“We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.”
– Oscar Wilde, Lady Windermere’s Fan
Author Bio
Carolann Copland is the founder of Carousel Creates, a writers’ centre in the Dublin Mountains.
She has a Bachelor of Education in English and Drama and has been a teacher for fourteen years.
Although she writes mostly novels; Carolann loves to dabble with short stories, plays and poetry; writing between Dublin and Andalucia in the South of Spain. Discovering her love of writing a little later than others has meant that she has let it become a major part of her life and she means to enjoy every moment. She wakes up each morning on fire with a desire to write. Walking in the woods or along the beach in all weathers is where she likes to concoct her extraordinary plots but most of her ideas come from polishing the ordinary things in life and making them shine.
From Dublin, Ireland, Carolann has also lived in the Middle East and the United Kingdom. She is married to neil and is a mother of three children aged 10 to twenty-two.
Through mentoring writers of all ages; from all walks of life; Carolann is happiest when she is sharing her passion for writing. She is a member of two writing groups and works to promote other writing groups in Dublin.
Having spent all her life engrossed in reading stories, Carolann now looks forward to sharing her fictional world with other readers.
Summer Triangle
Summer Triangle
2013
Published by Emu Ink Ltd
www.emuink.ie
© Carolann Copland
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means – graphic, electronic or mechanical, including printing, photocopying, recording, taping or information storage and retrieval systems – without prior written permission of the author.
Cover Design by Gwen Taylour
Acknowledgements…
Summer Triangle is dedicated to my writer friend, Kieran O’Kelly, who died earlier this year. Kieran was the first editor of this book and an excellent critic. Keep guiding my pen, Kieran. We miss you.
No book is an island. There are so many people to thank for surrounding me with support…
…To my parents; Joe and Bridie Maher. They have been incredibly encouraging in pushing me along on my writing journey. My mother urged me to get writing. She knew it would make my life complete and it does. My parents give over their house to Carousel Writers; my father’s beautiful gardens making sure that we have the most inspiring venue possible in which to be creative.
…To Neil. My mother told me to marry him. She liked that he made me smile and that he encouraged me to do all the things that were important to me. Twenty-five years later, he still makes me happy.
…To my siblings; Doreen, Joe, Siobhán, Colum and Lorcan. They have nurtured my confidence, feeding me titbits of just enough praise and criticism.
…To my children; David, Katy-Anna and Aoife. Thank you for being patient when Mammy’s hiding away in her writing room. They are to blame for the sign on my door that reads A clean house is a sign of a broken computer.
…To all the writing groups that have sailed with this book. Especially to Tara Sparling, Bernadette Kearns, Joan Brady, Orna Ross, Elizabeth Hutcheson, Conor Kostik and Siobhán Parkinson. I am in awe of their talent and have used it and abused it while they shaped my novel into being.
…To the writers at Carousel Writers’ Centre; above all Annmarie Miles, Kathryn Crowley, Fatima Jaber, Catherine Brophy and Annette Bryan. They pushed the novel that last inch in the publishing direction.
…To the Irish Crime Writers’ Association; especially Laurence O’ Bryan. They gave my Summer Triangle the polish it needed to make it shine.
…To those I have never met but keep me going on Facebook and Twitter with their constant encouragement.
…To my teacher friends who listen to me constantly prattling on about my writing life and never tell me to shut up.
…To Margaret Birmingham for peace of mind.
…To the Gardaí. Particularly Alan Greally, Tara Mc Manus and Orla Darcy. Your knowledge fed the authenticity of the crime scenes.
…To Emer Cleary and her team at Emu Ink Publishing for their brilliant shaping of the end product. You have not only made the publishing process seamless, but brought me on an immensely enjoyable passage from writer to published author.
…To my best friends for being there, cajoling and encouraging. Thank you Jackie Murphy, Louise Williamson and all my Knocklyoners.
…Finally to Louise Phillips who has inspired confidence in so many writers, including myself. Her enormous generosity of time and wisdom is deeply appreciated, and I take pleasure in counting her among my friends.
And so… I present to you Summer Triangle. Thank you for giving me the utmost compliment by reading my book.
Chapter one
I could not be happier than I am at this moment. I watch the carousel build up speed and Shadia holding on with both hands. Her hijab flapping behind her falls back from her head, allowing me to see more of her laughing eyes each time she circles past me. Rising and falling on her golden horse, with the flashing green lights brightening the dark around her – the freedom of this special night tells on her beautiful face. I know from her look that she’s thinking of our first, sneaked kiss from earlier. My mouth still melts from the taste of her.
I’m standing at the foot of the steps and can hear her calling to her friend now, above the noise of the crowds and the music chimes.
‘Maeve! What a perfect night!’ Her voice. So happy.
She lets go with one hand and reaches out to hold Maeve’s as they go around and around together. I close my eyes for a moment, enjoying the breeze the carousel movement creates, cooling the Riyadh spring heat. It’s almost midnight but I’m still sweating under the white cotton of my clothes. I remove my glasses to rub the sweat from my forehead with my sleeve. My mouth is watering from the smell of chicken shawarmas in the tent behind me and I make a move to join the bustling queue for food.
