The Swan Lake Page 8

  Chapter Sixteen

  Eden stares coolly at the woman who sits serenely on a hard chair beside his bed. ‘I don’t need counselling,’ he tells her firmly. ‘I just need to go home and have some peace and quiet.’

  Doctor Sarah Elgar smiles reassuringly. She reminds him of the Cheshire Cat, about to disappear between her own rather large teeth, as she extols the virtues of the retreat that she has been recommending. He mentally flicks an ‘off’ switch and watches her mouth open and close, shaping words that he no longer hears. Eventually she stands and holds out her hand. He shakes it briefly then lies back with a sigh of relief as she exits, leaving the door open. The brochures she brought in lie on the bed and he nudges them, feeling a small sense of satisfaction at the slapping sound they make as they hit the floor. Feet shuffle briefly outside the door, and a shadow lengthens then shortens again and disappears.

  Eden is desperate to leave behind the hospital, the guards who watch his room day and night, the nightmares, the humiliation of collapsing publicly, the crowds of young girls who have discovered his whereabouts and who chant his name far below on the pavements. He’s afraid, and he wants to cancel his past life and start afresh.

  All he can think of to hold the shaky threads of himself together is the house where he was born. Two years ago, when his income reached ludicrous proportions, he offered to buy his parents a larger house with more land, but they refused to consider it and secretly he was pleased and relieved. Each time he drives through the gates he is washed clean by a tide of happy memories. His family are content with what they have; they always were, and they consider it laughable that Eden is paid vast sums of money to stand on a stage and sing. Ireland is abundant with musicians, and Eden never expected to be any different to the hordes of others who always swayed their way to his parents’ house after an evening at the pub. His father plays the fiddle and his mother has a sweet voice, and they tease him about his fame and hide their pride beneath an attitude of bemusement. Eden is now convinced of only two things: he will never sing in public again, and he will go home.

  Slowly, because he feels unaccountably tired, he throws back the covers and dresses in old jeans and a black T-shirt. He packs away the pyjamas, books, and toiletries that Linda, his agent, brought in yesterday. This afternoon he will take the plane home, soaring above the clouds that look like snowscapes, and his mind’s eye conjures up images of patchwork fields, of the Swan Lake, his lifelong place of healing. He tries to block out the horror that was Wembley.

  A light tap at the door makes him flinch, and he looks across quickly, poised to flee. Linda stands in the doorway wearing a sharp suit and a broad smile, gently fanning her face with a set of plane tickets. Eden leaps forwards and throws his arms around her. ‘My saviour!’ he shouts, laughing, as he steps back and holds her by the shoulders. She shrugs and grins.

  Linda has been Eden’s agent since the early days, before fame struck, before it all grew into an amorphous, all-consuming mass that was impossible to control. A piece of her heart broke off and seemed to lodge in her throat when she heard what had happened to Eden. She caught the first available plane from Los Angeles to London to be by his side, and the guilt at not being there while Eden was disintegrating gnaws at her like a razor embedded in her side. She kisses Eden lightly on the cheek.

  ‘I aim to please.’ Her tone is flippant as Eden takes the tickets from her and examines them, looking askance when he realises there are two of them. ‘I’m coming with you, to make sure you arrive safely.’ she tells him. ‘I have to come back to London for a meeting tomorrow, so I’ll be leaving again in the morning. Are you sure you’ll be OK?’

  ‘Linda, I can catch the plane on my own. I’m fine. Honestly.’

  ‘Eden,’ her voice is like cut glass as she smooths back a stray frond of blonde hair, ‘there’ll be chaos if you go out there alone. The press are still camped outside with God knows how many fans.’ Her tone brooks no argument as she slings her voluminous shoulder bag onto the bed, but she smiles sideways at him as she flicks the catch open. ‘Disguise,’ she calls over her shoulder as she draws out a short, light brown wig then turns to tuck his hair out of the way in order to fit it.

  Eden looks in the mirror and makes faces as Linda sticks a matching moustache above his upper lip, and slides a pair of dark glasses onto the bridge of his nose. ‘Thank God it’s sunny out there. You won’t look out of place in these,’ she tells him, making small adjustments then turning him around, stepping back to take an assessing look. ‘No-one will recognise you.’

