Powerstone (3 page)

Recognising good advice, Irene
blinked back the tears and took Kendrick’s hand. She would have loved to
squeeze hard, to make him wince, but there was a worldwide audience watching.
‘Congratulations, Kendrick,’ she said as brightly as she could. ‘You will be a
worthy neophyte. You will be just fine.’

‘Well said!’ Ms Manning had been
watching closely, but now transferred her entire attention to Kendrick.

Irene suddenly realised that she
was already pushed out of the picture. Technicians hustled past her as they
wheeled cameras toward the successful neophyte. Two men guided her into a
cluttered dressing room as Kendrick took his place on the table beside Ms
Manning. She felt swift hands remove the green jacket from her shoulders, heard
whispered words of sympathy as a camera focussed on her face. She forced a
smile, as if indifferent that her chance of replacing one of the richest women
in the world had just been replaced by a life branded by failure.

‘You have to make the walk now,’ a
denim-clad technician whispered, and encouraged her with a gentle shove between
the shoulder blades.

The audience continued to chant ‘on
the streets’ as Irene followed the marked route, but she ignored the anonymity
of faces, knowing that although some pitied her, most were gleeful, enjoying
her discomfiture. The voices merged into a single bawl of derision, individual
personalities into a crowd that cried failure, but she blinked away the burning
tears and held her head high. Only when a doorman ushered her out of the studio
did the noise abate. The corridor seemed to stretch into a bleak distance.

‘You did great to get so far,’ the
doorman said, soothingly. He was middle aged and bald, with pouched eyes.

Irene shook her head. ‘I failed,’
she said.

‘You’ll be back,’ the doorman
said, adding earnest words of sympathy that were lost on her. Kendrick was the
lion of the hour but she was only an also-ran, somebody to be moved quickly out
of the vision of a society that worshipped only success.

Away from the cameras, Irene
allowed the emotion to take control as she surveyed her aborted dreams. With
one sentence Ms Manning had changed her life-plan from triumph to survival,
from riches to unemployment. She was indeed on the streets. She felt the
prickle of a tear that she was too late to prevent from coursing slowly down
her cheek. God, but she hoped there were no cameras waiting for her outside.
All she needed was for the world to remember her as the failed contestant with
panda eyes and smudged mascara.

Keeping one hand on her arm, the
doorman guided her along the corridor in which various people hurried, some
giving her curious glances and others completely disregarding her. After weeks
in the public eye, to be ignored was the deepest pain of all.

The studio was only one of a dozen
within the huge communications building, but eventually Irene stumbled out into
48th Street
and the bitter rain of a
New York
fall. There was a limousine
waiting to take her home and a film crew asking more questions. She lifted her
face, allowing the rain to take the blame for any inadequacies of her make up.

‘How do you feel?’

‘It sucks, I mean, truly sucks! I
should have won!’

The camera moved closer, but the
soundman shook his head, ‘sorry, Irene, I did not get that. Could you repeat
it, please?’ He looked eager, aware that he had lost something sensational, but
sense had returned to Irene.

‘I said all congratulations to
Kendrick. He is a worthy winner and I am sure he will do well.’ She forced
another smile, aware that her jaws were aching, reiterated her praise of
Kendrick and said that she was proud to have come so far. She felt sick as the
lights reflected on the wet streets of the city.

The questions continued.

‘What will you do with your life?’

‘Where will you go now?’

‘Did you find the show a positive
experience?’

Irene shook her head. ‘Failure can
never be a positive experience,’ she said as the truth broke through her
professional façade. ‘And what will I do with my life? Does it matter? Anything
else will be second best to this opportunity!’

The reporter drew back, alarmed at
the venom in Irene’s face.

‘Let me out,’ Irene demanded.
‘I’ll walk from here. Let me out!’

‘But the interview?’

‘Your interview sucks!’ Thrusting
open the door, she pushed past the camera crew, straightened her back and
strode around the nearest corner. She did not know in which direction she was
walking, only that she had to escape from the media. Only in constant movement
could she find solace, and there was no better city in which to hide.

