It's 1995. Belfast in summer is a good place to be. Not too warm,
not too cold. That sums up Northern Ireland in general, though. In the
summer, Belfast shines back up at the sun. The trees that line the
streets near the University are green and vast, the people that walk
beneath them are happy and bare-armed in the warmth (not heat- that
only happens rarely here). The atmosphere is one of hope and subtle
joy. The Troubles are placed in the back of the mind and the Northern
Irish get on with living.
The city is going through a lot of cosmetic changes. The river Lagan is
getting a facelift, sheathed in parks and long pleasant walks. New
buildings sprout along its length, part of some mysterious plot called
Laganside. And then there are the bridges. Long and ugly, yet exciting
in their scale, they will eventually be the longest bridges in
Ireland.
This all reads like bad tourist guide copy, but I need you to see why I
like this place. I moved here for a reason. Everyone has a city they
call their own. Belfast is mine. I was born here, after all.
This is a story. It's about a couple of friends of mine, and how they
met, fell in love and what happened then. Not necessarily in that
order, however. It's a love story, of sorts. It's about their love for
each other and my love for this place. The love differs, of course.
They loved each other in a warm, romantic way. The main difference is
that my love for Belfast didn't involve moist noises of any sort
(exceptions being when it rained and when I had a cold).
It's about time that I started the story.
There's this city. It's called Belfast. Three hundred thousand people
live there. It's small by European standards, but still large enough.
Our story is concerned with three of those people in particular. Two
men and a woman. They are linked, in some way. It'll become apparent.
Soon.
Just one thing. Although Belfast is technically a city, most who live
there call it a town. Just so you know.
Anyway, the first of the three is Michael. He's in his early twenties,
tall and dark haired. He is handsome in a slick way, but that's part of
his charm. Cute, according to a number of girls (whose names he could
get you, if you needed references). He works in a small office, typing
letters for a boss three years older. His boss doesn't really like
him.
The second of the three is Alice. She suits her name. She is beautiful,
with long yellow hair, fair skin and laughing green eyes. She really is
too good to be true. She's in her mid-twenties and works in a shop in
the center of town. She wears, at the minute, an emerald on a gold
chain that a very drunk man with a lot of money gave her in a nightclub
one evening. It matches her eyes.
She meets Michael after she meets Karl.
Karl ("with a kay, not a cee") is the third of the three. Like Michael,
he is in his early twenties. He has brown hair and brown eyes, and is
tallish, not thin at all and is very nearly handsome. He is almost
scruffy, but that's part of his charm. A couple of girls have fancied
him over the years, but they generally kept quiet about it, so he
doesn't know this. He works in an office, but a different one from
Michael. He works for the Industrial Development Board, an agency that
tempts companies to come to Northern Ireland and set up business there.
He deals with a lot of people, from all over the world. He doesn't like
most of them.
The three all belong to the generation of Northern Irish citizens who
have known nothing but Troubles. In a lot of fiction written about
Northern Ireland, there seems to be a need to mention the Troubles,
some sort of obligatory nod in its' direction. This annoys me, and I
don't intend to fall into that trap (wait a minute, haven't I just..?).
But, seriously, you can't grow up here and not be affected. Fiction
reflects fact, after all. The young, however, seem to be a little wiser
than the old in this country, a trend that is never mentioned. Apart
from the three we'll be reading about, this rule seems to ring
true.
First
She walked out the door, slamming it hard behind her. The harsh noise
made him flinch. He sat in the chair, dying to get up and follow her.
An arsenal of retorts began to build up in his thoughts, all better
than the 'piss off' he had weakly spat at her. Surely he could have
done better than that?
He listened for her car, and sighed deeply when he heard its' tires
spit gravel as she tore out of his driveway. He vaguely hoped that she
would chip her expensive paintwork, that a spiteful stone would do his
bidding. A cheap shot was better than no shot at all. Better than his
feeble insult.
He stood, and crossed the room to the window. Her BMW was just
disappearing around the street corner, and a few pedestrians watched it
speed away. He glared at them, irritated at their involvement in his
private argument.
Not that private, really. His neighbors must have heard the
shouting-
"For god's sake, Michael! I didn't know him!"
Alice had a beautiful voice. Except when she shouted.
"Aye, so he was a stranger, then! That makes it worse!"
He rarely shouted himself, but this had really annoyed him. His voice
had a power when he shouted. It tended to be a little squeaky,
though.
There had been no thumps from the flats above or below, so their melee
had not disturbed anyone else.
