He nodded.
‘You throw a few things into a bag, no need to bring your meds because they’re overflowing with them here. Digby arrives, you come out, throw your bag into the boot and at the last minute run back into the house, to collect something. I’m not sure what –’ Then, in a light-bulb moment, I knew. ‘Your guitar, wasn’t it?’
‘It was.’ He was clearly impressed. In fairness, I was pretty impressed myself.
‘Digby drives you here and in you come.’
‘That’s exactly what happened.’
‘So what’s the password on your computer?’
‘Guess.’ He was almost smiling.
Suddenly I felt very stupid. I knew. Because she’d told me. ‘It’s … not Zeezah, is it?’
‘Of course it is.’
That first night I’d met her in the medieval nobleman’s receiving room, she’d suggested that Wayne’s password was Zeezah and I’d just thought she was an egomaniac. She herself hadn’t known, not consciously (she would have told me because she needed Wayne found as much as the rest of them did); she’d just thought she was being funny. But, like I keep saying, there’s always some nugget of truth in what people tell you, even if they don’t know it themselves.
‘And your alarm code? Zero eight zero nine?’
‘My birthday,’ he said. ‘The eighth of September.’
I frowned. ‘They say you shouldn’t do that, shouldn’t use your birthday, it’s too obvious.’ I stopped. It mightn’t be good to add to his anxiety. Changing the subject quickly I said, ‘I love your house.’
‘You’re the only one who does. Everyone else says it’s really depressing. They don’t like the paint colours.’
‘You’re joking? They’re Holy Basil! They’re fabulous.’
But it all started to make sense. What does it say about a man when he paints his bedroom in Wound, Decay and Local Warlord? Suffering somewhat from melancholia, no? No wonder I felt so comfortable in that house.
‘Tell me,’ I said, ‘how much does your family know? Your mum, Connie?’
‘Everything.’
‘They know you’re here?’
‘Of course. They’re my family.’
‘Even your brother in upstate New York?’
‘Yes.’
‘But your mum rang me on Sunday, asking if I’d found you.’
He nodded. ‘She was here with me when she made the call. She thought the best way to keep you away from us was to pretend they were so clueless they were going mad with worry.’
Jesus. ‘She was putting it on? She was acting?’
‘She was just trying to mind me.’
‘Well, I … I’ve got to hand it to her, to all of them …’ Meek Mrs Diffney and stroppy Connie, even Richard the brother – between them they’d done a brilliant job of protecting Wayne.
Time for me to go.
‘Wayne,’ I said, ‘I really hope you get well. Take the tablets, do everything they tell you to do, even though a lot of it is a load of shit, especially the Cognitive Behavioural Therapy. And the yoga. And the –’ I made myself stop. Horses for courses; he might find yoga helpful. ‘Take your time, don’t come out until you’re properly better.’
‘Are you going?’ Now that I was leaving it seemed he wanted me to stay.
‘I’m off. I just want to say hello to someone first.’
Admissions was on the ground floor. I’d been there before in another life. Mind you, I could barely remember it: I’d been in such a state when I arrived.
I knocked lightly on the door, then went in. There were three people inside, two women and a man. The girls were both behind PCs and the man was at a filing cabinet.
‘I’m looking for Gloria,’ I said.
‘That’s me.’
She was nothing like the picture in my head. I’d imagined her as blonde. Blue-eyed, with a big head of swishy curls. Instead she was small and dark.
‘My name is Helen Walsh,’ I said. ‘I’m a friend of Wayne Diffney’s. He’s on Blossom ward.’
She nodded. She knew who Wayne was.
‘I just want to thank you,’ I said.
‘For what?’
‘For getting him a bed so quickly. I know he was desperate and I know how hard it is to get a bed in here at short notice. Your call to him was a lifeline.’
She coloured with pleasure. ‘Ah,’ she said shyly. ‘We’d always do our best to help someone in trouble. And,’ she added quickly, ‘we can’t discuss individual cases.’
71
‘Jesus Christ, would you stop pushing me?’
‘I’m not fucking pushing you, I’m just trying to see!’
