Midnight on Lime Street (16 page)

On the drive to town, Eve thought about Trevor Burns. He paid well, tipped the girls, was usually cheery and jovial, and he wanted to bring in a new client. A guy called Neil with a stick-thin
wife and a boring job needed a bit of pleasure from time to time. She would need to interview him first on neutral ground, because she could usually assess men after just one brief encounter. Like
kids, they were fairly transparent. Anyway, a woman with so much to lose had to watch her own back yard, since she didn’t want men as guards, because they smacked of pimps. God, life was on
the heavyweight side these days.

Still, she did her best. Getting a man into Meadowbank Farm wasn’t quite as difficult as making a Freemason of him, but it was no walk in the park. Eve was a woman of well-honed instincts,
and she would be meeting Mr Neil Carson in a week or so. Time would tell. All she needed was ten minutes with him, and her radar would have him sorted.

Where was the pick-up tonight? Ah yes, last Friday of the month – the Pier Head. She parked, listened to them grumbling as they climbed into the rear of the van. She was three minutes
late. A couple more, and they’d probably have hanged her for treason. Or did treason merit a bullet? And if that greengrocer thought she was going to pay fourpence for a head of lettuce with
more slugs than leaves, he had another think coming.

I probably went too far with the kidney in the pie. It’s perhaps because I didn’t know what to say, who to tell, whether to pack up the children and take them off
to my mam and dad’s house. I’m helpless, literally, so I’m in a strop like a teenager, even throwing my toys out of the pram like a baby. I can think of not one single person who
might be able to guide me over this patch of rough ground. It’s all too embarrassing, too personal to describe. Just thinking about what’s happening is hard, because the words I have to
use, even inside my own head, are difficult to live with.

But why the kidney? That was a very foolish act, because he’s always hated it. I’m punishing him. This is my pathetic attempt at scourging, at sackcloth, ashes and no forgiveness,
ever. His behaviour – is it behaviour? Can a man be responsible for things he does and says when he’s unconscious? How can my husband sin while asleep?

By the way, I don’t think I can take the job at the chip shop, since the way things stand just now I’ve no idea where I’ll be in the next few months. There’s a spare bed
in Lucy’s room, and I’m in it, because I can’t spend another night in our bedroom, not after what’s been happening. And I have to explain myself. Words. Words I must say to
him, to my husband, the father of my children.

He’s coming up the stairs. He’s in the bathroom. The toilet flushes. He’s at the washbasin, hands and teeth. Neil’s a very ritualistic person, everything in order, every
day the same except for his shifts. That used to please me, but after ten years home no longer feels like a safe place with a predictable man in it.

Something dreadful has happened to Neil. He talks in his dreams and he . . . well, he abuses himself while asleep. Words again. Words he says when he’s dreaming . . . I have to change the
sheets every day. In the past month, he hasn’t made love to me. Does he not feel the wetness on the bedding? Why do his triumphant screams not waken him? I have so many questions, but no
answers.

Does he think I don’t see the dried stuff in the bed? I don’t want this good, honest, trustworthy man near my children or near me. St Jude, hear my prayer. Why is the father of Lucy
and Matt having . . . those wet dream things that happen to teenage boys when their bodies are . . . developing?

I gulp down some iced water from a glass next to my bed, and lie down with my face pointing to the wall. The door opens. Go away, please go away.

‘Laura?’

He’s whispering. That’ll be for Lucy’s sake.

‘What?’ I almost growl.

‘Come downstairs,’ he says.

I hear him padding down in slippers. Brown slippers. They last two years exactly, almost to the hour. Every alternate Christmas, he asks for the same brown slippers. On the in-between
Christmases, it’s a scarf or gloves or socks. He winds the grandmother clock fourteen times every evening, careful not to over-tighten the spring. When making cocoa, he pounds away at the
original mix in the bottom of the mug, pours on hot milk mixed with boiling water, adds sugar, then does twenty-one stirs with the spoon. Forty-two if there are two mugs, eighty-four if the
children want some too.

I’d better go downstairs.

Babs and Sal spent their last night at Meadowbank Farm in a small ground-floor spare bedroom with their luggage piled all round the walls.

