It Could Never Happen Here, page 22
Whatever Arlo had expected, it wasn’t this.
The room was bright and airy, with a large colourful mural painted on to three of the walls. There were boxes filled with toys and a play kitchen, which was missing one of its hobs but otherwise in good nick. The fourth wall was taken over by a fortified Perspex hut, where two guards sat, laughing at something. That bit was more what he’d had in mind.
One other group was already waiting: a woman and her two young sons. They sat on low green chairs at a matching children’s table.
The guard nodded him towards a similar set-up, only red, then waved to the two men in the little hut and left. The chair was so low that Arlo’s knees almost came up to his face. When nobody was looking, he brought his head down and sniffed both armpits then straightened his tie again. He’d had the whole morning to think about it, and he hadn’t a clue what he was going to say.
The youngest son in the other group took a tentative step towards the kitchen, but his mom shook her head. His elder brother went and brought him back, catching Arlo’s eye and nodding solemnly. He nodded back. They were both just sons, waiting on their fathers.
Then the door opened, and two more prison guards appeared, accompanied by his dad.
‘That’s him,’ said Charlie Whitehead to one of the men. ‘That’s my son.’
He said it with such pride, such admiration, that Arlo instantly pinked, but he also grinned.
Before he could ask if touching was allowed, his dad was across the room, engulfing him in a bear hug. ‘Oh, I have missed you,’ he said in his big, deep, reassuring voice, the words slightly muffled against Arlo’s ear. ‘I have missed you something awful.’ He pulled back, looked at his son. Arlo did his best to arrange his awkward face, but Charlie was already reaching for him again. This time the hug was tighter, longer. Arlo felt a tingle in his throat. He was relieved when his father let go. A second longer and he’d have erupted into tears.
‘Come on,’ said Charlie, pulling him back down on to the bright red plastic chairs. ‘I asked for the family room. You’re probably a bit old for all of this but it’s the nicest room, and you’ll always be my little boy. And’ – Charlie brought his head forward to rest on his right knee – ‘these seats come with built-in chin rests; handy, eh?’
Arlo laughed. It was pathetic how comforting his father’s presence was, even though he was visiting him in a medium-security facility where he had power over absolutely nothing.
All possible conversation topics vanished from his head. ‘How … how are you?’
‘I’m a lot better for seeing you. Thanks for coming. I know it can’t be easy to see your dad in a place like this.’
Arlo shook his head. ‘Nah,’ he said, clumsily, awkwardly. He didn’t want his dad thanking him. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner. I know I should have. I meant to. I just …’
The door opened again, and another prisoner was brought in. This man had none of the bonhomie or presence of his dad. He walked over to what was presumably his wife and children. He shook the boys’ hands, even though the eldest couldn’t have been more than eight.
‘So, tell me all the news,’ said Charlie, rubbing his hands together. ‘How are you? How’s the business going? Your mom said you were working all hours. Although that was a while ago now. Is it still going well? Tell me everything. I want to hear it all.’
He noticed now that his father’s hair was parted to one side, slicked down with gel or wax. This display of effort increased the pressure.
Arlo told him about work, doing his best to match his dad’s energy as he spoke. He omitted all tales of the less courteous clients and the complaints about Charlie’s previous supposedly shoddy work, instead discussing the details of certain jobs and asking for advice on others.
‘The van’s been acting up,’ he said. ‘Just the last few days. It goes to give out just before I bring it to a stop.’
‘Could be the brake pads. Have you had them looked at recently? I don’t think I had them changed in a while. Yeah, could be that.’
‘Okay, I’ll have it looked at. Thanks.’
‘Bring it to Dodger’s place, tell him you’re my son.’
Arlo nodded. Dodger had called to their house three weeks after his dad was sent away and said that if they didn’t pay the €400 Charlie owed him, he’d take the wheels off the van himself. ‘I’ll do that. Thanks.’
‘He’ll see you right.’
Charlie smiled. So Arlo did too.
‘How’s Woody?’
