“Do you want to take a break?” Jack asked.
“We must have had Bono for a month, maybe more, when the vet phoned. The dog’s family arrived at our house that evening. Michael, John, Anna, and Ivor, they all cried. It turned out the dog’s real name was Duke. His family, the two little girls especially, were shrieking, and hugging and kissing him. They fed him chunks of roast chicken right out of their hands. When they put Bono, Duke, into their car, Ivor let out a wail. Michael wrapped his arm around Ivor’s shoulders. ‘Look how happy they are,’ he said. ‘Look how happy Duke is. We should be celebrating for them.’ That was the sort of lad he was. Kind. Very, very kind.”
Billy wondered if Michael could possibly have imagined that taking his own life was some form of kindness to himself.
Jack reached for the recorder on the dashboard. “We can leave it there for now, if you like, do the rest over e-mail?”
Billy shifted on the broken seat, rousing himself, and agreed to keep going. Outside, the two young women remained on the bench, their laughter piercing.
Twenty
Their neighbor Magda appeared through the back door, clips in her caramel hair, her face its usual color of bone. She spoke to Billy and Tricia in a rush. “I need to get to work, but come out to the car for a sec, I’ve something for you.” Billy pulled himself away from the Internet, still trying to find a filmmaker for his documentary—a search that was proving near-impossible.
Inside the boot of Magda’s car, a stone birdbath finished with shiny, colorful tiles. “I decorated it myself,” Magda said. “I thought you might like to put it right here in front of the window.” Billy and Tricia glanced at each other. Magda intended the gift and its songful visitors to distract them from the band of beech trees beyond the football pitch. Tricia hugged her. Billy nodded his thanks, not trusting himself to speak.
Back at the laptop, Billy received an e-mail from Jack Dineen. He’d given the paper an exclusive, and until his profile was published, they had him in a publicity chokehold and he couldn’t allow other media outlets to pick up the story and spread the good word. He speed-read Jack’s e-mail. His profile would run in two weeks. His pulse throbbed at his right temple. Jack could have written anything about him—and Michael. What if Billy came across as a sad, fat fool? If the article dishonored Michael somehow? Billy went over every moment of the interview again. There was nothing bad Jack Dineen could have taken away from their conversation. Was there?
Billy had also asked Jack for any leads on a filmmaker. Jack recommended Adam Simon. He didn’t know Adam personally, Jack explained, but the filmmaker had some nice credits, and also a special interest in suicide. Billy, his breath held, clicked through to Adam Simon’s website. The thirty-eight-year-old hailed from Dublin and boasted a couple of independent films and a Special Mention at the Cannes Film Festival. His website didn’t reveal any special interest in suicide, but a quick search of the Internet did.
Five years ago, Adam’s twelve-year-old nephew, Rory, took his own life. The story was all over the news for weeks and had sparked a nationwide debate on both suicide and guns in the home. Why would someone so young do such a thing? the papers had asked. Billy’s palms turned damp. He remembered the poor boy, all right. One of the youngest suicide victims on record.
Newspaper reports revealed Rory had written a note before putting the barrel of his father’s handgun into his mouth. Billy couldn’t decide if it would be any easier or harder if Michael had left a note. Nor could he think about the gun between Rory’s lips and his small finger on the trigger.
He e-mailed Adam Simon, his fingers never having typed so fast. Everything would work out, he told himself, the profile, the documentary, his entire campaign. It had to.
*
Three days later, Billy approached the Granary Restaurant, feeling pure class inside his new suit and purple tie. He couldn’t remember the last time he could close his shirt collar or cinch his tie. The fancy gray pin-striped suit fit like a dream. No one need ever know he’d bought it secondhand in the charity shop. He’d entered the musty, cluttered space in search of a plus-sized cardigan and couldn’t believe his luck when he’d not only found a suit that fit, but one he liked. His finding such a suit in his size and in excellent condition was as good as miraculous. It had to be a sign. This lunch was going to go great.