It Could Never Happen Here, page 4
‘That’s why we’re getting out,’ she declared, throwing herself back on the bed and pulling him with her. ‘One more year. Less than a year. Woody will be finished primary school in June, and then we go. Right?’
‘Right,’ Arlo agreed, pretending to do the maths even though he knew exactly how far away it was. ‘Eight months.’ One week and four days. ‘Then it’s goodbye Cooney, hello Cork city.’
‘We’ll rent an apartment, overlooking the river.’
‘Or maybe a little house, with two bedrooms,’ he said, lying back beside her. ‘One for us, and one for Woody when he comes to stay, or Amelia.’
‘Amelia can only visit if she promises not to tell Bev our whereabouts.’
‘We’ll get a little dog ...’
‘Called Wisdom,’ said Ella.
‘Or Cooney.’
‘Why would we call our dog Cooney? We want to forget Cooney.’
‘Okay fine, Wisdom,’ said Arlo. ‘And we’ll grow our own vegetables and we’ll have friends over for dinner, and when you come home from university, we’ll sit in our garden—’
‘Or on our balcony.’
‘Right, and we’ll be so happy that we’ll listen to songs about heartbreak and we won’t have a clue what they’re going on about.’
Ella laughed. ‘And then you’ll go to college …’
‘Maybe.’
‘Arlo!’
‘Maybe I will, or maybe I’ll be such a successful handyman by then that I’ll have my own business with lots of employees and I won’t need college.’
‘You’re still planning to re-sit your leaving cert next year, right?’
‘You’re ruining the daydream here, Ella.’
‘Have you applied for the re-sits?’
‘Daydream disappearing. Daydream disappearing,’ he said in an automated voice, moving his arms in a robotic fashion.
‘Have you?’
‘I will.’ He wouldn’t.
He pushed himself up, stood on the bed and peered out the skylight. Beverley’s Range Rover was still in the driveway.
‘Shoes!’ Ella swiped at his feet.
‘Sorry,’ he said, clambering down. ‘Isn’t your mom usually gone by now?’ The only thing that made sneaking into the Franklins’ after midnight slightly less of a gamble was that Ella’s parents had schedules you could set your watch by. Her dad was always gone before they woke, and her mom left to drop Amelia to school at 8.24. Arlo checked his phone again. ‘I need to leave.’
Ella jumped up from the bed and pulled a cardigan from the floor. ‘I’ll go down and distract her,’ she said. ‘And when the coast is clear, I’ll give the signal and you make a run for it.’
She was grinning now. Ella loved the espionage.
Arlo could do without it.
‘Sounds risky,’ he said.
She shrugged. The beige knit slid down her left shoulder. How was her skin so perfect? Like silky milk. Silk milk. That might actually work as a lyric. ‘Let’s just wait it out then,’ she said, throwing herself back down on the bed, ‘and you can be late.’
The mere suggestion brought him out in a sweat.
Arlo groaned. Ella gave a gleeful grin.
‘We just need a signal …’ She looked around the room. Her eyes landed on a poster by the door. ‘Hang ten!’
‘Hang ten?’
‘Hang ten,’ echoed Ella, gravely this time. ‘When you hear me shouting “Hang ten”, you make a break for it.’
‘How are you going to casually yell “Hang ten” at your mother?’ Arlo thought about this and burst out laughing.
‘What?’ demanded Ella.
‘Beverley … On a surfboard. In her furry jacket thing … And her face …’ Arlo tried to rearrange his face into the mildly pained expression Ella’s mother always wore, but he was laughing too much.
Ella furrowed her brows. Fits of giggles were her thing, not his.
‘Ah, yeah,’ he gasped, wiping his eyes.
‘Okay, chuckles. Keep the bedroom door open, and when you hear me say “Hang ten”, go!’
5
••••••
Beverley saw Ella approaching and shifted her expression to indifferent. A crisis with one daughter did not automatically bring the other back into her good books. The eighteen-year-old was wearing her lovely ‘Ella & Amelia’ necklace and that mangy old T-shirt she always slept in after they had a fight: yet another punishment for Beverley, who regularly ordered expensive matching pyjamas from Anthropologie for the three Franklin women.
