Before i die, p.13
Before I Die, page 13
She considered the situation while Ross put her cup and plate into the sink. Her mind was still sleep-addled, but she knew one thing. She would have to ring Alva and convince her about Dolores. It was vital to get rid of that woman. With Ross to back her up about the cat incident, there was some chance. She said as much to Ross, who agreed that it was worth a try.
‘Just give me an hour or so, time to get home and buttonhole Mum; then you ring and say your piece. I don’t want that crazy woman here either, bossing you around and kicking the cat. Especially when I’m in Australia and won’t be around to check in on things. Between the two of us, she’ll have to listen. She can find somebody else to take care of you.’
Exhausted, Maureen nodded. She hoped he was right, but she feared that Alva would prove a tough nut to crack. She had always been stubborn, and she was very convinced that she was right about Dolores, and that her mother was delusional. It was worth a try, though.
Ross didn’t stay long. He was keen to get home and talk to his mother; then he had to go out to meet a friend. A female friend, he agreed with a smile, when Maureen raised a questioning eyebrow. She was also going to Australia. Maureen didn’t delay him. It was good to be young. Waving him off, she checked the clock; it was almost five p.m. She would phone Alva at about seven o’clock, or a bit later. That should give him time to soften her up (his words) before Maureen had her say.
She checked on the cat, who was submerged in a drugged but pain-free sleep. He looked smaller and thinner in his invalid state. She smiled. There was just a scrap of cat there, really, under all that hair and pride. Turning on the kitchen radio and adjusting it to a music station, she settled back into her chair and relaxed. A few minutes later, she jerked upright and reminded herself. Seven o’clock. She had to remember that. She had to stay awake until then.
Maureen dreamed of being chased through a forest, and woke with a sense of urgency and alarm. Squinting at the clock on the wall, she saw that it was already almost ten o’clock. Somehow, she had known that it was late, even before looking. How could she have slept for so long? It was getting worse. She would be unconscious most of the day if this kept up. Had that overdose done some damage? She worried for a minute, then strained to remember why it was important to be awake right now. It came back to her in floating, fragmented pieces. The cat. She looked across the room at the cat carrier. Figs was still asleep. And the phone. She was supposed to phone Alva. To tell her about the cat. And Dolores.
Focusing with difficulty, she pulled her mobile phone from the bag hung over her chair. Another minute went by as she thought about how to ring Alva. ‘Contacts’. That was it. She got Alva’s number on the screen and pressed the phone symbol. It rang several times before Alva’s voice came through. She sounded tired, Maureen thought. And a bit irritable. Alva said ‘hello’ several times before Maureen pulled herself together and responded.
‘Alva? Hello. Alva? It’s Mum.’
‘Yes, Mother. I know that. It comes up on my screen, remember? Even if I didn’t recognise your voice. Why are you ringing so late? You do know it’s ten o’clock, don’t you? I’m on early shift tomorrow.’
Alva was ratty. Maureen hadn’t imagined that. She struggled to get her thoughts together, but the pressure wasn’t helpful.
‘Yes. Sorry. I was asleep, and I meant to ring you earlier, and then…’ She paused to get her thoughts together. Start at the beginning, she told herself. The cat. ‘It was about the cat. Did Ross tell you…?’ It wasn’t just the cat, but at least Maureen felt she had got started. The rest would follow, she hoped. Her voice felt thick. She was making an effort to form each word. Dolores. She needed to get rid of Dolores. That was the main thing. She held on to that thought.
Alva sighed. ‘Yes, Ross told me. Is it okay now?’
‘Yes, but…’ She paused, then decided to blurt it out. Alva wasn’t making things easy. ‘I think… I think it was Dolores. I think she kicked him.’
‘Oh God, Mother, just stop, will you? You can’t blame everything on Dolores. And you’ve got Ross doing the same thing.’ Alva’s impatience radiated through the phone. ‘That poor woman has been nothing but a friend to you. It’s got to stop. I’ve got too much on my plate to deal with this. That cat roams around outside. It’s a stray. Anybody could have kicked it. And Dolores said you let it out in the street yesterday.’
