‘ONLY IF YOU LET me play.’
‘No, Megan.’ Cara pulls the phone off Megan. ‘I need to call the music school. We’re very late for Denise.’
She tries to get the seatbelt across Megan, but the child squirms away, snatching for the phone. ‘LET ME PLAY!’
Cara opens the passenger door and shoves the phone into the glove compartment. Some tapes clatter onto the floor, some envelopes and scrunches of clean paper.
‘Megan, sit down and let me strap you in. We’re late. I don’t have time for this.’
‘No.’ Megan crosses her arms and looks up at Cara, her lips drawn down into a parody of sadness; eyes pink under the low black brow and her whole face a blur of saliva and snot and tears. ‘Not less you gib it to me. GIB ME VE PHONE!’
‘Megan, if this is how you react when I let you play then I’m not going to let you go on the phone at all anymore. Ever again. Sit down.’
‘No!’
‘Sit!—’ Cara grabs Megan by both shoulders, squeezing her a little too hard, kneeing her lap – ‘Down!’ There’s a hollow plastic bop as the child is plonked onto her booster seat. Megan won’t allow herself to be folded in. She straightens her legs, twists off the seat, a flurry of elbows and squeals and whips of snotted hair, arms flailing for the glove compartment. She grabs a bill, scrunches it and throws it at Cara. It hits Cara’s nose. ‘Enough!’
She slaps Megan hard on the hip, and the child’s face drops. Cara joggles her into the seat, holds her there with one hand and pulls the seatbelt with the other. Megan lets herself be strapped in. A silence of disbelief and her mouth shuts in indignation, but as the car starts she throws her head back and lets out a cry like a cartoon baby.
‘Waaaaaaahhhh! You – hit-ted – meeeee!’
‘You have to be strapped in. It’s dangerous not to be strapped in. I’m sorry, Megan. I’m sorry I slapped you.’
‘Sowy’s NOT DOOD ENOUGH!’
‘Quiet, Megan. I have to call the school and I have to call Daddy or Freya. Someone has to collect Denise.’
Megan fills the car with a long, metallic screech. Cara looks at the phone. No reply from Freya. Eight per cent battery.
‘Shut up, Megan.’
She dials Pat. The phone rings on loudspeaker while she drives out the gates of the nursing home. He doesn’t pick up. Stopped before the main road, she searches her contacts for the music school.
‘Megan, be quiet while I make this call.’
‘Noooo. I will NOT BE KVIET! YOU HIT-TED MEEEEEE!’
‘Shut up, Megan. I need to hear them.’
She joins a line of traffic. The light is red. A wind whines in through a hole under her car. While she listens to the ringtone, she picks up the ball of paper, and smooths it out.
FINAL DEMAND
Re: Arrears of Tax
Dear Sir/Madam,
I hereby request payment of €4,094.31 in respect of arrears of tax. A schedule detailing the amount due is attached. Interest on the amounts due has been accruing from the due date shown, at the appropriate rate.
Failing payment within 7 days the amount in question may be the subject of court proceedings for recovery of the debt.
‘Hello, Tawny Park?’ Then the phone goes silent. A blue ring appears, turning for a second, and the screen goes black.
‘Battery’s gone. Fuck.’
‘YOU HIT-TED MEEE.’
‘Stop it, Megan, I need to think.’
‘Mean Mammy! MEAN MAMMEEE! You Hit Ted Mee yee yee yee.’
Cara can feel it like something lashing loose from its peg, something heavy and leathery, something tight and dark and private, unfurling itself, opening its mouth, something angry at being forgotten. She hardly knows she’s doing it and then she has turned around and she is screaming too, screaming at her daughter, her nails digging into the tired upholstery, her head banging against the headrest, her cheeks wet with tears and her throat raw with it, ‘SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!’