They take a booth in a restaurant on a Saturday evening. There will be time to eat and relax and to bring Simon home before curfew. This feeling of pleasure seeing them seated before her, Molly and Bailey, Ben in a highchair, Simon in tweed by the booth’s edge, Mark will be here any moment. In a booth nearby a man and woman eat in resigned silence but for the clinking of their cutlery, the woman with a remote and disappointed air watching her plate as she eats. Simon horns his nose into a handkerchief and Bailey turns towards Molly and pulls a disgusted face, Eilish reaching into her bag for her phone, her eyes falling upon the empty seat. She tells herself it is not true, Larry is here with us in some way, he will not forget Mark’s birthday. For an instant she can see his hands resting on his knees, he is sitting on a bed in a prison cell, thinking his way into her thoughts, wishing for life to go on as it should, wishing for her to be strong. She straightens her back against the pleated leatherette and regards her children for a moment, telling Larry, it is Molly who needs our attention, it is Molly who did not rise from bed until twelve o’clock and who has not eaten all day. Watching Molly picking at the skin around her nails, her athletic physique is growing thin, the outward self is turning inward, a shadow gnawing on her heart. Simon is griping about the menu, Molly does not know what she wants. The waitress comes by and slips a pencil from behind her ear, her hooped earrings like dangling grins. We are still waiting for my son, Eilish says, we’d like to order some drinks. She is watching where Mark will pull up on his bike, he will chain it to the railing then hold back a moment wishing in his heart to be elsewhere. The waitress returns and Eilish tries ringing Mark again while Simon looks as though he is going to devour the waitress with his eyes, Eilish trying to smile as she orders food, a bald man peers through the front glass and comes to the door, he takes a look inside at the near empty restaurant and leaves again. The food arrives and Simon and Bailey fork mouthfuls of pasta without taking breath. They eat like ravening animals, she thinks, their lips and teeth smeared with blood, thinking of the body’s needs, that which tends towards nature satisfies most, food, sex, violence – orgy and release. The ice cream is soft in their bowls when Mark steps through the door with a wet and windblown look. Eilish stands up out of the booth without speaking a word and lets him slide in. It is Molly who slices him open with a remark but Mark will not explain himself and reaches instead for the garlic bread. Your hands are blue, Eilish says, taking his hand and pressing it between her palms. The waitress brings Mark a plate of pasta and Eilish watches him as though it were possible to absorb an exactness of him, the resting expression of the body, the mind’s inner light voiced in the fine, full-grown hands. She seeks to be at one with his blood, to soften the hardened heart, to warm the gaze grown cold before the world, seeing how he has adopted the inscrutable mask of his father. The couple in the other booth move towards the door, they put on their coats and the man leans out and watches the sky as though afraid. Eilish watching the faces around the table, she summons them to lean in and speaks in a low voice. I have some news that will affect you all, she says, it is something I discussed with Mark last night, I have decided to send him to a boarding school across the border, I cannot let what is happening affect his schooling, he is simply too young to be called up for national service. Molly’s face begins to crumple while Simon rolls a paper napkin into a ball. This will have to be our secret, Eilish says, you’re not to say a word to anybody outside of this family, Bailey, do you hear? She watches him turning circles with an empty glass, Mark resting down his knife and fork, he begins to shake his head. I’ve changed my mind, he says, I don’t want to go, I have the right to refuse service anyhow, there is a tribunal, others are going to go before it, if I go across the border I might never be allowed back, I’ll be arrested for sure—— Molly covers her face with her hands and Bailey begins digging into the table with a knife. Eilish takes the knife from his hand and places it down before her. But, Mark, she says, we agreed last night, I am still your mother, from now on you will do what I say until you are eighteen years of age and then you can do what you like. Mark’s face sours and he pulls his hands from the table and shakes his head. It would appear that I am owned by the state and not you, I don’t have to go if I don’t want to. It is then that Simon places his fist down on the table and leans towards Mark. There is a line in a poem you would do well to remember, he says, it goes something like this, if you want to die you will have to pay for it. Mark sneers at his grandfather. What do you mean by that, Mam, whatever does he mean? Simon leans back without lifting his eyes from Mark. It means, son, that if you want to hang around, see how that works out for you. Mark turns towards his mother and how quickly he is ten years old again, a look of boyish gloom on his face. Mam, why is he speaking to me like that? She looks to her father then watches onto the street thinking about what is quickening outside, moving unchecked, gathering in power. Watching them all now with this feeling of the moment vanishing, knowing she will remember them like this, her children seated around the table, sensing the wheel of disorder coming loose into spin. One day you are a house of six, then you are five and soon you’ll be four. The kitchen door hinges open and the waitress backs out and turns to reveal a birthday cake, the candles veering to the point of expiration as she moves across the room forcing them all to sing, Mark looking away.
