Alexandra, Gone

Alexandra, Gone - Anna McPartlin

Acknowledgments

The first time I heard Jack Lukeman sing, we were both teenagers. His voice was as big then as it is now, and it’s something I’ll never forget. He was a kid and he could silence a room full of adults with just one bar of “Summertime.” I’ve witnessed his talent and career unfold over the past twenty years, and some of my best times have been hanging out with one or all of the Jack camp. I was there in the beginning, when Jack led the Black Romantics and they played night after night in the Da Club. I took my turn selling the first album, Wax, during the intermission. Once or twice I was roped into carrying gear through the streets of Dublin heading for 38 South Circular Road, which was the Jack base camp for all of the nineties. So many demos were recorded there; so many people lived there on and off: Jack in the back flat, David in the front, Martin upstairs. There was always something going on. Football, EU canned meats, comedy gigs, phone calls to and from America in the middle of the night, drums, bass, vocals, drinking, smoking, laughing. When I think about the nineties I think about 38 SCR, and it always makes me smile. The first time I conceived the smallest kernel of the idea for Alexandra, Gone was while standing on a balcony with Martin, looking down at the crowd at a sellout show. Onstage Jack was singing and doing his thing, but it was the crowd that captured my imagination. They were in awe, transfixed and completely silent. I made a joke to Martin that we should set up a church, the Church of Jack, and make some real money. The image stayed with me, and over the years, seeing a lot of the same faces come to show after show, the idea of fans becoming friends wouldn’t let go. I spoke to Jack, Martin, and David about the idea for this book as early as two years ago, and not only were they really supportive but they gave me carte blanche to incorporate all of Jack’s material. I’m so grateful to them for trusting me not to f##k up. If you read this book and your interest in Jack Lukeman is piqued, his website is www.jacklukeman.com. I hope you enjoy his music as much as I do.
So to all in the Jack camp, beginning of course with Jack Lukeman, thank you for the songs and the laughter over the past twentysomething years. Martin Clancy, you are and always will be one of my best friends and I’ll be forever grateful for the day you walked into my world. David Constantine, that night in Northumberland Road, me on crutches, the meter out of coins, and a lunatic screaming the words “I’ve gone blind”—that was our Vietnam. I love you, man! Myra Clancy, you rock, and Patricia Clancy, I can honestly say there isn’t one of us you haven’t mothered at some point. Thank you.
I also thank Ken Browne. When my husband introduced us fifteen years ago, Ken was a guitar player in a rock band. We lost contact and didn’t see him for years, and when we reconnected we discovered that he had transformed into an incredible artist. He, like me, is inspired by music and uses it in his work. He’s energetic, with the ability to say more in a minute then some say in a lifetime. He’s deeply passionate about his work, and when I’m around him he reminds me how lucky we are to be in a position to be creative and to do the things we love doing. (When my pal Enda reads this he will yawn and make an unseemly gesture with his right hand. Apologies, Enda, I’m finished; the luvvy has left the room.) I asked Ken if I could pick his brain for this book and also asked if I could include him. He was kind enough not only to grant me my wish but also to act excited about it. So thanks again for your enthusiasm, exuberance, and the beautiful painting that rests on my sitting-room wall. For anyone who wishes to view the works I mention in the book, his website is www.kenbrowneart.com.
I thank all my other pals whom I’ve mentioned in the three other books, my family, and everyone at Poolbeg, especially Paula Campbell and Gaye Shortland, Valerie Kerins for being as good a PR agent as she is a friend, and Faith O’Grady, my ever-patient agent. I thank Rowohlt Germany, Pocket Books USA, and Penguin UK for all their support and hard work on my behalf. I thank my husband for his love, support, and kindness, and finally, I thank anyone who has taken the time to read these acknowledgments!




