Paula Spencer

  She's hot again. Nicola brought her a face-cloth, wet with cold water. She put it across Paula's forehead. It was a shock, then gorgeous. Where's it gone? She could bring it to the bathroom and wet it again, lie back and put it on her forehead.

  She'll wait. She pulls the duvet down a bit. There's another song. One of those half-opera things, a duet in Italian or Spanish or something. She missed the name of the last singer. Barry White died. A few years ago – last year?

  She smells food. She won't eat. Feed a cold, starve a fever. That's what Carmel said, and Denise. And Nicola.

  Earlier – maybe yesterday; she's not sure – it was dark and Nicola was sitting on the side of the bed. She knew it was Nicola. Something about the way she was sitting. The angle of her back. Paula said nothing. She wasn't wide awake. She just watched Nicola. She could feel her weight. It was pulling down the duvet at her leg, like it was tucked in, a bit too tight. It was nice, though. It was lovely. Being looked after.

  It wasn't Nicola. She looked up, at the door; something had distracted her. It was Leanne sitting there. She looked so lovely, so finished.

  Paula slept. She woke. The room was empty. She slept, and woke again. Nicola was there. It was definitely Nicola. She was putting the face-cloth on Paula's forehead.

  —Jesus, Nicola, the fuckin' cold.

  —It'll bring your temperature down.

  —I don't want it down.

  —Shut up.

  She was awake then, while the cloth was cold and wet. Then she was gone again – she's not sure about this. She woke. Leanne was there, sitting on a chair. She was talking quietly, on her mobile. Paula didn't move. Her head was buzzing; there was an ache, the beginning of an ache. Leanne didn't say much. Yeah. No way. Cool. A girl, Paula guessed. Leanne was chatting to another girl.

  She slept; she must have. There was potato in her mouth, muck. Her mouth was dry – she wanted to shout. There were fingers at her, fingers hurting her, between her legs. She wanted to scream; she couldn't move. The fingers were hard, they tried to cut straight through her. She screamed – she couldn't. There were fingers in her mouth, pulling out clumps of white dryness. Her mouth was full of it.

  Leanne was rubbing her shoulder.

  She was awake. Definitely awake. Her mouth was dry, horrible. Her body was soaking. She could even feel the slickness on her ankles.

  Leanne's face was close to hers. Her chin was on the duvet.

  —Okay? said Leanne.

  Then there was water, a cup. She sat up. The cup was at her lip. Water in her mouth – the dryness broke away. Drops fell from the cup and burnt her neck. Then it was nice. She didn't want to cry.

  —Okay?

  —Thanks, love. Jesus, though.

  The sheet was hard under her. It was curled and lumpy and she was caught in the duvet. The hard fingers were still there, just beyond her.

  —You were dreaming.

  Leanne's face was back, close to hers.

  —It wasn't dreaming.

  —I was here, said Leanne. —You're grand.

  —Yeah.

  She sat up a bit more to get out of the tangle. To get away from the fingers.

  —Yeah, she said again.

  —Can you get out for a sec?

  —Why?

  —I'll straighten the sheets for you.

  The air attacked her as she stood beside the bed. She rubbed her arms. She watched Leanne patting the sheet flat.

  —God, it's wet.

  —I didn't – ?

  —Sweat.

  Leanne pulled the sheet off the bed. The duvet was on the floor. Paula bent down. She felt her head follow her. She took the duvet in her hands. It was heavy. She got it around her shoulders. She still shivered but she felt the circles under her skin getting smaller. Leanne came back with a sheet. The landing light was on outside. Leanne was limping. She stopped and lifted her hands. She disappeared behind the sheet. The sheet was the room. Then it rose, lifted. Then she saw Leanne looking up at the sheet, holding it, waiting for it to drop.

  That was yesterday. She's lost a bit of weight. She went out to the toilet a while ago. She stood on the scales. Her Christmas present from Denise. What sort of a fuckin' present is that?

  —I got it for the colour, said Denise.

  Paula has lost four pounds, in only a couple of days. According to her slate-grey scales. She leans sideways, lifts her T-shirt. Her arse looks the same. It's red, from where she's been lying. That'd be lovely now, bedsores. She's thinking too much. She must be getting better.