‘We should go soon.’ Omar taps my shoulder to get my attention.
I shrug and put my glasses back on. ‘Yeah. Soon, Omar.’
‘Shadia’s parents said to be home by 10pm.’ Omar’s worrying about his job. Late home means he’ll be in trouble for neglecting his duties as our driver and chaperone. ‘You took a week to persuade them to give in and let her come out with you, Majid. I can’t ignore their calls anymore and you’ve all to be in school at…’
‘Hah… school! I feel a sore throat coming on tomorrow… It’s okay, Omar. Reee…lax. I’ll take all the blame when we get home. The girls are having a good time. Let them have one more spin around and then we’ll go. Okay?’ I smile at him to ease his worry. We’re in so much trouble already that another few minutes won’t matter. The wariness of our parents about us going out with Shadia’s Western friend screams out from the missed calls on my mobile, so we might as well make the rage worthy of the crime.
Omar nods and the creases on his forehead smooth over a little. The horses are slowing now and I wave to Shadia and Maeve to stay on for one more go. Their girly shrieks make us smile as they swap their horses and climb into a golden carriage. Princesses.
I sit down on the bench and Omar shifts over to make room.
‘So sky gazer,’ I say, eager to talk about something else. ‘Three stunning stars.’ I point upwards. Omar has been guiding me through the constellations since I was a baby. Nothing gives him greater pleasure and I’m rewarded by his animated face.
‘The Summer Triangle, Majid,’ he says. ‘Made up of Vega, Deneb and Altair. Good Islamic names for stars that guide us on the right path.’
‘Summer? It’s only March 17th.’
‘You can see it first in the spring here in the East, then it gradually becomes apparent in the summer in the West.’
I nod. Omar looks up at the carousel starting again and then at his watch.
‘They’ll get over it, Omar. Shadia’s parents,’ I say with mock confidence.
Omar smiles another half-smile and raises his eyebrows at me.
‘Okay. I know,’ I sigh, ‘but there’s no harm done. Shadia’s never allowed out. She’s really enjoying herself tonight and she might not get another chance for a while.’
Omar nods and stands up. ‘Okay, Majid but there’ll be spit and venom when we get back. I’ll go and bring the car to the gate and wait for you there.’
Watching him heading out past the sign for the Riyadh Irish Festival, I feel the tension of the journey home building already.
‘Ten minutes, Omar,’ I call. ‘We’ll…’
Without warning, the lights go out all over the park. The rides slow and the music fades. A few women screech excitedly and we wait to see what might happen next. Midnight is drawing closer.
There’s silence and after what seems like minutes, excited giggles turn nervous and heckles begin to pepper the atmosphere. I look expectantly towards the starlit sky for fireworks or something equally fantastic, but there’s nothing. I can just about make out the shadowy figures of Shadia and Maeve, standing up now and feeling their way through the darkness on the still carousel.
An explosion rips through the air and I find myself face down on the ground with nothing but ringing in my ears and a tremendous heat rising behind me. I’m acutely aware of my racing heartbeat and my mind is whirring as beads of perspiration, from both the intense heat and fear, drip down my back and forehead. I twist around and the fire pouring from the horses’ heads on the previously picturesque carousel fills me with dread.
Shadia.
I roll over and try to stand up. I can see Maeve now lying sprawled along the edge of the carousel staircase. The light from the blaze dances in her wide open eyes, staring, lifeless now, in the direction of the smoke-filled sky. The flames from the carousel creep down towards her feet, eating at the wooden steps and a long piece of gold, spiral steel is embedded in her front.
‘Omar! Omar!’ I scream as people race into my path from every direction. The fear of another bomb to follow the one now tearing their worlds apart is apparent on their faces; their mouths silently shrieking.
The dead and injured, mostly women, hang from painted animals and plastic cars; their fallen hijabs exposing their black, blonde or red hair – all with pale faces. Omar is here, pushing back through the crowds to get to the carousel… to me… to Shadia…
Then I see her.
Crawling out from behind the burning horses she struggles down the steps. I stand still, staring at the mass of flames writhing just a few metres away. Her eyes, wild with pain, search mine, beseeching. Her abaya is almost burnt away. She is lit up from head to toe. Staggering towards her I feel the vibrations of a roar deep in my throat, but I am pulled back by Omar’s strong arms before I can reach her.
I snarl, kicking and elbowing at the cage around my middle, preventing me from getting to her as she falls in a heap. The smell of her burning flesh fills me with rage.
She lies still.
The only movement around her now are those licking flames and my desperate arms struggling to reach her.
Chapter two
Sitting up in bed at 7am, still fully clothed in her tracksuit bottoms and hoodie, Shona reached down and ran her hands over her swollen tummy. It was actually moving inside her.
‘Jesus,’ she whispered, and the tears came again.
She hugged her legs and hung her head. When she eventually looked back up, her mother was standing over her.
‘Where were you until 3.30am, Shona Moran?’ Norah’s arms were folded across the lace of her long nightdress. ‘You have to leave for school in an hour. Look at the state of you!’
