Chapter Fifteen #4
“I’m acting the same as I always do,” she says, pouring tea.
Her hand is neat and steady, like nothing important is happening.
“Going to work, walking the dogs, going over to see my fella. Maybe I’ve been a bit more sociable than usual, ’cause at a time like this you want people around you, but I don’t see how that would worry anyone. D’you take milk?”
“Just a drop. That’s loads; thanks.” Breege takes the mug and settles back in her chair. “We don’t want any harm coming to you, is all,” she says. “That’s what I’m here for. See if you’re OK, and what I can do to help out.”
Lena has almost nothing left, but she has this: her thirty years of ruthless training in being pleasant and blank to people who want to delve around inside her.
This is lucky, since it’s the only thing that might save her, but it seems grotesque that this should be what’s left of her when everything else is gone.
“Harm?” she says, eyebrows up. “What kinda harm?”
Breege takes a swig of her tea. She says, “I don’t want you hurting yourself.”
“Jesus,” Lena says, taken aback. “Whoever you were talking to, they’re after getting themselves in a right state. I suppose it’s nice of them to be looking out for me, but there’s no need. I’m grand. Thanks, though.”
“Listen,” Breege says, pointing her mug at Lena.
Her tone is good, matter-of-fact, not too delicate or sympathetic; Lena is a run-of-the-mill problem that can easily be solved if they work sensibly together.
“If you’re having a bad patch, you’d be better off with people to look after you and help you get through it.
I can bring you somewhere, if you want. They’ll have you back on your feet in no time. ”
“A hospital, like?” Lena says, amused, her eyebrows still up. “Seriously?” And when Breege nods: “God, no. There’s nothing the matter with me that a sun holiday wouldn’t fix. Have you got one of those on offer?”
“Here’s how it works, yeah?” Breege says.
Apparently she’s decided that Lena will respond best to straightforwardness.
“If I think there’s a serious risk that you could harm yourself, I need to bring you somewhere you’ll be safe.
But it all runs a lot smoother if you go on your own. What do you reckon?”
Tommy is so expert at what he does, he’s got such an army, Lena can’t believe she ever thought she stood a chance against him. There she was reassuring herself: It’s not the nineties, he can’t have me put away. Tommy can do anything he wants.
“Come here,” she says. She puts down her mug and faces Breege squarely, across the table.
“Do you honest-to-God reckon I’m a risk to myself?
Never mind whatever you heard off people I’ve barely seen in years.
You’re sitting here talking to me. Do I seem to you like I’m off my head and about to fill myself up with paracetamol? ”
It won’t do any good, in the long run. All Lena can do is buy herself a few more days or weeks, until Tommy comes up with something too heavy for her to push away.
The fight she’s putting up isn’t because she thinks she can win.
It isn’t even a doomed gallantry, a determination to go down swinging; it’s just a meaningless reflex.
She supposes she’s glad this is the other thing that’s left of her.
“It doesn’t always show, sure,” Breege says. “Are you?”
“No,” Lena says, exasperated. “I’ve no intention of doing anything to myself. Except maybe taking myself for a good long walk with these dogs and waving like a big eejit at everyone I see, so they’ll all know I’m alive and well.”
Breege creases up her forehead, trying to make sense of things. “What would’ve given people that idea, so? Can you think of anything you said—even just joking, maybe, and someone might’ve taken you up wrong? Or maybe you were a bit down one day, and someone thought it was more than that?”
Lena isn’t stupid. She doesn’t think Breege is, either.
Breege is from Kerry, by her accent, and not Tralee or any of the big towns; she’s from somewhere like this.
Lena wonders what would happen if she told Breege the whole story; whether she’d be willing to recognize its patterns for what they are, or whether it would just add a reflexive intensity to her need to lock this whole thing safely away.
“Listen,” she says dryly. “You know small towns as well as I do. Either someone’s got themselves worked up over nothing, or else someone’s pissed off with me and wants to give me a bitta hassle.
” That gets a flicker of recognition; Lena was right, Breege knows the score.
“I never in my life said I was suicidal, or anything close to it. Why would I be ready to kill myself over a girl I hardly knew?”
