AT QUARTER TO SEVEN, Freya parks tilted on the pavement outside Dermot’s house, and rings the doorbell. When there is no answer she gets back into her car and waits.
Dermot’s house is near the river – a pocket of squat houses under a close, colourless skein of clouds. The street should be charming – the uneven rooftops and stone windowsills, the fat, smoking chimneys – but it’s shadowed by a mirror-faced office block that smothers the milky sun. Even on sunny days, these houses must seem dark and mossy and cold.
At seven, she texts Dermot to say that she’s here, and places the phone face down on the passenger seat beside a bunch of ailing daffodils.
Cars pass quickly on the wet road behind, and she can hear tense laughter from the off licence on the corner.
Every few minutes she checks her phone for a reply.
Twice she calls Cara, ready to tell her everything – how she sent Jem off with someone he’s never met before, how Dermot’s neck clenched when he spoke, how he is not where he said he’d be and has not answered the phone and it’s nearly ten past seven. But she makes herself hang up before her sister answers. She often panics like this over nothing. She needs to control her anxiety. That’s what Cara says. In any case, she’s been so stupid. Cara will kill her.
*
The daffodils will have wilted by the time she gets them home. She should have bought the closed ones. Grandma loves daffodils. In springtime the house used to be filled with vases of them from Mrs Brereton’s, but the new neighbour doesn’t cut them.
At ten past seven she gets a reply from Dermot:
I suppose you expect people to answer your texts even though you never answer theirs? I hope you’re not going to raise my son with that kind of hypocrisy.
He is trying to scare her. This is a game. She will wait. She will not panic and she will wait.
There is a little cul de sac off this street – a ring of five houses, and in the middle of the road, standing on a chunk of concrete with an illegible plaque, a queer little statue of the Virgin Mary serves as a kind of traffic circle. Her features have been smoothed by decades of cream gloss paint, and Freya watches the half-shut eyes and sad mouth fade as the evening closes over.
It’s getting dark. She turns on her dipped headlights and for a flash there it is in front of her – the shape of a child, younger than Jem, a toddler standing there, arms limp by its sides.
Sometimes this happens when she’s tired. Driving in the dark that figure sometimes leaps across the road, making her jam dangerously on the brakes. Often, it is more of a sensation than an image, nagging there just out of reach, a child about to fall off a high ledge, or get sucked under a wave. Sometimes, when she’s leaving an empty room, she reaches down to take a little hand that isn’t there.
She stares down at the daffodils – the cut stalks breaking through the damp newspaper – but still from the edge of vision she sees him. A little boy, just the shape of him; arms and legs and a pot belly, waiting in her headlights to be seen.
*
Shortly before eight the cool light of a car swings into the street, casting bleary shadows down the footpath and up the jagged rows of houses, unveiling for a moment the mournful, downturned face of the Virgin and the narrow hands folded over her heart.
The car loops into the enclave and pulls up outside Dermot’s house, facing Freya. She can hear the sorry lurch as the handbrake is tugged and the engine stops, and after a moment the street is dark again. Her body warms with the impending relief of Jem’s presence; that she will be near him soon – the heat from his skin, the smell of him. She closes herself up against her own softness and steps out of the car just as Dermot steps out of his. She can feel him watching her and it makes her skin keenly aware of itself – the cool air on her cheek, her ankles. The soles of her shoes feel thin as she walks the few steps towards his car.
Dermot is drunk. She knows that as soon as she hears the too-forceful bang of the car door. He stands, swaying in the middle of the path, arms out, presenting himself as though expecting applause. She can’t see Jem. Dermot moves to his doorway and turns, grinning sloppily at her. ‘Ah,’ he says, ‘there you are.’
‘Yes. Here I am.’
Dermot keeps smiling, his eyelids fat from drink, and Freya hears her own voice, the ridiculous, boring sounds she is making. ‘I’ve been here since seven, Dermot, as we agreed. Where’s Jem?’
She knows the panic must be showing in her face, and she knows this will please him. She is at a loss for anything to say, with him leering knowingly like that, as though what he is looking at is not her at all but something on her, or something past her, something she doesn’t know about – lipstick on her teeth, a flake of snot… Her voice trails off and she looks past his eyes to the outline of his ear and wonders if it is the same as Jem’s.
‘It’s late.’
‘He had a great day.’
‘Good. He needs to go to bed.’
‘He is in bed.’
‘Okay, Dermot, where is he? It’s time to take him home.’
