In a Moment Page 9

  He made his way over and listened to his mate Tim recount how he had been chatting up an air-hostess on a flight from London recently. As they descended into Dublin, he had asked her what her plans were for later.

  “So she was there writing down her number, chatting away, and she goes to open the door and the next thing there’s a fucking humongous yellow slide blowing itself up right outside the door! She had forgotten to cross-check the door! So she roars ‘Oh fuck!’ and you should have seen the looks on the faces of the other passengers! So as soon as they deflated the bloody slide, we all had to stay in our seats until airport security came on board and she was escorted off the flight. And that was the last I saw of her!”

  They tilted their heads back and roared with laughter again.

  He tried to keep up with the conversations going on around him but he found he wasn’t able to hear as well as he normally would. It was as if he was listening to everyone at the end of a long tube. He couldn’t talk and found it hard to follow what people were saying so he just stood there smiling to himself at Tim’s story. He needed to use the bathroom. He squinted his eyes and scanned the bar and eventually he saw a green neon sign down the back of the pub. It was like a beacon. He stumbled from side to side as he made his way down towards the back of the packed pub. “Shorry, mate!” He was aware that people were looking at him and clearing out of his way, in case he should fall on top of them. “I’s okay!” He tried to tell them but the words wouldn’t come out properly. “Shorry, there!” He tried to straighten up but his body wouldn’t listen to his brain’s commands – he was too far gone at that stage.

  Once inside the single cubicle, it was a relief to have some quiet from the noise outside. He sat on the toilet bowl for an age as his head spun round and round and sloshed from side to side like he was sitting in the middle of a tippy boat. He tried to steady himself but he needed to close his eyes for a minute.

  Sometime later there was a loud rapping on the toilet door. He opened his eyes to see he was still sitting on the toilet bowl, trousers gathered around his ankles. How long had he been here? He must have fallen asleep.

  He held onto the toilet-roll holder to get his balance as he hauled himself off the toilet seat, then using one hand he bent down to pull up his trousers. He did up his fly and buckled his belt and, sliding the flimsy brass latch across, he went outside. He scanned the blurry queue of angry male faces. “Shhorry. Fell shleep,” he mumbled to the waiting crowd by way of explanation. He stumbled back into the bar, bumping and apologising his way down to the lads.

  Zoe and Steve came out of Figaro restaurant hand in hand. They’d had a delicious meal and were both stuffed. She had been dying to try out Figaro’s menu since she had read a review about it in a magazine a few months back, so when Steve suggested they should go there, she was delighted. The menu had certainly lived up to the review – there was an eclectic mix of dishes, including ostrich meat and shark as well as more local favourites like organic Wicklow lamb. Steve was far more adventurous in his tastes than she was and he had ordered the wild boar, while she went for the safer option of Wagyu beef.

  Since the ball, things had been going well between the couple. They saw each other most evenings, when Steve would call in on his way home from whichever market he had been at earlier that day. He always brought Dave with him and Zoe had bought a little wicker basket for him to sleep in, for whenever he stayed over at her place. She had also made him a cushion for inside it from a remnant of some blue gingham fabric they had been using at work. She had stuffed the fabric with some foam before sewing it up. But Dave had chewed up the cushion within hours of Zoe giving it to him, shredding stuffing all over her apartment. So, lesson learned, Zoe now lined the basket with a towel.

  “Fancy one more?” Steve asked, draping his arm lazily around her shoulders as they strolled along. They had shared a bottle of red wine with their meal and he fancied another one before they went home.

  “Sure!” Zoe said. “There’s a lovely pub which I go to sometimes, it’s really cosy and it’s only a short walk up the canal. How about there?”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  They chatted easily as they walked along. There was a bitter wind blowing and Steve pulled Zoe in tighter against him. Their height difference meant Zoe’s head fitted snugly under his arm.