Shona turned and glared at her mother. Let her think that she’d been out drinking half the night. It was better than the truth. She ignored the rant that followed. How could she say where she really was until that time? She couldn’t explain that she had been walking a Dublin beach in the rain until all hours, trying to ward off the idea that the waves had looked more inviting than the last bus home.
Shona noticed her mum staring at her chest, her forehead creased in puzzlement. Surely she was over the floral tattoo that ribboned its way along her neck and the top of her breast. Another thing to row about, as if she needed more. She flicked her black curls away to show it at its best and huffed.
‘Go away, Mum.’
‘What is it, Shona?’
‘What? My tattoo? It’s Fuchsia. The flowers that…’
‘No! Not your bloody tattoo! I mean what’s going on with you? You’re acting strange.’
Shona slouched further down under the duvet.
‘Yeah, right! If I breathe you think I’m acting weird. I’d be worried about myself if you started to think I was normal. Five minutes more and I’m up. Okay?’
Shona closed her eyes and waited for her mother to back off. There was no movement and she jumped when Norah suddenly pulled back the duvet and pushed up the front of her top.
Her mouth dropped open as she stared, disbelieving, at her daughter’s bump. Neat and compact, but undeniable. She looked back up at Shona, her face now as white as her nightdress, the sudden realisation beginning to register. Silence exploded around them for a moment as Shona stared back defiantly.
‘So. Now you know.’ Shona waited for the shouting but nothing came.
Norah shook her head slowly, put her hands to her face and backed out of the door.
*
A few hours later Shona sat in the stuffy classroom feeling as though she might keel over. That made her smile. Imagine Mr Cannon’s face if he had to deal with a fainting attack. When she came to, she could very calmly say… it’s alright Mr Cannon. No need for alarm. I’m only six months pregnant. The poor man would die. Shona looked around her at the other girls intent on their sample exam papers. Friends? Not exactly. A few drinking partners. Shona Moran was a great one to call up if you wanted a piss up, because she could drink everyone under the table, even the lads. The teachers, however, condemned her for wasting her private education. Her weekend job in the pub suited her. Every other night was for life’s long parties. Or at least they used to be.
Time flew by interspersed with attacks of dizziness and she was racing towards the end of the last question when the familiar woozy feeling hit her stomach again. She wondered why people called it morning sickness. It was morning, noon and night sickness. Everything she had read told her that she’d be sick for the first three months but here she was, six months in and it was still puke city. She would try to get through this comprehension before going out to the loo. No. She wasn’t going to last. To hell with it anyway. She’d have to leg it if she wanted to get there in time. She pushed her chair back noisily and tripped over the desk in front of her.
‘Shite!’ Every pair of eyes in the room bored into her.
‘Shona Moran! What are you up to now?’ Mr Cannon was up and marching towards her.
Shona pulled herself off the floor and pushed past the startled man.
‘Gotta go to the toilet, Mr Cannon.’ She was running now.
‘There’s only ten minutes left, Shona. Surely you can wait.’ But she was out the door and racing, just making it into the cubicle in time. When she was finished, Shona lowered the seat and sat and cried. Her father would tell her that there were worse things that could happen. They had prayed at assembly that morning for the families of the Irish women who had been killed in that bomb in Saudi Arabia. That was awful, but this was happening to her.
Ten minutes later Shona heard a light tap on the door.
‘Shona Moran. Are you still in there?’ The unmistakable clipped tones of her school principal.
Shona didn’t answer. Mrs Brogan could go to hell. They all could. For six years Mrs B had been telling her where she was going wrong with everything and how if she would only try a little bit harder she could do great things with her life. Well Old Broggers couldn’t even try to tell her how to fix this. Shona Moran was seventeen years old and she was having a baby.
‘Shona… Open the door please.’
Nothing.
‘Shona. Mr Cannon has informed me that you upset all the other students with the commotion of leaving the exam room. I hope you have a very good explanation young lady. I’m waiting here until you come out and if I find out that you have notes in there with you during these practise examinations, I promise you that you’ll face the full consequences.’
Shona started to laugh. Broggers thought that she’d been cogging. If only her problem was that small.
‘It’s not funny, Shona. I’m going to climb over the wall into the toilet and open the door myself if you don’t come out right now!’
This made Shona laugh even louder. The very thought of the ancient principal, trying to climb over the wall from the next toilet, made her howl.
‘Fine! Have it your way!’
Shona stopped when she heard noises from the other toilet, where Mrs Brogan was indeed trying to climb her way into the cubicle. Jesus. ‘Okay, okay. I’m coming out.’ She heard the sound of the old woman retreating and pulled the lock slowly. She moved out into the sink area and the principal walked past her. Shona watched as the woman began to search the area, lifting the lid of the cistern to make a thorough search.
‘You won’t find any notes belonging to me, Mrs Brogan.’ The woman ignored her and kept up the search. Then she turned and stared at Shona.
