No Way to Say Goodbye - Anna McPartlin [89]
He decided to go for a walk to clear his head. He found her sitting on the bench by the pier, looking out over the water and seemingly mesmerized by a bobbing red buoy. He sat down beside her. She remained still for a few moments, but then she switched off her Walkman and removed her earphones. “How does it feel to be the talk of the town?” she asked, without looking at him.
“I’m guessing you know.”
“They’ll get tired of it and soon enough the town spotlight will descend on somebody else,” she said evenly.
“Bridget Browne was kind enough to tip me off.”
“Well, she’s certainly qualified to know,” she said.
“She was kind,” he muttered, and she faced him.
“Well, that’s the thing about small towns. Everybody knows everybody else’s business so sniggering and judgement usually follow, but when it’s important all that fades away and what’s left is solidarity. Maybe if you’d known that, you could have trusted us.”
“I shouldn’t have lied.”
“Everybody lies,” Mary replied, a little sadly.
“I should have told you about my past.”
“So why didn’t you?”
“I was afraid. I hadn’t been a decent person for such a long time.”
His eyes were dark and the melancholy she had seen in them that first night had returned. “And you’re a better man now?” she asked.
“I’m trying to be,” he said quietly, his eyes cast down.
“And your girlfriend?” she said, after a moment.
His eyes locked with hers and they shared a terrible sadness. “I didn’t love her.”
She turned back to the water.
After a few minutes she faced him again. “I need some space,” she said.
“Because of my past?”
“No, because of mine. When I’m around you I feel like I’m falling. I need to stop before I smash into the ground.”
“Are you always so honest?”
“No. Mostly I’m a liar like you.”
“I don’t want to lose you.”
“But you won’t be staying here.”
“You don’t know that,” he mumbled.
“Yeah, I do,” she said sadly, and stood up.
He grabbed her hand and held it until she pulled it away. Desolate now, he nodded. This was the first time either had shown their true feelings – and all at once it was over.
“I just need some time,” she said, and left him with the bobbing red buoy for company.
She knows. She knows I’m not worth it.
On the day that the article was published about Mia Johnson, Penny began a week of self-induced oblivion. She’d requested a two-week leave of absence and because she rarely took holidays, her editor – the traitor – was happy to agree. She’d stocked up on booze and snacks in Killarney and, on returning home, she’d parked her car in her garage. Once inside she’d pulled out the plug on her home phone, switched off her mobile, locked the doors, closed the curtains and opened the first of many bottles, thus beginning a long descent to a place that Dante had termed The Inferno.
A few days had passed when she heard knocking. She wasn’t sure how long Ivan had stayed there, interspersing the banging with calling her name, because she had drifted off to sleep in the middle. It might have been seconds or hours. Just go away. The second time she’d woken, all was quiet. The vodka bottle was nearly empty. She got up and went into the kitchen, opened the fridge and placed the near-empty bottle beside a fresh one, which was close to some eggs that she considered frying. Her stomach turned. She closed the fridge, then reconsidered. She opened the fridge again, took out the near-empty bottle and put it into the freezer. She switched on the oven timer for ten minutes, then sat on the floor and watched the countdown.
When the buzzer sounded, she opened the freezer, took out the bottle, downed the contents and spluttered. This is the life.
Four days into her binge, she had decided to open her laptop and write down why she felt she was a drunk. Even though she had drunk two bottles of vodka before midday she felt surprisingly lucid and it seemed a tremendous idea. She entitled the Word document “Why?” She took a drink from a fresh bottle of vodka, with