The Riders

  ‘I’ll have coffee and Billie’ll take a hot chocolate,’ he said brightly. ‘She’s a bit sick. You remember Marianne don’t you, Billie.’

  Billie nodded. Marianne stood beneath the big casement windows, mouth contracting on its smile. She was all diagonals – nose, hips, breast, lips – and not at all like Jean-Louis who was more the fulsome type with the lines of a nineteen-forties automobile. Jean-Louis was easier to like, softer in nature as well as in shape.

  Not that he’d instantly disliked Marianne. She was smart and funny and seemed genuinely interested in Jennifer, even read her work and showed it around. She worked for a chic magazine and knew people. Her friends were amusing yuppies, handsome, curious and unlike people they’d known before. It felt like a lark to Scully, knowing these people. Jean-Louis had a romantic European fascination for wild places and people. He defended France’s right to test nuclear bombs in the Pacific and yet turned purple at the thought of roo-tail soup. Scully liked to shock him and his friends with redneck stories told against himself and his country. Chlamydia in koalas, the glories of the cane toad. The wonders of the aluminium roo-bar. For a while he felt almost exotic at Marianne’s parties, but it wore off in the end, playing the part of the Ignoble Savage. He kept up a kind of affable relationship with Jean-Louis, without any intimacy, and a diplomatic air of deferral to Marianne for Jennifer’s sake. The parties became a bore. Scully loitered at the bookshelves picking through art books, most of the time, and they left him to it. When Dominique came he relaxed a little more and joined in. And the wine was a consolation. He wouldn’t be drinking that stuff back in the borrowed apartment.

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on, will I?’

  ‘Scully, I am busy.’

  ‘Too busy for a cup of coffee?’

  She sighed and went ahead into the white kitchen and he noticed her limp.

  ‘Hurt your leg?’

  ‘It’s nothing. I was sitting on it. It will give me bad veins.’

  ‘Nearly broke my own leg today.’

  ‘Things are not going well for you. You look wild, Scully.’

  ‘Oh, I am wild.’

  ‘Have you done this to Billie?’ she said filling the kettle. Her hands trembled. She was fumbling.

  ‘You mean her face? Marianne, she was bitten by a dog. That’s what I wanted –’

  ‘In Paris?’

  ‘In . . .’ he caught himself. ‘Doesn’t matter where.’

  ‘She looks like . . . un fantome, like a ghost.’

  Marianne leaned against the blinding brightness of the bench, sizing him up. Billie came in, her eyes following the cats.

  ‘I have to pee,’ Billie murmured.

  ‘Down the hall,’ said Scully. ‘You remember.’ He watched her go.

  ‘I can’t help you, Scully. You know I never liked you. Such a woman with . . . un balourd like you.’

  ‘I won’t even pretend to know what that means.’

  ‘No, you never did pretend. Such a simple man’s virtue.’

  ‘Tell me about the park today.’

  Marianne’s hoarse laugh was a tiny sound in that bleached space. ‘Scully, you are losing your mind.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m tired and mean and desperate.’

  ‘I can call the police. You are a foreigner, remember.’

  ‘Oh, I remember.’

  Marianne reached for a pack of Gauloises and lit up shakily. She smiled.

  ‘Share the joke, Marianne.’

  ‘Oh, Scully, you are the joke.’ She dragged hard on the cigarette and blew smoke over him. ‘So you are all alone.’

  ‘You know, then.’

  ‘Scully you are the picture of a drowning man. I do not have to know.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘If I knew do you really believe I would tell you? My Gahd!’

  The kettle began to stir.

  ‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  Scully’s skin crawled. A cold anger percolated through him.

  ‘I figured you were a little nasty, Marianne, but I thought deep down you were probably human.’

  She laughed.

  ‘Listen to me. Try to listen to me,’ he breathed. ‘Forget about me. Forget about Jennifer and the baby and what I’m going through. I have a sick –’

  ‘Baby?’ Marianne’s glossy lips parted. ‘She’s pregnant?’

  ‘She didn’t tell you, then.’

