Chapter 27
27
THE CASE OF THE MISSING BFF
Niamh is not answering her phone. I have tried to call her three times this morning and I have sent four WhatsApp messages and a number of really very funny Instagram reels featuring dogs trying not to look guilty after destroying their homes. Normally, something among this would garner a response, even if it’s only a laughing face emoji, but no. There is nothing. She hasn’t even read the WhatsApp messages, which is very unusual and on any other occasion I’d probably consider it rude. There’s an unspoken agreement between us that we never leave the other hanging.
I don’t want to keep pushing her to reply though. There must be some reason behind her quietness and whatever it is I am sure she will tell me when she feels ready and able to.
I just hope she doesn’t leave it too long.
Thankfully I don’t have to endure the same lack of contact from my boys. Adam sent me a message shortly after midnight to say he and Saul were back at their digs, and he had put his brother to bed with a pint of water and a basin at his side. This morning, I saw my eldest (by ten minutes) son post on his Instagram that he is ‘hanging out of his arse’, complete with a picture of him looking positively grey while a mammoth Full English is on the table in front of him waiting to be demolished. Resolving to have a chat with him about his wilder ways when he gets home at Christmas, I focus my attention on Adam instead. Thanking him for letting me know they were both home safely, I ask him about Jodie.
Me
That’s a bit of a surprise about Jodie being over in Manchester. Is she visiting old school friends or on a shopping trip? It’s nice that you met up.
Adam
She came over to visit me and Saul, Mum. She’s staying with us.
Me
I hope you cleaned up that flat of yours before she arrived.
Adam
*rolling eye emoji* Of course I did, Mum. I even bought a new toilet brush, and cleared out the shower drains so that mouldy smell went away.
I cringe, imagining the particularly potent boy aroma that my darling offspring can generate. That is not something I’ve missed since they’ve been away. In fact, my house would be beautifully fragrant at all times, were it not for Daniel and his sensitive tummy.
Me
I’m very proud of you. And surprised Jodie is over. Is there something you need to tell me?
Adam
What do you mean?
Me
Well, the last I knew you were both very firmly in each other’s friend-zone. Has that changed? Or has it changed with Saul?
Immediately I’m imagining Niamh and me together, proud mothers of the bride and groom in clashing hats and fancy frocks at their wedding.
Adam
Saul? Get a grip, Mum! Jodie has more sense than that.
Me
But you haven’t answered my question. Is there something going on between you and Jodie?
Adam
If I tell you will you promise not to go all Rebecca Burnside on me and completely overreact?
Me
Go all Rebecca Burnside? Whatever could you mean? *curious face emoji* But that means there is something going on, doesn’t it?
Adam
Mum! It’s new. It might be nothing. Please don’t overplay it. We’re friends – and we both think maybe we could be more. But we don’t want to jinx it, so please, keep it quiet. Don’t tell Dad. Or Granny. Or Niamh. Not yet, anyway.
My boy sounds so mature and sensible that I am both very proud of him and also sad for him that he can’t just enjoy himself without worrying about all the possible ways things could go wrong. Sadly, he did not lick that particular trait off the stones and I must accept the blame for passing it on.
Me
I won’t. Promise. Go and have a lovely day together, son. And tell Saul I’ll talk to him later when he isn’t hanging out of his arse as much. Love you.
Adam
Thanks, Mum. Love you too xxx
I instinctively touch his words on the screen with my fingers before kissing them. It’s the closest I can get to giving him a hug just now, and it will have to do until he comes back in two weeks and I get to spoil him for real.
Of course, now what I really want to do is call Niamh and discuss this latest development but Adam has asked me not to get overexcited about it, and Niamh isn’t answering her phone or reading my messages anyway. Feeling the need to distract myself, I start cleaning. We’re in December now and I suppose I should be thinking about putting the Christmas tree up – it would be nice to have it in situ for the boys coming home. The only problem with that is the fact the decorations are all in the loft and it’s normally my very tall, very fearless boys who climb the ladder to get them down for me. I don’t do well with either ladders or lofts. Ladders immediately engage my fear of heights and lofts immediately engage my fear of dark spaces, insects, ghosts or creepy mass murderers who have been watching me sleep for months. No. I will not be retrieving my Christmas decorations myself. And yes, I do feel embarrassed by that – especially when I conjure the image of my seventy-seven-year-old mother dangling out of her own loft just over a week ago and wish I was half as fearless as she is.
Abandoning the plan to decorate the house for Christmas, but still not having heard from Niamh, I pull on my thickest, most unfashionable but exceptionally warm coat and lead Daniel out into the sleet and cold of a wet December day so that he can get some exercise.
I’m hopeful that by the time we have walked around the park and back home Niamh will be ready to chat or that if she isn’t then I’m too busy trying to warm up my frozen and saturated limbs to be able to go into full-on panic mode about it.
Because it is cold. And wet. And windy too for that matter. Where are the crisp, bright winter days that I’ve read about? The kind where the frost twinkles on the branches and my breath mists in the cool air. Where is the kind of weather I’ve seen in Hallmark Christmas movies where everyone can dress in non-waterproof clothes and return from their walks with their hair and make-up still perfect?
