Paula Spencer

  —What're their names? he says.

  —Who?

  But she knows who he means as she says it.

  —Vanessa's six. And Gillian. She's nearly four.

  —Must've been Vanessa, he says. —Strange.

  —Not knowing their names?

  —Yeah.

  —You know them now.

  She cries. She tries to stop, not start—

  —Sorry.

  He says nothing. He doesn't move.

  She wishes he'd go, he'd get the fuck out of her room. She shouldn't have woken up, or pretended to. She feels exposed. The guilt rips through her – it never lets up.

  —You're alright, he says. —Must get them together with my gang.

  Nicola and Star. Jesus.

  —That'd be nice, she says. —I'd like that.

  —Yeah.

  She wipes her eyes and her nose. She uses the duvet. She doesn't care.

  —I'd really like that, John Paul.

  He stands up slowly. She feels the weight go off the bed before she sees him move.

  —We'll see, he says. —You know yourself.

  She doesn't.

  —Nicola's a wagon.

  —She's great, says Paula.

  —I know.

  —She's been great to me.

  —Yeah.

  He moves to the door.

  —Good luck, he says.

  He's good. She knows that.

  —Bye, love, she says.

  Too late, it's out – love.

  But he's still there.

  —Thanks for coming, she says.

  —No problem.

  He opens the door. She doesn't want the light.

  —There wasn't a reason why you wanted to see me, was there? she says.

  —Leanne.

  —What about Leanne?

  —Came to see her.

  —Oh. Grand. Great. Bye.

  He closes the door.

  Things are happening because she's out of the way. If she gets up now and goes downstairs, she'll wreck it. They're all down there because she's up here. She's at her own fuckin' funeral. They're having her wake downstairs.

  She poisons everything good that happens. She was sick and they came to help out. They've been lovely. They're all downstairs. Her family.

  What's he doing with Leanne?

  Helping her, you fuckin' clown.

  —What did he want?

  She's awake again and Nicola's in the room. She's ready to go home. She has her jacket buttoned, and that lovely scarf with the red in it that makes Nicola's face look radiant. She doesn't know what time it is. She's really been asleep.

  Her mouth is dry again. It's the worst feeling. Waking up old.

  —What did he want? Nicola had said.

  —John Paul? says Paula.

  —Yeah.

  —Well, she says.

  She tries to sit up. She can't manage it.

  —Here.

  Nicola leans over, helps her up. Paula's not messing. She's heavy with sleep; she wants to fall back. She's not hot now, though.

  —He came to see Leanne, she says.

  —Did he? says Nicola.

  —Yeah. He did. Is there any water left in that glass, love?

  —I'll get you some fresh. Did he ask you for anything?

  —Ah Nicola. No. No, he didn't.

  She grabs Nicola's hand when she leans down for the glass beside the bed. She doesn't grab. She puts her hand on Nicola's hand.

  —He's not like that now, she says.

  —Maybe, says Nicola.

  Paula pats the hand. It's a lovely hand. Paula can't see it properly, but she knows. The fingers are long and her nails are always perfect, never a scratch or a cracked nail. Nicola has never let work or age get into her hands. That's the most amazing thing about Nicola, Paula thinks. Or what it stands for – they stand for, her hands. Nicola is in control. Nicola can manage. Nicola is much, much more than she's supposed to be. Paula adores her.

  —He's changed, she says. —He has.

  He's a lot like you, she wants to say.

  —Just, be careful, says Nicola.

  Nicola's right. Paula must be careful. About John Paul, about Leanne, about Nicola and Jack, about herself and everything. Nicola knows all about taking care. She's been looking after them all for years. They hate her for it. They hate her and they hold her beautiful hand. She's had her problems and they haven't cared. They don't want to know. She's been their mother, and mothers can't have problems.

  Paula wants to be Nicola's mother.

  She understands why John Paul's arrival worries Nicola. Nicola knows. One cracked nail and it's over.

  She'll get up tomorrow.

  Rita is getting something out of her car. Paula can see her, leaning right in. Her arse fills most of the open door.

  Paula keeps walking.

  —You're better, Paula.

  Paula stops. She smiles. Rita's standing beside the car.

  —I am, yeah, Rita. I'm grand.

