They All Fall Down Page 2

  His thoughts turned to Aunty Pat. He missed her and her stories. He had really enjoyed his time lodging with her. What a broad, he thought. He should have moved out when she passed, but who would break a promise to a dying friend? Aunty Pat – she was never known by another name to anyone in the village. He would keep his promise, and then he would be gone.

  He thought about Sharon as he switched off the light. The love of his life. The dream was always the same, and he always felt like shit when he woke. If only he had gone after her that night, it would all be so different.

  Chapter 2

  He smelt the tobacco smoke before he saw her, followed by the sweet scent of her Chanel. She wore her evening gown of deep purple with amazing grace, the colour enhancing her dark beauty. She was striking, her presence a force of nature, and she appeared far taller than she was. He knew she had been there for some time, just watching, trying to understand him, but ultimately not caring.

  She leaned against the door frame as she held the cigarette in a gloved hand. Those familiar dark eyes bore into him and he made no attempt to hide his nakedness. He turned from the mirror and met her stare, while the bile rose in his throat. Playing the game, he hid his emotions well and managed a smile that never reached his eyes.

  So many times, he had tried to look at that face with love, but there was no love there. He wondered what it would feel like to punch her really hard and watch the blood flow from her perfect nose, down her chest and all over her designer dress. He imagined how her manicured nails and diamond rings would cope with the gush of blood.

  He wondered how quickly the thick carpet would soak up the blood and how swiftly a feather pillow over her face would stop her breathing and eventually stop her heart. A heart as cold as forgotten coffee.

  But he knew it was just a fleeting thought. He wouldn’t do any of those things. She was right, he was spineless. He could never harm her. He was a silly little boy.

  ‘Scottie, darling, do hurry up.’ She exhaled the last of the smoke. ‘The guests will be arriving shortly and I expect you downstairs beside me to greet them.’

  Years of elocution had just about buried the Italian accent. Years of elocution at Father’s expense.

  ‘Yes, Mother,’ he said without emotion.

  ‘Chop chop, darling!’ She clicked her fingers at him and walked away.

  Mother now held the reins – and the whip. She didn’t deserve that grand title, she was never mother material. An embittered, neurotic, once-famous opera singer, who amused herself by sleeping with everyone from the stable hand to the president of the Rotary Club.

  Father was dead. He hanged himself at the height of the recession.

  Scott returned to the ensuite and retrieved his wallet from the pocket of his abandoned trousers. He licked his lips and his heart quickened as he poured the little heap of white powder onto the vanity unit. With deft hands and a sense of purpose, the crystalline powder was sniffed away from sight.

  He lay down on the bed and waited. Minutes later, the familiar numb feeling in the back of his throat arrived and his rage subsided.

  Mother and her garden parties, he thought – yet another pretentious gathering on the grounds of Weybridge estate. Another excuse for the cream of society to lavish bullshit and false compliments on them. He wished he was back in his apartment in Dublin, but he had to be here. It was his duty.

  He snapped out of his reverie and dressed in front of the mirror. The sounds and smells wafted up from below. He did not have to look behind the heavy drapes to picture the scene unfolding in the walled garden. He had seen it often enough.

  The quartet would be there, reverently removing instruments from cases, and warming up with the sweet sounds of Haydn’s ‘Sun Quartets’, the bass notes bouncing and dancing on the walls of the garden. Staff drafted in for the high-brow occasion would be scurrying around in black, like an army of ants, darting in and out of the marquee, never speaking. The maître d’, with an accent as fake as his watch, barking orders. They would lay picture-perfect tables. They would fold napkins the same colour as the floral centrepieces. Lint from the perfect white tablecloths would dance in the air.

  Chafing dishes of polished silver would be laid out on the buffet tables beside case upon case of champagne. Dozens of candles would be lit at the last minute before the staff lined up and stood to attention. He wondered about the lowly catering staff, and came to the conclusion they were all uneducated foreigners or single parents. Meagre, insignificant insects. Working for minimum wage. Scraping the plates of the guests tonight would be the closest they ever got to Culture. Rats, every one of them. The only staff member he had ever tolerated was Mr Jenkins. He used to be the resident gardener and the only person who took an interest in him growing up.

