Читать книгу Dead And Buried - John Brennan - Страница 8

Present Day

THE HORIZONS seemed too narrow: everything seemed cramped, hemmed in, somehow. And there was too much bloody traffic. Still, Conor thought: this is Belfast. Even if it’s not the same Belfast you left behind, he added to himself.

He swung his Land Rover into a parking space outside the Cherry Tree pub, killed the engine and wound down the window. He could hear music coming from inside. A young lad with a ribbon-wrapped present under his arm walked by and went in through the rear door of the pub; before the door swung closed, Conor heard voices, music, laughter. Sounded like a good do. He wondered which voice was Ella’s.

Felt like his necktie was strangling him. Not used to it. He loosened his collar button uneasily and glanced at his reflection in the rearview. Look at yourself, Maguire, he thought – white as a sheet. What’s to be afraid of? What’s the worst that could happen? Two months ago you were handling a lion that came out of its anaesthetic earlier than it should’ve – and now you’re scared to death by the thought of a teenage girl’s birthday party. Get a grip.

But he couldn’t deny it. Again he glanced in the mirror – scared, and old. Hair starting to grey at the temples. Crow’s feet creasing the skin around his eyes. You look, he thought, like a middle-aged man. You look like a father.

He’d chatted to Ella a few times over the web. But how much can you learn about someone that way? – especially when you’re in an internet café in the arse-end of Mombasa and too busy fighting with a dodgy dial-up connection and shooing away the kids trying to sell you postcards to listen.

His daughter, he’d painfully come to accept, was practically a stranger to him. And then there was Christine. God only knew how she’d react. It was a miracle she’d even agreed to have him there.

Gathering up his card and gift – a handmade necklace he’d picked up in Nairobi – Conor struggled to think of the positives. Well at least his own family wouldn’t be in there. The Maguires didn’t stoop to socialising with Protestants. Hadn’t his own mother stayed home the day he married Christine? ‘That Prod woman’ was one of the nicer names old Mags had for Conor’s ex-wife.

Not that he wasn’t looking forward to seeing that crowd later on – his ma, and Martin, Robert – maybe his sister Patricia would be up from Cork, even. But he was glad they weren’t here. There was enough potential for trouble already without adding the Maguires to the mix.

He got out of the car and took a breath. Shot his cuffs, straightened the lapels of his corduroy jacket. Here goes nothing, he thought.

A thumping bass beat rattled his eardrums when he stepped through the door of the pub. That’d take some getting used to, after the deep quiet of the savannah. He paused and surveyed the room – God, it was full of kids.

Only they weren’t kids. They were sixteen, seventeen, like Ella – they were young men and women. Wondering who this jetlagged old bastard is that’s just come in through the door. He couldn’t see his daughter, so he headed for the bar. A pint would take the edge off his nerves. He pushed his way through a crowd of laughing young people: a redhead in a black minidress, an Asian guy with a punk haircut and chainstore suit, a blonde in a blue halterneck, a skinny guy with glasses and bottle of beer…

‘Guinness, please, pal.’

He leaned on the bar and watched the barman draw the black beer into a straight-sided glass. Now you know you’re home, he thought. You had a job on even getting the stuff in bottles out in Kenya. He was lifting the glass to his lips when the girl in the blue halterneck half-turned, and he caught her profile. His stomach flipped.

Christ Almighty. Ella.

Conor had half a second to notice with angry disapproval that the skinny kid in the glasses had his right hand resting in the small of Ella’s back, and another half a second to tell himself not to be so stupid, that she wasn’t twelve years old any more and that he’d given up his right to play the protective dad quite some years ago.

And then she saw him, came to greet him, Ella, his daughter, a perfect smile splitting her freckled face, a delighted shriek ringing out even over the racket from the sound system. She threw her arms round his neck – and Conor thought: what the hell were you so worried about, man? As he held her close he could smell her perfume, something fresh, delicate, a grown-up’s scent – but beneath that he could smell her: her skin, her hair, her own scent, the way his daughter used to smell, all that time ago.

With her hands on his shoulders, Ella took a step back to look him full in the face. She was a beautiful girl, he could see that. A beautiful, seventeen-year-old girl with his wife’s blue eyes and his baby daughter’s smile. She was lightly made-up. God, the rows she and Christine had had over the lippy and eyeliner his daughter had pinched from Chris’s dresser, when she was eleven. And she was tall, taller than Christine. Her hair was styled in an asymmetric fringe, the rest of it collected with a slip at the back of her head.

‘I’m so glad you came,’ she said.

‘Hello, Ella. Happy birthday.’

‘Look at you, Dad – with your tan. Call yourself an Irishman? Where is it you’ve been again? Marbella?’

