wound that had been done to you, at last, so many years ago. She stood up. ‘Come on, then. Jog it.’
Aidan stood up too, and caught her face in his hands, and kissed her hard. Her hands went to his hair, so thick and dark. He tasted of mint, and of himself, and . . . She pulled away. He tasted like he usually did – that was the problem.
‘What?’ he frowned.
‘You’ve been smoking again.’
‘I have not!’
‘Aidan. I can taste it on you.’
‘I go in a lot of smoky places – that’s where the stories are, you know.’
‘Don’t lie to me. It’s just insulting.’
‘I’m no liar, Maguire. I might be many things but I’ve never lied to you.’
But he had kept things from her. She put her hands on her hips. ‘Aidan.’
He spoke cajolingly, hands around her waist. ‘Look. OK, the odd time, I still have a smoke. It helps put people at their ease is all. Some of these ould fellas, they don’t trust a man who won’t take a smoke or a drink. And I’m not on the latter, as you well know.’
Did she know? She glared at him. ‘Are you still buying your own?’
‘No. I just cadge the odd one.’
‘I don’t want Maggie anywhere near it. I don’t even want her smelling it on you, OK?’
‘Catch yourself on, Maguire. I’ve grown up a wee bit now I’m a dad.’
There was a tiny pause between them, which went on for a second more than was bearable, and Paula wondered if it would always be there, that pocket of making-do, of not-mentioning.
There was a squawk from upstairs, right on cue. ‘Daaaaady!’
‘The woman herself,’ Aidan said. ‘I’ll go.’ He dropped a careless kiss on Paula’s hand as he went out, the kind of gesture between people with love to spare, to throw away. She saw his jacket over the chair, carelessly tossed as usual, no thought to tidying up after himself. She didn’t know what made her do it. She crossed the room, telling herself she’d hang it up, but then she was slipping her hand into the pocket, feeling the cold silver of the Zippo lighter which had been his father’s, and breathing the spicy smell of his rolling tobacco, the onion-skin rustle of his Rizlas.
There was a creak on the stairs. She took her hand out, and left the jacket where it was.
Later, when they were in bed, and Aidan had fallen asleep on his back, Paula pulled his T-shirt on over her head and wandered round the house, alone, as she’d done in that year of her dad moving out, before Aidan. While she was waiting for Maggie to arrive. The night was hot, and the town restless with sirens – ambulance, police? Lives fracturing into pieces, somewhere out there. Paula eased open the door to Maggie’s room – the one she’d slept in herself as a child – and watched the little girl asleep in the bed with its Peppa Pig duvet, hands clutched into fists. Paula’s old desk was still in the room, now covered in stickers and cuddly toys, and in the bottom drawer of it, the sum of all the misery Paula hoped Maggie would never know.
In the glow of the street light, Paula eased open the drawer and looked in. A dull manila file with her mother’s name on it. A stack of documents and interviews, read almost into flitters by Paula as she’d combed it for a bit of information, something, anything that might give answers. She’d found none. But it was still there. And she would not, could not, throw it away.
Guy. Guy maybe coming back. And just before the wedding. It was all wrong. Maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he too wanted to keep the door locked on the past, stay in London with his wife and his new job. Maybe it would be all right.
Maggie turned over in bed, making a small noise in her dreams, trusting and limp. Paula shut the drawer, as quietly as she could, and watched her daughter sleep.
Chapter Thirteen
‘This is stupid. I was worried about her. She’s my friend, of course I’d try to find her.’
Corry gave Dermot Healy a long look. ‘You weren’t too worried about her the
Aidan stood up too, and caught her face in his hands, and kissed her hard. Her hands went to his hair, so thick and dark. He tasted of mint, and of himself, and . . . She pulled away. He tasted like he usually did – that was the problem.
‘What?’ he frowned.
‘You’ve been smoking again.’
‘I have not!’
‘Aidan. I can taste it on you.’
‘I go in a lot of smoky places – that’s where the stories are, you know.’
‘Don’t lie to me. It’s just insulting.’
‘I’m no liar, Maguire. I might be many things but I’ve never lied to you.’
But he had kept things from her. She put her hands on her hips. ‘Aidan.’
He spoke cajolingly, hands around her waist. ‘Look. OK, the odd time, I still have a smoke. It helps put people at their ease is all. Some of these ould fellas, they don’t trust a man who won’t take a smoke or a drink. And I’m not on the latter, as you well know.’
Did she know? She glared at him. ‘Are you still buying your own?’
‘No. I just cadge the odd one.’
‘I don’t want Maggie anywhere near it. I don’t even want her smelling it on you, OK?’
‘Catch yourself on, Maguire. I’ve grown up a wee bit now I’m a dad.’
There was a tiny pause between them, which went on for a second more than was bearable, and Paula wondered if it would always be there, that pocket of making-do, of not-mentioning.
There was a squawk from upstairs, right on cue. ‘Daaaaady!’
‘The woman herself,’ Aidan said. ‘I’ll go.’ He dropped a careless kiss on Paula’s hand as he went out, the kind of gesture between people with love to spare, to throw away. She saw his jacket over the chair, carelessly tossed as usual, no thought to tidying up after himself. She didn’t know what made her do it. She crossed the room, telling herself she’d hang it up, but then she was slipping her hand into the pocket, feeling the cold silver of the Zippo lighter which had been his father’s, and breathing the spicy smell of his rolling tobacco, the onion-skin rustle of his Rizlas.
There was a creak on the stairs. She took her hand out, and left the jacket where it was.
Later, when they were in bed, and Aidan had fallen asleep on his back, Paula pulled his T-shirt on over her head and wandered round the house, alone, as she’d done in that year of her dad moving out, before Aidan. While she was waiting for Maggie to arrive. The night was hot, and the town restless with sirens – ambulance, police? Lives fracturing into pieces, somewhere out there. Paula eased open the door to Maggie’s room – the one she’d slept in herself as a child – and watched the little girl asleep in the bed with its Peppa Pig duvet, hands clutched into fists. Paula’s old desk was still in the room, now covered in stickers and cuddly toys, and in the bottom drawer of it, the sum of all the misery Paula hoped Maggie would never know.
In the glow of the street light, Paula eased open the drawer and looked in. A dull manila file with her mother’s name on it. A stack of documents and interviews, read almost into flitters by Paula as she’d combed it for a bit of information, something, anything that might give answers. She’d found none. But it was still there. And she would not, could not, throw it away.
Guy. Guy maybe coming back. And just before the wedding. It was all wrong. Maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he too wanted to keep the door locked on the past, stay in London with his wife and his new job. Maybe it would be all right.
Maggie turned over in bed, making a small noise in her dreams, trusting and limp. Paula shut the drawer, as quietly as she could, and watched her daughter sleep.
Chapter Thirteen
‘This is stupid. I was worried about her. She’s my friend, of course I’d try to find her.’
Corry gave Dermot Healy a long look. ‘You weren’t too worried about her the
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