  He hated it here, but he knew he could never live without the lifestyle, and the eventual inheritance. He gazed in the mirror at the stunning man there who had inherited his mother’s striking, dark good looks – and he smiled. Undoubtedly, the upper echelons of society present for the meal and recital would throw their daughters at him. He was a catch. Or was he?

  He remembered the last time he was close to a woman. Oh, how he had hurt her! But maybe the bitch deserved it, all things considered. They were all money-grabbing whores, each and every one of them.

  The sound of his mother summoning him brought his thoughts back to the present.

  Everything about her, him and this evening was a cliché. That thought amused him. Pretentious bastards. He wanted out from his history, his family, and from this pantomime. But, much like his love for cocaine, wealth and status were his addictions. Any other life would not be good enough. He needed her.

  He followed her down the stairs and out to the lawn like an obedient dog.

  Showtime.

  Chapter 3

  The sight of a strange car in her drive annoyed Jen when she arrived home. Patience was a virtue she did not possess at the best of times, but today was Monday. It was the first day back to school after the Easter holidays and she was wrecked after a busy weekend in work. Danny had gone to school, amidst tears and tantrums, and all she wanted was a coffee and peace and quiet.

  No doubt it’s a friend of Andy’s, she thought, as the tyres crunched over the gravel. He had come back to the house on Friday. The trawler was still tied up because of a problem with the engine and he would be around all week. Her clapped-out Saab came to a halt beside the sleek Lexus and let out a groan of envy as it shuddered to a stop. Maybe it’s a girlfriend, she suddenly thought. The idea of dealing with a well-dressed, all-cheekbones-and-Botox type in her living room made her crave a cigarette. She had given up in January and every day was a fight not to go to the shop and buy a pack. She felt like the wreck of the Hesperus. She had stepped back into the clothes she had been wearing yesterday, and her wavy hair stood on end. Yummy Mummy, my arse. As she fumbled out of the car, she stuck her hand into her bag and grabbed a lip gloss. She quickly applied it, ran her fingers through her hair, pinched her cheeks and braced herself for an audience with Andy and his model girlfriend.

  Oh for Jesus’ sake, Jen, will you cop on to yourself? Cheekbones and Botox – where did that come out of? It’s probably a fecking salesman trying to flog internet.

  She thought about dashing upstairs and changing, as she came through the front door, but was pipped at the post by Andy. He was standing in the hallway between the kitchen and the front door.

  ‘Oh hi, Jen! How are you? The kettle is just on if you would like a cuppa.’ He smiled at her as he held the kitchen door open.

  He was taller than she remembered and so very handsome. She wondered how he had got the scar over his left eyebrow. As she nervously stepped past him, smoothing her hair, she could see that he too was feeling ill at ease. A degree in psychology and a lifetime of working in the catering industry meant that she was a natural at reading people. He was fidgeting and kept shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

  ‘Jen, I’d like to introduce
you to a really good friend of mine. This is Scott.’

  She felt his presence before she even looked in his direction. The room felt as though the air had been sucked out of it, and her hand went straight to the crystal hanging around her neck. He stood up and extended his hand to her. His smile was mesmerising and she felt completely inferior standing before him. He was so striking and she recognised him instantly. He didn’t recognise her, oblivious to their last encounter – the faceless waitress being spoken to like a piece of shit by the snob. She noticed his suit, charcoal grey and obviously made to measure. This exchange all happened in a matter of seconds but Jen’s legs felt unsteady.

  ‘Jennifer, it’s such a pleasure to make your acquaintance.’ His manner was easy and relaxed as he shook her hand. ‘What a lovely quaint little home you have here. Very charming.’

  Jen had lost the ability to speak. She came back to the present when the whistle of the kettle broke the silence.

