No Way to Say Goodbye (13 page)

When he thought of her past he felt sorry for her, but whenever he saw her she didn’t seem like a victim and it was difficult to empathize with someone who so obviously didn’t like him. Sam wasn’t used to this. Of course, a hell of a lot of people in the business disliked, even hated, him but they had good reason. This woman had disliked him on sight but that was OK: he didn’t need some stranger’s approval. He had his recovery to focus on, so if she ignored him, he’d ignore her. If she sighed at the sight of him, he sighed louder. If she made a face, he made a worse one. Their annoyance had become a game and it was getting old.

Besides, now he had his project to keep his mind active. He tied a small red band around a branch of the last tree he had surveyed. This would signal where his search would next begin. It was getting late and he had promised Ivan he’d help him move furniture.

Adam’s wife and children had driven away from Kenmare, leaving him to finish off packing their belongings before he followed them on the long road away from his home. Ivan had attempted to keep things light and Adam endeavoured to maintain a brave face. Sam had kept his head down, conscious that he was assisting a new friend in saying goodbye to an old one. It was on their last trip, while they were carrying a heavy ornate mahogany desk, that he and Ivan had emerged into the evening light to be confronted with Adam and Penny wrapped round one another, kissing deeply and tears flowing. Sam was acutely embarrassed – and a little confused, having waved off the man’s wife less than an hour before. He and Ivan put the desk on the ground and went back inside, unseen by the parting lovers. Ivan made tea and Sam sat looking around Adam’s empty home. Although he felt sorry for him and his predicament, he was also a little jealous that he had never felt as strongly about anyone as the man outside clearly did.

Mary had turned up just in time to say goodbye to her old friend and to put an arm around a distraught Penny. Adam put his car into gear and, with one last look back at the love of his life, flanked by his two best friends, he drove away. Sam stood back, watching them all from the doorway, but it was Mary who captivated him – her tenderness and strength, and the way she held her grieving friend. He found himself thinking she would have been a beautiful mother.
Damn shame she’s such a bitch
. Ivan had suggested they all go and get something to eat and, despite himself, Sam hoped that Mary would agree. But Penny was too distressed so Mary took her home. He watched her drive away, one hand on the steering-wheel and the other stroking her friend’s hair. She hadn’t once looked him in the eye.

Penny stood under the shower while Mary surveyed the contents of her fridge. The ingredients were sparse but when Penny emerged in a towelling robe a Spanish omelette awaited her.

“I can always rely on you to cook in a crisis.”

“Just eat,” Mary scolded. “When’s the last time you ate a decent meal anyway?”

“Now,” Penny said, before shoving some into her mouth.

Mary worried about the amount of vodka in the fridge but said nothing. Penny always liked to have a stash in case of a party and she often gave one, mostly after the pub. Mary guessed she wouldn’t for a while, so with that in mind she made a mental note to pour some of the vodka down the sink as soon as Penny’s back was turned.
Just in case. She probably won’t even notice
.

Penny was silent.

“What can I do?” Mary asked.

“Nothing.”

“What are you thinking?”

Penny sighed.

“Honestly?” Mary urged.

“I thought he’d pick me,” she admitted. “I know he has kids, but when it came down to it, I really thought he’d pick me.” Tears rolled down her face and her nose ran. She sniffed.

“I’m so sorry, Penn.”

“I know I’m selfish,” Penny said, wiping her nose with her hand.

“You’re human.”

“I wanted Adam to abandon his children.”

“Penn, I don’t give a frig about any of that. I think you’re it.”

Penny looked at Mary. “You think I’m it?” she said, with an emerging smile.

Mary nodded. “I do.”

“What? Are you sixteen?”

“No. I just look it.” Mary grinned.

After that Penny said she felt better. Mary insisted on washing up and mopping the floor, having decided that Penny was too traumatized to engage in such menial tasks. Penny argued but Mary had taken on her in-charge mode so she sat with her coffee while Mary cleaned.

“So, what’s the story on the American?” Penny asked, stirring her coffee.

“He’s everywhere,” Mary said. “Every time I turn around there he is with a stupid face on him. The other week he actually pulled me up on my manners.”

“He did not!” said Penny, amused.

