I woke, my nose pressed against the wall as though I was trapped in a box, the smell of damp invading my nostrils.
‘Christ,’ I groaned, yanking myself away, coughing as I dragged myself to a sitting position on the single bed.
An empty vodka bottle lay on the floor, and my head felt as if it had been kicked several times.
You’re useless, Colleen. Can you really not survive without Jake?
It was raining again, and almost dark outside. I’d wasted a whole day when I should have been searching for my father.
I climbed from the bed and lurched into the bathroom. The state of it told me I’d be cleaner if I didn’t wash, but still I turned on the tap, which shuddered and spluttered before a burst of clear water shot out. I splashed my face and cleaned my teeth with my finger, studying the strange person staring back at me from the grimy, rust-tinged mirror.
It’s you, Colleen. Look at the state of you.
I ripped my gaze away from my reflection, pulled up my T-shirt and squirted my armpits with deodorant. That was as fresh as I was going to get.
Back in the bedroom, I pulled on my jeans and dropped onto the edge of the bed, my headache receding to a dull throb. After a few moments, I dug into my rucksack for Reagan’s – my father’s – email address and my phone. But it was no good. I felt trapped in this dive. I needed to get out, needed headspace. I grabbed my jacket and left the room.
The narrow communal staircase smelt of sweat, pee and stale cigarettes, a long way from my perfect house in Waterford, with its airy rooms and minimalist furnishings chosen by Jake to showcase his good taste, kept pristine by my constant cleaning.
Am I doing the right thing? Was living with Jake so awful? At least there, I’d had everything I needed.
The landlord – a man in his sixties – was sorting through some mail by the front door. When I’d booked in that morning, he barely met my eyes – had about as much charisma as a cockroach – but now he turned, ogling me as he rubbed his bristly chin, the smell of whisky oozing from his pores.
‘Evening, gorgeous,’ he said, and dried his wet lips on the back of his hand. ‘Where are you off to, all dressed up like a stick of liquorice?’
I didn’t answer, just hurried out through the door, letting it slam behind me.
The rain hit my face, sharp and stinging, as I headed down the road, huddled into my hoodie, glancing back every few moments. And despite feeling better for getting out of the dingy room, I still couldn’t shake the feeling that Jake was following me. That Celia had let it slip that I was heading for Sligo, and he was here hiding somewhere in the shadows.
I found a quiet café on a quiet back street lined with terraced houses, and once inside, ordered a black coffee, sat in the corner, and opened up my phone.
It took a while to set up an email address. I’d never had one of my own, had shared an account with Jake. My words were his words, he told me once. I knew he read my emails anyway, so I rarely sent any.
I hadn’t planned what I would say to Reagan. Should I call him Da? Father? Dad? Reagan? Should I begin with, ‘I’m the daughter you abandoned’?
I imagined over and over his reaction when he realised who the email was from. I dreamed he would lean back in his chair and say, ‘Thank God she’s found me. Thank God I’ve found my Colleen. Now I can be a proper father to her.’ But deep down, I knew he could have found me any time, if he’d wanted to.
‘Awful day, isn’t it?’ An Eastern European voice interrupted my thoughts, making me jump. I turned to see a man in his late twenties, dark hair pushed back from a pale, serious face, hands stuffed in his jean pockets. He sat down at the table next to me, despite the café being almost empty, and I wanted to tell him to piss off. The words were so close I could taste them.
I turned and caught his gaze, and Jake’s ice-blue eyes and disapproving stare seemed to superimpose over his face. I looked away quickly, a clammy, suffocating feeling making me shudder. It was too hot in the café. I should leave – get out of here.
‘You’re being ridiculous,’ I told myself, and inhaled deeply. Fingers trembling on the screen, I created an email account. I pulled out Reagan’s email address and keyed it in, and then leaving the subject box empty, began typing.
I’m not even sure where to begin. My name is Colleen, and your sister Celia told me I’m your daughter. I was hoping we might meet. I have so much I want to tell you – so much I need to ask you. I’m in Sligo now.
I pressed Send before I could change my mind, imagining him sitting at a huge wooden desk, a golden retriever at his feet, opening my message immediately and drafting a reply.
I waited and waited, killing time on YouTube – something I’d often done on my phone if I couldn’t sleep, my earphones pressed in so Jake couldn’t hear.
Bored of waiting for a reply, I clicked on Facebook and signed in to the lonely profile I set up the night after Celia’s confession, thinking if I used Reagan’s surname, he might find me. But he hadn’t. Not that it mattered now.
‘You’ve got message,’ the Eastern European said, leaning over my shoulder and pointing at my phone screen, his cheap aftershave too strong.
I turned and glared. ‘Please leave me alone.’
He lifted his palms and looked away. ‘I was trying to help. You people, you do not check other folder, that is all.’
‘I don’t need your help,’ I said. I don’t need anybody but Reagan.
I turned back to the screen and clicked on the message he’d pointed out. It was from someone called Ella Matthews. I didn’t recognise the name, but clicked on her profile. She was about my age, maybe younger, and the photo looked like something from a magazine. She was pretty and her pale face held a broad smile, but she seemed slightly closed off. There was a sprinkling of freckles across her nose, a bit like mine, and her hair draped round her shoulders, fair, straight and shiny. Mine had a natural kink, though Jake had always liked me to straighten it. I’d barely got enough to straighten now. He wouldn’t like that.
Ella Matthews’ cover photo was a cluster of raspberries on a white oblong plate, alongside a slab of blue cheese, and some nuts. Bizarre. I opened her message and read:
You don’t know me, but I need to talk to you. I think we might be related. Please, please reply to this. I have reason to believe you’re my sister.
I read it again. She had to be kidding me. Christ, I didn’t need this kind of spam. Yet something about her words – about her – stirred my curiosity, and I was aware my pulse was racing. I was being foolish. She’d probably mistaken me for someone else. And whatever the reason, I was in Sligo to find my father, and couldn’t afford to get distracted. I had to stay focused.
With agitated fingers, I flicked back to my email account, and felt my stomach roll over. Reagan had replied.
‘Thank all the saints,’ I said, too loudly, my eyes scanning the large font.
Colleen, I’m in New York at the moment, but I would very much like to meet you. I’ll be back in Ireland soon and will be in touch.
I clasped my chest, tears filling my eyes as I began typing again, my fingers stumbling over the keyboard.
That would be grand. I can’t wait to see you. x
Adrenalin rushed through my body as I waited for his reply, but when it didn’t come my euphoria dimmed to confused impatience. Maybe I was expecting too much, too soon.
I returned to Facebook to close it down, but something made me read the message from Ella Matthews again, and I felt an urge to respond – to find out what game this woman was playing. Maybe, while I waited to reunite with my father, I’d play a few of my own.
I’m intrigued. Why would you think I’m your sister?