9
“No Goodbyes”
I love you now as I loved you then
but it’s time to save our prayers,
it’s time to say amen.
Jack L, Metropolis Blue
May 2008
Breda went to Mass every day and had done so for well over thirty years. Every morning she would wake at seven; she’d wash, dress, and drink a cup of tea; and then she would put on her hat and coat and walk a mile down the road to her local church in time for the eight o’clock service. Over the years she had noticed the church becoming emptier and emptier. The young people had all but disappeared and all that was left were a handful of old men and women, most of whom were waiting patiently for the Lord to call them home.
Breda was early, so she knelt and put her hands together and looked up at the statue of Jesus hanging on the cross. She said an Our Father and then some Hail Marys and a Glory Be after that. The church was empty. Her knees were hurting her and she felt tired and cold. She leaned on the pew and pulled herself into a sitting position, then joined her hands again and waited for the priest and the few last souls seeking solace or saving to join her.
“Dear God,” she said, “I look at Your son on the cross, I see the nails in His hands and feet, the thorns on His head, the blood in His eyes, the wound in His side, and I’d trade places with Him in an instant if You would just give me my Alexandra back. This burden is too great and I can’t carry on much longer. I’m begging You as your servant, have pity on me. Show her the way home. I’m leaving now.” She got up and bowed before the altar. “I won’t be back tomorrow or the next day or the day after that. The day she comes home, that’s when You’ll see me here again.” She walked out of the church, and although bargaining with or indeed threatening the Lord was slightly unnerving, Breda felt that He had left her with no choice.
Kurt woke up to Jane, Rose, Elle, and Irene singing “Happy Birthday” at the end of his bed. He grinned because his grandmother was wearing a party hat with 18 written on it, and Elle was draped in a banner that read 18, LEGAL, AND PISSED ALREADY. Irene was bouncing up and down and blowing on a horn. His mum was standing in between them holding a cake with candles blazing and, of course, she was fighting tears. She always cried at every birthday and every milestone, so it was only a matter of time. He smiled, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and sat up.
Jane made her way around the bed. “Blow,” she said.
Kurt blew out the candles in one go. Elle, Rose, and Irene clapped.
Jane leaned in and kissed his cheek. “Eighteen,” she said, and she burst into tears.
A big breakfast of steak and chips awaited him when he was showered and dressed. He sat wearing his birthday hat, munching on his favorite food while his mother, aunt, gran, and girlfriend fussed around him. Jane made Rose and Elle some toast while they sat at the table with the birthday boy.
Rose was the first to slide a present across the table. He looked at the envelope and grinned.
“So far I like it,” he said, and he opened it. Eighteen one-hundred-euro notes fell out. “This is too much.”
She tapped his hand. “It’s enough to take you and Irene on a sun holiday after your exams.”
“No way,” he said.
“Oh my God!” said Irene.
“Apparently it’s a rite of passage,” Rose said.
“Mum?” he said, waiting for her to veto the trip.
“I’ve heard that Greece is pretty special,” she said.
“No way!” he said.
“Oh my God!” Irene said again.
He leaped up from his seat and dragged his grandmother off her chair and hugged her, and she held him tight for a few moments before letting go.
“You’re such a good boy,” she said.
Irene jumped up and down on the spot, saying, “Thank you, thank you!” over and over again.
Elle was next. She walked into the hall and came back in with a large box wrapped in red paper. Kurt tore at the wrapping. He opened the box and lifted out a helmet.
“A helmet?” he said, and Elle grinned and turned to Jane, who sighed and pointed to the garden.
Kurt stood up and looked out the window and saw his dad straddling a motorbike. Dominic grinned and waved. Kurt looked at his mother. “No way!” he said, shaking his head.
“Please, I’m begging you to be careful!” Jane said.
“No way!” Kurt shouted, and the back door was open and he was standing beside his dad in two seconds flat.
Dominic handed him the keys and they hugged, and Dominic pointed to his mother and told him that the bike was from both of them, and Kurt ran back in the back door and hugged Jane. She burst into tears again, but this time it wasn’t a result of oversentimentality but instead disbelief that Dominic had managed to talk her into buying her baby boy a death trap. Elle handed him the helmet. He hugged her and ran back out to his dad. Together they examined every inch of the bike.
“A Suzuki Bandit 600!” Kurt said. “Holy crap, a Suzuki Bandit 600!”