‘He is home. Haven’t you forgotten something, Freya?’
Freya looks dumbly at him.
‘The forms?’
‘Oh… They’re not valid, Dermot. They’re for primary or joint carers… The form is to confirm that you have Jem at least half of the time, and you don’t, so…’
‘We’ll see about that.’
‘Where is he?’
‘He’s asleep in my bed. I just went out for a few things.’
‘Could you please wake him. It’s time for me to collect him.’
‘It’s time for me to collect him.’ He imitates her in a voice that reminds Freya of her mother. ‘Is it now, Freya? Is it time for you to collect him? And who decides that?’
‘Okay, Dermot, that’s fine. I’ll go to the Guards.’
He rolls his eyes. ‘You love drama, Freya, don’t you? I remember that about you, alright. Relax. Come in, he’s in here.’
He unlocks his door and walks in. She takes a breath to call after him, then follows instead. Low ceilings. To her left, a shut door, and ahead of her, a short passage leading to a kitchen-sitting room. She pulls the front door, but doesn’t let the latch close. The smell of the house is like the smell of the flat he used to live in – wood and mould and different colognes.
There is something contrived about the kitchen, like a set for a sitcom. There is garlic hanging from a butcher’s hook; three framed album covers on the wall; and on the mantelpiece a row of about ten books. One of them says ‘NERO’ in very large, red lettering on a white spine. Dermot sits on a leather couch, arms spread high along the back; a performance of ease.
‘So, this is my place,’ he says, lifting his palms and looking around the room.
‘Where’s Jem?’
‘He really likes it. Do you have that paperwork for me, Freya?’
‘I told you I can’t sign it, Dermot – that would be fraud. We can talk about it another time, when we’ve sorted out your access.’ There are stairs leading from the kitchen to a second floor. The banisters are of naked pine, the wood rough and incongruously new.
‘Just got those put in,’ says Dermot.
‘Oh. Nice.’
‘I locked the bedroom door when I left. If the kid woke up, I didn’t want him wandering out and falling down the stairs.’
‘He fell asleep?’ It can’t be true.
‘Yes. Little kids sleep, Freya.’
‘I’m going to take Jem now, as agreed. It’s his bedtime – after his bedtime. We can meet face to face another time and discuss the forms and everything.’
‘But that’s not true is it, Freya? As soon as you leave here, you’ll ignore me like you always do, won’t you? And then I’ll have to take you to court…’ He rotates his hand limply from the wrist, ‘and blah blah blah. More drama.’
‘Dermot, bring Jem down here now please or I’ll get the Guards.’
‘Listen to yourself!’ he says. ‘Just listen to yourself! I’ll get the Guards – and what? He’s my son, according to you! Is he my son, Freya?’
Freya turns to leave, and maybe this is the wrong thing, for he is very drunk and Jem is in the house. Her mind reaches for better options and slips and can find none. Dermot blocks the exit with little effort. She is surprised at how much taller he is than her; she hadn’t noticed that before. She moves towards the small gap that is left between him and the doorframe, but in a dipping motion Dermot fills the whole space and shakes his head, his hands up, as though he is defending himself against attack.
‘It’s a simple question, Freya.’
‘Yes, he is. Please go and get him now or I will have to go to the Guards.’
Something rolls across the ceiling, and Freya looks up.
‘Oh for fuck’s sake, Freya. What is it with the drama? Always the drama with you.’
Short, weak knocks on a door. Dermot raises his chin and shouts, ‘Hang on, Mister! I’ll be up in a minute. Just have to deal with something here!’
Freya stops herself from calling out to Jem – it would frighten him to know she was here, trying to get to him. She can’t trust herself to conceal the fear in her voice.
‘Go and get him.’
‘That’s not a very polite way to ask, is it? Say please.’
‘Please go and get him, Dermot.’
‘In a minute,’ he says. ‘I just need to do something first.’
Hands spread across the doorframe, he leans down and plants a soft kiss on her mouth, and Freya can’t move. Jem is upstairs. She should leave, get the Guards, but would they come? Can they? Dermot draws back to see what his kiss has done to her. He wraps his hand around her middle and her waist feels tiny to her, and pliable. She is a fraud for ever having thought more of herself. He kisses her neck now. His tongue moves on her skin, slowly and almost wet, like a slug. She shivers him off her. She can’t help it.
‘I’m getting the Guards, Dermot.’
‘Don’t be stupid, Freya.’
