Dead Won't Sleep (21 page)

Her mother never spoke about the men to Rosie. She thought maybe her mum was just lonely, because her father had been away for so long. Rosie waited and waited for him to come home, and the memory she had of him
faded with each passing year. All she had to remember him by was a cracked black and white photo of the man she last saw when she was four years old. That seemed to be the time when her mother started to drink. And the more she drank the more she cried, and the less she cared about the state of the house. Rosie would come home from school and start to peel potatoes for the dinner. She cleaned the house and went to the shops while her mother slept off the booze. That was why she didn’t rush home from school, because while she wasn’t in the house, she could pretend she lived a different life. The kind of life that the other kids lived, with dads who had jobs and mums who had dinner on the table when they got home from school.

These kids used to tell Rosie how they sat at night and told stories around the fire and sometimes played card games with their dads. Rosie used to tell them her dad was in the Merchant Navy, and was coming back next year with presents and exotic things from every country he had ever visited. She wondered if they believed her. And she wondered if the stories they told her about their own lives were real, or if they were all living like her.

There was nobody she could talk to about her mother. If she did, they would send the social welfare in and take her away to one of those big damp children’s homes where the nuns would bash you up every day. Rosie had heard stories about them and she was terrified of being
sent there. Her mother wasn’t much, but she was all she had. And anyway, she wasn’t a bad person. She loved Rosie and would sing to her sometimes, and they would sit some nights, just the two of them, and her mum would tell her of places they would visit some day when they had enough money. Nights like that, Rosie would fall asleep in her mother’s arms on the couch and dream of the countries they would see together. She only told her pals at school of her plans once though, because they all sniggered after Ann-Marie Grattan said it would be hard for her ma to go anywhere because she could hardly stand up, she was that drunk. Deep down she knew they would probably never go anywhere, but there was no harm in dreaming.

She felt the tears coming on again. TJ came and knelt beside her.

‘It’s okay, Rosie. Just let it go.’ He stroked her hair.

She went on. The day it all happened, Rosie had walked home from school in her usual slow way, stopping to look in some of the shop windows and sitting for a while on a wooden seat at the bus stop. She liked watching people and wondered what their lives were like.

She walked up the steps of the tenement to the top flat where they lived. She could hear music coming through the door. She hoped her mother wasn’t drunk, just happy, so they could sit together after dinner and talk. She pushed the door open, and was about to shout
hallo to her mum that she was home, when she looked up and saw her. It was her feet. In mid-air. She was swinging from the ceiling. For a second Rosie felt the room sway, and she fell against the wall. There was a rope around her mother’s neck and her face was blue. It had this shocked expression. And bulging eyes. Then the phone rang. It rang and rang. But she couldn’t look away from her mother hanging there, wearing the fur slippers Rosie had bought her for Christmas from the nearly-new stall at the Church jumble sale. She loved the slippers.

Rosie was crying now.

‘The next thing I remember,’ she said through sobs, ‘is Mary McGarvie from next door and her husband Danny coming in through the open door and shouting Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Then there were other neighbours. And the police. The McGarvies took me to their house.’

She swallowed, composing herself.

‘And then . . . and then someone in a blue uniform came into the McGarvies and took me away. They told me my mother was dead now. I was an orphan.’ Rosie’s lip trembled. ‘I used to hear people in the close whisper the word orphan, and I was ashamed because I was one now, with nobody else in the whole world.’

It was the first time since she was nine years old that Rosie had spoken about that day. For nearly twenty-eight years she had woken up at least twice a month with
that memory of her mother’s suicide, and the phone always ringing in her dream.

‘You know, TJ,’ Rosie said, ‘there were times in my life when I was mad at my mother for giving up and leaving me like that, all alone. But I suppose I grew to understand how sad her life must have been. How terrible it must be to have no hope. Maybe that’s why I never give up on anything.’

Rosie told him she’d never got to the funeral because she was in the children’s home, and to this day she had no idea where her mum was buried.