1

“Universe”

Oh nothing lasts forever,
you can cry a million rivers,
you can rage it ain’t no sin
but it won’t change a thing,
’cos nothing lasts forever.
Jack L, Universe

Alexandra

June 21, 2007

Tom,
When you are shopping can you pick up the following:
Bread
Milk x 2
Water x 4
Spaghetti
Mince (Lean! Make sure it’s lean and not the stuff they call lean and charge half price, because it’s not lean. I want lean cut right in front of you and I don’t care how much it costs.)

Tin of tomatoes
Basil
Garlic
Wine, if you don’t still have a case or two in the office, and make sure it’s not Shiraz. I’m really sick of Shiraz.
If you want dessert pick something up.
I’m meeting Sherri in Dalkey for a quick drink at 5. She has the Jack Lukeman tickets so I took money from the kitty to pay for them. I’m taking a ticket for you so if you don’t want to go, text me. I’ll be home around 7:30. Your aunt called. She’s thinking about coming to Dublin next weekend. Try and talk her out of it. I’m exhausted and can’t handle running around after her for 48 hours straight. Your aunt is on cocaine. I’m not messing. An intervention is needed.
Oh, and dishwashing liquid. And will you please call someone to get the dishwasher fixed?
OK see you later.
Love you,
Alexandra
P.S. When somebody close to you dies, move seats.
God, I love Jimmy Carr.

Alexandra laughed and put her note up on the fridge and held it in position with her favorite magnet, a fat, grinning pig rubbing his tummy. She was damp and sweaty, having run five miles, which was a record, and she was extremely pleased. She unclipped her iPod from her tracksuit, placed it on the counter, and headed upstairs to the shower. There she sang Rihanna’s “Umbrella” and did a little dance move before rinsing shampoo out of her hair. Forty-five minutes later she walked down the stairs with her shoulder-length glossy chestnut hair perfectly coiffed. She was wearing her favorite black trousers and a black fitted blouse complete with a large bow. She stopped at the hall mirror and applied lipstick and then rooted some lip gloss out of her handbag and applied that too. She stared at herself in the mirror for a moment or two, sighed, and mumbled something about Angelina Jolie crapping her pants. She smiled at her own joke while putting on her jacket. She picked up her handbag and walked out the door.
Alexandra walked along her own street and waved at Mrs. Murphy from No. 14. Mrs. Murphy was busy sweeping her step, but she waved and called out that it was a lovely day. Alexandra smiled and told her it was perfect. She waited for the DART and listened to a man talk about cruelty to animals to Joe Duffy on Joe’s radio show Liveline. It was too sad, so she switched from her radio to her music collection and stopped humming along to James Morrison’s “Last Goodbye” only when she realized that three pimpled teenagers were laughing and pointing at her. She stuck out her tongue and grinned at them, and they laughed again. She sat on the train next to a man in his fifties. He asked her to wake him at Tara Street Station if he fell asleep, explaining that there was something about moving trains that always made him sleep. She assured him she would wake him, and true to his word he was snoring less than five minutes later. Coming up to Tara Street, she tapped his arm gently; nevertheless, he woke with a start. He thanked her once he regained his senses and made his way off the train. He forgot his bag and so she ran after him and handed it to him, and he was grateful, but she was in a hurry to get back on the train, so she just waved and ran.
The woman sitting opposite her grinned and nodded. “My own dad would forget his head,” she said.
Alexandra smiled at her. “He was sweet.”
The woman nodded again. Alexandra got off the train in Dalkey. The woman got off at the same station, but neither made eye contact.
Alexandra made her way through the station and out into the sunshine. She continued straight onto the main street and took the left at the end of the street, after that she took a right and then another left, and after that Alexandra was gone.
Elle