“From what I’ve heard,” Breege says, “you were having a few problems with Rachel Holohan. Her dying could’ve hit you harder because of that.”
She drinks her tea, settled comfortably in the worn kitchen chair, and watches Lena to see how she reacts.
If Breege likes straightforwardness, Lena can give her that. She says, “Is this the rumor about Rachel riding my fiancé, is it?”
Breege says, “That’s the one.”
“Feck’s sake,” Lena says, with a touch of eyeroll.
“That’s pure foolishness all round. For one thing, Cal’s not that kinda man.
And for another, everyone knows Rachel was mad about Eugene; she wouldn’t have looked at any other fella, let alone some middle-aged lad with a belly on him.
I think Cal’s drop-dead gorgeous, o’ course, but I can’t see her agreeing with me. ”
That gets a smile out of Breege, although not one that lasts. “And another thing,” Lena says. “I never heard a whisper of that story till a few days ago. If you ask me, neither did anyone else. It’s a fairy tale made up after she died, ’cause people wanted an explanation.”
“Rachel didn’t mention it when she was here, no? The night she died?”
Breege’s face is too steady and too neutral, and that’s when Lena finally understands.
She’s looking straight down Breege, like a gun barrel, into Tommy Moynihan’s eyes.
Through the mouth of this woman who knows nothing about him, Tommy has spelled out his message clear as day.
Lena has a choice. She’s mad, or she killed Rachel; pick one, or he’ll pick for her.
She says, “Nothing like that. Like I told you before, all we talked about was her cat. If you wanta check, have a look at the cat; I wouldn’t say anyone’s had a chance to get that ringworm sorted yet.”
Breege says, “And you’re telling me you wouldn’ta been one bit bothered if you’da heard that story earlier? Water off a duck’s back, yeah? ’Cause I’m telling you, I wouldn’t be happy. No matter how much I trusted my fella.”
Lena shrugs and makes a wry face. “I wouldn’ta been over the moon about it,” she says.
“I don’t like people making Cal out to be a hoormaster and me to be some poor sap that’s been played for a fool, and I don’t like them talking shite about a girl who’s not around to defend herself.
But I’m used to this place. I know what it’s like for the rumors.
We’ll just haveta wait it out, me and Cal.
By next week there’ll be something else. ”
Breege gives Lena a half-convinced face and waits to see what that gets her. In their corner the dogs are shifting, troubled.
“Look,” Lena says firmly. “All I can tell you is I’m grand, I’ve no intention of doing myself any harm, and I never took that rumor serious for a second. Probably you’d expect me to say that either way, but there’s not a lot else I can say.”
She sits back in her chair, done with this nonsense, and drinks her tea.
Breege looks at her for a few more seconds, weighing Lena against the things she’s been told.
“Fair enough,” she says in the end, with a nod.
Her Guard face gives away nothing. “I’m going to leave you my card, OK?
If you decide you need a bitta help, or just someone to talk to, give me a bell. Any time.”
“I will,” Lena says. She doesn’t pick up the card. “If you seriously wanta help me out, you could take a jar of blackberry jam with you. I made too much this year; I’m trying to get it off my hands.”
A faint part of her mind is proud of this touch. It provides a sensible, sane explanation for her round of visits, and a woman who makes her own jam can’t be too far off the rails.
“Ah, no, thanks, I can’t take gifts,” Breege says, waving the offer away. “And God knows the aul’ thighs don’t need it, hah?” She laughs. Lena can tell she’s one notch more at ease with her decision. The jam has done its job.
“Where are you from?” she asks, on the doorstep.
“Outside Killarney,” Breege says, zipping her jacket against the cold. “A little place in the back arse of nowhere; you wouldn’t know it.”
Lena says, “You did right to get out.”
They look at each other. “Everywhere’s got its downsides,” Breege says. “I’ll call in to you again soon, see how you’re getting on. Look after yourself.”
“I’ll do that,” Lena says. “Thanks for checking in.” She stays on the step, lifting a hand politely, while Breege turns the car and drives off. She doesn’t look around to try and spot who’s watching, from some field or hedgerow, to report back to Tommy.