The One I Love Page 6

  Someone coughed. It was the caretaker. “Sorry to disturb you,” he said.

  “It’s fine,” she said. “I was just talking to the wall.”

  “I’m here to fix the door,” he said.

  “Okay,” she said. “Please forgive the smell. I’m about to clean.”

  “Will do,” he said, and got to work.

  Much later, after the caretaker had hastily fitted a new door, Leslie poured a glass of wine, picked up her phone and dialled a number she hadn’t dialled in more than ten years.

  “Hello?”

  “Jim?”

  “This is Jim.”

  “Hi, it’s Leslie Sheehan.”

  “Leslie – Jesus! I can’t believe it’s you!”

  “I know. It’s odd. I hope I’m not intruding.”

  “No, I’m just sitting in.”

  “Me too.”

  “Happy New Year, by the way!”

  “Happy New Year.”

  “So, what made you call after all this time?” he asked.

  “I don’t know – well, it sounds stupid.”

  “You’re sick?”

  “No, no, not sick,” she said. “I’m thinking about having preventive surgery actually.”

  “I think you should,” he said, without missing a beat.

  “Wow.”

  “If Imelda’d had that choice I know she would have done it.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “Are you scared?”

  “No.”

  “Have you got anyone in your life?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want me to be there for you?”

  Leslie couldn’t believe it. She hadn’t spoken to Jim in so many years and before that she’d usually been rude or standoffish. “That is really kind of you,” she said, “but no.”

  “So why have you called?”

  “I just wanted to hear your voice,” she said, and laughed a little. “People are mad, aren’t they?”

  Jim laughed too. “Yes, Leslie, people are mad.”

  After that she asked him how he was and what he was doing and if he’d ever remarried. He was fine, doing well and, no, he hadn’t. He’d seen a Russian woman for a year but she’d returned to Russia when her father had died six months earlier.

  They spoke for about fifteen minutes and before she hung up she promised to call him to arrange to go out for a drink.

  “You see, Deborah! I’m going out for a drink, with a man, very soon!” she shouted at the wall once more. “I am not Crazy Dead Cat Lady, not today and not tomorrow!”

  The cat stared at her from its freshly washed and pine-scented bed. Leslie looked at her watch and as it was only nine she opened her computer and watched three episodes of Desperate Housewives Season One, before hitting the hay around eleven thirty.

  “Yeah, Happy New Year, Deborah, and up yours!”

  Tom beeped the horn and, within seconds, Jane appeared. She waved, closed the door and ignored her mother’s face, pressed to the basement window, when she turned to shut the gate. Tom had got out and opened her car door. She buckled up while he made his way around to his side. He got in and thanked her for agreeing to come to the Walshes’ with him, explaining how awkward it had been since Alexandra had disappeared. She wondered why he put himself through it and he admitted he had a soft spot for Alexandra’s mother, Breda.

  They got to the house just after nine and Alexandra’s younger sister, Kate, opened the door. She hugged Tom and said a polite hello to Jane. The last time Jane had seen Kate she had probably been no more than ten so she wasn’t surprised when she didn’t recognize her. They entered the hallway and Jane felt as though she had stepped back through time. The carpet was still brown with red diamonds, the telephone table still had two yellow telephone books under it, the walls were still dotted with holiday photos from the seventies and eighties and at least three included her. She was ushered quickly into the sitting room.

  There, sitting on the green velvet chair by the window, was Breda. The chair was the same but Breda had aged well beyond her years. Having begun her family young, Breda couldn’t have been older than sixty-five but she looked ninety. Her face was wizened and her tall frame shrivelled. Her hair was white and cropped. Her hands, clasped and holding rosary beads, were so thin they were transparent, revealing blue and purple veins and knuckles that appeared knotted.

  She saw Jane, smiled and held out her hand. Jane took it and felt a little weak.

  “Jane Moore,” said Breda, “you’ve grown into such a beautiful woman.”