‘Shouldn’t you have left by now?’ said Ella, less defiant than usual. Beverley took the tone, and eye contact, in the apologetic manner it was intended. Ella glanced behind her mother: ‘You’re going to be late for school.’
‘Being late is the least of your sister’s problems,’ said Beverley. ‘Do you know what I just caught her doing? Do you?’ Beverley hoped that somehow she would know because she honestly wasn’t sure how she could put it into words.
‘Was she applying make-up with her feet?’ said Ella, stepping into the bedroom and closing the door. ‘There’s literally no space between your lip gloss and your nose, Amelia.’
Why was Ella closing the door? Beverley needed air. She did not need a closed door.
‘Amelia, tell her. Tell your sister what you were doing.’
Amelia went to take the phone from the bed.
‘Do not touch that, I swear to God!’ Beverley picked up the device and flung it across the room. She didn’t want to look at it, never mind touch it, ever again. ‘And get some make-up remover. Now!’
‘Jesus, Amelia, what did you do?’
The girl shrugged. ‘I took a photo.’
‘Of what?’ said Ella.
‘Of myself.’
‘A selfie. Yeah, I think I’ve heard of them.’ Ella kicked her left foot back, so the sole was resting against the still-closed door.
‘Open that please, Ella.’
The teenager didn’t budge. ‘Great to hear you’re trying new things, little sister.’
‘She took a photo of herself in the nip. A sex picture, a whatever you call them …’ The confined space was making Beverley a little breathless. Was this the worst thing that had ever happened to her? No. Of course it wasn’t. Get a grip, woman! But it was the worst thing since the last time she’d stumbled across a naked photograph. ‘Can you open that door? I’m feeling a little lightheaded.’
‘A dick pic?’ suggested Ella.
‘Gross!’ shrieked Amelia.
‘Who was the dick pic for?’
‘It’s not a dick pic! It’s a nude.’ Amelia stuck her tongue out at her sister.
A nude. Jesus wept. She made it sound like she’d been posing for an early Renaissance masterpiece.
‘A boy at school,’ replied Beverley, struggling to accept she was having this conversation. ‘A sick little toerag who is going to regret the day he laid eyes on my daughter … I’m going to see Principal Patterson this morning and I’ll have him expelled before the day is out. Open the door, Ella!’
‘So, you’re taking dick pics now …’
‘It’s not a dick pic because I don’t have a dick.’
‘If you say so.’
‘Mum, tell Ella to stop saying I’m taking dick pics! I don’t have a dick!’
‘Can you both please stop saying dick? Amelia, you’re barely twelve. You shouldn’t even know what a dick is.’
‘I knew what a dick was when I was like eight, Mum.’
Beverley shut her eyes. ‘Gah!’
‘What?’
‘Nothing, just my new internal screensaver.’ She needed to get out of this room.
‘It’s not even a big deal.’
‘Not another word, Amelia! Get your bag, get downstairs, and get in the car. We’re going to the school. And bring the make-up remover. Sweet mother of God, Ella, if you do not open that door now, I am going to really lose it.’
‘I’m doing it, I just …’ Ella opened the door a fraction and started shouting. Then she shut it again.
‘What are you doing? What is Hang Ten? I said “open”, Ella. Jesus! You’re too old to be competing for attention. Amelia – take the bear, come on. Do not touch that phone!’
‘But we’re allowed—’
‘I said leave it. Ella, open the bloody door! Now!’ Beverley grabbed her youngest daughter by the arm, walked around her eldest and yanked the bedroom door open.
A faint bang echoed from the hallway below. Beverley might have questioned it if it wasn’t for the accompanying, and oh so welcome, cool breeze that it sent gusting up the stairs.
..................
‘Sweet Jesus!’
Christine opened the bathroom door to find her daughter standing in the threshold.
‘Is Porcupine back?’
Maeve had already gone through her mother’s wardrobe, seeking suitable clothes for her meeting with the Lakers. She’d found skinny jeans that Christine had forgotten she owned, and which were now cutting off her circulation.