  Someone's laughing. It could be next door. That sometimes happens. Paula's often thought there's someone in the house, but it's someone next door coming down their own stairs. She doesn't know the neighbours, either side. She's only seen them a few times. The crowd on the other side of her bedroom wall, they've only been there a few months. She's not sure how many. They're all young. Leanne thinks they're Russian. Jack says they're Polish. Three tall girls. Leanne says they're prostitutes or lap-dancers. Jack says one of them works for Google.

  —How d'you know? she asked him.

  —She told me, he said.

  She watched the colour rise up over his face.

  —What's Google?

  He showed her. They went up to his room. She sat on the side of his bed. He sat at his desk. He had to go over the bed, around Paula, to get to it. The desk came from Nicola's husband, Tony. That's what Tony does, supplies office equipment. There was a scratch across the top; a customer refused to accept delivery. So it's Jack's. The computer's right on top of the scratch.

  He went on-line. She watched him. It looked easy enough. Then he typed in something – she leaned closer to the screen – www.google.ie.

  —It's a search engine, he said. —A bit like a library.

  He didn't look at her.

  —What do you want to know about? he said.

  —Jesus, Jack. Where would I start?

  He hated when she spoke like that. She was supposed to be his mother.

  —You choose, she said.

  —No, he said. —You do.

  It was nice, the way he said it. But she couldn't think of anything.

  —Look, he said.

  He typed in Thin Lizzy.

  Her favourite group. He clicked the Google Search button. The screen was blank for a second, then a new page appeared.

  —See? he said.

  He pointed.

  —There are 317,000 different sites.

  —All about Thin Lizzy?

  —Most of them, he said. —A lot of them would be just CD prices and catalogue stuff. But look at this one.

  She watched him click thinlizzyfan.com.

  —This is brilliant, she said.

  —Yeah, he said. —Sometimes. A lot of it's just shit.

  —Look at this though, Jack.

  It was a photograph of Phil Lynott playing chess. She'd never seen this one before. It was a long time since she'd seen any photo of Phil Lynott. It appeared gradually, scrolled down. He looked great. Philip Parris Lynott. August 20, 1949-January 4, 1986.

  —Jesus, said Paula. —He's been dead for nearly twenty years.

  —Yeah.

  There was a cartoon flame under the photograph, flickering like the Olympic torch. And the words, Eternal Flame.

  —There was no one like him, she said.

  —D'you want to see anything else? said Jack.

  —Put me in it, she said.

  —What?

  —Type in my name, she said. —Just to see.

  —Okay, he said.

  She watched him type. He was fast. She watched her name grow in the box. She watched him click the button. The page disappeared. It was blank for a second, then the new page was there.

  She wanted to get away. She couldn't sit there.

  Jack was laughing. He pointed.

  —575,000 hits, he said. —More than Thin Lizzy.

  She stood up to see better.

  —What're they about? she asked. —They'r
e not about me.

  She couldn't make sense of the list.

  —I think they're about a woman who writes baby books, said Jack.

  —Called Paula Spencer?

  —Yeah.

  —All of them?

  —I think so, he said.

  He clicked again, at other pages. She saw her name again, in heavy black. She was all down the page. She sat down. It was safe now; she knew what it was. She sat back. But she couldn't read. She had to get her eyes close to the screen.

  —Parenting Guide to Pregnancy and Childbirth, she read. —I don't remember writing that one.

  She put her hand on Jack's shoulder. He stayed still. He didn't try to escape.

  —The Happiest Toddler on the Block, she read. —Can you get more, Jack?

  He did the clicky thing. The screen was blank, then she saw a book cover. A smiling kid, American-looking, gleaming, confident. And she read the full title of the book.

  —The New Way to Stop the Daily Battle of Wills and Raise a Secure and Well-Behaved One-to-Four-Year-Old. For fuck sake.

  There was a Paula Spencer out there who thought she could do all that.

  —I actually did meet another woman called Paula Spencer once, she said.

  —Yeah?