‘Let’s take it easy, okay?’ Artie said.
‘It’s all right for you!’ Mum almost spat. ‘You’re six foot two.’
Mum, Claire, Kate, Margaret, Bella, Iona, Bruno, Vonnie, even Dad, were jostling at the front of our box at the MusicDrome, each trying to get the spot that guaranteed maximum visibility of the stage.
Jay Parker hadn’t lied – he really had got me a box that seated twelve and there really were free peanuts.
But the excitement was getting to us all. The atmosphere in the stadium – the audience made up almost entirely of women and gay men – was electric. All fifteen thousand people had started out being friends with each other, united under the umbrella of love of Laddz, but the heightened happiness was starting to tip over into fractiousness.
‘It’s quarter past nine,’ Bruno said to me. He’d suddenly become my new bff; the beautiful friendship had kicked off within seconds of him learning that I could get him a free ticket for the gig. ‘They were meant to have started fifteen minutes ago!’
‘Fifteen minutes ago!’ Kate’s bottom lip started to wobble. The transformation was astonishing – in the last few hours Kate had changed from a mother-biting monster into a teary teenage girl.
‘They’ll be on soon,’ I said.
‘What if they’re not?’ Bella began to sob. ‘What if they don’t come on?’
‘They will, they will!’ Vonnie and Iona shifted themselves to comfort her and Mum used the diversion to insinuate herself into Vonnie’s spot, then turned and gave me a smug that’ll-show-her smile.
I realized people were at breaking point. They couldn’t take much more anticipation.
Without warning the lights dropped, the stadium was plunged into complete darkness and the screaming, already at fever pitch, suddenly sounded like fifteen thousand wolves had just got their paws caught in a trap.
‘They’re coming!’ Claire dashed her knuckles against her face. ‘Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ.’
Kate was running on the spot, the adrenaline-rush proving too much for her.
‘I’m going to puke,’ Mum said. ‘I am. I AM.’
A deep mournful cello chord sounded through the speakers; the floor, the walls and the ceiling seemed to vibrate with it. The screaming intensified as a lone spotlight clicked on and into the circle of light walked … John Joseph.
‘JOHN JOSEPH, JOHN JOSEPH, JOHN JOSEPH!’ Mum was howling and shrieking, waving her arms in the air. ‘OVER HERE, OVER HERE, OVER HERE.’
John Joseph, wearing a soberly cut dark suit, stood with his head bowed, unmoving.
The slow sombre cello playing continued and after several seconds, when people were holding their breath without realizing it, another spotlight clicked on and into the circle walked … Frankie.
‘Frankie, Frankie, Frankie!’
In the rows beneath us, people were crying uncontrollably.
Frankie assumed the same stance as John Joseph, standing as still as a statue, his head bowed.
‘Who’s next? Who’s next? Who’s next?’
The audience fell silent, the only sound was that of the cello and the stadium became so quiet that I actually heard the next light click on, and into the circle of light walked … Roger.
‘It’s ROGER.’ People were turning to their companions and roaring right into their faces, ‘It’
s ROGAAAAIIIRR. It’s ROGAAAAIIIR.’
Roger stood unmoving, with a bowed head. Eventually the howling died down and, while the portentous cello chords played on, an almost unbearable anticipation built.
When the click of the spotlight finally came, the stadium erupted in a massive exhale of breath. ‘IT’SWAYNEIT’S WAYNEIT’SWAYNE!’
And into the circle of light walked … Docker.
The screaming dipped in confusion. ‘It’s not Wayne. It’s not Wayne. It’s not Wayne.’ Then the screaming started up again, getting louder and shriller as people realized what was happening.
Mum twisted her head to me and shrieked into my face, ‘It’s Docker, it’s Docker, it’s FUCKING Docker!’ Her jaw was so extended I could actually see her tonsils.
There was a split second when everyone’s thought was, ‘They’re back together, all FIVE of them.’
Then neon lights burst into dazzling, blinding colour, the music exploded at a deafening pitch, and the four boys launched into ‘Indian Summer’, a super-jaunty, upbeat number, one of Laddz’s biggest hits.
