her son’s bedside was constant.

The family plan a quiet celebration when Killian is released from hospital.

Gardaí hope to interview him when he is strong enough to answer questions. It is hoped he can provide them with relevant information on the circumstances surrounding his accident.

“In the meantime we are renewing our appeal to anyone who was in the vicinity of the Great South Wall on 20 November 2001 between 11 p.m. and midnight and noticed anything suspicious,” said Garda Sergeant Murray. “The case is still open and we are particularly interested in interviewing the owner of a silver car (make unknown) which was seen in the vicinity shortly before the accident occurred.”

The fax machine in Virginia’s office clicked into receive mode. A document came through, slightly darkened in transmission. Not a muscle moved in her face as her eyes scanned the headline from the
Dublin Echo
. Adrian’s office was empty, his computer still on, a half-empty mug of coffee cooling. The faxed clipping had been shredded and flung into the wastepaper basket.

The touch of lace on her skin. The cool whisper of silk. Virginia fastened hooks and suspenders. She stepped into a dark purple dress that flattened across her stomach, outlined her breasts. She applied lipstick, a damson streak, and sprayed perfume on her pulses.

Temple Bar was crowded with cinema-goers and diners. The night was mild enough for young people to gather on the pavements outside the pubs, where they converged in groups. She entered an apartment block and took the elevator to the top storey.

“I didn’t think you’d come.” Ralph opened the door wide and drew her inside.

“Just hold me,” she said . “We don’t have to talk.”

She knew his body intimately yet, now, it was as if she touched him for the first time. His lovemaking, once so demanding, moved at a slow, leisurely pace. She remained passive in his arms, willing to allow him control, knowing he was enjoying the languid lie of her body, her slow sensuous response. She remembered the violence of their early years, her delight when he twisted her arms above her head, locked her in a grim embrace, and how she had fought him, feigning resistance, teasing him into exhaustion, their excitement heightened to a point where it could no longer be contained. Youthful games that seemed so trivial after Jake died. Life taking its toll on fun and games, even war games.

It was after midnight when she phoned Adrian. “I won’t be home tonight,” she said. “I’m staying overnight with friends.” She hung up before he could reply.

“I never believed I could forgive you.” Ralph leaned on his elbow and stared down at her, smiling his sharp wolf smile.

“But you haven’t forgiven me.”

“If that’s what you believe why are you here?”

“We always played games, Ralph.”

“Games are for children.”

“Games are for those who want to play them.”

He pulled her roughly towards him. “Let’s play some more then.”

The bells for Sunday mass were ringing as she drove through the city and out towards Clontarf. Joggers ran along the promenade, elbows tight to their sides. A flotilla of yachts swooped past Howth Head, white sails billowing towards harbour. What had they talked about? So many subjects to be skirted. No-go areas where she must tread with caution. But it was possible to recreate those early days, move back to London, make a fresh start together. The Celtic Tiger economy was slowing down, companies cutting back, hi-tech US giants repatriating their profits or seeking cheaper labour markets further afield. It was only a matter of time before Bill Sheraton took action. She was tired of Ireland with its constant inward navel-gazing and scandals. Time to bale out.

Adrian was sitting by the window, a bottle of whiskey almost empty. All night long he had been waiting, she realised, looking at the overflowing ashtray, the congealed remains of an evening meal.

“Ah, Virginia, just in time to share the last glass.” He carefully poured the remaining whiskey into two glasses and handed one to her. “To us. To happiness. Are you going to tell me where you were?”

“I was with friends. I told you I was staying overnight with one of them.”

“Don’t make me laugh, Virginia. You have no friends.”

The weight of desolation dragged his face downwards, his eyes, his cheeks, his lips, everything sagging like a sad clown. Whiskey fumes, paint fumes, fumes of guilt; she was tired struggling. As he bent forward unsteadily to place his glass on the low marble-topped table it slipped from his fingers and shattered.

“Broken glass – look, broken glass. Better not touch.” He laughed wildly and held his hand before her, pointing to a white scar across his palm.

She forced him back from the table, suddenly terrified he would lift a shard and press it into his flesh or turn, in his befuddled and furious state, on her. “Leave it, adrian. I’ll clear it up.”

He sank heavily back into the armchair, his head bent forward, watching her with a bleary but focused stare. “You were with a man last night. I can smell him on you.” He gripped her wrist, pulled her downwards with such force that she lost her balance and collapsed on top of him. “Leave me and I’m going straight to the police.”

“I’ve no intention of leaving you. You’re drunk, Adrian. We’ll discuss this again when you’re sober.”

“I’m drunk and I’m serious. For better or worse. That’s us, Virginia.”

“For better or worse,” she replied and opened the window to let the fresh morning air blow through.

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HREE

Lorraine sat quietly beside his bed. His eyelids flickered. A familiar sign, seen on her previous visit. He moved his head slowly against the pillows and coughed. How fine his skin looked, almost translucent. She noticed, for the first time, his damaged arms, scarred pinpricks, still fading. He lifted one arm, reached across to touch his other hand and squeezed it a number of times. Pins and needles, she wondered, watching his clutching movements becoming stronger. Holding on, she thought. Terrified he would slip away from them again. She placed his painting against the wall. He would see it as soon as he awoke.

His father’s voice had been choked with emotion when he rang. Unrecognisable until he gasped her name and said, “Lorraine, he’s awake. He opened his eyes and recognised me. Then he smiled and went back to sleep again. I thought it was my imagination and I waited … I waited until he woke up again. He spoke my name.”

Struggling to compose herself she sank into a chair. “Thank God, Michael – oh thank God!”

“He spoke my name. I wanted you to know. Do you understand what I’m saying, Lorraine? Killian is awake.”

“It’s wonderful – wonderful. I’m so happy for you.” “Please come and see him. Share this with me. I’m only half alive without you. Please come now.”

She longed to drop the phone and run to her car, drive without stopping, breaking lights and speed limits, barriers, road-blocks, throwing caution helter-skelter out the window, not stopping until she was crushed against him, rejoicing together in this joyous moment. This longing, which he shared – she could hear it in his voice, in the anticipatory silence as he waited for her to speak – drained the last vestige of energy from her. The kitchen door opened. Emily entered and flung her bag into the corner. Afterwards, Lorraine was unable to remember what she said to him. Platitudes, probably, but they signalled the end of their conversation.

A week had passed since his phone call. At reception she had checked that his son was alone before entering his ward. She was about to leave when Killian stirred. His eyes opened and fixed on her, the glazed fear slowly clearing. Awake, he seemed frailer, his cheeks sunken, his mouth almost bloodless, but there was a strong rhythm to his breathing and his stare held knowledge. No longer a boy held captive in a realm beyond dreams.

The word he spoke was muffled, almost inaudible, and when he repeated it she realised it was his father’s name. His gaze slowly travelled over her face and onto a painting where shadows played across a fairy-tale forest of briars. Dense with dangerous thorns, the forest held him captive, but hanging from the briars Lorraine had painted many things: a xylophone and a cartoon-type cat with a hat, a manuscript, a prayer book, a teapot, get-well cards, medical equipment, a Walkman and, glinting with sapphire lights, a silver bracelet.