This is head down, shoulders hunched, collar up and hands firmly in pockets kind of a weather. Not that Daniel minds. He’s in his element by the time we reach the otherwise deserted park. With no one else around I unhook his leash and let him enjoy burning off some of his copious energy with a dose of the zoomies up and down the pathways. As I watch him frolic in the long grass, I think to myself that at least someone is having a good time.
I’m still battling the elements with my trusty companion never too far from my feet as we turn the corner into a more densely wooded area. Clearly catching the scent of something most likely disgusting, Daniel takes off like a rocket. Within seconds he is out of my sight but as I start to call his name, the wind seems to pick up speed and I’m now really quite worried that my voice might be carried away on the breeze and he won’t hear me. Honestly, with the increase in the wind strength, I’m also a little worried Daniel himself might get carried away on the breeze.
‘Daniel!’ I call, doing my best to make it sound sing-songy and appealing but unable to hide the underlying panic in my voice. ‘ Daniel !’ I yell louder as I start to tramp between the trees looking for him. I wore comfortable shoes but not suitable-for-wading-through-mud shoes and my feet start to squelch and stick in the muddy woodland ground. I keep calling and looking while ten minutes pass and there is still no sign of my dog or anyone else.
I’d like to tell you I’m not hysterical by this point, but I’m pretty much hysterical by this point. ‘DAN-IEL!’ I scream with all my might, not caring if anyone does hear me although there still doesn’t seem to be another being around.
Daniel has never disappeared from my view for this amount of time before. He always comes when he is called. Being the kind of person I am, I am starting to panic that while it’s relatively unlikely he will have been carried off to Kansas, Toto style, he might have been injured by a falling branch, or stuck in the mud like the sad horse was stuck in the Swamp of Sadness in The Neverending Story . Every single person who was a child in the eighties knows that particular scenario doesn’t end well.
My heart is threatening to beat right out of my chest as I keep walking until I’m almost back at the car park and there is still no sign my lovely wee dog and my God, I cannot stand the thought that I might lose him.
It’s then that I see a figure emerge from behind some trees, his dark coat buffeted by the wind, his hand pulled down over his head, his arms cradling a rather muddy but definitely very much alive Daniel.
At his feet a small black dog bounds along happily on the end of a leash.
‘Did you lose something?’ I hear the man ask, as I fight the urge to grab Daniel from his arms and hug him like never before.
‘I did,’ I say. ‘He picked up a trail and off he ran, and then the wind and the rain and God knows…’
Daniel, who looks absolutely delighted with himself, wriggles and jumps free from the man’s arms and I crouch to stroke him, not caring if I too end up mucked to the eyeballs. I can barely speak, I’m so filled with emotion.
‘I think he might need a bath but apart from that he seems unhurt,’ the man says. ‘We found him wandering about like a lost soul near the bridge. I thought it’d be best if I brought him back here or maybe to the vet to see if he was microchipped.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, my voice shaking, glancing up only long enough not to be rude and then focusing my attention back on Daniel to make sure he isn’t hurt. ‘You’re such a rascal for making me so scared, Daniel!’ I scold him.
‘Erm… Becki?’ the man asks. ‘Is that you?’
Becki.
Hang on.
I look up, blinking in the fading light, and see that, as luck would have it, the man who has found Daniel, and who has since found me, semi-hysterical, dressed like the Michelin man and now covered in mud, is in fact Conal.
Yes, just like waiting for a bus, there has been no sighting of him for years and then it’s Conal everywhere I look. Not that I’m not incredibly grateful for him in this very moment.
Having clipped Daniel back on his lead, I stand up and try to muster whatever dignity I can to thank him. The adrenaline currently coursing through my blood stream makes me want to grab him and hug him but I won’t. I hold myself back. Instead, I mutter his name, and not in a sexy romantic heroine way. My voice is so thick with emotion that I sound just like the boys did when they were fourteen and their voices started breaking.
‘I didn’t recognise you,’ I manage to stutter afterwards.
‘To be fair, we’re both so wrapped up it would be hard for anyone to recognise us. It’s only when you spoke to the dog that I clicked. There can’t be too many dogs called Daniel in Derry.’
I explain to him how the boys thought it was hilarious to call him Daniel The Spaniel and he laughs.
‘That’s brilliant,’ he says.
‘What’s your dog called?’ I ask.
‘Oh him? He’s Lazlo. After one of the vampires in What We Do in the Shadows .’
‘I love that show!’ I say. ‘I’m a big Nadja fan myself.’
He smiles as Lazlo sniffs around my feet, the rain gets heavier and the daylight really starts to slip away.
‘Well,’ I say. ‘I think we should probably get home before this weather gets any worse.’ I want to say more. I want to ask him more. I want to invite him home with me just to see if it feels as weird as I’m afraid it might to have Conal O’Hagan in my own house. But I don’t. Because deep inside of me, there really is just a little too much left of timid and shy Becki Burnside.
‘I think you’re right,’ he says. ‘But it was nice seeing you, Becki,’ he says.
