If I craned my neck, I could see the spot where Deirdre had stepped into the biting January waters of the Lee’s North Channel. I was standing in the bay window on the top floor of the Opera House, high above the river where my sister had floated on the way to being dead, her suicide a tragic mirroring of her own history. Our mother had gone with the river too, though Deirdre had known nothing of that, and I had never looked beyond what little my mam had told me, had never sought out the inquest records or Garda reports, had never investigated what the newspapers had said, had tried to suppress all of it.
And yet I had leapt at the chance to investigate Deirdre’s life and death. What would a psychotherapist say?
‘Are you thinking about jumping in?’
I jolted, then turned around. It was Sarah-Jane Carey, the Film Festival PR.
‘They say it’s cleaned up since they did the main drainage, but I wouldn’t fancy a swim all the same, would you?’
‘Sarah-Jane, you gave me a fright! But hang on, I’m not in your way, am I?’
The window, with clear northern light and the river in the background, was a popular location for PR photos.
‘Nah, calm down, you’re grand,’ Sarah-Jane said. ‘It’s dark now and anyway we got great shots over at City Hall. Jeremy is a dream, honest to God. So obliging for the cameras. Total pro. But, hey, come on in, you’re here for the reception, right? I was just out at the loo. I was dying for a wee, hadn’t a second all day.’
I was glad of Sarah-Jane’s company and stream-of-consciousness babble as we walked together into the bar. There were no more than fifty guests, a string quartet playing classical arrangements of movie themes and a selection of juices and sparkling wine instead of the usual Château de l’Opening plonk. Jeremy Gill was on the far side of the room, his back to me, deep in animated conversation with a woman I didn’t know who looked like she might be a commercial sponsor. She was dressed in the kind of ‘office to cocktail party’ outfit beloved of fashion features around Christmas: a black trouser suit with a red silky camisole and an enormous shiny pendant that she kept fiddling with.
The atmosphere was charged, and everybody was either looking at Jeremy or deliberately not looking at him. I scanned the room, planning my route. At least the small size of the crowd increased my chances of getting to talk to him. And Alice was hovering close by so, if I went to talk to her, I’d be bound to get an introduction.
I felt a tug at my sleeve.
‘Sorry, Sarah-Jane, I was miles away,’ I said. ‘What were you saying?’
‘Just about the photos,’ Sarah-Jane said. ‘I saw that you took some photos from the archive. I was a bit surprised, to be honest. I was wondering …’
‘Oh gosh, Sarah-Jane, I completely forgot to tell you and even worse, I forgot to bring them back. I have them in my office at work and I’ll drop them back to you tomorrow. It’s just that I’m a massive fan and I wanted a copy for my collection.’
She didn’t believe my explanation, I could tell. If only I had returned the photos on Monday, as I had promised myself I would. But I saw that a gap had opened up near Jeremy Gill, and that he was walking in my direction, phone in hand. Tall, tanned and well built, with shoulder-length glossy too-black hair, he wore an open-necked white shirt and a dark blue suit. Even if he wasn’t famous, you wouldn’t miss him in a crowd: age and success agreed with him, and he was far better looking in real life than I had remembered, though I’d only seen him at a distance in 1998. A waiter passed, bearing a tray. Gill grabbed a glass of fizz without breaking his stride.
‘Sorry, Sarah-Jane. I’ll catch you later, okay?’
I pinned on my biggest smile and walked up to him before he could get waylaid by anybody else.
‘Welcome to Cork, Mr Gill. I’m Finn Fitzpatrick from the Festival Board. We’re delighted to have you back.’
‘Wonderful. I’ve just been talking to the most boring woman in the world and I had to escape. Told her I had an important call to make. And I’ve lost my assistant. But you look like you know what’s happening. When do I go on?’
‘The film’s listed to start at seven so you’ll be on stage at about 7.05 or so, I reckon. You probably haven’t seen the huge crowds below, but it’ll take the staff a while to seat them.’
‘Ah, the great Irish public,’ Gill said, and laughed. ‘But, c’mere to me, I don’t know what they’re coming to see me for, do you? Anyway, what are the plans after that?’
‘Alice Chambers introduces you on stage and you say a few words about the film and then they’re taking you to Paradiso.’
‘Oh yeah, what’s that like?’ Gill asked. ‘I’m vegan now, I hope they know that.’
‘They do,’ I said. ‘It’s a really good place. But before you go I wonder would you sign something for me? I love all your films, going right back to the beginning. I was here in 1998 as a volunteer when you came to Cork with your first film.’
‘Oh come now, you don’t look old enough.’
I found myself blushing. After all I’d heard about Gill, after all I’d imagined him to be, my conversation with him couldn’t have been more pleasant. He was funny, obliging and self-deprecating. Draining his glass, he left it on a ledge beside him.
‘Now, what do you want me to sign? Though why you’d want my oul’ scrawl …’
I scrabbled in my bag and took out my 1998 programme, dropping the bag in the process. Gill dipped and caught it before it hit the floor.
‘Oh my God, thanks so much, Mr Gill.’
‘It’s Jeremy,’ he said. ‘And it’s no bother. Did you never hear that I used to be a goalie?’
‘I did not know that.’
‘Oh yes. Parnell United. Under-12s.’
I laughed, and Gill winked at me.
‘I don’t like to talk about it. I’m not the boastful type. So, what about that autograph of yours?’
I had bought a new pen the day before, one with a rough grip, surmising that there was a better chance of DNA residue being left on such a surface. My hands shook as I tore at the packet and I was starting to feel foolish. He asked for my name again, took trouble with the spelling, and signed the front of the catalogue, as I’d asked.