"Bitch," he commented to the spider-plant on the windowsill. The plant
agreed silently.
"Bastard. Bastard. Bastard. Bastard."
The steering wheel received a thump after each word. She had slowed
down a bit now, tracing a wandering path through South Belfast's
expensive estates.
She wiped the tears from her cheeks, and thumped the wheel again, angry
at being so annoyed by him. By him! By Michael, Captain Insensitive,
for god's sake! It was all his fault, of course. She was never in the
wrong. Alice, wrong? Alice is so reliable. She's so trustworthy. No,
sir, she's never wrong. Not Alice.
She stopped at the next garage, and got out. She slammed the door and
clicked the central locking. When she saw the chip of paint missing,
she tutted in disgust.
"Typical."
She sat on the bonnet of the car, watching other cars drive in and out
of the busy forecourt. She even sent a glare packing in the direction
of the curious staff.
Whose fault was it? That was the question racing through her mind.
Michael obviously thought it was her fault. She couldn't agree. It was
more than her pride could afford. Michael could get so jealous,
sometimes.
A car pulled into the garage, and stopped smoothly behind hers. The
door opened and a not quite thin, not quite handsome figure emerged. He
smiled warmly.
"Alice! Hi, how are you?"
She sighed, and shook her head.
"Karl. Now's not the time. I've just had a blazing row with
Michael."
Karl nodded sagely as he joined her on the bonnet of the BMW.
"Another one."
She flashed him a sheepish glance.
"Yeah, okay, another one."
Pause.
"It was his fault," they said as one. Karl anticipated her words quite
often. She giggled, her mood lifting.
"I'd better go back. He'll be stomping around, torturing his
spider-plant."
Karl nodded.
"Sure. Good idea. Chances are, it was your fault anyway," he said with
a grin. "You can be pretty hard to deal with, sometimes. But you're not
too bad."
Alice unlocked the car with a wave of her key ring.
"You're biased."
Karl made his way into the garage, stopping at the doorway to wave
goodbye to her.
"Yeah. I am."
Second
I'm remembering her. It's like remembering a dream, or an old movie.
You remember the best bits, the worst bits. It hurts more than other
memories. A lot more. I'm remembering her. I miss her.
For three years we were closer than close. I mean, we were so in love.
We were each other's heroes, we almost worshipped each other. Then, not
quite suddenly, it changed. She told me later that she lost respect for
me. I had been pissing about, wasting my time, and she didn't
understand. We grew apart and, eventually, we broke up. She was in
England when it happened. It took a great deal of bravery and another
man for her to make the break.
It wasn't like falling out with a friend (which can be bad enough) but
it was like dying. Someone who was once so much a part of your life was
now gone, forever. There was a space where she once was. I was
half-empty.
We were young at the time. Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, they
were all ages of naivety and shallowness.
It was the better part of a year before I could even talk to her again.
I don't know if I was over it by that point, but I was able to talk to
her again. She was unsure at first. Then she and I became friends
again. The time we had spent together became glue instead of
fire.
I'm remembering the her I loved, the her that I made love to, the her
that made love to me. That's the her that was once mine.
The her now is a different person. She has to be. Otherwise I'd crack
up.
Third
The bell rang four times before Michael got to it. Alice stood, smiling
sweetly.
"I'm really sorry. I'll get rid of it."
She held out the emerald necklace in her hand, offering it to Michael.
He stared at it, then her. Michael prepared the best line he had
thought up in the last half-hour. He opened his mouth.
"Piss off," he said. He grimaced, kicking himself mentally. The punch
was completely unexpected. She punched him reflexively. He didn't see
it coming.
He clutched his nose, blood pouring between his fingers. Her hand
covered her mouth, a silent cry stifled. They stared at each other in
shock.
"You hit me. I don't believe it."
It was obvious that she couldn't believe it either.
She moved forward, much slower this time, and helped him in.
"I'm so sorry! I'll get some tissues," she whispered, rushing him up
the stairs and into his kitchen.
He sat in a chair, head bent back, nose pinched. She handed him a bunch
of tissues.
"I'm so sorry."
He was silent. The situation was so surreal. The evening June sun
filled the kitchen with warm light that just made everything else look
cold and stark. She sat across from him, clutching the necklace
nervously. The sun was spinning her hair into gold, her fair skin warm
and brown in the light. He smiled at her.
"I love you."
She blushed, and smiled in relief.
"I love you, too. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
She placed the emerald necklace on the wooden table. They both gazed at
it, Michael tilting his head forward again. The bleeding had
stopped.
"It must be worth a fortune."