It is some other version of herself she puts into the car and sends out onto the road, hardly seeing the way, sensing her son’s restlessness in the passenger seat, he has not looked up from his phone. There is a breach, she can see this now, between things as they are and things as they should be, she is no longer who she was, no longer who she is supposed to be, Mark has become some other son, she is now some other mother, their true selves are elsewhere – Mark is cycling to football and he will ring her later saying he will eat dinner at a friend’s house while she is seated at the table with the laptop open reading through a clinical trial, Larry shouting for his slippers. She does not see the traffic slow until it has stopped and she hits the brakes a touch too hard and Mark turns with a scowl and she will not acknowledge him, watching instead the red light, watching the London plane trees that line the long avenue, how each tree stands alone and yet their shadowed selves are thrown onto the road in an ornate, entangled silence. The light greens and she looks at her son and they are met and returned to one another, his eyes softening and then he closes his mouth and looks down at his phone. Carole Sexton’s house is a large semi-detached red-brick, Jim’s BMW parked in the driveway beside Carole’s compact Toyota, for a moment she expects them both to be at home. Mark leans down to Carole’s car and runs his hand along the side which looks as though it was clawed by some metallic talon, Eilish ringing the doorbell. She thinks about how they must look, two people call to a house on a Sunday afternoon, a casual visit to a friend, nothing untoward in that and yet she tells Mark to face the door, better safe than sorry, she says. Fear attracts the very thing it is afraid of, he says, don’t you know that? They are walking back towards the car when the front door opens. There is Carole in dressing gown clung with shadow and sleep, the look in her eyes of some cautious, bewildered animal. She casts a fleeting look up and down the street then waves them into the house. They follow through a dim hallway into a mustard kitchen that smells of mixed spice and cinnamon, Carole wiping down the table with a tea towel. She pops the lid of a biscuit tin and shows the contents to Mark. I made a boiled fruit cake for you this morning, it’s still a little warm. Mark hesitates then looks at his mother. How can a cake be boiled? he says. Eilish is standing by the window looking out at the yellowed grass and wintered plants, an inkling of blue in the undergrowth, she is watching the small flat at the end of the garden in need of paint. None of this is real, she thinks, not this kitchen nor the flat in the garden, she will open the back door and instead of outside there will be the blind and monstered dark of dream, she will wake and turn onto her side and find Larry lying beside her. Carole is watching her as though she has asked a question. I’m sorry, Eilish says, turning around, I didn’t hear what you said. Carole drags a long knife through the cake. She asked if you want some, Mark says. I don’t know, she says, I suppose so, just a small slice. They drink coffee and eat cake and Carole wants to know about the new solicitor. Eilish begins to wring her hands then pits a thumbnail into her skin. Anne Devlin, she says, she’s supposed to be very good, I haven’t heard anything in a while, she says she will call when she has some news, she is under terrible pressure to put the cases aside, she is getting anonymous calls in the middle of the night. They will wear her down, Carole says, they will squeeze her to the pips and when that fails she will be arrested, I’m sorry to sound so negative, but that’s how it is. She stands up and opens a cabinet door and slides a key into her hand. This is yours, she says, giving it to Mark. You must be careful not to be seen, you can enter by the alley at the back, go through the red door, I’ve left it unlocked, we are being made to behave like criminals don’t you think? Mark fondles the key and looks at his mother. Can I go down now and look? Not now, Carole says, you must come and go when it’s dark, I put a blind on the window so the neighbours won’t see. Eilish looks discreetly at a photo of Jim Sexton on the microwave, a big-boned, hardy man in rugby green, she looks out upon the flat. He’ll cycle over tonight before curfew, is there anything else he needs, is the place warm, I keep thinking there is something I’ve forgotten. Carole lifts up the knife. Do you want more cake? she says, watching Mark with a smile. I’ll bring him down his dinner when it gets dark and some breakfast in the morning, just tell me what you want, you have a microwave, a kettle, as well as a storage heater, I was talking to my brother, he’ll come down in about two weeks, he’ll wrap you in carpet and stow you in the back of the van, he says they never check his van anyhow going across the border. Eilish asks for scissors, she reaches into her bag and produces two cheap pre-pay phones and cuts the packets open, copies the number of each phone into the other then hands a device to Mark. From now on, she says, we’ll use these phones to speak, you cannot use your old one anymore, I’ll take it off you this evening. Mark is looking down at the second phone, he shakes his head and pushes it away. And what about Sam? he says, how am I supposed to speak with her, do you expect me to just disappear without word? Let me speak to her and when you go across the border you can give her a call. He bites his lower lip revealing the top incisor teeth, one of them is shorter than the other, he is staring at the floor. I don’t like this, he says, it is all happening too quick, I want to talk to Sam before I go. And what are you going to do, just ring her up for a chat, do you want to get us all arrested? Eilish sighs and looks down at her hands, the wrinkled folds of her knuckles, she watches Carole in the chair, the long slippered feet, the drawn and ghosted face, she is seeking inside to the woman’s grief and measuring it against her own. She turns again to face her son, thinking about how much more she has to lose, not just a husband but a son as well, grief upon grief is still yet more grief, watching her son as though suspended in time, his image graven to memory, he is moving towards the boiled cake and cutting himself a third slice.
