alexandra, gone Read online

  “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 Buns. 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 on 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 precise figures if she had wished, as she had bought him 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 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 himself as a willing accessory, in the back of the police car. Buns was delighted that he would have at least a night inside, or even two if he was lucky, because he’d seen the weather forecast in the window of Dixon’s electrical shop and it 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 but just to get through the drunkards on the streets. The car smelled of disinfectant, and she breathed in deeply. Buns smelled 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 of perfume.

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

  The female officer looked over her shoulder. “Well, you won’t have to wonder anymore.”

  “True.” Elle smiled.

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

  She bolted upright. “Kurt?” She looked at the clock beside her bed: four ten a.m. “What the hell?”

  “It’s Elle. She’s been arrested.”

  Jane stared blankly at her son; the words coming from his mouth seemed to lose meaning. “Excuse me?”

  “Sit up,” he ordered, and she noticed he was slurring, but at that moment her drunken teenage 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 and sat at the edge of the bed and held her head in her hands. “Oh for fuck’s sake,” she said before she 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 anyplace to get arrested.”

  Jane talked to herself and bumped into things while trying to locate something to wear. She said “ouch” twice and “for fhu” a number of times before Kurt 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 big grin that suggested she had imbibed one too many alcopops.

  “Hi, Irene,” she said to the grinning teen. “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 kicking 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 before she 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 two drunk teenagers 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 to the fact that we’ve just done it on this sofa.”

  Jane could hear Kurt and Irene laugh as she left 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.

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

  “I hate my life,” she said.

  “I know the feeling.”

  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 smelled 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 an explanation as to what she wanted, but she didn’t have the balls. The story of my life, she thought while 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 in turn stood up, grabbed her sister’s arm, and dragged her out of the station.

  “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 just 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,” Elle said, lighting up.

  Jane drove in silence. Elle smoked and stared out the window. When they were less than a mile from their house, Jane pulled the car to the side of the road and parked. She turned to her sister and began the rant she had practiced while sitting in the 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 openmouthed. But my God, this one has really topped the lot. You burned out Vincent’s car? No, hold on, you stole, 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, and they silenced her.

  Elle took the card out of her pocket and passed it to Jane. Jane read it aloud.

  “‘Elle, like the song says, I want you, I need you, but let’s face it, I’m never going to love you.’” She faced her sister, who was still crying. “Like the song says?” She looked back at the page. “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 dr
ugs.”

  Elle didn’t respond.

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

  Elle shook her head. “He’s really gone this time, Janey.” Then she sobbed on her sister’s shoulder until her tears ran dry.

  5

  “Authentic Fake”

  Pillows bursting at the seams,

  feathers floating like dreams,

  naked on the wooden floor,

  night porters banging at the door,

  and we just turn the music up.

  Jack L, Broken Songs

  January 2008

  Although it was cold, the sky was blue and there wasn’t a cloud in sight. Jane particularly favored cold dry days, and they were so few and far between. She wasn’t a fan of central heating, as it made her skin itchy and dry. She liked a nip in the air and couldn’t understand when her son complained that he was cold, because she had spent so much money on clothes for him to wear and yet he had the audacity to stand in front of her in a T-shirt and boxer shorts wondering what it would take for her to put on some heat. The kitchen was warm because she had spent the morning baking. Kurt came in, rubbing his hands together and blowing into them for effect.

  “Put on a sweater and jeans,” she said with her back to him.

  “Who’s coming?” he asked, ignoring her and putting on the kettle.

  “Tom and Leslie.”

  “Oh them.” He made a face.

  “‘Oh them,’” she repeated, amused. “What’s wrong with them?”

  “He’s haunted and she’s a bit of a freak,” he said, spooning coffee into a cup. “Oh, and Gran thinks he’s a murderer.”

  “Oh for God’s sake, stop listening to that twisted woman!”

  “Well, you can’t say it hasn’t crossed your mind.”

  “I can say it hasn’t crossed my mind,” she replied. “Alexandra disappeared when Tom was at work, and he has witnesses.”

  “So it has crossed your mind, but you’re satisfied with his alibi.” Kurt pointed his spoon at his mother.

  “Fine.” She put her hands up. “I’m satisfied by his alibi.”

  “Lots of people have good alibis, and then those alibis turn out to be crap.”

  “Kurt,” Jane said, “please stop calling Mammy’s new friend a murderer.”

  Kurt laughed a little. “Okay, but be careful—you don’t want to be a Nicky Pelley to his Joe O’Reilly.” He poured boiling water into the cup and then gripped it tightly. “God, Mum, it’s freezing in here.”

  He went to his room to sit at his computer with his duvet strategically wrapped around his body and arms while his hands remained uncovered and unencumbered. Jane remained in the kitchen cleaning the spilled coffee grounds from the counter while keeping an eye on the oven and clock.

  This would be the third time Leslie and Tom had come to her house to discuss their project’s progress. Elle had been there both times before, but she was taking her breakup with Vincent pretty hard and so when Jane spotted her GONE FISHING sign on her door earlier that morning, she knew it meant that Elle might be gone a week or a month. She wasn’t sure how she was going to break this news to Tom.

  Tom had become incredibly excited at the last meeting when Elle had revealed the painting she had done of Alexandra. He had previously given Elle a box of photos of his wife, and she’d gone through all of Jane’s from when Alexandra was younger, and after spending a week looking at the woman’s face, she spent another week working on capturing it. According to Tom, Jane, and even Leslie, she had done so beautifully.