Like an absolute dick, instead of telling him it’s nice to see him too or complimenting him on his rugged good looks, or thanking him for saving my dog, I correct him.
‘Actually, it’s Becca these days,’ I say.
‘Sorry. It was nice seeing you, Becca,’ he says, before tilting his head and walking off, Lazlo nipping at his heels as they go.
‘Well, you fucked that one up,’ I say out loud, addressing both myself and Daniel.
Back home, I try to warm myself up with a cup of tea while Daniel scents all my soft furnishings with Eau De Freshly Washed Wet Dog. I try not to continue picking apart every last moment of my interaction with Conal, wondering if that would make for a good ‘Ten Ways’ column for my pitch. ‘Ten Ways to Still Behave Like an Awkward Teenager in Your Forties’ perhaps? It could work.
Niamh still hasn’t been in touch so inevitably I start to worry about her again, my interlude with Conal clearly only being an interlude before the main event of having a full breakdown about my longest standing and very best friend.
Still, I don’t want to annoy Niamh by badgering her even more, so I do the only thing I can really think of doing short of driving over to Niamh’s and breaking her front door in. I call Laura, in the hope that our recently repaired friendship triangle will mean she might at least know what’s going on.
‘Becca,’ she answers, her voice a little hoarse. ‘How are you? I’m feeling a little delicate. I think I went too gung-ho on the Prosecco at Sonas yesterday. My head is not thanking me for it. Doesn’t help that Aidan and I demolished the best part of a bottle of red when I got home.’
‘Poor you,’ I say. ‘Thankfully I’m not hungover but I was just out walking Daniel so I need to thaw out a bit. It’s bitter out there today. We’re not long in from a walk and we were both absolutely drenched. We met Conal in the park walking his wee dog.’
She sighs. ‘He can’t sit still at the moment. Has to keep busy. That poor dog has had the legs walked off him. Conal just doesn’t want too much time to think about things, you know? I’m heading over to Mum’s soon to help him go through some paperwork and start clearing the house. There’s nothing I’d rather do less,’ she says and I can hear the trepidation in her voice. I don’t blame her. It’s a horribly cruel job to hoke through the detritus of a life knowing that is all that is left behind.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘It’s not easy. At least you have Conal to help. I’d have been lost without Ruairi, for all our fighting, when Dad died. I’m afraid I sort of fell to pieces a bit.’ The memories of that awful time come flooding back and I close my eyes tightly to push them away. No, I have enough to be worrying about without slipping back to the worst of times.
‘Conal has sort of fallen to pieces too,’ Laura says mournfully and I’m floored with guilt about not asking him how he is and focusing on Daniel instead. ‘I think we’ll both be as bad as each other,’ Laura continues. ‘I’d happily leave it all until after Christmas, but Conal is right – if we don’t do it now, we’ll just find it harder in the long run. It’s just knowing where to start. All her things…’
Her voice cracks and the people pleaser in me, which is also exceptionally similar to the part of me feeling a bit lost without my immediate mammying responsibilities, speaks up. ‘I can help you too, you know. I can come over if you want, and you don’t mind Daniel coming too. You’re not alone in this, Laura. That’s why you have me… and Niamh.’
There’s a pause and an intake of breath which is shaky, and then she sighs a ‘thank you’ and it’s hard to ignore the crack in her voice. ‘It would be brilliant if you could help. I don’t want to impose, but I feel so lost,’ she says.
‘It’s not an imposition,’ I tell her firmly, and I mean it. Niamh helped me after Dad died and I’d have been for the funny farm had she not kept me on my feet – and on my antidepressants.
My lovely Niamh.
Which reminds me, she’s the reason I’m calling Laura in the first place. ‘Tell me this,’ I say. ‘Have you heard anything from Niamh since yesterday? She’s been unusually quiet and I didn’t think she was quite herself after the massage.’
‘Well, she sent me a text last night just to check I was okay. Clearly she’d seen me self-medicating with whatever Prosecco I could get my hands on. I texted her back and said I was fine, if a little pished. I’ve not heard from her since, but I’ve not tried to get in touch with her either,’ Laura says.
‘And did you think she seemed a little out of sorts yesterday?’ I ask.
‘To be honest, I don’t think I’m the person to ask. It’s not like I’ve spent much time with her over the last ten years. I don’t know that I could speak to what’s usual for her any more. Are you worried?’ There’s a pause while I try and figure out what exactly it is I am feeling.
‘I don’t know,’ I tell her. ‘My spidey senses are tingling that something’s up but I’m not sure how to ask her. She’s normally so open with me.’
‘What do you think could be wrong?’ Laura asks, and I’m about to tell her about the lumpy boobs situation when it strikes me that she has only just lost her mother to breast cancer. Raising my, hopefully unfounded, fears with her would be insensitive at best, and downright distressing at worst.
‘I just don’t know,’ I lie. ‘But could you do me a favour and maybe just send her a little message. Just check in. And let me know if she replies to you. Maybe it’s my phone that’s on the blink or something.’
Yes, dear reader, there are straws in this room and here I am, grasping at them as if my life depends on it.