‘We’ll be OK, won’t we?’ the anxious Sally asked.

‘Course we will. He’s fascinated by the idea of watching two girls making love. If he doesn’t have a heart attack, he’ll be a very happy man.’

‘I’m not sure I want anybody watching,’ the younger girl moaned. ‘And who’s going to look after them poor lads in the hut?’

‘Sorted. Go to sleep.’

Sally did as she was told, dozing with the top of her head nestling against her beloved’s neck. As she drifted towards sleep, she saw a beautiful house with beautiful gardens and lots of
happy animals.

Babs had left a letter for Cynthia to give to Belle on her return. Cynthia, in spite of her broad spectrum of sexual adventures, was a thoroughly dependable girl. If she borrowed cash, she
returned it; if told a secret, she sat on it. So she held the letter, and Belle would get it as soon as she returned to Meadowbank. Belle would keep an eye on the occupants of the scout hut.

The lads now had a compendium of games, some playing cards, a domino set and a dartboard with darts. Their friends brought food and cash for them, so they were safe for the time being. If
anything went wrong, the boys had Don’s telephone number.

Sorted.

He was sitting on the sofa, and he tapped the seat cushion next to his, inviting his wife to join him, but Laura chose to place herself in an armchair. She refused to
contemplate the thought of physical contact with him, since the very idea of any closeness in the future almost turned her stomach. Even being in the same room wasn’t easy.

Once settled, she folded her arms and waited for him to speak, since she was here at his invitation – or had he issued an order? She was the innocent one; she had the axe to grind. As
Laura stared at him, something strange happened to her. Although she didn’t know how or why, she suddenly found a place inside herself, an area she hadn’t visited before. It was a cold
island just south of her diaphragm, an isolated region in which this man didn’t matter, because she had children, and they came first. Laura Carson had encountered her own strength.

Offended by her stay-away-from-me folded arms, Neil drew back his weak chin until it folded near his throat. His legs were crossed, and he swung the upper limb rhythmically, dangling one brown
slipper from the toes. This was a signal that expressed displeasure or impatience. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked. ‘Why the kidney all of a sudden? You know I can’t
stand any kind of offal.’

She gazed at him, suddenly finding no problem in meeting his eyes. ‘It’s a good source of nourishment for the children,’ she replied. ‘They need variety in their diet.
You’re looking at the fireplace again.’ She congratulated herself for sounding so normal in spite of a quickening heartbeat. Determinedly, she returned to the chilled place below her
stomach.

He turned his head so rapidly that a red-hot crick shot up his neck. ‘And why were you in Lucy’s room? Is she having nightmares again?’

‘No, she isn’t. I’m in there because I don’t want to sleep with you.’ Her tone was calm, but brave. ‘You can wash that set of sheets; I’ve had enough of
your sick behaviour.’ She couldn’t believe that she was managing this so well. He seemed smaller, as if he were shrinking into the sofa. ‘A man of your age having wet dreams? You
really should see the doctor.’

He blinked stupidly, his hands balling themselves into tight fists. He wanted to hit her. She was his wife. He loved her, yet he longed to beat the life out of her.

Laura tutted, her head shaking slowly from side to side. ‘And you talk. You talk about body parts, but you use crude words when you do. You wet the bed, not with wee, but with the other
stuff, and you shout when that happens. I don’t want to spend another night with you. I’m the one having nightmares. First you were screaming, and now you’re carrying on like a
demented creature. I’ve had enough of it – more than enough.’

He was still blinking. ‘But I’ve no idea what’s going on,’ he pleaded. ‘I’m asleep.’

‘I know you are. You’re acting crazy, and I can’t cope any longer.’

‘What am I supposed to do?’ he asked, raising his voice.

‘Be quiet; you’ve made too much noise already, what with your night terrors and now this. You dream of a woman with big . . . I’m not going to say the word, but it means
breasts. As for her lower regions – well, I’d no idea that such words existed, because most were new to me. But the rest of the phrases left not much room for doubt. My children will
hear you; the neighbours might well hear you. It’s all too much, Neil. You’re shouting the F word.’

He put his head in his hands. ‘Jesus, help me,’ he mumbled.

