Red Ribbons (5 page)

This afternoon I am to visit Dr Ebbs again. What will he ask me today? What will I answer? Being sunny, he will probably be even chirpier than he was yesterday, more enthused. He thinks he can help, but what is there to help? I have nothing left. He will ask about the fire, of course, that is usually where they start. As if the fire has answers, as if unravelling the truth about it will give them some magical key that will open doors. But the answers are not in the fire, they never were. When I think about it now, I see it like an ending in a film. Sometimes I can even hear music while I see it played out in my mind’s eye. Another confirmation that my time spent in a lunatic asylum has worked well. The melody is slow, sounding like waves drifting in and out, taking stories out to the vast oceans. The music takes my life with it, or rather, what was once my life.

When I think of the fire, the first thing I see is the dark, dirty, grey smoke rising, bellowing like angry clouds cascading into one another. At first there is silence, then the crackling, the fire exploding within itself as if on a wild and dangerous dance. I hear glass smashing, things falling, plates coming off shelves, furniture crumbling and then nothing. A black silence. I remember being dragged out. I remember the smell. I had not expected that. I had surely not expected that.

But what had I expected? In truth, little, for even now when I look back, the madness of it all fills me with nothing other than my wrenching feeling of loss, a loss that came in waves, like a separation of self, of Amy, my daughter, of life, a separation from everything that counted.

I do wonder why I had ever agreed to go on holiday to that place to begin with. Why I didn’t just say no. I hadn’t wanted to go, that much I am sure of. Joe knew this, of course, but he insisted on the trip, over and over. Such a trifling thing really, the repeated monotones of another, but I just couldn’t listen to his harping on any more. It was
easier to agree. He never told me his brother would be there. If he had, I would not have gone. That much I do know.

I hear sounds outside, the morning trolleys being pushed up and down corridors. Bridget will be in soon, and she will expect me to swallow my tablets, she will expect me to get up and wash and go down to Living Room 1, where we will all have breakfast and clear our plates. I will do all this, I always do. Bridget will say something like, ‘Beautiful day’ or ‘How are we today?’ or ‘Look at you still in bed, while I have half the day behind me.’ Bridget likes to talk about the day, she feels comfortable talking about it; to her, it is safe territory. To Bridget, the day is innocent, normal, new. To me, the day is the same as it was yesterday; it just surprises me that it keeps coming back.

Right on cue, she opens the door. She is quiet for a change. I want to ask her if the cat has caught her tongue, but I don’t. She might think I want to talk; no point encouraging her.

It doesn’t take her long. It never does.

‘Morning, Ellie, how are we today?’

‘Fine.’

She has a kind face, non-offensive. Her brown hair is the colour of mine, but soft, short and curly. The rest of her is much the same, ordinary, not fat, not tall. Bridget has green eyes, ‘cats’ eyes’ she calls them. She must be sixty. She wears regular clothes, nothing too fancy. Bridget has been a cleaner all her adult life. Her children are well grown up now. I know this because she talks about them endlessly. She tells me about each one of them with pride. They’ve all ‘flown the nest’ as she puts it, looking upwards to some imaginary sky as if by chance she might see them somewhere up there, for when she talks about them ‘flying the nest’, it’s as if they have all joined the imaginary birds within it. She still has her husband. She calls him ‘himself’. ‘Himself was watching the football yesterday’, ‘Himself cut the grass’, ‘Himself doesn’t want to get out of his armchair’, ‘Himself knows everything.’

Bridget is like the sun, she keeps coming back, even though she makes no difference.

‘Nice bit of sunshine.’

‘Mmm.’

‘Makes a change, cheers you up.’

‘Do you think?’

She’s not impressed. Bridget doesn’t like it when she’s challenged, she likes to keep things simple.

‘The weather man predicted rain, heard him on the telly last night, should have known. They always get it wrong.’

She looks out the window. ‘A great day for drying.’