  He glances at his reflection in the mirror and shakes his head ruefully. ‘To be sure, not even my own mother would know me. Come on, let’s get out of here.’

  Linda has been in love with Eden since Jack Decker, who she currently fantasises about slowly dismembering, introduced his new protégée to her. His raw talent had needed polishing, but she had been immediately aware of his vast potential. His songs bled poetry like sap; it oozed from them, revealing a great deal of the man’s soul. Whilst the lyrics flowed, imbued with imagery, the rhythms behind them pulsed, seducing the listener to a primal reaction; an awakening of blood, bone, and tissue, a pheromone-spurred pumping of the heart, a lifting of the spirits, a desire to raise the arms and stamp the feet, to entwine limbs with another being. The bass notes brought sex to mind, unfettered passion, while the soaring guitar and Eden’s husky voice overlaid those tones with sensuality, with an indescribable yearning, painful in its sweetness.

  To separate the man from the music is as difficult for her as it is for his fans. Linda has worked with many luminaries in the rock world. She has watched her clients perform, make love to the audience, leaving them gasping for more, then step offstage to curse their co-musicians, bitch about the venue or hotel, switch to an alter-ego that bears little resemblance to their public personas. Eden is different. He is polite to everyone, modest about his huge success, and enthusiastic about suggestions for improvements. It has always been apparent that he loves to sing, he lives to sing, and that he has viewed his fame merely as the means to carry on performing. His air of vulnerability is not an act; it is fundamental to him. Eden has always stated that the Muse could desert him at any moment, leaving him dry and empty, and this has left no room for egotism to rear its head. He takes nothing for granted.

  Even without his looks, which he never seems to be aware of or capitalise on, Eden’s performances onstage and his sweetness offstage would have made him beautiful to others. The talent and the self-effacing attitude, combined with his liquid almond eyes and easy smile are devastating, spell-binding. Linda knows from watching those around him as well as from personal experience that it is easy to fall under his spell. Yet there is an elusiveness about him, a sense that he keeps his inner self intensely private. Despite his friendliness, Eden rarely voices opinions about anything other than his music. He has frustrated the press by refusing to reveal anything of his private life, his relationships, his likes and dislikes. Even Linda feels she barely knows the real Eden. This has led to constant hypothesising and rumour. Some say he is gay, others that he has children scattered around the world, still others that he is unintelligent, weak, devoid of personality. The scar on his forehead has given rise to much rumour and hypothesising, but Eden refuses to explain it and, surprisingly, no-one in his homeland seems to be willing to enlighten the press either. Eden keeps his silence, neither confirming nor denying anything that is said or written about him. ‘My music is all that matters,’ he has told his interviewers time after time. ‘Judge me by my music.’ Linda laughed uproariously when Jack Decker told her there was to be a biography about Eden, joking that his only direct quote would be to judge him by his music.

  Linda has nurtured his talent, encouraged him, made suggestions, teamed up with Jack to draw together the team of virtuoso backing musicians. She has booked his hotel rooms personally, sat late into the night with him listening to new songs. She could spend her entire life looking at him, listening to his
soft Irish brogue, wondering what runs through his mind apart from music. Eden, who considers her a trusted friend, would be shocked if he knew. It has never occurred to him that she feels more for him than for any other client. He admires her perceptiveness, her tenacity, her ability to bring order out of chaos, but the thought of a relationship with her has never crossed his mind. Linda has never given a hint of her true feelings, fearful that it would damage their professional as well as personal relationship. If anyone finds out that she turns down all offers from the numerous men who ask her out, they never mention it to her face. Linda has a reputation as a straight-talking tough cookie; she’s known as a ball-breaker in the business, and apart from when she is alone with Eden it suits her to foster that. She was devastated on hearing of Eden’s collapse. And then discovering that they had lied to Eden in telling him that they had spoken to her had her spitting venom. The band and Jack had been crushed and shamed by the tongue-lashing she inflicted on each of them on her mobile whilst rushing to Eden’s bedside.

