A Life Eternal Page 5

  I opened the front door and started up the stairs, but stopped when I heard a noise coming from Molly’s apartment. I frowned, listening. There it was again.

  Sobbing. Someone in the room was sobbing. I slowly went back down the couple of stairs I’d taken and put my head near her door. She was breaking her heart in there.

  For a moment, I almost left it. Who knows how my life might have turned out if I had? Maybe I would never have found out about the Medic. Maybe I would never have gone to war again. Maybe I would never have met Madeleine. Or Pearl.

  But I didn’t leave it. Our lives are made on the decisions we make at every moment. Fate does not exist; I am as sure of this as of anything. There is no overriding guiding force to our existence, no guardian angels moving us down some pre-ordained destiny. Life is simply a clutter of lines, moving in every direction. We take the ones we take and we deal with the consequences, good or bad. I knocked on Molly’s door.

  The sobbing stopped. She was listening now.

  ‘Who is it?’ she called, a catch in her voice.

  ‘It’s Rob. Mr Deakin. From upstairs. Is everything all right?’

  For a while there was only silence from her room. I thought she must want me to go away so I moved back towards the stairs, but then I heard the turning of a lock and the door opened enough for her to poke her head around it. I pulled my hat from my head.

  She had definitely been crying. Her eyes were red-rimmed and bleary, although they were still as gorgeous and as mournful as ever. Her hair was loose and cascaded over her shoulders. Her blouse had been undone a couple of buttons and I willed myself to keep my eyes on her face and not on the ample cleavage which I could see in my peripheral vision. Even so, she seemed to read my mind and her hand clasped the blouse at her throat.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘It’s just, I heard crying. I don’t mean to pry. I was only wondering if you were all right.’

  She swallowed and then nodded. ‘I’m fine, thank you. I’ve just had a little bad news, that’s all. I’m sorry I caused you to stop. Thank you for your concern.’

  It sounded as if she was finished, and she should have closed the door after we had both said goodnight. But she didn’t. She just stood there and stared at me, as if willing me to understand something I could not.

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’ I asked, lamely.

  She shook her head again, but her face crumpled and the brimming tears trickled down her cheeks. She stared at me like a child.

  Without thinking too much more about it, I stepped closer and pushed gently at the door. She didn’t stop me. We stared at each other for a second longer, and then I opened my arms and she came to me, weeping into my chest and soaking my shirt. After a while I closed the door and led her to a settee near the fire. We sat down and I continued to hold her as she cried her heart out.

  I didn’t say anything, I just held her warm body close until she had cried herself out. She clung to me like she was drowning and I was a life raft.

  Eventually she pulled herself away and went over to stand in front of the mirror above the fireplace, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. I saw her reflection close its eyes and shake its head slightly. She took a deep breath and then turned towards me.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Deakin. Heaven knows what you must think of me. I appreciate your help, I really do.’

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’ I asked once again. ‘Can I help in any way?’

  She shook her head again and smiled at me. ‘No. I’ve had some news from home, that’s all. Bad news. My mother, she…’ She swallowed and seemed to fight back more tears. ‘My mother has died. She had been ill for a long time, but still it was unexpected…’

  Again she stopped and indicated limply to a letter lying on the occasional table by the door. ‘You always expect your parents to be around forever, don’t you,’ she said. ‘Even though you know they won’t be.’

  I sighed. I understood her sorrow, but I had seen so much death it seemed more natural to me than life. Still, I felt sorry for her. I could see she was devastated.

  ‘When is the funeral?’ I asked, softly.

  ‘Two weeks ago. It takes a while for letters to get here.’ She seemed to stare into nothing for a second, perhaps seeing a cold, fresh grave bereft of flowers from a daughter to a mother.

  She wiped her eyes again with the soggy handkerchief and sighed, long and low. I stood up, taking the sigh as a dismissal.

  ‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ I said. ‘Please, if there’s anything I can do to help, don’t hesitate to ask.’