‘So there you have it. Or most of it. So you see, TJ, if you thought I was off my head, then you’re absolutely right. Now you know why, or partly why.’ She looked at him. ‘I can’t find peace anywhere in my life. That’s why I got annoyed the other day in the cafe when you said that I fill my life with work so I don’t have to look at myself. You touched a raw nerve.’

‘Sorry,’ TJ said, coming over beside her with a big bath towel. ‘I’m sorry, Rosie. I didn’t know things had been this bad for you. I knew there was stuff somewhere, it’s in your eyes. But I had no idea. I’m sorry. Come on.’ He held open the bath towel and Rosie got out of the water. He wrapped the towel around her and dried her body, gently rubbing her back and hair, then her legs, kneeling down, drying her feet. Rosie stood, allowing him to dry her as if she was a child.

‘Come on. Let’s go in and relax in front of the
fire.’ TJ gave her his bath robe and tied it around her waist.

Rosie smiled and, putting her arms around him, kissed him on the lips.

The bar was heaving for one of the biggest farewell parties the
Post
had seen in a long time. Dan Divers, the legendary features writer, had taken a deal and was off to write his memoirs on some little Greek island with his latest girlfriend. An hour earlier, Dan had taken the long walk across the editorial floor for the last time, to the traditional banging-out ceremony reserved for only the most respected newspaper figures. There were misty eyes amid the thunderous applause as he turned and bowed, before walking through the revolving doors.

Now he was holding court at Blacks, the notorious journo watering hole within spitting distance of the office. It was there that journalistic legends were built up or torn down; it just depended on who was wielding the knife at the time. Everyone who was anyone was there for Divers’ send-off. Journalists, photographers, management, telesales and, of course, the printers, plus
the usual collection of lawyers and detectives that you found at any newspaper party.

Divers was one of the last great characters who could tell stories of a golden era when journalists partied as hard as they worked. Blacks was where they took refuge in hard drinking and black humour. Down the years, many had paid the price, and newspapers were littered with alcoholic casualties. But Divers lived to tell the tale. Here he was in sparkling form, a Guinness in his hand and a growing line of whiskies on the bar. He would deal with all of them before the night was through.

In mid-sentence, he stopped and winked when he saw Rosie squeezing through the crowd.

‘Ah the beautiful Rosie,’ he said with a theatrical flurry. ‘The delightful Rose among so many hairy-arsed thorns. Come here, sweetheart, till I kiss you full on the bare lips.’ He planted a wet kiss as promised, almost hugging the life out of her.

‘You know something?’ He turned to the half dozen people around him. ‘I love this woman so much there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her. If only she’d have me.’ He kissed Rosie again and everyone laughed.

‘I don’t know why she wouldn’t have you, Div,’ somebody shouted. ‘Sure everyone else has.’

‘This woman . . .’ Divers was already half drunk, but Rosie knew he would still be the last man standing by the end of the night. ‘This woman is the best journalist
I’ve ever known. Bar none. And you know what? I taught her everything she knows.’

Rosie laughed. He ordered her a gin and tonic and they clinked glasses.

‘All the very best, Div.’ Rosie kissed his cheek. ‘I’ll miss you more than you’ll ever know. Nobody did more for me than you.’

Divers had a special place in her heart. When she had started out at the
Post
, it was Divers who took her under his wing as she punched above her weight to survive as a young female reporter among so many macho personalities. It was Divers who was there when her heart was broken. And it was he who had pushed her career by using his considerable clout among the editors to suggest she be allowed to prove herself. Now and again, they would have a boozy lunch together and Rosie would sit spellbound listening to Divers’ stories.

Now he leaned towards his protégée and whispered in her ear.

‘It’s time to get out, Rosie. I can see it in your eyes, darling. You’re burning out and none of these fuckers is worth it. Nothing is.’

Rosie looked at him and didn’t answer.

‘I know you’re on a big one just now.’ He studied her face. ‘I know it’s a secret, and I don’t even want to know what it is, but who’s going to give a shite about it two days later? Time to go and lead your own life.’

Rosie sighed. She didn’t want to have this conversation. Not tonight. She gave him a look that brushed it away.

