It Could Never Happen Here, page 8
Nuala tried not to give in to the Beverley Franklins of her school. Nice and all as it was for the kids to have tennis rackets without holes and for the corridors to be repainted annually, the basic needs of the school, and Nuala’s wages, were paid for by the state and she was not answerable to the Lakers. However, occasionally, and often accidentally, one of them had a point.
It had been a while since they’d updated the sex ed programme and, as far as Nuala could recall, there was currently no mention of online elements at all. It could be worth doing some contemporary modules.
Mairead appeared in the doorway. ‘I’ve asked the Department for that.’
‘Thanks,’ replied Nuala, returning to the mound of paperwork on her desk.
The secretary didn’t budge.
‘What is it, Mairead?’
‘Did you know Arlo Whitehead is working over in the auditorium?’
‘Seamus hired him.’ And she wasn’t likely to forget with the whole world reminding her.
‘Is that okay with you?’
The set designs for the musical had the caretaker swamped, and the gutters needed replacing. It was just for a week or two, he’d said. As if that made it any easier.
Nuala attempted a gracious smile, though she suspected it came out more like a grimace. ‘I guess it has to be.’
The secretary nodded.
Nuala went back to her files. After a few seconds, she put them down again.
‘You are now officially hovering, Mairead.’
‘I presume you don’t want me to send him in to you, for the usual greeting?’
Sitting on her desk, under the special needs assistant application forms and the folders for the social worker, were first-stage divorce papers. Nuala had printed off several copies in the weeks since she’d received them. There was an identical set spread across the back seat of her car and another sitting in an orderly pile on the kitchen table. But she couldn’t bring herself to sign any of them.
The worst year of Nuala’s life had many parts to it, but at the centre of everything sat Arlo Whitehead.
‘No,’ said Nuala, who hadn’t spoken to the teenager since the day her only child lost the use of his legs in the Whiteheads’ car. ‘I don’t think that’s going to be necessary.’
10
••••••
ABERSTOWN GARDA STATION
Joey was standing at the entrance to the station, watching the last of his morning interviewees climb into a Range Rover, when the sergeant came up behind him.
‘All done?’
‘Yes, sir,’ he replied, standing to attention. ‘All done until the afternoon batch. Just have to type them up.’
‘Anything of note?’
Joey pulled out the small notebook where he’d been marking down conversation topics all morning. Most of his notes consisted of half sentences – cut off at the point where he realised the tangent the witness had gone off on had nothing to do with the investigation. ‘Not really …’ He flicked back through the pages. ‘Someone saw the deceased in a heated debate with Principal Nuala Patterson a few hours before the body was found in the river.’
‘Who said that?’
‘A parent … Lorna Farrell.’
‘I don’t see Nuala Patterson being caught up in this. She’s about the only one of them who I’d give the benefit of the doubt. More likely that parent has a grievance against Nuala. I wouldn’t be principal of that school for all the tea in China.’
‘Is it worth following up on anyway?’
‘No harm. Nuala’s in this afternoon, so you can ask her about it. You’ve met Principal Patterson, haven’t you? At that school information night you did?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Joey had met her once before that, too, the day her son was paralysed in a car accident.
It was early one February morning and the ambulance had just left the scene with Leo Patterson on a gurney in the back when Joey and the sergeant arrived at Reilly’s Pass. They had to wait for a second ambulance to come for the boy who had died. His father was a star of the Cooney GAA scene, apparently. Joey didn’t know much about Gaelic football, except that it was a big deal around here, but he’d committed the teenager’s name to memory. Mike Roche Junior. His first body.
One of the remaining passengers had identified himself to Joey as the driver. He was distraught. His was another name he’d committed to memory. Charlie Whitehead. His first arrest.
It was five hours later, when the sergeant had gone to the hospital and Joey was left to guard the site until forensics arrived, that a car pulled up at the side of the road and Nuala Patterson got out. He tried to keep her away, but she was adamant. She explained that she was the injured boy’s mother. He thought of his mam back home in Leitrim, and how if he was in a car crash, she’d probably turn up wearing a coat over her pyjamas too.
