Chapter 41
The welcoming committee that greeted The Fishermen at Heathrow on their return from New York was, as always, raucous.
The viewing galleries were packed with screaming fans.
Airport security had the group, plus Freddy, bundled into a car by a back door, but the crowd were like bloodhounds.
Once one was on their scent, the rest would follow.
‘Jesus, I hate this,’ moaned Con as faces pressed against the windows and hands tried unsuccessfully to open the locked back door.
‘You’d hate it more if they weren’t there to greet us,’ commented Todd.
At last, the limousine freed itself of the mass of fans and the driver headed for central London.
Con looked behind him and saw the police car tailing them.
‘Home sweet home,’ he murmured under his breath.
‘Well, that was another unqualified success, boys,’ smiled Freddy from the front seat. ‘You looked and sounded great.’
‘I don’t know how you heard us, Freddy. With two hundred and fifty thousand screaming fans, we could have played nursery rhymes and no one would have known the difference,’ murmured Derek.
‘Yeah, well, that’s as may be, but I reckon the gig will go down in rock history. You attracted a crowd almost as big as the Beatles when they played the Hollywood Bowl. You can still cut it, there’s no doubt about that.’
‘Did you ever question it, Freddy?’ asked Todd quietly.
‘Well, I did get the impression that rehearsals hadn’t exactly gone smoothly.’
‘You know what they say: terrible dress rehearsal, great show,’ Todd mused.
‘Freddy, something has to be done fast about your man there.’ Con indicated Ian, who had fallen asleep with his mouth open. ‘He managed to fluke it on Saturday. But I’m not risking another live gig until he’s clean.’
Freddy nodded. ‘Okay, I’ll sort it. I think we need to meet up at the end of the week, have a chat about the new album and make plans for the next few months. I’m seeing Helen on Wednesday for lunch. She says she has something she wants to talk to me about. Anyone got any ideas?’
Those who were awake shook their heads.
‘Stop here and Con and I will catch a cab up north. It’ll be faster. The driver can take the rest of you home,’ said Freddy.
The driver pulled over on Hammersmith Broadway.
‘Con, shall we get together?’ Todd asked. ‘With Lulu in LA for a couple of days, I’ve got the house to myself. Come over.’
Freddy was signalling for a cab.
‘Sure, Todd. Give me a bell.’
Freddy and Con got into the taxi and it headed towards Belsize Park.
‘You will do something about Ian, won’t you, Freddy? If we’re ever to get this album completed, he’s got to shape up. To be honest, if he doesn’t, we’ll have to think about replacing him.’
‘I’ve said I’ll have a word and I will. You seem very tense, Con. Have done all week. Is something wrong?’
‘No, I’m grand altogether.’
‘Is it these murder threats?’
‘Well, it’s not ideal to find yourself on some nutter’s hit list, but I’m coping.’
‘They’ll track him down soon, no doubt. Is anything else troubling you?’
‘No.’ Con stared out of the window.
‘Okay,’ Freddy sighed. ‘Look, any problems, give me a shout. I’m only down the road.
’ Freddy tapped on the glass. ‘Just here’ll be fine.
’ The taxi pulled to a halt. He climbed out, his holdall slung over his shoulder.
‘As I said, call any time. Send my love to Sorcha. Helen says she’s been really poorly. ’
Con nodded. ‘Bye, Freddy.’
‘Where to now, mate?’ asked the taxi driver.
‘Hampstead.’
‘Righto.’
The taxi continued the few miles to the Daly household, where the gates slid open to welcome Con home. He handed the driver the fare, and let himself inside.
‘Sorcha? Sorcha?’
He walked through the quiet house and found his wife sunning herself on the terrace at the back. She turned when she heard him and stood up.
‘Con, I didn’t hear you.’ She walked over and put an arm around his shoulders, then kissed him.
‘How are you? Freddy says you were very rough.’
‘I was, but I feel so much better seeing you.’
‘Me too, Sorcha-porcha.’
There was an awkward distance between the pair. Neither knew exactly what to say, until they both talked at once.
‘Would you like a drink?’
‘Think I’ll have a shower.’
‘Why don’t you go upstairs and take a shower and I’ll bring you a drink?’ she suggested.
‘Sounds like a grand idea.’ Con nodded and headed for the stairs.
‘You could have rung, Con.’
‘Yeah, sorry.’ He swept a hand through his hair and shrugged. ‘Things were a bit hectic.’
He continued climbing the stairs. Sorcha stood and watched him disappear, a lump coming to her throat.
