Unti Lucy Black Novel #3 (7 page)

 

Chapter Sixteen

F
IONA AND
J
ENNY
were in the changing room of the pool by the time Lucy arrived. She'd just had time to shave her legs and grab her swimsuit and towel on the way back from Doreen's. Her legs stung, spots of blood reddening the skin.

Fiona smiled when she came in, fixing the straps on her suit. She was thin, small-­breasted, with an erect carriage that reminded Lucy of an Irish dancer's. Jenny, though not heavy, did not have the same slim build, no doubt as a result of having three children. Or four. Lucy couldn't remember how many she had.

“Sorry I'm late. Work,” Lucy explained.

“No problem.” Jenny smiled. Lucy sensed she was relieved, perhaps that her sister would believe that they had been planning on swimming anyway.

“This must be a busman's holiday, then,” Fiona said. “The last thing I'd feel like after training all day is swimming.”

It took Lucy a beat to remember that as far as Fiona was concerned, her work was as a fitness instructor.

“It's a warm down,” she said, smiling. She pulled off her tracksuit bottoms.

“Oh,” Jenny said. “That's a nasty cut.”

The comment, though clearly directed at the shaving cut on Lucy's leg, below which a stream of blood had crusted, elicited an instant reaction from Fiona who grabbed her towel and clasped it in front of her, causing both Lucy and Jenny to turn and stare at her. Lucy could see her redden with embarrassment.

“I made a bit of a mess, all right,” Lucy said quickly, keen to save Fiona further scrutiny. “Shall we go?”

T
HE POOL WAS
relatively quiet. A few kids splashed around at the shallow end, while toward the deep end, two earnest swimmers pounded back and forth, parallel to each other, completing length after length.

Lucy eased her way in, then did two breaststroke lengths at an easy pace. She hadn't been swimming for a while; after work she was normally so knackered, she stopped at the café, then fell asleep on the sofa.

She turned onto her back and kicked a length, keeping her arms still by her side, then flipped and did a final few lengths using the front crawl. She felt the muscles across her chest and back tightening against the stroke, felt the tension knot across her shoulders.

Finally, she stopped along the pool's edge to rest. Fiona was completing a breaststroke length. Jenny was in the deep end, crossing back and forth with a furious front crawl, which seemed more splash than swim.

Fiona paddled over to where Lucy sat, treading water.

“I wouldn't want to be whoever she's using that water as a substitute for,” Lucy said, nodding toward Jenny's thrashing.

Fiona laughed. “Probably her kids. I don't know how she does it.”

Lucy nodded, keen not to get too involved in the conversation lest she reveal not only not knowing the children's names, but even not being sure of their age. She glanced across toward the seated area at the edge of the pool. A man, perhaps in his thirties, was sitting alone at one of the tables. For a moment, Lucy assumed that he was the father of the children in the shallow end but, glancing across, she saw that their father was with them. The man sitting at the table was drinking from a Coke can as he returned her stare.

“Voyeur at six o'clock,” Lucy said to Fiona. “Dodgy bloke with Coke.”

Fiona twisted her head to see, pulling her goggles up onto her forehead. She turned suddenly, her face ablaze.

“Do you know him?” Lucy asked, suddenly regretting the “dodgy bloke” comment.

“He's my partner,” Fiona managed.

“Jesus, sorry,” Lucy said. “I didn't mean anything.”

Fiona shook her head. “It's all right,” she said, pulling on her goggles again, as if to resume swimming.

“Did you know that he was here?” Lucy asked.

The girl tossed her head lightly, as if flicking her hair from her face. “I wasn't . . . he must have come afterwards.”

It was such a strange syntactical construction; Lucy guessed she was hiding her embarrassment.

“Does he not trust you to go swimming with your sister?”

Fiona turned suddenly. “He doesn't like being on his own. He feels safe with me around.”

“And how do you feel?”

Fiona dipped her head beneath water then stood. “What about you? Have you a boyfriend?”

“Kind of,” Lucy said. “On and off. It's complicated.”

“Is he married? That kind of complicated?”

The blown-­up-­in-­a-­car-­bomb-­intended-­for-­me kind of complicated,
Lucy thought. Instead, she said, “Something like that. I don't like being hemmed in. Controlled. That's not me.”

Jenny pushed in beside them, the wake of water moving between them. “What's not you?” she asked, nervously.

“Being controlled. Fiona's partner is here.”

Jenny looked across to where the man sat. Aware that he was the topic of conversation, he raised his Coke can in salute. Something about the man was vaguely familiar, but Lucy couldn't place it. She ran the flat of her hand over her face to wipe the pool water from her eyes.

