Читать книгу On Your Doorstep: Perfect for those who loved Close to Home - Laura Elliot - Страница 11

Shortly after their marriage, Carla was crossing O’Connell Bridge on her way to a luncheon fashion show when she saw her husband at work. The wind, blowing harshly off the Liffey, tossed her hair across her face, and he had almost passed her by before she became aware of him. A junkie, she thought, summing him up in a glance, his baggy tracksuit bottoms, the grubby trainers minus laces, and the way he hunched into his nondescript anorak, his pale face protected by the hood. More like a dealer, she decided, as his eyes, darting and shifty, sized up everything around him. For an instant, she was swamped in his gaze as his eyes flashed with recognition. Then he was gone, swiftly absorbed in the crowd.

Shocked, she leaned over the balustrade and gazed into the Liffey. The tide was low, the walls of the river dank and brown. She pretended she had not recognised him, knowing he would be furious with himself for dropping his guard, even for an instant. Strange that she, who knew his body intimately, had not noticed his height, nor could she remember anything about his features, other than his eyes, momentarily betraying him. But in that chance encounter, Carla realised they did share something in common; a chameleon quality that allowed them, when necessary, to dominate or to blend successfully into any landscape of their choosing.

Almost a year had passed since then but she remembered that incident when she watched the evening news. A consignment of drugs had been discovered in the secret compartment of a truck entering Dublin Port. Not discovered, Carla thought, as the news report unfolded. The customs officers knew exactly what they would find when they stopped the truck. The television camera lingered over the plastic bags laid out on a table for maximum exposure. A grave-faced policeman estimated the street value of the seizure. Five hundred thousand punts, a sizeable sum. Uniformed Gardaí moved in the background. Robert was not among them. His role was covert, undercover. He worked the docks area, eliciting information, making contacts, his identity so deeply embedded that twice he had been arrested by uniformed guards unaware of his undercover work. These things he whispered to Carla in the aftermath of lovemaking, coiling her hair around his fingers, his laughter warm in her ear. He skimmed over the dangers, aware that he straddled two worlds but confident of his footing.

‘Did you see it?’ He rang her shortly after the evening news. The background was loud with voices, laughter, music.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Well done, my favourite mole.’

‘We’ve gone back to Sharon’s house,’ he told her. ‘I’m just going to have a few drinks then take a taxi home.’

‘A likely story.’ She knew he would arrive home in the small hours, smelling of whiskey and, probably, a late-night curry. ‘The spare room is ready and waiting,’ she warned him. ‘In my delicate condition, a drunken detective in my bed is the last thing I need.’

He promised to be quiet, shoes off at the front door. ‘You’re sure you’re okay?’ he asked.

‘I’m fine.’ She wished she felt as serene as she sounded. ‘Another fortnight to go. I assume you’ll have sobered up by then.’

He was still laughing when she hung up. Their marriage was as separate as a snapped thread from his small, close-knit team. Was she jealous, she wondered as she replaced the receiver. She thought of Sharon Boyle, with her black boyish hair and long, muscular legs, the tough-talking sister in the tight band of brothers. Carla had met her for the first time when she came to their house-warming party with other members of the squad. The group had remained apart from the general gathering. They sat on the stairs, forming a closed-off huddle that showed no inclination to stir outside their pall of cigarette smoke, shop talk and camaraderie. Robert had mingled effortlessly with the other guests but he had joined his colleagues on the stairs by the end of the night.

No, not jealous, exactly, Carla decided. Just envious of the slash of danger that drew people together in a way her safe, glittering world of fashion could never do.

She watched television for a while, searching the channels for light relief, a romantic comedy or an enthralling love triangle she could enjoy without Robert’s heavy breathing signalling his boredom. Nothing interested her. Her back ached and the baby appeared to have manoeuvred a vaulting pole under her ribs.

The phone rang when she was climbing the stairs to bed. She reached the bedroom and lay across the bed.

‘You sound like you’ve just run the marathon,’ said Raine.

‘A marathon would be easier,’ she replied and pulled the duvet over her.

‘I suppose the bro is on a razz.’ Raine had also seen the evening news.

‘Celebrations are well underway,’ Carla replied. ‘I’ve plumped the pillows in the spare room.’

‘Wise move.’ Raine laughed. ‘Although his powers of recovery are amazing.’

‘So I’ve discovered. How’s business?’

‘Brilliant, thanks to you. How are you?’

‘Solid as the Rock of Gibraltar. That’s if I discount kicks, jabs, twinges, aches, and the occasional rugby tackle.’

‘Do you want me to come over and keep you company?’

‘Not tonight, thanks. I’m already in bed.’

‘Sleep tight, kiddo. Enjoy it while you can.’

Carla arched her back to ease a deep cramping pain. Filled with restless energy, she arose and pulled clothes from the wardrobe, folded them into a black plastic sack. Tomorrow she would bring her Anticipation collection to Oxfam and wish good luck to those who wished to wear it.

Midnight came and went without any sign of Robert. She drifted asleep. Her dreams were jagged with pain. Awakening suddenly, she was unable to remember the details, only the discomfort. A moist warm trickle eased between her legs. She hurled the duvet aside, gasped as a spasm rippled across her stomach. Her waters were not supposed to break until later in labour. Her baby was not ready. Another spasm gripped her and she understood that it was she, not her baby, who was unprepared.

Gingerly, she left the bed. Her nightdress clung to her skin. She shivered as she pulled it from her and reached in the wardrobe for a skirt and top. Her bag was packed. All she needed was her husband, drunk or sober, by her side. She was angry with him, then amused, then panicked, her emotions all over the place.

Robert had given her a number to ring in emergencies. Sharon answered, her clipped authoritative voice slurred, too loud. Music blasted in the background. Heavy rock. Sharon shouted at someone to lower the stereo then returned her attention to Carla.

‘He’s not exactly in the best of health.’ She laughed apologetically. ‘Actually he’s just passed out on the sofa.’

‘Then throw a bucket of cold water over him,’ Carla shouted. ‘And tell him to get his arse over to the Valley View because his child is not waiting around for his health to recover.’

‘Message understood.’ Sharon snapped to attention. ‘I’ll call the ambulance. Do you need a Garda escort?’

Carla forced herself to breathe slowly until the cramp subsided. ‘That’s not a bad idea,’ she gasped. ‘But you’d better do it fast.’

She debated ringing her parents then decided against it. Her father would cope but she did not want to watch her mother’s lips trembling, her hands flailing, her mind ticking off everything that could possibly go wrong.

The ambulance crew arrived. They joked about delivering roadside babies. Carla panted and wondered if they would be laughing on the other side of their faces before the journey was over. The blue lights of a Garda car scattered the darkness as the ambulance driver followed, breaking through traffic lights and heading straight for the Valley View Maternity Clinic.

The pain gained momentum, the spasms coming faster. Robert arrived in a taxi at the same time as the ambulance reached the clinic. He rushed towards her, looking, as she had expected, utterly disreputable, unshaven, his voice excruciatingly precise as he attempted to convince her he was sober. She laughed and allowed him to help her into a wheelchair. Their baby was coming. She sensed its determination, the driving force of its head seeking the light.

‘I love you…love you…love you,’ Robert babbled as she was wheeled into the clinic.

She tightened her grip on his hand and breathed into the rhythm of another spasm.

The midwife said, ‘This one’s not going to hang around. Come with me, Mother. We’re heading straight to the labour ward.’