Jane closed the door and left them to it. Rose kissed her on the cheek.
“What was that for?” Jane asked, a little taken aback.
“Bravery. You’re learning to let go, and that’s good.”
Jane sat down at the table. “Yeah, I suppose it is. Of course if he kills or maims himself I’ll hate myself forever.”
“You won’t be alone,” Rose said, and she made her way back to her basement apartment.
Elle and Jane went outside and sat on the steps and watched Kurt take off down the road as Dominic waved him off. Dominic turned and smiled at Jane. She returned his smile before getting up and going inside. Elle walked to where Dominic stood watching his son disappear down the road.
“What did you do to Jane?” she asked him.
“I married someone else,” he said.
“She’s finished loving you.”
“She is.”
“It had to happen sometime.”
“Yes, it did,” he said. “It’s truly amazing she loved me at all.”
“Yeah, well, the Moore women aren’t the brightest when it comes to love,” Elle said, and she walked to the gate that took her through the garden and to her little cottage.
Dominic found Jane loading the washing machine.
“Big day,” he said.
“It is.”
“Our son is a man.”
“And still just a boy.”
He sat at the table and turned his chair to face her. “Is that why you forgave me so easily? Because you knew I was still just a boy?”
“I forgave you because if someone had given me a way out, I would have taken it,” she said.
“You’re the best person I know,” he said.
“Please don’t try and sweet-talk me, because it’s not fair,” she said, sitting down on the floor.
“I’m not and I know. I know. I’ve been really selfish.”
“I let you think I was fine with being friends.”
“But I knew better,” he said. “And I feel like a prick.”
“Well, feeling like a prick isn’t exactly unfamiliar territory for you.”
“No. It isn’t. What are we going to do, Janey?”
“Well, we’re going to be parents to a pretty cool kid, you’re going to work on your marriage, and I’m going to get a life.”
“You’re the best person I know,” he said again. “You’re kind and selfless and cool and funny and sometimes weird and dangerous and I really, really wish I loved you the way you loved me.”
“I know you do,” she said.
“And I will never cross the line again.”
“No, you won’t.”
“But I don’t want to lose your friendship.”
“Okay,” she said. “Let’s just take it one day at a time.”
He left soon after, and Jane closed her eyes and felt the pain pulse through her. It’s over.
Because Kurt’s eighteenth birthday fell only a few weeks before his Leaving Certificate exams, he agreed that he’d defer his party until afterward, and so when he returned from his bike ride, he grabbed his books, told his mum that he loved her, and went to school.
Elle went back to bed for a few hours and then met Leslie in the underwear department in Arnotts. She had promised to help her pick out sexy underwear for a date with the Ball-less Wonder, which was what Elle had christened Mark.
“What are we looking for?” Elle said.
“Something sexy.”
“Well, obviously something sexy. You don’t want to look like his mother—he has enough problems getting a stiffy as it is.”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I need to hear, thanks so much.”
“All right, how about racy red?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not a racy-red person.”
“Well, what are you?” Elle asked.
“I’m a sports bra and shorts person.”
“Well, that’s just not sexy, Leslie.”
“Which is why I’ve brought you.”
“Fine, then, you have to listen to me and do what I say or I’m going home.”
“Fine,” Leslie said, “but if you make me look like a hooker I’m leaving.”
Having argued, debated, reflected, and conceded, Leslie finally purchased a black lace set. The bra was padded and lifted her in all the right places, and the pants were shorts as opposed to the G-string Elle had initially suggested.
She bought Elle lunch to celebrate.
Elle was surprised that Leslie was rushing into a relationship with a man who was recovering from cancer and so was interested to hear her reasoning. Leslie admitted that she was worried she was making a big mistake, but she felt a level of comfort with Mark that she hadn’t felt with another man in a very long time.
“What about Jim?” Elle asked.
“Jim is my sister’s husband.”
“Was her husband. Your sister died a long time ago.”
“And?”
“And he’s a very nice man and he cares about you. He’s a little on the short side, but you must admit those dimples are to die for.”
“You’re sick,” Leslie said.
“I am not.”
“He’s my—”
Elle put her finger against Leslie’s lips. “He’s your friend, that’s all.”
Leslie saw it differently, and when Elle saw that she was becoming increasingly uncomfortable she returned to the subject of Mark.