Sunday, December 31, 1989

Dear Universe,
Please don’t send a fiery ball of hellfire comet thing to kill us all. I’m only eight so if I die now I won’t get to do anything that I really want to. Miss Sullivan thinks that I could be an artist. If I’m dead I can’t paint and I love painting and living. Margaret Nolan says that everyone thinks that we’re going to be nuked in 1999 but the real truth is that a flaming ball of death is going to crash into earth at the stroke of midnight tonight. She sits next to me in class and sometimes smells like a hospital. Her dad’s a scientist and he told her so she has a good chance of being right. She’s already given her pocket money to the poor and says I should do the same so that when our time comes God will think we’re decent enough sorts and let us into heaven. I forgot to go to the church to put money in the poor box because I got carried away working on a painting of my family dying in dancing fire. Jane says I’m a depressing little cow. She’s always in a bad mood lately. Mum says it’s because she’s a teenager, she’s fighting with her boyfriend, and she’s got fat. She thinks being eight is the same as being slow but I know Jane is pregnant because they shout about it all the time. I’m not slow and I’m not deaf either. I feel sorry for the baby because if we all die tonight it will never have known life but then again maybe that’s for the best.
OK, here are my promises to you if we make it past midnight.
1. I’ll be good.
2. I’ll do what my mum tells me to.
3. I won’t swear.
4. I won’t tell any lies unless my mum asks me to (see promise 2).
5. I’ll be nicer to Jane.
6. I’ll paint every day.
7. I’ll help Jane take care of Mum a bit more. (I can’t help all the time—see promise 6.)
8. I’ll give my pocket money to the poor tomorrow morning.
9. I’ll be nice to Jane’s baby because I’ve a feeling I might be the only one.
10. I won’t listen to anything Margaret Nolan has to say again.
And, Universe, if we do all die in fire tonight, thanks for nothing.
Yours,
Elle Moore
XXX
That was the first letter Elle Moore wrote to the Universe, and once it was written she folded it and put it into an old shortbread tin. After her supper, she tied her long brown hair in a knot and dressed in her brand-new Christmas coat, hat, and gloves, and her sister Jane’s favorite tie-dye fringed scarf. She made her way down toward the right-hand side of the long garden, where she dug a hole between her mother’s roses and the graves of four dead gerbils—Jimmy, Jessica, Judy, and Jeffrey. Once the tin was placed in the hole and its earth returned, she made a promise to herself that if she did live past midnight on that thirty-first of December in 1989, the following year she’d retrieve her letter and replace it with another. Little did she know back then that Elle Moore would continue to write letters to the Universe every New Year’s Eve for the next eighteen years.
Jane