  —Yeah.

  —Cool.

  —At a funeral. She was my cousin or something.

  —Whose funeral?

  —I can't remember. One of my uncles, I think. I'm not sure. Your granny would know. I could ask her.

  She saw another name. She pointed.

  —Let's see that one.

  'The Mom Next Door'.

  —That's me, Jack. The mom next door.

  —Hi, Mom, said Jack.

  —Hi, sweetie. Want some pie?

  —Shove it up your arse, Mom.

  They laughed. She put her arm around his neck. She couldn't feel an objection. He didn't stiffen or shudder. She let go and sat back a little bit.

  There was a photo of a woman, this other Paula.

  —That must be her.

  She looked okay but kind of mad, her eyes wide-big, like the skin around them had been pulled back. Maybe it had. There was a photo of her children. And that was it. She looked like one of them. She looked like a child, kind of a withered girl, grinning. Trying too hard to please.

  —Seen enough? said Jack.

  —Yeah, she said. —It's brilliant though, isn't it? The Net and that?

  —It's grand; yeah.

  There's no more noise from next door. She heard them in bed one night. She heard the bed, when she was falling asleep. She didn't know what it was – it was something far off, barely intruding – and then she did know. A couple making love. She'd recognised the sound, the rhythm of the bed. She'd been pleased with herself, the mystery solved.

  More laughing from downstairs. It sounds like a man. It isn't Jack. He doesn't have it yet, that deep sound. It could be Tony, Nicola's husband. But he isn't really a laugher. It annoys her, not knowing. She must be getting better.

  The News is on the radio. It's after five o'clock. She can't hear it properly. That's fine. She'll turn it up when she hears the Angelus at six. She'll get the headlines. It's what she does. She stays informed. Sinn Fein are acting the maggot. There's a child gone missing in Cork.

  She remembers the other Paula Spencer, the one she met at the funeral. She was a good bit older than Paula, but younger, probably, than Paula is now. It was years ago. It was the only thing they had in common. The name. It was a good one, though. They'd both married men called Spencer. She wore a headscarf in the church, the other Paula. They all went back to the house – whose house? – and Paula's mother introduced them to each other. They'd laughed. They were both drinking tea. She remembers holding the saucer. She wouldn't drink anything stronger in front of her mother, or her father.

  It clicks – her Uncle Eamon. He was the one who'd died. Her father's brother. She won't have to ask her mother. That'll save her half an hour. Her mother's memory only works when she wants it to.

  The door's opening. She hadn't heard the stairs. She tries to sink without moving. She pretends she's waking. It's Jack. She sees the silhouette.

  —Alright?

  It's John Paul.

  That's twice she gotten them wrong. Nicola was Leanne and now Jack becomes John Paul. They're knitting together, her children; they're coming back to her. That's what it feels like.

  —John Paul, she says.

  —Feeling any better?

  —I'm grand, she says. —Much better. Was that you I heard laughing?

  —Don't think so, he says.

  —I heard someone laughing.

  He says nothing.

  She sits up. She doesn't make a meal of it. It's not Nicola or Leanne. She doesn't want John Paul leaning over, punching her pillows. She's sitting right up before she thinks about it. He's a man. He's a stranger.

  —There, she says. —That's better. Who told you?

  —What?

  —About me.

  —No one. I mean, downstairs. They told me. At the door, like.

  —I didn't hear the bell.

  —I didn't ring it.

  He hasn't moved.

  Now he does. He closes the door over a bit. He talks as he does it.

  —I know, he says. —You don't like the bell.

  She's stunned.

  —God, she says.

  It's true. She used to hate the sound of the doorbell. It lifted her off the floor, every time it rang. It was always the Guards or some butty of Charlo's – bad news. It was reality, the end, trying to get in at her, taking away her children.

  —That's long ago, she says.

  She still can't see him properly, now the door's closed over. It's dark at the curtains. It's night-time. But the shape, his silhouette, it could never be Jack.

  He moves. Slowly.

  —One of the kids saw me.

  He touches the bed. He sits.

  —Nicola's. She was looking out the window.

  His weight pulls the mattress down.