Suddenly everyone was dancing. Blue and pink laser beams were playing over the audience and the atmosphere was transcendent, almost like a religious experience. Everything was so overwhelming and seamless that no one could hang on to the fact that Wayne wasn’t there and Docker was.
After ‘Indian Summer’, they segued into ‘Throb’, another dancey one, then ‘Heaven’s Door’. I was probably the only person of the fifteen thousand who noticed that Docker’s dancing might not be as polished as it could be, that he was one second behind the rest of them and that sometimes he forgot to twirl. But, in fairness, he never forgot to smile.
After the fourth dance number in a row, they finally stopped for breath. ‘Hello, Dublin!’
‘As you can see, Wayne couldn’t be with us tonight,’ John Joseph said.
‘He sends his apologies,’ Roger said.
‘And I hope I’ll do instead,’ said Docker. ‘This one’s for Wayne …’
SIX MONTHS LATER
Out in the church hall car park business was brisk. Christmas trees were being wrapped in chicken wire and loaded into the boots of hatchbacks, and money was changing hands at a fast rate.
Inside the hall tinsel was Sellotaped to the walls and Christmas carols were playing, but luckily the speakers were so old and crappy that you could hardly hear them.
The usual stalls were in place, peddling their tantalizing wares. I stopped at the tombola, marvelled at the woegeousness of the prizes – a small bottle of diet Sprite, a box of Panadol, a tin of kidney beans – and bought a row of tickets. Sure, why not?
The woman in charge of the knitting table was sitting on a high stool overseeing her realm. She was knitting with a tight, barely repressed fury, sparks of anger seeming to fly from her needles with every click. Arrayed in front of her was a high number of dark-red, itchy-looking balaclavas; it looked like she was planning a revolution. ‘Yes?’ she snipped at me.
‘Have you anything for a baby?’
‘Girl or boy?’
‘Girl.’
‘How about a balaclava?’
I moved on. New this year – and proving highly popular – was a stand featuring felted goods.
Perhaps that was why Mrs Knitting was giving off such rage? I pushed my way to the front of the stall and found a pair of tiny pink bootees. Perfect. Except that one was significantly bigger than the other.
‘Fiver,’ the woman in charge said to me.
‘But … they’re different sizes.’
‘Present, is it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then it’s the thought that counts. Fiver.’
‘Any chance you’d gift-wrap them?’
‘No. Where do you think you are? Barney’s?’
‘How would you even know about Barney’s?’
‘Oh, I know plenty.’ She gave me a little wink and shoved my fiver into her already bulging purse.
The cake table was next. I stood and admired the baked goods for some moments before engaging the stall-holder, a short, roundy type, in chat.
‘What’s that?’ I pointed at something.
‘Marmalade tart.’
‘You’re joking?’ What an appalling idea. ‘Have you any … normal cake?’
‘What about this lovely coffee and walnut sponge?’
‘Coffee?’ I said. ‘And walnut? I’ve people coming over. I’m having –’ I paused to try out the word – ‘guests. I want to welcome them, not insult them. What’s that?’ I pointed at a lopsided brown square.
‘Chocolate biscuit cake.’
‘Grand, I’ll take that.’
‘How about some cupcakes?’
‘Me?’ I demanded with hauteur. ‘Do I look like a cupcake sort of person?’
‘Look at your little face,’ she said. ‘And you all decked out in your chic coat and your high heels, and that’s a lovely handbag you’ve got. New, is it?’
‘Yes …’ I said faintly, even though the bag wasn’t mine; it was Claire’s and I’d ‘borrowed’ it.
‘Being honest,’ she said, ‘you’re a cupcake cliché. You’re textbook.’
‘I’m not,’ I said earnestly. ‘I’m really not. But, all the same, I’ll take a dozen.’
Then, for old times’ sake, I had to visit the bric-a-crap stall. Fondly, I foraged among the goods: three scratch cards (already scratched); a single silver sneaker (size 39); a brochure for a Stannah stairlift; a cracked flower vase; half a bottle of Chanel No 5 (and there was something about it that made me certain that the perfume had not been dabbed on, but drunk).