It is not a comment she expects an answer to. I sit up in bed. She hands me my tablets and I swallow them with a glass of water. It tastes of metal. Of course, most cleaners would not be trusted to give out medication, but with Bridget, they all turn a blind eye. In truth, she is probably more familiar with the routine than a lot of the nurses. She’s only allowed to do this with the long-term patients, the ones on medications that are as predictable as the hours in the day.

‘Believe you’ve met the new doctor.’

‘Indeed.’

‘He’s supposed to be very experienced, worked all over the world, I understand. But, then, you can tell that about him, he looks like a man of the world.’

‘Are all men not of this world?’

‘Now, Ellie, you know what I mean. Don’t go taking advantage of me being less educated than you.’

Again she says this without expecting a response. We have over time developed an acceptable banter between us. She knows I don’t mind her talking about her grown-up children or ‘himself’, and she turns a blind eye to my indifference. For Bridget, her family give her an identity, something that comforts her, protects her. When she talks about them, part of her lights up, although it’s different when she talks
about ‘himself’. When she talks about ‘himself’, it’s as if she is talking about a broken-down washing machine.

I never get dressed while Bridget is in the room; she respects my privacy, but she does expect me to get dressed soon after she leaves. If I didn’t, I would let her down and she might lose some of her bonus hierarchical duties, so I always comply. Part of our understanding is in the repetition of our encounters. She always arrives on time, and always with a cheery disposition. She talks to me as she keeps herself busy emptying the bin, sweeping under the bed, dusting down the chipped window panes, making conversation that is neutral but upbeat, then standing like some wise old woman at the doorway saying her few words before she leaves. She always says these words in a tone that is slower and softer than any previous conversation, and today is no exception.

‘Dr Ebbs, he called me by my name this morning. Only in the door and he knows my name is Bridget, would you credit that?’

I smile because I know she wants me to. Bridget always has hope, which is what I like and dislike about her.

I wait until I hear her farther up the corridor before getting out of bed. When I do, I cannot avoid the tiny mirror. It is in shade now, the sun has passed on its way. I need to look at it to clean my face. I use a small pink facecloth that is the same shade of pink as the window frames. Practically everything in here is either pink or grey. I brush my teeth using water from the sink. Once I am done, I stand looking for just a second and again I see that person looking back at me, the lost person. I cannot look for long, but I look, I cannot help myself.

Once done, I know I have but the briefest of moments before I must head down to Living Room 1. I use this time differently each day. Sometimes I just sit on the bed and try to manage all my ‘non-thoughts’, piecing them together until I am as close to nothing as I can possibly be. Some days this causes me little pain; other days are different. Today is going to be one of those different days. I don’t
know why, but I feel uneasy, agitated. Perhaps it’s the new doctor. Perhaps it’s my latest habit of staring into mirrors. All the days here have been a chore in different ways, but if I am being truthful, for the most part I like knowing what to expect. Today I don’t know what to expect and the lack of predictability unsettles me.

I chastise myself. There is no point worrying about the good doctor. I have met his type many times before. But there is something new hovering. It is only when I dress and walk over to the window that I know for sure what it is, and that it has bothered me since yesterday.

The leaves are falling from the trees, some of them have already become that dry, crisp texture that makes them crunch underfoot. It has been a mild autumn. By now I am an expert on such things. As I stand here I think about the previous day, how I was caught unawares when I found myself smiling. To most that would be nothing, but to me, it is disturbing, because smiling is not something that I do.

It does not bother me that it is a long time since I have had a happy memory. Happy memories are not part of the game. In certain ways yesterday was of no real consequence, a harmless childhood recall, nothing more. I was running through the dry leaves of autumn. In the memory the colours of the leaves are as they are today, beautiful shades of orange, red and yellow, a spectacular flight falling from lines of trees. As a child I was amazed by their falling, creating a sea of crunch and colour that I could almost glide through. It was just a silly memory, but it had made me smile, and I had not expected that.

Now when I look at the trees, I think about how they have the strength to survive the harshest of winters, the short days and the long nights, and how, unlike me, they will be reborn again. Could I be like the trees? Could I, after such a long, cold winter, re-form again? Is it the question that unsettles me or the fact that I have thought of it at all? For the thinking of it makes me wonder if I might once again fall victim to that thing I’ve long since given up on: hope.