“Wanker,” Jenny spat. “What does he want? Apart from a good slap in the nuts.”

“Don't, Jenny. He's my partner,” Fiona said. “There's a reason I don't visit.”

“Yeah,” Jenny retorted. “Because you're not allowed.”

“Fuck!” Fiona cried. “You're just as bad as him.” She pushed over to the edge of the pool, then, using the edge tiles, pulled herself from the water.

“Fiona,” Jenny said, moving to follow her.

“Leave her a minute,” Lucy said. “Let me speak to her.”

Lucy turned and lifted herself out of the water, too, then padded after Fiona into the changing room.

It was empty inside. The girl had already gone into the shower and was angrily scrubbing at her hair.

“Leave me alone,” she said, when she saw Lucy watching her.

“Are you okay?”

“I want to be left alone. No one leaves me alone. I can't even have a bloody shower without . . . I just want to be alone,” she pleaded.

“Jenny's just concerned about you,” Lucy said. “Try not to be angry at her.”

“What has any of this to do with you? You're not family.”

Lucy shrugged. “I know. Family just nag at you and tell you what to do. Trust me, I know. You should meet my mother. I'm not going to tell you anything. I just wanted to know if you were okay.”

Fiona stared at her. “I'm just fed up,” she stated. “I'm sick of ­people treating me like I'm weak. Vulnerable. Like I'm stupid.”

“You're not stupid,” Lucy said. “Or weak.”

“Jenny was always like that. Ever since I met John, she's been nagging at me. That's why we don't visit. He doesn't like her.”

“Just because he doesn't like your sister shouldn't stop
you
from seeing her.”

“It's not . . . it's complicated,” she echoed. “John likes being with me. He likes going with me wherever I go.”

“Everywhere?”

Fiona shrugged.

“What if you want to go out with friends for the night?”

“I, ah . . . I don't . . .” She cleared her throat. “I don't really have friends. My friends are his friends.”

“Were they yours first or his?”

Fiona stared at her. “I know what you're doing. You're the same as Jenny.”

“Jenny's concerned for you, Fiona. She cares about you.”

“So does John.”

Lucy waited a beat. “Did he tell you that before or after he split your lip?”

The girl stared at her, the water running down her face, dripping from her chin onto the rise of her chest. Lucy noticed something at the curve of the top of her costume. She moved toward the girl, who backed away slightly.

“I'm not going to hurt you,” she said. “You have a bruise showing on your chest.” The mark was still partially red at the center, purpling around the edges. It was no bigger than a ten pence piece; the tip of a finger. Lucy guessed there would be four corresponding concentric marks around it where John had gripped her. She worked hard to keep her tone even, so as not to betray the building anger she felt at the sight of the injury.

Fiona glanced down, then tugged at the collar of the swimsuit, pulling it over where the upper edge of the bruise had shown.

“I walked into the wardrobe door, at home,” she said, quickly.

“You know that's why they choose places like that,” Lucy said. “Somewhere that no one will see the injuries.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Fiona said. “I had an accident. I'm clumsy. John tells me that all the time. I'm so clumsy I'd fall down the stairs if he wasn't there to look out for me.”

“Is that what he says? They do that. Make themselves feel big, powerful. Disempowering you to make themselves feel in control.”

“I don't know what you mean,” Fiona said, turning and grabbing the towel from the hook where she had hung it.

“There are ­people who can help, Fiona. If you want. You don't have to put up with anything.”

“I'm not putting up,” she said. “You're imagining things.”

“I can help you,” Lucy said. “If you want help, I can help you. Not because I think you're weak, or vulnerable. But because I don't like seeing ­people being hurt.”

Fiona stared at her. Her mouth worked silently, as if she was trying to formulate some objection or denial, but could find nothing adequate to convince either herself or Lucy.

“I'm not telling you what to do,” Lucy said. “I'm offering you help if you want it. I don't really have many friends either, so I'm in no position to comment on anyone else.”

 

Chapter Seventeen

L
UCY ENDED UP
waiting in the foyer for Jenny to get showered and changed. Fiona told her that she had to go on and to tell her sister that she would call her later, something which they both knew was untrue even as the girl said it.

She waved and smiled mildly as she moved through the automatic doors out into the car park. Only then did John appear. He'd been leaning against the outer wall, speaking with someone on his mobile. Or at least having given the impression that he had been, perhaps to justify hanging around outside, waiting for Fiona.

As the ­couple walked to the car, he spoke earnestly at her, his head turned toward her, her own bowed. At one point he draped his arm across her shoulders, but she sidestepped out of his embrace.