May 5, 1990

“Dear Mrs. Moore,
“I am writing to you today about my concerns regarding your daughter Jane. I have attempted to reach out to Jane on a number of occasions in recent times but to no avail. As you are well aware, I have also attempted to communicate with your good self, but that too has proved difficult/nigh on impossible. Therefore, I am now left with no choice but to write this letter.
“It is clear to the teaching staff and to the student body that Jane is in the latter stages of pregnancy and so it is now urgent that we speak. Jane’s schoolwork and attendance suffered immeasurably last term, and as a Leaving Cert student she now faces her mock examinations unprepared and with motherhood imminent. Jane seems to be incapable of coming to terms with her condition, as it would appear are you, but we in St. Peter’s cannot simply stand by and act like nothing is happening to this seventeen-year-old girl.
“I urge you, Mrs. Moore, to phone me or to come in to the school and meet with me at any time convenient for you. I cannot allow this silence to continue any longer, and so if we do not hear from you within the next week we will be forced to ask your daughter not to return to school until such time as communication has been reestablished.
“Over the years, Jane and I have had our disagreements. Her flagrant disregard for our rules regarding smoking on school premises and the Irish stew incident that led to a fire in the home economics room are only two of the episodes I could mention. As you are aware, we’ve butted heads on many more occasions, especially when she came to school with purple hair or indeed during her thankfully short-lived Cure-inspired Gothic phase. This school has a zero-tolerance policy when it comes to the presentation of its students, but I must admit, though exasperated by her opposition and having to endure debate on many occasions, she conveyed her points ably and with admirable passion. The reason I mention this is that although our relationship as principal and student is checkered, I feel it necessary to make it clear that Jane is a very clever girl, bright and articulate, and I have often thought that this girl could do anything she set her mind to, and in twenty years I have thought that only a handful of times. I am worried for her, Mrs. Moore. She has lost her sparkle and her fight. The girl I knew and, despite our differences, have a great fondness for has all but disappeared.
“Teenage pregnancy is terrible and absolutely not to be encouraged, but support is not the same as encouragement, and with support Jane could continue her studies and fulfill her ambitions. Surely it is not the end for a girl such as Jane?
“Please come and speak to me for Jane’s sake. Don’t leave me with no option but to expel such a talented young girl from our school.
“Kindest regards,
“Amanda Reynolds
“Principal Amanda Reynolds”
Jane finished reading the letter aloud and blew her blond fringe out of her eyes while waiting for her best friend’s response. Alexandra twirled her chestnut hair around her finger and stared at it in silence.
After a few seconds she shrugged. “Jesus, who knew Reynolds had a heart?”
Jane felt like crying because her principal had responded to her crisis pregnancy with far more kindness and understanding than her own mother, who had one tantrum after another since Jane’s condition was revealed months previously. During her latest tantrum she took the time to mention how much money she had pissed into the wind by sending Jane to private school and told Jane in no uncertain terms that her education was over because only a bloody childless spinster like Amanda Reynolds could possibly think that having a baby at seventeen didn’t mean an end to an academic career. She slammed the door on exiting the room, not once but twice for effect.
On that afternoon and for the first time Jane truly acknowledged the predicament she was in and how badly wrong her life had gone. She realized that she would miss her principal and she would miss school and the opportunity to go to college. She’d miss her friends, who except for Alexandra had drifted away during her pregnancy, and she’d miss Dominic even though he was avoiding her and was completely ignoring the fact that she was carrying his child. She could see through his schoolyard bravado and recognized his pained expression and haunted look, and she loved him.
