Paula Spencer

  —Yeah, she says.

  She doesn't look up.

  —Where're the kids?

  —At home, says Nicola. —With Tony.

  —Ah, yeah.

  —He is their father, says Nicola.

  Paula looks at her. She puts her jacket on a chair.

  —Is everything okay?

  —Yeah.

  —Nicola?

  —What?

  —Is everything okay?

  —Yeah.

  She'd love Nicola to say No. It would do so much. The vulnerability, and the trust. She'd be Nicola's mother. She could rest. Her back wouldn't matter.

  Nicola picks up her forms and papers. She taps them on the table. She slips them into a plastic folder. She stands up. She stretches, a long time, her arms way up. She's gorgeous. Her tummy there, where her blouse has come up out of her trousers. The little mark where she once had her belly-button pierced.

  —Tired?

  —Yeah.

  —Me too. More tea?

  —No, says Nicola.

  Paula picks up the kettle. It's warm but light. It needs more water. She waits for the twinge; she half expects.

  She fills the kettle. She talks to the window.

  —So, what has you here?

  —Well, if I'm not welcome —

  —Lay off, Nicola. You're always welcome. But it's night and Leanne's in there and I think Jack's upstairs —

  —He is.

  —And you're in here on your own. Why?

  —I just thought, says Nicola. —On the phone, earlier.

  —What?

  —You sounded a bit strange.

  —It's my back, says Paula.

  She's annoyed, too late. She jumped in too quickly with her excuse. She's done what Nicola does; she's killed it.

  She puts the kettle down. She presses the switch.

  She turns.

  —I thought the back was going on me again, she says. —Like before. When you phoned.

  —Is it alright?

  —I think so.

  —You didn't answer my text.

  —My back; sorry.

  Nicola moves towards her.

  —Let's have a look.

  —Carmel's grand about Kylie, by the way.

  —Take off your top. Did you phone her?

  —Yeah, she's grand.

  —You're all twisted.

  —I know, says Paula.

  She feels Nicola's fingers on her back.

  —Where's it sore?

  —Lower. Right. Yeah, there.

  —Will I rub it?

  —It can't do any harm, says Paula.

  —You can lie on the couch.

  —I don't want to disturb Leanne.

  —She can sit on your head, says Nicola. —Go on in. I'll make the tea.

  —No, says Paula. —I'll make my own tea. I'm not a total cripple.

  She puts her hand on Nicola's shoulder. She feels a jab as she lifts her hand. She doesn't let it stop her. She doesn't let it run across her face.

  She feels Nicola tighten, under her fingers. She sees Nicola staring at her arm – as if they're getting into a fight. She feels her bones relax. She sees her look at Paula now, and smile. They're both trying. They're trying to meet. And they know it.

  —You're not to come running every time you think there's something wrong, says Paula.

  Nicola fights back the objection; Paula can see it.

  —D'you understand? she says.

  —Yeah. I do.

  —I'm grand, says Paula. —D'you believe me?

  —Yeah.

  She doesn't, but Paula won't say that.

  She's tired. She's heavy. The pain is still threatening. She woke up with it, the minute she moved and knew she was awake. It's been there all day.

  She didn't really sleep. She feels that now, around her eyes, and in her lungs.

  She woke up low. There's nothing she can do about it. She walked to the shop earlier. It's a lovely day; that much got through. She bought herself a Bounty. She smiled at the East European young one in the shop.

  She can't remember eating it. She did eat it. The wrapper's in the bin. She runs her tongue behind her teeth. There's no chocolate there, no taste.

  She lies on her bed.

  She came up for something. It doesn't matter.

  She's in the hall. She's holding her jacket.

  She's in the back garden. She's in the grass. It's nearly up to her knees. She bends down; she's careful. She grabs some grass. It feels hard in her hand. Her wrist is sore, her whole arm. She lets go of the grass.

  She sees the wine bottles. Beside the step, at the back door. She remembers. Carmel and Denise, the red and the white. She doesn't remember putting them there.

  She's in the kitchen. She hears the kettle. She hears rain on the window. Her mobile is ringing.

  She's in bed. It's dark outside. She sits up – did she go to work? She can't breathe. She gets up, she turns on the light. She remembers. She went to work. She came home. She turns off the light. She gets back into bed. She's wide awake.

  She wakes up. She's on the couch. It's bright – the street light. The curtains are open. She tastes drink – dry and sour – in her mouth. She swallows – it's gone. She hasn't been drinking; she's awake. The telly's off. She came down to watch it. She thinks she did. She's cold.

  She's in the garden. The wine bottles are empty. She puts one to her mouth. She must have rinsed it. And washed it. No taste on the glass.

  She goes back in. She shuts the door. She locks it. She still has the bottle. She looks at the clock. It's four in the morning, just after. She puts the bottle on the table. She picks it up. She can't leave it there. Jack will see it, and Leanne. She goes back to the door. She unlocks it. She puts the bottle back out, beside the other one. She bends down.

  She goes back in. She locks the door.

  The smell, the stale drink – the dead air is around her. She'd climb in. She'd lick every broken piece and bleed happily to death. Especially the green glass. She'd bleed green and lie down.

  There's a man talking to her.

  —The wasps are a curse, aren't they?

  He's beside her.

  —They are, yeah, she says.

  He leans across her, so he can drop a bottle into the green hole.

  —Sorry; excuse me.