“Why the rush?” Elle asked.
“I’ve known him three weeks.”
“Exactly.”
“You sleep with people you’ve met in restrooms, for God’s sake!”
“Don’t make me sorry for sharing my adventures with you. Besides, we’re not talking about me, we’re talking about you, a woman who hasn’t had sex with anything that wasn’t battery operated for eighteen years.”
“So?” Leslie said.
“So, I’m curious as to what the rush is.”
“I’m having surgery on the first of July.”
“What kind of surgery?”
“A prophylactic bilateral mastectomy and laparoscopic hysterectomy.”
“A what and what?”
Leslie explained the procedures to an open-mouthed Elle.
“How long have you known about this?” Elle asked.
“Pretty much since we met.”
“Why are you only mentioning it now?”
“It didn’t come up.”
“That’s the kind of thing you bring up.”
“Well, I’m sorry,” Leslie said. “This friendship thing is still new to me.”
“You’re forgiven. But only because you’re having your tits lopped off.”
“Charming!” Leslie said, and she laughed a little.
Following Leslie’s admission, it was clear to Elle why she was in such a rush to have sex with an actual man, and a ball-less one at that. She wanted to experience it with all her bits just one last time. Elle wished her friend good luck and told her she would expect her call the very next day with full details. Leslie had no intention of providing her with anything like the full details, but she agreed just so Elle would let her go home. She had much to do before Mark arrived.
An hour before he was due, the house was clean and she was washed, dressed, and looking good, even if she thought so herself. She had thought about cooking, but she wasn’t a cook and so it seemed like a much better idea to just order in when he came. That way he could pick what he wanted and there would be no chance of him enduring a bad meal.
Jim phoned half an hour before Mark was due.
“Well?” he said.
“Well what?”
“Are you excited?”
“None of your business,” she said, beginning to regret telling him about Mark at all. “Go away.”
“Ah, come on, I’m sitting alone watching a DVD about two homeless drug addicts.”
“Okay,” she said. “Do you think I should play music or is that really corny?”
“No, it’s not corny—definitely play music. What have you got?”
“Lots of stuff.”
“Okay, what do you feel like listening to?”
“I don’t know.”
“Think.”
“I can’t, I’m too nervous.”
“Okay, go over to your CD rack, close your eyes, and pick something.”
“I don’t have a CD rack. I buy all my music online.”
“What do you do that for?”
“Because I no longer live in the year 1983,” she said.
“Fine. So close your eyes and click on a song or do whatever it is you do to listen to music.”
“Okay. Can I go now?”
“Yes,” he said. “And, Leslie?”
“What?”
“Enjoy yourself.”
“Thanks.”
She hung up the phone and went over to her computer and clicked onto her media player. She closed her eyes and dragged the mouse along the various tracks listed, stopped, and clicked, and Alanis Morissette’s “In Praise of the Vulnerable Man” started to play. Apt.
She sat holding her cat and waited for Mark to come.
Tom opened the door and found Trish, his liaison officer, standing outside. The house call was unscheduled, and so his heart started to race and his palms were instantly damp. If he’d allowed himself to, he would have begun to shake.
“Calm down, we haven’t found her,” she warned.
He followed her to the sitting room. They sat.
“Crimeline is going to do a reconstruction.”
“Okay,” he said. “It looks like Alexandra has captured the media’s imagination. Finally.”
“Finally.” She nodded. “It’s good news, Tom.”
“I know.”
“You should thank your friends. Without them …”
“She’d just be a number.”
“Never just a number,” she said, “but media interest always helps—just keeping her face out there helps.”
She left soon after, and Tom picked up the phone and called Jane. He told her the good news, and they agreed to an impromptu celebration even though Elle and Leslie were unavailable. He offered to cook and she agreed to bring the wine, and so at eight fifteen she knocked on his door.
It was the first time Jane had visited Tom in his home, and it felt so strange being greeted by pictures of the adult Alexandra, the woman she didn’t know. In the sitting room there were photos of their wedding day. Alexandra had made a beautiful bride, even in the shot when she stuck out her tongue at the photographer. Tom poured wine and they clinked glasses as it was customary to do. He thanked her once again and told her how grateful he was, and she told him to shut up and that he was boring her. It was true that media interest in the disappearance of Alexandra Kavanagh had increased considerably since their little exhibition, but they were a long way from finding her.