‘Good,’ he said automatically. ‘He’s fully transitioned into moody teenager and spends most of his time playing computer games in his room, but he’s in the musical this year, so he’s not a total hermit.’
‘Woody’s in the musical? Good boy, Woody. That’s great. And is he still hanging out with his friends? Ethan and James?’
‘I don’t think they’re in the house as much,’ Arlo said, struggling to recall when he’d last seen his brother hanging around with either boy, or anyone else. ‘There was the incident in the school with the photos, but I think that’s going to blow over. Mom’s probably told you all that already.’
Charlie shook his head. ‘I haven’t spoken to your mom in a while.’
‘Oh.’ His face started to heat up. ‘It’s nothing to worry about. He was sending photos to another girl in his class – and she was sending them to him – but it’s all fine.’
‘You’re looking after it?’
‘Yeah,’ said Arlo, still feeling hot. ‘I’m sorting it.’
Charlie nodded. ‘Good. How is your mom? Is she seeing her friends?’
‘I think she sees some people from work …’ Arlo wasn’t going to tell his dad that the only person his mother ever mentioned was her boss, George. If he were the one in jail and someone told him that about Ella and Leo, he would drive himself crazy thinking about it.
‘And how about you?’
‘Oh, I’m good, great, grand.’
‘Have you heard from Leo?’
‘I … no. I haven’t heard from him. I don’t think I will.’
‘That’s understandable.’
‘Yeah,’ said Arlo breathlessly.
‘And are you hanging out with anyone else?’
‘Why are you so concerned about who we’re seeing?’
Charlie shrugged. ‘I guess I just want to know youse have support. So, are you? Anyone else from school? A girlfriend?’
He looked at his grinning dad in shock. How could he tell? Arlo felt a fresh wave of guilt that he should be embarking on the great love affair of his life while his dad sat in jail, married to a woman who could barely find the will to say something good about him, never mind take his calls.
‘Nobody serious,’ he said eventually.
‘Playing the field? That’s my boy. It’s the only way to have it when you’re young.’
‘Yeah.’ Another breathless scoff.
‘Ten minutes, folks,’ called one of the guards, sticking his head out from the hatch.
Arlo wanted to tell his dad all about Ella and her perfect face and how smart she was and how funny. He wanted to get his advice on Fiona Murphy. His father would put it in perspective. He’d tell Arlo he had nothing to feel guilty about, and Arlo would believe him. Even on the worst night of their lives, when Arlo could do nothing but sob, he’d had a plan.
‘I’m really sorry you’re in here,’ he said, suddenly, keeping his gaze on his father’s hands, which had always been so solid and manly. His own fingers were long and thin and devoid of hair.
‘It’s not your fault, Arlo,’ replied his dad calmly.
‘Except that it is. We both know that it is.’
29
••••••
Beverley Franklinhad to read the message twice. In her quest to be first with news, Lorna had a habit of getting things arse-ways. But this, bizarrely, made a lot of sense.
‘What is it?’ said her mother, who was hunkered down on the kitchen floor, watching the goldfish chase each other. Ella was sitting on the opposite side of the kitchen island to Beverley, a chicken sandwich in front of her. Her daughter had been glued to her phone since dinner the night before. She’d skipped her morning lecture, again, supposedly to spend time with her grandmother, but she’d barely looked up from the screen. They were having lunch late because it had taken this long to coax Ella around to eating. Although she’d yet to have a bite.
‘A friend, she’s done something ridiculous,’ said Beverley, before waving a hand. ‘It doesn’t matter. You don’t know her.’
‘You can’t say “ridiculous” and then not tell us. You’ve got our attention now, hasn’t she, Ella?’
‘Mm.’
Frances puckered her lips and blew a kiss to the fish, before standing and returning to the island.
Beverley hadn’t meant to put a mini aquarium in the middle of her kitchen, obviously. She’d written ‘fishbone’, indicating the zigzag pattern she wanted for the marble, but the moronic builder had read ‘fishbowl’. She’d have made him rip the thing out, only Malachy had wanted her to hire an interior designer from day one, so she had to pretend two stinky, slimy creatures in the middle of her pristine kitchen was exactly what she’d been dreaming of all along.
