The Mystery of Mercy Close Read Free Page B

Bruno said.
    ‘Bruno!’ Artie yelled at him.
    ‘Sorry, Helen.’ Bruno knew the drill. He turned away, but not before I’d seen him mouth the words, ‘Fuck you, cunt-face.’
    It took all of my self-control not to mouth back, ‘No, fuck
you
, fascist-boy.’ I was almost thirty-four, I reminded myself. And Artie might see.
    I was diverted by a light flashing on my phone. A new email fresh in. Intriguingly entitled ‘Large slice of humble pie’. Then I saw who it was from: Jay Parker. I nearly dropped the machine.
Dearest Helen, my delicious little curmudgeon. Although it kills me to say it, I need your help. How about we let bygones be bygones and you get in touch?
    A one-word reply. It took me less than a second to type.
No.
    I let Bella fiddle about with my hair and I sipped my valerian tea and I watched the Devlins do their jigsaw and I wished the lot of them – except Artie, of course – would piss off. Couldn’t we at least go inside and turn on the telly? In the house I’d grown up in we’d treated ‘outside’ with suspicion. Even at the height of summer we never really got the point of gardens, especially because the lead on the telly didn’t stretch that far. And the telly had been important to the Walshes; nothing, but
nothing
, had ever happened – births, deaths, marriages – without the telly on in the background, preferably some sort of shouty soap opera. How could the Devlins stand all this
conversation
?
    Perhaps the problem wasn’t them, I realized. Perhaps the problem was me. The ability to talk to other people seemed to be leaking out of me like air out of an old balloon. I was worse now than I was an hour ago.
    Bella’s soft fingers plucked at my scalp and she clucked and fussed and eventually reached some sort of resolution that she was happy with.
    ‘Perfect! You look like a Mayan princess. Look.’ She thrust a hand-mirror at my face. I caught a quick glimpse of my hair in two long plaits and some sort of handwoven thing tied across my fringe. ‘Look at Helen,’ she canvassed the crowd. ‘Isn’t she beautiful?’
    ‘Beautiful,’ Vonnie said, sounding utterly sincere.
    ‘Like a Mayan princess,’ Bella stressed.
    ‘Is it true that the Mayans invented Magnums?’ I asked. There was a brief startled silence, then the conversation resumed as though I hadn’t said anything. I was
way
off my wavelength here.
    ‘She’s exactly like a Mayan princess,’ Vonnie said. ‘Except that Helen’s eyes are green and a Mayan princess’s would probably be brown. But the hair is perfect. Well done, Bella. More tea, Helen?’
    To my surprise, I’d – at least for the moment – had it with the Devlins, with their good looks and grace and manners, with their board games and amicable break-ups and half-glasses-of-wine-at-dinner-for-the-children. I really wanted to get Artie on his own but it wasn’t going to happen and I couldn’t even muster the energy to be pissed off – it wasn’t his fault he had three kids and a demanding job. He didn’t know the day I’d had today. Or yesterday. Or indeed the week I’d had.
    ‘No tea, thanks, Vonnie. I’d better head off.’ I got to my feet.
    ‘You’re going?’ Artie looked concerned.
    ‘I’ll see you at the weekend.’ Or whenever Vonnie next had the kids. I’d lost track of their schedule, which was a very complicated one. Its basic premise was that the three kids spent scrupulously equal amounts of time at the homes of both their parents, but the actual days varied from week toweek to factor in things like Artie or Vonnie (mostly Vonnie, if you ask me) going on mini-breaks, weddings down the country, etc.
    ‘Are you okay?’ Artie was starting to look worried.
    ‘Fine.’ I couldn’t get into it now.
    He caught my wrist. ‘Won’t you hang on a while?’ In a quieter voice he said, ‘I’ll ask Vonnie to leave. And the kids will have to go to bed at some stage.’
    But it might be hours and hours. Artie and I never went to bed