— it was there again. The dampness, that awful familiar asphyxiating odour, exactly the same as that very first night, when he'd stood by the window in a tortuous silence. I was so frightened by the
thought of what might be about to happen that my limbs refused to respond. I couldn't speak. It was a long time before I regained
my strength.
And when at last I did - with an enormous sense of relief, believe me — I began scouring the floorboards of the landing. High
and low, on my knees, examining each individual one.
In spite of my best efforts, failing to come up with anything of significance. I could find no indication, none at all, of
any disturbance.
And stood there in vain trying to comprehend what had happened.
I had definitely locked the door, I remembered locking it earlier on. But now - it was wide openl
I stood there, baffled, tears of frustration starting from my eyes.
It took me some time to get over that episode, for no explanation I could come up with seemed in any way to satisfactorily
explain it. The same was applicable to my enquiries within the hostel itself. In retrospect, it would have been better if
I'd stopped drinking for a while. It would have been better if I hadn't gone to the pub in Rathfarnham. But it's easy to say
that now. It's just unfortunate it happened to be located directly across the road from Catherine's house.
I think that what happened was, I had been watching the match being relayed on a massive video screen when I looked up and
saw Catherine's partner Ivan standing directly across the road. Laughing and joking with the hedge-clippers in his hand. When
I saw him laughing like that - beaming away and passing the clippers to Imogen - I have to admit that for the very first time
I began to feel just the tiniest measure of sympathy for 'Auld Pappie' and the dreadful things that had happened to him over
the years. Or, maybe if not sympathy exactly, then perhaps, for the first time, just the smallest, tiniest glimmer of empathy. Certainly, finding myself considerably more comprehending than I'd previously been. Much more so than at any time
since the very first night of the—
I can't bring myself even to utter the word 'assault'.
When, out of nowhere, he'd uttered these oddly moving words:
—Why was love denied to me, Redmond? Why was I denied a son? A son I would have loved and who would have loved me in return?
It isn't fair, Redmond.
With devastating tenderness, to my amazement, he had continued:
—I knew your mother, you know, Little Red. That's what she used to call you, isn't it?
I felt like crying when I heard him saying that. Thinking of my photo and how I'd pretended my mother had taken it. Had taken
that photo of what an ordinary child was supposed to look like. That proper likeness of a properly loved boy, who didn't do things like dance hornpipes for his uncle, behind tall trees or anywhere else.
All children are beautiful but you always think your own's the best. That's what I thought the first day I saw Imogen.
I sat there in the pub, sipping away at my tepid pint of ale. I stared at them in the garden, snipping away at the roses.
Imogen was holding a basin of flowers and smiling. A shaft of sunlight lit up the bar's interior as a roar of triumph went
up for Ireland. A supporter in a giant green hat dropped his trousers and bared his buttocks. Nobody noticed. Too immersed
in the action replay.
When I came home that evening, initially I had been in good humour, but, to my dismay, that now familiar invasive feeling
of imminence began to grow, even stronger than before. And no amount of reasoning could seem to dispel it.
I knew Imogen had her lunch break in the Holy Faith at one o'clock so I made sure to arrive there good and early. I was amazed
at myself for having taken the decision but was more than gratified by the feeling of self-worth it had —quite unexpectedly
— generated inside of me.
Obviously I was taking
thought of what might be about to happen that my limbs refused to respond. I couldn't speak. It was a long time before I regained
my strength.
And when at last I did - with an enormous sense of relief, believe me — I began scouring the floorboards of the landing. High
and low, on my knees, examining each individual one.
In spite of my best efforts, failing to come up with anything of significance. I could find no indication, none at all, of
any disturbance.
And stood there in vain trying to comprehend what had happened.
I had definitely locked the door, I remembered locking it earlier on. But now - it was wide openl
I stood there, baffled, tears of frustration starting from my eyes.
It took me some time to get over that episode, for no explanation I could come up with seemed in any way to satisfactorily
explain it. The same was applicable to my enquiries within the hostel itself. In retrospect, it would have been better if
I'd stopped drinking for a while. It would have been better if I hadn't gone to the pub in Rathfarnham. But it's easy to say
that now. It's just unfortunate it happened to be located directly across the road from Catherine's house.
I think that what happened was, I had been watching the match being relayed on a massive video screen when I looked up and
saw Catherine's partner Ivan standing directly across the road. Laughing and joking with the hedge-clippers in his hand. When
I saw him laughing like that - beaming away and passing the clippers to Imogen - I have to admit that for the very first time
I began to feel just the tiniest measure of sympathy for 'Auld Pappie' and the dreadful things that had happened to him over
the years. Or, maybe if not sympathy exactly, then perhaps, for the first time, just the smallest, tiniest glimmer of empathy. Certainly, finding myself considerably more comprehending than I'd previously been. Much more so than at any time
since the very first night of the—
I can't bring myself even to utter the word 'assault'.
When, out of nowhere, he'd uttered these oddly moving words:
—Why was love denied to me, Redmond? Why was I denied a son? A son I would have loved and who would have loved me in return?
It isn't fair, Redmond.
With devastating tenderness, to my amazement, he had continued:
—I knew your mother, you know, Little Red. That's what she used to call you, isn't it?
I felt like crying when I heard him saying that. Thinking of my photo and how I'd pretended my mother had taken it. Had taken
that photo of what an ordinary child was supposed to look like. That proper likeness of a properly loved boy, who didn't do things like dance hornpipes for his uncle, behind tall trees or anywhere else.
All children are beautiful but you always think your own's the best. That's what I thought the first day I saw Imogen.
I sat there in the pub, sipping away at my tepid pint of ale. I stared at them in the garden, snipping away at the roses.
Imogen was holding a basin of flowers and smiling. A shaft of sunlight lit up the bar's interior as a roar of triumph went
up for Ireland. A supporter in a giant green hat dropped his trousers and bared his buttocks. Nobody noticed. Too immersed
in the action replay.
When I came home that evening, initially I had been in good humour, but, to my dismay, that now familiar invasive feeling
of imminence began to grow, even stronger than before. And no amount of reasoning could seem to dispel it.
I knew Imogen had her lunch break in the Holy Faith at one o'clock so I made sure to arrive there good and early. I was amazed
at myself for having taken the decision but was more than gratified by the feeling of self-worth it had —quite unexpectedly
— generated inside of me.
Obviously I was taking
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