She nodded.
"About a thousand pounds."
He shook his head, rubbing his nose gently.
"Who the hell could afford to do that?"
She sighed.
"He looked foreign. I tried to tell him that I wasn't interested, and
that I had a boyfriend. He didn't understand, and his interpreter was
pissed."
Michael looked up at her in surprise.
"His what?"
"His interpreter. He looked like an official of some sort. In his
forties, round and European."
Michael shook his head in amazement. The necklace glittered on the
table, innocently beautiful.
"Why did you come back?"
Alice sighed.
"I bumped into Karl at the garage. He made me realize I should come
back."
Michael rubbed his nose again.
"Karl, huh?"
They had met a few times. Michael liked him okay, but he had reason to
be wary.
"You don't like him."
Alice sounded disappointed.
"He's okay. I suppose. Should I dislike him?"
"No. You only get jealous about strangers."
She grinned up at him. He smiled back. They kissed gently.
"We should give this back," she whispered.
He nodded.
"How?"
Fourth
Is this how all adventures begin?
Fifth
Alice and Michael sit in their car. Michael feels uncomfortable,
unhappy about their destination. Alice drives in silence, listening to
the radio. It's about an hour after the punch. They have made up, made
love, made coffee and, finally have made their way to Karl's
flat.
The radio plays eighties music. Billy Joel is singing 'Uptown Girl'. He
and Christie have just split up, eleven-ish years after the song. Alice
smiles sadly at the irony. Michael is still too wrapped up in his own
thoughts to pay much heed to the radio. It's just white noise to
him.
An endless high street. That's a good way to describe the Lisburn Road.
An underrated place to live. But then, I'm biased. Just as Alice said I
was.
The doorbell rang. Karl answered it. He was curious- he didn't get many
callers during the week. He was initially surprised to see Alice
standing there. He was then shocked to see that Michael stood uneasily
beside her. Michael flashed a polite smile of greeting. It came and
went like a slap across the face. Karl looked back at grinning
Alice.
"Hello, Karl. We've come to ask for help."
Karl stood back from the door. Alice and Michael entered, he following
her to the living room.
"You know your way around," he whispered evenly. She nodded.
"Yes, I do."
Michael seethed.
Karl followed them into the living room of the small terraced house. It
was cozy and warm. The television was on, sound muted. Three actors
from a successful soap argued and barged on the screen. Two men and a
woman. Michael smiled.
"So. Tea? Coffee?"
Karl fussed into the room, hands clapped together professionally.
Michael shook his head, and sat down in the seat that was clearly
Karl's, remote control on the armrest and a cup of tea on the floor
beside it. He glanced around the room, checking it out. There was a
Dali print on the wall, one he didn't recognize.
Alice sat on the sofa, and Karl sat beside her.
Michael watched them. They looked very natural together. Their body
language, awkward initially slipped back into an older way. They
fitted.
Michael knew that she had once been in a relationship with Karl. He
knew that they had been in love for a long time, and that they had lost
their virginity to each other.
He blushed. He thought himself above these sorts of feelings, this
jealousy. Virginity was for school-kids and christians. Not for real
people at all.
He was still jealous.
Sixth
There are many things about men and women that are complicated. They
all revolve, one way or the other, around jealousy and self-confidence.
I'll explain.
You get a guy who meets his girlfriend's last boyfriend. Maybe they're
friends. That's okay. They know each other well, and there is no real
problem. They can separate the jealousy and the friendship. You get
jealous of friends all the time.
Say they don't know each other. Who gets jealous?
The answer is simple. They both do. The ex-boyfriend wonders what the
new guy has that is so good. Doesn't matter why they broke up, the new
guy will be the subject of jealousy. It gets worse if the new guy is
making love to her.
The new guy will look at the old guy and will resent the time that he
had with the girl. The depth of feeling they shared that he can never
share, the knowledge of each other he has no part of. The ex-boyfriend
will know her in a way that the new one can never, ever know. It gets
worse if he was making love to her, even more so if he was the first.
It sounds really sexist, and I suppose it is, but a woman's' virginity
is like a prize for many men. That's why the woman 'loses' it.
Something lost is usually stolen. It's never given away.
The problem is, neither will be aware of the others pain. That can lead
to a lot of hassles. Especially when the girl is still friends with the
ex-boyfriend.
Here endeth the first lesson.
Seventh
Alice explains the situation to Karl. She smiles a lot, not realizing
she's flirting with him. Well, she isn't really. Old habits die hard,
and all that. They spent three years together.