  “Thank you, Breda. It’s lovely to see you again.”

  “And Tom tells me you’ve been so good helping him find my Alexandra.”

  “I’m only setting up an exhibition to highlight her case and the Missing of Ireland.” Jane was embarrassed and wished she was in a position to do more.

  “You were always such a lovely girl. Alexandra will be so pleased to have you in her life again.” She was crying but her tears were silent.

  From the corner of her eye Jane noticed Eamonn enter the room but Breda still had a firm grip of her hand and deserved her full attention.

  “Still so blonde,” said Breda, and flipped Jane’s shoulder-length hair.

  “It has some help, these days,” Jane said.

  “Do you remember Alexandra’s hair?”

  Jane nodded.

  “She had the richest chestnut hair, so glossy,” said her mother. “It was just above her shoulders when we saw her last but the police say it could have changed now. I hope it hasn’t. She had the most beautiful hair.”

  “Mam,” Eamonn said, “Jane doesn’t want to hear that.”

  Jane turned to Eamonn and nodded hello. “It’s fine,” she said. “I understand.”

  Breda let go of Jane’s hand. “You should get a drink.” She looked at Tom, who was still standing at the door. “Tom, you should get Jane a drink.”

  Tom took Jane into the kitchen where Kate, her husband Owen, Eamonn’s wife Frankie and Alexandra’s father Ben were standing around the counter. Frankie welcomed Tom with a hug and Ben nodded to him. Kate offered him a drink but Tom said he’d make it himself.

  Ben shook Jane’s hand and thanked her for coming. “It’s great to see you. How’s that boy of yours?”

  “He’s fine. He’s seventeen now.”

  “My God, time passes quickly. It seems like only yesterday yourself and herself were giving us a run for our money.”

  Jane grinned. Although he was older than his wife he still managed to look ten years younger. He sported a full head of grey hair and he rubbed at the grey stubble on his chin. He was heavier than he had been years before. She remembered him as fit and sporty but those days were long gone. His shirt buttons strained over his paunch, and when he’d approached her he’d walked with a limp.

  Some neighbours arrived and sat in the sitting room with Breda. The house seemed full and empty at the same time. Tom handed Jane a glass of red wine. Tony Bennett was playing on the stereo. No one talked about the fact that Alexandra was gone. They referred to her often and included her in stories about the past, which was where, it seemed, her parents now resided. Tom talked with his in-laws’ neighbours, Frankie, and Owen, but it was difficult not to notice coldness between him and Alexandra’s brother and father. He spent some time with Breda, who hugged him warmly and whispered something into his ear.

  Half an hour before midnight he found Jane in the hallway, studying a picture on the wall. “That was taken on a day out in Bray in 1983,” she said. “It was such a hot day. The beach was mobbed and we’d run into the arcade and onto the bumpers just to cool down. Alexandra ate so much candy floss she puked pink all the way home.”

  Tom looked at the picture and recognized Jane. Her hair was so blonde it was almost white and plaited to her waist. She was hugging Alexandra whose wavy chestnut hair shone in the sun. Both girls were facing the camera and grinning so hard they had dimples. “It’s a funny old world,” he said,
but nobody was laughing.

  Midnight came and went, the New Year was celebrated and when the clock struck one Tom and Jane made their excuses and left.

  In the car Jane asked Tom about his relationship with Alexandra’s family.

  “Ben and Eamonn need someone to blame,” he said.

  “Why you?”

  “Why not me? She’s my wife.”

  “And what about Breda?”

  “Breda blames herself.”

  “And you?”

  “It depends on the day.”

  When they got to Jane’s house he stopped the car and thanked her once more for coming. “It meant so much to Breda.”

  She told him she’d be in touch the following week with an update about the exhibition. He nodded and she got out of the car. She closed the gate behind her and waved. He drove off and she made her way up the steps of her house. She could hear Bing Crosby singing “You Are My Sun-shine”, punctuated by laughter and chat from her mother’s basement flat. She didn’t stop to say hello. Instead she went inside, took off her shoes, which were pretty but painful, poured herself a whiskey and took it to bed.

