Molly lifted her hand off my arm slowly, but her forefinger immediately landed on the next tattoo along. She traced the shape almost absentmindedly, and I watched as her finger moved along my skin. Her touch was much more familiar than our fleeting acquaintance dictated and it felt to me to be almost intimate; bewildering given we were fully-clothed, near strangers and sitting in a public café. I could feel the heat rising in my blood.
‘Do these tattoos go all the way along your arm? And the other arm?’ Molly murmured. I was so distracted by the gentle friction of her fingernail against my arm that I almost missed the question, but once it sunk in, I suddenly regretted the turn the conversation had taken. Silently I nodded and tried to think of a way to redirect the chat. But I was too slow in doing so – she asked me next, ‘So, what do the others represent?’
‘The same idea,’ I admitted reluctantly. ‘Each one is for a time I’ve seen someone lost in the field. Each represents its own story. They’re a reminder of a life or lives that touched me somehow… and then ended.’
‘Goodness,’ Molly whispered. I flicked my gaze to her face and found her staring back at me. ‘That’s a lot of grief for one lifetime, Leo.’
‘It’s a closure thing. A way to honour those people.’ I suddenly felt exposed and awkward about it. Withdrawing my arm gently, I sat up straighter in my chair. ‘I don’t really talk about this much.’
‘I was thinking about you today,’ Molly said suddenly. She too had withdrawn the hand that had been against mine, but now she leant her elbow onto the table and rested her chin on it. ‘You could have taken the truth about my brother’s death to any newspaper in the world and swapped it for any position you wanted. And you didn’t.’
‘Of course I didn’t.’
‘There’s no “of course” about it. I know plenty of other journalists – I think most of them would have written that story.’
‘Any decent human being would have kept it to themselves if it was about someone they cared for like a brother. God, who would embarrass a grieving family like that?’
‘Maybe someone who was embarrassed by that family at the funeral of their best friend?’ Molly suggested quietly.
I shook my head briskly. ‘I would never have considered it.’
‘That’s my point – I wasn’t having a go at you, I was just…’ She sighed and smiled at me. ‘Thanks, the way you handled this whole situation says a lot about who you are.’
‘Well, you weren’t as upset as I expected you to be this morning.’
‘I did cry a bit when I left you,’ she admitted easily. ‘But I already knew something didn’t add up. And you know, I’ve already grieved Declan. This is so tragic but it was always tragic. I guess contacting you was more about finding out the truth for myself, rather than trying to deal with losing him – which I’ve kind of done by now. Also,’ she grimaced. ‘I’m not really the weepy type. I’ve spent most of my life “in public”. I’m pretty good at keeping myself together when I need to.’
She picked up her fork, and resumed her meal. I did so too after a while and we ate in silence for a few moments. I just couldn’t assess that silence. It wasn’t the kind of familiar, comfortable silence two old friends share – but it wasn’t exactly the awkward silence of strangers, either. I felt unsettled; I’d exposed parts of history that I’d never intended to, and I was now acutely conscious of the woman opposite me and I wasn’t quite sure what to do with that.
When our conversation resumed, it was small talk again, as if we had silently agreed to lighten the mood a little. We chatted about her job, and she asked me more questions about mine. After a while, when we’d finished eating dinner, the conversation faded to a natural close and we split the bill and walked side by side towards the train station.
When I turned to enter, I extended my hand to shake hers. ‘Good luck with everything, Molly. If you ever want to talk, you have my number.’
She looked at my hand, then gave a little laugh and threw her arms around me – wrapping them right around my waist. I hugged her back with my free arm, and we paused just like that. The embrace was an innocent gesture on her part I was sure, but that didn’t change the effect it had on me. She fitted so beautifully against my body – the perfect blend of softness and strength as well as a gentle warmth that I could feel through my clothes. Even as she stepped away I was sure that the scent she wore had bound itself to me, as if she’d somehow imprinted herself upon me. We’d walked through tough memories over that day, and shared grief has a way of forging a bond.
‘You don’t mind if I call you again?’ she asked.
‘Of course I don’t.’
‘Thanks, Leo. For everything.’
I nodded, offered her a smile and walked away. Within a few footsteps I was already trying to figure out a way that I could see her again without our focus being on her brother.
7
Molly – July 2015