  Marianne waved her fag non-commitally. ‘It’s ’er body, Scully.’

  ‘Of course it’s her fucking body. You think I need a night-school course on sexual politics? Do I need permission to be worried out of my bloody mind? I didn’t call the cops, no private detective, I go softly, softly and play the game but I’m sick of playing the game, you hear me?’

  He kicked a stool across the floor and watched it cartwheel into the wall, jolting shiny implements from their hooks in a horrible clatter. He saw the whiteness of his own fists and the way Marianne had edged into the corner and he thought of Mylie Doolin and the men who did this all the time. She was afraid and he felt the power. He remembered Irma and the ferry. Oh yes, he was capable of anything – he was no different.

  ‘I always believed you beat her, Scully,’ she said feebly and then with more defiance. ‘The working man out of his depth . . . the charming woman with ’opes for something better. Did you beat her much, Scully? Were you rough in bed, were you ’ard on her, Scully?’

  Scully forced his hands into his pockets. The kettle began to boil and he felt the sinews locking up in his arms as he listened to her warming to it, sucking on her fag, getting into her stride.

  ‘You are a basher, aren’t you, Scully? Tell me about your face, your very sad eye. It makes me think of beasts, you know.’

  He heard the toilet flush and thanked God Billie hadn’t heard all this. Christ, at least he’d spared her that.

  ‘This is just entertainment for you, isn’t it?’ he said, choking. ‘Like . . . that’s all it’s ever been. An amusement. The quaint girl from Australia, the one with the clear skin and sun-bleached clothes with all her dreams and optimism and the way she looked at you like you’re a queen or something. Your little salon with your wonderful accents and all that fucking confidence. You played with her. You took her under your wing for fun, to see what would happen.’

  ‘You were like a stone on ’er, Scully, an anchor on ’er neck, and now you blame me –’

  ‘I wouldn’t blame you for anything except not caring enough to tell her the truth. I heard you, Marianne. You beefed her up to her face, got her excited, told her she was a genius and laughed behind her back. She was just the other primitive. Only she didn’t see it. Not even afterwards. She was so keen, so impressed. You kicked the shit out of her and she thanked you for it.’

  Marianne sighed. ‘Why did you come to Europe, Scully?’

  ‘For her,’ he said. ‘Both times.’

  ‘It’s very touching,’ she said doubtfully.

  No, he thought, it’s fucking pitiful.

  Both of them flinched when the phone rang. Marianne clutched the benchtop, nails shining, and let it ring until the answering machine kicked in. Scully knew the voice.

  ‘Why don’t you answer it?’ he murmured.

  ‘I have visitors,’ she hissed.

  The message was breathy and urgent, the French way too fast for him.

  Dominique. He reached for the phone but Marianne kicked the socket out of the wall.

  ‘She does not need to talk to you.’

  Scully took a step back from her, his fists hanging off his arms. He saw a pulse in Marianne’s throat. Then Billie came in behind him. She pressed against him, held him round the waist and he felt the heat of her through his clothing, across the flush of his fury.

  ‘Marianne, I need a doctor. I’m here because Billie’s got a fever. Will you please, please give me a number. Someone who has English, someone close.’

  For a while Marianne stood there, arms
folded as though to keep herself together. Scully felt the lightheadedness of real hatred. He was almost disappointed when she reached over to the Rolodex and flicked through it with trembling hands.

  ‘I will call,’ she murmured. ‘It will be faster for you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, unable to refrain.

  Forty-one

  ‘YOU SAW THE PAPERWORK ON the dog?’

  The doctor already had a syringe out. Billie lay on the table, face averted. Scully stood by her, his hand on the radiant nape of her neck.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You read Greek?’

  ‘I had a Greek reader with me.’

  ‘This is Flucloxacillin,’ said the doctor tapping the syringe, his silver specs glinting under the lights. His accent was American but his body language was European. He even pouted like a Frenchman. ‘This should get it, this and the course of tabs. When was her last tetanus shot?’

  ‘At five. I have the certificate.’

  Billie inhaled sharply and squeezed his hand. Scully felt sweat settle in his hair.