‘Well, you have my attention anyway,’ said Frances, retaking her seat. ‘Come on, tell us.’
She was trying to make more of an effort with her mother, now that she knew the trip was finite – she was leaving Monday morning – and dinner last night – just her, her mother and the girls – hadn’t been completely awful.
‘Fiona Murphy,’ she said eventually. ‘She was at the Strand café yesterday, lots of cheap charm bracelets and more mismatched gold around her neck. “Friend” isn’t actually the right term. She’s a Laker, and a particularly silly one.’
‘Yes, the woman who ran after us when we were leaving to ask if her daughter could have a solo in the musical. She has quite an aggressive aura, I have to say. Green and tan. You don’t often see that.’
‘That’s her.’ Fiona was still trying to leverage whatever sordid details she knew about Beverley’s pivot away from Southern Pharmaceuticals, but Ciara Murphy hadn’t a note in her head and Beverley would not allow the musical to suffer. ‘She’s quite an aggressive person generally. She used to be married to one of the butchers in town. He’s the same. But that ended a couple of years ago. She’s had a few relationships, if you could call them that. Anyway, now it seems she’s got a new man. Well, a new boy would be more accurate. She’s making a fool of herself.’
‘Nothing wrong with a younger lover,’ said Frances, a glint in her eye that Beverley chose to ignore.
‘It’s not just his age,’ she said, rereading the message for a third time. ‘He’s not the sort of person you want in your life full stop. His dad was the one who killed that boy out on Reilly’s Pass in February, and his brother was the one soliciting photographs from Amelia.’
Well, there you go. Miracles were possible. Ella had finally looked up from her phone.
‘Arlo Whitehead,’ Beverley extrapolated for the benefit of her mother. ‘You know, the boy you tantric-ed into opening the storage closet at Glass Lake. He does a lot of work for Fiona, out at her house. It seems that’s not all he does for her.’
‘No,’ said Ella softly.
‘Of course,’ said Beverley. ‘He was in your class. Sorry, darling, this probably isn’t appropriate conversation. I don’t think it’s a relationship or anything. But yes, they seem to have had some sort of liaison last night. Fiona could never keep something like that to herself, much as we might like her to. But knowing her, it will all be over before …’
Ella climbed down from her stool and left the room.
‘…we know it.’ Beverley sighed. ‘Don’t say goodbye or anything, darling.’
‘Beverley,’ said Frances.
‘What? I’ve given up understanding that girl’s moods.’
‘Arlo Whitehead?’
‘Yes.’ Beverley paused. ‘Why? Do you know something more about him?’
‘Do you not?’
Beverley frowned. ‘Is this a cosmic thing? Had he a pink aura or something?’
‘Beverley.’
‘What?’
‘Arlo Whitehead is the love of your daughter’s life. He’s been sneaking in and out of your house for months.’
‘Excuse me, what?’ said Beverley, in a voice so high-pitched she sounded like Lorna Farrell. ‘No.’
‘Yes.’
‘There’s no way. No way. You’re getting mixed up.’
‘Beverley.’ Her mother laid a hand on hers. ‘I’ve been here less than two days and I’ve seen him. How have you not?’
..................
‘It’s not that bad in here. The food is pretty good, and my cellmate used to be a roadie for the Stones. Or at least that’s what he says – he’s not the kind of man you challenge. Either way, he’s got good stories.’ Charlie flashed him the grin that had once made him so popular with the women of Cooney. ‘You really don’t need to feel bad for me, Arlo.’
They might be in the family room, but he was not a child. Prison was always bad. That was the whole point of it. ‘I see it happening in slow motion,’ he said. ‘I’ve heard people say that, in films and stuff, but I never really believed it, that you could actually see a memory that clearly, but I do. Now it happens when I’m drifting off to sleep, or when I’m driving and my mind is empty. It jumps back in. And I hear Leo’s voice in my head. Sometimes I think I’m going crazy.’
‘I know,’ said Charlie, legs pulled back into him on the low plastic chair. ‘I see it too.’