‘Close. Exclusive little resort you wouldn’t have heard of.’

‘Ooh, some chichi spot full of the filthy rich and fabulous, was it?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Rich widows and cocktails on the veranda?’

‘Try vultures and endemic malaria.’ He grinned. ‘Hell, it’s good to see you, darling,’ he said.

Ella nodded and blinked and he saw her pinch her lips together, gulping back a sob. He reached out a hand, but Ella had turned away – and now she had the skinny kid by the elbow, and was saying, with a sudden forced bubbliness, that his name was Kieran, that he was her boyfriend, and Conor found himself shaking the skinny kid’s hand.

‘Hi, Kieran,’ he said, doing his best to be friendly. This was uncharted territory.

Kieran’s shake was confident and unhurried. ‘How about you, Mr Maguire,’ he said. ‘So you’ve been away?’

‘Yes, I have.’ Conor said, tucking his hands into his pockets. He felt daft talking about it. ‘Africa. Kenya. I’m a vet,’ he added.

Ella slapped his arm. ‘You needn’t sound so apologetic about it,’ she told him, with a what-are-you-like wave of her hand. To Kieran she said, ‘He’s a great vet. You have to be, don’t you, Dad, to treat, you know, lions, cheetahs, bloody elephants…’

Conor shrugged. ‘They’re all asleep by the time I have anything to do with them,’ he said. ‘I don’t chase them down personally.’

‘Makes a change from goldfish and guinea pigs, anyway, I bet,’ Kieran put in, and Conor laughed – but a part of him cringed, waiting for the question, waiting for Kieran to ask: so why’d you leave?

But Kieran only swigged his beer and said, ‘Africa, so. Not been there yet.’

‘But you’ve travelled?’ asked Conor, happy to change the subject.

‘Oh sure, sure.’ Kieran winked, startlingly. ‘Wanderlust,’ he said. ‘Itchy feet. I’ve been places, all right. Italy. The States.’ He paused for a beat. ‘Portmuck.’

Ella laughed. Conor was surprised to find that he’d finished his pint. That was the nerves. He might even start to enjoy this party, after all.

‘You’re looking beautiful, Ella,’ he said. ‘You look…’ he paused, thought twice, and then said it anyway, ‘you look like your mother.’

And it was true. The blonde hair, the freckles, the sea-blue eyes as big as the world – the look that could freeze you solid just as well as it could melt you to a puddle. Ella smiled.

But then Conor heard a sharp intake of breath behind him. Ella’s eyes went wide. He turned, knowing already who he’d see.

‘Holy mother of god,’ said Christine, and dropped a tray of drinks. The partygoers around her scrambled to get out of the way of the smashed glass – more drinks were spilled, more dresses wine-stained, more neckties sloshed with Guinness. The spilled drinks fizzed and frothed across the floor.

Conor glanced at Ella over his shoulder. ‘You never told her I was coming?’

Ella bit her lip. ‘Oops,’ she said, but her sea-blue eyes were laughing.

Christine hadn’t come alone. As a grumpy-looking member of the bar staff swept up the broken glass, she turned to the man lurking behind her.

‘This is Simon. He’s a teacher – a lecturer, I mean.’ Another handshake. This one wasn’t so warm. ‘And this is Conor,’ Christine added. Her tone said no further explanation was necessary.

Conor and Simon exchanged glad-to-meet-yous. God we’re a pair of lying bastards, Conor thought. He supposed Simon was thinking the same.

Simon was slender, lightly bearded, casually dressed in grey cords and a polo shirt. Dublin accent. His salt-and-pepper hair was swept back. He carried himself loosely, lazily, like an athlete at rest. Conor didn’t like the way he dangled an arm around Christine’s shoulders – but then, of course, that was exactly why Simon was doing it.

Christine remembered about the spilled drinks. Simon promptly volunteered to go to the bar for replacements. Conor proffered a twenty-pound note – ‘I was the silly bugger that made her drop them’ – but Simon waved it away, made it clear that he was the one who bought Chris’s drinks now. Conor and Christine were left alone.

He hadn’t spoken to her since the day she threw him out of the house. After that, the only relationship they’d had had been one conducted through solicitors’ letters.

‘He seems like a good guy,’ he tried, lamely.

Christine had her arms folded defensively across her chest. ‘He is,’ she nodded.

Conor groped for words. He wanted to say that she looked beautiful – he wanted to say that he was sorry – oh, Christ, he wanted to say so many things, but not one of them could you say over drinks at your daughter’s 17th birthday party.

So he gave up. ‘A lecturer, eh?’ he said. ‘Impressive.’