‘There’s a terrible smell in here, Shona. Were you sick?’ The principal kept looking at her and Shona saw the light come on as the woman realised why Shona Moran had had to race to the bathroom ten minutes from finishing the Spanish exam, and why her eyes were red from crying. Mrs Brogan’s eyes dropped to Shona’s middle and took in the large jumper that looked odd on her tiny body, and couldn’t hide her secret anymore. Shona waited for her to shriek at her and demand that she go straight to her office immediately, where Mrs Brogan would give her a final dressing down – the last of so many and this time for the ultimate sin. She was trying to stare her out but the woman was looking at her strangely. A look that made Shona want to cry, instead of giving in to the defiance she was trying to hold on to.
But the tears won and next thing she knew she was in Mrs Brogan’s arms crying her heart out.
Chapter three
I sit rigid in the passenger seat beside Omar. He’s chatting about his day; waffling on about the latest football results. He continues his one-sided discussion about his wife Karima and her constant nagging; subjects that I used to join in with; laugh at even but that was the old me who loved Omar. This is the man who taught me how to play football and who is cool enough to know all the latest computer games. My driver has known me since I was a baby and I’ve respected him all my life. But here I am, clutching the seat, clenching my teeth, pushing my feet into the floor to try to quell my temper, and what my mother would call a seventeen-year-old rage gets the better of me as the words fly out like bullets.
‘Shut your mouth you stupid, ignorant servant!’ I yell. ‘Know where your place is when nobody wants to listen to your constant prattling. Drive me home and leave me in peace. I’m not a child anymore. Speak to me as you do my father. Now, shut up and drive!’ I want to stop, to swallow my words back down again. I can’t believe what I’m saying. I’m so angry. Will it ever stop?
Speeding along the road for the next ten minutes in silence, Omar’s eyes are staring hard, his knuckles white against the wheel. He pulls into the car park outside our house and makes a big gesture of walking around to let me out of the car, glaring at me as he makes a sweeping bow in my direction.
I feel his patience thinning as he slams the door of my father’s red Mercedes. I’m closing off his friendship. Soon there’ll be no one to talk to. Maybe that’s a good thing. What is there to talk about anyway?
There it is. The muzzein call to prayer. Once more Allah’s giving me a place to run to. A sanctuary. I need no one else. Dropping my school books on the floor inside the door, I walk in the direction of the mosque. Five times a day I’m at peace, magnetically drawn to Allah; my one constant. I’ll try to speak to the Imam after prayer. My teacher is the only person who makes sense. He can guide me, help me on the right path; straight ahead to Allah.
But at the mosque there’s no relief.
‘Have you no studies to go home to Majid?’ The Imam touches my shoulder as I finish the sentence of my Dua. I look up at my mentor and I watch him taking in my pained face. Praying isn’t giving me the strength I need today.
‘I feel bare, Imam. What will fill me?’ I am pleading with him for an answer. ‘My words are empty. Prayers pour out and drain my voice, but the thoughts that should match them are vacant.’
Imam Wassim crouches down on the floor to be near me before he speaks.
‘The questions you want answers to are there for you in the Qur’an, as everything is, Majid. It is the book of life. You must read and read your book until the meaning is clear. Mohammed’s writing is plain, peace be upon him, but we need to see it through focused eyes. Concentrate on the language and repeat the questions to yourself. Allah will give you the answers.’
I’m clinging to his every word.
‘The rules by which we must live our lives are all there,’ he tells me. ‘It is with purposeful mind that we will interpret the word most accurately. When you read with eyes, and mind and heart wide open, and you ask your questions, the meaning will be clear and you will know what to do. Choose your interpretation wisely, young man, allow yourself to be filled with his knowledge, and follow one straight path to Allah.’
For a moment he has me enthralled and then he ruins it.
‘Now go, Majid,’ he says. ‘Eat the food that your mother gives you, eh? Try to find it in your heart to forgive those who have read the Qur’an wrongly and taken Shadia away from us. Read your school books and allow your mind to grow. Then use your wisdom to find the answers to your questions. The peace of Allah be upon you.’ His hands on my head are there to bless me but I just feel their weight, nothing more. We rise slowly and I follow him with my head hanging as together we walk out to the heat and glare of the sun.
Wassim turns towards me and pulls my chin upwards to face him. I force myself to look at him.
‘I know it’s only been a few weeks, Majid but you must try to forgive…’
I am angry again and this time with the Imam? I shout at him before he can say anymore.
‘Forgive those who have taken Shadia away from us, Imam? Never. I know that the people who planted the bomb on the carousel were angry. I’ve read everything that has been written in the newspapers about these men. They say that they have shown their voice against the Western influences contaminating our religion, our women and our culture. Slowly over the last few weeks, I’ve come to realise that of course they were wrong to kill; but they are right in their belief that Western people who Godlessly populate Saudi Arabia need to be removed from our society.’
Wassim reaches out to touch my shoulder and I try not to wince. I half listen to him, ready to bite back.
‘Need to be murdered, Majid? And take good Muslims like Shadia with them? They read the Qur’an wrongly, and the newspapers are written to hold Saudi people in a good light. Everything that has happened is wrong; caused by people with no real knowledge of the way that Allah works. They killed good people who were only here with their families, doing their job.’
I’m having none of his righteousness. I’ve read up on all of this. I know the way things are now and how wrong Shadia’s friendship with the Irish girl was. I try to speak quietly now to allow him to see that I’m right.
