Authors: Laura Jane Cassidy
The night of Jim Cullen’s funeral I slept uneasily and awoke from the strangest dream with the scene still vivid in my mind: a drunken man stumbled up a lane, struggling to stay upright. A car pulled up beside him, almost knocking him to the ground. The window rolled down. A hand emerged, clutching a brown leather handbag.
‘
Here. Take this and burn it. Do you hear me? Burn it! This
and everything in it.
’ The hand was trembling but the voice was steady.
‘
Why the … why the hell should I?
’
‘
Because if you don’t I’ll tell everyone what you did. Do you really want me to tell them about –’
‘
Fine … I’ll burn the bloody bag. Whose is it anyway?’
He got no response. The car reversed out, leaving tyre marks in the earth. The drunken man continued up the dark lane, the bag dangling from his right hand.
Once was unsettling enough, but I’d had the same dream nearly every night that week. The way it was so clear in my mind was starting to scare me, and there was one particular thing about it that really freaked me out. I recognized the lane. It was the one that led to our new house. I didn’t recognize the men though. I’d never seen them before and I certainly had no desire to. Particularly not the one sitting in the car. His pale eyes held a vicious manic stare that I couldn’t forget.
As I tried to get back to sleep, the image of the bag kept coming into my mind. It was a satchel made of chocolate-brown leather, with a little handle as well as a longer strap, and it swung back and forth as the drunken man moved hesitantly along, the moonlight glinting off its gold buckles. The bag looked familiar, like something I’d see when I was searching through vintage shops for clothes.
I hate it when I’m trying to get back to sleep in the middle of the night and my mind won’t stop racing. I tried hard to think about something else. Maybe I was so fixated on the dream because I didn’t have anything more exciting to distract me. Clearly my anxiety over the move to Avarna had created a recurring nightmare composed of random memories. Once I
felt settled I was sure it would go away.
I should spend more time exploring the village
, I thought.
I’m sure there were interesting little corners I hadn’t yet discovered. Places like that café and the garden by the river, and that cute little clothes shop. It looked expensive but maybe I’d call in anyway …
Eventually, after the distraction of planning my tour of the village, my brain shut down and I fell into a welcome dream-free sleep.
The next morning there was a gorgeous blue sky and I felt a lot better. But we’d run out of milk so I couldn’t have cereal. Instead of being annoyed I decided it was fate; I’d wander into the village to get some milk and explore a bit more.
As I walked into the local shop I heard a loud smack on the window. A fly swatter hit the windowpane with brutal force. I watched as the doomed wasp fell on to the dusty sill, its legs flickering for a moment before it died. The shop owner, Mary Reynolds, stood triumphantly, clasping the blue swatter.
‘The little feckers come out earlier every year,’ she said as she scooped the tiny corpse into a tissue and dumped it in the bin behind the counter. ‘How are you, Jacki? Are you keeping well?’
‘Yes, I’m fine, thanks,’ I said, trying to be cheerful and heading for the fridge.
Mary knew all of Avarna’s residents by name and there was little that happened in the village that she didn’t find out about. The first time I’d gone into her shop was only for chewing gum, yet she’d kept me chatting for twenty minutes. She found out my name, my age, that my mum, Rachel, was the new primary school teacher starting in September, that I’d just done my Junior Cert. exams and that I didn’t have a boyfriend. In return
I was subjected to her son Nick’s entire life story. He was a year older than me, had just finished transition year, was allergic to tomatoes and played electric guitar.
Today I was spared from interrogation as she was soon chatting to another customer. She introduced me to Joe Clancy, owner of the aptly named Clancy’s, one of Avarna’s four pubs.
‘And did you hear Tommy Ford’s wife had a baby girl?’ said Joe. ‘I’m not sure what they called her …’
‘Chloe Louise, eight pounds twelve ounces, big head of brown hair,’ said Mary as she stared at the open window, daring another wasp to fly through it. The shop was uncomfortably warm, as was everywhere in the village during that unusually hot summer.
‘Here’s hoping she gets her looks from her mother,’ said Joe. ‘That fella Tommy has a face like a melted welly.’
‘You’re terrible,’ said Mary with a laugh.