Following an argument with Dominic’s parents, who had dared to imply that Jane was a little whore, her mother had made it clear that if she saw him anywhere near their property she’d attack him with a shovel, and Jane’s mother did not make threats of violence lightly. Once when Jane was seven a man had come to their door. He was buying and selling antiques. Her mother said she wasn’t interested but he spied an antique table in the hall. He put his foot in the door and attempted to change her mind about doing business. She reiterated that she had no interest and told him if he didn’t remove his foot from her door she would hurt him. He laughed at her. “No can do,” he said, and his foot remained in the door. She counted down aloud from five to zero. He continued to push his foot farther into her hallway, all the while grinning stupidly at her. It was clear to Jane’s mother that this man believed her to be a stupid, incapable woman and that she would not or could not keep her promise. When she got to zero, she calmly reached for an umbrella that she kept by the door and, releasing the door, shoved the umbrella with full force into his stomach. Startled, he bent forward, clutching his midriff. She then bopped him on the head, not once or twice but three times. He fell backward; she smiled politely, said good day to him, and left him winded and slightly dazed on her doorstep. Jane remembered the incident well because she had stood at the window watching the man sit on the step for what seemed like a long time before he was capable of getting up. Her mother had joined her just as he was leaving. “Good riddance,” she’d said with a genuine smile. “You know, Janey, there is nothing quite like giving a smug arrogant cock like him a good dig to cheer up an otherwise gray day.” Jane knew that if her mother had enjoyed giving that cock a dig because he put his foot in her doorway, she would definitely enjoy slapping Dominic in the face with a shovel for putting his cock in her daughter.
After Alexandra had read the letter a few more times and lamented with Jane over her mother being a bigger bitch than Alexis on Dynasty, she opened the first of six cans of Ritz. Later, when Jane was drunk on one can and Alexandra was on her third, Jane compared her and Dominic’s plight to that of Romeo and Juliet. Alexandra expunged Jane’s fanciful theory in an instant.
“It’s like this, Janey,” she said. “Romeo didn’t get Juliet up the pole and then dump her at a disco.”
“I know, but his parents made him give me up and—”
“And anyway,” Alexandra said with drunken authority, “as bad as your situation is with Dominic, you don’t want to be anything like Romeo and Juliet because Romeo and Juliet is a shit love story. Romeo was a shallow slut, Juliet was pathetic and needy, their families were killing each other, and they were in love one stupid day before they were married and then dead. Romeo and Juliet weren’t star-crossed lovers, they were white trash.”
“When you put it that way,” Jane said sadly.
“Can you believe Miss Hobbs only gave me a C in English? I may not be able to spell ‘apothecary,’ but I have insight. That woman doesn’t know her ass from her elbow.”
Then Alexandra threw up in Jane’s wastebasket.
After that they talked about how Jane could win Dominic back, but neither came up with a workable solution, and so they agreed that Jane should just wait it out.
“As far as I’m concerned he’s just a cock artist, but I know you love him, so it will work out,” Alexandra said.
“He’s more than a cock artist,” Jane said.
“I disagree,” Alexandra said, burping Ritz.
“He’s the one,” Jane said.
Alexandra sighed and tapped her can. “He’ll come back, Janey. He’ll see you in school every day and he’ll miss you. Just give it some time.” She stopped in time to throw up again, wiped her mouth, and sighed. “That’s better. What I was I saying?”
“‘Just give it some time,’” Jane said.
“Exactly. And anyway you still have me.”
“I know.”
“You will always have me.”
“I know.”
“Even if I get Science in Cork because, let’s face it, I’m not going to get into UCD, you still have me.”
“I’ll miss you,” Jane said.
“You won’t have to,” Alexandra promised. “I’ll be home every other weekend, and you can come and stay with me.”
“I’ll have a baby.”
“Leave it with your mum.”
“She’s made it clear she’s not a babysitter.”
“She’s such a cow.”
“Yeah, she is.”
“I love you, Jane.”
“I love you too, Alex.”
They were interrupted by Jane’s mother, who was even drunker than Alexandra and determined to fight.
“Go home, Alexandra.”
“I’m going home.”
“So go!”
“I’m going.”
“So get out!”
“Jesus, what’s wrong with you, woman? Can’t you see I’m trying to get up?”
Jane helped her friend into a standing position.
“See,” Alexandra said with arms outstretched, “I’m off !” She weaved through the corridor and walked out the front door. She turned to say good-bye, but Jane’s mother slammed the door in her face.
Jane’s mother turned to her. “She’s not welcome here anymore.”
“She’s my best friend.”
“Yeah, well, kiss your best friend good-bye.”
That was the last time Alexandra was in Jane’s house. Jane gave birth to a son two weeks later and, although they maintained a friendship for four months after that, when Jane became a mother and Alexandra went to college in Cork, they lost contact. Over the next seventeen years Jane often thought of her friend, and she missed her.
Leslie