Michael watches and listens, feeling jealous and a bit embarrassed.
He's fighting his own internal battle.
Karl watches Alice. Her hair is long and golden. Her lips very slightly
wet. Her eyes, green and familiar. He remembers sitting like this with
her, far away and long ago. He has to try very hard not to lean forward
and kiss her. Michael and the rest of the room melt away. There is only
Alice and Karl. Little fires dance in her eyes, daughters of the hearth
that warms the room.
He has to try very hard not to lean forward and kiss her. He has to try
very hard not to lean forward....
So does she.
Eighth
I'm still half-empty. I still haven't been able to fill her space. I
wonder if it needs another person, or alcohol or drugs. It's still her
shape. It's still Alice-shaped. Is there a Karl-shaped space in
her?
Has Michael filled it, leaving uncomfortable edges, spaces in corners,
overlapping some bits, missing others right out? Does she, in fact,
have any space at all in her? Did she ever?
I'm thinking too much. I'm feeling too much. Too much. Too much. Too
much altogether.
Ninth
"So. Some foreign bloke in his middle forties has given you a necklace.
You want to give it back to him. You don't know where he comes from, or
where he is now. You only have the necklace and the memories of the
nightclub last night. Great. Now. Why come to me?"
Karl paced around the room, looking distracted. Michael looked
up.
"Yeah, my feelings exactly."
Karl fixed him with a stare.
"I mean, what can you do? I don't know why we should bother you. It's
our problem."
Michael smiled sincerely up at Karl.
Alice shook her head.
"I told you, Michael. Karl works for the IDB. If this guy is a
businessman, then he'll be able to find out who's in town. And if he
doesn't, then he'll know who to ask."
Karl shrugged.
"Well, chances are, if he has an interpreter, he's not a business man.
Or a diplomat. They can all speak enough English to get by on. Hell,
they can speak better English than most people born here."
Michael nodded.
"That makes sense. So who would he be?"
Karl sat back beside Alice on the sofa.
"Someone who works for another government, yet who is not a diplomat.
Or someone who can afford, or deserve, an interpreter."
The three sat in silence for a while, musing over the evidence.
"Was he European?" asked Karl. Alice shrugged.
"I think so. He was dark, but not colored. Maybe Italian or
Spanish."
Michael frowned.
"Surely you would recognize Italian or Spanish if someone spoke
it."
She smiled weakly.
"Maybe. It was dark."
Karl and Michael exchanged amused looks. It was the first time they
shared something else than jealousy.
Tenth
Karl had tried to fill her space. He wasn't without merits, and a few
girls did find him interesting. Still, she haunted his memories. She
flitted around the halls of his mind like a spirit. Alice. Alice.
Alice.
The last time he saw her was on a dark cold Monday night. She had
kissed him, just once, on his cheek. Then with a smile and a wave, she
had hopped on the coach.
It all went downhill from there. A month later, she was telling him on
the phone how sorry she was, how she had tried to work it out. How his
name was David and how they were both suited for each other. How it had
'just happened', you know, the way it does.
Karl remembered those Monday nights, sitting on the stairs, cradling
the phone in his hands like it was as fragile thing. He remembered
nursing the relationship along, how he tried to convince her that David
was just a fling, how they would sort it out in the end. He remembered
the end, how when it came it was quick and efficient. A gunshot in a
pale blue envelope.
Monday nights had changed a fair bit since then. He had, mostly, put it
all behind him. Still, whenever those memories crept out from beneath
whatever psychoanalytic stone they hid under, he felt the twist of pain
again. It never went away, or faded. It just got smaller, quicker. It
came fast and went fast. It was a vicious little sod of a pain.
And, of course, they were friends again. Kind of. Sort of. When she
started going out with Michael, he managed to force a smile and a
pleasant word. It hurt like hell.
This particular night, he sat in a pub on the Dublin Road. He had been
to the cinema and needed a drink after the terse and turgid romance he
had been forced to watch. The girl he had sat beside in the cinema
chatted about her work, and Karl nodded in time with her pauses. His
glass of vodka sparkled attractively in the light and he examined it
carefully. She thought he was musing over what she was saying.
Her name was Ruth, and he had known her for a while now. She worked in
a shop near his flat, and about a week ago he asked her out. Big
mistake. She was certainly the most tedious person he had ever known.
Her conversation knew no temporal limits, though the subject matter
tended to revolve around her 'future-modeling career'. As this thought
struck him, he looked up at her, and examined her face. She was
good-looking. She had a great body (especially with a dress, and not
that ridiculous smock she wore at work). He just couldn't summon up any
feelings for her.