  ‘Would anyone like a coffee?’ she asked in a high-pitched voice.

  ‘Mug of tea for me please, Jen,’ Andy replied, before Scott enquired as to whether the coffee was filter or instant.

  The men sat at the table and made small talk while Jen took cups and plates down from the press.

  Luckily, she had some Lavazza filter coffee and a cafetière in the house; she had bought them for her dad. Her parents had been around for lunch yesterday and he loved a nice coffee after a roast. She watched the coffee swirl in the water before taking yesterday’s dessert out of the treat cupboard. Chocolate Cola Cake, Danny’s favourite. She cut three wedges and put them on the plates. Refreshments served, she sat at the table beside Andy.

  ‘Do you have a napkin or a fork, Jennifer?’ Scott said as he examined the plate before him.

  ‘You can call me Jen. I’ll get you some kitchen paper.’ He was beginning to get on her nerves, but Andy seemed completely oblivious to his bad manners. I’ll stick the fork in his eye in a minute, she thought, as she returned to the table.

  Then again, maybe it was just her being a bit of a cow; she was tired and a bit frazzled. He couldn’t be that much of a pig if he was a good pal of Andy’s. She stirred sugar into her tea and took a deep breath.

  She decided to make a bit of an effort and they all made small talk as they ate. She began to warm to him when the conversation turned to music. Andy filled her in about how they had met in a music club in university. They had got into a dispute over the original band members in Cream, and who exactly Crosby, Stills and Nash had played with before they got together. They shared a love of music and followed the scene in Dublin.

  She could see why Scott liked Andy so much – he was lovely, easy company. He had a gentle charisma about him, almost melancholic, in stark contrast to Scott’s daunting presence. An odd pairing as friends but who was she to judge? The nerves were beginning to subside about her new housemate. It mightn’t be so awkward after all.

  ‘Jennifer – sorry – Jen!’ said Scott. ‘You have the most amazing vinyl collection. I’m really impressed. It’s rare to see such taste in music.’

  ‘I have my mam and my Aunty Pat to thank for my eclectic taste, Scott. How could I get out of it really? Thanks to my mother’s lifelong obsession with one particular artist, I was christened Jennifer Juniper – years after the song was released I hasten to add.’

  ‘Donovan!’ the men said together and laughed.

  Scott made the large kitchen-cum-dining-room look tiny as he stood up. He sauntered around, fingering the vinyl and picking up random pictures. She couldn’t figure him out and he made her feel on edge. Maybe it was just because of the night in the restaurant – he certainly had a swagger about him.

  Andy turned his attention to Jen.

  ‘I hope you didn’t mind about my bedroom door being locked, Jen. There’s a lot of fishing lures up there. I didn’t have time to pack them away safely and I didn’t want Danny getting at them. And my old hunting knife is there too – I have a new one I use on the boat now. I meant to text you and explain but the time ran away with me.’

  ‘Ah, that’s OK, Andy. Don’t worry, we will respect your privacy. Danny knows better than to nose about in your room. He’s a good little boy and won’t cause you any bother – he spends all his time outside with Butch or upstairs with his Lego.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that – I was afraid he might hurt himself. We’ll get along fine. He’s a character.’

  ‘I know he is!’

  ‘Are you settling in OK? It must be strange for you in a way?’

  ‘It’s weird not having Pat here. I miss her, but I can certainly feel her around. Anyway, I’d better get cracking and get some stuff done. Nice to meet you, Scott.’

  Jen left the room and went upstairs.

  ‘She’s an odd one, Andy. Pretty, but odd,’ Scott mused as he looked at a picture of Jen and Danny. ‘She does go on a bit, don’t you think? The rug rat looks like her. What’s the situation there? Was it a one-night stand or is there a man on the scene? I don’t envy you – what was that old bat thinking about, forcing you to stay here with them? There’s plenty of room in my apartment. You don’t have to be here. If money is an issue?’

