Falling Glass Part 20

He felt the clammy cold of the bathtub against his face.

He started to cry under the duct tape. For the second time in a day and in years he thought of Katie. He thought of her pale face, her pretty brown eyes. He knew that she'd had six or seven or maybe even more kids since the separation. In the only life she had ever known she was probably happy. That could have been him. Maybe it all went back to that. Maybe there was a good f.u.c.king reason for not taking the road less travelled. It was quiet now.

Just the wind playing on the halyards in the marina.

Spirals of sound. Atonal variations on a pair of notes. An Irish Ramayana.

Spirals and labyrinths.

Boats floating in and out of the void.

Every boat a soul in the immense night.

And every boat, lost.

Blood lapped his face from the contusion above his ear.

The spinning world grew distant.

The ringing in his ears stopped and he knew that the pain had gotten so much that his mind was closing up shop. No, he protested, no, but it didn't do any good.

Killian heard a car door slam and a plane fading in the distance. Yeah, he thought, you're right mate, it's not bad for a punk.

CHAPTER 8.

AN ISLAND IN THE STREAM.

The cabins were on an island in the lower reaches of Lough Erne, which wasn't really a lough at all, more a wide part of the Erne river. They were expensive because you in effect rented the whole island, not just the cabin. Andrew hadn't offered her a discount, even with no other residents, and he was super-gay so there was no possibility of using feminine charms. And, to be honest, she hadn't been that nice to him in high school anyway. She hadn't kept in touch, she only knew he had this place from the Academy newsletter. He'd been friendly enough when she showed up, of course, but she knew she could expect no favours.

The unit Andrew had put her in overlooked the lough and it was clean and isolated. Few people came here at the best of times and the main channel to the east didn't really start becoming a tourist road until July.

There was yet another beach for the girls to play on.

They were almost used to it now.

Making sandcastles in the rain. They were hardy. Even Sue who, it had to be said, was doing a little better. Richard, if she could have told him, would have been pleased.

She watched them through the window and counted her money. She had two thousand euros and about a thousand quid left which was a considerable amount but which would only delay the inevitable. Ten weeks at the most, although the back channel to her father might give her more time.

The cabin, bungalow really, was quite large - two bedrooms, a bathroom and a kitchen/lounge. Big windows with views of the beach and beyond that to swans on the misty lough. It was a Tourist Board version of Ireland.

"That's mine!" Sue said.

"No, it's mine!" Claire yelled.

She closed the window so she couldn't hear the ensuing fight.

She watched the herring gulls soar over the water. She watched the gentle waves on the beach turn oleander white.

She thought about mistakes: quitting Queen's, getting into the big H, marrying Richard, running off with the weans, telling Tom about the laptop.

Jesus, she could go on all day.

And then there was the good.

A week of cold turkey.

She'd given up drugs on four previous occasions but something about this time felt different. Maybe because this time she had finally realised that this wasn't just about her.

She thought about options. There were four.

#1 Suicide: she'd be out of it, the girls would probably be safe; however she had proved again and again that she didn't have the bottle for it.

#2 Tom's plan: leave the laptop, leave the girls, call the peelers and try to vanish. But Tom would certainly come after her now. Why had she opened her big mouth? She'd be hunted, alone, and they might even use the girls against her. Richard might do that, Tom certainly would.

#3 Go to the peelers/media: that might actually be the best option. Richard would be f.u.c.ked and would never get the girls, she'd be protected by the tabloids, but Tom would no doubt unleash the details of her heroin use and the f.u.c.king tabs loved building you up to knock you down again. She might not get the girls either. They might get taken into care! She might never see them again. And then of course there was McCann. The IRA would be thrown into chaos, she'd become a hate figure - some faction or other might try to a.s.sa.s.sinate her. She was terrified of that. She'd become the centre of some awful media vortex. That would even be worse than this...

Probably, eventually, when the money ran out she'd pick #3 but for now it would have to be: #4 The status quo. Staying here, one step ahead. At the very least it would give her time to think.

And it was beautiful. Here where Europe ended in lakes and sea spray and slate beaches and forest.

There was a knock at the door.

Her heart missed a beat but it could only be Andrew. Richard's men wouldn't knock and the peelers weren't randomly coming out here on a rainy day in March.

"Come in," she said.

Andrew came in. He was completely bald with half-moon gla.s.ses over a strange figure-eight face. He wore a red ascot and a tweed suit with yellow checks in it. He was a little plump now and you could tell that he was cultivating eccentricity. In the village they no doubt talked about the poof with the English accent.

He should be across the water auditioning for a BBC mystery series, he'd be a good minor character - the nosey vicar or the retired colonel.

"h.e.l.lo," Rachel said.

Andrew took out his handkerchief and dabbed the back of his neck. He did this with his left hand because he was holding something in his right behind his back. He pocketed the handkerchief, fumbled behind his back and again with his left hand put a letter on the Ikea kitchen table.

"Oh, thank you," she said. It was from her da, posted yesterday.

"Didn't know they did deliveries on a Sunday," she said.

"They do when there's enough to justify a run out here. Might have taken another week if they hadn't had a bunch."

"Mind if I sit?" Andrew asked.

Rachel smiled. She could feel notes inside the letter. He really shouldn't do that. She didn't need the money. It was the contact she craved.

"Mind if I sit down?" Andrew asked a little louder.

"Oh, sorry. Yes. Sure."

"Thank you."

He sat and attempted a smile and said nothing.