I smiled to myself. You couldn’t help liking Mary, in spite of her knack for getting information out of everyone who came into the shop.
‘Anyway, I better be off,’ said Joe. He sauntered out with an ice-cream cone in his hand and a folded newspaper tucked under his elbow.
I checked the selection of biscuits, searching for my favourites.
‘Nick!’ shouted Mary. There was silence. ‘Nick!’ she bellowed again. A few moments later her son emerged from the storeroom in the back with a copy of
Kerrang!
magazine in his hand and a disgruntled look on his face. Although I’d heard a lot about him from Mary, this was the first time I’d seen him. He
was tall and slim and wore faded blue denims and a black T-shirt. His brown hair was quite long and curled across his forehead. As he came towards us I could see his striking blue eyes and that he had a few freckles on his cheeks. His arms were strong and tanned.
One syllable echoed silently inside my head: Wow. Nick was gorgeous, even with that grumpy look on his face.
‘Nick, I have to go to the wholesaler’s, so stay behind the counter, will you?’ said Mary. She mustn’t have realized we hadn’t been introduced.
Nick nodded grudgingly and slumped down on the stool behind the till.
‘Bye, Jacki,’ said Mary, and then she hurried out the door, taking with her any affection I felt for my ex-boyfriend in Dublin. I took out my purse and approached the counter with my milk and biscuits.
‘Hi,’ he said.
‘Hi.’
I tried to think of something intelligent to say, but failed miserably.
‘That’s two ninety-five,’ said Nick.
‘Thanks,’ I murmured as I handed him three euro with a slightly shaking hand.
‘So, you’re Jacki?’ he asked as his eyes met mine, and he dropped the change into my palm. My insides jolted when I heard him say my name.
‘Eh … yeah. You must be Nick.’ There were a few moments of silence. I tried to think of something to say. Anything at all. But nothing came.
‘So how are you finding Avarna so far?’
‘Yeah it’s … it’s cool.’ Avarna was a lot of things, but cool certainly was not one of them. Why did I have to say cool? Any other word would have done. Any one at all.
‘That’s good,’ said Nick. He smiled at me. I could feel my cheeks warming. The thought that they were undoubtedly bright red made me cringe.
‘OK, I better be off,’ I said. I wanted to get out of there before I said something else embarrassing.
‘See you around,’ he said.
And then it came. Whatever possessed me to wave at someone whose handsome face was a mere metre away from me I will never know. But I did. I gave him a big giant wave. He looked at me a little strangely as I turned away, embarrassed, and rushed out of the shop, my cheeks burning so brightly I could almost feel my new social life going up in flames.
The next morning I got up early. I put on my purple skinny jeans and Led Zeppelin T-shirt, ran my fingers through my hair and swept some black mascara on to my eyelashes. I slipped a couple of bracelets on my wrist and checked my reflection in the mirror before heading outside. Work on the site had stopped as the builders were having their morning tea break. Mum was standing beside the empty cement mixer talking to Des, our electrician. She was nearly forty but could easily have passed for younger in her cream top and denims, and with straight blonde hair like mine that rested just above her shoulders. I had a feeling from the way he’d been hanging around lately that Des fancied my mum, but there was no way that was going to happen. She hadn’t so much as looked at another man since my dad died. The sooner Des realized that and stopped trying to flirt with her the better. As I walked towards them, avoiding the muddy areas and the
builders’ mess, I caught some of their conversation.
‘Did you get your hair done, Rachel?’ said Des.
‘Just a trim,’ said Mum. ‘Can’t believe you noticed.’
How creepy
, I thought. Poor Mum, she was way too polite for her own good.
‘It’s very nice … very … shiny,’ said Des with an elaborate hand movement that I presumed was supposed to convey shine. Then he went slightly red and started to mumble something under his breath. Unable to watch his cringeworthy antics any longer, I turned and headed for the road, saying I was just going to get something from the shop. We were running low on bread, but I was really just hoping to see Nick again.
As I wandered towards the village, I thought about how it can take seconds to create an obsession, and years to get over it. Within minutes of meeting Nick I’d allowed myself to slip into that familiarly dangerous territory. That place where you think about a person constantly, where you rehearse future conversations in your head, where you plan your day around the blissful possibility of bumping into them. I’d only been in love once before. It had ended when I’d discovered my now ex-boyfriend, Cian, wrapped round my former best friend.
