The Doll's House (3 page)

‘You’re right, Val.’ Martin’s speaking again like he’s the one in charge. ‘Considering everything Ruby’s been through, a little rebellion is understandable.’

That last dig is meant for me. Throw the guilt at the alcoholic mother. I swallow some water. ‘Four months today,’ I say, swirling the ice cubes in the glass. There’s that sarcastic tone again.

Martin ignores me. ‘How are things at work, Dominic?’

‘Busy.’

Val moves uncomfortably in her chair. ‘He’s pushing himself too hard.’

‘Life has to get back to normal, Val.’ Martin sticks a fork into his wild mushroom starter. ‘Lavinia would want Dominic to fire himself into things.’

I could almost scream at Martin. Ever since Mum’s death, he’s talked about her as if they were close, when neither of them could stand the other. ‘Let’s change the subject, shall we?’ Suddenly I feel weary.

Martin fills Val’s glass this time. As an alcoholic, I notice every movement involving booze. How much everyone is drinking, how much wine is left in the bottle. I stare at the candles, remembering how Mum used to light them in the evening. Not when we were small, but later, when Dominic and I had moved out. Four months since her death. It feels like a lifetime. Four months since that awful row between Dominic and me.

‘There’s no point in walking on eggshells,’ says Martin. ‘Death will happen to us all.’

‘I need some air,’ says Val, ‘and a cigarette.’ She stands up. The waiter hands her her coat with the fur-lined collar. She looks like an escapee rushing out.

It’s just the three of us at the table now, Dominic looking after Val as if she’s abandoned him. And, for the first time since we arrived, I realise my brother looks like a man who could do with a good night’s sleep. ‘Dominic, are you okay?’ I ask, not allowing Martin to dominate the conversation.

‘Sure,’ he says. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

‘Sisterly love, what?’ That stupid grin is back on Martin’s face, and I wonder if any of us has moved on one iota from where we left off as children.

Neary’s had one of those throwback-to-the-olden-days front bars with framed images of men carrying Guinness barrels on their backs, and toucans with protruding yellow beaks, each object, picture or oddity giving punters the sense of stepping back into another time. A large mahogany mirror stretched the full length of the black wooden counter, multiplying the crowd, creating the impression that everyone was somehow at the centre of something exciting.

By the time Stevie McDaid arrived, the buzz had already started rising, and the only thing missing was a lighted match to ignite the mix of alcohol and bodies moving closer together. He made his way past the front bar, the throng of regulars looking disgruntled that their hideaway was being taken over on a Friday night – the nightclub at the back was getting into full swing.

Pushing open the double doors into the club, Stevie could hear the music of the Black Eyed Peas, bellowing, and, like the old pro he was, he moved instinctively to the beat as he walked in past the two oversized bouncers. To his left, a group of yummy mummies he had chatted up the previous week waved at him. Proper eager for it, they were. But Stevie was already getting off on the buzz of someone new or exciting coming along.

There were mirrors everywhere, behind the bar, over the bar, on large pillars dividing the dance floor. Large glass chandeliers hung low, glistening in the changing waves of light – blue, red, purple, and an electric mix of black and gold. He spotted a pair of lovebirds stuck into one another at the back wall, the guy’s hand on the girl’s breast. Not yet midnight, and the vibe was already pumping through the
roof. Neary’s was the kind of place where you left your hang-ups and crappy life behind you at the door. It was all about the beat, a rapid shift of mood from bloody boring to full-on pulsing escapism. The nightclub, like the front bar, kept you always wanting more, with its mix of locals, wannabes and newbies, all smiling at one another, like prisoners who’d been granted a few hours out of jail.