  She nodded once more.

  I smiled at her and made my way to the door, but she laid a light hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Wait.’

  She suddenly seemed unsure what she wanted. She started again. ‘Will you have a drink with me? A toast to her? I’m all alone here. I’d like to share a toast with someone.’

  ‘Of course.’

  She smiled at me, thankfully, and went through to her kitchen, returning with a bottle of Dwyer’s best hooch and two glasses. She filled them and we stood in front of each other. I lifted my glass.

  ‘To your mam,’ I said and she laughed, sadly.

  ‘In Ireland, we say ‘Ma.’

  I smiled back. ‘We sometimes say that where I come from too. To your Ma.’

  We drank and she closed her eyes as the whiskey warmed its way through her.

  We finished those drinks and then had another. And another.

  Molly told me of her childhood in Cork. It was the usual thing: grinding poverty, hunger and heartache, but ensconced in an envelope of love from a big-hearted Irish family. I asked her how she ended up in New York but she became a bit evasive, pouring us more whiskey instead. I was already floating from the drinks before I got there, and I could see she was starting to feel it as well as she spilled some whiskey as she poured it.

  ‘Whoops,’ was all she said.

  It was after one in the morning when I stood to leave again. By that time my jacket was laid on the arm of the sofa and my collar was undone. I picked up the jacket and my hat, and she stood with me and walked me to the door.

  ‘Thank you again for your sympathy, Mr Deakin,’ she whispered.

  ‘Please, call me Rob. All my friends do.’

  ‘Am I your friend?’ she asked, moving closer, and I smiled down at her.

  ‘Of course you are.’

  She nodded. Then she reached up and gently grasped the back of my head, pulling it towards her. Our faces were just inches apart when she stopped and looked deep into my eyes. What she was looking for, I don’t know. But she seemed to find it, because she pulled gently again on my head and kissed me.

  Her lips were as warm and soft as I had imagined. She tasted of a sultry mix of whiskey and cigarettes, and I felt myself becoming instantly aroused. She seemed to understand this, and she seemed to like it. She drew herself closer to me, pushing her body against mine, and she groaned softly as she felt my want for her press against her stomach.

  Eventually, she pulled away and stared into my eyes once again. She didn’t need to say anything else. She silently took me by the hand and led me into the bedroom.

  I let my hat and jacket fall to the floor and closed the door carefully behind me.

  VII

  I left Molly sleeping in the early hours of the morning. Something told me she wouldn’t want me there when she woke up. I closed the door to my apartment softly and climbed into bed.

  I couldn’t sleep. For some reason my night with Molly had dredged up more memories of my past, and they haunted me. Eventually, I climbed out of bed and pulled on a robe, sitting in my chair by the window, smoking a cigarette and watching the city wake up.

  *

  I awoke from as deep and refreshing a sleep as I have ever known, to the sounds of muted talking and the squeak of wheels from a trolley. I opened my eyes and saw that the trolley was a gurney, and it was taking out the body of one of the men who had died in the nig
ht.

  Other trolleys were depositing more bodies from the Somme Offensive onto the still warm beds of their previous occupants. The smell of blood and shit and vomit stained the dank air.

  Sunlight streamed through the church’s stained-glass windows. Jesus was still up on his cross, but I noticed he now seemed to be smiling at me. I swallowed and took a deep breath. I could breathe again! It hurt quite a lot to do so, but not half as much as the previous night. Nothing like it in fact.

  My mind flickered back to the previous night.

  I remembered the Medic’s dark, swarthy face staring down at me, but my memory of what happened after that was almost non-existent. He had placed his hand on my shattered chest and I had seen his lips move, but what he had said escaped me. I recalled nothing else after that until I woke up, feeling immensely better than I had when I had fallen asleep.

  I plucked feebly at the thin, dirty sheet covering me and saw the crusted, brown bandages around my chest.

