Freckles(67)

Forget work, forget the beat. Forget everything I came here for. It’s all gone to shit, to piss, to utter rot. It’s a plastic whirlpool in the middle of the ocean, an entire melted ice cap, a washed-up plastic choking whale, it’s that poor little fella on the sand, the refugee, washed ashore on a fancy beach of a luxury holiday destination. The worst of the worst.

The intrigue and curiosity I felt when pushing her is gone. Now I’m forlorn. Yes that it’s it, I’m totally empty, warden wipeout. But filled with so much contempt for myself. Why couldn’t I leave her alone. Why did I have to pursue the ticket. If I had let it go, she wouldn’t hate me, wouldn’t in fact think anything of me, would go back to fine day for ducks and maybe good morning as we pass each other. Was it because I wanted to make her feel something, was that it, I wanted her to notice me, did I want to punish her, did I want to punish myself for being such a dope and having such hope. For letting myself get carried away with what might be instead of having the courage to try to make it something. Did I use up all my units of bravery moving here and fall at the final hurdle.

The tears are pumping out of me. I’m a snivelling wreck. Up Old Street, onto Main Street, past the Village Bakery. Are ye all right, Freckles, I hear from Spanner who’s outside smoking. I keep walking, past the church overflowing with communion ceremonies, over the bridge, into the grounds of Malahide Castle.

I’m the wicked warden from Rooster’s game after all, punched, kicked, beaten down. I’ve thrown it all away, everything, forget this job, forget apologising to Paddy, forget the art gallery and my cheating guilty landlord, forget them all. I’m done, I’m finished. Over and out from weird creepy girl.

I pass by Donnacha in his studio. If he’s surprised to see me back so early with tears dripping down my face, hiccupping from the lack of breath, then I don’t know and I don’t care because I’m not looking. Swollen face, snotty nose, eyes streaming. I walk across the flagstones planted in the secret garden, unseen, hidden, like no one would know I’m there. The creepy girl in the back of their garden. The way they want it, I suppose. It wasn’t Donnacha or Becky, but a girl named Ava, Becky’s personal assistant, who showed me around the back garden, pointed out the exact route I’m supposed to take. Through the side gate, past the bins, cut into the garden through the gap in the hedges, into the secret garden, over the flagstones that lead to the gym in the back.

For the privacy of the family, she said.

I could sit out in the secret garden, but not the rest of the garden.

For the privacy of the family.

I wonder what she’d think now of my privacy if I sent her the video of Becky screwing hairy arse on my bed. I wanted so desperately to get out of the box bedroom house-sharing situation … the atmosphere was awful, they were arguing every night, I couldn’t leave my room. He wouldn’t look at me, she looked at me as if she wanted to kill me.

Out, she’d shout at me, get the fuck out.

But I’d nowhere to go. Finding this place was a heavenly bliss, I thought I’d won the lottery. Five-star luxury, I didn’t care about the secret garden or the family’s privacy, or the fact it was in the back of a garden. It was a gift. I’d have agreed to do seven nights’ babysitting to get away from where I was. I had to meet Becky first, of course, she had to approve Ava’s choice. I didn’t see the inside of their house until my first babysitting job. For the privacy of the family.

I throw off my cap, fall onto the bed and cry some more, this time loudly, frustrated, angry. It’s not pretty. At some stage I fall asleep.

I wake to knocking on the door. I’m momentarily disoriented as I wake, expecting to be in my room in Valentia, and then in Pauline’s B&B and then finally realise where I am. It’s still bright outside so it’s not that late, it doesn’t get dark until 9.30 or 10 now. I look at my phone. Eight missed calls from Becky. And the knocking starts up again.

Allegra, it’s Donnacha.

I push my hair back from my face, its wild mane like the weird creepy girl I am, and pull the door open. He stares at me, my face, then a quick glance at my uniform then at the bed behind me. He looks smart, like he’s going somewhere fancy, and then I realise.

Oh shit. Shit. Donnacha, shit. I’m sorry.

I was supposed to babysit. I let go of the door, spring into action, grabbing my shoes, feeling woozy and having to steady myself.

What time is it, I ask. I look around for my phone.

It’s 8.45.

I was due to babysit at eight.

Oh my God. Shit. I’m so sorry. Okay just give me a minute.

I start to close the door and he holds his hand out.

It’s okay, don’t worry, he says, Becky went ahead of me, she couldn’t wait longer. It’s some do at a friend’s house. Her friends, not mine. I’m honestly happy to be delayed.

I’m not happy to delay you.

It’s okay. I saw you earlier. You seemed upset. I thought I’d give you some time.

Oh yeah. I’m looking down because I feel my eyes spring with tears again.

Is everything okay, he asks. Dumb question, he corrects himself. Is there anything I can do. We can do.

No, no, thanks though.

Okay. Is fifteen minutes from now good for you, he asks. I should miss the awkward chats over drinks and if I’m lucky, the starters.

Okay I’ll be quick.