Alexandra, Gone

7

“Chocolate Eyes”

Ran out of hope, ran out of faith,
ran out of milk about quarter past eight
I gave up on dreams and regrets,
well, I quit smoking but not cigarettes.
Jack L, Broken Songs

March 2008

When Elle woke up in Leslie’s house in the country to the sound of birds, strangely they were loud, angry, and without melody. She sat up and rubbed her eyes and looked toward the open window, and sitting on the windowsill were two crows screeching at each other. She got out of bed, stretched, and closed the window, and so engrossed were they in their dispute that her actions went unnoticed.
She could hear Leslie pottering in the kitchen. She had the radio on and was listening to two DJs make a crank call to some unsuspecting dentist. The house was a bungalow, the guest bedroom was next door to the kitchen, and the walls were paper thin, so Elle’s bed might as well have been placed in the center of the kitchen.
She pulled on her dressing gown and joined Leslie, who was kneeling on the counter by the sink and cleaning the window.
Elle poured herself coffee and picked up a croissant from the basket in the center of the table. She nibbled and drank while Leslie filled her in on the plan for the day.
When Leslie’s father died, he had left the house to her mother; when she died, she had left it to her three girls; when Nora died, the house had become Imelda’s and Leslie’s; and when Imelda died, the house had become Leslie’s alone. She had maintained it over the years, and although she traveled to it about every eight weeks, she rarely stayed more than two days because the echoes of a tragic past haunted the place. This was the first time since Imelda’s passing that she had stayed longer than two days, and with Elle for company she was actually enjoying herself. Elle had been working hard on the exhibition since she had returned from her break, and when Leslie mentioned that she had to make a trip to check on her family home, Elle had begged to be allowed to join her, as a change of scenery would inspire and invigorate her. She had been working hard to make up for lost time, and Leslie could see that painting the faces of the Missing was taking a toll on Elle. She seemed to be quietly absorbing their tragedies, and the pain, suffering, hope, and hopelessness imbued in her work was also imbued in her. She was quieter than when they had first met, and she seemed older. All the energy was gone, and in the few months they had known each other Elle had gone from being a playful puppy to an old sleepy girl content to sit on the porch.
As it turned out, the town was playing host to a weeklong traditional music festival, which initially served only to annoy Leslie. But the first night, they walked into town and ate in a restaurant that Leslie hadn’t visited in ten years, and they enjoyed a pleasant time eating pasta, drinking wine, and listening to a young man play piano accompanied by a girl on the violin and a boy on guitar. Neither woman was a fan of traditional music, and this little group was less thud-thumping, toe-tapping, feet-of-flames, old-school Irish and more New Age folk, mellow and enchanting. The music had elevated Elle into a happy place, and since then her mood had continued to lift ever so slowly but noticeably. As part of the festival, every restaurant, bar, park, and street corner was playing host to musicians of all ages, and because their first evening had been such a success, Elle and Leslie had gotten into the spirit of the event and by day three were really enjoying themselves. Leslie’s long self-imposed seclusion and newfound joie de vivre meant that every day there was a great new discovery, or rediscovery, to be made. An old woodland that she had played in as a child was a beautiful place to walk and talk, and the new coffee shop that served take-out hot chocolate to sip and hug as they walked made it even more pleasant. Leslie had forgotten how beautiful her little town was. She’d forgotten the way the sky looked through the trees and how the light hit the water in the evenings and how friendly the people were when she actually engaged with them.
“So what’s the plan for today?” Elle asked between nibbles.
Leslie turned and smiled at her, took off one of her gloves, and scratched her nose.
“Well,” she said, “I was thinking we’d get in the car and drive to the coast this morning, and we can have lunch at this little pub that Simon and I used to go to—it has the best fish in the country. Then we could get back here around five and eat here or go out, depending on how you feel, and then Mahons is playing host to an interesting-sounding band from Westport.”
“Sounds good. I’ll just get showered and dressed and we can go.”
Leslie nodded, put her glove back on, and resumed cleaning the window.
Elle nibbled on her croissant as she walked back to her room. She picked up her bag and headed down the hall into the bathroom, stripped, and got into the shower, and it was while the water was tapping at her head that she realized that a weight was lifting and she could feel her heart begin to soar.
Having spent a lovely if finger-numbingly cold morning walking along the coastline, Elle and Leslie stopped off at the pub for their fish lunch. Elle ordered the salmon and Leslie a fish platter, and when Elle saw it she was sorry she had ordered the salmon, but there was plenty, and so the women shared the assortment of fish before them and Elle agreed it was the best fish she’d ever tasted. Elle asked Leslie to tell her a little about Simon, and Leslie argued that her relationship with him had been so long ago that it was hard to remember much of it.