‘The preliminary post-mortem should be back soon,’ said the sergeant, lowering himself into the chair behind the reception desk.
‘Do you think there’s a chance of foul play?’ asked Joey, trying to keep the hope out of his voice.
‘There’s always a chance,’ said his superior. ‘It’s not likely around here, but I’m not ruling it out. The suicide risk on this one is low: gainfully employed, happily married – or as happy as any of us are. There’s no sense of a desperate person teetering on the edge. Throw in the fact that we haven’t got a plausible theory for why our DOA was out by the river when everyone else was up at Glass Lake. It doesn’t make sense. And that makes me suspicious.’
Joey quivered. Half of him was giddy at the prospect of something exciting finally happening, and the other half felt guilty about it.
Lorna Farrell, parent
If tensions were high at the school, it wasn’t down to the musical – it was because of the photos. I presume you know about that? The children were N-A-K-E-D in them. I was angry when I heard about it, of course I was. Show me a parent who wasn’t and I’ll show you a textbook example of negligence.
Beth Morton, parent
Glass Lake has always had feuds. One parent doesn’t sign another parent’s petition and suddenly people are getting kicked out of WhatsApp groups and children’s birthday party invitations are being rescinded. But the stuff with the photos was different. Everyone was concerned. Personally, I don’t think anyone should have handed in their resignation over it, but that’s only an opinion.
11
••••••
Arlo didn’t remove his head from under the sink, but he could feel the woman’s eyes on his bent back. He tried to concentrate on the U-bend. He’d fixed this last week and somehow it was leaking again.
‘Can I get you anything to drink while you’re down there?’
‘No thank you, Mrs Murphy,’ he said, voice muffled as he reached behind him for a spanner. ‘I’m fine.’
‘What did I say about calling me that?’ Her hand hit his shoulder and he gave a start. The Murphys’ kitchen was so big, it echoed. It was disconcerting to never know how close she was. ‘You’re making me feel ninety,’ she said. ‘Anyway, it’s Ms Murphy now.’
She laughed but Arlo could tell she didn’t really find it funny, so he said: ‘Fiona, I mean. Sorry. I’m fine for a drink, thank you, Fiona.’
‘Are you sure?’ She stepped away. ‘A coke? Or a beer, maybe? I’ve some craft ale in the fridge, from this cool little microbrewery in Mayo.’
‘No, thank you, Fiona, I’m fine. Thank you.’ The heat rose in his cheeks. Could he not think of any new words? He wanted to reach behind and tug down the back of his T-shirt. But he didn’t, in case she was watching.
The piping came away in his hand and Arlo peered up towards the drain. How did he expect to win over the people of Cooney if the jobs they paid good money for weren’t done properly? Word of mouth was everything in this business. His father had taught him that. He’d also taught him that, no matter how many adhesives you had in the van, charm was the best way to seal a deal.
But Arlo wasn’t charming. His limbs were too long, and he blushed too easily. People said he looked like his dad, but no matter how much he studied his reflection, he never saw it. Sometimes he concentrated so hard on the mirror that his nose started to drift away from his face and he had to shut his eyes for as long as it took for the sensation to stop.
The footsteps halted. Arlo hoped she’d left the kitchen. Fiona Murphy was divorced, and she said it was a godsend to have someone to do ‘manly things’ around the house. She hired him a lot and always tipped. She was one of the few people in Cooney who was nice to him and he was grateful, but he made mistakes when he was also trying to guess if he was being watched or not.
She fancies you, boy.
Don’t be stupid, Leo. She’s like forty.
Remember that time she pressed her leg against your back?
She was reaching for a pillowcase.
Must have been a hard-to-reach pillowcase.
She’s probably just afraid I’ll steal something.
