O’Neill liked his wife in her work-clothes. The black suit and crisp white shirt. He found he always wanted her the most when she was dressed like that. He imagined her walking round the office, issuing orders, getting things done. He loved hearing her on the phone to colleagues, the authority in her voice. It reminded him of the girl he had met seven years ago, when she was about to finish her degree at Queen’s.
O’Neill’s phone rang in his pocket. He looked at the number. It was Wilson. The Chief Inspector had taken to calling him on a daily basis. He wanted updates. Wanted to know what progress was being made with the case. O’Neill imagined Wilson taking notes at the other end of the phone, compiling a dossier against him. He swore under his breath and rejected the call, putting the phone back in his pocket.
The waiter swept in again with his pen poised, a mix of pomp and self-importance. O’Neill picked up the menu, his eyebrow creased at the two-page list of drinks. Cappuccinos, lattes, americanos, all in Italian sounding sizes.
‘Tall skinny latte,’ Catherine said.
The waiter wrote her order down with a contrived flourish.
‘Do you have coffee?’ O’Neill asked sarcastically.
‘Sir?’
‘Black coffee?’
The waiter picked up the vibe and held back on his offer of muffins and pastries. He went back to the bar to place their order.
Catherine was embarrassed. Embarrassment became annoyance, which then became resentment and finally anger.
‘I see charm school’s really paying off?’
O’Neill had been hoping she was going to ask him back, to move in again with her and Sarah. He’d hoped the ‘break’ was over, that she’d had some space, that Sarah’s constant questions about when her daddy was coming home had finally brought her round. Looking at Catherine’s face, he knew he hadn’t helped his cause.
‘Wise up, love. It’s a cup of coffee.’
‘It’s not a cup of coffee, it’s you.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Why do you have to be so dismissive? You don’t care about anything that’s not chasing round Belfast, trying to lock up the latest arsehole who’s broken the law.’
‘All I did was ask if they had coffee.’
‘You know exactly what you did.’
Catherine broke off as the waiter returned with their drinks. He placed them on the table and went back to the counter. O’Neill lifted the cup and took a drink.
‘Mmmm. Good coffee,’ he said with mock enthusiasm. ‘How’s yours?’
‘F-off, John,’ Catherine replied, smiling a little, despite herself.
She felt herself start to soften, being won over by O’Neill’s sense of humour. He always did this to her. But no, she reminded herself, not today. She had to remember what she was there for. She went back and tried to find the resentment. It was easier that way.
‘It’s always the same. It was the same when we went out for dinner that time.’
‘That again? Is this a history lesson? Is that what you asked me to meet you for? To talk about some dinner we went to last year?’
‘There you go. If it’s not important to you it’s not important to anyone.’
Catherine had invited two other couples, women from work and their husbands. It was to celebrate her birthday. They’d met at half seven on the Saturday night. O’Neill had told her he’d finish his shift at five but he still wasn’t home from work. She’d spoken to Jack Ward who’d said he was questioning a suspect but he’d get him out of there as soon as possible. O’Neill had been an hour late. Catherine was furious and struggled to keep a lid on things.
Her eyes bored into the menu while they all waited for him to arrive at the restaurant.
‘Those criminals,’ she laughed, cursing herself for repeating her husband’s words. ‘They don’t work a nine to five like the rest of us.’
In the cafe, O’Neill slurped his coffee. ‘It’s not my fault those girls married two of the most boring men on the planet.’
‘You could have been polite.’
‘I was polite. I listened to rocketing house prices, to fluctuations in the stockmarket, to the sound of the new Mercedes. . you know, the S-class just wasn’t going to be big enough.’
‘You got drunk and called him an arsehole.’
‘He was an arsehole.’
‘That’s not the point.’
‘He asked me how my day was. I’d spent three hours interviewing a sixteen-year-old girl who had been raped by her step-father. It took an hour for her to stop hyperventilating so that she could string a sentence together. She kept saying, “It was my fault. It was my fault.” And you wonder why I didn’t give a shit about the fuel injection in your man’s fucking car?’
‘There you go again. Hiding behind the job. It’s always about you, always about the job. You care more about frigging Musgrave Street than you do about your own wife and daughter.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘You were like a ghost. You were never home.’
‘I can’t do anything about the shifts.’
‘It’s not the shifts, John. Even when you are home, you’re not really there. You’re staring into space. Running down some street in your head. In some interview, asking a different set of questions. Wondering where it went wrong, what you should have done. .’
Catherine broke off. She knew why she’d come now. She wasn’t there to change him. She had been trying for six years and it hadn’t worked. John wouldn’t change. He couldn’t.
‘John, it’s not all up to you, you know. You can’t fix everything. The robbery, the theft, the assault, the rape. You can’t stop it.’ Catherine lifted her coffee. It had cooled and she took a large warm mouthful.
‘So what do you want me to do then? Talk about cars? Sit in restaurants, wanking on about how fresh the mussels are?’
‘No, John.’
O’Neill wondered how they ended up arguing. It was like an invisible gravity that always managed to pull them off-course. He knew he was going nowhere. He needed to get off the subject, stir up some memories. Talk about something good.
‘Listen, you’re right. I could have handled that one a bit better.’
Catherine stared out of the window at people walking by.
‘Anyway, how’s our Sarah? How’s she getting on at school?’
Their daughter was halfway through her first year of primary school. Catherine tried to ignore him but acquiesced. No matter what she did, he was still the father of her child.
‘A right little fixer, apparently,’ she said.
‘Oh yeah?’ O’Neill replied, sensing a chink of light.
‘I met Ms Harper at the school gate and she was telling me Sarah had volunteered to sit beside the new boy that joined the class. He had spent the morning crying because he didn’t know anyone. She’s a right little fixer that one, so the teacher said.’
O’Neill smiled, blue eyes shining, crow’s feet gathering at the corners of his eyes. Catherine couldn’t help but see her daughter sitting across the table. The eyes. The smile. The stubbornness. She tried to ignore it.
‘I need to go to the toilet,’ she said, picking up her bag and walking in the direction of the ladies’.
On her own in the cubicle she set about rallying the troops.
‘Hand him the envelope,’ she whispered to herself. ‘There is nothing more to say. He won’t change. He can’t.’
As she said the words, another voice in her head was telling her this was why she fell for him in the first place. This was why she loved him. He didn’t back down. He didn’t know how.
Walking back to the table Catherine saw O’Neill, his mobile pressed to his ear. She knew he would be on the phone to the station as soon as she left the table. That was it. That decided it.
O’Neill stood up quickly as she approached.