‘Shadia’s friend Maeve argued with her about what she thought were the wrongs of Saudi law. Islamic law. She filled Shadia’s head with this. Maeve was born in this country and was supposedly one of the Westerners more sympathetic to the Saudi ways… So how bad must the others be and how much are they actually corrupting Saudi life?’
I take a deep breath and continue. ‘You are the Imam. Aren’t you looking deep into what has happened? Of all people, you should understand what drove these men to do what they did. I hate Shadia’s killers, but more than that, I hate the reason behind their action.’
Wassim shakes his head and sighs. My fight is back.
‘The Western people need to leave our country, Imam. They have no place here. Saudis are educated enough to do the jobs that the Westerners once held power with. We have no need for them now. Not them nor their women or children. We don’t need their wickedness and Godlessness infiltrating our lives.’
‘Majid, Majid…’ I can feel his condescending manner. ‘You are only seventeen. What do you know? Everyone can understand your anger and I know that the hurt you are feeling will take time to heal, but…’
‘No!’ My roar shocks even me and makes me stumble away from Wassim. ‘Nobody can understand how it feels to lose Shadia. Her friendship with Maeve and her Irish family was wrong. They are the reason that Shadia is dead… and you know what? It’s working. I hear her family are leaving to go back to Ireland. I hope that every Irish person in Saudi goes with them… and every Western piece of…’
‘Majid! Enough. You are as poisoned as the men who committed this terror against you. Go home, Majid. Pray and rest. Come back to me this evening and we will talk about this more, but for now go home and calm down.’
What does he know, this old man? I rage at his lack of understanding and fall away from him. My steps become faster and I run the path to home.
The spicy smell of food wafts from the kitchen and I’m hungry but I don’t want to eat or sit with them, and listen to their false cheerfulness. I reach for my school bag, still where I left it, but then I drop it. Who is Imam Wassim to tell me to concentrate on my studies? If he knew how obsessed my English teacher is about American literature and Western poetry he would insist that we never go near him. I know I speak English with Americanisms because of his years spent living and teaching in New York. If he loves it all so much he should go back and stay there.
I turn to go to look for Omar. I hate the feelings building in my stomach since we spoke earlier. He’ll be in his cabin at this time of day and I can eat with them. We can cry for Shadia together. Nearing the door which is slightly ajar, I hear voices inside.
‘This time we should go together, Omar. We haven’t visited Pakistan as a couple since we left there twenty years ago. First you go, then two years later I go. It’s not natural.’
Karima’s talking about Pakistan? Of course. It’s coming up to four years since Omar’s last visit. With everything that’s happened, I’ve forgotten the thing that would normally fill me with dread.
‘You know we can’t do that. Firstly we have only saved enough money for one visit. Secondly, we couldn’t leave the Al Faisals without both of us for two months. The whole house would fall apart.’ Omar’s voice is pragmatic.
‘Bah! Let it fall. They might appreciate us a little more on our return. This family doesn’t know how lucky it is with you and me running their lives, and us without a child to interfere with the demands of that pair. Omar! Bring the car to the front. I need to meet my cousin at The Kingdom Shopping Centre! As if her very life depended on it. And Karima! Nazir has invited ten work colleagues to dinner tonight. We need to impress them, but at the same time make it look casual. Let them run themselves for a while.’
Both of them? They would walk out now at this time? I push the door hard so it stands completely open, showing the picture of Omar and Karima sitting hand in hand at their tiny table. At first I am taken aback to see them in any position that isn’t in line with their role within our household, but I recover my wits in time to shout.
‘Go to Pakistan then! Both of you! Pretend, like my parents do, that nothing’s happened! Shadia hasn’t died. She wasn’t burned to death, screaming. There’s nothing wrong with the world. We’ll carry on as normal and it’ll all go away. Go! Nobody else cares what happened so why should you? Maybe it would be best if you both stayed in Pakistan and never came back!’ I bark at Omar and feel the energy sap from me, just as the words of Mohammed drained from me earlier.
Omar and Karima stand at my interruption. Omar comes around to the front of the table and reaches out to me, but I slap his hand away and spit at his feet.
‘I don’t need you,’ I hiss. ‘I need nobody but Allah.’
I turn and grab the flimsy handle of their cabin door and slam it in my foster father’s face.
Chapter four
Tommy sat in the small kitchen, nursing a black coffee and waiting for the post. He and his pals had been celebrating his eighteenth birthday the night before and he was feeling the repercussions. He had dragged himself out of bed twenty minutes early so he could be ready to open his school report, with his mock exam results, himself. He didn’t want to hang around and wait for his dad to tell him again how little he was impressed with his choice of college applications.
Tommy’s mam had wanted to be a teacher. If she were here she’d give him a bit of encouragement. Tommy looked around the room that still captured the times when his mother had been alive. All those things in their terraced house that his mam and dad had chosen together; kept the way they had always been… but now jaded. Tommy’s thoughts were interrupted by his rumbling stomach. He could murder a bacon sandwich but he couldn’t shift himself in the direction of the grill. Maybe his dad would do the honours when he came in.