Arlo shook his head. ‘No, but I see the road. The rain splattering on the tarmac, bouncing off the bonnet, the wipers on Mom’s Volvo going ninety and getting nowhere. The music is playing and the chorus has just cut in – I can hear it, Dad, and the “Welcome to Cooney” sign is up ahead, and I see all this in one micro-second, and then in the next we’re gone, the car is swerving off the road and there’s nothing I can do. I know this terrible thing is happening, but I can’t stop it. I can’t get a firm grasp on the steering wheel. It’s too late. It’s all dark grass and sky. Even when I’m lying in bed at night, I feel my body turning.’
His dad was nodding. He’d been nodding the whole time, and Arlo felt himself getting annoyed.
‘I know,’ said Charlie. ‘It happens to me too, especially when I’m falling asleep. I hear the wheels skidding. I see Mike flying up against the side of the car. It’s okay.’
‘But it’s not the same!’
‘Why isn’t it?’
He leaned in, even though the guards weren’t remotely interested in their conversation. ‘Because we didn’t have the same view, Dad. You weren’t even sitting in the front seat.’
‘Arlo.’
The tingle in his throat and nose again. He swallowed it down. ‘You were in the back. You weren’t the one driving, so just for a second stop pretending you were and let me take some responsibility.’
‘Arlo,’ he repeated more softly. ‘I was driving. We agreed that on the night. I was driving.’ He dipped his head down to catch his son’s eyes.
To Arlo’s horror, tears started trickling down his cheeks. ‘I shouldn’t have got drunk.’
His dad laughed. ‘None of us should.’
‘It was my responsibility and I fucked up. I’m so sorry, Dad. I’m so sorry you’re in here. It’s my fault. It’s all my fault. I should have told you we’d all been drinking, that Mike had snuck some in.’ He rubbed at his face with the back of his hand. He couldn’t bring himself to look around the room. ‘I lied to you and I ruined your life and I’m so fucking sorry.’
When he managed to look up, his dad was shaking his head. Gently, kindly. He was looking at him with unabashed love and Arlo was jealous of his ability to express emotions and still be a man. Arlo was capable of neither.
The guards were making moves now and the other prisoner had said goodbye to his family.
He hoped he hadn’t shaken the boys’ hands again. He hoped he’d given them a hug.
‘Arlo?’
‘No, don’t say something nice. I know you’re going to say something nice.’
‘Arlo?’
‘No.’
‘Arlo?’
He looked at his dad and he felt the guards moving and suddenly he was frightened. This was all about to be over. His dad was going to go and Arlo would be right back where he deserved, all alone, scrambling to rescue something from a mess entirely of his own making.
‘I love you.’
‘Dad,’ he pleaded.
‘I look at photos of you in here sometimes and I get a fright. I think, Jesus, am I having a heart attack? That’s how strong the feeling is. It’s like my heart physically lurches forward, trying to get closer to the image of you. I love you and I feel it so keenly that I’d happily die of it. I’d be fucking honoured, actually.’
Arlo laughed in spite of himself, snot threatening to escape now too. He bit the inside of his cheek and blew air up into his eyes.
‘It doesn’t matter who was driving, Arlo. It was still my fault. I was the adult and I was drunk. You were all underage.’
‘You shouldn’t have to cover—’
‘Shhh!’
‘Come on now, Charlie, time to finish up.’
‘No bother, Steve. Just saying goodbye to the young lad. Did I tell you he was a musician?’
‘Is that right?’ said the guard, whose nose hovered in front of his face, just as Fiona’s had done last night. ‘What do you play, son?’
Arlo had to look away.
‘The bass,’ said Charlie. ‘He’s very good.’
He could barely play three consecutive cords when his dad went away and he’d probably gotten worse since.
‘Very good,’ echoed the guard, shifting his weight. ‘Right, so.’
Charlie stood, and Arlo did the same.
His dad engulfed him in a final embrace. This time Arlo hugged him back. Charlie’s voice was at his ear again, muffled and insistent. ‘You look after Woody and your mother. Let me do the rest.’