June 5, 1996

Dear Jim,
It’s time to talk about Leslie. We both know she’s stubborn and cut off, and we both know why. When I’m gone you’ll be all she has left in this world and I know it’s a big ask, but please look out for her.
We’ve talked about you remarrying, and you know I want you to find someone to love and to love you. I want you to have a great new life that doesn’t include overcrowded hospitals, dismissive doctors, overworked nurses, and cancer. I want you to find someone strong and healthy, someone you can go on an adventure with, someone you can make love to, someone who doesn’t cause you anguish and pain. Every time I see your face it hurts because for the first time I see that in loving you I’ve been selfish and I understand why Leslie is the way she is.
Leslie is a better person than me. I know you’re probably guffawing at that as you read, but it’s true. She’s watched her entire family die of cancer, and when we were both diagnosed with the dodgy gene after Nora’s death she made the decision not to cause pain to others the way Nora caused pain to John and Sarah and I’m causing pain to you. Before cancer she was smart and funny, kind and caring, and she still is to me. Without her care I wouldn’t have coped. I know sometimes she calls you names, but trust me, she knows you’re not a monkey so when she calls you an ass picker, ignore it and be kind.
I thought she was being defeatist. I thought that we’d suffered enough as a family and that we’d both survive. So I made plans and fell in love and for a while we had a great life but then that dodgy gene kicked in. Now I see you look almost as ill as I feel, and I realize that my sister Leslie knew exactly what she was doing when she broke up with Simon and all but closed off. I watched her disappear from her own life. I thought she was insane back then, but it makes sense now. She put the pain of others before her own. She watched John and Sarah suffer after Nora, and she’ll watch you suffering after me, and although she pretends not to like you, she does, and it will hurt her and it will also confirm for her that she is right to remain alone waiting for a diagnosis that may never come.
I’m her last family and friend. She hasn’t even let herself get to know her niece, and so when I’m gone she’ll have no one and that haunts me. Please go and live your life but all that I ask is that every now and again, no matter how rude or uninviting she may seem, call her, talk to her, be her friend even if she fails to be yours, because she has been there for me, for Mum, for Dad and Nora, and I can’t stand the idea that after everything she’s been through she should live or die alone.
I know I say it all the time and in all my little notes and letters about this and that, but time is running out and I need you to know that it’s been a privilege to be your wife. And although I feel selfish for all the pain I’ve caused you, I know I’ve brought happiness too, so hang on to that and forgive me because even knowing what I know now I’d love and marry you again. I suppose Leslie would say I was a selfish pig, but I can die with that.
Yours,
Imelda
Imelda Sheehan died at eight o’clock on the morning of July 12, 1996. She was twenty-five years old. Her husband, Jim, was by her side and holding her right hand, and sitting on the opposite side of the bed and holding her left hand was her sister Leslie. They both felt her slip away at exactly the same time. For Leslie it was familiar: the ocean of grief inside her swelled and rose, but she knew what to do, and so she remained still and allowed the pain to wash over her. For Jim it was so shocking: one second his wife was alive and battling to breathe, the next she was dead and silent. He let Imelda’s hand go and stood up quickly, so quickly that he nearly fell. He steadied and hugged himself. He stood in the corner of the room as the doctor and nurses approached to confirm time of death. Leslie sat with her dead sister Imelda, holding her hand for as long as they would allow her. Jim cried, and his parents, brothers, and friends made a fuss over him. Leslie sat alone and frozen. She knew the physical pain that made her heart feel like it was about to explode and her ears ring until she feared they’d bleed would dissipate in time, just as the tide would turn and with it Imelda would drift farther and farther away until she was a distant memory and it only served to make her loss greater. Leslie had just turned twenty-seven.