Eilish goes to hang her coat on the stand and sees that Rohit Singh is not at his desk. He was not at his desk all last week, without fail he is among the first into work each day. She is still holding her coat when she looks again to where Rohit sits and sees his desk has been cleared, nothing remains of his personal effects but for a stapler and some push pins in the partition. She asks around her what happened to Rohit and Mary Newton looks up with a flustered face and nobody can answer. She stares blankly at her screen, she picks up the phone and dials Larry’s number. I’m sorry, he says, I’m not available to take your call right now. She finds Rohit’s number in her contacts and dials his number and meets a disconnected tone. Alice Dealy walks through the office fumbling at a golf umbrella, her hair dishevelled, she steps into her office and closes the door and Eilish follows into the room without knocking. Where is Rohit Singh? she says. Alice Dealy looks up but does not answer, she is rooting for something in her bag, she places a hairbrush onto the desk and stares at it a moment. Please close the door, she says. Eilish folds her arms and takes a step towards her. Do you think closing the door will make any difference? Alice Dealy stands up with a sigh, walks to the door and closes it. I’ve instructed Michael Ryan to handle the account for now. So Rohit is gone. There was no reason to tell you. No reason to tell me? I don’t see any reason why I would have to inform you. Eilish closes her mouth and becomes aware of being watched through the glass. Eilish, it hasn’t been announced but I’ve been placed on indefinite leave, the bastard has got me out, this will be my last day here, one by one we all fall down don’t you think? Colm Perry is watching Eilish as she goes to her desk, they are all watching her, her hands in a fury as she hunts for her cigarettes, her bag falls onto the floor and Colm Perry picks it up and follows her out into the lift. When she steps outside onto the street the cigarette is already lit. Rohit Singh has been arrested, she says. Colm Perry makes a wincing face and shakes his head then gives her a warning look. I have a bastard of a hangover this morning, he says, we went for a quick one after work and next thing you know it is past curfew, took the devil’s work to get home. He is nodding past her shoulder and when she turns she sees the ground-floor window open beside them.
Bailey is whining about his shoes, she is trying to watch the TV, a security forces patrol was targeted this afternoon in the city, two soldiers are dead, a circuit court in Cork was petrol bombed during the night, she wonders what else doesn’t make the news, the government says it will extend the curfew. When the contact phone rings from the kitchen, Bailey and Molly follow her into the room, everybody wants to speak with Mark. Molly’s face has brightened, she grabs the phone from Bailey and runs into the hall, stands regarding herself in the mirror, Eilish watching from the door. She motions for Molly to pass the phone then takes it upstairs to her room. Are you still cold? she says, the last few nights weren’t too bad, C said you can run the heater as much as you need. For a moment he does not speak and she does not know how to read his silence. I couldn’t sleep last night, he says, I don’t want to be here, there’s other places I can go. Where else can you go, look, we’ve already been through this, it’s only for a short time, everything will be alright. You’re not listening to me, Mam, why won’t you listen? I am listening to you, you should have seen your sister’s face right now, the children really miss you, Bailey talks about you all the time, you’re really important to him don’t you know? Have you heard from Sam? I said don’t use any names. I asked have you heard from her? Yes, I’ve heard from her. What did she say? What do you think she said, she’s upset, the poor girl, she doesn’t understand. She is silent for a moment thinking about what she will not say, how Samantha called to the door looking lost in a large overcoat, how she knew the girl had not slept at all and will not sleep and that what was being done to her is what has been done to her also, the taking away of her man into silence, and yet she stood before the girl as though wearing a mask and did not invite her in. Mam, are you there? Yes, I’m here, I spoke with her and told her you’d be gone for a while and that you’d phone as soon as you were able. She finds herself motionless by the door to the boys’ room, her breath suspended, the bluing light through the blinds, this light that hurtles at maximal speed yet falls in an illusion of stillness. Mark’s presence in the room, the humped duvet and rifled drawers, his dirty clothes on the floor. She gathers the clothes then sits on the bed with the laundry on her lap, seeing Mark as he was in Carole’s kitchen, seeing his hand on the knife, knowing now what she has done, how she has drawn the blade on her son in order to save him.
