Freckles(15)

Feeling disoriented, a little dizzy, I keep walking. I feel like everyone is looking at me because I don’t know where I’m going. I stop and start. Turn around and then go back the way I came, before going back the other way again as my mind runs through the possible places to go. I’m like an ant whose line has been broken. It’s his fault. I join the line in Insomnia and examine the counter of unfamiliar muffins and cakes. I hear Spanner giving out about them. They don’t have Belgian waffles. Only packaged Stroopwafels by the till. I can’t decide on anything so I leave. Outside I meet Donnacha.

Good morning, Allegra.

His jeep is right out front. The engine is running, the hazards are on and the kids are active inside. He’s parked on double yellow lines. The keys dangle from the ignition. I wonder how he will react to me telling him to move. I haven’t seen him since I caught Becky out. I wonder if he suspects anything, if I need to watch what I say. I’m more concerned about his parking.

I saw a fox last night in the garden, he begins.

My eyes wander as he talks. The kids are screaming in the car, I can hear them from here and he keeps talking about them being nocturnal hunters. Solitary hunters. Scavengers, not a threat to dogs or cats so Barley and Rye should be fine.

A nimble snout of flood, licks over stepping stones and goes uprooting, he says.

Ah he’s spewing poetry already and so early in the morning.

Heaney. The hedgehog and the fox, he says.

Oh. Right. We studied his stuff, I say. Something about potatoes.

That was ‘Digging,’ he says.

Right. I don’t remember. It was a while ago.

It’s about work, ritual and the desire to craft, he says.

One of those deep looks at me, like I know what the hell. I can’t do this today. Not with how my head is.

I just thought it was about potatoes, I kind of mumble.

You know the hedgehog was Hume, and the fox was Trimble.

He takes my non-answer, my lack of eye contact and my general air of disinterest as encouragement to continue.

John Hume. SDLP. David Trimble. Ulster Unionist. Hesitant progress with assured movement.

Right, I say, feeling sweat breaking out on my back. Prickling against my shirt.

I look at the car again.

Isn’t it dangerous to leave the keys in the ignition when the kids are in the car, I say.

It takes him a moment to adjust to the subject change, and when he does he shrugs lightly. No they won’t touch it.

I don’t mean the kids, I mean somebody could jump in and drive off.

He laughs. Whoever it is would drive them right back, believe me. Maybe you’ll keep an eye out for it.

For what.

For the fox. See if he visits again. I was trying to figure out which way he came in, he says. And around and around again he goes.

I eye the car, irritation prickling, my skin feels itchy, my nose is too.

Donnacha, I interrupt him, you know I’m a parking warden and you’re parked on double yellow lines.

I’m not parked, my hazards are on. I’m only going to be a minute.

He doesn’t know the meaning of a minute. I feel like everybody is staring at me, this warden not doing her job properly. Burn her at the stake for inefficiency. A garda car drives by, and my heartbeat quickens. I don’t want them to see me not doing my job properly. I make my expression more stern. Maybe they’ll think I’m lecturing Donnacha. I’m on the case.

Your car is illegally parked here, I say, and you’re putting me in a very difficult situation. And your wife is shagging somebody else. I don’t say the last bit aloud. But I could. And I might. If he doesn’t let me go. Release me from his snare. It’s on the tip of my tongue.

Okay, okay, he says.

I have to leave before I blurt it out. I take a left down Townyard Lane so I don’t feel his eyes on my back. I’m trembling. It’s Ferrari fella’s fault. He’s made me fall apart. At the seams. Stuffing hanging out. I started off on the wrong foot, and can’t find a natural rhythm. I feel jumpy. The heeby-jeebies. As I approach the hair salon I notice that the BMW isn’t parked outside. Confused, I look around to see if she’s parked it somewhere else but there’s no sign of it. I cross the road quickly not paying attention to the traffic and almost get run over. Where is she. What’s wrong with her. Why didn’t she go to work today. With a car horn ringing in my ear I jog up to the window of the salon and look inside. She’s right there, at the window, doing nails. This I’m glad of and I relax a little, but where’s her damn car, and what the hell is going on.

I walk up and down the street a few times, checking every single car for her parking disc. Maybe she bought a new car, maybe she drove in another car, and if that’s the case, I hope she’s transferred the new vehicle details to her disc or I’ll have to ticket her. But there’s nothing that belongs to her or her business. I stare through the window, confused. She looks up briefly and catches my eye again. She smiles, all professional, always on the lookout for new customers. I turn around and walk away quickly, heart pounding at the connection.

I stop at the head of James’s Terrace and look down the street. My heart is pumping, pounding. I don’t know if I want to see the Ferrari or not. I feel weary as I make my way down past the cars, an impending sense of doom, and somebody runs out of number eight – not him, it’s the curly-haired lad. Dressed casually, fashionably preened and polished in a T-shirt and jeans, so unbusinesslike for an office environment. I wonder what they do in there, apart from ruin people’s existences. He looks at me, grinning, as he runs down the steps. Digging for money in his pocket, he hurries to the pay-and-display machine, then to the Ferrari. He opens the door, places the ticket on the dashboard, winks at me as if he’s beaten me in a game I have no desire to play, or do I, and runs back inside.