Lenny and my ma have been together nine years, off and on. He’s all right. ‘And?’
She lets out a hoarse laugh and a blow of smoke together. ‘And I told him he must be joking. If I wanted his smelly jocks in my room, they’d be there by now. He’s talking bollix anyway; he no more wants to eat my cooking, rather get his dinners down the chipper . . .’
She makes me laugh about Lenny till she’s finished her smoke and we hang up. The microwave beeps. I take the pasta thing and my coffee to the sofa and open my laptop.
I hit the dating sites. Over my own dead body would I do this at work – one glance over my shoulder, or one trawl through my computer when I’m out of the squad room, and I can already hear the whoops: Jaysus, lads, Conway’s doing the internet dating! – Yeah, frigidbitches.com – There’s a market for everything these days – For her? You serious? – Hey, we all know she gives a good gobble or she wouldn’t be here, she can put that on her profile . . . But if Mr Loverman exists, Aislinn met him somehow. Checking out her work colleagues and her evening classes won’t cover the crim angle, and going by her phone and by Lucy, she didn’t have much of a social life. Unless she found herself a gangster who was learning to crochet, the internet is my best bet.
I set up accounts using a throwaway e-mail address, Aislinn’s description and a smirking blonde from Google Images, just in case our man has a type and goes looking for a replacement girlfriend, and I poke around for a while. The sites mostly use handles, not names – j-wow79, footballguy12345 – and Aislinn’s description matches half the girls on there. I filter for age and type and skim the sea of duckfaced blond selfies till my eyes bubble, but there’s no sign of her. I believe in been positive in life whats for us wont pass us by lol . . . I like romance, spontaneity, respect, honesty, genuineness, good conversation . . . Looking to chat n just go with the flow message me you never know what might happen!!!
The pasta thing has gone cold and slimy. I shove down the last mouthful anyway. Outside the window my street is dark, the streetlamps fighting the night and losing. The wind is punching around a paper bag from the chipper, slamming it up against a wall, holding it there for a second before tossing it down the road again. The old one from Number 12 hurries past, pushing her tartan shopping trolley, headscarf bent low.
I switch to the guys’ photos and scan for a face that’s familiar from work or from news stories: nothing, not that a high-profile gangster is gonna upload his pic on some dating site. First time on a site like this not really sure what to say, looking for someone easy going no drama good sense of humour . . . I’m a bit mad will say anything just a wild n crazy guy so if u think u can handle me give me a text!!
These people are pissing me off. The neediness of it, all of them jumping up and down and waving their arms and doing their cutest little booty-shakes for the internet: Me, look at me, like me, please oh please want me!!! The because-I’m-worth-it shower (Looking for someone tall, slim, very fit, no smokers, no drugs, no kids, no pets, must have full-time job and own car, must like fusion cuisine, speak at least three languages, enjoy bikram yoga and acid jazz . . .) are just as bad: ordering their relationships from the online menu because of course you have to have one, same as you have to have a state-of-the-art sound system and a pimped-out new car, and it’s important to make sure you get exactly what you want. The only ones I can respect are the ones there on business: Ukrainian superbabes looking for older men down the country, with a view to marriage. All the rest could do with a good kick up the hole and a double shot of self-respect.
No one needs a relationship. What you need is the basic cop-on to figure that out, in the face of all the media bullshit screaming that you’re nothing on your own and you’re a dangerous freak if you disagree. The truth is, if you don’t exist without someone else, you don’t exist at all. And that doesn’t just go for romance. I love my ma, I love my friends, I love the bones of them. If any of them wanted me to donate a kidney or crack a few heads, I’d do it, no questions asked. And if they all waved goodbye and walked out of my life tomorrow, I’d still be the same person I am today.
I live inside my own skin. Anything that happens outside it doesn’t change who I am. This isn’t something I’m proud of; as far as I’m concerned, it’s a bare minimum baseline requirement for calling yourself an adult human being, somewhere around the level of knowing how to do your own washing or change a toilet roll. All those idiots on the websites, begging for other people to pull their sagging puppet-strings, turn them real: they make me want to spit.
I’ve got two private messages already. Hi what’s the crack?? So check out my profile tell me if u wanna chat. The kid is twenty-three and works in IT, which makes him an unlikely candidate for Aislinn’s top-secret squeeze. Hello beautiful woman, I’d love to know what’s under that stunning exterior. Me: spiritually evolved, very creative, world traveller, people tell me I should really write a novel about my life. Intrigued? Let’s share more. I recognise the profile shot: back when I was in uniform, I arrested the guy for wanking on a bus. Small city. I make a note to check out what he’s been at lately, when I get a spare moment, but it doesn’t feel urgent: there’s no reason why Lucy would have gone squirrelly about this little creep.
I’ve hit the stage where the screen is warping and sliding in front of my eyes. I throw back the last of the cold coffee. Then I log into a very old e-mail account and hit Compose.
Hiya hun, how’s tricks? Too long no see – love to catch up whenever your free. Let me know. Seeya soon – Rach xx
The ‘From’ address says rachelvodkancoke. I read it again. Don’t hit Send.
The light in the room shifts: the motion-sensor lamps out the back have clicked on. I get up, kill the inside lights and move to the side of the kitchen window.
Nothing: just my patio. The white light and the tossing shadows turn it sinister: bare paving stones, high walls, the spreading tracing where an ivy plant used to be and the dark looming up all around. For a second I think I see something move over the back wall, the top of a head bobbing out in the laneway. When I blink, it’s gone.
My heart is going hard. I think of Aislinn: young single woman, cottage in Stoneybatter, rear access via a laneway. Of the intruder who did a legger over her patio wall when he got spotted. I think of that spunkbubble Crowley splashing my photo across his front page, just in case anyone felt like waiting outside Dublin Castle and following me home.