  I frowned. How was I still alive? Why was the pain so much less than it had been the night before? I peeked under the bandages, the hairs on my chest snapping and sticking, and stared down at my wounds.

  The holes were still there as far as I could see, so it hadn’t been a dream. I had definitely been shot.

  But there seemed to be pinkish scar tissue covering those holes now, scabs forming on the wounds. I took another, tentative breath. My chest was sore, but that was all. It felt like I had a healing bruise rather than ruptured bones and muscles.

  A shadow fell over me and I looked up into the eyes of an old nun. She was frowning at me in disbelief. As I watched, she sketched the sign of the cross over her own chest.

  ‘Comment allez-vous?’ she asked, sounding shocked. I shrugged; I didn’t understand French then.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ she translated in broken English.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘I’m feeling better than yesterday.’ I was surprised at how strong my voice was. Twelve hours earlier I couldn’t speak at all, couldn’t even move. Now, the pain in my chest was diminishing with every second.

  ‘What’s happening to me?’ I asked her, seeing the alarm and fear in her eyes, but she just shook her head. She took a step back and hurried away, and I watched as she disappeared into a sort of chantry. She returned a few minutes later with another nun.

  The second nun stood over me, with the first standing behind her, clutching at a crucifix around her neck.

  ‘I am Sister Agnetha,’ said the second nun. ‘Sister Clara has asked me to speak with you as her English is not so good. Do you know where you are? Do you know why you came to this place?’

  ‘I was wounded,’ I replied. ‘I was brought here. I think I nearly died.’

  ‘Mais oui!’ she said. ‘You should be dead! Your wounds are big. Too big.’ She frowned down at me. ‘How are you alive?’

  I had no answer to a question like that. We stared at each other for a while, until she turned to Sister Clara and fired off something at her in rapid French. Clara nodded and scuttled away. Another gurney was trundled past us; another dead soldier being taken to his final resting place.

  Agnetha bent down beside me. She pulled back the sheet and inspected my chest, drawing in a shocked breath as she did so. She straightened and crossed herself as her companion had done. I was getting worried about their reactions now.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked her. ‘What’s wrong with me?’

  She looked as if she was going to say something, but approaching footsteps ringing on the stone floor cut her off. An old man appeared, stared down at me, and smiled. He was quite short and portly, with pince-nez spectacles and a fringe of white hair encircling an otherwise bald head. Only his stained doctor’s coat stopped him looking like a monk.

  ‘I am Doctor Artigue. Sister Clara asked me to come and have a look at you. Is it all right if I check your wounds?’

  I nodded and, with a final crossing of their chests, the two nuns left.

  Artigue pulled down the sheet once again and carefully cut away the crusted bandages. He took some clinical-smelling liquid from a tray by the bed and cleaned around the wounds with a cloth, frowning as he did so.

  ‘Can you sit?’ he asked.

  I nodded again and he helped me up, cleaning the wounds on my back too. I heard him mutter something in French. I don’t know what it was, but he sounded as shocked as the two nuns.

  He laid me back down, staring into my face.

  Eventually, he shook his head. ‘I don’t know how, but it seems you are healing. Your wounds, they… You should be dead!’

  He said these last words in a rather accusatory manner, as if I had done something to upset him. I stayed quiet. His demeanour was disturbing me a lot now.

  Eventually, he straightened.

  ‘I don’t know how you are still alive, young man. But you are. And you need to be somewhere else other than here. You need a hospital. This is a place only for the dead, and I don’t think you belong to that category. Not anymore.’

  ‘I’m going to live?’ I asked, hope fluttering through my heart.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I believe you are.’ His words should have been spoken with a smile of congratulations. But they weren’t.

  And so I was taken away from the church of Saint Theresa Marie. A military ambulance was called to come and collect me and, as I was being loaded into it, I grasped Doctor Artigue’s arm.

  ‘The other doctor,’ I said. ‘Where is the other doctor? The man who came to me last night?’

  Artigue frowned down at me for a long time before shaking his head.