She sits before the laptop on the kitchen table adrift and unbecome, the night borne through the open window, the city murmuring to the dreaming trees. She looks to her son in the highchair, the eyes that smile are from a world of pure and ecstatic devotion, his blond hair fingered with mashed apple and rice. Her awareness drifts towards her hands, the fine almost imperceptible grain of the skin, these hands have aged and will age yet still, they will sag and speckle and she pulls at the flesh and watches the skin smooth back around the bone, Molly shouting something from upstairs. There are thundered steps across the landing and Bailey is shouting from the hall. When she goes to the window she sees by the front gate a Garda car luminescent in yellow and white, two gardaí in dark aspect approaching the door. For too long she has heard their knocking in her dreams and she will not give them the satisfaction now. She moves quickly for the front door sensing her triumph, watching two faces bloom into light as she slides open the patio onto the wettish night, a man and a woman of equal bearing, standard issue gardaí in waterproof jackets. The woman’s manner is monotone and matter-of-fact. Good evening, she says, I’m Garda Ferris and this is Garda Timmons, we are here to speak with Mark Stack. Eilish allows a helpful smile and glances across the street. Yes, she says, Mark Stack is my son but I’m afraid he’s not here. She is watching the woman’s eyes for something that has not yet been shown, the stolid face that gives nothing away, wisps of shadowy hair curling from under her cap. Can you tell us when he’ll be back? My son is no longer living in this house. Garda Timmons wipes a hand across his mouth then slides a black notebook from his back pocket, nods past her into the hall. Might we come in for a moment, Mrs Stack? Without thought she has taken a teething ring from the radiator and walked with it into the kitchen, the gardaí following behind, she puts the ring down on the table then picks it up again, places it into the sink and asks the gardaí to sit down. I’m just making coffee for myself, she says, or perhaps you’d like some tea? The gardaí rest their caps on the table and Garda Timmons smiles at the child then opens his notebook. There was a summons sent out, Mrs Stack, your son did not turn up to answer for himself in court, we have a duty now to speak with him. She is standing with her hand on the kettle and takes a moment to answer, telling herself she shall be unwritten before them. A summons, she says, turning around, is that what it was, I saw the letter and didn’t think to open it, would you like milk with your tea? Just a touch for me, Garda Timmons says. Garda Ferris nods. I like a good pour, good and milky, she says, tell me, is this the legal address for your son? Yes, he has lived here all his life but he is no longer resident. It would be helpful, Mrs Stack, if you could tell us where we could find him. Molly has come barefoot into the room, she stands at the sink taking too long to fetch a glass of water then stands behind Eilish and puts her arms around her shoulders, Bailey listening from behind the door. Eilish reaches across the table for the sugar bowl and Garda Timmons slides it towards her, she is spooning sugar into her coffee when she looks down at her cup, she has never put sugar in her coffee before. Mark left home two weeks ago, she says, he will be doing his schooling across the border in Northern Ireland and will remain there while the trouble here continues, he is just seventeen years old, he had wanted to study medicine for the longest while but he has changed his mind after what the state has done to his father, he wants now to study law. She is being regarded closely by both gardaí and stares back, separating each face from their uniforms, it is the uniform that speaks not the mouth, it is the state that speaks through the uniform, seeing what each would be like in civilian clothing, you’d pass them by on the street without taking a second look. Garda Timmons inhales slowly and places his notebook down. So what you are saying, Mrs Stack, is that your son is no longer living in the state? Yes, she says, that is what I’m saying. She watches the man’s hand relax and a smile soften his face. Well then, he says, rubbing his hands, there is nothing for us to do. Garda Ferris picks up a spoon and plays with it then puts it down. Just between ourselves, she says, there’s a lot of people whose sons have recently left the state, you need to know what that means, youngsters like your son are being handed down sentences in absentia by the military courts for refusing to join the security forces, if your son were to return home, or if he is found to be resident in the state, there is a warrant for his arrest and we would have to hand him over to the military police, but look, in the meantime, it would be of benefit if you could come down to the station in your own time and make a statement giving account of the facts. Garda Timmons keeps turning the mug in his hand then makes a sighing sound that signals it is time to go. He leans sidewards and stows his notebook in his pocket. Might I ask, he says, what happened to your husband? My husband was arrested by the GNSB, she says, he was denied access to a solicitor and remains in detention without recourse to the courts, he is a trade unionist for the TUI and was just doing his job, we haven’t heard from him since he was taken, we were supposed to be going to Canada for our family holidays next week, it has been very difficult for the children. As she speaks she feels herself outside of time, feeling herself the carrier of some ancient burden, everything has happened before so many times, a look of silent outrage growing upon the Garda’s face, he makes a rueful shape with his mouth then shakes his head. I’m afraid you are not alone, he says, but this is how things are now, and if I can speak between ourselves, it makes a right mockery of our oath, but look, as regards your son, what my colleague here says is correct, it would be the case that if you were to come and make a sworn statement, the department would be informed and we can wash our hands of the matter, the file would remain closed until such a time as your son decides to re-enter the state, and sure who knows how things will turn out, there might not be any problem by then. She is being carried forward as though in a dream, looks into the faces before her afraid to speak in case the spell is broken. She stands from her chair with her hands open, feeling herself without weight, a distant church bell striking the hour.
