Cold Eye of Heaven, The (25 page)

He gets up for a piss. As he crosses the landing he glances over the bannister. On the mat, a long envelope. Even from here he can tell where it's come from; the emblem in the corner, the length and shape of his full, formal name on the top line of the address.

He gets dressed and washes, then shaves; between razor swipes pauses to study the scowl on his face. Downstairs he lifts the envelope from the floor and drops it onto the kitchen table. A mug of tea and a cut of bread.
He takes a few sips, a couple of bites, looks at the envelope again, and decides to go out, leaving it unopened, behind him.

Just a short walk to clear out his head; get the paper, come back and read it over a fresh cup of tea. Maybe open the letter then, and see what the verdict is. He gets to the end of the road and turns the opposite way to the shops. A quick stroll in the Park first. Nowhere in particular, just a ramble. He comes in through Ashtown Gate and follows the bridle path towards White Fields Gate, stopping when he gets to Butcher's Wood. The smell of rain on the air, the deep moist green of the trees, the clasped shadow. He looks over the paling, at the greasy still lake, trying to recall a story his granda once told him about the lake and a secret that was stuck to the bottom of it. Then he turns and makes his way down alongside the wall of the school where his granda used to be caretaker, keeping to the narrow pathway they often walked together when he was a boy. His stride feels looser now, he's beginning to enjoy the walk, the feel of the ground underneath his feet, the overcast sky blotting all thoughts from his head. He decides to keep going, down through the Furry Glen, into the silence.

Nobody crosses his path and anyone he does see he sees from a distance; across the acres, the insignia of two racehorses pressed against the sky; in the direction of the Cheshire Home, a nurse pushing an old soldier in a wheelchair. A woman in a black raincoat, cycling. He comes out at the turnstile gate, down Park Lane to Chapelizod village. People suddenly. Two men talking outside the shop, women at the bus stop; boys playing cards on the steps of a house. The sound of a butcher, chopping. He means to stop here, maybe go in and have something: coffee, a pint, a read of that newspaper he's been wanting to buy. But he's through Chapelizod before he knows it, and halfway up Ballyfermot hill.

He comes onto the Avenue. An endless cram of houses behind iron-rod fences; farty gardens, door after door, number after number, must be running to well over a hundred. He follows the road in its shape of a crescent; nobody about, except a girl in a van-shop, peering out through
the hatch at him, and a woman inside a house cleaning the windows. The squeak of newspaper against glass as he approaches; the pause just after he passes. He crosses the road and comes back the other side. Turning the corner he can't work out now if this is the same road or if he's wandered onto another because the place has suddenly filled up with kids that weren't there a minute ago. He sees the van-shop again, the girl outside it now, swiping rain off the front of it. It's only now that it registers that somewhere along the way it had started to drizzle and now it has stopped; that sly sort of drizzle that you hardly feel at all and yet leaves you saturated.

A youngone is drawing chalk boxes on the pavement. Two boys are nailing hammers into a misshapen go-cart. He watches for a few seconds and then crosses over to them. The girl is about twelve; she wears pink specs with a patch over one eye. She's standing on one leg now and in her hand holds a tin of polish that she seems about to throw, except she doesn't. She stays, balanced on one foot, barely wavering, and stares at him out of her uncovered eye. He only has to mention the word Butlin's.

When he knocks at the door, he's holding the polish tin in his hand. The sleeve of his jumper is drenched and his hair when he tips it back off his forehead releases a dribble. Behind him he hears the bicker of kids queueing at the van to buy sweets with the coppers he gave them. A woman with thick grey hair answers the door and even though he can't quite remember what the girl looks like, he recognizes her face in the woman's. He opens his mouth to speak but then sees her legs coming down the stairs. ‘It's alright, Ma,' she says.

She stands in the doorway, arms folded to her chest, a hip jutted to one side, a furry slipper. Behind her the door is pulled over. Her hair is turbaned into a towel and he gets a fright at its absence, because it's the hair he remembers, above all else.

‘What are you doin walkin up and down the road?' she says.

‘I wasn't walkin up and down the road.'