She rose to her feet. ‘There are two ways of dealing with this.’

He lifted his head hopefully.

Laura continued. ‘Neil, either you leave this house or I take the children to my parents’ place. The decision is yours. You seem to be having some kind of crisis, but you need to
have it in someone else’s bed, and far away from your family. Perhaps you have premature senile dementia, but I think you need to turn into a dirty old man well beyond the reach of Matt and
Lucy.’ She swept out of the room without awarding him a single backward glance.

On the stairs, she found herself shaking, while her knees threatened to buckle. The adrenalin was deserting her, and she felt grateful to return to the spare bed. He hadn’t followed her
up. She lay, almost as stiff as a board, trying hard to court sleep. It was impossible. What would the neighbours say? What would Mum, Dad and Father Doherty think? The school? She would have to
explain the disappearance of her husband there, too. Life so far had been relatively simple, but this was about to be a complicated new beginning.

When she woke from a short doze, it was dawn, and he was clattering about in the bedroom across the landing. She heard the slamming of a drawer and the unmistakable sound of clothes hangers
colliding angrily in his wardrobe. He was leaving.

Lucy sat up and rubbed her eyes. ‘Mummy? Why are you in here?’

The first lie was born. ‘Your daddy’s started snoring. He sounds like a train running through the house.’

Laura realized that he was listening, because he’d stopped crashing about. She took advantage of the silence to produce the bigger lie, because she knew he was packing. ‘He’s
going on a course for people who want promotion. Many of the lectures are in the evenings, so they all have to sleep in a big hotel where the course is being held.’

‘Oh. All right.’ Lucy snuggled herself down under the covers and went back to sleep immediately.

Laura smiled. How precious was the innocence of the young, allowing them to sleep or wake within a split second. She stood up, pulled on her robe and went to check on Matt. He was curled up with
his teddy bear and remained secure in the land of dreams.

Steeling herself, she crossed the landing and entered the marital bedroom. ‘Thank you,’ she told Neil. ‘The children can continue at the same school if I don’t have to
move out.’

‘I’ll send you housekeeping money,’ he said.

‘Again, thank you.’

He left the room carrying a large suitcase and a canvas bag. ‘Goodbye, Laura,’ he said.

She stood at the top of the flight while he descended. Goodbye? That word had never been used in this house, because there was a sense of finality built into it; they always used bye, or see you
later, but never the full goodbye. ‘Neil?’

‘What?’ He didn’t even bother to look at her.

‘Come for a meal when you can.’

At last, he turned and glanced at her for no more than an instant. Without saying a word, he put down the case, swivelled to face the door, opened it, picked up his luggage and set it outside.
Taking a Yale key from a pocket, he placed it on the hall table, left the house and closed the door quietly in his wake. Goodbye. He really meant it, then.

Laura sat on the stairs, her mind strangely blank. For several seconds, not a single thought wandered through her frozen brain; perhaps she was in shock. She leaned her head against the wall and
wept. Thank goodness the children were not at school, because she hadn’t the energy to prepare them. The thinking began, and she wished it would stop.

She’d never paid a bill. The responsibility for a household had not rested on her shoulders, as he had played his part. Children needed two parents, because that was how God had designed
humankind. Neil was going to be paying rent somewhere. There was something she needed to do.

Laura dressed herself quickly and started to set the table for breakfast. The job in the Bramwells’ chip shop might go some way towards covering the shortfall in household money. Matt and
Lucy could play with the Bramwell twins during school holidays, and she’d been promised free wet fish to bring home every Friday to cook for tea. The Bramwells were good, Catholic people, and
their children were adorable. She’d promised to let them know by today, and she would. As head of the family, she must learn to make decisions. It wasn’t going to be easy, but if she
revisited that cold place from time to time, surely she would be able to work things out?

Matt and Lucy clattered down the stairs. The new start had begun.

Mad Murdoch approached the open stable door tentatively. He raised his magnificent head, looked out at his mother, Murma, who was standing still in the paddock and probably
considering the wonders of the universe, like apples, carrots, and the misbehaviour of her recalcitrant son. Murdoch nudged Nicholas Nye and emerged into daylight with the blind donkey in his
wake.