Jim asked Leslie to read at the funeral, but she refused. He asked her to sit beside him in the first pew when she’d attempted to sit at the back of the church. She told him she didn’t want to shake hands with the people whose hands she had shaken so many times before, but Jim was not taking no for an answer, and so she found herself sitting beside her brother-in-law with a heavy heart and an all-too-familiar swollen hand from those whose earnest sympathy ensured they squeezed too tight.
When the priest asked if anyone would like to speak, Leslie stood up. This surprised her and those around her, especially Jim, who couldn’t even get her to agree to a reading. She found herself standing without reason. The priest asked her to come forward, but her legs refused to comply with his request, and so he waited and the congregation waited, and Jim nudged her and asked if she was all right. What the hell am I doing? she asked herself as she started to move toward the altar, but once she was at the altar and standing in front of a microphone the words came easily.
“I am the last of the five Sheehans,” she said. “Four days ago there were two of us—me, the middle child; and Imelda, the baby of the family. I should have been next, and not just because I was older but because Imelda was the strong one, the one who embraced life regardless and without fear. Over the years she’s run five marathons in aid of cancer. I didn’t even walk for cancer, not even once—mostly I’ll avoid even standing if I can.” She stopped to take a breath. There was a hint of a titter from the crowd. “She fell in love and married Jim, and she always planned to have kids. Imelda always made plans, and that’s what I admired about her most, because even when she was diagnosed with the same cancer that had killed our grandmother, our mother, father, and sister, she still made plans. She froze her eggs and they bought a house, and when she wasn’t in chemo she traveled. Even when she knew her life was coming to the end, she still made plans. Little plans that don’t mean much to most, like ‘Tonight we’ll reminisce about the summer we spent in Kerry’ or ‘Tomorrow when the sun comes out we’ll sit in the hospital grounds and watch the people come and go and make up stories about who and what they are.’ She even planned her own funeral. She knew exactly what she wanted—the kind of casket, the flowers, the priest, the prayers, the attendees. She asked me once if I would speak at her funeral and I said no. I’m sorry, Imelda, of course I’ll speak for you. I just was scared that I wouldn’t know what to say and I didn’t want to let you down. So I’ll just end by saying this: I miss my dad, my mum, my sister Nora, and now I miss my sister Imelda, and I’m so sorry because it should have been me, but I will see you all again and soon.”
Leslie’s voice was cracking, her eyes were streaming, and her nose was running. She walked toward her seat, and once she’d accepted a tissue from Jim she sat with her head in her hands, attempting to regain composure but finding it almost impossible to do so. Back then her hair was still jet-black, she was slim, and although she was not a natural beauty, she was striking. The people sitting in pews behind her felt nothing but pity for this young woman who was merely waiting for her turn to die. Later, by the side of the grave, she watched Jim grieve, and if there was something she could have said to make him feel better she would have said it, but there wasn’t, so she stood in silence waiting for the day to end so that she could disappear behind her closed door and wait for the inevitable. It never occurred to her that she’d still be waiting for the inevitable twelve years later.
Tom