Tom once again put all his hopes in the one basket.
“This will work,” he said.
“Please don’t get too excited. It’s only a reconstruction. It’s good news but that’s all.”
“I know.”
“You’re contradicting yourself.”
“I don’t care. I’m happy.”
The exhibition had been a great success insofar as the critics were happy, Alexandra’s plight and the plight of many others had been given a little time in the spotlight, and they had made some money for the charity.
Originally Elle had put the painting of Alexandra aside for Tom or Alexandra’s family pending Tom’s decision, but only five of the twelve paintings had sold and a buyer had offered a great deal of money for Alexandra. Now Jane found herself in the uncomfortable position of having to approach Tom on the matter. If the money had been going into the Moore family business, there was no way she would have sold Alexandra, but because the sales were in aid of charity she felt obliged to earn as much money as possible. It had been a shock to her that the paintings failed to sell out, because Elle had been a surefire seller for a long time. Jane had begun to notice a slowdown in sales with some of her other artists, but she had put it down to various reasons and now she was wondering whether or not a change was going to come. This concerned her because while she had banked her money and scrimped and saved, her little sister had gone through money like there was no tomorrow.
Over dinner she broached the subject of the painting with Tom.
“Definitely sell it,” he said.
“Oh great. I’m so glad you feel that way.”
“To be honest, it’s a bit of a relief. It was just too sad.”
“I understand,” she said.
“Do you ever wonder about fate?”
“Not really.”
“I do,” he said. “I think about that night in the lift and what would have happened if I’d taken the stairs or decided to give the gig a miss. If I’d gone home with my little bag of leaflets, I think I’d have lost the will and I’d be gone.”
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s true.”
After dinner they sat in the sitting room and Jane told Tom about Kurt’s birthday present of a motorbike and how she’d wrestled with it. Dominic had finally broken her, but she feared that she might now never sleep again. He laughed and told her she’d find a way—after all, he had. He didn’t mention the way he’d found was getting pissed.
At the end of the night she thanked him for a really nice evening and one she had needed badly. He was getting her coat when the doorbell rang. Thinking it was her taxi, she answered it.
A girl stood in the doorway, looking quizzically at her.
“Who are you?” the girl asked.
“I’m a friend,” Jane said. The girl’s aggressive tone put her on edge.
“Jeanette, go on into the kitchen and I’ll join you in a moment,” Tom warned.
“No,” Jeanette said, and it was apparent she’d been drinking. “I’m Jeanette, Tom’s girlfriend,” she said, and she put her hand out to shake Jane’s.
Jane got such a fright she shook Jeanette’s hand and told her it was lovely to meet her. This took the wind out of Jeanette’s sails. Her aggression dissipated and she told Jane it was nice to meet her too, and all the while Tom was biting his lip and praying he was dreaming while at the same time trying to work out a plausible lie to salvage the situation.
“Jeanette, please, go wait for me in the kitchen,” he begged.
Jeanette said good-bye to Jane, who was still smiling like a simpleton, and went into the kitchen, closing the door behind her.
“Jane—” Tom attempted to explain, but Jane just shook her head.
“No.”
She walked out of his open front door, and he followed her to the gate.
“You don’t understand,” he said.
“Oh, I understand,” she said. “You’re a man, and men are selfcentred, lying, cheating bastards. I thought you were different. I thought you were decent. But you’re just like the rest of them.”
“Jane—”
“Don’t ‘Jane’ me!” she said, and now she was crying. “In fact you’re worse than the rest of them because you pretend to be better, you pretend to give a shit!”
“I do!” he shouted.
“Your wife is missing, she’s alone and lost or hurt or hurting or dying or dead, and what are you doing? You’re f*cking, that’s what you’re doing.”
She moved to open the gate and he grabbed her arm. “Please,” he said.
“Go f*ck your girlfriend,” she said, “and let me worry about my old friend!” She pulled her arm away and ran to the taxi that had arrived.
Tom watched her disappear.
He walked inside his house, grabbed Jeanette’s coat from the banister, and went into the kitchen. He wrapped it around her shoulders and pushed her through the hall and front door and closed the door in her face without saying one word. She banged on his window and door for a few minutes, then gave up. She knew that whatever sweetness they had once shared had turned sour.
The next night she’d tell her friends all about it over dinner, and they’d tell her he was a user and a jerk and that she was too good for him anyway because he was a broken man.