‘Takes me back,’ he said, as he handed me the programme and pen. ‘Good days.’
I took the pen from him and held it delicately by its end.
‘You enjoyed the festival in ’98?’ I asked.
‘Fantastic,’ he said, smiling broadly, but colder now. Though he remained standing beside me, he had moved on: my allotted five minutes of charm had come to an end.
‘You would have met Deirdre Carney. Such a pity about her,’ I said.
‘Who?’ Gill said, smiling still but with an almost imperceptible movement in his eyes that led me to believe he knew exactly who I was talking about.
‘She died in January, but I figure you would have met her during the ’98 festival,’ I said. ‘She was on the youth jury. Championed your film. Look, here’s a photo.’
I had the page marked. I flipped it open and held it in front of Gill.
He inclined his head slightly.
‘I don’t remember meeting her. She was ill?’
‘Mentally ill for a long number of years. Since 1998, actually.’
‘I’m sad to hear that,’ Gill said without a pause. ‘Are you a relative?’
‘Oh I didn’t know her. Just heard about her death and came across the photo when I took out the old programme in anticipation of your visit.’
‘I see,’ Gill said.
I allowed Gill’s ‘I see’ to hang unanswered. His eyes bored into mine, and he kept smiling that perma-smile, but I was certain that he was scrutinising me to see if I had an agenda or if it had been an innocent remark.
‘I hope Finn’s being nice to you?’
Alice Chambers was by my side. I didn’t know how long she’d been there, or how much she’d heard. Gill broke his gaze. He turned his body to her and it was as if I didn’t exist. He had a magnetic power and a way of turning his attention on and off that left me feeling as if I’d been dropped from a height.
‘Couldn’t be nicer,’ he said, his smile a fixed grin. ‘Showtime?’
‘Showtime,’ Alice said. ‘It’s this way.’
With a look at me that could have meant anything, Alice made for a side door marked ‘Staff Only’ that I knew would take them down a descending warren of back stairs and corridors before they re-emerged eventually in the glare of the lights on the huge yawning blackness of the stage. Though I had a ticket for the screening, I’d never be able to sit through it: there was too much to think about. I’d go and watch the introduction, though. I dropped the pen into a fresh plastic bag and made my way down the main stairs to the lobby.
The house lights were down as I slipped into the stalls. The theatre was packed and I waved away an usher with a torch, signalling that I was only staying five minutes. I had a ticket, so they couldn’t throw me out, but hopefully I’d get away with standing at the back. There was a stifled cheer and a half-hearted round of applause as Alice walked onstage: they weren’t here to see her.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, we have a very special guest here this evening …’
The audience erupted with laughter as first a leg, and then an arm, poked out from the wings; as Alice turned around to see what was happening, they were just as quickly withdrawn. After it had happened a second time, she realised what was going on, laughed and abandoned all attempts at speech-making.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, the one and only Jeremy Gill.’
Gill emerged to wild applause and a standing ovation. Hugging Alice as if they were old friends who hadn’t met for years, he took over the presentation, making a flawless, touching speech about how much Cork meant to him and how grateful he was, and would always be, to the city that was the first place to give him a prize, which had allowed him to be nominated for a short film Oscar and that although that shower over in Hollywood hadn’t taken much notice back then they’d seen the error of their ways later. More thunderous applause. Gill ran his hand through his hair and shook his head like he was in a shampoo ad. Without a flicker of nerves, he held the crowd captive and docile. Looking around, I was reminded of those photos of 1950s cinema audiences wearing 3D glasses.
Alice quizzed Gill on his new film (getting its first showing in Ireland tonight and he couldn’t be happier that it was happening here and there’d be a Dublin premiere later, but the first showing in Ireland was here and that was really important to him). Throwing in the thing about Dublin was pure genius, appealing to the Cork/Dublin rivalry and superiority complex. I thought back to what Sarah-Jane had said, and on my own encounter with him, how he’d been with the ‘most boring woman in the world’, whoever she was: all chat to her until he’d had enough and walked away. Gill seemed to have the extraordinary ability to be whoever he needed to be in any given situation; and that tallied with what Aifric Sheehan and Colm O’Donnell had said: a groper, or a pervert, by their accounts – yet, according to Aifric, Deirdre had experienced a very different side of Gill.
He handed back to Alice and she told the audience that they were going to show Jeremy’s prize-winning short Another Bad Day at the Office before his new feature. There was more applause and another ovation as Gill and Alice exited the stage. I stayed and watched the short film that I’d last seen on YouTube a few nights ago. Now that I knew, or thought I knew, about Gill, it was deeply disturbing.
As the credits rolled, I left the dark theatre. Leaning against the wall at the bottom of the staircase outside the door to the stalls, I felt nauseous. I was thinking about Rhona Macbride, the short film’s teenage star. Seeing her talent and youth light up the big screen had crystallised my vague feelings and latent suspicions. What had he done to Deirdre? And what if it wasn’t just Deirdre? What if Gill had hurt Rhona too? And what if he hadn’t stopped with Rhona? What if he had never stopped?
I walked out of the Opera House, on to Emmett Place, and turned left on to the quay. I crossed the road and walked west along the river to the Shandon footbridge. On the far side was the stepped path that led to Shandon steeple, the four-faced liar it was called, though I could never remember why. A raw north wind was blowing and the water was high and restless and choppy. And as I stood, gripping the handrail, above the spot where my sister had walked to her death, I felt bereft. More than that, I felt utterly powerless.