The Weight of Him(22)

“Listen to me. I need you to believe I’m going to see this through, and that it’s good and right. I’m not going to fail, not this time, I promise.”

They locked eyes. He reached out and touched his fingertips to her cheek, and then dropped his hand to clasp the side of her neck. He could feel the beat of her pulse against his palm. Her hand reached up and covered his. She leaned her head to the side, resting her jaw on his wrist. He drew her to him. As he bent to kiss her, she bowed her head and his lips landed on her forehead, at her hairline. He tasted pear shampoo and her salt.

She stepped toward the kettle. “Do you want a cup of tea?”

“No,” he said, his voice pinched with longing and disappointment. “I don’t want tea.”

*

Billy set out from his yard, about to haul himself and his sore ankle over the six hundred yards to the village. At his gate, he looked down the long road and wondered if this was all too much too soon. Dr. Shaw had said to start small and go easy. What if his efforts killed him before his weight did? He started out, forcing one foot in front of the other. He couldn’t delay any longer. Every second of every day, lives were at stake.

As he walked, the pain in his ankle marked every excruciating step. His right hand held the memory of the rock yesterday. He could see the tree trunk and Michael’s initials inside his best attempt at a sun with bright rays. He hadn’t recovered from what he’d made of Michael’s initials spelled backward. Locals drove past at speed, waving and beeping. The shock they must feel, seeing him walk to the village. He continued, his massive body going from side to side to the sound track in his head. Michael, Michael.

He arrived at the shop, almost bent double with the sharp stitch in his side and the agony of his ankle. He leaned against the whitewashed wall to recover. With his cardigan sleeve, he wiped his face and the back of his neck. He could taste more salt on his upper lip. He glanced through the window. Caroline was sitting at her usual station next to the cash register, leaning over the glass counter and scratching at a Lotto card, longing written all over her face.

He had aimed his visit for closing time in the hopes of finding her alone. Any earlier and there would have been a near-constant flow of people in and out, the bell over the door jangling repeatedly: a stranger in to pay for petrol; the delivery of fresh breads and tarts; tourists and foreign nationals needing directions; and the trickle of locals in for whatever staple they had run out of at home. Caroline never appeared to enjoy a minute alone, at least not until the shop door closed at night and she retreated into the house upstairs. There, she seemed to have only the company of the walls, her black cat with the white blind eye, and the TV images flickering across the building’s top window like ghosts.

His breathing and pain eased. He entered the shop.

“Ah, it’s yourself.” Caroline nodded at the scratched Lotto card in her hand. “I won five euro.”

“Nice.” He removed both flyers from their folders and spoke in a rush. “Speaking of money…”

When he finished, Caroline pulled her glasses off her face, leaving two red indentations on either side of her nose. “Well, I never,” she said, stunned.

“Someone has to do more than what’s being done right now.” His voice cracked.

“There’s no one doing anything like this, anyway.”

“Aren’t I all the talk already?” he said, bristling. “I might as well go all-out.”

Her cheeks bloomed red. “Now, now, there’s no need to be like that, it’s just that it’s a bit unusual, is all.” She brightened. “How about this? I’ll give you a flat pledge of fifty euro, would that be all right?”

“Fifty euro is excellent, thanks.”

“Very good. And we’ll put these right here for everyone to see.” She reached for the tape dispenser and attached both flyers to the glass counter next to the cash register. He thanked her again, giddy with success, and turned to go.

Her words stopped him. “It takes a big man to do something like this, no pun intended. Fair play to you.” They nodded at each other, the gesture less of a good-bye and more of a salute.

Billy hobbled across the road to Kennedy’s, trying to ignore the pain in his right ankle. Above him, stars strained to shine in the pale sky. He stopped at the corner of the redbrick pub and wrapped his hand around the soldier in his coat pocket. It was going to be a lot harder to make his pitch to Ben Kennedy, the man deaf as well as ignorant. It wasn’t going to help, either, that everyone in the place would look on and listen. Caroline’s parting words repeated in his head, bolstering him. He pushed himself toward the thatched pub, its double wooden doors scarred and flaking, as weathered as so many of the lives beyond them.

Inside Kennedy’s, the few punters sitting about looked over at Billy and away again, their expressions empty. He understood their mix of curiosity and hope every time the door opened, something similar to his expectations whenever he looked into the fridge. Only a handful of people dotted the place. It was hard to believe pubs were dying out all over the country. Who would ever have predicted?

He stopped cold. Sergeant Deveney sat slumped at the bar, off-duty and already drunk. The thought of Deveney cutting Michael down from the tree made Billy’s head feel as if it were floating. Even before Michael’s death, Billy would have crossed the road to avoid Deveney. The man gabbed nonstop about himself and his supposed exploits, talking shite about collaring criminals on a regular basis with Bond-like ease. The eejit. But now Billy’s disgust went way beyond Deveney’s noise. He couldn’t bear to as much as think of the sergeant, let alone be in his company.