She is struggling to free Ben from the car seat, his coat is snagged on the buckle’s tooth while he shrieks and beats the air with an impoverished fist, her phone ringing from the dashboard. She sees in the child’s eyes that she is no longer his mother but some malefic witch and she turns and snaps at Molly as she combs her hair in the front seat. Who is that on the phone? she says. She looks up and sees herself unfamiliar in the rear-view mirror, the witch in unpainted face, Molly leaning across the seat as the phone goes quiet. It was only Grandad, she says, do you want me to ring him back? The slanting cold rain as she carries the child across the street into the crèche shielding his face with her hand. She hurries back with lowered head and waves an apology to two cars waiting behind the Touran double-parked on the narrow street, she indicates and moves off as the phone again begins to ring. Mam, would you ever answer the bloody phone, Bailey says. Watch your tongue, she says, I don’t have the energy to deal with him right now. It is Molly who reaches across the dashboard and answers the call. Hi Grandad, it’s me, Molly, what’s going on? Eilish watches the road without word while her father goes silent as though listening to them all in the car. Is your mother there or are you driving yourself to school? Eilish gives Molly a funny look and they both stifle a laugh. Yes, Dad, I’m here, I have the kids in the car and you’re on speaker phone, are we still OK for Saturday? The laboured intake of breath that tells her he has forgotten, she might have to remind him what day this is, she stops for the lights and closes her eyes, she could rest like this all day. Have you seen the paper? he says, I’m presuming you haven’t. Dad, I’m up since half past five with Ben and have just dropped him into crèche, his teeth are at him again, right now I’m dropping the children to school, no, I haven’t read the paper. She hears a single crisp bark from the dog. There’s no need to be snappy, he says. Are you talking to me or the dog? You need to stop on your way to school and get The Irish Times, page seven. What is it, Dad? Simon is shouting at the dog, she hears the clack of the phone on the console and the slamming of the kitchen door, he is out of breath when he picks up the phone. That damn dog is after chewing through the rug, he says, I’ll call you back later. She slows into a line of grudging traffic watching the sunless sky, Bailey is pulling again at Molly’s seatbelt who turns and slaps him away. I’ve told you, Bailey, to leave her alone. Molly is pointing ahead to the right. Mam, there’s a petrol station ahead. She would rather not stop, she will not be told what to do, she swings the car across the road and pulls up in the forecourt. The humming hydrocarbon air, the teller does not even look her in the face while he takes payment for the newspaper, he is watching soccer on a phone. She stands outside the shop and slides the sports supplement into the bin and opens the newspaper onto page seven, there is nothing to read but a full-page advertisement from the state, the harp emblem at the top of the page, it is a public notice, a list of hundreds of names and addresses in small print of the people who absconded from military service. She looks up from the paper and sees Bailey sucking his mouth on the glass of the Touran, she is holding her breath as she scans the list and reads her son’s name and address. She thinks of the sworn statement she made to the gardaí, she reads her son’s name again and sees in the black print the dark night to come, seeing how they have damned her son and how easy it was after all, it is there on page seven for all to see in the form of an advertisement.
She is standing before her desk without memory of having walked from the car, this feeling of her heart in her throat. She turns and hangs her coat and goes to remove her white chiffon scarf but fixes it straight instead. Watching now about the room for anybody reading the newspaper, the door to Paul Felsner’s office is closed, Sarah Horgan comes over to talk, she can finish the woman’s sentences if she wants to. Yes, she says, but no, I’m sorry, I have to meet someone for lunch. Watching for anything untoward, a twitch in the mouth, a gesture of solidarity that must be conveyed in silence. It is then the contact phone rings in her bag and she chooses to ignore it, Sarah Horgan is watching the bag, her mobile phone is on the table. Oh, it’s just one of the kids, Eilish says. When the phone rings again she turns it off. She lunches alone at a terraced café wearing her winter coat. She does not want to eat but drinks coffee, training blue cigarette smoke through her nose, thinking how Molly has noticed the smell, stopped her by the patio door with the alert suspicion of a parent. Don’t be so silly, she said, laughing an untrue laugh while turning to hide her mouth. She is watching the screen of the contact phone underhand on her lap, she has tried ringing Mark but the phone rang out. Watching the grey ghost of a man take seat at a table beside her, the willowed fingers that place a lighted cigarette in the hole of his mouth, the fingers prising open the newspaper. She turns to face the street, watching the world pass by in strange pretence, the pale and stolid faces hurrying back to work, they are mostly civil servants, every day another international firm closes its doors and makes its excuses, soon the city will be emptied out. A woman nearby slides back her chair, neon pink runners under a grey office skirt, and she remembers that Bailey needs new shoes, remembers awakening last night from a dream where she had been sitting down to eat food from one of her shoes, it was the red loafer that squeezes her toes, she was alone before the shoe with a knife and fork. When she returns to her desk, people are gathering in the conference room, Paul Felsner has called a strategy meeting for 2pm, she checks her email, there is no invitation. Watching them gather inside the room, watching Paul Felsner step into the room holding a newspaper. Something has woken inside her body, it creeps outward from her solar plexus into her arms and legs, she is walking across the room and feels her hands go cold, hearing the hollow sound of her knocking, she clears her throat and leans into the room. I didn’t get any notice about the meeting, she says, do you need me here? The blinds half-drawn and Paul Felsner is sitting with his arm draped across the back of a chair reading the newspaper as the room begins to fill, he turns and regards her as though from within some shadowed interiority and what she sees in his eyes is that he has her pinned and wriggling. No need to concern yourself with us right now, Eilish. He leans forward in his seat and motions her away with his hand. She is standing useless by the door, she wants to say, yes, but this is my account, you can’t go ahead without me, she cannot open her mouth, she finds her hand touching her scarf and lets the hand drop, the white bloody scarf, she wishes she had not worn it now, seeing the trace of a smile that creeps along Paul Felsner’s face. She moves aside to let her colleagues through and finds herself in the kitchen with an empty cup in her hand, a woman from HR is giving out about people dumping plates in the sink, she puts the cup in the sink and walks out.