  ‘There you go, Billie. Not so bad, huh? Here, Dad’ll help you with your jeans.’

  Billie rolled carefully onto her back, blinking back tears.

  ‘She’s brave,’ said Scully, for her benefit.

  ‘You’re South African?’

  ‘No.’

  Scully kissed her hand, let her lie there a moment while the doctor disposed of his tray.

  ‘Five days, you say.’

  ‘Yes. I had to use steri-strips.’

  ‘Well, you could have done worse, I guess. Lucky the big one’s above the hairline.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Gimme your address again,’ he said, hovering at his desk.

  Scully gave him the old St Paul address, suddenly suspicious.

  ‘You see out of that eye?’

  ‘Most of the time.’

  ‘How’d it happen?’

  The doctor came back with some fresh dressings. Billie squirmed as he sponged away the clear seepage of her puckered wounds.

  ‘Industrial accident,’ said Scully. ‘On a boat.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ The quack wasn’t buying it. ‘How do you make your living, Mr Scully?’

  ‘I’m a builder.’

  ‘You have a carte du sejour, then.’

  Scully smiled. The doctor washed his hands and peeled off his specs, tilting his head gravely.

  ‘How about seeing me again tomorrow?’

  ‘Thought you’d be all booked up, Christmas Eve.’

  ‘No, tomorrow’s good.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Scully, helping Billie down from the table.

  The doctor proffered the prescription. His smooth hands were neatly manicured. Scully took the papers, seeing it in the other man’s face. Tomorrow was something else altogether. He thinks you did it, Scully. The wounds, the grazed knees. He thinks you’re scum, that you’re not fit to be a father. And how wrong is he? Really, how wrong?

  ‘There’s a pharmacy on the corner. Then straight to bed for you, my girl. Plenty of fluids. Nurse will set your appointment.’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ said Scully.

  ‘Au revoir, Billie.’

  ‘Au revoir,’ she whispered, leaning on Scully’s hip.

  At the front desk, Scully presented his credit card and the starched Frenchwoman with the grey chignon made a call to verify its status. He hoisted Billie to his shoulder and stirred at the narrowing of the woman’s eyes. She put the phone down, opened a draw and took out a pair of scissors.

  ‘This card is cancelled “Mister Scully”.’

  ‘No, no, it’s valid till next November.’

  She snipped it in two. The pieces clicked to the desk.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ He lurched against the desk, grabbing the two halves of his card.

  ‘Reported stolen,’ she said backing off with the scissors held before her.

  ‘It can’t be. Only I can do that. Shit a brick!’

  ‘Of course you have papers of identification?’

  ‘A passport, yes. Here, I have it . . .’

  Scully had it almost into the woman’s hands before he saw the surge of satisfaction come to her features and he suddenly knew how irredeemably stupid he was. He reeled back, stumbling against a row of waiting patients and stiff-armed his way to the door.

  • • •

  AT THE END OF HIS triumphant day in Paris, Scully lit three deformed candles in the ashtray on the bedside table and watched his child shivering like a small dog under the blanket. Her hair was flat from the shower and her skin waxy in the yellow light. Her trunk was burning, but her hands and feet were cold, and all her nails blue. It terrified him, seeing her like this.

  ‘Christ, what’ve I done to you.’

  She opened her eyes. ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘And don’t say Christ.’

  Steam hissed in the walls, burbled in the radiator. Billie closed her eyes again and went to sleep.

  Scully ate some bread and cheese and opened a bottle of screwtop red that tasted like deckwash. A pile of crumpled francs and lire and drachmae lay on the eiderdown before him, enough to feed them in couscous joints and friteries for a couple of days. He had half a carnet of Metro tickets, an Irish cheque book and some dirty clothes. He stank of sweat and fear and frustration and his bad eye was wild in his head. Sooner or later the hotel would twig to his extinct credit card. He was buggered.

  He thought of going back to Marianne and begging for help. No aggro, just butt-kissing humility. Or simply robbing the bitch, just busting in and knocking off stuff he could flog in the flea- markets. But he’d never get past the damn security. Besides, he’d never stolen anything in his life and was bound to stuff it up somehow.