This afternoon, if Dr Ebbs asks me about the fire, I will let his
questions fall away like the leaves are doing now. I will say I don’t remember; he cannot make me talk. The sooner he realises how empty I am, that he is wasting his time and mine, the better it will be for everyone. Then I can go back to just being my old self. It is easier that way. It is what I do best.

As I walk down towards Living Room 1, I pay a visit to the Female Toilets. In here, the tiles are a lighter powder pink and cover the walls and floors. The tiles on the floor are different from the ones on the wall, they are larger and less shiny. In the Female Toilets, there are four cubicles. I can tell Bridget has already been in because each one smells of cleaning fluid and every toilet roll holder is full. The others have already made their way down to breakfast.

I savour my final minutes alone, collecting my thoughts. Breakfast is the worst chore of the day because at breakfast, I will meet everyone for the first time all over again – and, today, I feel nervous. I worry that I might not be able to hide my feelings the way I usually do. The silent, polite exterior of my protective shell feels less sure. Whether it is because of the good doctor or the memory of the fallen leaves, I do not know, but I have the sense that today, despite my desire to remain steadfast, my protection might slip.

WALKING OUT OF HER OFFICE AT OCEAN HOUSE ON Arran Quay, Kate Pearson planned to grab some lunch at the Legal Eagle pub nearby, before picking up Charlie from school straight afterwards. It was still hard to think of him being in ‘big school’, but as her mother had said to her at his birth, four years earlier, time flies quicker than anyone can possibly imagine. Out in the fresh air, the last person she expected to see leaning against the Liffey wall opposite was DI O’Connor. He was lighting a cigarette, his hands cupped around to avoid the breeze. Tall and bulky, he was a man who’d have looked more at home in a traditional pub, with his short auburn hair and curls to the front that never knew which way they wanted to settle. As always, his beard stubble was only a hair’s-breadth from looking unruly. He had shared very little with her about his personal life during the Dunmore case, other than his confirmed bachelor status and what seemed like an avoidance to reveal his first name. Crossing over as soon as he saw her, his blue eyes smiled in that cheeky way of his.

‘Those things will kill you, O’Connor,’ she said lightly.

He grinned at her. ‘Sure, something has to, Kate, might as well be something enjoyable.’

‘Stalking me now, are you?’

‘Now, now, less of the ego, it doesn’t suit you.’

‘Is the pleasure mine or someone else’s?’

‘It’s your lucky day. Tried to get you on your mobile. I had to ring Probation and Welfare to find you.’

‘Consultations all morning, mobile off, you know the way it is.’

‘Lunch?’

‘You’re a mind-reader, O’Connor. I’m heading for the Legal Eagle.’

‘Mind if I join you?’

‘I assume there is more to this than lunch?’

‘You assume right.’

Lunchtime at the Legal Eagle was always hectic, but they got lucky – a corner table came free as they arrived. The pub smelled of roast beef and strong coffee. It was dark coming in from outside, the place packed with city workers amidst the clatter of trays and easy conversation. Once the preliminaries of ordering lunch were dispensed with, O’Connor set about his real task.

The contents of the envelope he handed to Kate were stark. All the images, except for one – a school photograph of the victim – had been taken at the mountain burial site where the young girl’s body had been found. Working her way through the photographs, Kate was immediately gripped by what she saw. As each of the images revealed itself, she got the sense that everything about her first introduction to this young girl would remain with her, like a recurring bad dream.

‘Not pretty,’ he remarked drily.

‘They never are, O’Connor.’

‘Well, what do you think?’

‘I’m guessing this is unofficial?’

‘It is for now.’

‘These things take time to assess, O’Connor, you know that.’

‘Yeah, well, sadly we don’t always have the luxury of time. Rohan is doing his best, but the press is going mad with this thing, even bloody Twitter has gone crazy with it, trending top of the Irish tweets, whatever the hell that means.’

‘As I say, there are never any quick answers, Detective Inspector.’