‘I … eh … I’ve no idea.’
‘Would you sell now?’
‘What, do you want to buy it?’ she laughs sarcastically, ‘I thought you didn’t give a damn about this place.’
‘Just answer.’
But she doesn’t, simply stares back at me, trying to figure me out.
‘Ah, it doesn’t matter. Nothing fecking matters now anyway,’ I say, rubbing the stubble on my chin, considering my razor shipped off to Dublin, regretting having sent it now. Then I laugh at the stupidity. No need for a razor where you’re going, Sonny Jim.
‘If I could go back would I change it all, not take your money, is that what you’re asking?’ She looks at me, then back at the counter, wondering at the answer. ‘I don’t know,’ she says finally. ‘It’s made me who I am, I suppose. I was a girl when I started here. And now look at me, a woman who can run the best sports awards in Ireland. Actually, I think I’ve done myself and my father and yes, Mr Hannigan, even those dastardly Dollards, proud.’
I look at her and smile.
‘That you have, Emily. That you have.’
I feel as if I could sleep for a thousand years. My eyes close with the weight of all that has passed this night and all that has yet to come.
‘Are you alright, Mr Hannigan?’ she asks, those slitted eyes returning. ‘I bumped into Robert earlier, you know. He says he’s worried about you. Wouldn’t tell me why. But he told me to keep an eye on you.’
Fecking Robert. She takes out her phone, threatening me with it. Sets it down beside her drink. I raise my hand to her, waving it in some kind of ridiculous reassurance that all is well.
‘The drink, girl. It’s the drink. Don’t be worrying about me, I’m absolutely fine.’
I look away from her, over to Svetlana who is happy now: the Queen of the bar. Showing off her mastery in front of the boss as she serves the escapees. Emily sips from her glass and I wonder have I done enough to distract her.
‘She’s good isn’t she? That little one. A great worker,’ I say, attempting another diversion, pointing my drink in Svetlana’s direction.
‘Never mind Svetlana. What did Mother say about the hotel and your “involvement”?’
Feck.
‘She’s proud of you, you know. Proud of what you’ve achieved, of how you’ve saved this place. Turned it around.’
‘Really? I mean, she’s never said anything. Never shows one bit of interest in this place or what I’m up to with it.’
‘Parents are feckers that way. I speak from experience. But mark my words. She knows, she sees it and what’s more, she appreciates it.’ I move my hand to hers and pat it as it sits around the base of her glass.
‘So, she’s not mad, then?’
‘Well, she’s had a hell of a long time to get over it if she was,’ I laugh, ‘but no she’s not mad, certainly not at you, anyway. Be proud my girl. Be proud of how you’ve stood those Dollards tall again. Listen, my best advice is to talk to her. Talking’s good, apparently.’
‘And she told you about Thomas and his father?’
‘Aye.’
‘Awful, isn’t it?’
I take another sip of Midleton and then ask:
‘Do you think if I’d given back the coin on the day he dropped it from the window, would it have made any difference to his life at all?’
She looks ahead of her, her eyebrows raised and her lips pouting as she gives my question due consideration.
‘Now,’ she says after a bit, ‘there was a Dollard that no one, bar the man he called father, could have saved. Not even you, Mr Hannigan, even if you’d felt inclined.’
And she is so right – fathers have a lot to answer for.
I’ll admit I’m tired now, son. It’s been far too long a day. I’m ready now. Ready to get this over with. So I pat her hand one more time but she grasps mine. Holds it tight and squeezes it like it matters to her. I look at it and then her face. And there I see the bravery of her one last time. And then I do something that surprises even me, I reach across and kiss her on the cheek. Reluctantly, I let her hand go to take hold of the bar to ease myself down. On terra firma, I hold my near-empty glass and raise it one last time in her direction.
‘To killing the weeds,’ I say and swallow the last drop down before passing behind her and patting her shoulder as I go. ‘Goodnight, Emily, it’s been a pleasure.’ I head out towards the foyer and I know she’s there at my back with that bloody phone in her hand.
‘But, Mr Hannigan, wait. Maurice,’ she calls, far too concerned for my liking. ‘Are you sure you’re OK? You’re not driving are you? Let me get you a taxi at least.’
‘And why would I be in need of a taxi when I have this?’
I take the key of the honeymoon suite from my pocket and turn to hold it up to her.
It takes her a second to recognise exactly what it is.
‘You’re the VIP?’
‘I am,’ I say, a little bit of pride creeping into my voice, ‘but before I go up I think I’ll take the good Meath air.’
I leave her there with her mouth still open. Her concern bores into my back. She might ring Robert yet, I know, but it’s a risk I’ll have to take. I make my way to the door, tipping my cap to himself in the picture. I turn to see Emily one last time and point at it:
‘Uncle Timothy,’ I say, and then give her a smile and a wink before making my way to the open door.
Isn’t it funny how Tony and Molly visit me all of the time but your mother doesn’t. That one’s a bit of a mystery. Maybe she visits you instead. Maybe you talk to her, son. I’d like to think you do, as you go about your day, discussing what you might write next, asking her opinion. God, she’d just love that.
It’s raining now, one of those heavy July downpours. You know the kind that makes you think the roof of the shed might finally give up. I needn’t worry myself about those things. They’re someone else’s concern, now. Of all the things to make me sad tonight I hadn’t counted on it being the ricketiness of the shed. Rivers will rise and livestock will scare tonight, that’s for sure.
A woman in high heels, holding a handbag over her head and squealing, skids in under the awning beside me. I shimmy up to make room. Not that there’s any need, I’m the only one out here – the smokers have flicked their fags and taken refuge back inside long ago.
‘I’m soaked,’ she says, panting like she’s just swum the Liffey. She looks at her bare arms and legs and feels her hair. ‘Fuck sake.’
I look over at her sparkly toes and smile.
‘Aye. Looks like someone’s angry about something, alright,’ I say, looking back out at the town, hoping it’s not my good lady wife.
‘Well, I’d like to wring his bloody neck whoever the hell he is,’ she says, passing by me, going in through the hotel door and shaking off the rain, like Gearstick used to do. Wouldn’t that be an easier way to go? Someone’s hands ’round my neck so I need do nothing. It wasn’t me your honour, I can say to Saint Peter at the gate. It was your one with the soaking wet hair and streaking tan.
A flash lights up the sky beyond the town. I count in my head until God moves his furniture. A big fucking wardrobe. The roar of it. Six, I get to six before the crack of thunder explodes above me.
Out, I step. My eyes close and I lift my head into its howl. The rain soaks through me and it feels feckin’ marvellous, washing away my worries and doubts. Like an electric current it gives me a bolt of energy and I dance. Not a word of a lie, my feet slap, slap in the rain and I kick like I’m in a chorus line. There’s no one here now to see me make a fool of myself as my knees jerk high and my legs shoot out. ’Course, they could be watching from the windows, but I don’t give them a second thought as I attempt a heel kick but no more leave the ground than an old cow in my field. But in my head I’ve done it, clicked those heels as sprightly as Gene Kelly. Around I spin and spin. Letting every drop soak into me. Deep down, drenching my very bones. Then gravity takes me and I lunge against the wall. Panting and laughing. Trying to catch my breath. My body bends, as my hands clutch my knees.