  When the clock turned midnight Elle toasted the sky. She spun around the beach in bare feet with a bottle of vodka pressed to her chest. When she stopped spinning she fell onto her arse, still managing to hold onto the bottle. She got up as quickly as a drunkard can and sprayed some alcohol on the fire so that the flames danced higher and higher. The car engine had already exploded so now she and a homeless man, who called himself Buns, watched the shell burn out. She sat beside him and clinked her bottle against his.

  “Happy New Year, Buns!”

  “Happy New Year, my dear!”

  They sat in silence, listening to the flames crackle and the low hush of the sea as it swept in and out. Elle lit a cigarette and passed it to him. He refused with a wave of his hands. “Those things will kill you.”

  She laughed a little. “Sleeping on a pavement in December will kill you quicker.”

  “Ah, well, it’s January now, so roll on spring!” He took a slug from the bottle of vodka the strange girl had bought for him. “Vincent must be a right bastard,” he said, after a minute or two.

  “Depends who you ask,” she said, getting up and dancing around again.

  “How much would you say that car cost?” he asked.

  “Around forty grand.” She could have answered with a precise figure if she had wished to as she had bought Vincent the car.

  “Jesus. He’ll be sorry he messed with you.”

  She smiled. “That’s the hope.”

  They both heard the police sirens. Buns drained his bottle dry before the cops could take his booze off him. Elle continued to dance to the music she could hear in her head. The police approached them cautiously but Elle smiled and waved them over as though they were at a party and she was asking them to join in. Once they had established that Elle had stolen her ex-boyfriend’s car and burned it out they put her and Buns, who happily claimed to have been a willing accessory, in the back of the car. Buns was delighted he would have a night inside or even two if he was lucky – he’d seen the weather forecast in the window of Dixons electrical shop and the temperature was set to fall below zero.

  Elle was focused on the sights, sounds and smells around her. Everything seemed so vivid; she was giddy, high on revenge and adventure. The city moved quickly past the window and the siren pealed, not because there was an emergency, just to get through the drunkards on the streets. The car smelt of disinfectant and she breathed in deeply. Buns smelt of something else entirely, a little sweat, a little oil, a little damp and a little puke, and still she inhaled and smiled as though it was the sweetest perfume.

  “I’ve never been in a jail cell,” she said, excited by the notion. “I’ve always wondered about it.”

  The female guard looked over her shoulder. “Well, you won’t have to wonder any more.”

  “True.” Elle smiled to herself.

  Jane woke with a start. Kurt was standing above her with his hand on her shoulder, shaking her. “Mum, Mum, Mum!”

  She bolted upright in the bed. “Kurt?” She looked at the clock beside her bed, which read 4:10 a.m. “What the hell?”

  “It’s Elle. She’s been arrested.”

  Jane stared at her son blankly; the words that had come from his mouth seemed to have lost their meaning. “Excuse me?”

  “Sit up,” he ordered, and she noticed he was slurring but at that moment her teenage drunken son was the least of her worries.

  “Did you say ‘arrested’?” she asked, silently praying she’d misheard him.

  He nodded.

  She swung her legs around, sat on the edge of the bed and held her head in her hands. “Oh, for fu–” she said, then sighed a sigh that seemed to come from her very core. “Where is she?”

  “Clontarf.”

  “Clontarf,” she repeated, and got out of bed. “And why not? Clontarf is as good as any place to get arrested.”

  Kurt watched his mother talk to herself and bump into things while trying to locate something to wear. She said “ouch” twice and “for fu–” a number of times before he took his leave so that she could get dressed.

  Jane entered the sitting room in search of her handbag. Kurt and his girlfriend Irene were lying on the sofa together, listening to music.

  “Hi, Jane,” Irene said, with a grin that suggested she had imbibed one too many alcopops.