I still wasn’t used to walking on the country roads but I loved picking the tall grass and the wildflowers along the way. Mum had told me to walk facing the oncoming traffic so I could be seen, but sometimes it felt like I was staring straight into certain death. I nearly stepped right into the ditch whenever I heard a car coming.
I plucked the petals off a yellow flower as I walked along, thinking about how you put everything into your first love, because you really believe it’s going to last forever. That is its triumph and its tragedy, the reason you will never forget it, and the reason it is so difficult to let go. I’d spent my first couple of weeks in Avarna missing Cian in spite of everything that had happened. But then along came Nick. He was handsome and charming and loved music. Basically, he was perfect.
When I arrived at the shop I caught a glimpse of Nick through the window and felt a flutter of excitement. He was wearing a white T-shirt and was talking to a customer. The door made a little
ding
as I pushed it open. A girl was standing in front of the counter talking to him, her long black hair scraped back from her pretty face.
‘Hi, Nick,’ I said, trying to sound as casual as possible.
‘Hi, Jacki.’ He turned back to the girl and smiled. ‘Sarah, this is Jacki, the girl I was telling you about.’
My heart almost stopped beating. He’d been talking about me?
‘Jacki, this is my girlfriend, Sarah.’
This time my heart almost stopped beating again, but for an entirely different reason.
My girlfriend
. It’s amazing how a mere two words can change the mood of an entire day. How could I not have presumed it anyway? He’s such a good-looking guy … of course he would be taken. And he seemed so proud as he said it:
my girlfriend
. He was clearly happy with her. Sarah appeared friendly, although her eager smile seemed a little fake. As we made polite conversation I got the impression she would rather I wasn’t there. My new life went crashing back to boring. I quickly bought some bread and made my escape.
Head down, ego deflated, I reached the bottom of our lane.
‘Jacki! Will you check if there’s any post?’ Mum called from the caravan door. I struggled to find the rusty red postbox hidden among the overgrown bushes. There was no key for it, so I got a stick to prise the letters out. At first I thought it was empty, but then I felt the stick touch some paper at the very bottom. I couldn’t get it out: it was firmly stuck inside. I was going to just leave it there, but that little voice in your head that speaks to you when
you least expect it told me to try harder. I forced my hand in through the opening, and gripped the letter with my fingers. For one horrible moment I thought my arm might be stuck. I yanked it out, managing to scrape some skin off the back of my hand. But I soon forgot about my stinging skin when I saw the letter.
It was addressed in neat writing to a Mr Alf Meehan. The ink was faded and the stamp foreign and it was dated about six months earlier. I should have given it to someone to forward to him, but that persuasive inner voice suggested that I open it. Before I knew what I was doing the envelope was open in my hands. I pulled out a slip of cream notepaper. Unfolding it, I felt a shiver run through me as I read the bold black letters:
I spent most of the afternoon lounging in the caravan. I didn’t really feel up to doing anything else.
‘What’s wrong with you, Jacki?’ Mum asked.
‘What do you mean?’ I said, looking away from the window.
Mum was sitting cross-legged on her bed, flicking through a home-decorating magazine.
‘You’ve been moping around all afternoon,’ she said.
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘Yes, you have.’
‘Well, sorry.’ I’d gone for a short walk after lunch just to try to clear my head and cheer myself up, but obviously that hadn’t worked very well. I’d come back feeling more down than ever. Ever since I’d opened the envelope I’d felt very sick. The threatening note had freaked me out slightly. I needed to forget about it: it had nothing to do with me.
I grabbed my phone off the ledge beside the bed and sighed when I saw that I still had no coverage. I hated that it was nearly impossible to get even one bar of coverage up here. Not to mention the fact that we didn’t have any Internet. I hadn’t been online in days. There was broadband available in the café in the village, but it had been closed for the past week. My life was a total mess. All my friends were in Dublin. I couldn’t even ring them, for heaven’s sake. I missed them and I missed my computer, I missed playing music, I missed everything. And the first guy I’d fancied in months, and who I’d got my hopes stupidly high about, had a girlfriend. A gorgeous girlfriend called Sarah.