Except a great deal of impatience.
She had stopped talking now, and was smiling at him, a twinkle in her
eyes. Her brown eyes.
"What?" he asked, worried he had missed something. She grinned
then.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" she asked. The twinkle and the
grin seemed to indicate that she didn't mind. Karl sighed, and a smile
appeared on his lips. What the hell.
"I like looking at you," he said simply, and sipped his drink. He
thought the timing was perfect.
Ruth turned her head this way and that, displaying herself
"What is it you like about me?"
"Pretty much everything," he said. He reckoned that if he spent the
rest of the evening flattering her, she might be persuaded to come back
with him. It would be fun, if nothing else.
"Aw. Thanks."
She blushed. He smiled.
They drank for a while longer, then left. Karl offered to walk her
home. She lived ten minutes from his place, and they would pass the
flat on the way. He planned his move for then.
As they walked, they talked. Or rather, again, Karl listened, waiting
for his moment. It came a few minutes later.
"Listen, we'll be passing my flat in a minute. Do you fancy a cup of
coffee?"
It was the oldest line in the book. It was a clich?. Therefore, no one
took it seriously. Therefore, it worked.
"Mmm. Yeah. Okay."
She sounded unsure. He coaxed her with a smile.
"Ah, come on. Just a cup of coffee."
She nodded, and a smile reappeared.
They walked upstairs, and he opened the door into his flat. She took a
chair. She looked uncomfortable, really.
"Tea or coffee?" he asked, getting cups ready.
"Coffee. Milk, No sugar." she recited it off mechanically, looking
around the room.
He made the coffee, and brought it over to her. She smiled gratefully
up at him as she took the cup, and she sipped at it carefully. He took
a seat opposite her, planning his next move. His coffee was too hot, so
he put it beside him on the floor
"You didn't enjoy yourself this evening."
It wasn't a question. She stated it. Karl was surprised. His train of
thought derailed violently.
"Um. Well, no. Not really."
His true answer was out before he could think about it. She smiled
apologetically.
"Sorry. I noticed earlier. You fidgeted like mad in the cinema. I know
how you feel. It was all a bit... awkward."
Ruth took another sip of her coffee. Karl sat in silence, trying to
catch up.
Ruth placed her cup on the floor.
"It's my fault."
Karl smiled weakly.
"No, it isn't," he murmured from behind the grin.
"It is, really," sighed Ruth. "You see, I thought tonight would be a
good idea. Memories. I hate Monday nights."
He looked at her with a start. She was far away with her thoughts,
almost ignoring him.
"I used to see this guy," she began. Karl knew what was coming. He
thought he should try to stop her, stop the private thoughts coming
out. He couldn't work out how to.
"I used to see him on Monday nights. After the first day back at work,
it was a nice change. We would go to the cinema, then the pub, and then
go back to his place for the night."
Karl was horrified. He didn't want to know this about Ruth. He knew the
man she was talking about. He had never liked him.
"We broke up. Turns out he was seeing someone else. That really hurt. I
trusted him, and he hurt me."
Karl nodded, not helping himself. He had to listen, now. He felt a heat
breaking out on his face, his neck.
"I thought, when you asked me out, that I could forget him. Maybe even
have a bit of fun with you. I'm sorry. You deserve more than that", she
said, glancing up at him.
"It wouldn't have been right to use you like that."
Karl shrugged weakly.
"That's okay," he said. It was a stupid thing to say, but his mind was
reeling. He felt ashamed.
Ruth got up to leave
"I'm sorry. This was obviously a very bad idea."
Karl nodded. He didn't try to stop her. She took his reaction for hurt.
She was right, but for the wrong reasons.
She walked towards the door.
"I'm sorry."
She closed the door behind her. Karl listened to her footsteps fade
down the stairs. He stared at the door for a while, wondering where he
had gone wrong. He wondered how badly people could get hurt sometimes.
He sipped his coffee. It was cold.
"Monday nights. Bad, bad, bad."
He threw the coffee down the sink.
Eleventh
Michael stood by the car as Alice and Karl walked across the busy
street. He tried not to glare at them as they did so, forcing a smile
just in case they looked round.
Karl glanced back.
"Alice?"
"Mmm?"
"Is something wrong with Michael?"
"No. Why?"
Karl shrugged.
"It's nothing. He just looked as if he was in pain."
Alice looked uncomfortable for a moment.
"I think he, er, hurt his nose earlier today."
As they approached the main doors to the tall building within which
Karl worked, he paused.