  —Your Jack was telling me you weren't well.

  Poor Jack.

  —It was just the flu, she says.

  —It's everywhere, says Rita.

  They stand there. It's cold. Rita's wearing a purple fleece thing.

  She speaks.

  —Wasn't that desperate about that poor boy in Cork?

  —Dreadful, says Paula.

  The missing boy has been found, murdered.

  —The poor parents, says Rita.

  Paula nods

  —Desperate.

  They say nothing for a while.

  Rita sighs.

  —We're lucky, Paula, she says.

  This morning, Paula agrees with her.

  Rita nods at her front door.

  —The kettle's on.

  Paula follows her, past the car, into the hall. Over the white carpet – Paula's sure she can hear it breathing. She follows Rita into the kitchen.

  —We'll crack open a tin of biscuits, says Rita. —I've a few tins of those Fox's Assortment left over.

  Paula puts down her SuperValu bag. She takes off her jacket. She watches Rita tear the tape off the lid of the biscuit tin.

  —Jesus, says Rita. —They're fierce generous with the tape.

  Paula can't help it; she's excited.

  —I could hold onto them till next Christmas, I suppose, says Rita.

  She pulls the lid off the tin.

  —Too late now, says you.

  She puts the tin in front of Paula.

  —The guest goes first, she says.

  Paula hesitates.

  —Go on.

  —I'm making me mind up, Rita. Take it easy.

  Rita's not the worst. She knew Charlo. She's seen Paula with her arm in a sling, with stitches in her lip. She's seen Leanne struggling down the street. She's watched Paula go through it all and she still smiles at her. And Paula's seen her share. She saw Rita's son getting himself into trouble. She saw the squad car. She saw him being walked out to the car, his hands cuffed, two Guards holding his arms. That's Raymond. He's the same age as Nicola. Paula can ask about him, how he's getting on. She knows that the girl who calls Rita Mammy is actually Rita's daughter's child. Her name is Shelley, a lovely kid. She's a few years younger than Jack. It's no big deal. Everyone knows, including Shelley. But Paula knew. Paula and Rita can look straight at each other. She admits it. She likes Rita. The biscuits help.

  Leanne's in the kitchen when Paula gets home. Her cheeks are still red from the shower and her hair is wet. She's making a sandwich for herself.

  —Want a bit? she says.

  —No; you're grand.

  The cast is off her foot but she's limping. She's going back to work next Monday. So she says.

  She's up and down. And Paula's up and down with her, dipping and rising as she watches and waits. She tries not to be. She knows it's no help. She's thinking of phoning John Paul. She's not sure if she should.

  Leanne's still drinking. That's t
he thing. It hasn't been the happy ending. But it's not the long binge on the couch. Leanne saw that; she disgusted herself. She's back to normal. There's space between the binges. But the spaces are hard to measure. There's no such thing as a casual remark. It'll be better when Leanne goes back to work. Leanne has always worked. She'll be getting up, going to bed early. They'll be able to talk to each other during the week.

  That's the plan.

  She's in Rita's again. It's two days later. She's had three biscuits from the tin. That's her limit. She's not sure why – it's not her tin. Two chocolate ones and a plain. They're in the front room, sitting back. The gas fire's on. It looks like real coal; it really does. Paula could stare at it for ever.

  —I wouldn't move from here, Paula, says Rita.

  —No, says Paula.

  —Paddy talks about it, says Rita. —He'd like something a bit bigger. But I say to him, what would we do with the extra space?

  Fill it, says Paula, to herself.

  She looks around. The fire, the flat-screen telly, the three-in-one. Rita isn't boasting, or she doesn't know she is. She's just content – Paula thinks. And that's fine. Good luck to her. She begrudges Rita nothing. And anyway, Paula's fridge is bigger than Rita's.

  Rita has no sisters.

  —None, she says, when Paula asks her. —I'd have liked one or two.

  —You can have mine, says Paula.

  —Ah, now.

  Paula had three sisters but Wendy died in a motorbike crash. She was the passenger, behind her boyfriend. They went into a wall in Wicklow, somewhere near Glendalough. That was years ago. She was six years younger than Paula.