He had left the door open and Rachel could hear the girls laughing. The fight had resolved itself.

"What's the matter, Andrew?" Rachel asked.

He coughed and shook his head. "Are you in some kind of trouble or something?" he asked.

"No. Why?"

"Only, you see, the thing is, I haven't exactly been, you know. You see, the thing is, I haven't really paid any corporation tax. Do you know what I mean? They don't know that I've reopened the place. Who was going to tell them? We're so out of the way here. And as you can see, things are precarious. I need every penny. Ten thousand quid tax would sink me. And then what? Go back to Ballymena? No chance. They wrote 'Kill the Queer' on my garage, except they spelt it wrong. Kill with one L."

If he'd been straight Rachel might have taken his hand but she didn't know if he'd like that or not so she kept her hands to herself.

"What's the matter, Andrew?"

He avoided eye contact and continued. "What I'm saying is, Rachel, I can't afford an investigation here. You appreciate that don't you?"

"Aye. But I'm missing the point. What is it that you're not telling me?"

"The point is total economic collapse. The point is the Republic's worst unemployment rate in twenty-five years. The point is tourism off by seventy per cent. The point is my business on a b.l.o.o.d.y knife edge. If they think I'm mixed up in this and look into my books, I'm finished."

"Mixed up in what?"

With a little bit of a flourish, from behind his back, Andrew put the Sunday World on the table. "Page four," he said. Rachel turned to page four and saw the story, a gossip piece: Where In The World Is Rachel Coulter?

Sunday World sources are telling that us that beefy, tyrannical, Coulter Air boss Richard Coulter is having wife problems. Which wife you'll want to know, for of course Sir Richard (he wishes) has been married three times. Not wifey number 1, Annie Baxter, who is safe as houses in her millionaire mansion in Brighton. Not wifey number 3, hot (preggie or just reacting to hubbie's Irish cooking?) Italian TV presenter Helena Visconti. No, wifey number 2, Rachel Anderson, who apparently isn't keeping up with her end of the kiddie sharing arrangements and is off somewhere, destination unknown, much to Mr C's fury (and we all know what that can be like). What kind of a pickle has Rach got herself into this time? Rumours have been circulating for years that she runs with a fast crowd. Other rumours hint of darker secrets which have not been confirmed by your Sunday World and until they are we will keep them under wraps. Intriguing, eh? We have however confirmed that the Police Service of Northern Ireland is examining a "possible child custody order violation" and that Richard Coulter has hired a private investigator to look into his wife's whereabouts. Poor old d.i.c.k. Maybe he can spot her next year when he's...o...b..ting the Earth from mate Sir (definitely Sir) Richard Branson's s.p.a.ce shuttle.

She pa.s.sed the paper back across the table. "I can't believe you buy into this rubbish," she said.

Andrew shook his head. "I want you out of here. Today if possible. Tomorrow at the latest."

"Andrew, I've paid for the week."

Andrew put two hundred euros on the table. "Take it, I don't want any trouble, Rachel."

"I can't move the girls again so soon and they like it here."

Andrew got up from the table. "If you're not gone by tomorrow, I'll, I'll..."

"You'll what? Call the police? You wouldn't."

He shook his head. His cheeks were crimson from the stress of all this. "I would."

"If you f.u.c.king did, first thing I'd do is make sure everybody knows about your little tax dodge operation," Rachel said.

Andrew looked shocked. "You wouldn't. I just told you that. I told you that in confidence."

"Oh, I f.u.c.king would, mate."

Andrew stood there, sweating for a moment. The moment was grim for both of them: a trip back to sixth form when everybody had bullied him. No one had thought he was gay back then - you couldn't be gay in Ballymena - but they knew he was something.

She felt bad about it but she wasn't going to give in.

"I don't want any trouble. I just want you to go, okay? If the police or the Sunday World start snooping around here, I'm f.u.c.ked. You can imagine what business has been like, here," Andrew said.

"How about a week? Will you give me a week? I can't move the girls again, Andrew, not so soon. Not too much to ask, one week."

Andrew shook his head. "The hacks will be here in a week. They have snoops everywhere. Old man McConkey on the ferry is bored out of his mind. What do you think he talks about down the pub? Us."

"I'm not moving the girls."

"How about forty-eight hours, two days?" he said.

"I can't do it."

Andrew smiled. "I like you, Rachel, I really do, but you have to do this for me. Threats, uh, threats can, er, go two ways you know."

Rachel shook her head. "No, I don't think you want to try that line, Andrew, I really don't."

"I didn't mean anything by it," he said quickly.

Rachel could feel the moral pressure of his chubby cheeks and desperate eyes.

"I'm going to see my mother until Thursday. Could you be gone by then? By the time I get back?"

Rachel sighed. She couldn't take this. "Okay, Thursday it is," she said.

"You have to be gone," Andrew insisted.

Rachel nodded. "Then gone we'll be, Andrew, and f.u.c.k alone knows where."

Andrew left the cabin. He got the ferry off the island later that day, leaving her alone with the girls. Alone in their own private kingdom. She made the girls Heinz tomato soup with white bread and from Andrew's cabin she borrowed a bottle of Gordon's gin and had G&Ts after she put the girls to bed.

She dozed and heard a noise. It was Sue. Sleepwalking. Trying to lift the deadbolt to get outside. "Where are you going, honey?" she asked.

"To see the ducks," Sue said drowsily.

"You can't go outside, it's dangerous," she said.