She moves about the house listening to her son speak from across the city, stands by his bedroom door, the streetlight that falls into the room is the ghost of some wintered moon. It falls upon the bed and makes a translucent white sheet and she lies down, glossed and held, happy in his voice, hearing the thinking mind in the long intake of breath. The gas boiler shudders and clicks off into silence and Mark murmurs something, he says, I no longer know who I am, I’m stuck in this room but it isn’t a room, it’s a prison, Mam, that’s what it is, how am I supposed to sleep— twice now I’ve had the same dream, I see myself being led up the street as though on trial, I’m walking through a crowd and the charge is read aloud that I’m guilty and the charge is cowardice and falsehood, I woke last night in the middle of the night and lifted the blind and saw the lights on in her house, guess who was standing at the kitchen door in her wedding dress, watching down upon the flat, as though she knew I was awake, Mam, she creeps me out, the other evening she came down with my dinner but didn’t say a word, she just stood there for a minute looking out the window as if I wasn’t there and then she turned and said to me, everything in this world is but a shadow, and I asked her what she meant and she looked at me and then she smiled and said, sooner or later, you will see for yourself. Eilish is pinching the bridge of her nose, she has an ache at the base of her skull. She opens her eyes and sits up, swings her feet onto the floor. She has no right to talk to you like that, she says. Mam, I can’t do this. What do you mean you can’t do this? Mam, I miss him, I miss Dad, I tried to do what you asked me but I can’t stand by and do nothing anymore, there are people I know who’ve gone to fight, they’ve joined the rebel army. Mark, she says, but then she is silent, she is reaching but cannot find the right words. Listen to me, she says, you are still my son, my teenage son. And what is that supposed to mean? he says. I don’t know what it means, it means I can’t let anything happen to you. She hears a long sighing breath and then static silence as though it were a darkness of rain that could be felt, a rain falling from the darkness and washing them all, the dark rain entering into the mouth of her son.
She stands up from her desk and takes her coat, wraps her white scarf about her neck and tells a colleague she is taking early lunch. When she knocks on Simon’s door she is met by a growl, then a high voice calling out, who’s there? Simon is wearing navy pyjamas, the hall light is on, it has just gone past one o’clock. He casts her a derisory look then goes into the kitchen. I don’t know what you’re doing here, he says, I can manage fine on my own. Dad, I’ve only come to say hello, I’ve grabbed an extra hour for lunch. She turns off the hall light and stands arrested – within the old jumble of smells is a novel smell woven through, she thinks it is stale tobacco smoke, she isn’t sure if it is her own. She watches her father with narrowed eyes, Spencer whining and circling his feet. Dad, when was the last time you fed the dog? Spencer turns and regards her with a hanging mouth and she sees what is told in the obsidian eyes, a mercilessness that belongs not to the dog but to the wolf. What are you having for lunch? she says, pouring water into the kettle, Simon rummaging with quick hands through a pile of papers on the table. Lunch? he says, I hadn’t thought about lunch. She finds herself softly crying, she pulls a seat and wipes her eyes then looks to her father and smiles. I’m sorry, she says, it’s just that I have been sidelined at work and I don’t know what to do, everything is happening much too fast, that notice in the newspapers and Mark is getting so difficult, you always know the right thing to do. She looks up and sees in his eyes a drifting inattention, the eyes rooting about for something, Simon rising slowly as though lost in thought. He goes to the sink and runs the tap without washing anything then turns it off again. He turns and regards her as though she has just appeared before him. Dad, what I said just now, were you even listening? What do you want? he says. I said I asked you a question, about my job, about Mark. She watches the mouth wobble as though struck, he shakes his head and bats at the question with his hand, turns and points towards the counter. That thing there, he says, the what-do-you-call-it, I can’t get it to work. Dad, do you mean the microwave? She stands up and places her cup inside and presses the start button, watches it whirr. It’s working just fine, she says, I don’t know what you’re talking about. This sudden sorrow as she climbs the stairs, seeing how time is not some horizontal plane but a vertical plummet towards the ground. She stops outside his bedroom struck again by stale tobacco, pushes open the door and sees an antique brass ashtray on