  “Hi, Irene,” she said. “Does your mother know where you are?”

  “She’s in Venice,” Irene said, slurring a little.

  “Nice.”

  “Not really,” Irene said. “She found out that Dad was sleeping with some woman he met on the Internet and she’s gone over there to spend as much of his money as possible before she kicks him out of the house.”

  “Oh, my God, that’s awful,” Jane said, truly shocked and momentarily forgetting her sister was in a jail cell. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” Irene waved her hands dismissively.

  “Well, if things get a bit rough at home you can always come and stay here – in the spare room, not Kurt’s.”

  “Ah, Jane, that is so nice of you, thank you.” She burped. “Excuse you!” she said, pointing at Jane, then burst out laughing. Kurt laughed too.

  Jane raised her eyes to heaven and grabbed her bag but before she left she stood in front of the pair, wagging her finger. “No sex in here, no sex in your room, no sex in this entire house. And don’t think I won’t know because I will know.” She left the room.

  Irene looked at Kurt and wagged her finger. “And yet she didn’t cop that we’ve just done it on this sofa.”

  Jane heard them laugh as she exited the house. Of course they’re laughing. It’s four in the morning, they’re seventeen, drunk and awake, and they’ve probably had more sex in the past five hours than I’ve had in two years.

  Once in the police station Jane waited for more than two hours before she even got to speak to someone. It was then she was informed that her sister faced possible charges on counts of theft and arson. Jane closed her eyes and didn’t speak for what seemed to be the longest time. The policeman queried as to whether or not she was all right.

  “I hate my life,” she said.

  “I know the feeling.”

  After that she sat in the waiting area for another hour. She was freezing and tired and so pissed off that she actually wanted to weep. The man beside her smelt of feet and the woman opposite stared at her in a manner that suggested she might wish to hurt her. Jane would have loved to be bold enough to square up to the stranger and demand of her an explanation as to what she wanted, but she didn’t have the balls. The story of my life, she thought, keeping her head hung low to avoid her aggressive opposite’s gaze.

  Elle appeared a little after eight o’clock. She was yawning and stretching. She grinned when she saw Jane, who stood up, grabbed her sister’s arm and dragged her out of the station.

&n
bsp; “Do not grin, do not speak, do not even bollocking whimper!” she ordered Elle, who seemed to be veering between alarm and amusement. “I am cold and tired and I’ve just about had it up to here. So shut up.”

  “Okay,” Elle agreed.

  They sat into the car. Jane started the engine.

  “Can I smoke?” Elle asked.

  “Shut up,” Jane said.

  “I’ll take that as a yes, then,” said Elle, lighting up.

  Jane drove in silence. Elle smoked and stared out of the window. When they were less than a mile from the house, Jane pulled the car into the side of the road and parked. She turned to her sister and began the rant she had practised while sitting in the police station and attempting to avoid being head-butted. “You have done some unbelievable things in your time – stupid, stupid things that have left me wide-eyed and open-mouthed – but, my God, this one has really topped the lot. You burnt out Vincent’s car? No, hold on, you stole and then you burned out Vincent’s car? What is wrong with you? How insane does a person have to be?” She noticed tears streaming from Elle’s eyes, which silenced her.

  Elle took the card out of her pocket and passed it to Jane. Jane read it aloud: “‘Elle, like the song goes, I want you, I need you, but let’s face it, I’m never going to love you.’” She looked away from the card and faced her sister, who was still crying. “‘Like the song goes’?” She looked back at the card. “‘Let’s face it’?” She shook her head. “Oh, Elle!” She pitied her sister because even though Vincent was a pig Elle loved him deeply. “Let’s face it,” Jane repeated, “he’s obviously back on drugs.”

  Elle didn’t respond.

  Jane handed the card back to Elle, whose nose was now running. She took some tissue from her pocket, wiped Elle’s nose and hugged her. “It’s all right, Elle, we’ll sort it all out.” But she knew there was nothing she could do.