August 25, 2007

Transcript of Liveline radio show with Joe Duffy

“I have a Tom Kavanagh on the line. Tom, are you there?”
“I am, Joe.”
“Tom, you are trying to find your lovely wife, Alexandra.”
“Yes, Joe.”
“She went missing on the twenty-first of June this year?”
“It was Thursday, the twenty-first of June.”
“Tell us about it, Tom.”
“I don’t know where to start. She was last seen in Dalkey and now she’s gone.”
“Okay, okay, all right. How about you tell us a little about her?”
“She’s funny, she’s giddy, she’s kind, she’s friendly, she’s fussy, she’s lovely, Joe.” Caller becomes emotional.
“The police have managed to retrace her steps as far as Dalkey. Can you tell us about that?”
“She left the house in Clontarf around two p.m. She said hello to a neighbor who verified the time. She walked to the train station, and three teenagers who were there came forward to say that they witnessed her getting on the train. She’s also captured on CCTV footage on the platform at Tara Street at three thirty, but she got back on the train. After the train stations were canvassed, a woman came forward and identified her as getting off the train in Dalkey. She was captured on CCTV footage again there but after that ….” Caller becomes emotional.
“And after that?”
“She was gone. She’s just gone.”
“Ah God, that’s desperate. What time was that?”
“It was approximately four p.m.”
“And where were you?”
“I was working. We were finishing a project in Blackrock.”
“It says here you’re a builder.”
“I am.”
“So when did you realize that she was missing?”
“I was supposed to be home by four. I had promised to make dinner because Alexandra was meeting her friend Sherri to collect tickets for a gig from her. She had left a note saying she’d be home by seven thirty. But I was delayed on site. I didn’t get in until nine p.m.”
“When did you raise the alarm, Tom?”
“The next morning, Joe.” Caller becomes emotional. “I thought she’d stayed out with Sherri or maybe she was pissed off that I didn’t get home in time to make the dinner so went out again. I was exhausted so I fell asleep.”
“That’s understandable. What age is Alexandra?”
“She’s thirty-six. She has chestnut-brown hair, shoulder length. She was wearing black trousers and a black blouse with a bow on it. She had a black fitted jacket on. She’s very attractive, the kind of person you’d remember if you’d seen her.” Caller becomes emotional.
“And she went missing on …”
“Thursday, the twenty-first of June this year.”
“And did she have any mental issues, Tom?”
“No, Joe. She was a very happy, well-adjusted, normal woman. She was normal, Joe, ordinary.”
“Okay, okay.”Joe sighs.“I’m going to ask the obvious, Tom, so forgive me. Is there any chance she took herself into the water?”
“No. No. She wasn’t suicidal, and the coast guard searched it and the police divers, and there were plenty of people on the beach that day and no one saw her.”
“Okay, I had to ask. I’m sorry for your trouble, Tom. I hope that maybe someone listening remembers something.”
“And, Joe?”
“Yes, Tom?”
“I’ll be at Dalkey train station handing out flyers later this evening and I’ll be doing the same at a Jack Lukeman gig on Dame Street next Friday.”
“Why there, Tom?”
“She was a big fan, Joe. She never missed a show.” Caller becomes emotional.
“And he’s very popular; lots of people from all counties will be there.”
“It’s as good a place as any to get the word out, Joe.”
“God love you, Tom. I sympathize. Good luck to you. We’ll put Alexandra’s details on the website, and if you could send in a photo we’ll post it.”
“I will, and thanks for taking the call.”
“And if anyone has information on Alexandra Kavanagh, who went missing on the twenty-first of June 2007, would they contact Clontarf Garda Station, and the inspector in charge of the investigation is Des Martin. Right, we’ll be back after these ads.”
Tom put down the phone and turned to Breda, his mother-in-law. She was sitting at the kitchen table, looking frail and small. She smiled at him through tears.
“You did very well, love,” she said.
“You should have left this phone number,” Eamonn said while pacing. Eamonn was Alexandra’s older brother, and he and Tom had never really been close. Alexandra’s disappearance had served to widen the divide between them. “And you should have said that she was upset about not getting pregnant.”
“Nothing to do with anything,” Tom said. “She was fine, happy.”
“You just didn’t want to see it!” Eamonn shouted. “It was tearing her apart and you didn’t see it!”
“Take that back, Eamonn,” Tom said, walking toward Eamonn.
Eamonn in his mind was begging Tom to punch him. Take a swing, I dare you!
Breda called out to the two boys, “Stop it, both of you!”
Alexandra’s father stood up from his chair outside on the patio. He put his cigarette out and came inside.
“Go home now,” he said to Eamonn and Tom. “Go home before you both say and do things you’ll regret.”
Eamonn and Tom both nodded and apologized. Breda was crying again. She looked at Tom, who had aged ten years in ten weeks. His black hair was almost entirely gray; his once-sparkly blue eyes were tired and circled by shadowed skin. He had been so persnickety about the way he looked that Alexandra’s family, especially Eamonn, had often joked about her marrying a metrosexual. His suits were always the best, dry-cleaned after one wearing and fitting precisely. His hair was professionally cut, and his face was perfectly clean. Off-site, Tom didn’t look like a builder; he looked like a banker. He was wealthy, and although he wasn’t extravagant, he left those around him in no doubt about his standing. Breda noticed his suit was now too big, his hair was a mess, and he hadn’t shaved in weeks. He was a shadow of the man he used to be, as she was a shadow of the woman and mother she once was. She recognized his suffering, as it mirrored her own, and she wanted her son, whose anger was more intense than his pain, to stop hurting her already mortally wounded son-in-law. She promised herself she would talk to Eamonn when she found the strength to deal with his quarrelsome nature.
When Tom was leaving, she hugged him, and he could feel every bone in her back. She whispered into his ear, “She’s still with us, I can feel it. God will take care of her—she’s not alone because God is there beside her.”
Tom nodded. “Try and eat, Breda.”
Tom sat in his car for a minute or two and was still there when Eamonn came out of the house. Eamonn walked over to the car window and knocked on it. Tom rolled it down.
“I don’t care what the police say,” Eamonn said. “I don’t care what my mother says. It’s your fault. I blame you.” He turned and walked to his own car and drove away, leaving Tom sitting in Alexandra’s parents’ driveway crying like a baby.
Oh God, please, please, where is she? Bring her home to me, please, please, bring her home! I’m so sorry for everything I’ve done. Forgive me and bring her home.
Alexandra had then been missing nine weeks and two days.