‘Just don’t leave it too late,’ Divers whispered. Then he put his arm around her and pulled her close. ‘And something else, Rosie, sweetheart. This story you’re on? Watch that bastard Reynolds. He’s sneaking about like the polecat he is, trying to find out what you’re doing, so I’d guess it must be something that will upset his Freemason pals at the polis. Luckily, he can’t find his arse in the dark, but just watch your back, darlin’.’

Rosie said nothing. Much as she loved Divers, she was glad when someone else threw their arms around him and dragged him away from her.

She looked around the bar. The younger reporters were grouped in the corner, and looked as though they were already coked up. They nipped in and out of the toilet, coming out like they could conquer the world. Cocaine was everywhere these days, from the editorial floors to the boardroom, and no self-respecting dinner party was complete without the host bringing out the Peruvian marching powder with the after-dinner mints. It wasn’t Rosie’s bag at all. She had tried it, once with a trusted journalist friend then, just to make sure, she tried it again. She decided that anything that made you feel that good had to end in tears, and should be avoided like the plague.

The hacks waved her over. She waved back, but she
had no intention of joining them. Annie Dawson was among them, giggling and happy. Too happy, Rosie thought. She hoped Annie hadn’t slipped into the coke habit and made a mental note to watch for telltale signs.

She turned and joined a group of feature writers and advertising girls who were already three sheets to the wind. Jimmy Kavanagh, the oily show business reporter, was running true to form, talking about sex. It was all he ever did. But he talked about his conquests so much that people stopped believing him, and he was becoming a figure of fun.

‘I’m telling you,’ he said to the group. ‘These pills I got from this guy. Not Viagra, but something like it. They’re unbelievable. I’m at it four times a day. I’m shagged out.’

‘Just think how knackered you’d be if there was somebody with you,’ Rosie said to loud guffaws.

‘Aye, very funny, Gilmour,’ Kavanagh said. ‘Hey. What would you say to a wee shag?’ He slid his arm around her waist.

‘Hallo, wee shag.’

He turned to one of the advertising girls. ‘You just ask your pal about me. They all know me, the girls upstairs.’ He winked. ‘Some better than others.’

The advertising girl sniggered and said, ‘I did. Betty Reilly talks about your manhood all the time.’

The girl knocked her drink back and slammed the
glass on the bar. ‘She said it was like a penis. Only smaller.’ The group erupted in giggles.

‘Aw fuck off. You deadbeats are just jealous.’ He walked off and joined another group.

Rosie was on her third drink and feeling good. The pub was filling up with the night-shift subs and back-bench editors, now that the newspaper had been put to bed. McGuire put in an appearance. He always did at these parties, but never stayed too long. He handed over a wad of notes to the barmaid to give everyone a drink. On the way past Rosie he touched her shoulder and said to join him for a quick drink.

She reminded herself to have only one more gin. She couldn’t cope with a hangover on top of everything else. She felt someone’s arms go around her from behind.

‘Hi, Rosie.’ It was Matt Harper. He was already half drunk. ‘Why don’t you take me home and ride me till the environmental health comes and drags you off.’

‘It’s finding the time, Matt,’ Rosie laughed, kissing him on the cheek. ‘I’m just so busy.’ She ran her hand through his curly hair and whispered. ‘Hey, Matt. Thanks for the disc with the pictures. It’ll be some stuff if we can get it to work. I’m up to my eyes with that, and another story as well.’

‘I can’t get it out of my mind,’ Matt said. ‘Those wee kids. If we can get these pictures in the paper it will be the most important job I’ve ever done.’ Rosie hoped he wasn’t drunk enough to start running off at the mouth.
Reynolds was hovering in the background, along with two guys who looked like coppers out noseying around.

‘Listen, Matt. The most important thing just now is to keep your head. All of this might take some time so we’ve got to be patient. Keeping everything really tight is the most important thing. If any of this gets out before the time is right we can just forget it. Okay?’

‘You’re the boss, darling.’ Matt gave her the thumbs up and moved on as a young telesales girl put her arms around him.

Rosie moved to cross the room to speak to the editor, when Reynolds grabbed hold of her arm.

‘Rosie, I want you to meet a couple of guys.’