Rubbing his eyes Tommy resolved to steer clear of the pints for a while, or at least until his Leaving Certificate exams were over at the end of June. A couple of months. He pushed back his straight brown hair and rubbed his temples. The flutter of envelopes through the letterbox made him jump up and he rushed to pick up the mail.
Putting the Northside People newspaper and the bills addressed to his dad to the side; he picked up the envelope with The parents of Thomas Farrell written on it and wandered back towards the kitchen. He began to open the letter but stopped in his tracks as his mobile vibrated in his back pocket. He didn’t recognise the number and answered it curiously.
‘Eh, yeah?’
‘Hiya, Tommy.’
‘Who’s this?’
‘It’s Shona, Tommy. Shona Moran.’
‘Shona who?’ Tommy scrunched up his face trying to place her. She sounded very nervous, and then he remembered. ‘Oh, Shona from work?’ Tommy was amazed to hear from her. They had little in common and hardly ever spoke to each other at their weekend job in the bar. Except for that awful night. The thought made him shiver.
‘Yeah, that Shona. You know loads of Shonas?’
‘No. I meant… never mind. What’s up? You want to swap shifts at work?’
‘Em, no, Tommy. You see, I know this is going to come as a shock to you and a telephone call’s probably a terrible way to let you know this, but I suppose it’s better than an email or text or something. I’ve tried to tell you a few times at work but I keep clamming up.’
The girl was ranting. Would she ever get on with it? Whatever it was.
‘Shona, what is it?’
‘Look, Tommy, we’ve kind of ignored the fact that we slept together the night of Mick’s twenty-first birthday. I know I was out of it, we both were I suppose, but I do vaguely remember.’
‘Some things are best forgotten about, Shona.’ Shit. The girl was sniffing at the other end of the phone. She couldn’t be crying over that night. ‘Like you said, Shona, we were both out of it.’
‘Yeah, well it seemed best at the time that we forgot about it. And, well, I know that we don’t really know each other at all but… now that this has happened… we’ll have to get to know each other a lot better.’
Tommy swallowed. She was definitely crying. What was he going to say to her? It wasn’t as if Tommy was the kind of guy who slept around. This had simply been a mad drunken grope that had got out of hand, and it was months ago now. Ancient history. He sat down on the nearest chair and stared at the envelope still half open in his hand. What was she on about?
Reluctantly he brought his mind back to waking up next to Shona the morning after Mick’s birthday… What..? Six months ago? It had taken some time to figure out where he was. The overturned beer cans in the room, the half-eaten sausage rolls and the filthy ashtrays had made him realise that he’d crashed at the house where the party was held. He had eased himself out of the bed and had been amazed to find himself stark naked. Moving his eyes around the room looking for his clothes he had stopped when they landed on his jeans, sitting on top of a red dress. Nearby, a pair of black high heels, stockings and a red thong swiftly brought about the memory that he had slept with Shona Moran.
Now she was calling him and crying down the phone. Did she think they had something going? All this time later? He waited for her to catch her breath. He had to be firm with her. There was no way he was ever going to have anything to do with the girl again. He tore back the envelope in his hands a little more.
‘Hardly anyone knows about this, Tommy and I’d appreciate it if we could keep it to ourselves for a little longer until we’ve made some plans.’
Plans? Tommy felt sick. With his left hand almost crumpling the top of the letter, he stared down at the list of five A’s on the page. Then one B and a C. He would have to pull his socks up in maths and biology… Wait a minute… Fucking hell. She couldn’t mean…
‘I’m pregnant.’ Shona let out a huge sob. ‘I’m already six months gone. I’m so scared Tommy. I don’t know what to do. Please. Can we meet to talk about it?’ Tommy said nothing.
‘I’m only seventeen, Tommy. I can’t believe this. I have to talk to you or I’ll go mad. Everyone at work is always saying that you’re a good guy, so I know you won’t let me down. You won’t, Tommy, will you? We’re both working this Saturday night. Maybe we can talk after? Okay?’ Her sobbing was reduced to sniffing again. Tommy still said nothing.
‘Tommy? Are you alright? Tell me it’s okay, Tommy. You’ll talk to me. Won’t you? On Saturday. Won’t you?’
‘Yeah. Yeah, sure.’ What more could he say? He ended the call and put the phone down on the table. Tommy remembered looking back at her asleep in the bed before he’d high-tailed it out of the room. Her makeup had been streaked across her face, lipstick and mascara meeting each other somewhere in the middle. The bottle of beer on the locker beside her had upturned across her pillow and reduced her hair to a sticky mess. Tommy had been disgusted at himself as he left. When she was sober Shona was really gorgeous, but she was definitely ugly when she was drunk.
Tommy’s mind started racing. How did he know that it was his anyway? This was Shona Moran. She couldn’t remember who she was talking to half the time, never mind who she… Maybe she might want to have an … Too bloody late for that. Oh for fuck’s sake.
Tommy sat at the kitchen table staring at his school results and then at the phone, willing the conversation away.
We’ll have to get to know each other a lot better…
Who wanted to get to know Shona Moran, never mind have a baby with her?