Come on, come on, you have to try, otherwise things will never improve.
She went into the kitchen to make herself some tea and get Con a beer.
When she went upstairs, the bathroom was empty but still steaming from Con’s recent shower. She found him lying naked on their bed, smoking a cigarette.
‘I brought you a beer, cool from the fridge.’
‘Thanks.’
She sat down on the bed and handed him the beer, which he rested on his flat stomach. A shiver of wanting ran through her. It had been over a month since they’d made love.
‘We need to talk.’
Con, suddenly drained from the hectic schedule of the last week, sighed heavily. ‘I know.’ He pulled himself into a sitting position and took a swig of beer. ‘What would you like to talk about?’
‘Us.’
Con nodded. ‘Go on.’
‘Well, for starters, there’s been an awful tension around us for weeks now.
We don’t seem to communicate any more. You’re always out at rehearsals or on some cause with Lulu.
And when you are home, we never seem to talk.
You knew how sick I was and you didn’t even bother to call me while you were in New York. I’m starting to wonder . . .’
‘What?’ Con looked at her wearily.
‘Whether you love me any more.’
He sighed and closed his eyes. ‘Oh, God. You’re right, Sorcha. I’ve been getting things very wrong.’ He put his beer down on the side table and opened his arms. ‘Would you come here?’
Sorcha climbed into his embrace.
‘I missed you,’ Con whispered. ‘I’m sorry for putting everything else before you. That’s all going to change.’
‘You’ve been so cold, so distant. It’s been like living with a stranger. Not the old Con who was funny and relaxed and never let things get on top of him.’
He gazed up the ceiling. ‘You’re right. Perhaps I’ve forgotten who the old Con was.’
Sorcha took a deep breath. ‘And is the new Con still in love with his wife?’
Con shifted his gaze and looked into his wife’s eyes. ‘Sorcha. I love you more than anything. I’m just so sorry that it’s taken me this long to get out of my own head. I promise that I’m coming back to the real world.’
Sorcha was momentarily overcome with happiness. She wanted to kiss him, but she needed to understand the mysterious phone call.
‘Con,’ she said after a pause, ‘is there anything about our past that I don’t know?’ She studied his face carefully.
It took him a while to reply. ‘What exactly do you mean?’
Sorcha immediately knew that he was hiding something. ‘When we left Ballymore.’ She recalled the mystery caller’s ominous words. ‘Was Helen McCarthy the real reason my daddy found out about us?’
The colour drained from Con’s face. ‘I . . .’ There was nothing more he could say.
Sorcha steeled herself. ‘Tell me everything. Now.’
Con sat up straight. ‘Did Helen say something? That bitch. She really can’t be trusted.’
‘As a matter of fact, I don’t know what I’d have done without her last week. She was kindness itself.’ Sorcha stood up, her legs feeling shaky, her mouth dry. ‘So, out with it.’
Con sunk his head into his hands and told his wife the truth.
Sorcha’s face hardly moved, but tears streamed from her eyes and down her cheeks. When she went to leave the room, Con tried to follow her.
‘No! No.’ She held up her hand, which was physically trembling. Con slunk guiltily back onto the bed, like an admonished dog.
It was more than an hour before Sorcha returned. When she opened the bedroom door, Con had not moved a muscle, but wore a harrowed, drained expression. He had clearly been crying.
‘I think it’s best if I go away for a while. I can’t bear to stay here any longer.’ Sorcha stood for a few seconds looking down at him. ‘I’m going to pack my things.’
As she filled a suitcase with clothes, Con lay on the bed silently, his eyes closed. When she was confident she had enough to last her a good week, Sorcha shut the case and picked it up, swallowing back tears. She walked to the bedroom door.
‘Goodbye, Con.’
He didn’t reply. Or couldn’t.
Sorcha shut the bedroom door, walked down the stairs and into the kitchen. In the drawer of the dresser was a chequebook. She’d need it to pay for a hotel, or maybe she should fly straight home to Ballymore . . .
All she knew for now was that she needed to get out of the house and away from Con. She could hardly believe their parting had been so calm, so cold.
Sorcha closed the front door behind her, threw her case into the back of her car and drove out of the gates.
A groupie stood up as she drove by. Braking hard, Sorcha wound down the window and stared into the dope-filled eyes of the young woman.
‘I’m going. He’s all yours.’
She wound up the window as the girl looked at her in confusion. Tooting her horn, she zoomed off down Heath Road.