“You must remember it!” Elle said.
“There was so much going on back then.” Leslie was referring to the sickness that had completely overtaken her world for so long.
“What did he look like?” Elle said, pushing for an answer.
“He was tall and thin and he had big blue eyes the size of saucers, his hair was sandy and he had freckles.”
“Was he nice?” Elle asked.
“He was very nice. He was bright and kind and he put up with a lot from me.”
“Did he love you?”
Leslie sighed and thought about it for a moment. “Yes,” she said, and she remembered the day eighteen years earlier when she had just turned twenty-two, her sister Nora was dying, and she’d just been diagnosed with the cancer gene.
Simon had been waiting for her when she came out of the doctor’s office. He was pale and his big blue eyes were glassy. She walked up to him and he stood up from the chair he’d been sitting on. She sat down because her legs could no longer carry her and tugged at his hand, and he sat again and faced her and she didn’t have to tell him because her face said it all. He put his face in his hands and wept right there in the middle of the waiting area. Listening to the pain that was so evident in every wail and cry, she knew that she couldn’t put him through watching a slow and painful death. And so right there in hospital chairs she ended their three-year relationship. Even when he attempted to contact her intermittently for six months and although she missed him more than she could say, she was steadfast in her decision, and deep down knew that Simon was grateful.
“I think you’re brave,” Elle said.
“Thanks. Most would say I was stupid.”
“Bravery and stupidity are the same thing. It just depends on the outcome, and it’s not over yet.”
“No, I suppose it isn’t.”
She thought about telling Elle about her plans to have surgery in July, but decided against it because they were having such a lovely day and she didn’t want to think about it too much. Another time. I’ll tell her another time. And as she was thinking that, Elle’s face changed and Leslie turned to see what she was staring at. A tall man with curly brown hair and big brown eyes was standing with a blond woman she recognized from somewhere but whom she couldn’t recall in that moment. He was wide-eyed and staring back, obviously uncomfortable and unsure, and Leslie watched Elle maintain eye contact with this man and this man hesitatingly make his way toward her, leaving the blonde at the bar.
“Elle,” he said, and Leslie detected a shudder in his voice.
Elle didn’t have to introduce him. Leslie knew it was the prick who had broken her new friend’s heart.
“Vincent,” Elle said.
“How weird is this?” He raised his hands in the air. “Of all the gin joints in all the towns.”
“Funny old world,” she said. “How’ve you been, Vincent?”
“Good. You?”
“Great,” she said, but it was unconvincing. Neither of them mentioned the car-burning incident and subsequent payoff. The blonde remained at the bar.
“This is Leslie,” Elle said, looking beyond his shoulder at the blonde. “Who’s your friend?”
Vincent turned to the blonde and called her over with a nod of his head. She approached slowly and stood slightly behind him.
“This is Caroline.”
Caroline smiled. She seemed familiar, but Elle couldn’t work out how she knew her face.
“Nice to meet you,” Caroline said nervously. “I love your work.”
“Thanks,” Elle said. “Do I know you?”
“I’m an actress.”
Elle nodded. “Of course you are,” she said, and she looked at Vincent and shook her head. She remembered where she’d seen her before. It had been at one of her own exhibitions. The photographer had made them stand together for a press shot. That exhibition had been just before China.
Vincent attempted to disguise a gulp by clearing his throat. “We should go,” he said to Caroline, who seemed more than happy to move on.
“You should have gone a long time ago,” Elle said.
Vincent nodded and grabbed Caroline’s arm and escorted her out of the lovely pub that served the best fish in Ireland before they’d even had a chance to look at the menu.
Leslie looked at Elle, who seemed lost in thought.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m more than okay,” Elle said, and she sighed and grinned a little.
“You are?”
“He was screwing her all that time.”
“And that’s okay?”
Elle nodded. “It must be, because I can’t seem to make myself care.”
Leslie smiled at her young friend and squeezed her hand, and Elle’s heart soared just a little higher.
Rose had been throwing up all week. She was steadfast in her refusal to seek medical attention, but eventually when Jane witnessed her doubled over in severe pain holding her stomach and throwing up in her kitchen wastebasket, she’d had enough of her mother’s stubbornness and made the call to their family GP. Jane was flying out to London for the Jack Lukeman gig that evening.