Stevie wasn’t the kind to hang his baggage at the door, but he’d learned enough over the years to keep it to himself, unless things dictated otherwise. ‘Leave the women guessing’ was his motto. Different strokes for different folks. Most of them only wanted a bit of proper attention. If Neary’s had given out Oscars for insincerity, Stevie would have smiled himself to the front of the line. Not long back, the place would have been packed with cleaned-up construction workers and their fat pockets on a Friday night. Not now. That day was long gone. Still, there were a few survivors huddled at the bar, watching the girls dancing from the mirror angled above them, holding their pints in one hand and ambition in the other. The numbers of well-dressed guys had shrunk too, hanging out somewhere in Negative Equity Land. But Neary’s had an appeal that swelled, despite the changes in who had what money in their pockets. Even in a recession, people needed escape.

Mick and Jason behind the bar, wearing black shirts and pants, were good-looking guys, but not so pretty that they couldn’t drift into the background. Mick gave Stevie a wave, and once he’d received the nod, he pulled Stevie’s pint as another track started up – faster, darker, feeling infinitely more dangerous. Stevie never sat down in Neary’s, not at the bar, not anywhere. Sitting was for the settled, and Stevie made a point of never being settled. He might be in his early forties, but he’d no intention of looking or acting it.

Below one of the high glass tables he spotted long, smooth, tanned legs with silver stiletto sandals. Stevie had a personal fondness for ankles. Good legs and ankles made a woman. It didn’t take his eyes long to travel up to where the hemline of her skirt offered better
prospects. He could hear the giggles from some young girls behind him. Stevie had taken them in too, even before he’d placed his order with Mick. Big wavy hair, barely out of their school uniforms, with their pink and purple mobiles, blackened eyes and skinny bodies with big boobs. More hormones than sense, just the way he liked them. He smirked when he thought about young Ruby. They had yet to get fully acquainted, but he had a feeling their time would come soon enough.

Some guys with money were already hovering around them, exchanging looks with each other, perfect smiles at the ready. But they had competition tonight, young testosterone bods – college boys, no doubt with rich parents filling their pockets.

Stevie could never get enough of the place, the music bouncing, flashing lights, loud conversations, laughter, clinks of glasses, some eejit or another shouting or thinking he was the next big thing. Everyone in Neary’s wanted something, and once inside, the gravitational pull of the earth wouldn’t take you the hell out of it. Just as Stevie was thinking about the giggling skirts behind him, figuring they might have to wait for another night on account of Silver Stilettoes, he heard his name called.

‘Hiya, Stevie, my man.’

‘Ah, hiya, how’s it going?’ Stevie had no intention of sticking around for the answer from the fool. He simply smiled, turning as if he was looking to meet someone else.

The guy was one of those eejits who came into the garage: mouth, money and all too fuckin’ clean and pretty for Stevie’s liking. Not one of them understood anything about cars, except how glossy and cool the latest models looked. Stevie had no problem dealing with those suckers in work. They were easy fodder, easily screwed. But here, in his domain, the association wasn’t to be encouraged. He had done the guy out of a fortune last week, told him the suspension was gone in his car. Set the rich eejit back a right packet. It had been like putting a duck into water.

‘Jesus, Stevie, can you not do better than that?’ he’d asked.

‘Like what?’

‘Christ, I thought you were a pal.’

‘Ah, sure there’s only so much I can do – it’s the boss who sets the prices, the one who’s never here.’

‘Exactly, Stevie, so surely we can sort something out.’

‘It’ll mean jigging the paperwork – you’ll have to fix me up direct, cash only, no cheques or any jumpy credit cards.’

‘Sure, Stevie, you know there’s never a problem there.’

As Stevie had walked away from him, he’d muttered, ‘Wanker,’ below his breath, then turned back. ‘Don’t forget to mention me to your mates,’ he’d said, his perfect smile pasted all over his lovely face.

‘As always, Stevie, my friend.’

Tonight wasn’t for eejits. Tonight was a million miles away from work, and even further away from the fuck-up of a week he’d just had. When Stevie looked back at Silver Stilettoes, she’d been joined by her mates, none as classy as her. No point heading over yet. Best to give them time to settle. Nothing like a few drinks to loosen things up. He’d downed his first pint and it was time for another. He’d been gagging all day for a few scoops and the first couple of drinks were always special, the taste hitting his mouth like old friends getting back together.