"Did you get things sorted out?" he asked.
"Yes. We did. Thanks," Alice smiled gratefully, and gently touched his
arm.
He wondered, briefly, if she would be able to feel his heart
breaking.
They walked down the long corridor towards his office. The friendly
security guard was used to Karl popping in late, and let them in
without a word. Alice shivered. The feeling was gone as quickly as it
came.
"I don't like this place. It's very clinical."
Karl nodded in agreement.
"Yeah. I know. Here. This is my office."
It even had his name on the door.
He opened the door. Alice smiled at the sight revealed. Karl's office
was full of plants and posters. It was little more than a broom closet,
with a desk, a filing cabinet and a computer.
Her gaze caught the photograph an instant before his did.
"Oh...shit," Karl stammered, fumbling for the frame. It clattered to
the floor. He silently lifted it up, and, after a moment of indecision,
placed it back where it was. He looked sheepishly up. Alice shook her
head sadly. She smiled.
"Oh, Karl."
It was just a photograph she gave me a few months before we broke up.
The sun is spinning gold from her hair, and has a rival in her smile.
Her gaze is full of love for me, and I remember taking the picture. It
was the last time we were happy. Together, anyway.
Twelfth
Alice feels awkward. She wants to reach out and touch this man whom she
loved so very long ago. He sits at the computer, pulling up files and
quickly scanning them. His hair is slightly ruffled, unlike Michael.
She wants to pat it down. She used to love Karl's rough edges. He was
so gentle and careful, untidy and scruffy.
When did it stop being endearing and start being annoying? She has
asked herself this before. Then she remembers the arguments, the way he
used to make her feel bad when she criticized him. The emotional
blackmail when she wanted to go to college in England. The pathetic
Karl.
The old anger threatens to rise again, but Alice beats it down. That
was all a long time ago. Karl is different now.
She wants to touch his hair, pat it down. She can't. Because if Karl
does still love her, it'll kill him.
And if she still loves him, it'll kill her too.
Thirteenth
Karl and Alice walked back towards the car. Michael eyes them with
suspicion.
"We've found him. He's a Bosnian businessman. It says here that he's
over to buy equipment for his company."
Michael sighed.
"What do they do?"
"The repair bomb-damaged buildings. Builders, surveyors, you
know."
There was a moment of silence as the facts were considered.
"If we want to give him the necklace back, we better find him," said
Michael, peering out the window. He fixed his hair in the side
mirror.
"According to this," Karl tapped the printout he held, " he's staying
in the Europa Hotel."
Alice started the car, and drove off into the city.
Fourteenth
Evening in Belfast, in the summer. The sky was darkening as night was
announced, a deep blush of red on the edge of the hills. Somewhere,
faraway, Crockett's Theme from Miami Vice was playing. The mood was
set. The finale beckons.
Fifteenth
The three-some enter the foyer of the hotel. It is in the middle of
refurbishment, so it looks a mess. Charming signs apologize.
The three people exchange heated whispers. There seems to be a decision
to be made.
"Okay, okay. I'll do it."
The not-quite-thin, not-quite-handsome one walks forward. A charming
smile flashes into place. He exchanges words with the man at
reception.
After a moment, he returns to his companions.
The three walk towards the lifts.
"He's on the fifth floor."
True Things
Her name was Catherine. We attended the same Grammar School (in
Belfast, of course). She was bright, cheerful, funny, blonde and
painfully lovely. I fell for her.
I can't help falling into clich?, but she was the center of my life.
All things began and ended with her. The toil and grind of secondary
education was made worthwhile by the promise of her smile and laugh at
lunchtime. I was profoundly impressed by her presence.
This all sounds a bit like infatuation. It might have been, but she has
colored my life in a way few others have. Every girl, every woman I
have ever met since then have been compared to Catherine. How much
their hair is like hers, how much their voice sounds like hers, how
gray their eyes are...
It's pathetic in a very special way.
If I met her today, I do not believe that even she would be up to that
standard.
As I get older, I also begin to realize the mystical aspect of
relationships. That there is something beyond words, beyond poetry or
song to describe the link between man and woman. Love is just an aspect
of this nameless bond, but it hardly suffices as description. I also
realize that the more I discover, the less I understand.
Life is full of these places. The points where now touches then. It
happens to me when I'm under stress. I retreat into my past for
protection, to keep myself sane for an hour or two. This, as you have
possibly guessed, is one of those moments.
Why, or rather how, was a thirteen-year-old girl responsible for this
pain and space within? The Nabakovian overtones are strong, but
inaccurate. I was also thirteen- the older man by a matter of days.