Damn her and her… He would still go to college. This wasn’t on. He had just turned eighteen for God’s sake.
The key turned in the front door lock and Tommy saw his father’s silhouette through the glass. He ran to the toilet clutching the letter. He’d take a few deep breaths…
‘Tommy! Are you up?’
‘In the loo, Da.’ Tommy’s voice came out as a squeak.
‘I`ve been for the paper… So, did your results come?’
‘Eh… The post came but there was nothin’ for me.’ Tommy scrunched up the letter from school and stuck it into the pocket of his jeans.
‘That’s strange. Maybe tomorrow, son. Sure, you know already that you did brilliantly.’ His dad had obviously decided to be encouraging now. He must have realised how determined Tommy was.
‘Do you want a cup o’ tea Tom?’
‘No thanks, Da…Eh… I’m not feelin’ very well… I think I’ll go back to bed.’ Tommy stood in the tiny toilet gripping the sink for support, trying to focus on the striped wallpaper reflected in the scratched mirror. The lines kept moving from left to right. Stale beer and bad news churned together in his stomach.
‘What kind of hour did you come in this mornin’ Tom?’ Stephen raised his voice to carry down the hallway towards the toilet door and Tommy’s unwilling ears. He didn’t answer.
‘At least you did come home this time.’ Tommy heard his dad bang his mug on the sideboard.
Exhaling long and hard, Tommy hadn’t realised he’d been holding his breath. His dad must be referring to the Shona night. His timing was perfect in bringing that one up again.
The lines in the mirror began to circle around him. Tommy heard the rustle of his father’s paper and the clanging of the mug on the pine table. The usual morning routine. Coffee, paper, shower, tidy the house… Everything was normal… Jesus Christ… Shona Moran’s pregnant.
‘All the same, Tommy…’ His dad was off again. ‘…You’ll have to be a bit more responsible with the late nights and all if you want to become a teacher. You’ll find out soon enough that lookin’ after kids is feckin’ hard work.’
Clutching the sink with one hand and the cistern with the other, Tommy reached over the toilet. His stomach heaved and he spewed the contents of last night’s pint glasses into the bowl. When he was sure he was finished he flushed and watched his life spiralling downwards and disappearing from sight. He closed the seat, his legs refusing to hold him up any longer, and he sat with his head in his hands trying, in vain, to block it all out.
Chapter five
A never-ending sunny day is how we Saudis have always spoken of life within The Kingdom and I agreed. Before.
But today, looking through the large picture window in our family sitting room, I’m watching the unexpected rain spatter angrily against its panes. Dark clouds have hung from the Riyadh skies for hours now, blocking out the sun’s rays and covering the city’s skyscrapers with a despondent gloom. They were built to reflect the sun and look wilted in the shade, like we’re being invaded by Western skies.
I flick the remote control in the direction of the television. The old me would have immediately pressed a different switch if the news had shown up, but these days I’m very interested in what’s happening in the world. I watch the pictures on the screen fill with the majestic presence of our Crown Prince, as his false smile welcomes the Irish ambassador to the palace, and the hairs rise on the back of my neck; the newsreader’s voice grating with every word…
The Irish ambassador and His Royal Highness, discussed regional and international issues. Particular emphasis was placed on the recent bombing at Al Hokair Park, where most of the five casualties were Irish, and the subsequent emigration of Western workers from Saudi Arabia.
A dinner was hosted at the Yamamah Palace in the ambassador’s honour and was attended by His Royal Highnesses Prince…
I listen in disgust to the litany of princes and ministers and dignitaries of The Kingdom of Saudi Arabia that have graced the dinner at the palace. I watch the scenes of opulence and falsity that surround the feast while the Irish man is fawned over by the Saudi elite. I will him to choke on his roast baby camel.
‘That’s it! Lick his backside, why don’t you?’ I throw my hands in the air, knowing I am only speaking to the television screen, but not caring. ‘This man comes here to Saudi Arabia as a Westerner sticking his nose in where it isn’t wanted.’ I stand and walk towards the screen; the discussion feels real to me as if I am sitting in the palace beside the Prince himself.
‘You are Western so you don’t belong here.’
I stare at the haughty, self-important look on this so-called honoured guest’s face and feel my throat constrict with loathing for the man. For what he represents. For Ireland. For the West. I think back to the night that took Shadia on the 17th of March; the Irish national day. I see it still… the park decorated with Irish flags and lit up with green lights. Why did I give in to her pleas to go out that night, actually intervening with her father to allow her to go?
This man is responsible. Organising a celebration of something that should not be celebrated. Not here.
‘This country doesn’t need you.’ I tell him. ‘Go back to your own world and take all your Irish trash with you.’
I know my mother is hovering in the doorway now; unsure how to deal with my tantrums, as she calls them. I ignore her and continue to shout. I need to tell him… to get it out.