‘I seen you; walkin up and down like you're not right in the head. Well? What do you want?'

He nearly says, ‘You.' But instead he starts stumbling and stuttering: ‘I heard, you know, what happened and that and well, I just wanted… well you know I'm sorry for… For that.'

‘Yea, well so you should be, me ma is going mad, thinks I'm some sort of a tramp; two fellas in me room all night.'

‘I – I could tell her – you know, explain.'

‘Ah, don't bother, that'd only make her worse. Anyway, it doesn't matter now. I was sick of the place. And there's only a couple of weeks left.'

‘What'll you do now?'

‘A commercial course. Get a job as a typist,' she says and then shrugs.

He looks up the road, and then back at her. Even without the hair she's still gorgeous.

‘Anyway,' he says and takes a step back.

‘Is that it?'

He steps forward again. ‘I'm supposed to be going to Australia,'

Her eyes flicker. ‘Yea, well, don't let me keep you,' she says.

‘No. I didn't mean… What I mean is… I don't know. Here – I thought you said you lived in Chapelizod?'

‘Had to say that, to get the job. People are snobs, you know? Maybe you are, for all I know?'

‘No.'

‘Where are you from then?'

‘The other side of the Park.'

‘Where?'

‘Blackhorse Avenue.'

‘Are you a poshy?'

‘No.'

‘You sound like one. Carmel Waters says your brother goes to university.'

‘Who's she?'

‘Her brother knows your brother. She got the sack too in case you're
interested. Though if you ask me she deserved it. She was with your mate, that bloke you know?'

‘Conroy.'

‘Yea, him. Now she's after hearin he's gettin married. A bastard, he is. A liar. I suppose you're the same?'

‘
No
. Look, you know when I said about Australia. See, I applied ages ago now and—'

‘And wha?'

‘Nothing.'

‘Ah go, if you're goin. I couldn't care less.'

Behind him the gate creaks open and the youngone with the specs comes in licking an ice pop.

‘Look, Martina—' he begins.

‘O, he knows me name!'

The little girl walks right up to him and for a minute he thinks she's going to let it out that he only knows her name because she told him. But she plucks the polish tin out of his hand and says, ‘Thanks for mindin it for me.'

‘You're welcome.'

‘Bye now.'

‘Bye.'

She steps past Martina into the hall.

‘Martina?' he tries again.

‘Ah what? Look, will you say whatever it is you're tryin to say – will you?'

‘I just wanted to ask you if you were doing anything on Wednesday, that's all.'

She's annoyed, her face full and flushed, her eyes glint. ‘Why would I want to go out with you? You're going away. Of course, you're probably just like your mate, lookin for a bit of fun before you head off. Well, you can look somewhere else.'

‘No, it's not like that.'

‘Calling here to tell me you're going to Australia, what business of mine
is it? I'm going with someone anyway, hope you know. He's mad about me, he is.'

‘Yea, well I wouldn't blame him.'

She turns her head away. He waits but she says nothing then, glaring down the road like she's watching out for someone.

‘Alright,' he says, ‘sorry.'

He walks to the gate. He's stepped out onto the path when she calls out to him, ‘I could meet you at the Corinthian, there's a picture I wouldn't mind seeing.'

‘Would you meet me after work?' he says. ‘Six o'clock.'

She nods, biting her lip, then closes the door.

A flutter at an upstairs window. He thinks it might be her, but when he looks up he sees the little girl standing with the curtain veiled around her head, sucking sideways on the end of her ice pop, peeping out from her one good eye. He waves but she doesn't wave back.

When he gets home Jackie and Ma are in the kitchen; the air thick with the talk they've obviously been having about him.

‘There's a letter for you,' Ma says after a few seconds' silence.

‘Yea, I know. Saw it there earlier.'

‘Well, why didn't you open it then?'

‘Because I don't want to know.'

‘How do you mean?'

He pulls up a chair and settles it into the table. ‘I don't want to know if I got in or not.'

He sees Ma and Jackie swap looks.

‘I've met a girl,' he says. ‘I'm not going to Australia.'

