I couldn’t because I was working for another couple of hours and, besides, I wasn’t in the habit of going to movies with strange men. The first part of my reasoning I shared with him, doing my own bit of chatty tease – he was, after all, handsome. I don’t know what I expected really. I didn’t think he would come back again. But he did, right after the movie. I guess I admired his persistence as well as his good looks because the following week we met up in town. He was working as a mechanic, which meant his money was good and he got plenty of cash jobs on the side. We went out any night I wasn’t working. He was fun to be with and, for the most part, his positive attitude was contagious.
I have no intention of writing any of this in my copybook. As I think about what I am going to write, I stare at the cover of the copy. It’s dark green, the kind of green you see when mould has had a chance to develop on food. Written across the front of it, in black print, it states that it has ‘120 ruled pages’. Bridget must have been feeling particularly optimistic when she picked out this one.
Finally, I open it. I fold back the front cover as if I mean business. I have already counted that there are twenty-two lines on each page, so taking into account the front and back of each sheet, that makes 5,280 lines in total. I know all this because I have multiplied it out on the inside cover, using one of my blue ballpoint pens.
As I sit there, I think again about what would have happened if I’d stopped being so selfish and thought about Joe, and particularly Amy, during that last drive. What if I’d turned around to her and said, ‘How are you?’ What would she have answered? Would it have made any difference? Of course, the chance of me doing that was remote. It would have meant clearing my head of all the nonsense and picking myself up out of the dark hole I had decided to occupy with such determination for the previous six months. If there had been any prospect that I might actually do that, it was completely shattered the moment Joe told me Andrew would be meeting us there. After that, the only thoughts in my brain were thoughts of him.
When I finally write in the copybook, I write three words: ‘Wexford’ – ‘Amy’ – ‘Dead.’ I give each of them their own individual line, leaving 5,277 lines empty. An odd form of clarity creeps over me as I stare down at each one of those words. I understand only too clearly the strength behind each one.
I don’t expect tears, because they are something I haven’t experienced for a very long time. When they come, creeping stealthily up on me, they don’t feel like relief, they feel like pain. It’s like an overwhelming pressure behind my eyes from a place deep inside that I don’t want to feel any more. My vision blurs, trying to focus on the middle word: ‘Amy’. The evening sunlight is almost gone and the three letters making up her name burn into my brain. I know that even when the light goes and I’m sitting in the dark, I will still see them. The ache I feel is primal – rooted in the very reason for my madness.
When I hear the weeping, it seems as if it belongs to someone else, someone more deserving than me. I ask myself the question that has recently begun to weaken my resolve: What form of man or woman would seek to live when the world they live in is no longer a world they care for or want?
Meadow View
HAVING CLEANED THE CAR, HE PLANNED TO TAKE ANOTHER bus into town, pick up some books and, depending on how the afternoon went, be back at Meadow View by evening. Maybe it was the delight of being considered ‘Mr Invisible’ that gave him the inclination towards taking risks, but instead of going into town, he took a bus to the outskirts of Tallaght. He got off the bus at the Old Mill pub and started walking up towards Bohernabreena and farther on towards Glencree.
He was halfway up the mountain road when he spotted two short legs with ankle socks and runners sticking out from the hedge. The boy who owned the short legs fired a tennis ball across the road to the other side, forcing him to duck quickly out of the way. He looked surprised, then smiled in a friendly way at the boy, who watched him the way children watch strangers, with that ‘should I talk to him?’ question on his face. He nodded at the boy and walked on.
He was a good two miles up the road when he spotted the police cars, and made the decision. ‘Mr Invisible’ or not, the risks of being seen were just too great. No matter. It was a lovely day, and although he was anxious to get back and check on developments, he was glad he had avoided the pollution of town when fresher air was to be had.
On his way back down the road, he met the boy again, only this time he had a friend with him, another boy of the same age, about seven or so.
‘Are you the boy who nearly killed me with the tennis ball?’ he asked, pretending to scold.
‘No, mister, it was Jack,’ pointing to his friend, ‘he sent it over first.’
‘Shut up, Tommy.’
‘You both friends?’
‘I live up there.’ Tommy pointed across the field, feeling more confident than before. ‘Jack lives at the end of the hill.’
‘Do you only attack strangers, or do you fight with each other as well?’
‘Sometimes,’ they both answered, and then laughed.
He smiled back at them. ‘With tennis balls?’
‘Nah, I kill him at Xbox,’ Tommy replied.
‘I wouldn’t know anything about that.’
‘That’s because you’re old. You like walking, mister?’ Jack squinted as the sun shone down on him.
‘Oh, yes, I love it. You two boys keep out of trouble now, do you hear?’