  She looks at his bottles. They're in a cardboard box he's able to hold in one arm. A couple of wine bottles, and four beer ones, she thinks. A Dolmio sauce bottle, not properly rinsed. Two little brown medicine bottles. No cans.

  —It's a sign of the summer, he says. —I suppose.

  —Yeah, says Paula.

  He gets out of her way. She drops Carmel's bottle into the hole. She drops Denise's. She scrunches up the plastic bag and puts in it in her pocket.

  She doesn't know why – she takes the brown medicine bottles from his box.

  —Oh, he says. —Thank you.

  —No problem, she says.

  He's nice.

  He's right about the wasps. They're zipping around, or just hanging there; they're nearly in her breath. She goes across to the brown bin. She feels the broken glass under her feet.

  He's wearing nice shoes. They're black and they're polished.

  She drops in the brown bottles. They don't break; she can hear that.

  —Any more? she says.

  —No, he says.

  He turns over the box.

  —I'm not drinking enough.

  —D'you drink coffee? she says.

  Jesus Christ.

  He's about sixty, she'd say. He shaved himself this morning. He's blushing. So is she. What sort of a knacker is she? She hasn't even washed yet. It's a fuckin' bottle bank.

  —Yes, he says. —I do.

  His name is Joe. He has four children and three grandchildren. He worked in the Department of Health. He took early retirement. He's thinking of doing a degree next year, in politics or Greek. His Nike hoodie belongs to his son. He left it beh
ind when he visited last Sunday with the grandchild, a girl. Sorcha. He has a mobile home in Wexford.

  —Courtown?

  —Not far. Cahore.

  —Lovely.

  He'll go down there a good bit, now that it's looking like summer. His children use it most of the time. Three of them are married. The other one's a bit wild. He came to this bottle bank because the one nearer his house was full. He didn't want to leave the bottles there in the box. They'd have ended up being broken. The coffee is excellent. His wife left him eight years ago.

  —And you, Paula?

  —Well, she says. —My husband's dead.

  —Oh.

  —Ten years. Actually, eleven.

  —That's hard.

  What is she fuckin' doing?

  —I've four children as well, she says. —Two married, two still with me at home. One in school, doing his Leaving next year. And I've four little grandchildren. I'm ahead of you there, Joe. Three little girls and a boy.

  She likes his hair. It's a bright kind of grey and it's longer than it should be, and it looks strong. His tie looks stupid with the hoodie.

  —And do you work, yourself, Paula?

  —Yes, I do, Joe, she says. —I clean some offices. I'm kind of in charge.

  She can tell. He's not put off. He's quite excited.

  No, he's not. She is.

  She's not. But she likes him.

  —Where's your wife? she says. —Ex-wife; sorry. Are yis – are you divorced?

  —No, he says. —Not formally.

  He doesn't mind the question.

  —She lives in Kerry now, he says. —We're the best of friends.

  You are in your bollix.

  She smiles.

  —That's good.

  —And your husband, he says. —How did it — ?

  —He got shot, says Paula.

  —Oh, God.

  —By the Guards.

  He's not so relaxed now. But he's not running away.

  —An accident? he says.

  He doesn't believe that; she can see it.

  —No, she says. —It was deliberate.

  She picks up her coffee.

  —He wasn't a nice man, Joe, unfortunately.

  She likes the way she's talking. Unfortunately. But it's a bit mad.

  She takes a sip of her coffee. She's careful. She's being watched.

  He isn't good-looking. He probably never was. But he's nice. There's something steady about him. She can see it, even in the way he's sitting. He's lonely. She can see that. And a bit awkward.

  He's brave enough. He asks her another one.

  —Was it, sorry – was it robbery?

  —Yes, she says. —Well. No. It was worse, really. Kidnapping.

  —Oh, dear.

  —And it got even worse, Joe. He killed a woman.

  That's it, anyway. It's out in the open. She's not shaking too badly.

  —That must have been difficult, he says.

  He even smiles.

  —I'm sorry, he says. —That must sound a bit feeble.

  —No, no, she says. —It was. Difficult.

  She wants to run. This is mad.

  —We weren't living together at the time, she says. — But it was terrible.

  —I can imagine.

  No, you can't, Joe.

  —Yeah, she says.

  —This was eleven years ago?

  —That's right.

  —I think I remember something —

  —It was on the News. And in the papers and that.

  —It must have been.

  —Yeah, she says. —Outside the house and all. Even though he didn't live there.

  —I hope you had the grass cut, Paula.

  He is a nice man. She laughs. He laughs.

  —I'm only joking, he says.

  —I know, she says. —And, no. The garden was a bit of a mess, so it was.

  He has no fuckin' idea.

  —So, she says. —What about you? Was your grass cut when your wife walked out on you?

  Jesus.

  —God, sorry.

  That sounded vicious. She's taking over from Carmel.

  —Well, he says. —I was actually cutting the grass. As it happens.

  He laughs – he makes himself.

  —Somebody had to, he says. —But she didn't like it, apparently. And I thought that was a bit unfair.

  —Hang on, says Paula. —She left you because you were cutting the grass?

  —No, he says. —That would be ridiculous. I actually went in for a glass of water. It was a hot day.

  He's still angry. She can hear it. We're the best of friends. Yeah; maybe.

  He picks up his cup.

  —She'd packed a bag, he says.

  —What's her name?

  —Oh. Mary.

  —Sorry, she says. —Go on.

  He puts the cup on the table.

  —Isn't this a little bit strange, Paula?

  —I suppose it is, she says.

  For fuck sake.

  —But go on, anyway, she says.