The Woman at 72 Derry Lane. Carmel Harrington
didn’t want the neighbours to see her; a silent witness, rubbernecking their lives.
One of the Gardaí spoke first of all. He sounded like Daniel O’Donnell, with a lovely soft Donegal accent. ‘Good evening, sir, we received a call that there was a disturbance coming from your house. May we come in?’
She couldn’t hear the response. ‘He’ll be feeding you a line of bullshit,’ she whispered to his unhearing ears. ‘Arrest the dickhead, wee Daniel, there’s only one place fit for the likes of him.’
‘Even so, we’d still like to come in, see for ourselves, that everything is in order,’ the guard replied, firmly. Good man, Daniel. You might have a lovely soft voice, but you are no fool. There was no nonsense with this one. She appreciated that. Then they all disappeared from her sight and it went quiet once more. They must have gone inside. The soft click of the door closing confirmed that. She pointed to her head and said, ‘Up there for dancing, Siri, up there.’
‘Let me check on that. Okay, I found this on the web, options for dinner and dancing,’ Siri replied in an instant.
She was puzzled for a moment. Then she realised that Siri, of course, wasn’t privy to the inside joke she and her husband George had shared for decades.
When was it they’d turned the popular phrase, up there for thinking, down there for dancing, around for the first time? Before the kids, anyhow. Whenever one of them would get something right, they’d point to their heads and say, ‘up there for dancing’ and the other would finish it off and say ‘down there for thinking’. Comedy gold. Well, it always made them laugh leastways.
Oh George, why aren’t you here with me? He’d be snorting with laughter in appreciation right now. He always had done. Now she had nobody to make laugh. Things could be worse, she surmised. She, at least, had an iPhone robot. Albeit with questionable humour.
She looked down at her phone at the lists of websites with details of dinner and dancing events on the screen. Rea smiled to herself at Siri’s literal take on her words.
‘You’re funny, Siri.’
‘Yes, sometimes I do feel funny.’
‘There’s tablets for that.’
‘I’m not sure I understand.’
‘You know what? I’m not sure I do either.’ Rea said, suddenly feeling stupid for having a conversation about a forgotten inside joke with a bloody phone. She swiftly turned Siri off.
It had been years since she’d gone out to dinner and even longer since she danced. There was a time when she could jive and twist with the best of them. And many a time George told her that she was as light as a feather on her feet. Those days were over.
She felt anger burn her stomach. You, young lady, whoever you are next door, if Dickhead hasn’t done you in, this is the time to be brave. Tell the Gardaí that your husband hits you, that you are scared. Let them help you. Don’t let that bastard get away with it one more time. You still have time to have fancy dinners and dance. Get out. Please …
Twenty minutes passed and when Rea didn’t hear sounds of ambulance sirens belting on their way towards Derry Lane, she hoped that meant that the woman was walking and talking.
Alive. Be alive.
At last, she heard noises from the street below and she jumped up to peep outside.
‘If you change your mind, Mrs Greene, you just call us. And, Mr Greene, we’d rather not have the need to call by here again. Your wife has been ‘clumsy’ far too much for our liking. You’ve been warned.’
Mr and Mrs Greene. So that’s what they are called. You know what? Dickhead suits you far better.
As she heard the guard drive away from the house, Rea had a terrible sense of foreboding about it all. A nagging feeling that the only way her neighbour would stop was when he’d killed that young woman.
And there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.
REA
The drama from next door was over, for tonight at least. Rea could lie in bed for hours, letting her mind go to places that it hated. Or she could go back downstairs and watch some mindless TV. Besides which, her stomach grumbled, reminding her that she was ravenous. Always the same for her, whenever she was stressed she ate.
‘Siri, please dial Harry’s Pizza.’
She ordered a large barbecue chicken, thin crust, with extra pineapple on top.
‘Your usual, so.’ Harry said.
‘I’m at least consistent,’ she replied and they laughed together.
She promised herself that she’d just eat a couple of slices. She could save the rest for tomorrow’s lunch. Rea had great skills at telling big fat whopping lies to herself.
She munched on a bag of crisps while she waited. They were smoky bacon, her least-favourite from the Tayto family, but the only ones left in her treat cupboard. She was puzzled by that fact. Because there was a bumper pack of twenty bags only last week. Louis Flynn, you little fecker.
She was halfway through another episode of Suits when the doorbell rang. ‘At last,’ she sang out loud in her best Etta voice. Rea grabbed thirty euros from her purse to pay the delivery guy. She hoped it was Dave or Bill; they were the nicest of the regular drivers. They’d have a few words to share with her. Anyone but the earring guy. He was a new addition to the team and not one bit of an asset, in her opinion. Rude and downright unfriendly. Not that the others were particularly friendly, but they, at least, made an effort to pass the time of day when they stuffed their tip into their arse pockets. Manners cost nothing.
Elise and Luca. They were good kids. Her kids. Well-mannered. She and George had insisted on it.
Rea checked through the peephole and a gold circular monstrosity that had no business on anyone’s ear, let alone a middle-aged man’s, mocked her.
Do as you want done, she thought, so she plastered on a smile. ‘Hi, how are you?’ Rea was determined to make a connection with the man. Maybe he’d had a bad day the last time he scowled his way through her delivery. Besides which, aside from the call to 112 and an unsatisfactory row with Louis Flynn earlier in the day, she’d not spoken to a single soul for days. Unless you counted Siri. She longed for a bit of human contact.
Earring man of course couldn’t care less that she was desperate for company. He gave her nothing in response to her cheery hello, save for a disinterested shoving of a large, hot pizza box into her hands. Charming little bastard. What was it with people these days?
‘That’s great, thanks for that. Here, you can keep the change.’ Rea smiled again. Although this time it was through gritted teeth.
Earring man grabbed the notes and turned on his heels, without so much as saying thank you or kiss my skinny flat arse.
‘You’re welcome!’ Rea’s sarcasm fell on unhearing ears to his already retreating back. Was she that invisible to him?
But then she heard him mutter ‘fat cow’ under his breath.
Did he just say that? The little shit, he bloody well did! He was happy enough to take Rea’s tip, fat cow or not. It was too much, insulting her less than five seconds after he took her money. What was wrong with him? Between Dickhead next door and now this gobshite, Rea saw red. Before she had the chance to think about it, she yelled down the path after him, ‘I see your bad manners, asshole, and I raise you a great big FUCK YOU!’
The feeling of satisfaction was immense when he stopped and turned around to face her, his mouth all agog, taking in her single middle finger raised in that age-old gesture of defiance. Rea slammed the door behind her,