A Secret Worth Killing For. Simon Berthon

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СКАЧАТЬ on his collar and has an urge to blow on the soft skin of his nape. In the rear-view mirror, she sees Rob now smiling. He turns to David, ‘Well, you said she was a looker.’

      She glows. She realizes she’s never felt so well – her skin feels fresh, even the spots have gone. She feels the tyre of flesh around her waist – still there but tauter. Is that what love can do? She bats away the question. This can never be about that.

      They drive past Maynooth, through Kinnegad and into Athlone, where David suggests stopping to inspect the dull, grey stone fortress by the river.

      ‘His culture only extends to wars and battles,’ Rob says as they stare up at it.

      ‘He doesn’t talk ’bout that with me,’ says Maire.

      ‘That’s because you’re broadening my horizons,’ says David.

      ‘About bloody time someone did,’ says Rob, winking at Maire. ‘Has he bored you with his rugby stories yet?’

      ‘Didn’t even know he played.’

      ‘Ah, the many talents . . .’ He stops himself, breaks into a chuckle and stretches out his left hand to slap David on the shoulder. ‘The many talents of the amazing Mr David Vallely.’

      Then it’s on to Galway city for a bacon sandwich and, in deference to their notions of Irishness, pints of Guinness around a rickety wooden pub table.

      ‘So,’ Maire says, turning to Rob, ‘tell us more about the secret life of David Vallely.’

      ‘Now you’re asking.’

      ‘I wanna know. He never talks ’bout himself.’

      ‘What can I say?’ Rob reflects, looking fondly at his friend. ‘I’ve known this comedian for, let me see, twelve years off and on. It’s not been easy for him . . .’ He leaves the thought unspoken.

      ‘Did you know his ma and da?’ she interrupts, getting it.

      ‘Not his father, he died a while ago. His mother was lovely.’ He allows a silence to hang.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ says Maire, turning to David, who’s looking away, out of the pub window.

      ‘Anyway,’ resumes Rob, ‘in all that time, we’ve hardly had a cross word. There’ve been periods when he’s been travelling – he’s a bit of a hobo – but we just take up where we left off. Nothing changes.’

      ‘That’s great,’ says Maire. ‘Great to have a friend like that.’ Her voice tails off and she too stares out of the window, feeling her own aloneness.

      ‘Anyway’ – Rob’s eyes are trained on David – ‘after all that wandering, he looks settled now, doesn’t he?’

      ‘I am, mate,’ agrees David, ‘I really think I am.’

      ‘And about bloody time too!’ exclaims Rob, puncturing the moment of gravity.

      They pass another castle, the gaunt ruins of Menlo, which David doesn’t inflict on them, and finally, in the early afternoon, the mountains of Connemara loom beneath a lowering late autumn sky.

      ‘I need to climb a hill,’ exclaims David. ‘You on, Maire? You said you’d like to.’

      ‘Yeah, I’m on.’ She glances at him, throwing a challenge, the car pulls up and he helps her climb out over the front seat.

      ‘Race you to the top,’ she says. ‘Loser pays all.’

      ‘OK, you’re on.’ He pinches her and grins.

      Before the two men can move, she’s running through a springy field, splattering mud over her jeans. She finds a path along a stone wall and begins to climb, sheep watching her haste with incredulity. She hears them chasing her. ‘We’re coming to get you,’ yells David.

      She forges on, flicking looks behind as they close. She reaches a gate, hops neatly over it and feels drops of rain on her hair. She looks up and the skies are blackening. She stops, closes her eyes, opens her arms, and feels a gush of water burst over her face. At the same moment, he’s behind her, throwing his arms around the fold of her waist, his body tight and hard against hers, breathing heavily.

      ‘OK,’ he says, ‘you win. Now let’s get the hell back to the car before we drown.’ He’s never held her like that before.

      They reach the modest, pebble-dashed guesthouse in Clifden as dusk falls. A swirling wind beats rain against windows and the sea against rocks. The landlady recoils at the drenched, shivering arrivals.

      ‘Hot showers for you, then.’ She peers down at her reservations book. ‘A single and a double?’ There’s a question mark in her voice.

      ‘The single’s for me,’ says Maire.

      A couple of hours later the rain subsides and they find a pub serving up easygoing food, a crackling wood fire, and a live band. It’s an out-of-season Saturday evening but the place is crowded with locals of all shapes and ages: wizened old peat cutters wearing black jackets matching the darkness of their stout mingling with ruddy-faced country girls displaying brightly coloured skirts and muscled calves.

      With speakers turned up to deafen, the band strike up a jig. Maire motions David to the dance floor. She tries to set steps for him to follow but it’s a lost cause as he narrowly avoids her toes and grasps her instead in close embrace. The music ends and he leads her back to their table.

      ‘He sings better than he dances,’ Rob tells Maire with a curiously dull edge. He sees her notice and perks himself up. ‘Go on, get him on stage.’

      ‘It’s gotta be an improvement,’ she says. ‘His dancing’s shite.’

      David glares at Rob but is too late to stop her skipping over to the band leader. She points to David and heads back towards the two friends. She sees them break off their conversation, still glaring at each other. The edge between them is odd – she assumes David’s embarrassed by his friend.

      ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ announces the lead singer, ‘we’re joined on vocals by David from Dublin.’ David walks over and whispers in his ear. ‘And he’ll be singing for us that beautiful folk song which originated the other side of the Irish sea but we’ve adopted as our own. You all know it – “The Nightingale”.’

      The fiddle and guitar play their opening bars. David, gazing into Maire’s eyes, lifts the microphone to his lips and softly and shyly sings.

       As I went a walking one morning in May

       I met a young couple so far did we stray

       And one was a young maid so sweet and so fair

       And the other was a soldier and a brave Grenadier

      With his free hand, David beckons the audience to join in the chorus.

       And they kissed so sweet and comforting as they clung to each other

       They went arm-in-arm СКАЧАТЬ