Jenny appeared from the changing room. “Has she gone already?” she asked, the flush rising from her throat into her face.

“She said she'd call later,” Lucy said.

Jenny snorted disparagingly. “She will, my arse. Is
Sleeping with the Enemy
with her?”

Lucy nodded, trying not to smile at the name.

Jenny cracked a brief smile of her own at Lucy's discomfort. “Listen. Sorry you've been dragged into all this. Dermot thought he was being helpful last night calling for you. She was in such a state when she arrived. I should have known it wouldn't last for long.”

“Has he hit her before?” Lucy asked, shouldering her bag. They moved out into the evening air. The few scraps of cloud in the sky were high and thin, reflecting the lowering sun along their gilded edges. The air felt cool compared the humidity of the leisure center.

“I don't honestly know,” Jenny said. “As you can probably tell, we've lost contact a fair bit.”

“Since he came along?”

“Fairly much. At first they would visit us together. They were inseparable, the way you are in the first flush of love. I could tell our kids annoyed him, but he tolerated them. Then she started to cancel visits, always with some excuse: she wasn't feeling well; John was tired after work; he'd an important meeting that had overrun.”

“What's he do?”

“He works for the Council.”

“He looked familiar,” Lucy said. “I can't place him, though. What's his name?”

“John Boyd. He was in all the papers at the start of the year. As part of the City of Culture celebrations, the council had promised to clean up the city center. All the abandoned buildings?”

Lucy nodded.

“The recession has closed down so many businesses there were all these empty buildings, making the place look rundown. He came up with the plan to put false fronts on them. Barricading up the old broken windows with wooden boards with nice bright windows painted on them.”

Lucy laughed. “I've seen those.”

“In fairness, they do work,” Jenny admitted begrudgingly. “The place looks better. Even if a dick like him was behind it.”

“Does he not trust her to go out on her own?”

“She doesn't go out on her own. She'd her phone off last night when she was in our house. Do you know how many missed calls she had from him when she turned it on again? Ninety-­three!”

“Maybe he felt guilty,” Lucy reasoned.

“He felt out of control,” Jenny retorted. “She was out of his control for an hour and it must have driven him nuts.”

Lucy nodded. “Look, I'm not sure what good I can be. The pattern is so familiar it's infuriating. Unless she presses charges, though, we can't touch him. And if we tried to, you can be sure she'd back him up. She had . . .” Lucy paused, unsure whether telling Jenny would do any good. In the end, she reasoned that Fiona's sister had a right to know. “She had a bruise on her breast. A grip mark. I'd bet there were more. When I asked her about it, she said she walked into a wardrobe.”

“Bastard! A wardrobe this time? It was the cupboard last night. She'll be running out of doors soon,” Jenny hissed. “Why doesn't she—­? How can she be so weak?”

Lucy held up her hand. “I understand how you feel, Jenny. But, much as I'd love to nail his balls to the wall myself, there's nothing you can do, except be there for her and support her. It's all part of the pattern. She's not being weak; he will have systematically made her feel that she needs him to be worthwhile. What she really needs is someone to be nonjudgmental with her. When she starts to see through his bullshit, she'll maybe look to break away from him a little more.”

T
HE HOUSE WAS
quiet, the rooms dark when Lucy got home. Increasingly, she found herself creating excuses to stay away from home in the evenings. She found the silence oppressive. She'd friends at work, Tara being the obvious one, but none of them visited her at home, nor she them. She'd always tried to keep work separate from home life, not least having seen the impact it had on her own family growing up. The problem was, increasingly she was beginning to wonder if she had much of a life at home. Even with Robbie, her partner, she realized that she went to his rather than him coming to her home. And even those visits were becoming further and further apart.

She turned on the television in the living room, if only to create noise in the house, a pretense of activity. The news was full of images from Belfast where loyalist protestors continued to riot after a parade was refused permission to pass a nationalist area of the Ardoyne. First flags, now parades. The newscaster was commenting on how it was a return to the bad old days, that these issues had been reignited. Lucy shook her head. The issues had always been there, just below the surface. Like love, the first flush of peace was idyllic, such a contrast to what had gone before, that you were prepared to overlook the flaws; indeed were blind to them. The real test was always going to be the long haul: the ability to face the imperfections and still decide that it was worth sticking with, that the good outweighed the bad.

Strangely, the trouble had not reached Derry. In fact, as a result of local dialogue and accommodation, the twelfth of July parades had gone through the city without incident, as part of the bigger Culture celebrations of the year. While the bonfires burned across the rest of the North, Derry had danced to its own unique tune.