Nothing ever passed between us. We laughed together, spoke softly to
each other, the usual things that happen between thirteen-year-old
friends. I still remember moments that passed between us, ten years
later. The way she looked at me that time on the bus, her gray eyes
laughing as she smiled, her lips kiss-able. My whole world was in her
eyes, her smile, her mouth.
My Fall was not a gentle one. It was a Fall from innocence, into the
Love of Woman. It was exclusion, forever, of anything I could love
more. A loss of my self-control as Love and Desire showed me who was
really in command of my senses.
It was not an unpleasurable fall, as falls go.
It really began with a dream. I saw myself with Catherine. We lay in
bed, together. Just holding each other. Nothing else. There was no
sexual overtone, no tension. Just the simplicity of closeness, the
scent of her hair. The dream overwhelmed my young heart. That dream
colored my perceptions for many years.
I actually met her one more time. It was four or five years later. We
spent the day together, talking about old times. We both missed each
other, and the old school. Then I told her that I used to 'be quite
fond' of her. She nodded knowingly. I asked her if she would have gone
out with me if I had of asked her back then. She smiled
apologetically.
"Probably not," she said, ripping up my heart and blowing the confetti
back into my face with those two words. We spent the rest of the day
laughing about it, but I still wondered how important our time together
had been.
It ended with a dream, a few years after that again. She and I sat on
the school bus, the one we shared home for all that time. Everyone else
was there, just as time had left them. Catherine seemed older- in fact
we both were. We wore ordinary clothes, compared to the blazers and
ties of the children around us. She turned to me and smiled. Then she
spoke. I can't remember the exact words, but it was kind of as
follows-
"Just as I am part of you, part of who you are, so you are part of me,
who I am. You always will be."
I woke up crying.
The space that Alice left is just part of an older, bigger space- the
one which Catherine left behind. It's dusty and familiar. It can never
be filled, not even by Catherine, and I'll tell you why.
It's just too awkward a space, too unique, too weathered by time and
distance. It's too unrealistic to be filled. So I make do with the
likes of Alice, girls who look like Catherine, or sound like Catherine,
or smile like Catherine. They take up some of the space, and I fill the
rest in with memories and imagination. It doesn't really suffice, but
it will have to do. Forever, it seems.
There's been one other girl that filled my heart with a song. I won't
tell you her name, because it's not really relevant. She was a little
like Catherine, but not as pretty. It was her strength that played the
melody, her mind and the steel-trap that it was. The way we stared at
each other, with shit eating grins on our faces as we shared unspoken
words. Nothing ever became of us, relationship wise. She was a passing
ship, if you like. We left each other with no harm done, and a
pocketful of maybes for our trouble.
I afraid that I've lost the song forever. All the girls since Alice
have plucked vaguely at my heartstrings, but no melody has been
evident. I need to find it. The space inside me echoes with the fading
memories of the song.
Sixteenth
A quick, painful memory. My first kiss with Alice. Let's watch it
together.
She held the mistletoe before her, just above her forehead.
"Now," she smiled, "you wouldn't break a tradition, would you?"
Her eyes sparkled with laughter that her grin could barely suppress. He
gazed at her, into her. He had wanted to kiss those lips for some time
now.
He moved closer to her. She caught his gaze, held it. Her smile
disappeared, replaced by a look of determined passion. He closed his
eyes at this point. There was an infinite moment of suspension, a
forever pause before the soft pressure of her mouth upon his. Her hand
exquisitely touched the back of his neck.
Her kiss was gentle. Her lips warm and kind. The moment was so much
more than he had hoped for.
It was more than just the kiss. It was as much to do with the months of
anticipation, the games they had played as it was about the immediate
moment.
He placed one hand on the small of her back even as she pulled his head
closer. It was, he thought, the best kiss he had ever participated
in.
Seventeenth
The lift glides smoothly to a halt. They barely felt it move. The doors
open, and they disembark. It takes them a few moments to find the room.
Once there, they pause. Karl speaks first.
"Maybe he'll call security. I mean, there are three of us."
Michael nods.
"Yeah. Okay. Just Alice, then."
She sighs, nods in agreement. She takes the necklace from her purse,
and knocks the door. It swings open, darkness within. There is the
sound of music playing, quietly in the room. She wanders in, finds a
man asleep in his bed. She recognizes him as the man who gave her the
necklace.
Quietly, carefully, she places the necklace on the bedside table. Then
she leaves.