the bedside locker that belongs to the parlour room, it is half-full of ash, beside it a pack of cigarettes. She grabs at the ashtray and counts the smoked butts, runs her finger along a scorch on the carpet. When she steps into the kitchen she is holding the ashtray aloft, then places it on the table. What’s this? she says. What’s what? Dad, since when do you smoke, you’re after burning a hole in the carpet, do you want to burn the house down? He looks away and folds his arms. I don’t know what you are talking about. Dad, I cannot put up with you like this, if it isn’t one thing, it’s another, I will have to go and speak to the doctor. The way he sours in an instant, his eyes taking the same blackened look as the dog. I’ve told you I’ll quit when I’m good and ready. She has missed a breath, she is staring into his face and feels her hands tremble. Dad, you don’t even smoke, it is thirty-odd years since you last smoked a pipe. She watches his mouth open and close and then he looks to the window as though searching for something outside. Dad, can you tell me today’s date? She watches him remain very still, then he turns his head in sly movement reading the watch on his wrist. He looks up with a triumphant scowl. It’s the sixteenth, he says. Yes, she says, but what month is it? He will not meet her eyes but looks about the room, regarding the wall and then the dog, he meets her with a pettish look. I don’t have to tell you anything. He turns again to face the window and she looks onto the garden and recalls tearing her knee on a jag of metal, being carried in his arms to the car. About Mark, he says, we were talking about Mark and your job before you distracted me with this nonsense, you need to consider the situation as it is, armed insurrection is growing around the country, soldiers are defecting from the Defence Forces and joining the free army or whatever you like to call them, defectors are being shot on sight, the rebels are growing in size and will continue to grow and that is where Mark is going to go, that is what he feels he must do, and regarding your job, there won’t be an economy in three months’ time, so really, I wouldn’t worry about it, now is the time for you to act before they tighten the border, you need to go and get the children out, go to England, Eilish, go to Áine in Canada, they printed your address in the newspaper, your son has been publicly shamed and is a target for arrest. He is looking down at his hands then slowly shakes his head. You cannot put a stop to the wind, he says, and the wind is going to blow right through this country, but please don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine on my own, no one is going to make trouble for an old man.
She is inching through traffic alone in the car when she answers the phone, it is five to nine, she turns down the radio and hears Carole’s voice. Eilish, are you there, hello? Yes, Carole, I’m here, I’m driving to work, I’ve just bought a pastry and my mouth is full. Look, I don’t know how to tell you, Eilish, but Mark did not come back last night. The pastry lumpen in her mouth, she makes herself swallow and feels as though something malign is crawling down her throat. Do you hear me, Eilish, I’m really sorry, I don’t know what to say, I fell asleep yesterday evening and woke early this morning. OK, let me think a moment, I’ll ring him now, I’m sure it’s no cause for alarm. She hangs up and reaches into her bag for the contact phone, rummages about then tips the bag out onto the seat, lifts the phone and dials, a voice says the number you have dialled cannot be reached. She looks for somewhere to pull over but there is nowhere to stop along the canal, the traffic pulling her along until the car in front reddens to a stop, gulls swooping onto the path by the water. On the rear window of a car in front she reads a sticker that says, The Best Defence Is An Armed Citizen, and beneath it another sticker says, End Judicial Dictatorship. At the junction she turns and drives northwards to Carole’s house, telling herself the simplest solution is most likely the right one, he went out on his bike to who knows where and missed the curfew, it would be too much of a risk to cycle home, a patrol car would pull him over, he would be arrested on sight. She looks out onto the widening sky seeking some kind of release, seeing her wrath fly before her, watching it fly into cold defeat. The front curtain wrinkles as she parks outside Carole’s house and a moment later Carole stands strange before her with folded arms. In the light of the kitchen she looks as though she has aged overnight, the bones pressing through the face, water welling under her eyes. Without a word, Eilish walks down to the flat and finds the door unlocked, seeing the neatness and finality of the act, how Mark has made the bed and taken his belongings and left the room as he found it but for his bike left against the wall.
