The O’Hara Affair (40 page)

Fleur’s hands flew to her mouth.

‘Oh, Jesus, Fleur, don’t look at me like that. You look like you want to kill me.’

‘It’s not you I want to kill, Shane. It’s Corban fucking O’Hara.
Je veux le tuer avec mes mains à moi
– I want to cut his fucking dick off.’

Shane flinched. ‘Couldn’t you just cut up his suits?’

‘
Mais bien sûr!
I’ll do that too. I’ll cut up his suits and cover his car with paint and sew prawns into his fucking curtains.’

The thought of Corban’s curtains filled her with renewed rage. She remembered how she’d phoned him to tell him
that his ‘friends’ were using his apartment again, when all the time Corban had been behind those closed curtains, fucking Nasty Harris. Did he laugh when he thought of Fleur, on the other side of the village, phoning to advise him that he might need the services of her cleaning lady again? A shriek of fury escaped her, and the last tourist to board the coach turned around in alarm.

Shane laid a hand on her forearm. ‘Calm down, Fleur. Calm down and let me buy you a drink.’

She shook her head violently. ‘No. I need to do something.’

‘Oh, God. What are you going to do? Nothing illegal, Fleur, promise me. Please don’t get yourself into trouble over this.’

She shook her head again. ‘Don’t worry, Shane. I just need to think about this.
Viens avec moi
.’

Opening the door to her duplex, she marched up the stairs, Shane following with a ‘What have I got myself into’ expression on his face.

On the deck, Finn was looking blissed out, leaning back in his chair, feet up on the rails, nursing his beer.

‘Hey, Da,’ he said. ‘Are you joining us for a beer?’

‘Um. Am I?’ said Shane.

‘Yes,’ said Fleur, with authority. ‘I’ll get you one.’

She swirled into the kitchen and took a beer from the fridge. From the deck she could hear urgent muttering, and the occasional expletive. Shane must be giving out to Finn about spilling the beans. Her phone was on the kitchen table. Picking it up, she saw that the missed call had been from Corban. Fuck him,
fuck
him! She took a deep breath, and tried to think. From the marina beyond came the low buzz of an outboard motor and the slop, slap wet silk sound of its wash against hulls.

‘Finn?’ she said, going back out with Shane’s beer.

‘Yeah?’

‘Are you going to be doing much diving while you’re here?’

‘I promised to get Da up to advanced standard.’

‘So you have all your scuba kit with you?’

‘Yeah.’

Fleur looked thoughtful as she handed Shane his beer. She reached for the wine bottle and poured herself a large glass; she helped herself to an olive – then changed her mind when she caught Finn’s apprehensive look. She strode to the rail and glared down at the sea, and then her phone rang again. It was Dervla.

‘Fleur – I’m so sorry to have to ask for your help again.’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘It’s Daphne. She’s started talking funny.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘She sounds like she’s speaking ancient Egyptian.’ Dervla sounded as if she was about to cry. ‘I can’t do this any more, Fleur. I’m going to have to get her into a home.’

Setting aside her own concerns, Fleur morphed instantly into the relationships equivalent of an Emergency First Responder. ‘How can I help? Shall I come over?’

‘No. She’s kind of back to normal, and I’ve put her in front of Monty Don, but she gave us both a bad fright.’

‘Have you called the doctor?’

‘No. I can’t be dragging the doctor out again.’

‘Could you take her to A&E?’

‘I’ve had too much to drink, Fleur. Even if I could get her into the car, I wouldn’t be fit to drive.’

‘An ambulance?’

‘I don’t think she’s a candidate for an ambulance. I think she might find it distressing this time, rather than a jaunt, and A&E at this hour of the night could be a bit harrowing. She’s awfully tired.’

‘So what can I do to help, beloved?’

‘What I need is some time off tomorrow, to check out residential homes. She’s going to need professional care. Do you know anyone who could look after her for a few hours? Your cleaning lady, maybe? I’ll pay her the going rate.’

‘She’s in Dublin right now. And I’m so sorry, Dervla, but I just can’t take two days off in a row.’ Finn had wandered into Fleur’s field of vision. ‘Hang on. Finn is here. He might be able to help.’ Fleur covered the mouthpiece with a hand. ‘Are you working tomorrow, Finn?’ she asked.

‘No.’

‘Would you be able to mind Mrs Vaughan while Dervla checks out some nursing homes for her? She likes you, and there’ll be a few bob in it for you.’

‘Sure.’