“He did. And I wouldn’t mind, but I’d helped him with his stupid gate. I never thought I’d say this but I miss the Brinkerhoffs. At least they knew how to keep to themselves.”

“The Brinkerhoffs were wanted by Interpol,” Penny said, with a slight smile and, annoyingly now, still stirring her coffee.

“And he’s Ivan’s new best friend. Three lunches last week, two nights in the pub, and clay-pigeon shooting last Sunday.” She shook her head. “It’s unbelievable.”

“Ivan’s lonely,” Penny commented.

“So he should get himself a girlfriend,” Mary said.

Penny scoffed. “Yeah, right, because that’s so easy. And what’s your big problem with the American anyway? He seems nice enough. He helped out today.”

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about, Penn. Four lifetime friends saying an emotional goodbye to one another and there he is, Mr In-Town-On-A-Wet-Day-Tourist, stuck in the middle of it.”

“This isn’t you. What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” Mary answered honestly. “There’s just something about him. I can’t put my finger on it but I don’t like it.”

“Oh, are you being the all-seeing psychic again?” Penny had never really bought into her friend’s abilities. “He’s not featuring in any angry eggs, is he?”

“No.” Mary smiled. “I don’t know what it is but sometimes when I look into his eyes I want to cry.”

“Weird,” Penny said.

“What do we know about him anyway? He could be a psycho killer.”

“Psycho killers don’t usually look like movie stars,” Penny said, and returned to stirring her coffee.

“I don’t know – Ted Bundy wasn’t bad.”

“He was the one with the gold VW Beetle?”

Mary nodded.

“Yeah, OK, he was all right. Not worth dying for, though.”

“My point exactly,” Mary said. She took Penny’s spoon away from her and threw it into the sink. “It’s stirred.”

Penny was glad her friend had stayed, and their idle chat had lightened her mood, but eventually she was happy to see her go. She waved her off and closed the door. Then she went to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of vodka. She thought about it for a moment and put it back. She had promised herself she would take it easy, so instead she reached for a bottle of white wine. She spent a minute or two looking for the corkscrew, which stubbornly refused to be found.
Fuck it,
she thought. She opened the fridge and grabbed the vodka.
Fate has spoken
.

Once seated, she poured a tall glass, took her first sip and switched on the TV.
I could have sworn this bottle was more than half full.

Mary parked outside her house, content that she had left Penny in lighter spirits than she had found her. The blue sky was fading to light purple and the water was still, reflecting the two upturned half-moons of the imposing bridge under which the river Roughty joined with the Sheen. Inside, she made her way to the back yard to alert Mr Monkels to her homecoming. Usually he would sense her from halfway down the road or he’d hear the car engine – either way he’d be sitting at the glass patio door panting hello. He wasn’t at the door. Instead he was lying flat out on the ground in front of the shed, half concealed by an untamed bush.

“Mr Monkels!” she called. “Mr Monkels?”

She picked up her pace and her heart started to beat in time with her feet. She bent down to him and it was clear that he was breathing but he wouldn’t budge. She stroked him and he whined a little. “OK, buddy,” she said calmly, “everything’s going to be OK.” She tried to lift him but he groaned and she knew he was too heavy for her to carry without fear of dropping him. She could hear that the American was in because the sound of gospel queen Mavis Staples was leaking from his kitchen.
What is it with that man and gospel?
She wasn’t going to ask him for help so instead she ran to number three, hoping against hope that Mossy would be there. He opened the door with his hands caked in clay and a joint hanging from his lips.

“Mary of the Sorrows, always a sight for sore eyes,” he said, wiping his hands with a tea-towel. He seemed unaware that he had referred to her by her nickname.

“I need your help,” she said, although from the size of his pupils she was in no doubt that he was pretty stoned.

He stood over a table on which lay a piece he was working on. “What do you think?” he asked.

It looks like a brown banana –
that or a piece of
… “Lovely,” she said. “There’s something wrong with Mr Monkels. Can you help me get him into the car?”

“Oh, sorry, Mare, I can’t,” he said.

“What?” she replied, not sure she’d heard him correctly.

“I’m out of my gicker.” He giggled. “Seriously, I’ve got this new stuff and it’s off the wall but really getting the inspiration juices flowing.”

She took a second look at the piece of crap on the table. “Yeah,” she nodded, “thanks anyway.”