Dr. Griffin arrived at ten as promised and a very grateful Jane, knowing he hated making house calls, especially to her mother, met him on the steps of her home. Together they made their way to the basement apartment.
“How’s she behaving?” he asked.
“Same as ever.”
“Still experiencing mood swings?”
“Dr. Griffin, what you call her mood swings, we call her personality.”
Jane smiled, but Dr. Griffin just shook his head. He’d been the Moore family’s practitioner for well over thirty years, and he really cared for the girls and Kurt, but Rose Moore was his worst nightmare. Jane opened the door, and he braced himself and followed her inside.
Rose was in the sitting room, asleep on the chair. Jane and Dr. Griffin looked at each other, both silently acknowledging that it was time to wake the beast.
Jane approached gingerly. She slowly and gently laid her hand on her mother’s arm and shook it ever so slightly. “Rose.”
Rose stirred a little; Jane backed off.
Rose’s eyes opened, and she focused on her daughter and the doctor. “What?”
“Rose, I’m here to give you a checkup,” Dr. Griffin said.
“Did I ask you to come?”
“No,” he said before sighing audibly.
“Well, then.”
“Rose, you are sick,” Jane said in her most forceful tone, “and I’m not going to let you rot down here, so let the doctor examine you.”
“How charming of you, Jane, but you are forgetting about a little thing called free will, and if I am rotting and I wish to continue doing so, that is my business and my business alone.”
“Don’t make me hold you down, old woman,” said Jane.
“You can try.”
Jane seemed serious, but so did her mother, and despite her age and illness, Dr. Griffin was sure that she’d put up a good fight.
“Okay, ladies,” he said, holding his hand in the air. “Rose, please just let me examine you. I won’t take longer than three minutes.”
“You have two,” she said.
A minute later, Dr. Griffin was pressing on Rose’s stomach and she was trying not to scream, but one press too many and she couldn’t help but grab his ear and drag him off her. He called out, and Jane extricated his ear from her mother’s closed claw. He stumbled back, rubbing his reddened and bruised earlobe.
Rose then grabbed Jane’s hand and squeezed it as hard as she could and pulled her in close. “Don’t you dare bring that man in here without my permission again!” she hissed. Tears sprang into Jane’s eyes. Rose let go and Jane backed away, rubbing her hand much like Dr. Griffin had his ear.
Dr. Griffin packed up his bag before turning to Rose. “Your stomach is inflamed, and that’s what’s causing the pain and vomiting. I’ve no doubt you are suffering from recurrent diarrhea and possible pancreatitis. And I know for sure that however uncomfortable you are now, it will only get worse.”
“Well, thank you for your medical opinion, Dr. Griffin. You know where the door is.”
“Stop drinking, Rose,” Dr. Griffin said. “If you don’t, you will die.”
“I’m an old woman, Doctor. It would be incredibly focking odd if I didn’t die. Don’t you think?”
Rose loved to curse. She loved to pepper the word “f*ck” into her sentences when she deemed it appropriate. However, her accent ensured that it sounded like she was saying “fock,” “focker,” “focking,” or “focked.” She liked that it meant she was devilish enough to curse but not coarse enough for it to be instantly recognizable.
Jane and Dr. Griffin left her alone. She flicked on the TV and took a bottle of wine and an unwashed glass from the cabinet beside her chair. She unscrewed the cap and poured the wine into the wineglass. She took a sip and rested the glass back on top of the cabinet, all the while mumbling to herself. “Stop drinking or you’ll die. Who does he think he is? I’m seventy-one years old and I haven’t died yet, more’s the focking pity.”
Dr. Griffin followed Jane up the steps and into the main house. In the kitchen she made him tea, and for the one hundredth time he went through the kind of gastrointestinal damage her mother was doing to herself.
“What can I do?” Jane asked.
“Ban the booze,” he suggested as though it was his first time.
A frustrated Jane shouted, “I can’t! She’s got her own money, she’s perfectly capable of buying her own booze, and she’s got friends who bring her presents of booze. They don’t think she has a problem; she doesn’t think she has a problem. My sister seems to think that just because she’s not in bars or clubs doing shots till four a.m. I’m insane to even suggest she has a problem, and my son thinks she’s hilarious. When she falls asleep with the heater on, it’s old age; when she falls in the shower, it’s her arthritis; and when I dare to address the problem, I’m deemed to be hysterical at best and a ‘focking’ bitch at worst!”
