— I need to see her, said Jimmy.
— Mister Rabbitte.
— Jimmy.
— There are ten girls in sickbay.
— Ten?
— Ten, yes. Mahalia’s in good company. She’s being well looked after.
— I know, said Jimmy. — And I’m really sorry about this. We don’t have drink in the house —
— I’ll stop you there. This isn’t some fitness-for-parenthood test. That isn’t why we’re here.
— I know — thanks.
— I don’t doubt that yourself and Missis Egan-Rabbitte —. Is she on her way, by the way?
— I think so, said Jimmy. — Yes.
— Fine, said Missis Halpin. — Good.
— How long will she — Miss Traynor — be, d’yeh think?
— Classes end in —
Missis Halpin lifted her sleeve and took a look at her watch.
— Ten minutes.
— Ten — I can’t wait till then, sorry.
He stood up.
— Where’s the sickbay?
— Mister Rabbitte —
Where the fuck was Aoife?
— Sorry, he said. — I don’t mean to be obstructive or anythin’. We’ll back whatever the school decides to do. I’m sure we will. But I have to see May.
He went to the door.
— I’m her dad.
His voice wobbled a bit, shook, like a bubble had passed through it. But he was grand.
— Mister Rabbitte.
She was standing too now.
— I’ll go with you.
— I just want to see her, he said. — Let her know I’m here. She’s probably feelin’ —
He said it; he got over it.
— Nauseous.
They were on the corridor.
— This way.
Don’t look at her arse.
They turned on to a different corridor, and another one. They didn’t speak.
— Here we are.
They were in front of a door with no window. She held the handle. She seemed to be listening. Her ear was an inch from the green-painted wood.
She opened the door.
It was a small room and it was full. He couldn’t see Mahalia — there were ten Mahalias. The air was damp with old tears and sweat. He could feel it. And the smell of puke and something sharply sweet, some sort of cleanser or spray. There were two of the girls — no, three — lying down, and the rest were sitting in a row.
She was sitting between two orange girls — it was the fake tan, and she probably looked even paler than she was because of that.
She saw him.
— Hiya, love, he said.
He saw her eyes fill. She smiled — it wasn’t easy.
He went further into the room.
— Mister Rabbitte.
He went across to Mahalia. There was a woman he saw now, to his left. She was smiling but she looked worried. He kept his eyes on Mahalia. God love her, she looked desperate. White, blotchy skin, panda eyes; her lips were dry. A confused little girl.
He kneeled in front of her. The oompa-loompas on each side of her stared at him.
— Alright?
She nodded. He put his hand to the side of her head, over her right ear. She tilted her head to meet it, the way she’d always done, since she was a little thing. Her head felt hot, the hair was a bit sticky.
— Want to go home?
She nodded again.
— Come on.
He stood up, and so did she. She looked okay; she was steady enough on the pins. He walked back to the door and Missis Halpin. He spoke before she did.
— I’m bringin’ her home. I’ll come back.
— Alright, she said.
And he saw: she smiled at Mahalia as Mahalia went around her. Mahalia didn’t look at her.
— But could you sign her out at the office, please?
Jimmy was heading for the door at the end of the corridor. He waited for Mahalia. He held out his hand. She took it.
He pointed at the exit door.
— Is this the quickest way out, love?
— Yeah.
He turned as he walked.
— I’ll be back.
He couldn’t fuckin’ believe he’d just said that.
— Where were you?
— The vet, said Aoife.
She was holding the dog.
He was coming down the stairs. Mahalia was in bed. She’d puked again, and said Sorry so many times it had stopped being a word.
— You’re home early, said Aoife.
Something thumped Jimmy.
She looked guilty — caught. Is she doin’ what I’ve been fuckin’ doin’?
— I phoned you, he said.
— I left my phone here.
— I texted you.
— My phone — I told you. What’s wrong?
He told her.
— I don’t believe it.
— I know, he said. — But I saw it. She’s grand now.
Aoife went past him, up the stairs. She was still holding the dog. He followed her.
She was sitting at the side of May’s bed. Jimmy could hear May sobbing, and Aoife whispering.
— It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s fine.
— I’ve to go back, he said.
— What?
— To the school. I’ve to go back.
— Oh, she said. — Why?
— Face the music, I suppose.
He heard Mahalia moan.
— It’s okay, love, he said. — It’s grand. You’ll be fine.
He went out to the landing. He came back.
— What’s wrong with the dog?
— Nothing.
She hadn’t looked at him. She was gazing down at Mahalia.
— Okay, he said. — See yeh later.
— Okay.
The dog was her fuckin’ alibi.
Cop on.
He drove back to the school and found he’d missed his place in the queue. He sat beside a woman who seemed to have been crying — she’d definitely been. She had that blotched thing, and she looked angry and confused. Like her daughter, probably. She wasn’t interested in talking. There was a man to his right. He’d arrived just after Jimmy. He’d smiled, raised his eyes to heaven, shrugged, but didn’t seem to speak any English. He was standing. They’d run out of chairs. The secretary, across the way, kept looking out of her hatch. She might have been the woman who’d phoned him earlier; she had the head to match the voice.
There were five people ahead of him.
He got his phone out.
He texted Des. Cant make it. Srry. Truble wth kids sch. He deleted the last bit, and sent it. He texted Aoife. How is she? x
The door opened. A woman came out, with one of the orange girls. They left without glancing at anyone. They’d both been crying. Jesus. He thought he recognised the ma. Someone he’d known years ago, when they were kids — teenagers. He wasn’t sure. The phone shook in his hand. It was Aoife. Fine. Asleep. Messi ate my knickers. X
The phone hopped again. Des. No prob. Tues? He’d pay Des for the missed lesson. Cant. Chemo. Wed?
He could get through a few bars of ‘Abide With Me’, and he thought it sounded okay, sometimes, when he didn’t panic and rush. He was thinking he’d record himself, for when they carried the coffin. That would be dramatic — heartbreaking — the man himself playing at his own funeral. Such a fuckin’ loss. Who’s tha’ playin’? It’s Jimmy himself. He was shite, wasn’t he?
His life was an awful fuckin’ mess.
Des again. Ok.
Even texting — it was a nightmare. He’d send the wrong message to the wrong person. The wrong woman. A good name for a film. Starring Jimmy Rabbitte. Fuckin’ eejit. He’d fuck up, fire off the wrong text, call her the wrong name.
It was fuckin’ great.