Mr. Flood's Last Resort(41)

“What’s all this, Mr. Flood?”

He glances up at me and flicks my bus pass into the buddleia.

“Put the bag down, Mr. Flood.”

He bares his dentures in a defiant grimace and continues digging, taking out a lipstick and throwing it over the toolshed.

Somewhere deep inside me there is sure to be anger but in this job normal responses callus over. So I sit down on the doorstep and take a half packet of cough sweets out of the pocket of my fleece. I hold them out to him.

“Menthol eucalyptus?”

He stops rifling and looks at me.

I prize a sweet from the weathered roll. “They’ve been through the wash a few times but they’re grand.”

He droops a little. “I don’t want you here. You can feck right away. Go on. Go.”

“What about my portrait? You said you’d paint me today. Look. Hair up, brushed even.”

I peel the wrapper from the sweet; it has an ancient bloom to it. I pop it in my mouth; it is strangely tarry.

He drops my handbag with a sudden look of noble shame, like a wild bear caught stealing junk food from a Dumpster.

I pat the step next to me. “Take the weight off.”

He studies me suspiciously, his great fists clenched, his boreal eyes gleaming under low brows.

Then, to my surprise, and with great difficulty, he lowers himself down onto the steps and sits with his long, long legs stretched out before him. His pajama top is buttoned up wrongly to reveal his stomach, as soft and pale as the underbelly of a fish. There’s a powerful unwashed odor from him, strong enough to fight the medicinal ferocity of a vintage cough sweet. I breathe through my mouth. He takes the packet from my hand and puts it in his coat pocket.

“I saw you with him,” he says. “You’re in league with him, you sneaky bitch. You’re in league with all of them.”

I glance at him: his hands are shaking and there’s spittle on his lips and chin.

“In league with who?”

“That unctuous fat fucker.”

“What makes you think that?”

“He’s charmed your knickers off. You’ve probably had him in your snatch.” I feel his breath on my cheek, the threat in his low growl.

“Then I’m easily charmed. He helped me take the rubbish out, just.” I spit out the sweet and fold it in the wrapper.

“He came to ask you to spy on me and you said yes.” He puts on a singsong voice. “Oh yes, I’ll spy on the old eejit for you, like the weasel you are. And he’ll be reporting back all the time to the other one.”

“What other one? Biba?”

Mr. Flood lets out a howl. “Don’t fucking pretend. You’re here to spy on me.”

I hold up my hand. “Stop it now, calm yourself and talk to me. It’s too early in the morning to be giving out. Jesus, all I’ve had for breakfast is a cough sweet.”

He shakes his head and my heart goes out to him because the old man is crying. And whichever way you cut it, it’s hard to see an old man cry. He looks away, wiping his eyes with his coat sleeve.

There’s a rustle by the bin bags and Larkin comes nosing to the back steps, tripping lightly, flicking his ears.

Mr. Flood makes small soft noises through his sobs.

The fox moves forwards, almost touching Mr. Flood’s outstretched hand with his sharp snout, ready to run but wanting to be near. I can see that in the lovely russet face he turns up to the old man.

“I’m no spy,” I say gently, “I’m just here to clear some of your stuff so you don’t get buried alive and to nag you to change your underpants.”

May God and all the saints forgive me for lying through my teeth.

Mr. Flood exhales, and shuffles and struggles as if to get up. I offer him an arm. He stands, stringing his ramshackle bones together again. His feet turned out, legs thin like stilts, shoulders slumped as if with the weight of his great gnarled hands. The concave chest and the head set wobbling at the top with the big hinged jaw and glowering brow. When he’s steady he pats me on the shoulder and limps away towards the conservatory. Larkin bolts out from behind an upturned wheelbarrow to run ahead on dancing paws, his bright face curving back to Mr. Flood.

The old man stops and turns. “And it’s Cathal to you.” He frowns. “Are you coming then, you little gobshite?”

Beckett will have to wait awhile longer for his freedom.

*

CATHAL LEADS me into the conservatory through a heavy iron door, which he immediately locks behind us, slipping the key into the pocket of his coat. He crosses the room to a door on the far side of the conservatory and disappears through it, leaving me to explore the glass room alone.

Locked inside, like a spider in a jar.

The morning sunlight illuminates the room. There’s a marine cast thrown down from the panes above, which are glazed with algae. The lower windows cast a milkier light, having been painted with whitewash. The whole effect is like looking up from the bottom of the sea. Inside the conservatory there is a damp, mineral smell, tinged with linseed oil and turpentine.

The conservatory has a honed beauty, its grace intact despite years of decay. An octagon drawn in fine iron. I can still imagine it in its Victorian heyday, with palms and wicker chairs and trailing orchids. From the cupola an ornate lamp hangs with most of its glass globes intact, like little creamy moons.