Dr. Griffin laughed a little at Jane’s impression of the way her mother said “f*cking” before becoming serious again. “Rose has been a functioning alcoholic for over thirty years, but time is running out and her body is slowly giving up.”
Jane absentmindedly scooped out sugar from the bowl, then poured it back in. “I’m doing my best.”
“I know.”
“Can I have her committed?”
“Your mother isn’t mentally ill.”
“I know that, you know that, but how long would it take for them to realize that?”
Dr. Griffin grinned. They sat in silence for a minute or two, drinking tea.
“It’s simple, Jane. If she doesn’t stop soon, her health will deteriorate to a point where she will have to be hospitalized, and then she will be forced into sobriety. Whether or not it’s too late to save her is anyone’s guess.”
“Sorry about your ear,” Jane said, changing the subject.
“Does Rose behave violently toward you a lot?”
“No,” Jane said, laughing the matter off. “I think you inspired the violence.”
“Well, if it gets too much you’ll let me know.”
Jane nodded. “It’s a pity, because when she’s in good form she’s almost fun to be around.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” Dr. Griffin stood and fixed his jacket to signal his desire to exit. It had been a long time since he’d seen the pleasant side of Rose Moore. In fact, he could pinpoint the year: it had been the spring of 1983, three months before she had called him to the house to declare her husband dead.
Jane waved the doctor off and closed the door. She tried to take off her ring, but following her mother’s attack her finger had swollen, making its removal difficult.
The phone rang, and it was Tom wanting to know if she wished to share a taxi to the airport. She agreed because she was running late and wouldn’t have time to park the car in the long-term car park. The gig was a late show. They had decided not to fly out until six that evening, which was a blessing because she still had a full day’s work ahead of her.
A meeting she had with an artist by the name of Ken Browne ran late. She was really impressed by his work and energy, and they ended up talking for a long time, sharing stories over coffee. His bright blue eyes shone as he spoke about his latest painting, and he rubbed his bald head and smiled a wide smile that seemed to take over his rugged features. He had been in a rock band for years, and it was written all over his face. He was an accomplished guitar player, and he told her stories about his adventures on the road and talked about how he incorporated music into his artwork. They spent a very enjoyable two hours together, and by the end of their meeting they had agreed that he would show his work in her gallery in July. Kurt appeared in the gallery just after lunch with a packed bag and announced he was staying with Irene for the weekend. Irene’s mother was on another post-breakup holiday and, as her dad was too busy boffing his new girlfriend to be interested in Irene, Kurt felt a responsibility to care for her.
“No way,” said Jane.
“Mum, I’m going.”
“You and Irene are not staying there unsupervised.”
“I’m seventeen.”
“No way, no way!” she shouted. She always repeated herself and shouted when she couldn’t think of something else to say.
“She’s upset. I’m not leaving her,” he said calmly.
Jane calmed down. “So bring her to ours.”
“What’s the difference? You’re going to London.”
“Your grandmother’s here.”
Kurt started to laugh. “You’re serious?”
“It’s better than nothing.”
“Where’s Elle?”
“She’s gone down to the country with Leslie for a few days.”
“Mum, why don’t you admit that you need me to care for Gran and not the other way around?”
“That’s not it. She’s perfectly capable of looking after herself for two days.” She was lying, and there was a list of things she wanted him to do for his grandmother burning a hole in her pocket.
“Why don’t you just tell the truth?” he said.
She didn’t know why she felt it necessary to lie except that maybe she didn’t want her son to feel obliged to care for her mother the way she did. And now her son had caught her in a silly and unnecessary lie and it embarrassed her, so she dismissed him angrily. “Fine, Kurt, go off with your girlfriend! Do your own bloody thing!”
“Fine. I will.”
He walked out of the gallery, leaving her to stew.
What is wrong with me? Why couldn’t I have said, ‘Son, I need your help this weekend’? How hard is that? It’s not hard at all. Jesus Christ, Jane.
She then had to sort her mother’s prescriptions and pick up some take-out menus and cash. When she finally returned to her mother’s it was ten minutes before Tom was due to turn up in the taxi.
Rose was displeased. “It’s a bit bloody late to be thinking about me now,” she said.
Jane ignored her and put the menus on the coffee table beside her.
Rose picked one up. “Jane?” she asked innocently. “Am I Chinese?”
“Don’t start, Rose.”
“Because I don’t look Chinese, I don’t speak the language, the only paddy I know is a person, and it will be a cold focking day in hell before I eat anything commonly described as flied lice.”
“That’s racist.”
“That’s fact.”
“You’re a pig.”