  As they approached the pub, they could see a man stumble as he made his way out the door. They both watched the guy, who was as drunk as a lord, but as they got closer Zoe exclaimed, “Is that Adam?”

  “Who’s Adam?”

  “My best friend Emma’s husband!”

  “Oh yes, of course,” Steve mumbled, abashed. She had told him all about Emma and Adam.

  “Adam?” Zoe said at they reached the guy who was finding it hard to walk straight.

  “Huh?” he said, looking up and taking a while to register who had been calling him.

  “Are you okay, Adam – you’re looking a bit the worse for wear?” Zoe asked, her voice full of concern.

  “S’hure, Zoe, I’m grand.” He tried to speak clearly but he was finding it difficult. “Jusht heading home now.”

  “Right,” Zoe said doubtfully, as she and Steve watched Adam stumble away.

  “Jesus, that fella will go into the canal if he’s not careful. I’ll flag a taxi for him,” Steve said.

  “Good idea,” Zoe said gratefully.

  Zoe tried talking to an incoherent Adam while Steve kept an eye on the passing traffic. Taxi after taxi went by them with their roof lights off until finally Steve saw a yellow light in the distance. He stuck out his arm and waved at the driver who pulled up at the path beside them.

  “Can you give this friend of ours a lift?” Steve asked, smiling at the driver.

  The driver looked hesitant about letting Adam into his car when he saw the state that he was in.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll pay for it,” Steve said, taking out a twenty-euro note from his pocket and handing it to the driver.

  “Well, he’d better not get sick in my car,” he said grumpily. “I’m fed up of cleaning the cab after drunken passengers vomit on the seats.”

  “Not at all, he hasn’t had that much to drink,” Steve lied even though they all knew Adam was plastered.

  “Where am I taking him?”

  Steve looked to Zoe.

  “Sorry, yeah – it’s 59 Cherry Tree Road, Rathmines.”

  They helped Steve into the back of the car and watched the taxi as it pulled away.

  “He’ll have some head on him tomorrow!” Steve said, trying to sound light-hearted. He knew Zoe was disturbed about her friend.

  “He sure will,” Zoe replied distractedly. She was deeply worried. She had never seen Adam so drunk in all the years she had known him. Sure, he enjoyed a few drinks like anybody, but he never normally went overboard like he had obviously done tonight. She knew things were hard for him too and he was going through a lot but she had already tried talking to Emma about it and she hadn’t got anywhere. They went into the pub, Zoe vowing to talk to Emma about it again.

  19

  The next morning Adam was woken by his screeching alarm clock. He didn’t dare open his eyes – instead he felt blindly over to his locker to shut the blasted thing up. He drifted off to sleep again and later woke with his heart hammering. He looked at the clock. The red display told him it was 9.03 a.m. Shit, I’m late.

  He was dying. His head was thumping and his throat was dry. He reached over to his locker for the pint of water that thankfully he had somehow remembered to bring up with him. He gulped it back, leaving only a dribble to run back down the side of the glass. He looked down at himself: he was still in his jeans and T-shirt from last night. Look at yourself! You’re a disgrace. He lay back and kept still, not daring to move as every part of his aching body screamed in punishment at the amount of alcohol he had consumed the night before, physically telling him he had overstepped the mark.

  He forced himself to get out of bed and stand up
. But his head was spinning so he sat back down again for a few minutes to steady himself before making his way into the shower. As he stood under the water, every nerve-ending in his body was on a go-slow, his skin almost numb as the droplets danced along his body. When he got out of the shower he felt feverish and thought he might get sick so he opened the window and lay back on the bed until his stomach settled.

  He got up at last and dressed slowly and torturously. He walked past Emma’s bedroom door and didn’t bother to check if she had come home last night. He’d had enough of the anger and hatred she had for him so he kept on walking.