“Ask the American,” Mossy advised her. “He seems like a very accommodating fella.”

She was stuck. Mrs Foley in number five had difficulty carrying a cup of tea, never mind a large dog, and she couldn’t waste any more time. She knocked on her new neighbour’s door.

Moments later he opened it. “Can I help you?” he asked, appearing nonchalant.

“I’d really appreciate it if you could,” she responded, careful to mind her manners.
I don’t have time for a hissy fit.

“What is it?” he asked, delighting in this unexpected power.

“My dog. He’s not well. I need help lifting him to the car.”

“Oh,” he said, without a hint of his previous smugness, “sure.”

He followed her to her back garden and where her dog lay panting. He seemed bigger when lying out flat – in fact he seemed a lot bigger and heavier. Sam’s back already ached from carrying heavy furniture but he could see the anxiety on his neighbour’s face. “OK, how do you want to do this?” he asked.

“Mr Monkels, we’re going to lift you now,” she said to the dog. “You take the back end,” she instructed Sam.

Sam squatted. Mary placed her hands under the dog’s upper body and Sam did likewise under the dog’s hindquarters.

“OK, on three,” she said. “One – two –
three
!” They proceeded to lift.

It was then that something in Sam’s back clicked out of place. He froze. “Holy shit!” he exclaimed.

“What?”

“My back!”

“What’s wrong with it?” she cried. They were holding the dog between them. “Oh, my God!” she said. “Put Mr Monkels down,” she ordered, as calmly as she could.

“I can’t.”

“What?”

“I can’t move. I think it’s locked!”

“Knickers!” she said. “OK, I know what to do. Don’t move. Just stay calm. I’m going to lower the dog to the ground head first. Do not move.”

“You don’t have to keep saying ‘don’t move’. I
can’t
move.”

“Don’t get snippy.”

“Snippy?” he inquired, as she lowered Mr Monkels’s head to the ground while his hindquarters remained raised in Sam’s custody. “Holy shit – the pain.”

Mary stood beside Sam and placed her hands beside his under the dog. “Let go!” she ordered.

He did, and she lowered the dog until he was once again lying on the ground. She stood up while Sam remained bent forward.

“I’m going to die,” he mumbled, at which, like Lazarus, Mr Monkels rose to his feet and shook himself, then pottered into the sitting room, jumped onto the window-seat and made himself comfortable as though he had not a care in the world. All the while Mavis Staples was singing “Oh Happy Day”.

“Am I fucking dreaming?” Sam asked earnestly, facing the ground.

10. Back to back

Mary managed to negotiate her injured neighbour into her house, then called her doctor. Sam was unable to do anything other than lean over her kitchen table. “I’ll make you some tea,” she said, wondering how long it would take the doctor to get there.

“No, I’m good,” he said, with a hint of sarcasm.

She couldn’t hold that against him – he’d just sustained his second injury at her hands. “OK. Can I get you anything at all?” She knew she sounded stupid.

“No. I’ll just wait for the doctor,” he said, through gritted teeth.

“OK,” she nodded, “good idea.” She wasn’t sure what to do next. “Would you like to be alone?”

“That would be great,” he suggested, again with that hint of sarcasm.

I thought Americans didn’t do sarcasm
. “OK.” She left the kitchen, closing the door behind her.

Half an hour later Dr Macken arrived. “Hello, my dear,” he said, happy-go-lucky as ever. “You look well,” he added, fixing his comb-over.

“He’s in here,” she said, in no mood for pleasantries.

He followed her into the kitchen, where Sam remained in the position in which she’d left him.

“Oh dear,” Dr Macken said, and chuckled. “That does not look good.”

Sam did not respond but Mary could see he wasn’t happy.

Dr Macken put his bag on the table beside Sam. “A cup of tea would be lovely, Mary,” he said, rubbing his hands.

Sam’s face fell and Mary heard him mumble, “You’re kidding me.”

Suddenly she wanted to laugh but suppressed the urge. She turned her back on the disgruntled patient and her GP.

“Now this may hurt but bear with me,” Dr Macken said.

Mary gulped and filled the kettle.

Sam braced himself. “Holy shit!” he cried out.

“Hmm,” Dr Macken observed.

“Ho-ho-ho-lee shit!”