  He’d try the Amex office. Sort it out. He’d see Dominique. The way Marianne was acting, not letting him talk to her, it could be that Jennifer was over there at Dominique’s. Well, no one was answering, even now. Maybe Marianne was just pissing him off, prolonging the nasty moment with that pulled-out phone plug. They’d sort it out. Something. Bloody something.

  He took a long swig of his eight-franc wine and gasped. He could be back in Ireland tomorrow night. The mournful wind, the turf fire, the valley unrolling out the window. Pete-the-Post dropping by for a pint and a bit of crack.

  Dominique would help him. He gulped down more wine. She had plenty of money, some kind of trust fund that let her pursue photography. And she had a heart. ‘Softness’, Marianne called it with distaste. He remembered Dominique’s show on the Ile de la Cité. Scully turned up ancient with paint specks and people made room for him as though he was another kind of painter altogether. Dominique’s photographs were moody tableaux of women in bare rooms into which chutes of light fell. Her subjects’ gazes were outward and self-possessed and they reminded Scully of his mother. Marianne hissed out the side of her mouth that the images were soft, as though that were a sign of feeble-mindedness, but Scully liked them and Jennifer thought they were works of genius.

  She said that a lot in the next year or so. Other people were geniuses. They were gifted, remarkable, ahead of their time, special. Scully began to wonder why people couldn’t just be good at things. It went beyond seeing the best in people. All this genius, it was like a blow to her, every stroke a bright light on her failure, her ordinariness. And his too. In Paris she had a way of blinking at him sometimes, as if trying to see something more than steady old Scully. It made him nervous, that blinking stare. It wasn’t the cool look she shot him across the tutorial room back in the beginning. It caused him to put his hands in his pockets and raise his eyebrows, appealing hopelessly, for a flicker of recognition. But she simply blinked and stared, as if he was a tree in her window, something she was looking through to a more brilliant world beyond.

  He even mentioned it to Dominique, that look. ‘She is excited,’ she said. ‘Only excited.’

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed. Maybe that’s all it was.

  Dominique responded to
Jennifer’s enthusiasm right from the start. He watched them become friends in the jerky ritualized way the French and English had. He felt welcome at the huge apartment on the Rue Jacob and he saw Dominique’s effort to cut some slack for Billie whose feral energy seemed to startle her. Billie was not the ornamental child these people were accustomed to. Billie was, she said, very direct.

  Scully saw photos of her place on the Isle of Man, the houseboat in Amsterdam, horses, women he didn’t know. It was a calm place, that apartment. He’d go there tomorrow, first thing. He belted the rest of the cheap plonk down and heard a bedhead somewhere butting the wall. A woman was moaning. He finished the bottle and listened to her cry out greedily, and for a moment Billie’s eyes opened and fixed on him fiercely and then closed in sleep.

  • • •

  BILLIE COULD SEE HIM UP there now, swaying in the blistering cold, dangling there with firelight in his huge eyes, snagged by the hair in the huge bare tree. Scully. Crying, he was, calling out, begging for help and no one down there in the deep mud moving at all. Just the baying of dogs and him calling, the hair tight at the sides of his face and his arms flapping. There was no way back from that final bough, nowhere for someone that size to go anywhere but down and Billie just prayed for an angel, prayed and prayed until she burned like a log and horses shook and suddenly someone else was up there, someone small and quick and crying. Billie saw it now, it was her up there, Billie Ann Scully in her pyjamas with something in her mouth like a pirate. A silver flash. She saw it, the little glowing hand reaching out with the scissors open like the mouth of a dog, and Scully screaming yes and yes and yes, and the sound of his hair cutting like torn paper, Billie cutting his hair free so that he fell, calm and still, falling a long time from that skeleton tree with his eyes open until he hit the mud a long way down and was swallowed up and gone beneath the feet of strangers. Billie saw herself up there, the crying girl with wings, slumped in the tree like a bird.