Rose held up the menu. “Well, then, maybe it’s my year.” She picked up the other menu. “Indian?”
“I’m leaving,” Jane said.
“Oh yes, I’ll have an order of dead babies dumped in a river, followed by some Kama Sutra with a side order of shitting in the streets.”
“Stop now, you insane old hag! Eat chips for two days for all I care! Don’t forget your medication, and all the numbers you could possibly need are on the fridge.”
“Fine, go off and enjoy yourself, leave a sick old woman on her own!”
“Thanks, Rose, I will. Try not to die before I get back,” Jane said with a grin because two could play the old woman’s game.
Rose licked her teeth. She always licked her teeth when she wanted to hide a smile.
“Is that because you don’t want to deal with the smell?” she asked.
“If I didn’t want to deal with the smell I would have turfed you out years ago.”
Jane walked out the door and Rose broke into a smile. Touché, Janey, touché.
images
Tom had checked them in online, so they ran through the airport and joined the queue at the gate. He bought two coffees from a vendor, and they managed two sips each before their row number was called. An air hostess made a no-no gesture at the coffee with her hand and tut-tutted them. Neither Tom nor Jane had the will to argue with her, so they handed over their full cups of coffee and walked through the gate and onto the plane in silence. Once seated, Tom took the opportunity once again to thank Jane for coming, and she responded that he was most welcome for the third time that evening and possibly the fortieth time since they had decided on the trip.
Tom was nervous. He didn’t know what to do with his hands and he kept shifting in the seat. He had cut his hair and manicured his nails, and he’d bought a suit that fitted him. He had shaved and he looked handsome—probably the way he had looked before Alexandra vanished, or at least close to it.
Jane was worried that all this effort and hope would not be rewarded. She knew they were clutching at straws, and although she appeared outwardly positive for the sake of Tom’s sanity, she worried that she might have contributed to him having false hope. Now that they were actually flying to London to attend a Jack Lukeman gig in the hope of spotting someone named Alex with a passing resemblance to Alexandra, it seemed more than desperate, it seemed mad.
“The hotel is really close to the club,” Tom said.
“Great.”
“Just a walk away.”
“Fantastic.”
“We could just eat in the hotel if you like?”
“Lovely.”
“Or we could go out. I’m sure there’s a place between the hotel and the club. I just don’t want to move too far away.”
“The hotel is perfect.”
“Oh okay.”
“Nice suit,” Jane said after a pause.
Tom nodded. “I thought I’d better make an effort if I’m going to see my girl.”
“It’s unlikely, Tom, you know that it’s unlikely.” She wanted to cry for him.
“I do. Still, you never know.”
“Yeah.”
He closed his eyes and she read her magazine and they didn’t speak another word for the rest of the flight.
The plane landed on time, and Tom and Jane quickly found a taxi to take them to their hotel. They split in the lobby and agreed to meet half an hour later. Jane showered and changed while Tom paced his hotel room over and over again, counting down the minutes until he might see Alexandra again.
They met in the hotel restaurant. Jane ordered steak and salad; Tom ordered the same, but he only picked at it. Jane tried to allay his anxiety with idle chat. Since his encounter with Rose, Tom had developed sympathy for Jane and had become her sounding board. She told him about the incident with the doctor, which entertained him, and of course Rose’s reaction to the take-out menus made him laugh out loud. Jane laughed too, because her mother was always funny from a distance. She told him about Kurt and their stupid fight and berated herself for being a bad mother. Tom disagreed and told her that she was a great mother, but then he hadn’t witnessed the fight she’d had with her son when he was sixteen and he wanted to leave school to join the army after watching Black Hawk Down twenty-five times in the space of a week. He had approached her while she was working on her computer at the kitchen table, and he’d sat opposite her and folded his arms, and when Kurt folded his arms it indicated he meant to talk business. She’d looked up and asked him what he wanted, and he’d told her straight out as if he was asking for the price of a CD that he wanted permission to join the army. She had laughed it off at first, but it soon became apparent that he wasn’t joking. Jane said no. Kurt refused to accept no for an answer, and their argument spiraled so out of control that Kurt called his mother the c word and stormed out of the kitchen, slammed the door, walked into his bedroom, slammed that door and locked it, and put his music on blaring. His mother, shocked by his language and red-faced from roaring, stomped down the hall and banged and kicked at his locked door, calling him a disrespectful little bastard. He screamed I hate you and she screamed I hate you back and managed to calm herself down only after she’d kicked a hole through the door and broken her small toe. Tom hadn’t been witness to the time she’d left the child in a pram outside a shop and didn’t notice that she’d left him behind until she got home and her mother inquired as to his whereabouts. He hadn’t been there when Kurt was six and a kid aged eight started to bully him in the schoolyard. Kurt had confided in Rose rather than in her, and when Rose told her, instead of taking her mother’s advice to back off, she barged into the school and grabbed the bully by the neck and threatened to break his legs if he ever touched her son again. It was obviously the worst move she could have made because there was a schoolyard full of witnesses, including a teacher and a visiting nun, and of course the child’s parents threatened action against her, and following a meeting with the headmistress it became apparent that the best course of action in light of Jane’s aggression toward a minor would be if she pulled Kurt out of the school altogether.