During the summer, a family out by Cooney Pier had hired Arlo to fix their boiler. They’d been so torn between not trusting a Whitehead and needing to go to work that they’d locked the doors to every room before they left, giving him access only to the hallway. It was the hottest week of the year and he couldn’t open a window or get to the kitchen for water. He’d sweated so much he left a stain on the patch of carpet outside the boiler room and they’d docked him the cost of cleaning. The final payment hadn’t even been enough to cover parts.
‘I heard you were up at the school this morning.’
Arlo jumped slightly, banging his head off the exposed pipe. He scrunched up his face and cursed silently into the darkness until the worst of the pain passed.
‘You know what some of those Glass Lake mothers are like,’ Fiona continued. ‘Keeping an eye on everyone’s comings and goings, sending the details into WhatsApp like it’s the Interpol messaging service.’
She laughed but the knowledge that people were actually discussing him, and it wasn’t just in his head, made Arlo feel so exposed he could no longer resist the urge to emerge from under the sink and make sure his T-shirt hadn’t ridden up his back.
‘Mrs – Fiona – I would actually take some water, if that’s okay?’
His shirt was still where it should be, but it was clammy, as was his face. He felt sweat around his eyes and he blinked.
Fiona, who was leaning against the far wall, walked over to the fridge and removed a bottle. ‘Is it totally awkward?’ she asked, crossing the room towards him. ‘With Nuala Patterson?’ She lowered her voice even though they were the only people in the kitchen. ‘Does the woman just hate you?’
She unscrewed the water bottle and left it on the ground beside him, brushing her hand across his back as she straightened up.
Definitely looking for the ride.
Fuck off, Leo. She’s talking about your mom.
Arlo spoke to his best friend in his head because Leo would no longer talk to him in real life. He’d sent him messages on Instagram and SnapChat, he’d even sent him a long email, but Leo ignored them all. Then a few months ago, he blocked him. So, the last thing he’d ever said to Arlo was still, ‘You’re a fucking wimp.’ Two seconds later the car skidded off the road, and Leo and Mike were thrown up against a 200-year-old oak tree.
They’d been on their way home from a gig in Cork city. Donovan was playing, so they had to go. But Leo, Mike and Arlo were only seventeen, and the Triskel was strict on ID; they needed an adult. Arlo convinced his dad to take them. Arlo was supposed to drive them there and back, only he got drunk. People blamed his dad for that, but Mike was the one who snuck in the whiskey. His dad had only bought them one pint each, but it was true he’d bought himself several more.
What they should have done was left the car. They should have paid for a taxi. Arlo imagined this scenario all the time. In reality, nobody would have gone for it. It was an hour and a half’s drive so a taxi would have cost at least two hundred euro, plus the hassle of coming back for the car the next day, and his mom needed it to get to work in the morning. Now, though, two hundred quid seemed like a pretty good price for his dad to avoid seven years in jail, Leo to keep his legs, and Mike to still be alive. Mike was the funniest fucker Arlo had ever known, and now he was gone for ever. And without Leo around, there was nobody he could really talk to about that.
‘Nuala Patterson should be grateful,’ said Fiona, watching him carefully from her seat at the kitchen table. ‘At least her child is alive. I heard she didn’t want to hire you. Is that true?’ Her stare burnt into his skin and he knew he was going red again. ‘That’s discrimination. You could sue, you know? Does she ever speak to you? I bet she says awful things.’
There were people in Cooney who refused to hire him because of what had happened. But there were a few, like Fiona Murphy, who saw it as a bonus: your sink fixed by the one who escaped unscathed. Ella said they were like hyenas, tossing around his intact carcass, desperate for any remaining morsel of gossip. But it didn’t help Arlo get through the day to think of them like that.
‘We don’t – she doesn’t talk to me,’ he said finally.
‘Is that right?’ gasped Fiona, as if he’d revealed something far more interesting. ‘How terrible. You hardly made your father get behind the wheel drunk, now did you? And your little brother got a lead role in the musical – I’d say Nuala Patterson just hates that.’
Without thinking, Arlo lifted a wrench and placed the cool metal against his burning cheek. He switched it to the other side. Fiona caught his gaze and raised an eyebrow in a way that made him drop the tool. It clattered on the pale blue tiles and he quickly shoved his torso back in under the sink.
