Twenty-Three
‘Hi, darling, you’re late again. Miss the train?’
Ignoring his wife, Cillian O’Donnell hung his black leather jacket on the back of a chair and bent down to whisk his five-year-old daughter, Saoirse, up into his arms.
‘What’ve you been doing while Daddy was at work, you little minx?’
Saoirse snuggled her curly head into the crook beneath his chin and wrapped her arms and legs about his body. He welcomed the scent of peach shampoo and his daughter’s soft skin. Kissing her gently on top of her head, he eased the child to the floor and she dragged him to the kitchen table, where brightly coloured pages were scattered around and brushes stuck out of a jar of water.
‘You were painting,’ he said. ‘Did Mummy help you?’
Saoirse shook her head and stuck her bottom lip out in a scowl.
Keelan said, ‘She was a naughty girl at school today, weren’t you, honey? I only allowed her to paint for half an hour.’
Cillian lowered his head to the paintings, fearing Keelan would see the torment he was desperately trying to hide. He sensed his wife turn from the stove, felt her stare. She was ordinary. Just plain ordinary. Short-cropped black hair, grey eyes, and the only make-up she wore was so minimal that it was invisible. Her body had failed to regain its slender shape after Saoirse’s birth, and he couldn’t forgive her for not trying harder. But only in his head. He didn’t dare say it out loud.
‘Did you forget?’ she asked.
‘Forget what?’
‘The meeting. Tonight. It’s at nine. And you’re just in the door.’ She rubbed her hands dry on a tea towel and sat at the cluttered table. ‘Where were you until now?’
‘Work was mental. I forgot about the meeting. I’ll have a shower, go to the meeting and maybe a bite of dinner before I go to bed.’
‘You can’t go to sleep on a full stomach. It’s bad for you.’ She got up and slapped the tea towel against the edge of the table.
Saoirse flinched and scrambled up onto her father’s knee.
He knew Keelan had tears of anger in her eyes. She liked everything to be exactly on time, the same day after day, no break from routine. In some ways, though not all, she was a carbon copy of his brother’s wife. And both women were copies of Maura, their mother. How did they manage that? He turned his attention to his daughter again.
‘Here, pet, use the red. And there’s a clean sheet of paper. When Daddy comes down from his shower, I want to see a lovely red steam engine.’
‘But I don’t know how to do that. Will Mummy help me?’
He physically shuddered at the loud grunt Keelan emitted, standing beside the sink with her back to him.
At the bookcase, he pulled out one of his many train magazines and opened it at the correct page. ‘There you are now, Saoirse. Copy that one.’
‘It’s too advanced for a five-year-old,’ Keelan said, facing the window. ‘And your father wants you to call him.’
He could see her grimace reflected in the glass. He rolled his hands into fists, quelling the urge to smash them into her face, then turned away and headed for the stairs, pulling off his shirt as he went.
What the hell did his father want with him?
Finn O’Donnell shuffled out of his coat and hung it up on the rack inside the door. One step took him from the hallway into the small living room. Sara was in the scullery. Too small to call a kitchen, she’d said when they moved in with notions that it was only temporary. Five years was too long to live in temporary accommodation, she’d moaned every single bloody night.
‘I’m not staying,’ he said. ‘I’ve to go to a meeting.’
‘You always have something to go to. Can’t you sit in for one night?’
He fell into his armchair without bothering to ask if there was anything to eat. He knew the answer by the whiff of alcohol coming from her breath as she squashed into the chair opposite him. He’d get a takeaway later.
The smack of the glass on the coffee table caused him to look up. Sara was round and plump. Fatty blubber. Hair unwashed, hanging about her shoulders, and she’d worn the same clothes for the last three days. God, why had he ever married her? But he knew why. His mother. Maura had forced his hand once Cillian snared Keelan. He hadn’t been man enough to handle the jibes, the insinuations she flung at him day after day. Finn knew that no matter what he did, he could never be as good as his brother. Not since Lynn had disappeared. Even before she vanished. He was never good enough in Maura’s eyes. And definitely not in his father’s. He really should call over and see how Donal was faring. That could be tomorrow night’s escape.
‘What’s going on in that dim brain of yours?’ Sara’s voice was high and squeaky, like a rat.
‘Don’t,’ he said, standing up. ‘Please don’t start. I’ve had a bitch of a day and I’m not listening to you going on and on about shite.’
‘Go to your silly meeting then. See if I care.’
As he grabbed his coat and opened the front door, he knew he didn’t care either.
The man skulked into the collar of his coat as he drove slowly through the industrial estate then up Gaol Street. He couldn’t count how many circuits of the town he’d done since he’d left the train station. He didn’t want to go home yet. Maybe if he drove around a bit more she would be in bed by the time he got there.
His eyes were blinded by the tears flowing from his eyes. He hastily wiped them away with his sleeve, like a child. He was no longer a child, but he felt like one. And some days he wished he could go back there and start all over again.