Maureen was shocked. ‘I didn’t. I never let him out there. He was out, all right, but…’ She struggled to remember. ‘I didn’t let him out. He was just outside.’ She knew that much.
‘I suppose that was Dolores’s fault, too?’ Alva’s tone was sharp. Maureen felt anger rising.
‘Yes, maybe it was. Why don’t you believe me? I’m your mother. You ought to listen.’
‘For God’s sake…’ Alva stopped and seemed to be taking a deep breath. ‘I called Dolores. She says you’re roaming about the street late in the day, after she’s gone. She thinks you let the cat out by mistake. And she thinks you’re… forgetful… about things. Listen to yourself. You sound muddled. You’ve been sleeping all day. Mum, please, just try to understand. We’re all doing our best to help you…’ Her voice trailed off. She sounded upset. Not as upset as Maureen felt.
‘You’d believe anything she said, wouldn’t you.’ Maureen’s sense of betrayal made her almost stop breathing, or at least, that was how it felt. Her own daughter… She rallied and attacked. ‘That woman has poisoned your mind. I know it. And she poisoned Frank. I’m sure of it. And Elizabeth’s dog…’ She paused and tried to remember where Elizabeth’s dog fitted into it. ‘And you don’t care. Maybe you’d be pleased to get rid of me. You don’t care at all.’ Maureen felt tears stinging her eyes.
Alva was silent for a minute. Her voice, when she responded, was controlled but with a ring of steel to it. ‘I don’t want to hear this. Listen to yourself, just listen. You sound… crazy. Paranoid. You’re accusing her of murder now. I know it upset you, your friend dying. But you can’t go around saying such things about poor Dolores… If there was anything fishy about his death, it will be that junkie son of his behind it. Everybody knows that. And it was most likely some confusion. An accident. Or maybe suicide. And you said something about a dog? You think she poisoned a dog? Look… just never mind. I don’t want to know. You really have to stop. Dolores is right. She says you’re getting… confused. Please. Just… stop.’
‘Dolores says what?’ Maureen’s voice rose. ‘And you believe her. That I’m confused. Crazy, I think you mean. Or senile. I’m not crazy. That woman is evil. You need to listen to me…’ Maureen’s control broke at that point, and she poked at the phone, trying to turn it off. Alva’s voice squeaked from the device for a few more seconds while she found the right thing to press; then there was silence. Maureen fished a hanky from her pocket and blew her nose, then looked around her at the empty kitchen. She was on her own, in every sense, now. It was a lonely feeling.
21
Michael rolled out of the post office feeling as good as was possible under the circumstances. The circumstances being that he was almost three weeks off heroin and still taking that green substitute shite, even though he’d had to buy some of it himself from a would-be reformed junkie who’d had enough and was returning to Nirvana. He hadn’t dared to pick up his legal supply from the registered pharmacist this week. The cops might be watching the place, waiting to arrest him for his father’s death. Or they might have told the pharmacy to ring them when he came in. Too much of a risk. Methadone was cheap anyway and easy enough to get from illegal sources. Even if it was watered down.
Today was his benefits day. Collecting that was a risk, too, but it felt good to have money in his pockets again. He had been reduced to dumpster-diving outside supermarkets for the past three days, retrieving unopened packets of stuff past their sell-by date, but still okay to eat. He fingered the notes in his pocket as he turned the corner, his thoughts on spending.
The unexpected hand that grabbed his collar and pulled him into an alleyway full of bins made him shriek in fear. Another shape loomed behind him and gave him a sharp poke in the kidneys to reinforce his direction of travel and block any thought of escape. Michael cringed. He knew what was coming. He was right. The fist that hit his solar plexus and made him double up in agony was a hard and practised one, each knuckle tattooed with a letter. P-A-I-N. It came attached to a person known to be an expert in his field. Johnno Creavey. The collector.
