The Bright Side (39 page)

“But you’ve already tried to talk to her and she wouldn’t. What’s the point in going there again?
”

It was as if I hadn’t spoken
.

“I’m going,” he said bluntly, “and that’s all there is to it.
”

I was tempted to point out that he was in no position to be getting pushy. But I didn’t
.

“All right,” I said. “Separate cars.
”

* * *

I
should
have
let
him
pull
out
first
.
This
was
the
thought
that
ate
away
at
me
throughout
the
entire
journey
from
Ranelagh
to
Chrissy’s
flat
in
Swords.
If
I’d
let
him
pull
out
first
then
I
would
have
been
able
to
lag
behind
and
would
eventually
have
lost
him
–
or
rather
let
him
lose
me.
Instead,
I
had
to
drive
the
whole
way
with
Gerry
and
the
car
I
had
ruined permanently
visible
in
my
rear-view
mirror.
I
realised
my
error
at
the
very
first
set
of
traffic
lights.
As
I
stared
miserably
into
the
mirror,
wondering
how
I
could
have
been
so
stupid,
I
was
horrified
to
see
Gerry
raising
his
hand
and
–
briefly,
tentatively
–
nodding
his
fingers,
one
by
one,
like
a
child.
What
else
could
I
do?
I
waved
back.
The
moment
reminded
me
of
Friday
morning
and
my
peek
through
the
front
window
at
home.
All
these
inappropriate
waves
…
If
this
was
a
movie
, I
thought,
then
that
would
mean
something
.
I
made
a
shameful effort
to
get
away
from
him
by
slowing
up
at
amber
lights
and then
racing
through,
but
it
didn’t
work
and
made
me
so
nervous
that
I
abandoned
the
idea
after
a
couple
of
goes
.

It was just after eleven when we arrived at our destination. I got out of the car and walked across to the main doorway. When Gerry joined me, we nodded meaningfully at each other like a couple of detectives about to raid a drug den. But that was where the analogy broke down. Real detectives would have said a few words to each other. Gerry and I stuck with the nodding
.

Chrissy’s building was small and squat and frankly ugly. According to the buzzers by the front door, it contained fourteen separate flats, which didn’t seem possible. Chrissy was in number three, on the ground floor. I jabbed the appropriate buzzer and was surprised when she answered almost immediately. Somehow, I had imagined that it would take a while
.

“Yes?
”

“Chrissy? Chrissy, it’s me. Mum. Your mother.” Silence
.

“Chrissy, I –
”

“Come in.
”

The door clicked and opened half an inch. The intercom went dead. I had planned on saying, “I’m here with your dad”, just to remove the element of surprise. Now my chance had gone
.

“After you,” Gerry said and held the door open
.

As ever, I became quite alarmed during the short walk from the entrance to Chrissy’s front door. She paid a small fortune in maintenance fees, but wherever the money was going, it sure as hell wasn’t on maintenance. The walls of the communal corridors were grubby and chipped, the carpets badly stained. There was a funny smell, not unlike that of a dog’s basket
.

Chrissy poked her head out of her apartment while Gerry and I were still coming down the corridor. She didn’t look all that happy to begin with, but once she saw that I was not alone, she bared her teeth and disappeared inside again. The door slammed before we reached it. I decided to go with the no-nonsense approach
.

“Chrissy!” I shouted, banging the door with my palm. “Open up right now.
”

There was no reply. Gerry stepped forward and gave the door a gentle little knock
.

“Come on, love,” he said (so softly that I doubted his audibility). “Let’s just have a chat.
”

Still no reply. I tried the thumping and shouting approach again, which meant that we were back in detective mode, this time as good cop and bad cop
.

When Chrissy once again failed to respond, I looked to Gerry and said, “This isn’t working. Maybe you should wait in the car.
”

I
expected
an
argument,
but
he
merely
nodded
once, quickly,
and
turned
away.
All
of
a
sudden,
I
was
furious.
A
grea
t
man
y
factor
s
ha
d
contribute
d
t
o
m
y
current
predicament,
of
course,
but
my
daughter’s
stubbornness
was the
one
I
lighted
on
.

“Chrissy!” I roared as Gerry disappeared from view. “I’m not kidding, open this bloody door right now! Your father’s gone, it’s just me.
Open
up.
Now.
”

I heard movement straight away, but she must have just been pacing around; ten, fifteen seconds went by before she returned to the door to reopen negotiations
.

“You’re taking little trips together?” she said incredulously. “Jesus Christ!
”

“We came separately,” I said in a sort of shouty sigh. “And he’s
gone
now. Open up!
”

There was another series of rustles, and then finally she did as I had asked
.

“Is he really gone?” she said through the crack she’d opened in the doorway. “Don’t lie to me.
”

“No,” I said. “He’s standing behind me and as soon as your guard’s down, we’re going to force our way in.
”

She squinted at me
.

“Yes,”
I
clarified.
“For
Christ’s
sake
…
he’s
gone.” “Good,”
she
said,
opening
up
properly.
“Because
I
might
throw
up
if
I
have
to
look
at
his
face.
”

“Don’t
talk
about
your
father
like
that,”
I
said,
stepping
in and
slamming
the
door
behind
me.
Chrissy
jumped,
startled not
so
much
by
the
sudden
noise,
I
suspected,
as
by
my attitude.
I
forged
ahead
while
I
had
the
initiative.
“If
you think
I’m
grateful
to
you
for
what
you
did,
you’ve
got another
think
coming.
I’m
not.
Far
from
it.
I’m
disgusted. Did
it
ever
occur
to
you
that
I
might
have
enough
on
my
mind
without
you
turning
to
crime
on
top
of
it
all?
”

She rounded on me. “Did it ever occur to
you
that I didn’t do it for you?
”

So
much
for
the
initiative
, I thought. “What do you mean? What did you do it for then?”

“I did it for me,” she said and flopped down on the sofa. “And you know what? I feel better for it.
”

The wind left my sails. I did a quick lap of the room, then sat down beside her. “Better how? Explain it to me.
”

“Just … better. I’ve
done
something.” “Smashed a window and wrecked a car . . .” “You can talk.
”

“I wrecked your
father’s
car,” I said. “That’s different.” It would have been a reasonably pathetic contribution if I’d ended it right there. Sadly, I puffed myself up and added, “Furthermore, I didn’t smash
any
windows.” In fairness to Chrissy, she didn’t go to town on me. On the other hand, she didn’t need to. “When did you decide to do it?” I asked then, hoping to move things along. “It wasn’t when you were talking to me, was it?
”

She looked genuinely lost. “What?
”

“On Sunday, in the café. I said something about breaking a window. I said it would do no good, but I did … mention it. I was afraid that was what gave you the idea.
”