When All Is Said(73)

The man from fucking Mulhuddart!

How many times did we argue about a man we never knew? You know, I miss those stupid arguments as much as anything.

My legs feel heavy with my rain-soaked clothes. Slower than I’d hoped, I keep going. So near, and yet, so bloody far. I lean against the top of the bannisters after I’ve scaled each flight and consider falling asleep right there, standing up. But my brain taps its knobbly internal finger at my skull.

‘Not yet,’ it says. ‘Not yet.’





Chapter Seven



11.05 p.m.

Honeymoon Suite

Rainsford House Hotel

Tonight I will die. There. I’ve said it. Now you know. But I don’t like to hear the words, let alone think them. Not because I don’t want to do it but because I feel the guilt for those I leave behind. For you, Kevin. You, who have deserved so much more from me.

I stand outside the bedroom and take in the door. It’s grand and deserving of the attention. When I say grand, it’s in the magnificent sense of the word, not the Irish one that’s robbed it of its majesty. Mahogany. Wide and solid. My hand runs along its smooth varnish and I pat it with respect. The key too, that has knocked against my father’s pipe the whole night, is large and important. None of those card jobs. You’d never lose this beauty, I can tell you.

I turn it and open the door to catch the smell of freshly cleaned sheets. I close my eyes and concentrate, stuck half in, half out, wanting to hold on to it for as long as I can, knowing it will fade in a matter of seconds. And when it does, I step in fully and look around at this room’s perfection.

White linens, not a crease in sight, on a four-poster bed. Curtains hang around it matching those of the window: deep purple folds that fall to the floor with the weight of the money they must have cost. Cream pillows, with purple flowers, sit three rows deep. A mahogany wardrobe stands at the end of the bed. To its left near the window is a writing desk with a bottle of water and a glass. When I switch on the lamplight I can see the furniture is old but cared for, polished to a shine. A chair with its back to me is pushed in under the arch of the desk, its green leather secured to the frame with brass tacks. And an armchair, to the right, with a high back and generous armrests, sits in the corner like it’s been waiting for me all this time – eighty-four years.

My hand bangs the whiskey bottle down on the bedside locker. I didn’t mean to do it. I misjudged the distance and I jump at the sound.

‘Ssh,’ I say, ‘they could be coming. Robert might be running up the stairs right now to save the day and wrestle you from me. Quiet now.’

I take off my sopping jacket and throw it on the bed. I look around and try to locate my faded memories, the shadows of your wedding night. Can you remember it like it was yesterday or is it half rubbed out in your head too? Was the room as mighty, as plush and posh as this? I walk around the bed, over to the window, feeling my feet sink into the deep carpet. Not the easiest of dance surfaces, but nevertheless, I take my stance and waltz her. Feeling her back arch under my guidance as I move us through the steps.

‘Goodnight, Sadie. Goodnight, Sadie, I’ll see you in my dreams,’ my tired voice sings.

‘Irene,’ I imagine her protests, ‘it’s Irene, not Sadie.’

But I don’t listen and off we go again, waltzing through our lives. Humming my way through my one, two, threes, when the words escape me. Dancing her through our highs and lows and all of those bits in the middle that’ve made up this life of ours. Grinning like the happy fool I am. Faster and faster I spin, brushing by curtains, dicing with corners, colliding with chairs, racing through those moments on my memory reel. Swirling, swirling, until at last I land on the soft down of the bedcovers. Panting, exhausted, the ceiling spinning above me. My eyes shut tight against it all. The soft silkiness of the covers holds me, refusing to let go. Its folds are far too tempting and soon I feel myself drift away.

But my brain taps away at my skull. I moan in protest. My conscience doesn’t give a damn and guilts me into moving. I roll on my front and drool down on to the whiteness. My arms push me up. I feel like a heifer, the weight of me.

I unpack my remains. From my jacket, the pictures: Tony and me, Sadie and you. My father’s pipe that I run my hand over to feel its smooth comfort one last time. Sadie’s hair-clip purse that I hold to my nose for a minute before laying it down with my glasses and my phone.

I search my trouser pocket, for the handkerchief. Where is it? Where the fuck is it? My hand rummages, but it’s gone. Did I drop it? Where? Sitting at the bar? In the toilet? My hand pats at my clothing, at my jacket, as my brain goes over the memories of the evening. And I remember giving it to Hilary. My fingers recognise the plastic bag now, in its hidey-hole, scurrying about under my touch. Thirty little pills. I scoop it out, dig my fingers into the plastic and let the contents spill on to the bed: the yellow, blue and pink. I count them. One all the way to thirty. I get up to get a towel from the bathroom and lay it flat on the writing desk, careful to push the bottle and glass in out of the way. I retrieve the pills from the bed and wrap them in the towel. With the water bottle, I begin to pummel them. Each time I press down with my weight, I cry. Tears that surprise me stream down my face, my neck, reaching my chest. Flow for as far you can go. I’ll not stop you now. And when I’m sure my job is done, I shake the contents of the towel on to the table, my hand corralling all that falls, pushing the multicoloured mess to the edge, tipping it over, into the glass. Tears, pills, everything falling downwards. Tinkle, tinkle. I sit and stare at it, my love-heart mixture. Still crying, for me. I am as reluctant as I am eager to leave this world behind me now.