“Throw him on the pyre and light a match,” Davey would say, and Jeanette would laugh and decide that although she would miss him, she wouldn’t miss his problems, and so she’d drink to finding a man her own age—sexy, funny, uncomplicated, and without a tragic past.
When Leslie didn’t call, Elle decided to visit her in her apartment. She buzzed, Leslie let her in, and she bounded up the stairs. She sat with the cat while Leslie looked for some tea bags because Elle was attempting to cut down on coffee.
“Well?” Elle asked.
“He didn’t come.”
“Well, he probably couldn’t. I mean, I’m not a doctor but, sperm lives in balls and he is ball-less—ergo no come.”
“I mean he didn’t turn up.”
“Oh. What happened?”
“About an hour after he was due he phoned and told me he was sorry but that he wasn’t ready,” Leslie said, dropping a tea bag into a mug of boiling water.
Elle preferred it when the bag was placed in the teacup before the boiling water, but she wasn’t about to argue.
“Sorry,” Elle said.
“The man has lost his wife, his kids, and his balls all in the space of a year. He’s just finished chemo. I was mad to think anything could happen.”
“Not mad. You were just trying to open yourself up, and maybe you rushed it with Mark, but that’s okay. Next time will be better.”
Leslie smiled at her new friend, because what she said was true. Leslie had rushed into something with Mark. She had been so desperate to move on and to be with someone who really understood what she was going through, and it had all been a little too simple. The poor man had his own issues, his battles to win and lose. Elle was right, next time it would be better because next time she’d know better. I’m not ready and that’s okay.
“How’s Jim?” Elle asked.
“Do not bring Jim into this,” Leslie warned.
Elle put her hands up. “Okay, Miss Touchy.”
“I am not Miss Touchy!”
After Elle left most of her tea in the cup and Leslie was fortified with a nice hot coffee, they decided to take advantage of the bright, warm day by going for a stroll in Phoenix Park. Leslie was at her mailbox when Deborah from Apartment 8A entered the main door. Deborah had managed to maintain a safe distance from Leslie since the cat shit incident. She mumbled hello.
“Well, hello, Deborah,” Leslie said loudly.
“Hi,” Deborah said.
“Yes, this is my friend Elle. Say hello to my friend, Deborah.”
“Hi,” Deborah said again.
Elle grinned. She’d heard the story more than once because for some reason Deborah’s misguided concern for Leslie had really hit a nerve.
“You see, Deborah, loners don’t have friends.”
Deborah nodded and looked around to see if there was anyone around who could possibly save her if Leslie decided to physically attack.
“I’m going now,” Deborah said, and she made her way to the lift.
“Lovely seeing you!” Leslie called.
Deborah disappeared into the lift.
“You need help,” Elle said.
“Yes,” Leslie said, “I really do.”
They took a stroll in the park and ended up in the zoo and enjoyed a perfectly charming day together that both women would remember with fondness for a very long time.
On May 29, 2008, the television show Crimeline featured a reconstruction of Alexandra’s last movements. In the week that had passed, Tom had attempted to call Jane, but she didn’t pick up the phone, nor did she respond to his messages. In one of those unanswered messages he reminded Jane of the date and time of the show and he once again thanked her for all her support and help getting him this far along the track. Then he apologized for not being a better man. Jane had listened to his message a number of times, and her anger turned to regret and embarrassment because as much as she was disappointed that Tom had turned out to be a human being with actual faults, the person she was really shouting at that night was Dominic. Of course, that was Jane’s problem. She couldn’t scream and shout at Dominic. Because she had always been so desperate to win his love she never allowed him to see who she really was and how messed up and sad and lonely and sometimes bitter and hateful she could be. Because to show him that would be to go against the image of cool, great, kind, anything-goes Jane, the Jane she had spent the last eighteen years creating for Dominic and Dominic alone. She took out her pain and aggression on Tom—poor, desperate, haunted Tom—and she felt really sick about it.
The only silver lining was that she hadn’t told Elle or Leslie about her encounter with Tom’s whore. Her reasoning had simply been that she didn’t want them to be as disappointed in him as she was. She didn’t want them to stop searching for her friend just because her husband was a selfish dick. But now it dawned on her that neither Leslie nor Elle would have been as disappointed as she was because neither of them was a silly, stupid romantic, and while she had seen Tom as some sort of hero, they merely saw him as a man.