‘Bye,’ she says, and she wonders if she means it, because Jem is still banging on the door and what if the Guards won’t interfere? What if she leaves now and can’t get back in?
‘I need to do a wee!’ Jem calls.
‘Just a minute!’ calls Dermot. ‘Sorry, Mister, this will only take a minute and then I’ll be up to you!’
‘Dermot, give me the key please?’ Shit. There are tears breaking in her voice.
He smiles – his mouth reminds her of some animal, but which? ‘Don’t cry,’ he says, ‘I didn’t mean to upset you. He’ll be okay for five minutes, then I’ll give you the key.’
And Freya stands there not looking at him; standing there while Jem bangs on the door. Eventually she says, ‘He needs to go to the toilet.’
Dermot gives a breathy laugh. ‘He’ll live.’ He takes her wrist and tugs it a little, moving past her. ‘Come and sit with me for a minute.’
Freya should go to the door now, but instead she turns towards the stairs.
‘It’s locked, Freya, I told you. Don’t make a drama. I’ll give you the key now in a minute. I just want to talk to you for a bit, come here.’
And she does. She fucking does. She comes and sits on the couch beside him, and she lets him slide his hand around the back of her neck, and she lets him slide the gluey tongue between her lips and between her teeth. He takes her hand and he presses it to the swell in his jeans, holds it there a minute. ‘Remember this?’
The quicker she does it the sooner it’ll be over. Her mouth recognises the silky penis. She carries out the task from muscle memory, doing everything she can to hurry the thing to its conclusion – massaging his soft testicles until they tighten, rubbing at the little ridge behind, opening her throat so that the long, thin dick slides all the way down and her lips and nose crunch into the piss-and-laundry smell of his pubic hair. He holds her ponytail. ‘Good girl,’ he says. ‘Now you get it. Good girl. I knew you wanted it.’
And she can hear Jem upstairs, the surprising calm in his voice. ‘I had an accident. Hello? Is my mammy coming soon?’
She moves her tongue hard against Dermot’s penis, circles it, slips her tongue-tip into the raw little opening at the top, and gives one last thrust with her throat, massaging the cum up out of his balls.
‘That’s it,’ he says, ‘drink it all up. Don’t waste a drop.’
*
Dermot smirks as he tousles Jem’s hair. ‘Nice wheels. Granny’s, is it?’
‘It was, yeah.’
‘What’s the reg?’ He bends his knees, leaning forward to look, hands in his pockets. ‘Ha! 1989. Vintage. Vintage Mercedes.’
‘Into the car, Jem, quick now, good boy. Let’s shut the door. It’s cold.’
Dermot stands smiling as the car pulls away. She goes slowly so that she doesn’t go too quick. She stops and waits for a gap in the traffic. On the wheel, her hands are trembling. The figure of a child shoots across the road. She angles the rear-view mirror so that she can see Jem. ‘Fold that over your knees,’ she says, ‘great boy.’
Jem sits bare-bottomed on her cardigan in the back of the car, his skinny thighs pale and his little penis hiding with cold.
‘Jem, put the sides of the cardigan over yourself.’
‘But the seatbelt.’
‘Unstrap the seatbelt, put the cardigan around yourself and strap in again.’
‘Like this?’
‘Yes. Well done. Now strap in again. Well done.’
‘Did you hear the click?’
‘Yep. Well done. Best boy.’
‘I like our car.’
‘Me too, Jem. I like our car.’
She likes the way it is posh and scruffy at once; elegant and cumbersome with its beige leather seats and slabs of faux-marble plastic on the inner doors. She likes the outrageously unfashionable colour of it – school-jumper navy.
‘Mammy?’
‘Yes, Jem.’
‘Is it night time?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is it the middle of the night?’
‘It’s the beginning of the night.’
‘Is Mimi asleep now?’
‘Oh, I’d say so.’
‘Oh. Mammy?’
‘Yes?’
‘Em… we didn’t get ice cream.’
‘Did you not? Sorry, baby, I thought you would. I thought he said he’d take you for ice cream.’
‘But we got crisps.’
‘Did you?’
‘Yes, and red lemonade – do you know what that is?’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s like 7Up except orange colour.’
‘Oh. And was it nice?’
‘Yep. And he has a big television and you can play games on it. Racing cars games.’
‘And was that fun?’
‘Yes, but I was playing that for a long, long time. And then the accident.’
‘Well, don’t worry about that, little man. You can have a bath now when we get in. Put the cardigan over your lap, baby, it’s cold.’