  He cycled into work along the well-worn tow-path, forcing himself to breathe the fresh air deep into his lungs to sober up. Although he was feeling like death, it was almost a relief to be going to work; the routine of his job was a welcome escape from his home life. He was respected; people cared what he thought and valued his opinion. They didn’t use every excuse to keep away from him or deliberately avoid him. Nobody treated him like he was invisible there.

  He sat at his desk in Parker & Associates, just staring at his screen. Being hung over didn’t help, but no matter how many times he tried to give himself a shake or reprimanded himself for not concentrating, he still couldn’t get what had happened with Emma last night out of his head. He had been in denial for too long now and last night it had really hit home just how bad things were between them. There was nothing left there any more and he didn’t know how to get it back. Or even if they would get it back. He felt panicked now; everything was dangerously off track, spiralling out of his control.

  * * *

  Emma lay still, wondering what time it was. Light was showing around the narrow gaps of the window shutters and was the only wash of light able to enter the room. She lay there with the duvet pulled right up underneath her chin. She stared up at the ceiling; she knew every inch of it, every paint splodge that shouldn’t have been there, the cracks in the cornicing and the wispy cobwebs that were getting bigger in the corner. She was too upset to go in to work that day but her mind wouldn’t allow her to sleep, as it ran over last night’s events; it was running and racing and competing with itself in its thoughts. It chased thoughts like a dog chased its tail.

  Earlier that morning she had lain there as Adam’s alarm repeatedly went off but he had continued to sleep through. It had enraged her how he was able to sleep through that high-pitched beeping. She’d heard him stumbling in sometime after one as she lay in bed. He’d plodded up the stairs and then had gone quiet and she’d thought that he had finally gone to bed, only for him to resurrect moments later as he staggered along the landing.

  Eventually, after the alarm had been blaring on and off for ages, she’d heard him moving around the house: getting out of bed, showering, dressing, plodding downstairs, banging around in the kitchen, before finally banging the front door closed. Even just hearing him moving about was enough to make her body go rigid with tension; everything he did, every move he made, every footstep, every cupboard door banging, made her angry. How could he have said those words last night, how could he tell her it was time to move on? How did he not feel like she did, the hurt, the anger, the injustice all rolled into a sickly ball?

  Sometimes, when she looked at Adam now, it was like looking at a stranger. How could he just get on with life like nothing had ever happened? How could he do that – just pretend that everything was normal? It wasn’t unusual for her to wonder if she even knew this man any more. Maybe she had never known him?

  Now she lay in bed thinking, the anger building inside her. She resented how his life could still go on whereas hers had all-but-in-body ended that day.

  She needed to see his face so she slid open the drawer on her locker and took out the book where she kept the photo, but looking at him like that wasn’t enough. She desperately craved more, she needed more, something to touch physically, to hold onto tight and never let go. She slotted the photo back in between the pages of the book and closed it again. The tears began to spill down her face and she wondered when they would ever stop. She had cried so many tears over the last year she thought she would have no more left, that her body should be depleted of its tear reserves at this stage, but there was always more to replace the ones she had freshly cried. Her eyes were red and swollen and her cheeks were patchy and stingy from the salt.

  She felt exhausted but her mind was too alert. She reached into the drawer and took out the plastic vial. She took off the cap and shook out two tablets. She swallowed them back without the need of a drink and waited for sleep to take her.