The night of the reconstruction she sat in her sitting room with Elle and Rose, and even Kurt and Irene took a break from pretending to study so that they could all follow Alexandra into the ether and, with any luck, beyond. She had thought about calling Tom just before the show aired, but she didn’t have the nerve, so she left it.
Breda sat on her favorite green-velvet chair surrounded by her family—Eamonn and Frankie, Kate and Owen. Even their five-year-old, Ciara, was sitting there quietly waiting to see Auntie Alexandra, or at least the actress who would be playing her.
Alexandra’s father smoked a cigarette in the garden and then came inside and sat down in the midst of his family, finally about to face what had gone so wrong.
Despite Breda’s invite, Tom watched it alone.
An actress with brown hair, dressed in black trousers and a black shirt with a large bow and carrying a black tote bag, appeared in the doorway of Alexandra’s home. The camera followed her walking along her street. An actress in her midfifties was brushing the step at No. 14. Mrs. Murphy had been asked if she’d like to play herself but she had been too shy and had felt an actress would be better. The fake Mrs. Murphy called out to the fake Alexandra, saying what a lovely day it was. The fake Alexandra agreed that it was perfect, and she walked on toward the station and through the turnstiles and stood waiting for the DART. The same three teenagers who had seen the real Alexandra sing James Morrison badly had agreed to be part of the reconstruction to win cool points—the eleven months had done wonders for their skin, especially the girl’s. The fake Alexandra started to sing James Morrison’s “The Last Goodbye” badly. The teenagers acted as though they were laughing, and one of the boys even slapped his thigh. The fake Alexandra stuck out her tongue and they pretended to laugh harder, ensuring that the camera moved away from them quickly. When the DART arrived, she stepped onto it and sat beside an actor in his midfifties. Across the way an actress in her forties was looking out the window. The camera returned to the fake Alexandra and fake old man. He asked her to wake him at Tara Street if he slept. She agreed. There was a shot of the DART moving along the track before a return to the inside shot. The DART pulled into Tara Street Station and the fake Alexandra nudged the old man and told him it was time to get off. He got off, and she jumped out of the DART and followed him and handed him a bag. He thanked her and she returned to the train. The fake stranger sitting opposite, who had been looking out the window when the fake Alexandra had gotten on the train, grinned at her and told her that her own dad was as bad. The fake Alexandra mentioned that the doddery old man had been sweet, and then they looked away from each other and out the windows. Another shot of the DART on tracks and Dalkey Station appeared. Inside again, the fake Alexandra picked up her bag and stood up and fixed her clothes before disembarking. She made her way through the station and out into the sunshine. She continued straight on to the main street and took the left at the end of the street; after that she took a right and then another left, and after that the fake Alexandra faded from the screen and was gone. The presenter appeared in front of the screen showing an empty street in Dalkey. He reminded the viewers of the date and time of the incident. He reminded them of the woman’s name and reiterated what she had been wearing, her height and weight. He asked people to cast their minds back to that day.
“The twenty-first of June 2007—a bright, warm day, a day when Alexandra Kavanagh née Walsh, daughter, sister, friend, and wife, turned a corner in Dalkey and vanished from plain sight. Someone knows something. If you’re that someone, please call.” He gave the hotline number and the e-mail and postal addresses, and then he moved on to a robbery in Carlow.
Jane, Elle, Kurt, Irene, and even Rose sat quietly. Rose was the first to get up to leave, shaking her head and sighing.
“She was a cheeky pup in her day, but nobody deserves that,” she said, and she made her way back to her basement apartment and to a well-needed drink.
Irene and Kurt made their excuses and returned to their studies. Elle and Jane sat together in the dark. “Wanna go to the pub?” Elle asked.
“I’ll get my bag,” Jane said.
Tom sat alone in his sitting room, ignoring the sounds of the texts buzzing on his phone. He drank from his whiskey glass and prayed that the someone who knew something would phone the hotline, because he wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold on.
Alexandra’s father cupped his face in his hands and cried like a baby. This distracted Eamonn, Kate, and their spouses from Breda, and while they soothed and calmed him Breda stood up quietly and, unseen, walked up to her bedroom and took off her cardigan and folded it on the bed. She pulled down her duvet and she got into her bed, and except to go to the toilet, that was where she stayed.