Lying in Wait(49)

I got the train to Mayo to see her, but she spent most of the weekend in the church in Westport, praying for my immortal soul no doubt. When she did finally speak to me, she blamed herself for setting a bad example by leaving Da.

‘It’s nothing to do with you, Ma. Honestly!’

She rattled her rosary beads.

The arrangement of living back at home suited Da well, because I could contribute financially to the household and do some of the cleaning that men just don’t notice need doing. He told his friend in the dole office, but apparently Laurence was very understanding and said it wouldn’t affect Da’s payments. I was earning good money and could give Da a few extra bob now and then, even though I knew he’d probably end up spending it in Scanlon’s. I made it clear to Da that I was only staying with him as a temporary measure. When the dust had settled, I was going to look for my own place to rent. But for now, I just needed to wallow a bit and think about my future and how I would continue to look for Annie’s killer, even if he was dead. Da didn’t like to talk about her. His guilt, I suppose.

I joined Da a few times in Scanlon’s, and that guy Laurence from the dole office was often there with his girlfriend. He was very nice to Da, very courteous, like. The rest of his crowd didn’t mix with us much and stayed up the other end of the bar, but Laurence always came over to say hello.

One night he introduced me to his girlfriend. I liked Bridget immediately. She was incredibly shy and nervous, and my heart always goes out to people like that because it’s not so long since I was like that too. She had a bad squint in one eye, so she kept her head angled to one side. I remembered trying to hide my red hair when I was a child. Laurence said she was an amateur photographer, and we got into good conversations about fashion photography. I said I’d be happy to pose for her any time she liked if she wanted to build up a portfolio, but she laughed and said it was just a hobby. Laurence was really encouraging, though, and told her she should take up my offer. She kept saying she couldn’t possibly, but I insisted on taking her number and said I’d ring her the following weekend. I liked the way he was really supportive of Bridget trying to make a career out of a hobby that she was passionate about. They just seemed to have a nice relaxed relationship, like the kind I wanted.

So on a sunny Sunday afternoon in April, I met Bridget in Stephen’s Green and she used up three whole rolls of film. I liked what she was doing. She didn’t have all the equipment of a professional photographer, and obviously she didn’t have a studio, but she knew how to balance all the natural spring light that streamed through the trees and how to frame a swan as it glided into shot. She was much more confident behind the camera. She had asked me just to wear minimal make-up and white clothing. She brought with her a long piece of white gauze that she used to drape over my shoulders or as a veil. She knew what she wanted, and I was quite excited to see how her shots would turn out. Laurence came too. He brought along a picnic and helped Bridget with all her stuff, even lifting her on to his shoulders to get a better angle at times.

After all the photos were taken, we spread out the rug and ate apples and ham sandwiches and shared a flask of tea as we watched people walking through, taking advantage of a sunny evening. The whole day had been lovely, and then it was utterly spoiled.

I saw him approaching but didn’t immediately identify him in jeans and a T-shirt. At all our previous encounters, he’d been wearing a suit. In front of Bridget and Laurence, he said in a loud voice, ‘Well, well, well, if it isn’t the ginger whinger.’

‘O’Toole.’

‘Declan. Doing threesomes now, are we?’

‘I’m just trying to have a picnic with my friends. Don’t you have any serious crimes to ignore?’ I don’t know where I got the nerve to be so sarcastic like that with him – perhaps it was because I felt I had backup.

Laurence detected the tone of hostility and stood up, interrupting. ‘Can we help you?’

O’Toole looked at him. ‘Where do I know you from?’ And the way he said it was really intimidating, because Laurence just shrank down on to the grass again.

‘What do you want?’ I said.

‘Just passing the time of day with a future inmate. I’m surprised you’re not up by the canal on an evening like this. Business would be much better for you up there.’

‘Piss off!’ I roared at him.

He sauntered off then, whistling, delighted with himself.

‘Who was that?’ said Bridget.

I was absolutely mortified. I should not have tried to get the better of him. I felt the tears welling up and saw Laurence silently staring at me. Bridget moved to put her arm around me, and then the floodgates opened and the frustration of years poured out of me right there in a public park in front of these people I barely knew, not to mention all the strangers who looked around to see who was behind the sobbing. Bridget started to fold up the rug and said to Laurence, ‘Take her to Neary’s. I’ll follow you when I’ve everything packed up.’

I followed him blindly out of the park on to Grafton Street. He took my arm and guided me gently towards the pub, asking no questions while I tried to compose myself. He gave me a freshly laundered handkerchief. In the pub, Laurence installed me in a corner and went to the bar. By the time he came back, Bridget had arrived.

‘Who was he?’ said Bridget.