‘Finn will do it,’ Fleur told Dervla.

‘Oh – thank God! Tell him thank you from me. I’ll phone him in the morning after I’ve set up the interviews.’

‘I’m sorry I can’t be of more help, Dervla.’

‘No worries. You’ve done enough. Oh – I’d better get back to her. She’s whistling for me.’

‘Sounds like she’s back on form, then.’

Dervla gave a tired laugh. ‘’Night, Fleur.’

‘Good night, Dervla. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.’ Fleur set her phone down, and looked at her godson. ‘You, Finn Byrne,’ she said, ‘are a living saint.’

‘I am?’ said Finn.

‘Yes. That’s the third life you’ve saved today. Go register for canonization now.’

‘Um. OK. But here, Fleur – there’s something I find a bit puzzling. Why did you want to know if I had my scuba gear?’

‘Just how difficult is it,’ said Fleur, regarding the
Lolita
bouncing jauntily on her mooring, ‘to scupper a boat?’

After phoning Fleur, Dervla went back into the sitting room. Daphne fixed helpless eyes upon her, and launched once again into ancient Egyptian.

‘Roug ge ug oh her wrds,’ she was saying. ‘Cuming cuming al rong out. Wat rite say. I no dont—’

‘Daphne, Daphne – take it easy!’ said Dervla, hunkering down and taking Daphne’s hand.

Daphne looked not so much unnerved as befuddled. ‘Wrds al rite no rong. Al cum wardback. U no…’

‘I know, I know. I’m listening. I’m trying to make sense of what you’re saying.’

Daphne was talking complete gobbledegook. But after Dervla had listened for a few minutes, she kind of got the gist of what she was saying. It translated as:

‘Happen me not right.’

‘No. You’re not right,’ said Dervla, trying to sound matter-of-fact. She’d got quite good at that matter-of-fact tone over the course of the past week. ‘But don’t worry, Daphne. I’m here to help.’

‘I’m not right, you see. I need to do the right thing. I’m stuck on the wrong side. I’m not
right
, you see.’

‘I will help you find the right thing. I can try.’

‘Will you tell me what to do?’

‘I can’t
tell
you what to do, but I can suggest the right things you are looking for. Would that do? Maybe it’s time to go to bed? It is after your bedtime, you know.’

‘I am not right. I am telling you I am trying I am trying to be right and I’m not. I’m not making sense. I’m on the wrong side now and wroug ge uz oher wrds…Oh!’

Daphne had reverted to indecipherable ancient Egyptian. She clamped her hands over her mouth and gave a shaky laugh as she registered the absurdity of what was pouring out of her mouth.

‘Well, if you’re on the wrong side, we’ll have to try getting you back on the right side, won’t we?’ Dervla was trying hard to be upbeat, but she was feeling very scared. Was the fall earlier that day to blame? Had they missed something in A&E? Should she make arrangements for Daphne to have a CAT Scan? But she’d heard that there were mile-long waiting lists for CAT Scans. Fuck the HSE! In the meantime, she’d just have to cope as best she could. ‘Come on, Daphne. I think you may need to lie down.’

Dervla stood up and reached out her hands, and when Daphne took them, Dervla realized that things must be really bad because for once she didn’t tell Dervla that her hands were like stones. Daphne was really unsteady on her feet as she moved out into the hall, so Dervla led the way down the corridor with her arms out behind her and Daphne clutching onto her going ‘qua qua qua’. When she got into the bedroom, she sat down heavily on the bed with her usual ‘Oof!’ and carried on about being on the wrong side and not being right, and then finished up with ‘I. Am. Dead.’ And she really did look dead – white and exhausted and her eyes stonier and more unseeing than ever.

‘Let’s get you into your nightdress, Daphne. You’ll feel better once we’ve got you into bed.’

Very gently, Dervla eased Daphne’s arms out of her gilet. Then she removed the fawn cashmere jumper, and slowly managed to pull off Daphne’s herringbone trousers. Vest and bra and incontinence pants came next, and then Daphne was shrouded in her nightdress, and Dervla was helping her into fresh incontinence pads because
The Doctor says
.

‘I’m not terribly comfortable, you know,’ said Daphne, as Dervla manoeuvred her legs around, trying to straighten them. ‘It’s always difficult to make yourself comfortable in an unfamiliar bed.’

‘This
is
your bed, Daphne,’ said Dervla.

‘You mean this is the bed I slept in last night?’

‘Yes. You’re in your own bed, in your own bedroom, in your own house.’