‘It is. He is. Modern languages. Five languages, he speaks.’ She smiled distantly. ‘Remember what you were like in Paris that time? Took you half the weekend to pluck up the courage to say bonjour to the hotel doorman.’

Conor had to bite back a retort – he wanted to explain to her that he’d changed (and he could explain it in Swahili if she wanted, or in Kikuyu or Maasai) – he wanted her to see that he was different, that his world was bigger now, that this place, Belfast, it wasn’t what he was about any more.

But all he said was: ‘And even then I got it wrong, remember?’

‘You did. Bon jwah!’ Christine smirked. Then she looked away, and then down at the floor, and then she looked him in the eye. ‘How’s the family?’ she said.

And Conor was glad that at that moment Simon came back with his hands full of drinks. He was glad because the only thing he could think of to say in reply was: you’re my family.

IT WAS dark outside the mullioned pub windows and Conor was settling into his fifth pint of Guinness and was kidding Kieran good-naturedly about his support for Glentoran – ‘Do they still have a football team even? When I left, Glentoran was the place Nor’n Irish Under-21s went to die’ – when someone jostled his elbow and a voice at his ear said, ‘So where is she? Sorry I’m late. Where’s the birthday girl?’

A wave of nausea hit him hard. This was a voice he hadn’t heard in a long time – a voice he’d hoped he’d never hear again. Conor noticed Kieran eye him curiously, and struggled to hide his feelings, keep his grip. His felt his hand begin to tremble and he stuffed it quickly into his jacket pocket.

Everywhere I turn, Conor thought – everywhere I look there’s a ghost from the past. Or – God, he hated the thought – but maybe, Conor, he told himself, you’re the ghost here. The ghost at the feast.

He drained his glass and turned. ‘Hello, Patrick,’ he said.

But Patrick was already gathering Ella into his arms, telling her happy birthday, flattering her dress and her haircut, and now he was kissing Christine, joking with Simon, saluting Kieran with a forefinger cocked sharpshooter-style – quite the fucking life and soul, Conor thought.

What was Patrick now? Pushing forty, surely, but he didn’t look it. His suit was well-cut to his slim-hipped figure, his urchin pallor replaced by a healthy tan, his necktie silk, his narrow shoes new-looking, his smile wide and white and wealthy.

Eventually he caught sight of Conor. If he was surprised he didn’t show it.

‘So!’ he cried. He seized Conor’s hand with his right and his left gripped Conor’s elbow. ‘Not just a birthday, but a homecoming! A double celebration.’ He lifted his chin and made an unshowy gesture towards the bar. Then he turned back to Conor. ‘I put a case of Roederer behind the bar,’ he said.

‘Roederer?’

‘Champagne, son,’ Patrick said, and thumped Conor’s shoulder. Conor felt himself darken. But again Patrick acted as though the two of them were the closest of friends.

‘It’s good to see you, Con,’ he murmured, pulling Conor close to him with a hand on the back of his neck. ‘Glad you’re back. All of us are glad you’re back.’

Conor wasn’t about to ask who he meant by all of us.

‘Aye, well. I don’t know how long I’ll be stopping around,’ he lied.

Patrick lifted an eyebrow.

‘Is that a fact?’ He nudged Conor in the ribs. ‘’Cause I heard the prodigal son’d returned to take over Kirk’s practice. Did I hear wrong?’

Shit. How could Patrick have known that? The best he could do was a non-committal shrug – but anyway Patrick was soon off again, working the crowd like a presidential candidate, calling for champagne glasses, high-fiving, glad-handing, throwing comical dance shapes as the sound system pounded.

And Conor was left with an empty Guinness glass and a feeling he wasn’t sure he could put a name to. He felt like he’d been hit by a truck. He ached. He’d barely been back in Belfast two minutes, and already here was Christine, and here was Patrick.

The music died and a teaspoon chimed against a champagne flute and he heard Patrick’s voice say, ‘Attention, please, ladies and gents. Presentation time.’

Craning his neck over the crowd, Conor watched uneasily as Patrick took giggling Ella by the hand and drew her away from her knot of friends.

‘Now,’ Patrick said, ‘I’m no good at speeches, so I’ll keep this short.’ He slipped his hand quickly into his jacket pocket and drew something out. It glinted. ‘My favourite niece is seventeen today. Everyone knows, I s’pose, about the five A-levels she earned last month.’ A ripple of applause, until Patrick held up a raised palm for silence. ‘Now, I’ve no A-levels myself – and not enough O-levels to trouble the scorers – but even I know this is a girl that’s going places. And a girl who’s going places can’t be expected to go there on the bloody bus, now can she?’ He held up his hand, dangling a set of car keys. ‘Happy birthday, darling,’ he said, as Ella’s mouth dropped open in delighted surprise. ‘It’s parked outside.’