‘What girl?' Jackie asks. ‘Not your one from Butlin's? You don't even know her, for Christ's sake that's just ridiculous.'

‘I know what I want.'

‘Rubbish,' Jackie says, ‘you don't know your arse from your elbow, you.'

‘I've made my decision. That's it,' Farley says,

Ma's face is all lit up. He knows that in the normal course of events Ma wouldn't approve of her; a girl from Ballyer who says I seen and I done. But he also knows Ma already loves this girl; this girl who is keeping him from going away and by turn, keeping the few quid coming into the house as well as postponing the time when she'll be left on her own. Because Jackie might be her favourite, but if there's one thing they all know, it's this – Jackie is always going to put himself first.

‘I can't believe you'd hang your hat on a one-night stand,' Jackie says, ‘I mean to say, I thought even
you
had more sense than that.'

‘I'm not interested in your opinion.'

‘What are you sayin then? That you're going to marry her?'

‘I don't know, maybe I will. Eventually. But if I do, it'll be nothing to do with you.'

There's a knock on the door. Farley lays his hands out flat on the table,

‘So can we leave it at that? Ma, will you throw out that envelope?'

Ma nods, Jackie rolls his eyes and looks away.

A bloke standing there, maybe a couple years older than himself. At first he thinks it's a pal of Jackie's but then the bloke says, ‘I'm here about the ad in the Four Courts – a Mrs Grainger, takes in typing and that?'

‘That's right,' Farley says, ‘hold on I'll get her.'

‘Any chance you'd give a hand with some stuff in the car first?'

Farley nods and follows him out.

The bloke opens the boot; inside there's boxes full of papers: envelopes, letters, receipts.

‘Hope she does a bit of bookkeeping as well,' he says.

‘Are you a solicitor?' Farley asks him.

‘Do I look like a bollix? No, I do work for them, you know, like an agent. Not that long out on me own actually.'

‘O? I work for a solicitor.'

‘Yea, which one?'

‘Caine's on the quays.'

‘Caine – tried to get a bit of business off him but not a budge.'

‘Ah, he's like that.'

‘Maybe you'll put a word in for me?'

‘Maybe I will.'

He dips into the car, pulls out a box and lays it on the cradle of Farley's arms.

‘Do you do much court work?' he asks.

‘Nearly all court work.'

‘Yea?'

‘What about serving summonses – you do that?'

‘No. We send them out to an agent.'

‘Could you ever see yourself doing them?'

‘Don't know. Is it hard?'

‘No, just a pain in the arse.'

The man looks at him for a minute like he's studying his face.

‘Ever feel like a change of jobs – let me know. I'd give you a business card but they're not ready till next week. What's your name?'

‘Farley. Well, Charlie.'

‘Charlie or Farley?'

‘Farley's a nickname but it's what most people call me.'

‘Like the film star – Grainger – O yea, I get it.'

‘Well, I don't like to say that really.'

‘Why not?'

‘People might think I'm full of meself.'

‘Let them think what they like,' he says, pulling out a box and settling it into his arms. ‘By the way, my name's Frank.'

‘Frank?'

‘Frank or Hank.'

‘Really?'

‘Nah. Just Frank. Frank Slowey.'

GRANDA BILL ALWAYS CALLS
him Charles. Char-less, is what he says. For the past few mornings he's been waking to his feeble whisper: ‘
Char-less
,
Char-less
, wake up now, come on, son, it's time we were off.' And he always thinks the same thing just before he opens his eyes, that he's at home in his own bed, that the voice belongs to Da, the hand is his hand. Even though Da never called him for school in his life, nor did he ever address him as son, and in anyway, Da's been dead for over six weeks.

He opens his eyes; darkness all around him like a black cloth fraying. He can hear Jackie breathing beside him and knows he must have sneaked into his bed again in the middle of the night. It's been the same every night since they came to stay in Gran's house, although Jackie usually manages to get back to his own bed before it's time to get up, before he has to admit that at thirteen years old he's afraid to sleep on his own. Jackie is afraid of ghosts but Farley knows, one way or another, Da is never coming back.