Thirty-four

Anna half-believed Gerry’s story, although she knew his motives for advising her against Vincy were very mixed. He liked Alex, or at least he liked the idea of Alex, and of conformity, and he hated disruption and change. The last thing he would welcome would be divorce, split families. And he liked the idea of being connected to someone like Alex, who was rich and successful. That sort of thing gave people a sense of vicarious security. That would be one of his motives, in warning her against Vincy.

But his main motive was something else: brotherly love.

Gerry’s morals were mixed. He made mistakes. He hurt people – especially women who loved him. But he was not an unkind or thoughtless man. He probably really believed what he said, that Vincy was not the right man for Anna. He probably believed she would be happier, in the long run, staying with Alex.

She walked hurriedly along D’Olier Street, that busy, drab street, a street without real shops or charm, which she had always disliked. She was going to see Vincy in his flat over the bridge on Mountjoy Square. She needed his reassurance. She needed to know he existed, and was her lover, and would be there for her, always. She needed to find a house or an apartment where they could start their real life together.

It was dark. A wind blew in from the sea as she crossed O’Connell Bridge. The river was grey and choppy and the seagulls screamed excitedly, competing with the roars of the buses. The bridge seemed very wide and she felt she was struggling to get across it. Then the long stretch of O’Connell Street, another unpleasant street, still, for all they had been doing to try to make it look attractive. It was better if you walked along the middle of it, in the new walkway. That was always quieter, and you didn’t have to look at the tacky shops that lined the left side of the street. But she went to that side anyway. She would take a taxi. The walk was too long, in her present mood.

Outside a burger joint on the corner of Middle Abbey Street, opposite the shoe shop, she saw Vincy.

She dashed up to him.

She hugged him.

He pushed her away gently. ‘Anna, be careful, someone will see us!’ he said.

‘So what?’ she said. ‘Vincy, let’s stop hiding. We’re going to live together in a few weeks’ time. What is the point of all the secrecy?’

He looked disappointed in her, as if she were a child who had let him down.

She tried to hug him again.

‘Anna, for God’s sake!’ He looked around anxiously.

Nobody was paying any attention to them. The evening crowds pushed along the street, anxious to get home. A hobo in the doorway of the shoe shop crouched over his cup.

‘Can we go somewhere? To the flat?’ Anna asked.

‘No … Joe …’

‘So what!’ she said angrily. ‘Joe! I can meet him, can’t I? He must know about me, doesn’t he? You’re moving out on him in a few weeks.’

‘I need time.’

‘Let’s go for a drink then. I haven’t seen you in days.’

‘I can’t. I’ve got a meeting. There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. Something good.’

‘What?’ She was suspicious.

‘I’ve begun to write a book about Iraq.’

‘Oh.’ She had been hoping for something better than this. ‘Well, why not? Everyone’s writing a book about something.’

‘I’ve an appointment with my agent,’ he said.

‘You’ve already got an agent?’

He nodded. ‘Oh yes, Jonathan Bewley recommended that I approach his. John Prescott. He’s with Wyatt and Wyatt; he’s very good.’

‘So he’s taken you on?’

Vincy looked puzzled. ‘Yes, of course. We’re discussing the offers.’

‘Offers for what?’

A bus roared by. He couldn’t hear her.

‘Have you already got offers for your book? Before it’s written?’

‘Oh yes, that’s how it’s done. I’ve got good offers.’

‘How much will the advance be?’ Anna asked. At last she was going to find out.

The tram, the Red Line, the one that goes to Tallaght, came jangling across O’Connell Street.

He shook his head. ‘A lot.’

‘How much?’

‘A lot. Enough to make a big difference. Listen, I’ll talk to you later. I’ve got to meet someone in a few minutes.’

At the far side of the street Anna saw her. The face from the television screen. The long fair hair, the big smile: the face of Ireland in Iraq. Sorcha.

Sorcha was looking around, and when she saw Vincy, she waved.

‘You’re seeing her, aren’t you? You are having a fling with Sorcha Toomey, the prisoner of Basra?’ Anna was shouting.

‘Anna, please, people can hear!’ He clutched her arm.

‘I don’t care,’ she said. ‘Let them. You are the father of my child! Listen everybody. Listen Sorcha!’

He grabbed her and tried to stop her talking. ‘We’ll go for a drink,’ he said. ‘Let’s go over there to the Oval.’

‘He is moving in with me next week!’ she screamed.

Sorcha looked across the street at Vincy. She noticed the commotion and opened her hands in a questioning gesture.

Anna snarled at her.

Sorcha looked bemused, but shrugged her shoulders at Vincy, and walked away.

Other people had also noticed that something was going on. They moved closer to get a good look at Anna. A small crowd was gathering on the corner under the burger sign, waiting for a green light, and they looked at the couple curiously for a second. But quarrelling couples were not that unusual, so they didn’t pay much attention.

‘Come on.’ Vincy started to pull her off the footpath.

The beggar in the doorway of the shoe shop, the homeless person, who was wearing glasses and who had a fat book in his dirty hand, had got up and was standing right behind Vincy.

Vincy did not appear to see the Luas travelling quickly across the O’Connell Street junction.

The homeless person threw his book out onto the tracks.

Vincy, who seemed bewildered and not to know what he was doing, automatically moved to pick it up.

Then a lot of things happened simultaneously.

The driver of the Luas saw Vincy and Anna. He rammed on the brakes.

Anna screamed.

The brakes of the tram screamed along with her.

As she tumbled into unconsiousness she could see Vincy’s head rolling across Abbey Street towards Eason’s bookshop. The rest of his body lay on the road in front of Chapters, the second-hand store where the tramp got his reading material. (They gave him classics for free.)

The people waiting at the traffic lights shouted all at once and came running down to Anna. A fat hardback book came bounding back to the footpath, curiously unscathed by the incident. Nobody gave the book, the cause of the tragedy, a second glance. If they had, they would have seen that it was Tolstoy’s second major hit, Anna Karenina – the tramp was already on page 103. The sirens of ambulances and squad cars began to arrive on the scene. The tramp with the spectacles picked up his book, took up his sleeping bag, and walked away towards O’Connell Bridge. Nobody saw him leave the scene. Nobody had seen him. Nobody sees homeless persons. They are part of the furniture.