‘The cream of our country waits on your every word. Our Prince, with his visiting British princes and his embracing and understanding of other religions. How dare he? How dare they all and how dare the Irish?!’ I spit out the words. ‘Get out! Get the Westerners out of The Kingdom! They bring nothing but trouble here!’ I sink back into the sofa and push my black curls back with my sweating hands. ‘Shadia’, I sob. ‘Shadia, Shadia…’
Some time passes before something on the coffee table catches my eye. I snatch the magazine up, looking around quickly to check that my mother has gone. It’s open on an advertisement for the Riyadh Motor Show; another reminder of the people and places that I’ve been shutting out of my life. Every year, for as long as I can remember, Omar has taken me to the motor show. It was always just the two of us, our special day out. In the last few years my father has taken a lot of persuading to let his son spend a day out with a servant but he always relents in the end.
We rise early in the morning and after Fajr we head off to have breakfast with some of Omar’s friends; always a noisy, happy affair. We spend the day going from car to car, sitting in some, gazing yearningly at others, taking in all their intricate details. The wonderful commotion of the all-male exhibition is something I dream about for months beforehand. I’m always a part of that important day, when Omar and I are allowed to choose the family car for the coming year.
I stare at the picture on the page. The amazing, red A Class Mercedes staring back at me. This year was to have been our finest hour. Since I turned about eleven, we’ve discussed what car I would have as my first; the turning point of my youth Omar calls it; the marking of the man I am to become. All my school friends are talking about the new cars they’ll get when they graduate. We were going to show them all. We would buy the best. Black interior. Red exterior. Fast. It would drive like a dream.
But not now. Maybe not ever. Not with Omar anyway.
I think who might have left the magazine out on the table. Nobody else in this family is remotely interested in cars. Not my brother Abdul, with his one-track mind when it comes to horses and racing, the pride of our grandfather Mohammed Abdul. Not Mama; whose idea of cars doesn’t extend beyond having Omar bring the car, any car, around to the front of the house and point it in the direction of The Kingdom Shopping Centre. Not Baba; who leaves the choosing and discarding of cars completely in the hands of people who work for him, extending his arms to sign on the bottom of the cheque. Not the sisters – both too young and neither of them serious about anything in life as yet.
It has to have been Omar. He must have been discussing this year’s car with my father. Were they discussing me? Did my supposed new car come up in conversation? Do they think they can buy me back with a stupid old car?
Not a chance. I don’t need their stupid funds to live my life. I have Allah. Wealth and material goods are a symbol of Western culture. Money is why the Irish are here.
I rip out the offending advertisement, ball it up and throw it across the room. It’s coming to the time of the evening prayer and I will pray to Allah for the strength to resist their temptations. I leave the room, kicking the ball of red and black paper into the hall. I march through the door at the side of the house, their house, and slam it; leaving it and my mother, who had only retreated as far as the hall it seems, shaking.
At the front of the house, I stop short as I see the car parked showily across the front steps, the backdrop of the fountains lending it an extra arrogance, of which it has no need. This must be why the magazine was open… They’ve already bought it…
As it stands, gleaming in its newness despite the lack of sunshine, the unseasonal spots of rain lend it a touch of the exotic.
Red exterior.
Black interior.
A fast looking Mercedes. Not exactly the A class, but beautiful.
The keys dangling in the ignition invite me to sit in. I slide open the door and slip into the driver’s seat, all thoughts of my earlier anger disappearing at the sight of this magnificent, enthralling machine. Within seconds I have turned the ignition on and am cruising out the gates. I can vaguely hear the muzzein call to prayer but let the words fade away behind me.
Forty minutes later, I am passing King Khaled International Airport. The rain has stopped and the sun is trying to come out. Riyadh is beginning to look a little bit more like itself. My thoughts during the drive have returned to my earlier anger and I allow it to revisit and take over the joy I had felt behind the alluring wheel of the Mercedes.
I round the airport and head for the famous red sand dunes behind, where Abdul, Baba and I have spent many weekends wadi bashing in our elaborate four-wheel drives over the years. The area is deserted today; the weather a deterrent to all part-time adventurers. I swerve as a few disgruntled camels edge across the road in my path. I know that the skill needed to drive up and over those dunes, and through the wadis, is something that has to be acquired. It’s something that should only be attempted in a high-powered four-wheel drive on a dry sunny day. Any other car would be wrecked, ruined beyond recognition, if it was used for such an activity.
With this thought in my mind and a gleam in my eyes, I drive my new car towards the highest dune.
Chapter six
‘Will we sit here, Shona?’
‘Yeah, Tommy. Grand.’
Shona and Tommy made a big deal of placing drinks, shedding coats and getting themselves settled in a quiet corner of the pub.
‘So. How are you then?’
‘Eh, you know. Brilliant!’
The reality of the situation was beginning to hit Tommy. At least Shona had had six months to get over it. All evening at work he had found himself staring at Shona’s middle for signs of a bump. She was still wearing a baggy hoodie over her short skirt but now that he was looking he wondered how he hadn’t noticed before.
Tommy’s fingers were so tight around his untouched pint that the glass was in danger of breaking. It had been a long night at work and he wanted to be at home. But here he was, discussing shared parenthood with a girl he didn’t even like.
‘I know we’re not exactly the best of friends, Shona. But, eh, I wanted to say that I’ll support you… with whatever. I don’t even know what that involves, but, sure, I’ll do my best. You know?’