“You got him expelled when he was six?” Tom said, and he laughed.
“Mortified,” she said. “But when Rose told me, I just saw red.”
“I can’t believe you attacked an eight-year-old.”
“Well, I had to do something. Rose told Kurt to wait till the kid had his back to him and then beat him around the head with his bag.”
“That doesn’t sound like the worst idea.”
“She told him to put a brick in it.”
Tom laughed again. “I’m sorry for laughing, but that’s insane.”
“I have made so many mistakes with Kurt it’s a wonder he’s not a little psycho.”
“You were so young having him,” Tom reminded her.
“Yeah.” She nodded. “And my example was Rose.”
“My God, that’s true. It’s a wonder you’re not a little psycho.”
“It’s possible I am,” she said.
“I’ll bear that in mind.”
Tom’s mind was momentarily distracted from finding Alexandra, and then it was time to head to the club, and his mind wandered away from Jane again, and silence resumed as they walked to the place that held one of Tom’s last hopes.
Michelle met them at the box office. She ushered them inside and was wondering how they wished their search to proceed.
“It’s a big club,” she pointed out, “but I’ve put the flyers on the bulletin board and all the staff have been given her picture.”
They had discussed it earlier.
“I’d like to sit close to the ladies’, if I could?” Tom said.
“And I’ll sit at the bar,” Jane said.
“Look, we’ve got a pretty comprehensive security system,” said Michelle. “Every part of this place is on camera. I could introduce you to Graham—he’s our security guard. I’ve spoken to him and he’s happy for you to join him in his office.”
“That would be amazing,” Tom said.
“Good.” Michelle was only too happy to help.
She brought them to a room where a large man in his fifties sat. In front of him were small TV screens, each one capturing a part of the club. He turned and greeted them, and Michelle went off to get two more chairs while Graham pointed out each camera and where it was positioned.
“Box office, main door, back door, side entrance, hallway, main stairs, bar, bar till—you won’t need to focus on that—stage, audience; that breaks into three here, here, and here,” he said, pointing to three separate TV screens, all of which depicted empty chairs and tables. “That one is the balcony and so is that, and over here is the dressing-room area—obviously we don’t have a camera in the actual dressing rooms, but it’s the dressing-room hallway that leads here to backstage, stage right, and stage left, and that’s it.”
Michelle returned with two chairs. She placed them on either side of Graham.
Then Michelle left them, but before she did she crossed her fingers.
“Thank you,” Tom said. “You’ve no idea.”
She nodded and closed the door behind her.
“What happens if I see her?” Tom asked.
“You run,” Graham said. “Michelle has given me your number so that I can call you if I see her again and guide you through the club on the phone.”
“That’s great,” Tom said. “That’s really unbelievably great. Isn’t that great, Jane?”
Jane nodded and walked over to the counter and made coffee for the three of them as the lads stared at the many screens. First the box office and the main entrance. They watched, and as people flowed through, Graham pointed out that he could zoom in on anyone who sparked Tom’s interest, and while Jane’s back was turned he provided Tom with an example by zooming in on a woman’s large breasts.
They watched face after face as they flowed in through the doors and halls and spread into the various parts of the club. The place filled up quickly, and so each one took turns monitoring a set of cameras. Graham had posted Alexandra’s picture on the wall in front of him for purposes of recognition. The club became louder as the chatter grew and people moved to and from their seats to the toilets and to the bar and servers began serving at the round tables where groups were drinking, laughing, and talking. Jane thought how funny it was to have this perspective, to watch people who were unaware they were being watched. She watched one woman lift and separate her breasts when her partner left to go to the toilet; then Jane followed him down the hall and witnessed him turn to watch a pretty girl walk past him. Another guy waited for his date to go to the bar before he picked his nose, examined it, and flicked it across the room. She pointed at the camera and made a sound suggesting she was appalled. Graham just nodded. “People are disgusting,” he said. She saw so many brunettes, but none of them had the rich glossy hair she remembered her friend having. Every now and then her heart rate would increase because she spotted someone who just might be Alexandra, but Graham would zoom in and her heart rate would slow and Tom would momentarily close his eyes and bow his head for the second or two required to pull himself together.