  20

  That night Adam tossed and turned and eventually, exhausted and worn out from his nightly battle, fell into a deep sleep but he had only brief peace before he found himself back in the dream again. He was driving down the road he knew so well. His arm was stretched out onto the grey leather of his steering wheel. The white winter sunshine glared in through his windscreen, flickers of trees and leaves passed in front of his eyes. Frost wrapped the blades of grass on the ditch in its chilly coat and in places there was the sheen of ice on the road. He passed the farmhouse with the red door and its chickens roaming around amongst bits of old farm machinery and scrap lying idle, having been discarded in another era. He rounded the bend and was gently pulled to the left as the car hugged the curve of the road. Ahead of him a car zipped through a crossroads at speed though it didn’t have right of way. Christ! If he had reached the junction a few seconds earlier the idiot would have hit him! Crossing the junction he heard the roar of acceleration. He looked to his left. Oh shit, it was coming straight for him! Why wasn’t he waking up? He normally woke up at this stage. He waited for what felt like an eternity for the bang. And then it came louder than he had expected: the awful sound of metal crashing upon metal. Simultaneously, he fell forward onto a hard cushion of air and then backwards as instantly. His car was spinning now, his tyres locked, sliding along the icy surface, and he had no control. He was tossed high up in the air, turning over and over like a leaf blowing in an autumn gale and then he was tumbling down, falling, falling. Bang. Twisted metal crumpled in around him as shards of silvery glass rained down over his body. Then there was just silence. Deafening, thunderous silence.

  When he came around, he didn’t know how long he had been there or indeed if he was dead. Every part of his body was roaring in pain. Is this what death feels like? He was cold, so, so cold and his clothes felt damp and sticky against his skin. There were voices somewhere and he thought they were calling to him but he couldn’t answer. He opened his eyes and looked squarely at the man who kept shouting at him, but it was easier just to close them back down again. He could still hear him, roaring at him now, demanding his attention and he wanted to tell him to fuck off. He just wanted to rest for a while but the stranger wasn’t getting the message. He tried to turn his head to check on Fionn but a steel prop was pressed against the side of his face so he couldn’t move. The wreckage of steel had anchored him to his seat. He tried to talk to Fionn – It’s going to be okay, son, you’re okay – but no words left his mouth. Am I dead? Maybe this is what it feels like.

  He could hear a brigade of piercing sirens that were getting louder and higher until they were on top of him, deafening him. He wished they’d go, it was tiring him out. He needed to rest. Then there was a sawing noise cutting so close to him that he could actually see the sunlight gleaming off the blade. He felt tugging as the reverberations from the cutting vibrated through his body until eventually the rays rushed in and blinded him. And then he was being lifted up and laid down. Maybe now I’m dead? They were trying to talk to him but he didn’t want to talk. They strapped him in and then he was travelling with the siren chasing him. Fionn. Did they remember to bring Fionn? He had to close his eyes again, he was so tired.

  Part II

  21

  November, 2009

  Jean McParland stumbled sideways, free-falling. She scrabbled to try to grab onto the locker to break her fall but missed
it and kept careering forwards, waiting for her head to smash off the wall at any second. Finally it came. She heard the smash of bone against concrete as she tumbled forward, her forehead hitting off the wall. She rebounded again as she fell so that her skull bore the brunt of it this time. She lay slumped on the floor, momentarily stunned, her head looking down on her own body from an awkward angle as she tried to figure out what had just happened.

  Almost instantly the pain began to radiate from her skull down through her body and she thought she might be sick – she wasn’t sure if it was from the shock or the bang. The ‘Hello Kitty’ posters looked blurry above her on the wall from where she was lying between the radiator and the plastic-pink doll’s house. She could hear Chloe’s small voice whimpering in fear.

  “Shut the fuck up, y’little bitch, or you’ll be fucking next for a slap!” he roared at her terrorised daughter.

  Chloe stopped crying immediately, afraid that she would be next for the brutal treatment. Jean went to shift herself upright in a half-sliding manoeuvre against the wall but her head was spinning so she lay where she was for a few minutes longer. He was standing over her now, looking down at where she was lying on the floor. She swore she could see hatred in his eyes.

  “Please, Paul,” she begged with her hands covering her face.

  He turned and walked calmly out of the room and slammed the door behind him. It wasn’t until they heard the car engine that either of them dared moved. Chloe rushed to help pull her up onto her feet.

  “Are you okay, Mam?” Chloe was sobbing. “I’m so sorry, Mam, I’m sorry for fighting with him. I should have just given it to him.”