  ‘Stop, Scott. Jen is OK and her son, Danny, is a great kid. There is a dad on the scene, but they’re not together any more. The “old bat” you referred to was my friend. I’m here until January and then I’m heading off. I don’t want to be stuck in this small village either, but I’m past the madness that goes with your lifestyle. I’ve moved on, man, bigger fish to fry.’

  Andy picked the dishes up from the table and dropped them in the sink. He had forgotten how arrogant Scott could be.

  ‘Easy there, Andy. I’m simply making an observation. Don’t try to bed her is my advice. I must dash, meeting scheduled for twelve, then back to Dublin. I’ll be in touch. Ciao ciao.’

  Upstairs, Jen heard him leave and breathed a sigh of relief.

  Andy’s voice floated up the stairs. ‘I’m heading down to the boat for a while, Jen. See you later.’

  ‘All right. Have a good day, Andy,’ she called to the closing door.

  Finally, a bit of peace! She looked at her lovely bed and her novel sitting on the locker. It was tempting but it was nearly eleven and she had a mountain of things to do before the school run. I’ll be back to you soon, Mr. Lamb, she thought and headed for the shower.

  He was incandescent with rage. He thumped his hands repeatedly on the steering wheel, before punching the radio into silence. When the speedometer hovered at ninety, he figured he had better calm down. The last thing he needed was the local police sniffing around his car. The trip he had made to the harbour before dawn was not one for sightseeing, and not one he had told Andy about. Slowing his driving also slowed his breathing.

  He pulled into a lay-by and poured two lines of the early morning delivery onto a CD case. He rolled the note and the lines disappeared up his nose. He sat and waited for the torpid feeling to come.

  His mind flashed back to the first time he had met ‘Aunty Pat’ as they all called her. She was a very sharp old woman, and after twenty minutes she had the measure of him. She didn’t hide her disdain for him and his welcome was short-lived. She had practically thrown him out.

  In the time he had spent in Jen’s kitchen that morning, the realisation had dawned on him as to why dear old batty Pat had insisted Andy lodge with her niece and the brat. In short, she was matchmaking from beyond the grave. They would make a good couple, he thought with disgust. There was easiness between them and it would only be a matter of time before they got down and dirty. Andy had been quick to defend her. Scott had seen that before – with that damn Sharon. Women – they were all the same. They wanted the handsome man to swoop in and save them, before screwing him around and leaving him broken, just like his mother had done with his father.

  Andy reminded Scott so much of his father. He wasn’t able to protect his father from his wife but with Andy, his best friend, it would be diff
erent. He would protect him, and no bitch would ever come between them again.

  Aunty Pat had tried to come between them. He knew it, even though his Andy had never said it outright. Andy had told him about the cancer. He was devastated that she was refusing treatment. She wouldn’t sit back and wait for the disease to consume her. She was going to get her affairs in order, she told him, and then when she was ready she would slip away into the night, on her own terms with a free heart and soul.

  Scott thought of her sitting there the evening he had visited her – so frail, yet her eyes were bright and clear. He could still hear her voice in his head, louder and clearer today. His plan that night was to teach her a lesson. How dare she imply that Andy was too nice to be friends with him? He told her what he had done to come between Andy and Sharon. Her response was tears. ‘How could you do that to your best friend and his wife?’ she had asked. ‘You will answer to your God, and you will have to live with your decisions and actions until your own life ends.’ When he shrugged she went on, real strength in her voice: ‘I am an old woman. I have seen so much, I have lived so much. Neither you nor your black heart can scare me. Do as you will now, or be gone. I am at peace. My advice to you, young man, is to face your demons, make things right and save your own soul. Do you believe that the soul lives on? Do you believe that a spirit can come back and wreak vengeance on those who have wronged them in this life? You should consider that question before you hurt me. Having the capacity to intimidate a dying woman tells me that your soul is more ravaged by sickness than my old body. What has blackened your heart so much, Scott? Why is there nothing but anger in it? Who hurt you so much that you have no happiness or love in your life?’