‘You owe us.’ The words were hissed into Michael’s face. Up close, Creavey was an ugly fuck. From a distance, he was no beauty, but up close, Michael could see the pores of his broken nose and smell his dog breath. Up close, Michael could smell the rancid sweat and violence of the man. Wordless, he thrust the notes from his pocket towards the source of his pain. Johnno straightened up and counted. His companion, who was half the size but just as ugly in his own unique way, fixed Michael with a warning stare from his beady little eyes. Despite, or maybe because of his small stature, he had a certain rat-like menace. The look of someone whose bite would turn septic. Johnno finished the count and spat into the street.
‘That’s two hundred. You owe us four fifty. And you done a runner.’
Michael got a defensive arm up in front of his face before responding. He didn’t want Johnno’s nose. Or broken teeth. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Just hear me out, yeah? Look, things happened. I meant to get it to you, but my old man died and –’ His explanation was interrupted by another body blow, followed by a kick to his shin. Johnno’s little companion, keen to join the fun, took a grip on Michael’s hair and banged his head against the wall.
‘We want the rest tomorrow. With interest. Say three hundred. Right?’ Creavey looked hard at Michael. ‘Right?’ His voice held enough menace to make Michael’s bowels feel loose.
‘Right. Right. Okay. Tomorrow. Three hundred. Yeah. Okay.’ He nodded like a wind-up toy, keen to project the right level of enthusiasm.
‘You phone us. Arrange a meet. You don’t want us to come and get you. Right?’ This time, the question was reinforced with a push that sent him reeling. It didn’t need a reply. The odd couple had turned and were mooching down the street, fists in pockets, before Michael had straightened up. Shaken and in pain, he limped towards home. His fingers felt the coins in his pocket, and he pulled them out for inspection. Six euro and about seventy cents.
At the corner of his street of dilapidated tenement houses, most of them empty and due for demolition, he stopped and melted into a doorway. He looked up and down, checking for anything unexpected. Parked near his place was a car with two men in it. The one on the driver’s side was smoking a cigarette out the window, the collar of his zippered jacket turned up against the cold. The man in the passenger seat wore a grey suit, with tie loosened and the top button undone.
Not too many suits around this part of town, except for weddings and funerals. And court appearances. Two ordinary guys in a car eyeballing the neighbourhood might be drug dealers or gangsters of some sort, going about their business. There was a gang war in progress, but nobody much cared so long as they only killed one another. Middle-aged in suits was another matter. From his experience, it meant cops. He watched for a minute. They didn’t speak, but sat gazing out at the street like they were waiting for something. Waiting for Michael. He turned on his heel and stayed close to the wall until he was out of their range of sight.
At Connolly station, he clambered over the gate, ignoring the desultory shout of a ticket checker with no serious plans to chase a junkie. Breathing hard, he joined the crowd surging towards the trains, and made his way to the southbound platform, where he stumbled to a metal bench. He had hopped that gate a million times, but today, the effort was painful. His ribs hurt like crazy, and his hair had dried blood in it where his head had cracked against the wall. The six euro and change rattled in his pocket.
After a few minutes of taking stock, he got to his feet, one eye on the illuminated train timetable. His bruised shin hurt. As the green train pulled alongside him, he stepped on board and half fell into a soft seat. The woman in the next seat gave him a look of disapproval and edged past him to move along the carriage. If he had felt better, he would have shouted something after her, but right now, he was just glad of the place to lie down. As the train rattled around Dublin Bay, he closed his eyes and tried not to think about the mess he was in. Or how much better it would be with some chemical assistance.
22
Maureen was awake and on her feet for a change, eyeing without enthusiasm the plate of spicy food left for her by Dolores, when she spotted something in the garden. A movement near the shed. She moved to the window and peered out, but whatever it was had vanished. Maybe a cat. She didn’t want any strange cats in the garden right now, not with poor Figs in such a bad way. He wouldn’t be able to defend his territory if a tough tomcat invaded. Another thought crossed her mind. It could be a fox. The cat would be no match at all for a fox in his present condition.
Picking up the sweeping brush, she headed for the back door. She might not feel up to much, but she could, at least, check out the back garden and protect her own. Fumbling with the lock, she cursed her awkwardness, but succeeded in turning the key and swinging the door open.