Eighteenth
It was some days later when the police finally arrived at my door. They
took me away, and I found myself at Castlereagh Police Station with
Michael and Alice. It was early one Sunday morning.
Michael looked up as I walked into the cell. The door was shut behind
me. The officer who had walked me down smiled apologetically through
the panel.
"Sorry about this. We don't have anywhere else to keep you. The
reception area's packed with reporters. The C.I. is going to make a
statement."
He slid the panel shut. Michael and I exchanged confused looks. The
panel opened again.
"By the way, the door's not locked. There's a coffee machine up the
hall. Help yourselves."
There was an awkward silence before Michael spoke.
"Good service, really."
I nodded, smiled. Michael looked really shitty. He must have taken this
badly.
"Why are we here?" I asked. Michael shrugged.
"I dunno. We were in bed when they came. I'm still half-asleep."
The pain was sudden, surprisingly sharp. I tensed, and Michael must
have sensed it.
"Oh, shit. Sorry."
I glanced sharply at him. There was no sign in his expression to show
he didn't mean those words. I relaxed.
I thought about the pain. It came quickly, and went twice as fast. But
it had felt like a punch in the stomach.
"I still love her," I said. Michael looked up. He didn't seem
surprised.
"Yeah. I know."
Alice must have told him about the photograph.
"Don't worry about it. If you didn't love her, I'd be worried."
I didn't expect sensitivity from Michael. He had never seemed the type.
Mind you, I suppose I'd never really talked to him. I never really
wanted to. I was happier with my image of him, as the thief, as the
rival.
It never occurred to me that he was me. At least, me a few years ago
when I was with Alice. He does the same things with her as I did. I'm
jealous, sure. But I can't hate him. It's easier than liking him.
"Where is she?" I asked. He sat back against the wall.
"Separate cell. Women's cell."
"Is it different?"
Michael shrugged.
"Probably has a mirror."
We sniggered.
"Fancy some coffee?" asked Michael. I smiled.
"You bet."
He walked up to the door, opened it, and vanished.
About an hour later, two plain-clothed detectives came in and took us
away.
We were questioned separately.
"How did you know the deceased" was the first question that they asked.
There were several hundred more.
After five hours, we were released without charge, but under obligation
to appear before an investigative body to give evidence. It appears
that Alice, unknowingly, found the Bosnian businessman dead in bed,
after taking a massive overdose. He had committed suicide a day after
giving Alice the necklace.
She took some time to recover from that. We all did. The investigation
cleared us, of course, and we were officially thanked for appearing and
giving statements.
Alice blamed herself, in someway, although we were all thrown for six.
We would never know why he took his life. Perhaps the necklace meant
something to him, maybe Alice reminded him of someone he would never
see again. He didn't leave a note. He must really have wanted to
die.
Since then, we've all been much closer. I would term Michael as a
friend, and we share anecdotes about Alice, but he's careful not to say
anything that might hurt.
To be honest, I'm not sure it would, now. My view of him has changed,
just as my view of Alice has. We talked about it. It was a few weeks
after the adventure.
"Michael's okay. He's a bit vain, and a bit flash, but fine."
Alice grinned.
"He says that you're too stuffy and laid-back, but fine."
I returned her smile.
"I thought I still loved you. I thought there was a space inside where
you once were."
She nodded, considering my words.
"Maybe. But who made the space? I didn't take anything with me when we
broke up. I'm happy to be part of who you are, just as you're part of
me. I'll always want that."
Her words were familiar- the message Catherine tried to tell me in my
dream. I realized then that I wasn't half-empty at all. I had taken
everything that Alice meant to me and hidden it in some dusty shelf. It
was easier to blame her, easier to ignore the pain. It was easier to
feel nothing at all.
I'm very good at lying to myself. Alice was Alice, Catherine was
Catherine, and they never occupied the same space. Comparing them to
each other was a mistake. The Dream of Catherine was right. She is
still a part of me. Which, I don't know, but she lingers in my heart
and soul like a scent. There is no space. There is no part of me she
isn't in. Alice is the same. They mix and mingle in me to produce part
of my soul, part of me.
Catherine is far away, now, being a Doctor or something. Alice is here.
She is part of me. And I am part of her, though her life with Michael
moves on, getting better every day.
That's the end of the story. I started out telling you it would be a
love story. Guy loses girl, girl meets guy, guy hates guy, guy accepts
guy. Girl and first guy stay friends.
A happy ending, if we don't count the suicide.
The fact remains that we learn, eventually, how we lie to ourselves,
and we also learn that people never leave us. It took a dream to make
me realize that.
