fine. It's okay. It's funny.
She knows she's smiling.
It's strange, about the house. About her life. New fridge, old blankets. Does anyone else around here still have blankets?
Plenty. There's plenty like Paula. Although it's changing, the whole place. One of the old shops is a cafe now, opened a few weeks ago. An Italian place, real Italians in it. Not chipper Italians. Selling bread and coffee and oil and other expensive stuff Paula would love to load up on. There's a fella that does the bread and pizzas. She's seen him in the window. A dark guy, not that handsome – something about his hands. She doesn't stop to watch. She can't. She can't be caught. She's a widow. She's a big girl. She can't be gawking in windows at middle-aged young fellas.
Hands.
Black hair on the fingers. The hands are on her neck. She feels the fingers. Rubbing gently. Pressing. Her throat is dry. She can't close her mouth. The fingers press harder. She can't cry out, move her mouth. It's dry. Dust, muck. She tries to shout – anything. Whisper, move. She can't.
She wakes. She's awake.
She bit her tongue. Badly. She tastes no blood. But it's sore. It's very sore.
The door.
She's been asleep.
She's awake.
Leanne's home. The door slammed. She doesn't know that. She bit her tongue. That's what woke her. She's awake now. And she heard the door.
Leanne.
She listens.
How long did she sleep? She looks at the clock. Jesus, does she need glasses now as well? She brings her face closer. An hour. A bit more than an hour.
Glasses.
God.
She listens. Leanne is in the kitchen.
Paula won't get up. Leanne would know. Her mother, the alco, checking up on her. Leave the girl alone. She's grand. She's fine. She's fine.
Paula listens. She hears nothing. No falling over. Nothing stupid. She needn't be worried.
But she is.
She listens.
She crosses the kitchen. She pulls back the curtain. A big blast of sunlight. It would have killed her a few months ago. Guilty! It's grand now, though. She loves a bit of sun.
She fills the kettle. She turns on the radio. The News is on – the European elections. Boring, Jesus. But she leaves it on.
Royston Brady. His posters are all over the place. Energy. Drive. His head is on every pole. She doesn't like that version of handsome. That Daniel O'Donnell look. The mammy's boy. The country's full of men like that. They do nothing for Paula. The Royston fella's in trouble. They're talking about it on the News. Something he said about his da being abducted by loyalist terrorists. She must have missed something – that's her life. It doesn't make much sense.
She'll be voting for Proinsias De Rossa. She hasn't voted in years. 1977, she thinks. The only time she voted. De Rossa's Labour, and his eyes are gorgeous. And he's nearer Paula's age. He'll be getting her vote, if she gets round to it.
The kettle's going.
She's forty-eight. Today.
She puts two spoons of coffee into the cup. She's thinking of getting a plunger – real coffee. Another thing on her list. Or one of those espresso makers. It would look great, near the window. She's seen them for sale in the new cafe, on her way past. She's not mad about espresso, though. It's too strong, too druggy.
Dangerous stuff.
She wants a drink.
But she's grand. She looks at her hands, the palms down. They don't look too bad. They look fuckin' dreadful but they're not too bad, considering. Her age, her work. Her life. They should be worse. There are badly mended bones in there. There's bad pain on the wet days.
She listens. No one's getting up.
She listens to the radio. They're still on about the elections. Northern accents, talking about Sinn Féin. She doesn't like Sinn Fein. Her husband loved all that hunger strike stuff. The black armbands, the armed struggle. He was going to march, support the hunger strikers. But he never did. How long ago was that? Years – it must be more than twenty. He didn't march. But he stood still for a minute in the kitchen, a
She knows she's smiling.
It's strange, about the house. About her life. New fridge, old blankets. Does anyone else around here still have blankets?
Plenty. There's plenty like Paula. Although it's changing, the whole place. One of the old shops is a cafe now, opened a few weeks ago. An Italian place, real Italians in it. Not chipper Italians. Selling bread and coffee and oil and other expensive stuff Paula would love to load up on. There's a fella that does the bread and pizzas. She's seen him in the window. A dark guy, not that handsome – something about his hands. She doesn't stop to watch. She can't. She can't be caught. She's a widow. She's a big girl. She can't be gawking in windows at middle-aged young fellas.
Hands.
Black hair on the fingers. The hands are on her neck. She feels the fingers. Rubbing gently. Pressing. Her throat is dry. She can't close her mouth. The fingers press harder. She can't cry out, move her mouth. It's dry. Dust, muck. She tries to shout – anything. Whisper, move. She can't.
She wakes. She's awake.
She bit her tongue. Badly. She tastes no blood. But it's sore. It's very sore.
The door.
She's been asleep.
She's awake.
Leanne's home. The door slammed. She doesn't know that. She bit her tongue. That's what woke her. She's awake now. And she heard the door.
Leanne.
She listens.
How long did she sleep? She looks at the clock. Jesus, does she need glasses now as well? She brings her face closer. An hour. A bit more than an hour.
Glasses.
God.
She listens. Leanne is in the kitchen.
Paula won't get up. Leanne would know. Her mother, the alco, checking up on her. Leave the girl alone. She's grand. She's fine. She's fine.
Paula listens. She hears nothing. No falling over. Nothing stupid. She needn't be worried.
But she is.
She listens.
She crosses the kitchen. She pulls back the curtain. A big blast of sunlight. It would have killed her a few months ago. Guilty! It's grand now, though. She loves a bit of sun.
She fills the kettle. She turns on the radio. The News is on – the European elections. Boring, Jesus. But she leaves it on.
Royston Brady. His posters are all over the place. Energy. Drive. His head is on every pole. She doesn't like that version of handsome. That Daniel O'Donnell look. The mammy's boy. The country's full of men like that. They do nothing for Paula. The Royston fella's in trouble. They're talking about it on the News. Something he said about his da being abducted by loyalist terrorists. She must have missed something – that's her life. It doesn't make much sense.
She'll be voting for Proinsias De Rossa. She hasn't voted in years. 1977, she thinks. The only time she voted. De Rossa's Labour, and his eyes are gorgeous. And he's nearer Paula's age. He'll be getting her vote, if she gets round to it.
The kettle's going.
She's forty-eight. Today.
She puts two spoons of coffee into the cup. She's thinking of getting a plunger – real coffee. Another thing on her list. Or one of those espresso makers. It would look great, near the window. She's seen them for sale in the new cafe, on her way past. She's not mad about espresso, though. It's too strong, too druggy.
Dangerous stuff.
She wants a drink.
But she's grand. She looks at her hands, the palms down. They don't look too bad. They look fuckin' dreadful but they're not too bad, considering. Her age, her work. Her life. They should be worse. There are badly mended bones in there. There's bad pain on the wet days.
She listens. No one's getting up.
She listens to the radio. They're still on about the elections. Northern accents, talking about Sinn Féin. She doesn't like Sinn Fein. Her husband loved all that hunger strike stuff. The black armbands, the armed struggle. He was going to march, support the hunger strikers. But he never did. How long ago was that? Years – it must be more than twenty. He didn't march. But he stood still for a minute in the kitchen, a
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