New York
and Mannadu, October

The bottles crowded the window ledge,
each one an empty reminder of disgrace. Two had contained champagne, bought for
celebration but drunk in disappointment. One had held
Kentucky
bourbon, its black label peeling
now, and the remainder proclaimed themselves to be the king of beers. Lying
amidst the tangled covers of her bed, Irene squinted through the array of
curved glass at the distorted shape of the window. It was daylight outside,
although she could not determine the time. She raised her head a little, swore
at the pain that such effort caused and carefully sank back down on the pillow.
Beside her, Patrick snored softly.

Failure. The word throbbed inside
her head, reinforcing the thump of her hangover. Failure. She clenched her
fists until her nails dug small semi-circular grooves in the palm of each hand.
She had gambled everything on becoming Ms Manning’s neophyte, but now she must
start again. She had thrown up her job to concentrate on the competition, so
she was back on the streets in reality, seeking employment, seeking a new life,
hiding from humiliation.

Leaving Patrick lying diagonally
across the bed with one arm thrown over the pillow and the other folded beneath
him, Irene pushed herself upright. She slid off the mattress, winced and sat down,
holding her head to compress the pain into manageable proportions. Only when
she convinced herself that there was no alternative did she stagger to the
bathroom, stripping off the silk pyjama shirt that was her only covering.

Setting the power shower to cold,
Irene stepped into the cubicle, squealing as the fierce jets of water hammered
at her. After a few minutes she was unable to bear any more and increased the
temperature before she began to apply shower gel. Sinking into a corner, she
allowed the water to rinse away the lather, and remained there until her
headache began to dissolve and the churning in her stomach settled down.

Removing two painkillers from her
emergency cupboard, Irene thrust them into her mouth and chewed, hating the
taste. Losers did not deserve the luxury of a glass of water in which to
dissolve them. Her stomach protested at this new assault, so she sat down
quickly until the sensation eased.

So she had failed to win a game
show. Irene shrugged as a new recklessness slithered over her. Well, she had
done the very best that she could, but her early life had betrayed her, while
Kendrick’s money and influence had eased his path. Returning to the shower, she
shampooed her hair vigorously and stepped under the nozzle. Streams of soapy
water ran down her body, surging around her feet to drain away as if in
imitation of her hopes. She had failed, but she would not give up on life. Who
was she?

‘I am Irene Armstrong,’ she
reminded herself. ‘I am Irene Armstrong.’ She spoke louder so her name echoed
between the transparent plastic walls of the cubicle. ‘I am Irene Armstrong,
and there is nothing I can not do.’ The phrase came from her childhood, a
simple slogan that had helped her through some very bad times.

Steam from the shower filled the
room as she cleaned a space on the mirror and brushed her teeth, allowing the
toothpaste to foam and drop in frothy globules onto the sink. ‘Damn you
Kendrick, for beating me, and you, Ms Rhondda Manning, for choosing a lesser
contender. I’ll be back,’ she deepened her voice and repeated the words in
imitation of Arnold Schwarzenegger’s famous catch phrase. ‘I’ll be back!’

Vigorously towelling her hair,
Irene returned to the bedroom. Patrick lay exactly as she had left him, face
down on the bed and mouth slightly open. Grinning, she flicked off the covers
and allowed herself the pleasure of admiring his muscular back, with the small
scar just beneath his left shoulder blade and the indentation of his spine that
ran into his smoothly curving bottom. Her smile altered to a sudden frown when
she focussed on the tattoo on his right buttock. Linda had been a previous
girlfriend, in a different life, but Irene always resented that he had chosen
somebody else before her. During their vigorous lovemaking she always raked her
nails across that name, hoping to eradicate the written memory, and now she
delivered a stinging slap to the same target. When he jerked forward she
laughed, stepped back and slapped again, harder. She felt immense pleasure at
Patrick’s yelp.