‘That’s nothing to do with me,’ she replied, sticking her fingers into the jeans waistband as she tried to eke out some space. ‘You’ll have to ask your father.’
Maeve followed her down the stairs. ‘He said to ask you.’
‘And I’m telling you to ask him.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?’ she asked, catching a glimpse of herself in the hallway mirror. She looked like she’d eaten Beverley Franklin.
‘Because he already left for work.’
‘He left?’ Christine stuck her head into the sitting room and the study before marching down to the kitchen. No sign of the coward. His surgery did not open until 9.30. Conor never left before her.
‘Yes, when you were in the shower. He said it was a dental emergency. So? Is he back?’
‘Who?’ asked Brian, slurping his cereal.
‘Are those Frosties, Brian? You know you’re only allowed Frosties at the weekend.’
‘No, cornflakes,’ said her son, lifting the bowl and necking the evidence.
Her daughter was down on all fours, peering under the table and making psssh-psssh sounds.
‘Maeve, breakfast, come on.’
‘But I don’t see him.’
‘Who?’ asked Brian again.
‘Porcupine,’ came the voice from under the table. ‘He was at a sleepover in Mrs Rodgers’ house last night.’
Brian looked sceptical. ‘Says who?’
‘Mom.’
‘I did not. Your father said he was at a sleepover. I never said a thing.’
‘Mom, Dad, same difference.’ Maeve was opening the back door now. ‘Here, Porcupine! Heeeerrrrre, Porcupine!’
‘Okay, that’s it, time to go.’
‘But I didn’t have my breakfast.’
‘No time. Here’ – Christine opened the cupboard and threw two cereal bars at Maeve – ‘let’s go.’
‘I want cereal bars!’
‘Do not push me, Brian. I can smell the sugar off your breath from here.’
‘But—’
Christine rounded on her daughter. ‘Do you want me to be late for the Lakers?’
Maeve shoved the bars into the side of her backpack. ‘Come on, Brian, let’s go.’
Her youngest child slipped down from the table and they both followed Maeve out of the house to the car.
‘He’s not at a sleepover, is he?’ said Brian, dragging his schoolbag down the path.
‘I don’t know anything about it. Ask your father.’
She unlocked the car from the front garden and threw a glance down the street, but there was no sign of life from number one Seaview Terrace.
Brian climbed into the back seat beside his sister. ‘I’m sorry, Maeve, but Porcupine is dead.’
Christine whipped her head around. ‘What?! No, he’s not! Brian!’
‘He’s at a sleepover,’ said Maeve, her face doing that involuntary twitch thing again, as she glanced to the front seat for reassurance. She looked tired and Christine wondered if it was worrying about the cat or the musical that had kept her daughter up.
She slowed down as they passed Mrs Rodgers’ house, nestled behind a garden of perfectly pruned rose bushes. The cheerful flowers had masked the truth for so long. But no more. She would be getting that cat back, and an apology with it. In another life, one before children and beyond Cooney, Christine had attended demonstrations and sit-ins. Her activism was rusty – the last thing Cooney had protested was a Starbucks opening – but you didn’t need to be a member of Amnesty International to know stealing a family pet was wrong.
‘When Pablo’s gerbil died, his parents told him it had moved to China.’
‘Porcupine is not dead, Brian.’
‘He’s at a sleepover. Both Dad and Mom say it,’ said Maeve. ‘Right, Mom?’
Christine turned left onto Reilly’s Pass, towards Franklin Avenue, though she had a good mind to swing by the dental surgery instead. ‘Right,’ she said through gritted teeth.
Gerry Regan, the town pharmacist, was stopped at the lights. He was dressed in full Lycra, lit like a scrawny Christmas tree and yelling up at the driver of an oil tanker. Articulated trucks were not allowed on this stretch. Local opposition had intensified since the crash last February, even though that had involved a single car.
Christine honked her horn and raised a fist towards Gerry in solidarity. (There was life in the old activist yet.) But now the carriage door was opening, and the driver was climbing down.
Brian twisted to catch a glimpse of the action as they sped on.