The phone is silent in her bag throughout the evening and into the night, it is silent throughout the night’s passing. Waking in the dawn from a sleep that was no sleep at all she is met by a silence that has become some roaring abstraction. She must call herself up into the day and stand masked before the children, harrying them through breakfast, hurrying them into the car, telling herself there is no reason to alarm them. Her awareness coming to be in the car as though she has not been driving at all, some automaton is at the wheel driving by rote while she sits outside of time altogether, finding herself dim and distracted at work, the day passing by without her as though she were seated alone in some anteroom awaiting the opening of a locked door. Soon it will be evening, the evening passes, the phone sits upon the kitchen counter, it rests in her hand, watching again and again as though at any moment the phone will grow bright with his call, watching the second night come down. She sleeps with his phone by the pillow and hears its phantom ring in a dream, wakes with the phone silent in her hand. She is standing halfway down the stairs with Ben in her arms calling for his shoes when the phone begins to ring from the bedroom and she has to hear it twice before she believes, shouting for Bailey to get out of the way as she pushes past him on the stairs. She closes the bedroom door and stands the child in the cot. Mark, she says, hearing the blear of low music, the murmur of voices, hearing the slow intake of breath and then the breath’s release, knowing he is afraid to speak, she wants to smite him down and assert her power over him. Why has it taken you so long to call, we have been worried sick, Carole is beside herself, you had no right to leave her place like that after all that she has done for you. The phone is silent and then he allows a sigh and clears his throat. I thought we weren’t supposed to use any names. Never mind that now. Mam, he says, do you want me to hang up, is that what you want? The world has fallen away taking with it her sense of the room, the house, she is in some dark space sensing only his breath, sensing the mind behind the breath, cursing herself for having rebuked him. Mark, she says, I’m sick with worry, anything could have happened to you. Look, he says, I’m sorry, but I can’t do it. Something solid has begun to come loose, it is her heart sliding like gravel. You can’t do what? she says. What you’ve asked me to do, run away, I can’t go along with it anymore. So what do you think you’re doing now? Mam, this is different. How is it different, we made an agreement, we decided this was for the best, what do you think is going to happen if you stay in the country and are discovered by the authorities, they’ll put you before a closed military court where they can do what they like with you, they’ll take you away just like your father. She thinks he is chewing on something, hearing the fizz of a soft drink and then the gulping mouth. Look, he says, I’m in a safe place. I want to know who you are with. Mam, everything is fine, I promise I’ll keep in touch on this phone, I’m sorry I took so long to call. She closes her eyes, recalling a feeling from a dream, how she walked from room to room calling out but there was no answer and she could not wake even though she knew she was dreaming, she opens her eyes and sees her hand reaching across some blind and widening gulf. Mark, she says, you are my son, please come home so we can sort this out, I cannot sleep knowing you’re gone, I still have a legal right over you. And what law would that be, Mam, seeing that there’s no longer any law in the land? His voice has risen and she withdraws into silence. You’re in denial, Mam, you won’t admit to yourself what’s going on. Really, she says, I don’t think that’s fair at all and it’s entirely beside the point, you made an agreement with me, an agreement you did not keep. There, that’s more of it, he says, why can’t you see, you just won’t see it until it comes to our door and marches us all out one by one. Ben is standing to the bars of the cot with his hand held out, his babble rising into whinge. She goes to him and swings him up into her arm, soothes the roaring cheek with her thumb. I can’t sit by any longer, Mark says, the whole thing is making me sick, it is making Molly sick, I want to have my old life back, I want to have Dad back in the house, the way we used to live. Mark, I want you to listen—— No, Mam, you need to listen to me now, I want you to hear what I have to say, I no longer have my freedom, you need to understand, there is no freedom to think or to do or to be when we give in to them, I cannot live my life like that, the only freedom left to me is to fight. She has fallen down some blind summit, her words scattered and dissolving into the ground, she picks herself up, she is hurrying through darkness seeking for sight of her son and can see nothing but will, his will as though it were some disembodied light passing before her. She opens her eyes and places Ben back down in the cot, walks about the room pulling at her hair, seeing how it has come too soon, the giving up of her son to the world, the world become some underworld. Mark is silence and then he is breath and she does not know how to speak to him. She says, stay safe, love, do you hear, don’t do anything stupid, and keep your phone on, I want to be able to talk to you. He says, can you put Molly on? She is downstairs, I don’t want her to know what is going on, how do you think she is going to take this, it’s bad enough that your father is gone. Look, Mam, I have to go, tell her— look, tell her I miss her as well.
There is memory in weather. In the sky the height of spring, the agile swallows, the swifts all dark, seeing in the return of the birds the years gone by, the time of innocence when she presumed the fruit, this is what she thinks, she took the fruit from the giving hand and bit into it without tasting, discarded the pit without thought. She walks alone in the Phoenix Park seeking to escape her thoughts but can see only her thoughts before her, the broadleaf trees watching down. She looks up thinking of the time that has passed beneath them, how the trees keep count of the years by ringing time in their wood, the days passing by and she cannot keep a hold of them, the days passing on and on and yet it is not time that is pulling away, it is something else and she is being carried along with it. Further down the Khyber Road she sees Larry in the broad back of a man holding the hand of a child and when the man turns around by the boot of his car she sees the same reddish beard, watching him as he helps the child into their seat, thinking she has been tricked, that Larry has been leading a double life all along and invented his arrest to deceive her. She walks up the hill by the Magazine Fort wishing this were true. She wipes rainwater off a white bench and sits down with a view onto the Liffey, the college rowers no longer on the water, the giving air, it was here on one of these benches that she sat with Larry and felt the quickening of the child that would be Mark, the first flutterings as though the child were growing wings to take flight from inside her.