‘Up you get, lazy! I’ve got a life
to rebuild and you’re going to help.’

He rolled over onto his back and
looked up, one hand clutching at the assaulted area. ‘What the hell was that
for?’

It was his eyes that had first
attracted Irene, a brilliant blue that seemed to hold all the mysteries of the
universe, but now they were shaded through over-indulgence in alcohol. He
blinked, obviously suffering the same agonies that Irene had so recently
endured.

‘Just because it was asking for
it. You’ve got two minutes,’ Irene told him, with no sympathy at all. ‘Then
I’ll take drastic measures.’ She smiled sweetly, tied the towel around her head
and walked to the kitchen to put on the coffee. A glance in the mirror
reassured her that Patrick was watching the emphasised swing of her hips.

The knock at the door seemed to
shake the entire house. ‘Get that, Patrick, I’ve got nothing on.’ Irene waited
for a minute, as the knock sounded again, louder and more urgent than before.
She looked into the bedroom, frowned as she saw Patrick once again recumbent
amidst the sheets, and dragged on his dressing gown. It was many times too
large, with sleeves that flapped loosely over her hands.

‘Who is it?’ Irene peered through
the security glass and saw a tall man who she instantly recognised.

‘Peter Madrid.’ The man held up a
card with his photograph on it and the unmistakable logo of the Manning
Corporation. ‘I wish to speak with you, if it is convenient.’

‘Peter Madrid!’ Irene stepped
back, instinctively putting up a hand to the towel that covered her hair.
Moving swiftly, she kicked shut the bedroom door to conceal both the unmade bed
and its naked occupant, fastened the cord of the dressing gown tighter and
unfastened the security chain. ‘What can I do for you?’ She eased open the
front door, biting back her bitterness. This man had watched her answer a
hundred questions over the last few weeks; he had overseen her on four
different tasks and had reported on her suitability as a neophyte to Ms
Manning. At that minute, Irene had no desire to ever speak to him, or anybody
else from the Manning Corporation, ever again.

Peter stepped in, his suit as
immaculate as ever but his eyes swivelling around the tiny apartment. ‘Ms
Manning sends her apologies for disturbing you,’ he said quietly, ‘and hopes
that you have recovered from any disappointment that you may have experienced
yesterday.’

Irene recommenced the assault on
her hair with the towel as the twin sensations of defeat and failure returned.
‘Yesterday is past,’ she said, shrugging in an attempt to dismiss the
heartbreak as unimportant. ‘It was fun while it lasted.’ She produced a bright
smile. ‘Come in to the living room and I’ll make coffee.’

‘You’re not disappointed then?’
Peter lowered himself into one of the two cream coloured armchairs and raised
an inquisitive eye. He glanced at the framed poster that showed crossed Armalite
rifles in front of an Irish flag and the word Noraid, before switching his
attention to the broken television in the corner of the room. Irene followed
the direction of his eyes. She had watched the videotape that Patrick had made
of
The Neophyte
, until the sight of Kendrick’s triumphant face had
proved too much and she had thrown the remote control at the screen. It was too
late now to hide the evidence.

‘Disappointed?’ Irene pursed her
lips and shook her head. ‘No. It was only a game show. If you wait for a minute
I’ll get the coffee. How do you like it?’

‘Black and strong,’ Peter told
her.

‘Like Kendrick,’ Irene whispered
sotto-voice, closing the door. She quickly squeezed into a pair of tight jeans
and a white blouse, furiously brushed her hair and tied it back, checked her
face in the mirror and groaned. The damp red hair contrasted badly with the
blue shadows under her eyes. She looked exactly like a loser who had spent most
of the night drinking.

Peter was sitting in the same seat
when she returned with the coffee. He continued the conversation as if she had
never been away. ‘If those are your true feelings, then there is absolutely no
reason for me to be here. But I do not believe that they are.’ His eyes again
strayed to the television set. ‘I am sure that I would be sick, bitter and
extremely angry, if I had gone to half the trouble that you did. Sit down.’