  The plane touches down smoothly, and Eden and Linda take a taxi to his parent’s home. It is getting dark, an added bonus, though Eden’s disguise seems to have worked well. It pleases Linda immensely to see him relax as they drive through towns and along empty roads towards the house where he was born. He phoned his parents from the airport to say they were on their way, but asked them not to meet him in case the press get wind of his presence there. As the taxi drops them off at the end of the lane, he briefly squeezes Linda’s hand, picks up the two bags of hand-luggage and strides ahead of her with a spring in his step.

  Grace McDonagh opens the door before Eden’s key is fully in the lock, and shrieks with shock at his appearance, then, laughing, steps forward and throws her arms around him. She only reaches to his chest, and Eden picks her up and swings her around, her feet kicking at empty air, as the rest of the family come running. Within seconds he is surrounded by the clamour of his sisters, Maggie and Lizzie, while his father waits patiently behind them until the women, all talking at once, have had their say. Eden’s eyes meet his above their heads, and he winks at his father as if to say ‘Nothing changes.’ Voices wing through the air like fireflies, and he feels warm and safe and happy.

  Linda stands quietly in the garden. She knows this family well, has stayed with them on numerous occasions, and is always touched by the bond that holds them. Sometimes she has to wrestle with a sharp, unwelcome stab of envy. Her family disintegrated when she was only seven years old, and the acrimony of her parent’s divorce lingered like a corrosive chemical throughout her childhood.

  Eventually Eden puts his mother down, laughing as she totters slightly, and reaches a hand behind him to draw Linda into the house. Their gratitude for bringing him home engulfs her like a warm blanket, and she shrugs it off, protesting.

  Eden wakes to a grey, drizzly dawn. He yawns and stretches, and lies for a while, peacefully absorbing the sounds of the morning. Birds call to each other, cows low softly in the distance, waiting to be milked. Leaves whisper as droplets of rain run off them. Nearby a rooster crows, jubilantly greeting the new day. Small rustlings betray the breakfast haunts of feathered and furred creatures.

  Naked, Eden strolls to the window and partially draws back the curtains to survey the landscape he loves. The half-light suddenly explodes into brilliance as countless flash-bulbs sear his eyes and a babble of questions assaults his ears. He steps back, struggling for breath, and, as Grace rushes into his room, darkness engulfs him and the floor rushes up to meet him.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Ryan O’Riley has stayed reluctantly sober for the entire evening at the dinner party. Siobhan watches him like a hawk, and although he enjoyed the company it was hard for him to still the tremor in his hands and the internal ache that intensified as the hours wore on. He was relieved when Flynn rose and offered Astarte, who was too tipsy to refuse, a lift to her guest house. Ryan feels like a child being finally allowed to leave the table and go out to play.

  He drives carefully to a silent home and a dying fire, and pours a generous tumbler of whiskey before adding some turf to the embers and switching on the television. Sitting heavily in the ancient fireside chair, he takes a large mouthful, rolling the fiery liquid around on his tongue before swallowing. Siobhan means well, but it irritates him that she takes it upon herself to try and keep him in line. In a life turned sour, whiskey is his comfort and escape.

  The rumour in the area is that his wife, Cathy, left him because of the drink. And as it was Cathy who started that rumour, there is no reason for this to be disbelieved. The truth, known only to Ryan, Cathy, and Dermott O’Hara, is rather different but not something that he would want to be publicly known. The temptation of oblivion that the amber liquid offered Ryan O’Riley only became appealing when Ryan first discovered that not only had Cathy and Dermott been having an affair since early in the marriage, but also that his beloved son Mark, the pride of his life, is Dermott’s son and not his own. Mark had left home by then, to make his way in Limerick, and is still blissfully in the dark about his parentage. Ryan has no intention of telling him, and he lives in fear that Cathy may do that one day.

  When Cathy finally confessed, Ryan shouted, wept, and smashed most of the crockery in the kitchen. He had never imagined that his outspoken, volatile wife of twenty-five years could be capable of such deception. When his rage was spent he sank to his knees in the mess of broken china and grasped her around her ample hips, pleading with Cathy to stay with him.

