Islandbridge (10 page)

“What's with the long face there, Dec?”

He studied Fahy's tired smile. Fahy at least had the wherewithal to stop the digs about women after the wedding.

“Not long now,” said Fahy, and tilted his head and winked.

Kelly knew it was well meant, maybe even a joke, but he didn't know what it meant. Nor did he care, right now. Fahy was still eyeing him.

“Come on,” he said. “Go home. Are you nodding off there?”

Kelly got up. Everything was suddenly heavy on him now, his limbs even.

“Are you all right there, Dec? Going to make it, are you?”

“If we were all right we wouldn't be here, would we.”

Fahy smiled but it became a yawn. Then his face turned softer.

“Don't be overdoing it,” he said. “Believe you me, there'll be plenty of time for that painting and decorating thing now. Conserve your energy, as they say. You'll be busy enough in no time, let me tell you. Mark my words, oh yes.”

Kelly tried to hide his irritation. It was well meant. Fahy had three kids already, himself. Maybe he should have kept back the news about Eimear expecting until later. It was inexperience really, and there had been a little bit of embarrassment about how quickly she had gotten pregnant. Ahead of the rest of the field already, Fahy had said when he'd heard the news first, and hardly out of the starting gate.

“Thanks for telling me,” he said to Fahy.

“I meant to ask you, Dec. How's the leg with you?”

Kelly didn't get it for several moments.

“The ankle?” Fahy went on. “You're back to the hurling, aren't you?”

Kelly was almost certain that Fahy'e eyes had done a quick search of the desk for an ashtray.

“Oh, I nearly forgot.”

“Well, that's a good sign then,” said Fahy.

But Kelly knew that Fahy was still watching him as he put away his folders.

“Ever consider trying again, you know?” he asked.

“Twisting my ankle?”

“No, you thick– I meant looking for those fellas who did it.”

“I haven't, to be honest. I suppose I should.”

“It might be worth it, Dec. They might have come up since, for a similar.”

His fury with Fahy's meandering talk that'd never stop was only growing. “Maybe,” he said. He realized that he had been holding his breath.

“Dublin, huh,” said Fahy then, with an air of finality, and began another long, slow stretch. His last words came out as a groan.

“Lucky it wasn't worse, I suppose.”

Kelly finished the incident report but left the misspellings. Then he got up. His mouth felt acid, and the room seemed to have changed. He couldn't bear to look over at Fahy, but seeing Cullen's earnest, frowning attentions to what his typewriter was doing repelled him now.

“You look shagged,” he heard Fahy say behind him. “Go on home.”

Cullen looked up from his typing, and Kelly had to look away.

Fahy shoved the drawer closed as he always did when he had his shift done.

“You might be coming down with something,” he said. “There's something going around, I hear.”

November 18, 1983

For the fourth night in a row, Declan Kelly kept waking up. It was almost always the same time. Eimear was beginning to sleep lighter too. Tonight, for some reason, she had woken up before him. He could tell by her breathing. He tried not to move.

There wasn't a hint of dawn on the curtains. The nights were so damned long now, and there was still a month yet to go before it turned again. Solstice, was that the word?

He listened, hoping for her breathing to lapse back into the steady, nasal pattern that had come on in the past few weeks. She didn't mind the odd kick during the day but at night it wasn't much fun.

Her voice was clear when she spoke, clear enough to startle him.

“You're awake.”

“I am.”

“Why are you waking up?”

“I don't know,” he said.

She shifted a little, and drew up her leg. He had stopped wondering how much the skin on her belly, on any woman's belly, could stretch so much already.

A minute passed. He stared at the darker line where the curtains met, willing it to be brighter so he wouldn't have to look at his watch and see how early it was.

“What time is it?”

“I don't know,” he replied. “I don't look.”

She moved around and got her elbows under her. The bed warmth came up at him. Wait till the water breaks bejases, O'Keefe had told him: it's always at night!

“I might as well now as later,” she said.

“Do you want a hand?”

“To pee? I'm not ready for that yet, love.”

Kelly followed her form in the near dark, heard her labouring breath. The yellow landing light glowed at the bottom of the bedroom door, and he heard the door to the bathroom close.

He turned on his back and stared at the ceiling. The tots of whiskey hadn't helped a bit these last two nights. Eimear hadn't noticed, or if she had, she hadn't let on. He'd been careful, brushing and gargling. There was the soft clank of the lever pushed and the rush of water. He waited to hear her footsteps, and the click of the light switch.

“Don't be worrying,” she said, and nestled against him.

“I'm not,” he said. He took her arm under his and let it rest on his chest.

“Come on now, Dec,” she murmured. “I'm not blind, you know. Or stupid.”

He didn't know what to say.

“Go back to sleep, can't you,” he managed. “Talk in the morning.”

“Give us an oul squeeze first, but,” she said.

He guided her leg up and felt the taut press of her belly against his side.

“Don't be getting excited now,” she whispered.

From her voice he knew she was smiling. He stroked her back with his fingertips, felt her head shift a little in the crook of his arm. He had admitted to himself that part of him was annoyed at how fast things had happened. The thing was, it was nobody's fault. Even thinking that way about “fault” was stupid: a baby was good news, for God's sake. And when you think about it, it was way better to get started now and not to be waiting. The fact was, Eimear must have been pregnant at the altar. People would figure that out soon enough, no doubt.