He spotted Joe and Kev at the far end of the bar and waved to them, all the while keeping his eyes on his mark in the stilettoes. He liked how she crossed her legs, how, when she bent forward, he could see her breasts and the outline of a black bra, the imprint of her red lipstick on the glass. Her expression, too, was a pull. Confident – you don’t look that hot without bleeding knowing it, he thought. She wasn’t cheap either. Apart from the shocking red lipstick and high heels, she had the makings of so much more, and no doubt proper good at it. Her long black hair was tied sideways off her neck, falling down in soft curls, touching her bare shoulders. She was putting it out there all right, with just enough class to say, ‘Only if you dare, mate, only if you dare.’

‘What does a guy have to do to buy a girl like you a drink?’

Although there were five of them, each girl knew who Green Eyes was talking to. Stevie gave them one of his captivating smiles, the kind that said he was the guy all of them wanted to fuck.

‘Just ask – vodka and Coke, no ice.’

‘Gen.’ A warning shot from one of her female fan club.

‘He’s just being friendly, aren’t you?’

‘Steve, Steve McDaid, or Stevie to my friends.’

‘Thanks, Steve … Stevie.’

‘Cool.’ Stevie was pleased she planned on being a no-nonsense type from the start. And with that, he shouted over to Mick, ‘Vodka and Coke, no ice, and another pint … Are you girls sticking around for long?’

‘We’ll be here for a while,’ said the oldest and ugliest one, giving Stevie the I-fucking-hate-blokes-like-you look. The ugly girls always had the biggest mouths, a sort of compensation for lack of other qualities.

Stevie placed the vodka and Coke on the table with a fresh beer mat. Women loved attention to detail. ‘For you, Princess. I didn’t catch your name.’

‘Gen, as in Genevieve.’ Her body moved a little as she lifted the glass.

‘The naked beauty.’

‘That’s me.’ She laughed, even though she’d probably heard the same line a thousand times before.

Stevie laughed too. ‘Catch you later, Gen.’ He smiled with his pearly whites again. There was no point in having a major asset if you didn’t use it. Holy crap, he thought. Sometimes it was so fucking easy.

Pint number three was slower. Why mess up the night when it was proving promising? As Joe and Kev ranted on about the usual suspects, soccer, cars, and women, Stevie kept a watchful eye on Gen, sending the odd nod, letting her know he wasn’t forgetting about her.

Timing was everything. Let her get a few more vodkas into her,
ease out some of the rough edges. Soon enough the girlie groups always disintegrated. Give it another hour and they’d divide, turning outwards instead of in. It was just a question of waiting.

The arsehole from the garage and his slick cronies were well gone by the time the night hit fever pitch. And as Stevie decided he’d had about enough of Kev talking about his failed marriage, and Joe acting like he was Ireland’s answer to Dr Phil, it became time for a change of company. Looking back at the table behind him, he was full sure Silver Stilettoes would still be waiting for him. But Mick was already picking up their glasses from the table. Maybe they’d gone to the jacks. Fucking hell, why do women always go to the toilet in groups? Clearing the table wasn’t a good sign. He shouldn’t have listened to Kev for so long. Fuck, fuck, fuck and fuck again, he thought.

When he heard a girl laugh behind him, he turned expecting to see Gen. Instead he saw one of the young ones separated from her pals. She was small, fake tan, orange hands, and straightened long brown hair. Her pretty face said underage for sure. A prick of a suit was mauling her. Stevie could tell she was pissed. Asking for it, she was. The gang of guys hovering around her all looked married, each of them smirking, egging on their pals. She was out of her depth and the guys knew it.

Stevie wasn’t long in making up his mind. Better him than those arseholes. He overheard one say, ‘Be nice to little Susie now,’ laughing as the mauler stuck his tongue so far down her throat that Stevie wondered if it would ever come back out. With no sign of Gen, Stevie hung back and waited. Soon little Susie was holding up a wall on the way back from the toilets.