  —Who have you got? says Rita. —There's Carmel. And who's the other one?

  —Denise.

  —That's right, says Rita. —Well, I have to say now, you can keep Carmel.

  They laugh.

  —She'd be a bit too much for me, says Rita.

  —Ah, she's not too bad, says Paula.

  It dawned on Paula, when she was sick. Carmel and Nicola are very alike. She'd never put them together before. She was sick and afraid to go to bed. She heard Carmel's voice on the phone and she heard Nicola talking to her little ones as they walked up to her door. And she knew. She could be sick now. Carmel and Nicola were there. They were coming to the rescue.

  Paula loves them for that, and resents and sometimes hates them for it.

  Has she ever hated Nicola?

  She's alone now, at home. Leanne's out – where? – and Jack's at school. She's on the couch, so she can look out the window at the sky above the roofs across the road. She decided to sit here more often, after sitting in Rita's front room. The telly's off. She has her coffee. She'll be getting up soon, off to work.

  Hate's something you don't come back from. That's the way she sees it. You don't slip in and out of it. It builds up. You cross some sort of a line. It's permanent.

  She's never hated Nicola.

  But there's Charlo. She hated him. Her body is a map of his abuse. She just has to look at the bones in her right hand, or feel her shoulder when she knows it's going to rain.

  But it seems like a different world, and different people – all that happened then. It's the same house. She still hates the hall. She thinks back – she doesn't have to – she sees herself, lying on the kitchen floor, or lying on the floor here, under the window, the telly on loud, a baby crying – Leanne – and it's not her. It is, but she's different. She could get up and go over to the exact spot where she lay after Charlo had given her a hiding. She could lie down and put her legs and arms in the right places, as if her outline had been chalked on the carpet. She could do that now, and she'd feel nothing.

  Maybe it's age. And it's definitely the drink. She's not sure. Maybe it's the way the brain works to protect itself. It invents a new woman who can look back and wonder, instead of look back and howl. Maybe it happens to everyone. But it's definitely the drink, or life without it. It's a different world. She's not sure she likes it that much. But she's a new-old woman, learning how to live.

  What a load of shite. She's the same woman. And she knows. She hated the man who put her on the floor, who kicked her as she tried to roll away. She hated him; it's still hot in her gut. She hated him. She still hates him, the bastard, the fuckin' cunt. But she loved him too. If he walked in now she'd love him. He'd save her life, just walking in. He'd lift her out of this existence.

  She's never hated Nicola. Or Carmel. They've annoyed her and they've made her feel useless and so guilty she's wanted to maim herself, to push the guilt in under her skin so no one can see it or smell it. But she knows. Without them she'd be dead. She's glad she's not dead and it's a good while since she felt different. She's not stupid; she'll feel that way again. But she'll know. She'll recognise it. She'll be able to deal with it.

  That's the plan.

  She wants a drink. Now. She can feel it, here, still fresh. She sits because she tells herself to. She'd rather be busy. She's better off moving. It's harder to feel it when she has things to do. She'd like to relax. She'd like to learn to. But relaxation's a bit of a trap. She sits back and it sits beside her. The need, the thirst – it's there, here.

  She has to move. She goes into the kitchen. She empties the kettle. She fills it again. She sees herself doing it. She watches herself.

  She's so alone.

  Where's Leanne?

  But her sisters. Carmel is older than Paula and Denise is younger, but they've always been the pals, Carmel and Denise. The allies, rivals, the sistery stuff. They bypassed Paula.

  It goes back. She cut herself off. The drink did that. And there was Charlo.

  Her sisters drink like fish. Paula's shocked when she watches them. They lower the stuff. Especially Denise. It used to be Carmel who was first to refill her glass. But the last time she was with them, in Denise's house, Denise was pissed when Paula arrived. Paula would swear she was.

  But she's not sure. Everyone's an alco these days. Everyone who's pale or too red, or limping, or scruffy, or too well made-up. She sniffs, everywhere she goes. She comes home from work on the Dart on Thursday nights, on Fridays, surrounded by gin fumes, Guinness fumes. She's the only solid citizen on the train. It's how she copes. If you can't join them, beat them. She quite likes it, feeling superior. She sits on the Dart and tut-tut-tuts.