The woman sitting behind the table – a different one from last year, I was fairly sure – was so cowed that she didn’t even bother looking at me.
‘What did you do wrong?’ I asked with compassion. ‘To be put in charge of this array of cack?’
Startled, she looked up. It took her a while to find her voice; clearly no one had spoken to her all morning. ‘I, ah, well … the chairwoman of the committee, she who must be obeyed …’ She gave a bitter little laugh. ‘My hyacinths came out before hers, a good fortnight.’
‘And that was it?’
She nodded. ‘My life has been a living hell ever since. To be honest, I’m thinking of resigning from being a Catholic. I’ve been investigating other faiths. I’m thinking of becoming a Zoroastrian, they seem like a nice bunch. Or a Scientologist. I’ve loved Tom Cruise since Risky Business.’
I drove home, let myself into my navy-blue hallway and felt gratitude wash over me. My prodigal apartment. Isn’t it ridiculous that you have to lose something in order to truly appreciate it? What kind of sicko makes the rules in this strange universe that we inhabit?
What had happened was this. It was a Tuesday morning in July, perhaps a month after the Laddz gigs. In the end there had been only four gigs – the original three plus the overflow demand for a fourth. By then Docker had done his bit, he had repaid his karmic debt to Wayne, and he needed to be off to pester some subsistence-farmers in Ecuador. And there was no way Wayne was able for any performing.
But everyone had done well out of it. They’d all made money: the promoters, Harry Gilliam, Jay Parker and the Laddz. (Unsurprisingly, Docker hadn’t taken a penny for his performances; he’d signed all his earnings over to Wayne.) Then the Laddz backlist began to sell – and sell and sell. And kept on selling and a DVD of the first gig had just been released for the Christmas market and sales – worldwide! – were already massive.
So like I said, one Tuesday morning in July, I was in Mum and Dad’s ‘office’ and I was actually doing some work. It was about a week since I’d been discharged from St Teresa’s and I’d had an email from a US citizen of Irish descent who wanted me to compile his family tree. It was the sort of stuff I’d already done – in fact my new client had got my details from someone I’d previously worked for. It was dull work, which would involve several visits to the dusty recesses of the Births, Deaths and Mar
riages Registry. But dull was what I needed.
Next thing, Mum comes flying into the room. She looked worried. ‘Jay Parker is here.’
‘What!’
I hadn’t seen or heard from him since I’d got Docker to step in for Wayne to do the gigs.
‘What does he want?’ I couldn’t be doing with upheaval. I was starting to normal out; I was just starting to feel like myself again.
‘Will I tell him to go away?’ Mum asked.
‘Yes.’
‘It’ll only take a minute.’ His voice shouted up from the bottom of the stairs.
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ I said. ‘All right, come up, but be quick.’
‘Will I stay?’ Mum asked.
‘No, no, it’s fine.’
Warily Jay entered the room. ‘I just wanted to give you this.’ He slung me a black bin liner. ‘Look inside.’
I took a peep. There seemed to be small bundles of paper in there. Bundles and bundles of them, bound together with elastic bands. They looked almost like money.
‘What’s this?’ I asked.
‘About thirty grand.’
‘Thirty grand what?’
‘Thirty grand euro.’
After a long, long silence I said, ‘Parker, what the hell’s going on?’
‘It’s your cut of the door.’
I looked at the door of the room we were in. It wasn’t cut. There was nothing wrong with it. What was he talking about?
‘I mean it’s your share of the box-office take from the Laddz gigs. Remember? The contract I gave you?’
I had the vaguest memory that, in the middle of the search for Wayne, Parker had given me some crumpled piece of paper, which said that he’d give me some percentage of some percentage if the gigs went ahead. I’d discounted it instantly because I was convinced not only that I wouldn’t find Wayne but that Parker could never be trusted.
I reached into the bin liner and took out a lump of fifty-euro notes and weighed it in my hand. ‘Is it real?’
Jay laughed. ‘Of course it’s real.’
‘Not fake?’
‘No.’
‘Or stolen?’
‘No.’
‘So what’s the catch?’