Jessie Keane - Ruthless

Yeah, he thought. If someone’s in bed with you, someone you’re supposed to love, you can’t sleep. So you come here and do this .

His heart felt chilled in his chest. This wasn’t right. This behaviour… it was beyond him. He couldn’t understand it.

‘That’s Redmond,’ he said at last.

‘Yes.’ She paused, gazing at the canvas she was working on, her eyes caressing it. ‘It is.’

He moved closer. ‘You’re very talented,’ he said. He didn’t mean it. He was… horrified. Yes. That was the word. Horrified, and trying to understand where this madness might have come from. He hated the paintings. They made him think of Van Gogh’s mad desperate eruptions of colour, and of that one they called The Scream . These canvases were evidence of her obsession with someone, someone other than him. A dead man, someone he could never hope to compete with.

‘So you don’t… exhibit?’ he asked.

‘No. Why would I? This is for my own pleasure, no one else’s.’

‘Orla.’

She was back at it again, flinging thick gobs of pure viridian green on to the canvas, smearing it about with a pallet knife. ‘Hm?’

‘We have to talk.’

‘About what?’ She didn’t even look round.

‘About why you tense up when I try to make love to you. About that.’

Her shoulder stiffened; there was no other sign she’d heard him.

‘Orla.’

She turned to him then, brightly smiling; there was a smear of yellow ochre on her cheek.

‘It’ll come right in the end,’ she said.

But it went on like that: nothing changed. Rufus tried to make himself useful during the long days, and every evening he sat with her and watched TV with the old ones, seeing Haughey elected for a third term as Taioseach, and Thatcher visiting Moscow.

Often he awoke to find himself alone, hearing faint the hammer-drill of Guns N’ Roses or Deep Purple coming from the barn. He persisted, spending the nights with her whenever she’d allow it. But it was useless.

He’d heard of this sort of thing, he knew what it was called: vaginismus. The woman he loved, the woman he worshipped , had been hurt somehow in the past, hurt so badly that a normal response to a man was impossible for her.

He was going to talk to her about it. He had to.

But then something else happened, and that problem was pushed aside.

He was out in the grounds as autumn sailed in with fierce gusts of wind wrenching the leaves from the trees. He was muffled up warm and sweeping up piles of the things. In summer, the place was marvellous, but as winter approached it was rough being buffeted by gales. The moisture from the water hit the windows, caking them so that they were diffused, and from inside it was like looking through gauze, as if you were trapped in a bubble.

It was a cosy enough bubble though. The old folks were no trouble. And Orla… well, he loved her. They sat sometimes in the evenings when the old couple had gone to their rooms, just curled up together on the big sofa, chatting or watching TV, and he thought This is bliss .

Only, of course, it wasn’t quite. He no longer even attempted to make love to her. He could see she hated it, that her body rejected it utterly.

So… here they sat, like an ancient married couple, comfortable, not talking about it. But still it bothered him. He noticed things about her that worried him greatly. When she saw babies on TV adverts, she turned her head, looked elsewhere. When he kissed her, she pulled away. And he didn’t even try to sleep with her any more. She didn’t like it. That much was plain.

So here he was, sweeping up leaves to put into the compost bins to feed the garden next year. Killing time. Wondering, with a heavy heart, what to do.

Next year, he thought, and paused.

Would he still be here, then? He didn’t think so. Some people could settle for platonic love, but he wasn’t one of them. He was a passionate man. It would break his heart, but he knew that he would go, one day soon.

‘Hey! Rufus, you big bazoo!’

The shouting male voice startled him out of his thoughts. He paused, looked up. No one ever came here. Oh, the grocery van called by, and the postman and the milkman, but they never actually had visitors, as such.

He couldn’t believe his eyes. It was his old mate Rory, striding towards him. A battered Land Rover was parked up near the open gate.

‘Rory!’ Rufus’s big face split in a grin. ‘Is it really you?’

‘Who else d’you think it is, feckin’ Santa Claus?’ Rory ran over, laughing. He looked exactly the same, a little thinner maybe, his face with a few fresh lines. Rory hugged him and they both laughed.

‘Well, what the hell are you doing out here in the arse-end of nowhere?’ asked Rufus, pushing his mate back a step, his brow crinkling. ‘How did you know I was here?’

Rory shrugged. ‘How the hell would I? I didn’t. But I was down this way doing a bit of horse trading, and I remembered your relatives had this place and I wondered if they were still here, living in the grand style, and whether they could give me news of you. And here you are! Large as life and twice as ugly.’

‘It’s good to see you, boy,’ said Rufus in real delight. ‘Come away inside and let’s have a drink to celebrate.’

‘And how’s Megan?’ asked Rufus as they sat drinking late into the night. Davey and his wife had gone on to bed, and so had Orla. Rory had been amazed to find her there, but had said nothing. He’d heard Orla and her brother Redmond had vanished a while back, that they were dead by all accounts, or abroad and keeping out of the way of the law – yet here she was, in the flesh. He thought it best not to pry. Orla had been polite to him, but not effusive. She had cooked them all a good dinner, then said she was tired and gone off to her room.

Rufus didn’t tell Rory that he knew Megan had betrayed him all those years ago, summoning Don’s men the moment his back was turned. Only good luck and keen eyesight had saved his arse that day, and he couldn’t forgive the cow for it. But it hadn’t been Rory’s fault.

‘We split up. About a year after little Diarmuid was born.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Rufus, although he wasn’t. He thought Rory could do a lot better than that bitch.

‘Don’t be. It was all feckin’ arguments, a living hell. I was glad to be out of it.’

‘But you still see the child?’

‘Ah, sometimes.’ Rory’s mouth turned down. ‘Truth to tell, I don’t see either of them very much.’

‘I can’t say I took to her,’ admitted Rufus.

‘Ah, forget her. It’s good to see you again. I couldn’t believe it when you just cleared off without a word.’

Rufus shrugged, his eyes averted from Rory’s. If he hadn’t slipped away, Don’s boys would have nabbed him, and he’d be dead by now. Thanks, Megan, he thought. You cow .

‘I’d outstayed my welcome,’ he said.

‘Never,’ said Rory.

‘Megan didn’t want me there – and that was understandable, what with the child and everything.’

Rory couldn’t deny it. ‘So what have you been up to?’

‘Oh, travelling, stuff like that.’

‘Seeing the world.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Lucky bastard.’

Yeah, with Don on my tail every inch of the way . ‘You?’

‘Mechanic jobs, same as always. Boring, but it pays. Still doing a bit on the nags, too.’

‘Drink up. We’ll have another,’ said Rufus.

‘I don’t like him,’ said Orla as time wore on and Rory stayed.

‘What?’This had come out of left-field for Rufus. Everyone loved Rory. He was chatty and charming. Certainly Orla’s mum adored him, making no end of a fuss, and even Davey seemed to enjoy his company.