Catherine O’Flynn - Mr Lynch’s Holiday

‘Maybe it’s Laura, hahahahahaha. “Surprise, Eamonn! I am here all along.”’

Eamonn looked at Esteban until he stopped laughing and collected himself.

‘My God, Eamonn. I’m sorry. This was bad taste. I heard you had problems and I’m sorry for them, really. What were you saying?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘No, Eamonn. Don’t be that way. I’m sorry. Really.’

‘I was just wondering if you’d seen anything strange. You know someone stole Inga’s chickens?’

‘Yes. Yes. This I know. She tell me.’

‘Well, someone must have done that.’

‘Yes. I have theory about that.’

‘Which is?’

‘I think Inga did it.’

‘That’s an interesting theory.’

‘It sounds crazy, but some people … Women. Some women. They find killing animals difficult.’

‘Some men too.’

‘Maybe. I think she wanted to do it away from her house. Somewhere she could have a distance. You know’ — he tapped his head — ‘mentally.’

Eamonn stared at him for some time. ‘That makes no sense. Why would she do that? Where’s the other chicken?’

Esteban shrugged. ‘Best not ask.’

‘Christ, Esteban. Don’t ever become a detective.’

‘Look, you ask me if I see anyone. Anything suspicious. The answer is no. Are there any burglaries? No — OK, OK, this chicken — but that’s not theft. Any car robberies? No. Any red paint all over buildings? No.’

‘Right.’

‘Promise me one thing, Eamonn.’

‘What?’

‘Keep away from this part. It’s dangerous. A builder — he died at Lomaverde. These places are not for your exploring.’

Back in the flat Eamonn ate a sandwich and sat down in front of his computer. That morning, before setting off on a walk with Jean and David, Dermot had given him a little job-hunting pep talk.

‘You’ve never been out of work. You’re a bright lad. They’ll be queuing up to offer you jobs.’

Even he hadn’t looked terribly convinced by this, but Eamonn appreciated the effort. He spent a while staring at an empty Google search box before deciding to write a mail to Laura instead.

It had come as a surprise to him to learn that he was an optimist. He would have laid money against it. But hope, it seemed, clung on tenaciously, like the most insidious of weeds. He spent his waking hours hunting down its tendrils and subjecting them to ruthless dousings of cold facts, but still they returned — a fresh web of low-lying rhizomes each day.

She couldn’t maintain the silence for ever. At some point she would surface. At some point her mysterious and secretive ruminations would be concluded and a verdict delivered. Even if she made up her mind to leave him there were still a thousand loose ends to be tied up — bank accounts, insurance policies, book collections. And knowing that he would speak to her again meant he found it hard to believe in the permanence of their separation. There was another conversation still to come, another chance. He had tried to prepare himself for the worst. To really believe that he had lost her and that the rest of his life would be spent without her but, in his more rational moments, he would admit to himself that it didn’t feel entirely honest. He recognized the lure of pathos. After speaking to her every day for eight years, the idea that they would really part felt like a thought experiment. He found it hard to imagine that it wasn’t the same for her. They still loved each other, he was sure of that.

He opened a bottle of Fanta Limón and performed the familiar ritual of checking his various in-boxes and portals. He found no voice or text messages on his phone that had somehow escaped his notice. No new mails of any description in his Thunderbird account. Finally he signed into Facebook, though Laura had rarely used it when they were together and not at all since she had left. He looked only to see if any of her friends had posted messages, any clues about her whereabouts or state of mind. He was startled to see a new profile picture. Laura sitting outdoors somewhere. He felt a kind of obliterating grief creeping over him as he failed to recognize the setting, or the occasion. She had updated her status. ‘Lovely to catch up with everyone at the weekend. Good to be home.’

He lost track of time as he stared at the words, breathing faintly, something unravelling slowly somewhere deep in his chest. He jumped when he heard his father’s voice, apparently returned and standing beside him. Eamonn stood up too quickly, feeling light-headed and strange.

‘What? What is it? What happened?’

‘Nothing’s happened. I was just saying we should be on our way to this barbecue thing.’

Eamonn nodded. ‘Right. Yes. I’m ready.’

It wasn’t much of a party when they arrived late afternoon. A bunch of people standing around muttering and looking awkward. Dermot had the idea that no one really wanted to be there. The hostess, Becca, had a kind of wild look in her eyes, talking nineteen to the dozen, laughing so loudly it set everyone on edge.

‘Look!’ she shouted to the assembled guests. ‘Here he is, the man of the hour! I think you’ve all met Dermot — Eamonn’s dad. He’s come all the way from Ireland …’

‘Birmingham,’ Dermot said quietly.

‘… And I want us all to show him that we know how to have the craic!’

People smiled politely, evidently puzzled by this, and then Simon shouted: ‘Crack? Well, I didn’t know it was that kind of party!’

Raimund laughed and said, ‘Will you be handing out the pipes, Rebecca?’

‘Hahahaha — “pipes”!’ said Becca, then shook her head, laughing crazily and repeated just the word: ‘Pipes!’

Dermot smiled and said to Eamonn under his breath: ‘I’ve no idea what’s going on here at all’ — but Eamonn was heading away towards the drinks.

To Dermot’s relief Jean and David came over and rescued him. While he chatted with them about their walk earlier in the day, his eyes wandered to the group around him. An inevitable consequence of working on the buses was a certain knowledge of human behaviour. Ninety per cent of the time he’d guess a passenger’s destination before a word was spoken. As his bus approached a stop he’d already know who among the queue was the type to cause trouble, and who the type to stand and talk the ears off him for the next forty minutes. It wasn’t a talent he particularly wanted. Most of the time he wished to God somebody would do something to surprise him, say something different just for once, but that wasn’t the way it was. Most drivers were the same, reluctant possessors of a tired kind of sixth sense.

The affluent-looking French couple stood nearby, quite clearly discussing everyone else at the party. A few yards away, Roger was casting glances at the Frenchman and Dermot sensed some issue between them. Rosemary was keeping a close and furtive eye on what Gill drank and Becca was whispering furiously at Ian about something he had failed to do. Simon and Raimund were on the other side of the pool laughing with Cheryl. Dermot thought he’d detected a hint of Geordie in Simon’s voice the other day. It was an accent he liked. He associated it with a driver he’d worked alongside in the 70s called Joey who was prone to quoting poetry at abusive passengers. It made them no less abusive apparently but it gave Joey a tremendous sense of satisfaction and Dermot thought it a shame more people didn’t respond to provocation in a similarly inventive manner. He looked around for Eamonn and finally saw him leaning against the wall on the far side of the terrace, his face a mask, a full glass of wine in one hand, the rest of the bottle gripped tightly in the other.

As the afternoon wore on, others arrived and introduced themselves. He found it a little tiring, the faces and names hard to remember, the range of topics at times bewildering. The music was loud and people were shouting to be heard. Esteban had now joined the party and so had Inga. He saw her chatting to Rosemary by the pool. He caught her eye and raised a hand in salutation.