Jack L and his band emerged from the dressing room two minutes before they were due onstage. Jack was dressed in a black suit and red shirt; he ran his hand through his hair and took a drink from his bottle of water. The bass player slapped him on the back and he grinned at him, that familiar troublemaker grin that Jane recognized. The door of the dressing room stayed open for a second or two before someone inside closed it. The band walked down the hall and out of range only to be picked up on the next camera that focused on backstage. Onstage, the lights rose and danced on the rich velvet curtain. The drummer sat behind his drums, the guitar player picked up his guitar and placed it around his neck, the piano player made herself comfortable, and they started to play while Jack bounced with guitar in hand stage right on a separate screen. Tom watched the crowd as they clapped and cheered, and some people stood and some stamped their feet, and the curtain rose and Jack walked onstage. The crowd went mad, he bowed and grinned, and he raised his hand, the band started up, the show began, and Alexandra was nowhere to be seen.
They continued to scan each and every face while Jack sang and told stories and shared a joke with the guitar player, and time passed so quickly, and then the gig was almost over.
Jack returned to the stage to sing his encore, and just as Graham turned to offer his sympathy to Tom, Jane noticed a woman with short brunette hair and Alexandra’s face emerge from Jack’s dressing room. She pointed and called out to Tom, and he and Graham saw the woman. Tom shot up and Graham zoomed in, and Tom started running and Graham shouted for him to turn left at the box office and he did, but the hallway was empty. Jane ran after Tom. Graham phoned Tom’s number and directed him to the side entrance, and Tom followed his advice and ran through the club, navigating through people who were up on their feet and dancing to “Boys and Girls,” with Jane hot on his heels. He made it outside to an alleyway. The woman had her back to him and was talking to a man with a backstage pass around his neck, and Tom called out to her.
“Alexandra!”
She turned, and for a split second he thought it was her and seeing her took his breath away, and then she walked toward him and the closer she got the less she looked like his wife because the expression on her face was not an expression he’d ever seen before.
“Can I help you?” she said in an English accent.
Tom couldn’t do anything but shake his head. “No,” he said, “you can’t help me.”
And then he was on his knees and weeping uncontrollably.
Jane stood behind him, staring at the woman who looked so much like her friend on camera but in person and close up seemed shockingly different. We’re so stupid. Of course it wasn’t her. It was never going to be her.
The woman was unsure how to react. The man with the laminate moved to stand beside her, and they both found themselves staring at the man who was on his knees and crying.
“Where is she? Where is she? Where is she? Where is she? Where is she?”
Jane knelt and took his hands, and then she pulled him to her and hugged him close.
“Where is she, Jane?” he whispered. “Where’s my girl?”
“I don’t know,” she said, rubbing his head like she used to rub Kurt’s when he was young enough to be soothed rather than revolted by her touch, “but we will find her.”
Michelle, tipped off by Graham, who was watching the sad scene on-screen, appeared and took the English Alex inside, where she explained the tragic circumstances the crying man had found himself in. The English Alex was dreadfully sorry to hear of the man’s plight and more than a little freaked at the likeness between her and the picture of the missing woman. She explained that she worked for Jack’s UK distribution company and made her excuses as she had somewhere to be and was gone before at last Jane came in with Tom, whose disappointment had turned into mild shock.
Back in his hotel room, Jane insisted that Tom have a strong brandy to calm his nerves.
He was berating himself for having believed it possible to find Alexandra at a gig in London and saying how stupid it was of him to think that his wife would be in Jack L’s dressing room—after all, the Jack camp had been so good about helping him. That woman was not just thinner, she was rail thin, and she was taller, and despite sharing similarities, up close she was nothing like his wife. He had been fooling himself.
His liaison officer, Trish, had said as much the last time she had visited to update him on the investigation surrounding his wife’s disappearance. Their unit had analyzed the CCTV footage that Michelle had passed on and found that it wasn’t a match. He had argued with her that computers were not gods and he knew his wife’s face. She had been patient with him and was always kind, but she was adamant that he needed to let go of the notion of finding his wife in a London club.
