Girl Unknown(72)

It was only then that I looked at David.

I suppose there is a latent violence in all of us. It lies in the dark folds inside us waiting for the conditions outside and beyond to draw it out into the light. David is a man who goes quiet when enraged, his mood darkening. His anger internalized, he silently broods.

But when I turned to him that night, when I saw him take a step forward, I was sure – for that brief moment – that there was violence in his mind. It was in his hands, clenched at his sides, in the wild light in his eyes. The room had grown hot, but still I felt coldness passing over my neck and shoulders, like a sudden chill breeze. Even now, after all that’s happened, I can’t forget it. A memory that refuses to be erased. The weight and coldness of that bottle of champagne in my hand, and the look on David’s face as if he wants to kill them. And in that sharp instant, I see that he could.





20. David


My working life has been the study of days – days and events. The marking of Time. But here’s the thing: I have never really felt what it must be like to wake on the morning of one of these historic events, either big or small. I’ve paused to consider the leaders of the Easter Rising sitting in their cells as dawn broke on the day of their executions, but I’ve never felt it. In the same way I’ve never experienced the stomach-clenching fear of the trenches in the First World War or the sickening shock of a pilot knowing his plane has been hit. I’ve read about these emotions in the dry pages of books without ever having to experience them. Perhaps that is what I have been lacking all along – the peculiar empathy required to truly understand the past.

But I felt it that day – the last day. The portent of something in the atmosphere. I felt it from the moment I woke.

It announced itself as a heaviness in the air, like oppressive heat before a storm. When I flung wide the shutters, though, the sky was a brilliant blue, not a cloud in sight. There was a smell like smoke mingled with petrol – it was distant but I could catch it, the acrid tinge in my nostrils. The bed was empty, Caroline having left it hours before, but I had lain there, trapped within this uneasy heat. Something felt wrong. Sure, I was a little hung-over, still fuming from the night before, but this was something else. I’m not a superstitious man. I don’t believe in signs or foreshadowing, none of that predestination claptrap. But when I consider all that happened that day, and remember how I felt upon waking, it makes me stop to wonder.

I threw on some clothes, my mouth tacky and dry, and stepped into the hallway. It was quiet, heat lurking in the darkened corners of the house, a murmur of unease running through my thoughts, like a whispered complaint I couldn’t shake. The door to the kids’ bedroom was ajar. I pushed it open and stuck my head inside. Holly’s bed was empty, but Robbie was sprawled on his, forearms flung over his head against the pillow.

‘Morning, son,’ I said, and his eyes, which were open, flicked in my direction.

‘Hey.’

‘Sleep okay?’

‘No,’ he said pointedly.

This was a reference to his indignation the night before at having to vacate his room and bunk in with his sister to provide our unexpected guests with a bed for the night. His reaction when the arrangements were being hastily made had been incandescent fury and I could see that his anger still burned, albeit at a lesser flame.

‘Thanks, Robbie. For giving up your room.’

‘It’s not like I had a choice.’

‘Well, none of us knew they were coming.’

‘It’s a joke,’ he said, one that he clearly didn’t find funny.

‘I agree.’

Propping himself up on his elbows, his brow darkening, he went on: ‘I can’t believe she’s engaged to that twat! I know he’s your friend and all, but come on, Dad, he’s ancient!’

I rubbed my eye, felt some crust lodged in the corner and wiped it away.

‘It’s bullshit,’ he added and I agreed. It was.

‘Can’t you talk to them?’ he asked. ‘Make them call it off?’

‘I can’t make them do anything,’ I said, laughing a little. There was something childlike and innocent in the way he still thought I had the power to effect that kind of change. I wondered, too, why he was so upset about it.

I muttered something about needing a coffee and turned away. Briefly, he called me back: ‘Happy birthday, by the way,’ he said.

July 8th – the day of the birthdays. It was something that marked us out as unique, I always thought, this shared event. What are the odds of a daughter being born on her father’s birthday? In the twelve years I had shared the date with Holly, certain traditions had sprung up around it. One of them – perhaps my favourite – was the birthday hug, a long, squeezing clench like a physical acknowledgement of our special bond. With this in mind, I went downstairs in search of her.

As I reached the bottom step, I heard voices in the kitchen, and lingered for a moment, listening.

‘I think it’s ridiculous, Chris, to be honest,’ I heard Caroline say.

She was clattering around in there, busying herself with some kitchen task, and I heard the lightness of Chris’s laughter above her industry.

‘I’m in love, Caroline! Aren’t I allowed to behave foolishly?’

‘You’re in love,’ she muttered, a little exasperated. ‘And it’s not the age-gap that bothers me, you know that, right?’