He lay there for what seemed like a long time, until he thought her slack weight meant sleep. Then he began to work at freeing her arm.

“I can tell, you know, Dec.”

“Aren't you asleep?”

“How can I sleep?”

“I'm sorry. Here, lie over.”

“I can read your mind,” she said. “Well, a bit anyways.”

“Jesus, now I'll never sleep again.”

“I'm only joking. But it's okay to be nervous, for men. You know that.”

The flutter of resentment stirred, and stayed. How women were so all knowing, he thought, or so they thought. He rubbed at his eyes and for no reason he saw the flashes in that laneway and Junior Rynn's lit up with each shot.

“What,” said Eimear. “What's that? Did I hit you?”

He felt his heart thumping. He tried harder to keep his breathing normal.

“No, no. I'm grand.”

He could tell by the quiet then that it wasn't over, that she didn't believe him. His mind ran from place to place, through the years, in his search to banish the dim half-born images circling in his mind. He must never panic: never.

He forced himself to remember the beach where they had lain and had it off that night in Portugal. There had been that low wall with the nice places to sunbathe, he could remember. Then there were the umbrellas, the wooden walkway thing. A German couple, with the girl going topless, no big deal. His mind raced to the hurling that he had enjoyed all the way though secondary school, even the falls onto the grassy, soft surface of the pitch so often moist from rain. It had been an icy blue sky the day of the passing out parade in the Garda Depot in Templemore, though–

“What is it, Dec? No secrets, remember?”

He mustn't get angry, not even annoyed.

“Ah, it's just a situation at work. It'll work out. It will.”

“It'll be different soon,” she said after a while. “They'll know you have responsibilities, you know.”

He stared harder at where the curtains met. If it was dawn here, then it was dusk on the far side of the planet. He had never quite figured that out: if the Earth was spinning so fast, well how come . . . ?

The question faded as a great longing came over him, a confused cascade of sky, and snow-capped mountains, and the wide highways – interstates, they were called – and skyscrapers and California beaches. He opened his eyes again.

It wouldn't even have to be more than five years away: that's how he'd sell it to Eimear. They could save pretty well everything they earned over there too, because stuff was cheap. He could try his hand at something there that'd look good when he came back – a course in computers would be good, the coming thing. Then, when they'd come back, this would be all out of their system, and they would build a house, their own house, down near Cahir. He'd never have to travel the stinking streets of Dublin again.

“When is your cousin visiting again?”

“What cousin?” she asked.

“Paddy Keane, him”

“From the States?”

She jerked upright, far faster than he imagined she could. Her voice had changed.

“Listen, Declan. Don't start that again. Don't. This is not the time, okay?”

“What am I starting?”

“You know my feelings on that score. It's a lot different now; with the way we'll be, God willing. There'll be three of us. Not two, three. Are you listening to me?”

He was annoyed enough now not to pretend otherwise.

“Declan, look. A woman doesn't think like a man, okay? She can't. I have all mine here. Ma, all my sisters. Everybody.”

“Okay,” he managed. “Okay.”

She knew enough not to push it, he realized. Slowly she let herself down again.

“Of course we'll go,” she said. “For a visit. I know you want to go. New York, Los Angeles wherever. Australia, wasn't that another one? Canada. I listen. I do.”

He heard the little intake of breath. His mind rocked with guilt and love. He reached for her.

“I'm sorry,” she said, and a sob broke. “I'm sorry.”

“It's okay,” he said. “It's me that's sorry. I shouldn't be talking.”

The strange and frightening peace that took over in him then could have carried him off into sleep as it did Eimear. He didn't want to sleep now. He waited, watching the morning leak gradually into the room. The birds were so many fewer, or quieter now, than in the summer here.

Things detached themselves slowly from the gloom and took shape in the pale light. For a while he imagined their bedroom was its own world, and that when he'd open the door later, there'd be nothing out there. Or maybe it was an island that he could look down on, right through the roof and the clouds, and even from frozen space full of blinking stars. Was this what drugs were like, he wondered, the good bits that people don't like to admit?

He might have slept. He hit the alarm, felt her stir, and heard her swallow dryly. Things moved on, he understood as he swivelled his legs over the edge of the bed. He knew that whatever he'd been carrying since that night had grown, and that there'd be more spells of that panic, that kind of paralyzing helplessness. He welcomed the cold of the carpet underfoot. He looked back at Eimear, and at the squashed pillow and the turned back eiderdown where he had been. For a moment he imagined himself lying there still, as though part of him could stay there and the other just carry on, heading out to work, and coming home, and going to the shops, and thinking about their first Christmas together. . . . Had he become two people somehow, and was only noticing it now?

December 14, 1983

It wasn't remorse Kelly felt, looking down into the remains of the Bushmills on the counter in front of him. He was used to pints after a game, and he could go fairly steady at them all night if there was company. He was still surprised that he had blurted out the order to the barman without even thinking about it beforehand. He had never just walked into a pub and ordered whiskey before. Now, like his father, he wouldn't adulterate it with water. Funny the things you do automatically, he thought, however you learn them. The Bushmills went fast. He ordered a pint, and then another Bushmills.