  ‘I am the only doctor here,’ he said. ‘I’m retired, you see. I only help out, doing what I can for the men who come here. There is no other doctor.’

  For some reason, a shiver ran through me at his words. An errant gust of wind brought to my ears the distant grumble of the never-ending artillery fire from the Front.

  The last time I saw Doctor Artigue was as the ambulance doors were closed with a bang. He had on his face a look of utter terror.

  *

  Over the next few weeks and months, my nightly visits to Molly O’Brian’s apartment continued.

  I noticed she started wearing a little make-up, and that she was often ‘accidentally’ down in the foyer when I got in from work. We would smile and chat in a friendly way for a while and then she would offer me a cup of coffee or tea.

  I would accept and we’d go inside, and she would unveil her wonderful body to me and we would make love, sometimes right there in her sitting room on the carpet or using the settee as an improvised bed. I began to look forward to finishing my shifts.

  I asked her to step out with me on more than one occasion, but she always declined. I assumed it was perhaps because she was ashamed of the age difference between us; but whatever it was she didn’t want to be seen in public with me, and she made me promise never to mention our affair to anyone, especially to anyone at work.

  It was about three months after our first night together that I found out why.

  I had just driven into the docks to drop off the truck at the end of my shift when I saw Sean leaning beside the warehouse door, smoking a cigarette. He was staring appreciatively at a couple coming out of the office.

  My breath stopped when I saw who they were.

  Mickey was smiling at the woman on his arm. She laughed at something he said and kissed him lightly on the cheek, tenderly touching his face.

  It was Molly.

  They climbed into the back of the shining Buick Model 24, and I saw Molly lean over to Mickey and kiss him again as they left the wharf.

  Sean saw me staring from the cab of the van and sauntered over, flicking the butt of his smoke.

  ‘She’s a looker all right, ain’t she?’ he said. Sean had started to pick up some Americanisms during his time in New York.

  I managed to nod and parked the truck up, tossing the keys to one of the goons who guarded the place. Sean and I wandered out of the docks
and he offered me a lift home in his own car.

  ‘You’ll know her, I think?’ he asked as he drove.

  ‘Who?’ I tried to act as normal as possible, even though the image of Molly laughing and kissing Mickey was branded into my mind.

  ‘Mickey’s piece of skirt,’ replied Sean, and I felt that darkness inside me rear up once more. I had to restrain myself from punching him in the mouth, traffic accidents be damned.

  I nodded. ‘My landlady, I think. Seen her a couple of times.’

  Sean grinned through the windshield. ‘I know she’s an old woman, but by God, Mickey can pick 'em. She’s got a hell of a rack on her. I’d love to know what she looks like underneath that dress.’

  He chuckled and I took a deep breath. I knew exactly what she looked like under her dress and I had been looking forward to seeing more of it that very evening. I shook my head. It all made sense now.

  Molly had always been a little cagey about how she came to New York, and how she had managed to set herself up as the owner of a very nice apartment block. Now I knew. Mickey had helped her with his illicit money. And she was obviously repaying him in the same way as with our own relationship. I was upset and jealous at first; but by the time Sean dropped me off outside the apartment, I was furious.

  Her door was closed as I walked into the foyer. I stopped and listened but there was no sound coming from the other side. She was obviously still out. I was just about to go upstairs to change when the front door opened and two of Mickey’s goons appeared, Mickey and Molly following them in. They stopped when they saw me; I had bent down and was pretending to fasten a bootlace.

  ‘Rob!’ cried Mickey. He seemed to be in a very good mood. ‘How you doing, me auld mucka.’

  I smiled at him. ‘Evening, Mr Donovan.’ I touched a finger to my cap. ‘Good evening, Mrs O’Brian.’

  She seemed very pale, but she managed a wan smile. ‘Good evening, Mr Deakin.’

  ‘I didn’t know you knew Mr Donovan,’ I said, sticking the knife in.