  The two months that followed were a living nightmare for both of them. Cathy was like a caged, vicious bird, resenting him for clipping her wings in the name of propriety. And Ryan, who always enjoyed a single tot of whiskey at bedtime, filled his glass a little earlier each evening and refilled it before the last drop was drunk.

  When Ryan came home from evening surgery to find the house bare of furniture except for the tattered fireside chair that Cathy always hated, the television, and their marriage bed, which greeted him each night with recriminations, Ryan gave up. The bottle was opened at breakfast time each day, to fuel him with the courage to face his patients.

  He was always a good doctor. His patients trusted him, but Ryan could no longer trust himself, although he cared deeply for the people who had known him all their lives, many of whom he had coaxed from the womb and held while they took their first breath. He was known for being gentle and thorough, given to calling in to hold a hand or speak a few words of reassurance, and ‘forgetting’ to bill his poorer patients.

  But with Cathy gone he sank into depression. Each person who came to his surgery to pour out their troubles added a little more weight to his increasingly fragile shoulders. Some days he felt his back as well as his heart would break from the strain of carrying so many woes, and his confidence in his ability to be of any help or use deteriorated and finally dissolved altogether. The only course of action he could think of was to declare an early retirement and wait out what time he had left, hoping that it would be brief. Ryan doesn’t realise how much his patients miss his gentle concern. He has no idea that their loyalty is to him, and not to Cathy, who tended to trumpet her superior position as doctor’s wife and was never well-liked.

  Most of his patients have transferred to a doctor in Ennis; a young man, fresh from training, who is bright and keen and teetotal. The older ones go to see Mairie Hennessy for the potions and brews that they still swear by. But some of his patients refuse to see anyone but Ryan, and those he always does his best for. He knows he has only himself to blame for his declining health but, trapped in a cycle of despair, he no longer cares. The past is gone, putrid as maggot-ridden fruit. The future is unthinkable. The present, hidden in the oblivion provided by a bottle of golden liquid, is all that concerns him now.

  The bottle empties, the fire burns to embers, and Ryan’s fingers relax. He rests his head against the back of the chair, for Ryan cannot sleep in the bed that he and Cathy shared, and the glass drops to the floor a
nd rolls against the hearth with a tinkling sound. Slumped in the threadbare chair, oblivious to the cold draft that seeps beneath the door, and the white noise of the television screen, the doctor sleeps the deep slumber of a miniature death.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Astarte jerks into wakefulness, confused and panic-stricken, her heart thumping wildly. Someone is hammering on her bedroom door, shouting her name urgently. Sitting up, her voice thick and hoarse with sleep, she calls out ‘Who is it?’ The dream of a spider weaving a complex web in her new home recedes into the distance as she registers that she is in her room at the guest house. She wraps the duvet around herself and stumbles to stand beside the door. Pale grey light filters through the gap in the curtains and she flicks the light-switch on, blinking in the sudden brightness.

  ‘It’s Sian! Come quick – there’s an emergency!’ Her landlady sounds frantic.

  ‘Is there a fire?’ Astarte drops the duvet and scoops her jeans from the floor where they fell last night. Her head is fuzzy from the aftermath of John’s lethal wine, and she pulls her jeans on, hopping on one leg as she realises that they are half inside-out, and fights to straighten them. She grabs her tee shirt from the back of the chair and struggles into it while she zips up her jeans with one hand.

  ‘No, but it’s an emergency! Hurry up!’ Sian’s tone is harsh, and Astarte detects excitement in it as well as concern. She quickly unbolts the door and Sian reaches in and takes her arm, pulling her off-balance as the rest of her body follows. Sian’s hair sticks up at odd angles, her blouse is wrongly buttoned, and a curler is caught behind her left ear and dangles comically. ‘Come quickly, it’s Eden,’ she calls, hauling Astarte down the stairs. Astarte takes hold of the banister and holds on tightly, digging her bare feet into the carpet. It seems that Sian is having some bizarre nocturnal religious experience, and Astarte has no intention of being caught up in it. Frustrated and frantic, Sian tugs harder, trying to pull Astarte away from the banister. Astarte hangs on tight, refusing to budge.