‘Is this my house?’

‘Yes. Now. Here’s your pill.’

‘Why do I have to take a pill?’

‘Because if you don’t, you’ll get cranky.’

‘And I’m cranky enough, says you.’

‘Ha ha. There you go. And here’s a little water to wash it down.’ Dervla held the glass of water to Daphne’s lips, then set it down on the table. ‘I don’t think we’ll bother with a story tonight, will we?’ she said, leaning down to give Daphne a kiss on the forehead. ‘You must be tired after talking all that fascinating gobbledegook!’

And Daphne managed a little laugh, and said: ‘Good night, love. Thank you.’

‘Goodnight, Daphne. Sleep tight,’ said Dervla.

After Fleur had said good night to Shane and Finn, she sat glowering at the darkening view, thinking thoughts equally dark. She finished the Chablis and opened another bottle. She wished she’d kept hold of Dervla’s binoculars, so that
she could train her sights on the penthouse at the other end of the village – check out whether the curtains were open or closed, whether there might be a maverick figure on the deck, a giveaway glint of light from a window. And then she thought –
hel
lo
Mesdames et Messieurs
. I can go down there. I told Corban I’d arrange for his cleaning to be taken care of. And since Audrey is unavailable, I’m doing him a big favour by donning the Marigolds myself. What matter that it’s nearly midnight? You’re not going to be there, Mister O’Hara, are you? And if you are, then I simply take some pictures of you and
la belle
Anastasia and threaten you with the tabloids.

After a bottle and a half of Chablis, all this made perfect sense to Fleur. She drained her glass, located the envelope containing the spare keys to Corban’s penthouse, and left her darling duplex, kissing the front door on the way out.

She was still barefoot, she realized abstractedly, as she stepped on to the street, bottle of Chablis clutched in her hand.
Je m’en fou!
Do I give a shit? No, I don’t! There was nobody on the street. The lights were off everywhere in the village, apart from in the O’Reilly household, where she knew a new baby had recently arrived. Fleur rather loved walking drunk and barefoot at midnight through Lissamore. Who would believe, if they happened to look out of their window, that the chic French owner of the village’s only boutique was swaggering along towards her lover’s apartment with steel in her heart and revenge on her mind?

She got there at last, sat on the steps and drooped a little. Then she took a swig from the wine bottle, pulled herself up by the handrail, and leaned hard on the doorbell to Corban’s apartment. Nothing happened. She did it again. Still nothing. She inserted the key in the lock. The lobby smelled new, still, of hard wood and putty and paint. The lift
had not yet been installed – and anyway, Fleur decided, she hated the idea of a lift that would take her just five storeys to the top of the building. Couldn’t Corban and his paramour just fucking
walk
? She climbed the stairs to the penthouse, thrust in the keycard, and entered the password that was scribbled on the envelope. theoharaaffair. Ha ha ha.

There was no one there. She sensed as soon as she passed through the front door into the lobby that the penthouse was empty. Recklessly, she pressed the keys on the panel that would turn on lights all over. The kitchen was her first port of call. There were the half-cleared remains of a fingerfood feast – asparagus, clab claws, shucked oysters. Aphrodisiacs all. Half-a-dozen bottles were lined up on the counter:
Riondo Pink Prosecco Raboso
was the label that leaped up at Fleur. The label that had been on the bottle that Audrey had recycled.
Prosecco
was Nasty Harris’s tipple of choice: Shane had told her that the fridge in her trailer was crammed with the stuff.

The bedroom next. Fleur leaned against the doorjamb, curled her lip, and looked dispassionately upon the king-size bed with the crumpled sheets and discarded negligée. There was a tripod at the foot of the bed. There was an ashtray on the bedside table. She smoked! Ew! Had Corban given a thought to how poor, elderly Audrey might feel at being expected to clear up after his so-called ‘friend’s’ sexfest? Evidently not. Corban quite clearly did not give a fuck about anyone other than himself.

In the sitting room there was evidence that they’d been watching a DVD. Fleur aimed the remote at the screen. It was, as she had expected, a pornographic home movie, starring the ‘child’ star of
The O’Hara Affair
and its executive producer, Mr Corban O’Hara himself. She slid the DVD out of the player. It might come in handy sometime.

His study, next. A snooper’s paradise,
on y va!
Fleur turned on the desktop, and typed in theoharaaffair. The word ‘Welcome’ shimmered onto the screen. What an idiot! What a plonker! How careless of Mr Hotshot O’Hara to use the same password twice!