Conor followed Ella out into the street. He heard whoops from the girls and admiring murmurs from the men. Something flash, no doubt. He wondered how much Patrick had forked out. The generosity of the present set off an uneasy feeling in Conor’s gut.

‘It’s an Audi A1,’ said Patrick behind him. He turned to see his brother-in-law standing alone on the deserted dance floor with a half-empty champagne flute resting easily in his hand. Behind him a barman, having gathered up a trayful of empty glasses, disappeared through a door into the kitchens.

Patrick walked towards Conor. ‘Reliable. Brand new. Ten grand.’ He stopped. ‘So c’mon, Con,’ he said, loosening his tie. ‘Tell me all. What’ve you been up to all this time?’

‘Working. Vet stuff. You know,’ Conor said.

‘Sure, sure.’ Patrick was eyeing him narrowly, half-smiling. Conor felt like there was a joke here somewhere – a joke he wasn’t in on.

‘It’s just what I do,’ he said gruffly.

‘Of course it is, son, of course it is. And it’s a good thing you do, you know. I’m proud of you. And now you’re home – well, I’d like you to keep in touch.’

Son? Who the hell did he think he was?

If Patrick noticed Conor’s irritation then he hid it well. He reached into his jacket and produced a silver clip of business cards. ‘Here. Take it.’ Conor took the card Patrick offered and turned it over in his fingers. Just Patrick’s name and a mobile number.

‘A business card without a business,’ Conor commented.

Patrick shrugged. ‘Diversification,’ he said.

Conor managed to avoid Patrick for the last hour, as the champagne flowed. He drifted in and out into the fresh air, and even accepted the offer of a cigarette from one of the barstaff at the door. When he returned inside, the DJ was packing away his gear at the far end of the room and the guests were collecting bags, jackets, coats. Conor went to the toilet and, as he emerged, Christine called over from the door. ‘Patrick!’ She didn’t even look at Conor. ‘Patrick, Simon’s taking us home now. Come kiss the birthday girl goodnight.’

‘Sure I will,’ Patrick smiled. Conor wanted to stay where he was – stay where he was and get good and drunk while the bar was still open – but Patrick, with an insistent arm round his shoulders, pulled him out into the street. The last partygoers gradually dispersed. Minicabs milled in the road. Conor hung back moodily while Patrick hugged Ella and Christine goodbye.

Suddenly something caught his attention: the whirr of a camera, and the glint of a lens, from a car parked across the street. Conor knew cameras. That wasn’t any partygoer’s Polaroid or Boots throwaway. That was serious hardware – a funny thing to bring to a birthday party. Conor tried to squint through the black windscreen of the car but he could make nothing out in the 1am darkness.

Ella interrupted him with a hug and a warm kiss on his cheek.

‘You didn’t have much fun,’ she said, apologetically.

He managed a smile. ‘I’m just happy to see you,’ he said, and meant it. ‘Happier than I can say.’

Ella smiled her mother’s smile. ‘Welcome home, Dad,’ she said. Then she was gone. A car door banged and an engine started.

As Simon’s saloon drew away carefully from the kerb, Conor moved cautiously over to the wooden benches outside the pub, where Patrick was sitting smoking a cigarette. Patrick nodded amiably as Conor took a seat beside him.

‘Nice evening,’ he said.

‘It is.’ Conor glanced across the street. The car was still there. He licked his dry lips. ‘Patrick,’ he said.

‘That’s me.’

‘Listen,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t look now, but there’s someone with a camera in—’

He started in surprise as Patrick cut him off with a theatrical roar of laughter. He shook his head and with a flick sent the half-smoked cigarette spinning into the darkness.

Then he looked delightedly at Conor, tongue lolling on his lower lip. ‘The coppers, you mean?’

Conor was bewildered. ‘Coppers? I—’

‘Yeah, the Belfast coppers are still my biggest fans.’ He nudged Conor knowingly, then leaned forward and directed a camp wave towards the glowering parked car. ‘Evening, ladies!’ he called. Then he sat back, chuckling. ‘Don’t worry about it, son. Occupational hazard.’ He slapped Conor’s knee. ‘They watch and watch. But they never see a thing. The bastards,’ he said, with a smile and a wink, ‘can’t lay a finger on me.’

Patrick rose, and straightened the sit of his well-cut trousers, and set his hands on his hips, and sighed.

‘What a night,’ he said, expansively.

Conor said nothing. He had nothing to say – nothing that he could put into words.