Freckles(16)

Ah, he’s been promoted to a parking angel.

I’m glad Ferrari fella has paid, or at least sent out one of his footmen, but only paying because he sees me coming isn’t the point at all. This is not a cat-and-mouse game, this is not about me, you’re supposed to pay for all the hours. I’m agitated again.

I need a break. I haven’t had coffee or breakfast but maybe I should take an early lunch. I walk by the office, looking straight ahead, down the steps to the coast road. I head for my bench but it starts to rain and I have to divert immediately. It’s bucketing down, big thick cold raindrops. Wet rain, as we’d say. I hurry to the public toilets on the corner, beside the tennis club. Pretty flower boxes outside, and hanging baskets. Standing, I eat my cheese sandwich, making sure my back is to number eight. Look at her eating her lunch by the skanky toilets in the rain, I imagine the male models say, as they place their Prada trainers on their desks and lean back to drink cappuccinos with half almond milk half llama milk.

For distraction I watch the windows of the garda station, bright strip lighting peeking through vertical office blinds, wondering what they’re working on, wondering if my parking tickets will ever help them solve a case.

It rains for the remainder of the afternoon, a grey day made greyer, dirtier and cold. A cold wind picks up, sending the promise of spring away and plunging us back into winter again. By the time I’m finished for the day I arrive home freezing. My feet are numb and my fingers are so cold I can barely wrap them around my door key. I could do with babysitting tonight, the kids would be a nice distraction. Usually Becky and Donnacha go out on Tuesdays, but the house is quiet. I walk across the flagged stone pathway through the secret garden to the gym.

The rain has enticed worms and snails outside up from their hiding places.

I feel a crunch underfoot. I twist my shoe to wipe the snail’s slush off.

I stand in the shower for a long time. It takes a while for the heat to soak through my skin and reach my bones. The mist and steam are so thick I can’t see through the glass, and I’m finding it hard to breathe. I’ve heat rashes all over my skin, and yet I turn the temperature higher.

Later I can’t sleep. My mind is too busy, it won’t settle. It won’t focus on one thought for long enough, it keeps jumping back and forth, to nonsense. To five people.

I hear a sound outside. A crash, a bang. It sounds like the wheelie bin. It’s windy but not so much that it would send a wheelie bin flying. The McGovern family wheelie bins are gathered together in an area nearer to the house. Sectioned off behind khaki painted fencing. Two green bins for recycling, a brown bin for food and a purple for home refuse. I have one of each outside the garage for my own use. I’m meticulous with my recycling. Everything must be separated, food cleaned out of plastic before binning, labels peeled off. All rules must be obeyed. It pains me to see what other families do after all my hard work. To think that their crap will be bunged in with mine. I picture that plastic swirl in the sea. The bang has come from right outside my window. I look outside but don’t see anything. There’s a security light that comes on with motion sensors but I switched it off because the tree outside my window kept setting it off every time it swayed.

I pull on my lounge pants again, throw a sweater on and hurry downstairs. The lights are off in the office and gym. I’m alone in the building. I open the door and look outside and come face to face with a fox. He looks up at me and doesn’t blink. He has toppled the green bin. Bad idea, my friend, no food in there, though he may have sniffed out the remnants of food from the packaging. My heart’s pounding as we take part in a staring match. I daren’t breathe. Or blink. His tail is hugely bushy, white at the tip. Not too dissimilar to a dog but its tail gives it away.

Madra rua, the red fox.

We stare at each other, I don’t know for how long, probably not as long as it feels. His stare isn’t threatening, but is he dangerous. Maybe if you’re a chicken. Are you a chicken, Allegra. Bok bok bok. Are you going to let what that man said break you down, knock you off your axis. Are you, Allegra. He called you a loser. He thinks that the five people you spend the most time with are losers and that you’re a loser and maybe you are because look how you’ve reacted, Allegra. Or should I call you Freckles. Who are you since you arrived here. Allegra or Freckles. Come on, make up your mind.

I step back inside and close the door on the fox, heart pounding in my chest.

Bok bok bok.

Beneath the duvet I realise I’m running the fingertips of my right hand across the skin on my left arm. I’ve been tracing the scarred raised skin near my bicep over and over as though wearing a path. I don’t need to look at which constellation I’m focused on because I know by feel. Cassiopeia. A five-star constellation. I still remember the star names; Segin, Ruchbach, Navi, Shedar, Caph. As I run my fingers over each star I think about the words Ferrari fella said to me.

Five people. Five stars. Freckle to freckle. Star to freckle. Person to star. Person to freckle. Over and over again until I fall asleep.





Nine


I’m looking at the dashboard of the Ferrari. It ran out of pay-and-display juice thirty minutes ago. I’m momentarily pleased, not because I can ticket him again, but because I can see he has again made an effort. Then I’m angry with myself for dropping my standards. To simply make an effort is not acceptable.