  “I made her look sad,” Elle said. “I hope you don’t mind because I know she is a happy sort, but I think she needed to look sad.”

  “I don’t mind—she’s beautiful,” Tom said, staring at the painting that leaned against Jane’s kitchen wall. “How did you do that? How did you make her look lost?”

  Elle stared at the face she had come to know so well and hunched her shoulders. “I don’t know.”

  Tom bit the side of his mouth so hard there was an indent in his cheek. He nodded and looked at Elle. “You’re incredible.”

  Elle loved it when people complimented her. She’d blush and say she hated it, but her heart would flutter, her pulse would race, and for a moment she’d feel a great high that she’d come down from all too soon.

  Leslie had created a fantastic website—www.findingalexandra.com—that incorporated Alexandra’s most recent photos and a map of her last movements. She’d even managed to attach the CCTV footage from Tara Street and Dalkey DART stations. She created a blog space for Tom to update if and when he wanted and a chat room for anyone who wanted to post a comment, and of course there was an e-mail address for anyone with information. Tom was overwhelmed, especially when Leslie revealed the link to Jack Lukeman’s website, and when she clicked on Jack’s site there was a link to Finding Alexandra. Tom was dumbfounded. Jack’s website even mentioned Alexandra and asked his visitors to check out the Finding Alexandra site to see if they had seen her.

  “How?” Tom asked.

  “I designed Jack’s site.”

  “Wow, that’s fantastic. Absolutely fantastic.”

  “And you said you couldn’t help!” Elle teased.

  “Well, I’m glad you’re happy,” Leslie said, a little pleased with herself.

  “How did you get Jack to agree?” Jane asked.

  “Alexandra’s a Jack fan, and I got Myra in his office to agree, and once she agreed it was pretty much done and, by the by, they asked if there was anything else that they could do.”

  “You are shitting me!” Elle said.

  “No,” Leslie said. “And I’m not sure I even know or care to know what shitting a person is.”

  “Of course there’s something else they can do,” Jane said suddenly.

  “Yeah,” Elle said, beating Jane to it. “Jack can sing at the Missing Exhibition opening.”

  “It would make the PR a cinch,” Jane said.

  “I’ll talk to Myra,” Leslie said.

  Tom didn’t know what to say. He was bowled over. In the few short weeks he had known these three women, his search for his wife had taken on a whole new life, and he was so grateful that he found it hard to express it.

  Jane smiled at him when he became tongue-tied and slightly teary. “We’ll find her,” she promised.

  Now, less than a month later, her promise appeared slightly premature if not a tad arrogant. Elle was missing in action, and that meant she wasn’t painting, and if she wasn’t painting the exhibition might not happen in April as had been planned, and if the exhibition didn’t happen in April Jack wouldn’t be available to play at it again until after he’d finished with the European festivals in September, and he was key to publicity. She had tried to call Elle, but to no avail. GONE FISHING meant no contact.

  Jane felt sick about having to disappoint Tom and Leslie after all the work Leslie had put into promoting the exhibition on the website, and she wasn’t even sure if she should tell them. Maybe I’ll give it a week, she thought. I’ll give it a week and see what happens and then, if I have to tell them and break Tom’s heart, I’ll do it. Damn it, Elle, this is no time for your selfish crap. Come home.

  Leslie was the first to arrive. Jane opened the door, and Leslie pointed to the basement and asked if Jane knew who the old woman was.

  “My mother.”

  Leslie nodded. “Oh,” she said. “She has Tom.”

  “Sweet Jesus! There’s coffee made. I’ll be a minute.” Jane took off down the front steps like a hare before Leslie could even respond.

  Tom was sitting in a chair opposite her mother when she burst into the room as though she was a gangbuster.

  Rose was swirling liquid in her mug, and Jane prayed it was tea. Tom was silent and had his hands clasped and resting on his knee.


  “What has she said?” Jane asked Tom.

  “I asked him if he’d killed his wife,” Rose said. “I further inquired whether or not he had any intention of killing you.”

  “Oh God.” Jane sighed and closed her eyes for a moment to compose herself.

  “I said no on both counts,” Tom said, and thankfully he seemed a little amused.

  “You see, Jane,” Rose said, “we are only having a nice quiet chat. There’s no need to run down here like your anus is on fire.”

  Tom laughed a little.

  “Tom,” Jane said, “time to leave.”

  Tom stood up.

  “Rose, I’ll talk to you later,” Jane said.

  Tom said good-bye to Rose and followed Jane out into Rose’s small hallway, where he managed to kick over her stack of unsolicited mail. He stooped to pile it all back together, and before Jane could tell him to ignore the mess and move on, her mother shouted from her sitting room.

  “And Tom dear!”

  “Yes?” He moved back to the doorway.

  “If my daughter happens to go missing, you’ll die roaring. I’ll make sure of it,” she said in an airy and sweet tone as though she was promising to take him out to dinner.

  “I understand.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Jane apologized as she drew him away from the door and slammed it shut. “I really am so very sorry.”

  “It’s fine,” Tom said.

  “You need locking up!” she screamed at her mother through the closed sitting-room door. She opened Rose’s front door, and Tom followed her into the cold air. He was both a little miffed and a little entertained.

  Jane was pissed off. “Sorry you had to witness that.”

  “It’s fine,” he said. “Worth it. After all, without you and Elle I’d still be handing out leaflets at gigs.”

  Oh God, Elle! Come home for Christ’s sake, just come home!

  Jane smiled at Tom and pretended everything was okay. He followed her up the steps and into the house and to the kitchen, where Leslie was hugging her cup of coffee.