state of the driver, I should think,’ he said, distracted.
Something in me held back from pressing him
on it, but it had struck a discordant note in me, the suggestion ofintent that cast a cool shadow over my memory of Ken Yates,
sketchy as it was.
He walked me to my car, and stood waiting
while I unlocked the door and threw my bag onto the passenger seat.
‘I meant to get in touch with
you,’ he said, ‘after Mum’s funeral. It was good of you to
attend.’
‘That’s okay.’
‘It meant a lot to us – to me and Nick
– that you were there. You should have stuck around afterwards, though. We never got to
talk. You could have come back to the house.’
‘I didn’t want to
intrude,’ I said, shy all of a sudden.
It occurred to me then that, with
Sally’s death, there was no one else who had been there that summer – only the
three of us remained. Perhaps he thought it too, because he said next: ‘Are you in
touch with Nick?’
I shook my head: no.
He nodded, his eyes passing over my face.
‘I don’t hear from him much myself,’ he admitted. ‘Not once
since the funeral.’
‘No?’
‘You know how it is.’ He
shrugged, then laughed, looking back towards the sea, but there was something sad about
the way he had said it that got me thinking of the brothers and what might have happened
between them.
Then, just before we parted, he turned to me
and I thought he was going to make some remark about old times, but a shadow crossed his
face and he said: ‘You don’t really think they hate me, do you? Mulvey and
them?’
I laughed – I
couldn’t help it. He seemed hurt or put out somehow, which was ridiculous.
I’d only been winding him up.
‘Jesus, Luke. No. How the hell should
I know what they think?’
He nodded again briskly, then recovered
himself, laughing even at his own seriousness. ‘Well, goodbye, Katie Walsh,’
he said, and leaned in towards me. I’d thought he was going to kiss my cheek, but
instead he put his hands on my waist and pulled me to him and I felt his lips press
against my own. He drew back and I stood there, too startled to say anything, watching
him walk away from me.
As I left the strand that day, heading back
into the city, I kept thinking of that kiss – the surprise of it, the firmness of his
mouth against mine, how purposeful it had felt. I was so busy thinking about it that I
never stopped to consider what he had said just before it. Too distracted by all that
was stirred up within me to remember how troubled he had seemed – the worry in his face
– and all that it might mean.
I think about him now and what he had said.
Keeping my eyes trained on the line of the horizon, navy against the lavender grey of
the evening sky, his words come back to me:
Stop dwelling on the past because
thinking about it won’t change a thing.
For people like me and Luke the
past is a closed door, a sliding bolt to contain that tentacled thing.
My phone rings and my heart leaps in fright.
My hand is shaking as I answer it.
‘Katie?’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s me,
Nick.’
I suck in my breath and feel the fluttering
in my chest cavity. ‘Nick. Is there news?’
‘No. He hasn’t turned up
yet.’
A sinking feeling then; the clamour of my
heart quietens a little. I feel the strangeness of the silence between us.
‘You’re home, then,’ I
say, trying to keep my voice level, hoping it doesn’t betray any of the myriad
emotions that are pulsing through me right now because it’s strange hearing his
voice after all this time, its soft timbre, the low, gravelled tones – pebbles under
water.
‘Yes. We got in earlier
today.’
‘Right. I heard you’re married.
Congratulations.’ The word comes out flat and I rest my forehead on the steering
wheel, sick of myself and the tone of sarcasm that leaks into my conversation no matter
what.
‘Listen,’ he goes on, like I
Something in me held back from pressing him
on it, but it had struck a discordant note in me, the suggestion ofintent that cast a cool shadow over my memory of Ken Yates,
sketchy as it was.
He walked me to my car, and stood waiting
while I unlocked the door and threw my bag onto the passenger seat.
‘I meant to get in touch with
you,’ he said, ‘after Mum’s funeral. It was good of you to
attend.’
‘That’s okay.’
‘It meant a lot to us – to me and Nick
– that you were there. You should have stuck around afterwards, though. We never got to
talk. You could have come back to the house.’
‘I didn’t want to
intrude,’ I said, shy all of a sudden.
It occurred to me then that, with
Sally’s death, there was no one else who had been there that summer – only the
three of us remained. Perhaps he thought it too, because he said next: ‘Are you in
touch with Nick?’
I shook my head: no.
He nodded, his eyes passing over my face.
‘I don’t hear from him much myself,’ he admitted. ‘Not once
since the funeral.’
‘No?’
‘You know how it is.’ He
shrugged, then laughed, looking back towards the sea, but there was something sad about
the way he had said it that got me thinking of the brothers and what might have happened
between them.
Then, just before we parted, he turned to me
and I thought he was going to make some remark about old times, but a shadow crossed his
face and he said: ‘You don’t really think they hate me, do you? Mulvey and
them?’
I laughed – I
couldn’t help it. He seemed hurt or put out somehow, which was ridiculous.
I’d only been winding him up.
‘Jesus, Luke. No. How the hell should
I know what they think?’
He nodded again briskly, then recovered
himself, laughing even at his own seriousness. ‘Well, goodbye, Katie Walsh,’
he said, and leaned in towards me. I’d thought he was going to kiss my cheek, but
instead he put his hands on my waist and pulled me to him and I felt his lips press
against my own. He drew back and I stood there, too startled to say anything, watching
him walk away from me.
As I left the strand that day, heading back
into the city, I kept thinking of that kiss – the surprise of it, the firmness of his
mouth against mine, how purposeful it had felt. I was so busy thinking about it that I
never stopped to consider what he had said just before it. Too distracted by all that
was stirred up within me to remember how troubled he had seemed – the worry in his face
– and all that it might mean.
I think about him now and what he had said.
Keeping my eyes trained on the line of the horizon, navy against the lavender grey of
the evening sky, his words come back to me:
Stop dwelling on the past because
thinking about it won’t change a thing.
For people like me and Luke the
past is a closed door, a sliding bolt to contain that tentacled thing.
My phone rings and my heart leaps in fright.
My hand is shaking as I answer it.
‘Katie?’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s me,
Nick.’
I suck in my breath and feel the fluttering
in my chest cavity. ‘Nick. Is there news?’
‘No. He hasn’t turned up
yet.’
A sinking feeling then; the clamour of my
heart quietens a little. I feel the strangeness of the silence between us.
‘You’re home, then,’ I
say, trying to keep my voice level, hoping it doesn’t betray any of the myriad
emotions that are pulsing through me right now because it’s strange hearing his
voice after all this time, its soft timbre, the low, gravelled tones – pebbles under
water.
‘Yes. We got in earlier
today.’
‘Right. I heard you’re married.
Congratulations.’ The word comes out flat and I rest my forehead on the steering
wheel, sick of myself and the tone of sarcasm that leaks into my conversation no matter
what.
‘Listen,’ he goes on, like I
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