“I can’t let go,” he said. “I have to find her.”
His liaison officer had left soon after, and he had promptly blocked out the information she’d just given him because more and more his mind was visiting the dark place and he desperately needed hope.
As he sat, drinking brandy, that conversation came back to haunt him. He apologized to Jane for wasting her time and for breaking down in the alleyway. He assured her he would pay to clean the oil stains from her coat as a result of her sitting on the ground and rocking him like a baby for ten minutes.
She told him he should get some sleep. She kissed his cheek and said they would keep looking.
He held her hand and looked into her eyes and bit his lip. “Tell me something about her.”
So she told him about a time when her best friend, Alexandra, was a little girl, maybe eleven or twelve, and stole an ice cream from the local shop. She spent a second or two choosing the one she wanted, placed it under her coat, and made her way outside, and when the shopkeeper ran outside after her, calling on her to stop, she turned to him, calmly took out the ice cream from inside her coat pocket, and handed it to him. Then she smiled and congratulated him on catching her.
“No flies on you, Mr. Dunne, no flies at all!” Alexandra said.
Mr. Dunne was taken aback, especially when she pointed out that two days earlier while he had been away from the shop and his wife had been behind the counter, she’d stolen a bar of chocolate without any fear of capture. She took the bar of chocolate from her pocket and handed it to him.
“I practically dangled it under her nose,” she said to Mr. Dunne, who was now decidedly confused. “To be fair to her, the shop was busy, but Mr. Dunne, you can never be too careful, shoplifters are everywhere.”
“I’ll mention it to her,” he said, still unsure what was going on.
“You’re welcome,” she said, and she walked down the road.
Mr. Dunne stared from her to the chocolate bar and to his wife, who was busy serving a customer. What the hell just happened?
Alexandra made it around the corner to where Jane was waiting, and as soon as she was sure that Mr. Dunne could no longer see her, she burst into tears. Once she’d recovered sufficiently to walk home, Alexandra promised Jane she would never again engage in a criminal act. But although she had scared the pants off herself and was down a bar of chocolate, the encounter was not a total loss because Alexandra learned something very powerful that day: any lie delivered with confidence and conviction is believable no matter how ridiculous the circumstance. This self-awareness had really worked in their favor when they were caught stealing while on holiday with Alexandra’s parents in Mayo a year later.
“And what about you?” Tom asked. “Did you just wait to see if she’d get away with it before you had a go?”
“Oh no! I’d successfully stolen three Mars bars from a shop two doors down. It was one of those bars that she gave back to Mr. Dunne.”
He laughed a little. “So what did you learn?”
“That the hand is quicker than an old woman’s one good eye.”
When Jane was content that she’d cheered Tom up a little, she bade him good night.
“Thanks,” he said. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
He walked to the door with her and watched her go down the corridor to her room, and she could feel his eyes on her back and she smiled at him when she turned to place her key card in the door. She disappeared into her room, and Tom entered his and opened the minibar again and starting drinking, and when he saw he’d received three calls from Jeanette, he turned his phone to silent.
images
When Jane’s taxi pulled up to her house, her son opened the front door, walked down the steps, met her at the gate, and took her suitcase from her hand.
“Sorry, Mum,” he said. “I should have helped out with Gran.”
Jane was taken aback and unsure what to say. Instead she just hugged him tight, and when he was in her grasp she took the opportunity to kiss his cheek.
“Mum!” he moaned. As they walked up the steps together he put his arm around her shoulders. “I have something to tell you,” he said.
“I’m listening.”
“Irene’s here.”
“And?”
“She’s needs a place to stay.”
“What’s going on?”
“There’s no food in her house.”
“Okay.”
“Really?”
“Really. Just make sure she lets her mother know.”
“She would if she could reach her.”
“Are you hungry?” Jane said.
“We’re starving.”
“Okay. Give me five minutes and I’ll get busy.”
Irene appeared in the sitting-room doorway.
“Hi, Jane,” she said shyly.
Jane walked over to Irene, hugged her, and kissed her on the forehead. “Welcome.”
Irene brightened. “Thanks, Jane, you rock.”
“Yes, I do,” she said, “and you’re in the spare room.”
“I know, I know, don’t have sex, not here, not there, not anywhere,” Irene said in a voice that mimicked Jane.
Kurt laughed and Jane nodded. “Exactly.”
Jane went to her bedroom and sat on the bed and took a minute to allow the events of the weekend to wash over her, and then she took time to be grateful for her life, as hard as it sometimes was. I’m one of the lucky ones.