‘I should get on with this,’ he said into the airless dark.
‘Absolutely, Arlo sweetheart.’ He could hear the smile in her voice. Under his T-shirt and heavy jeans, his skin prickled. ‘I’ll be as quiet as a church mouse,’ she said. ‘I’m just checking in on my socials. Pretend I’m not even here.’
..................
Frances Tandon was having a lovely sixty-sixth birthday. She’d started the day with scrambled eggs from her hens, who had been on strike for the past week but were now back laying with gusto, and some deep meditation where she came as close to reaching bliss as she had all week. She’d received several cards in the post and the students who rented the house next door had dropped in a box of ‘special birthday brownies’. They’d underlined special a few times, lest they accidentally drug an unsuspecting, and newly minted, pensioner. Frances was saving them for this evening.
Then she’d hosted a particularly successful workshop for beginners. She knew it had been successful because ten of the twelve participants had signed up for Tantric Sex level two before they left, and everyone had removed at least one item of clothing for the concluding gentle touch session. While she had been slightly concerned about the man who started taking notes – ‘How do you spell “solar plexus”?’ – that same student got so into the shaking off his inhibitions portion of the afternoon that he’d knocked over the altar and sent the Shiva statue and incense burners crashing to the floor. So, all in all, excellent feedback.
Having seen off the students, extinguished the candles and gathered up the bedsheets from the floor, Frances was now making the ten-second commute from the renovated shed that served as her tantra studio to the main house, where she had happily lived alone for more than twelve years. She threw the sheets into the washing machine and placed a saucepan of soup on the hob’s back-left ring. Her favourite ring.
She poured herself a generous glass of kombucha and tore a corner off one of the brownies; just a nibble while she waited for the soup to heat. Then she checked her phone for the first time that day. There were missed calls and birthday greetings from her children and grandchildren. Even Beverley, she was glad to see, had sent a message.
Frances opened the WhatsApp from her daughter. There was no text, only a video. She pressed play.
Happy birthday, Granny, I love you so much! I can’t wait to see you again. Thank you for being the best grandmother in the world. You’re amazing. Happy birthday!
Frances watched as Amelia blew three kisses to the camera. That was it. No sign of Beverley. Presumably she was holding the camera.
Frances pulled another chunk from the brownie – they were deliciously moreish and the hashish not at all noticeable – and watched it through again. It was, ostensibly, a lovely message. What grandmother didn’t want to hear she was the best in the world? What person didn’t like to be told they were amazing? Yet despite Amelia’s exaggerated, effusive way of speaking, it was oddly hollow. It was like the camera had turned her granddaughter into a shiny, unauthentic version of herself. Frances would have preferred an awkward but simple ‘Happy birthday Granny’ and then for Beverley to turn the camera on herself and say the same. Better yet, a phone call, so she could have an old-fashioned interaction with her daughter and granddaughter. Ella was the only Franklin who ever actually phoned.
It wasn’t that Frances was lonely. Far from it. She talked to her other children on the phone and saw a wide circle of friends in Dublin regularly. She had a busy and fulfilling second career, having given up badly paid pen-pushing at the same time she gave up her husband. She held tantric sex and massage workshops in her studio and travelled the country hosting retreats and classes. She took a lover, a retired chiropodist named Geoffrey, about once a week. They had sex and played Scrabble and generally succeeded in ensuring the lovemaking lasted longer than the board game.
So no, it wasn’t that she was lonely for her daughter, it was just that she yearned to help her. Beverley reminded Frances of her former self. Her daughter would balk at that; she was slim and wealthy, things Frances had never been, and Beverley didn’t allow her husband to call her names in front of her children. But it wasn’t about external traits (a possibility Beverley would struggle to comprehend); it was about being so tangled up in yourself that you didn’t realise you were your own prison guard, let alone that it was possible to be free. Her daughter had always been chasing the wrong things for the wrong reasons, and she accepted her role in that. She should have left her husband a lot sooner.