Outside, the daylight had begun to fade. Figs slipped in the door behind her, looking nervous, as she scanned the length of the garden. Nothing. She had turned to step back inside when a scarecrow stepped out of the shadow and gripped her arm. Her reaction was delayed, but a small scream escaped her, and the broom fell to the ground before she found herself pulled into the house, and the door closed behind her.
‘Christ’s sake, don’t scream. It’s only me, see?’ Michael’s voice was anxious.
Blinking, Maureen looked at him in shock for a moment, her heart still thumping, then pulled her arm away and took a breath. The Hallowe’en image was gone. In its place was a familiar thin and angular frame. Frank'’s son. Her mind filled with half-formed questions, but whatever Michael was, she had never been afraid of him. Now, with her brain clogged and slow-moving, she went on instinct. Nothing to worry about. He was in her house, though. Without her permission.
‘What are you doing here? And why… why didn’t you knock at the door? Or phone me?’ She peered at him as she spoke. It was no wonder she had thought he was a scarecrow. He looked in bad shape. As if he’d been sleeping rough. Was he back on drugs? Had he ever been off them? She couldn’t tell. Ignoring her questions, he limped towards the kitchen. The cat followed him, rubbing against his leg.
Maureen stood for a minute, her mind buzzing. She wasn’t at all sure he should be in her house. He was an addict, and light-fingered, from all accounts. Then again, Dolores was also a thief, and in her opinion, the most likely to have been a murderer. And Michael had not abused her cat. In fact, Figs seemed to like him. Maureen gave up trying to think things out and followed the cat.
Under the strong kitchen light, Michael looked even worse than he had in the hall. His hair was matted and his clothes looked dirty. He had slumped into a kitchen chair. She took his lead and sat down in her own armchair, trying to take it all in. She felt light-headed and confused, as if she might be hallucinating. How could Michael be here, in her kitchen? She closed her eyes, trying to think. Michael’s voice broke through the haze.
‘Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. I rang your doorbell for ages, but you weren’t answering, so I cut around the back. Your neighbour was giving me the evil eye. I thought she might call the guards if I hung around out front for too long. Are you all right? You look sort of spaced. Weird.’
She forced her heavy lids open and tried to focus. ‘I’m fine. Okay. Very tired. Sleeping all the time.’ She shifted in the chair and sat upright, trying not to let her head droop. He stood and moved, restless, around the room. He was limping, she noticed. ‘What happened to your leg?’
He shrugged. ‘Owed money to a guy… from a while back. He caught up with me.’
Maureen nodded. Talking took effort. She had slept the afternoon away, but was still groggy. Calling on a lifetime of habit, she roused herself to offer tea.
‘Yeah. Thanks. I’ll make it. You stay there. You got any coffee?’
She pointed at the drawer and closed her eyes again as he filled the kettle and rummaged around the cupboards. His voice roused her from a near sleep. ‘Were you going to warm this up?’ He was holding the plate of food Dolores had left. She considered for a moment.
‘Not hungry.’ Her tongue felt oversized. She took care to form the words, but they still emerged with a slight slur. ‘Dolores left it for me. You can have it if you like.’
He looked hard at her, then tipped the dish into the kitchen bin. She was aware of him peering into her face. Too close. His hand went towards her eyes and lifted a lid. Alarmed, she put up an arm to block him.
‘Sorry. Just checking… You taking any drugs or shit? You seem a bit out of it.’
For a moment, the idea of Michael, the addict, asking her about drug use struck her as ridiculous. She would have smiled if the effort hadn’t been too much. Instead, she thought about it. Drugs. Yes, of course, didn’t everybody after a certain age? She took her blood pressure meds. And something for high cholesterol. Nothing else, though. Why was he asking? Her mind wandered. His voice broke through once more.
‘Looks to me like you’ve been taking something. Big dose, too, to knock you out like that. Dolores here a lot?’
She nodded. ‘Every day. Alva, my daughter… she said… Last week… I took too much of my blood pressure medicine, and I wasn’t well afterwards…’ She wasn’t explaining very well, but Michael was nodding as if he understood. She persevered. ‘Feel… bad. Can’t think. Keep sleeping. All the time. Don’t know what’s wrong…’
