The Living by Léan Cullinan Page A

later, I stood on the footpath opposite the pub, shivering, hugging my coat around me. The rain was at bay, although the surface of the street gleamed with wetness like a beach after a wave.
    I was none too steady: the world heaved and flickered unless I kept a close eye on it. John-Paul had said I’d easily pick up a taxi on the road. The others were staying put until they were thrown out, then probably walking back to Denise’s with a carry-out.I didn’t regret not joining them. I was ready for my bed. As I’d got drunker I’d felt less and less part of the evening, more exposed, eroded.
    I watched a car pull out of the pub car park and pause at the kerb, though there was no other car moving on the street that I could see. It rolled slowly out on to the road and lumbered along a little way to stop outside a late-night shop. I turned my head just in time to hail a taxi that was speeding to catch the lights.
    The driver was young, distracted, listening to dance music. ‘Do you mind?’ he asked, gesturing towards the radio, and I told him he was grand, no problem. We didn’t converse as we waited at the traffic lights. The driver whistled through his teeth, accompanying the repetitive riff of the music.
    As we began to move again I looked out the window at the car sitting outside the brightly lit shop. I had a wild suspicion about it. The car had its head- and tail-lights on, and a man sat in the driver’s seat, smoking. As we passed I caught the glint from his glasses. I snatched a look at the licence plate: 52845. I’d been right.
    We drove on. I shifted in my seat so I could just see a bit of the road behind us in the wing mirror. There was a vehicle behind us now, all right, but the power of its headlights meant that there was no chance of glimpsing the number. It looked like the same car. Maybe I should tell the driver that I thought this car was following me, ask his advice. Maybe he’d turn out to be an expert at losing a following vehicle, weaving and turning, steering wheel wrenchedfrom side to side and tyres squealing, the dance music turned up high for a soundtrack.
    He’d think I was mad.
    It had started to rain again.
    I let the taxi go at the end of my road. I looked round as it drove off, but saw no dark car pulling up nearby. I hugged my coat around me and started to walk down the narrow cul-de-sac.
    The car was sitting outside my house with its headlights on. My heart jumped, and for a second I thought I might throw up. I had to keep walking. To hesitate would be to suggest that I was somehow in the wrong. ‘It’s just routine,’ I said aloud, and heard the distortion of alcohol in my voice. ‘Oh, god, I am too drunk for this,’ I whispered.
    The pavement was like a tightrope. I looked down at my feet in their runners, left, right, left, right, watched as drops of rain fell on the fabric and were absorbed. The car was motionless, dazzling. I’d need to go awfully close to it to get to my front door. Point-blank range.
    I couldn’t think of any reason why they’d want to shoot me, but once I’d had the idea, it was hard to shake. My jaw clenched, and tears began to come. I looked down at my feet again: they were still moving.
    No friendly light in any of the windows of my house. Aidan and Sheila were on their way to China. As I got nearer I readied my key. I was picturing the car door opening, a big man surging out, grappling me as I tried to reach home. I’d scream, I thought.I’d scream loud enough to bring the neighbours out into the street. I’d break his silver-rimmed glasses.
    I was there. My key slid into the lock, and I looked round, hardly believing that nobody had tried to stop me. The car had slid back a length and was indicating to move off. I couldn’t see who was inside. As I watched, the headlights flashed one painful throb into my eyes, and the car rolled smoothly away.
    I let myself into the