‘A sleepover,’ repeated Maeve, confirming the story to herself.
‘Yes, Maeve, and one day we’ll all be at that sleepover,’ said Brian, placing a soft hand on his sister’s knee. ‘A big sleepover in the sky.’
..................
Arlo had parked the van the next street over. He did this in case Ella’s parents spotted it and started asking questions. After his dad went to jail, his mom wanted to sell the thing, and all the tools with it. But Arlo had been helping out since he was thirteen; he was well able to take over the handyman trade, or at least keep it going until his dad got out.
At the end of the road, he turned back and could just about make out Beverley Franklin bursting through her front door with Amelia trailing in her wake. He’d heard them talking as he skipped past the bedroom but hadn’t hung around to get the details. Whatever it was about, he felt bad for Amelia. Arlo liked Ella’s little sister. She knew about him and Ella but hadn’t said a word. In exchange, she’d told him she fancied his little brother Woody and he’d promised not to say anything either.
Woody was the reason Arlo was still in Cooney. He’d have moved to Cork city the day Ella started university there, but his dad had made him promise one thing: to look after his mother and twelve-year-old brother. He couldn’t say he was doing a great job of it, but Woody’s entry into the moody teenage phase a year early was hardly his fault. Woody would be done at Glass Lake in June and heading to secondary school two towns over, where he might have a chance to be more than the son of a convicted killer.
Cooney didn’t care that Woody was only a kid or that he’d had no say in what his dad had done or drunk or driven. People used to remark on how good-looking and fun Charlie Whitehead was and how he’d cut them a deal or done some extra job for free. Now they came up to his sons on the street and said their dad was a drunk and a chancer who had an eye for the women.
Arlo crossed the road towards his van. The path was carpeted in leaves and a woman was striding towards him, led by a cute dog in a fluorescent pink jacket. The woman swung her hips as she walked, and the dog waggled its butt, so that they kept perfect time.
Everyone hated Charlie Whitehead for what he’d done to Mike and Leo and their families, but also for what he’d done to the town. Cooney was supposed to be the home of Tidy Town wins and blue flag beaches, not a drunk driver who’d killed one teenager and left another in a wheelchair.
He smiled at the dog as it drew nearer, then up at the woman. She wore a sweatband around her head. It was an identical shade of pink to her dog’s jacket.
‘Shame on you.’
The woman was still in transit and Arlo didn’t register what she’d said until she had passed.
He inhaled sharply and turned back, but she bustled on, hips picking up speed. Did she think he was going to run after her? Tackle her to the ground and demand she take it back?
It happened all the time, but it still knocked the wind out of him. He took three deep breaths, then opened the door of his van and climbed in.
He still had work to do, that was all. He just had to try harder.
He put his key in the ignition and tuned in the old stereo. He turned up the volume. Then he turned it up more.
Aren’t you going to talk to me?
Can’t. I need to keep my head in the game.
Pity you didn’t do that the night my life was destroyed.
I’m sorry, Leo.
Or Mike’s life. Do you spend enough time thinking about Mike’s life? Do you spend enough time missing him?
I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, all right?
Not really, Arly, no. But I suppose it’ll have to do.
6
••••••
Christine was at the top of the queue, jabbing around in her bag, when she was struck by an image of her Keep Cup relaxing on the top drawer of the dishwasher. She’d meant to pack it while Maeve was having breakfast.
Feck.
Her eyes flickered to the stack of disposable cups already decorated in cheery Christmas imagery.
The barista smiled, waiting.
‘I don’t suppose your cups are compostable, are they?’
‘I’m actually not sure,’ he replied with an enthusiasm usually reserved for helpful answers.
Their deep red background and delicate snow scenes were so inviting, not to mention how much better the proportions were for retaining heat than the Strand café’s vast ceramic mugs. But Maeve had recently informed her that a disposable cup took five hundred years to biodegrade. Christine had been outwardly horrified and quietly guilty. (Ice caps melting! Polar bears dying! All so she could keep her coffee warmer a little longer.) That was when she’d bought the Keep Cup.
