Well, this was an end to it. This was the end of it; this was the fucking limit of it. Because it was laughable, laughable, what she had done, what she had tried to do — as though he would want to touch her. As though he had ever, ever wanted to touch her; did she really think otherwise? Did she really delude herself so badly? No — no — she was not to touch him, now, she was not to even try to touch him — she was to keep her hands well and truly clear of him, that was what she was to do, and she was not to come near him again, and she was certainly not to come near his boyfriend again, and she was to leave them the fuck alone, and get her own life, not this pathetic, clinging shit she was up to now, acting like someone who was actually insane — no. No more, Catherine. He was not doing this anymore; he was not putting up with this anymore. He would not be coming here anymore; he would miss seeing Amy and Lorraine and Cillian, but they would find other ways to see each other; they would find other ways to maintain the friendships that had been in place long before she had come along, and that would be in place long, long after.
And as for Liam — he and Liam — he and Liam were getting out of the city this weekend, up to stay with Liam’s parents, because Christ knew they needed to get away for a couple of days after the shit she had put them through; Christ knew they needed to get out of the city and somewhere they could relax without worrying about bumping into her, or about being stalked by her — because that was what she had been doing, did she not understand? Stalking them? Stalking them like some kind of fucking psychopath?
They were gone—did she understand that? They were getting on a bus in the morning, and they were gone.
Did she understand that?
Fucking nutcase. Fucking limit.
* * *
(And God help her, what she most wanted to know, in that moment, was whether Liam’s parents knew about Liam and James. Whether Liam had told them. Whether, when they arrived up there for the weekend, would it be as a couple, would James be there as Liam’s boyfriend, and would Liam’s parents have no issue with that? Would Liam’s parents be happy for them to walk around the town, whatever town it was, and for anybody who saw them to see them? And maybe to know?)
(This was what she found herself thinking, as she watched the front door slam.)
(Which meant that he was right, didn’t it?)
(Christ, you were taught and taught well.)
* * *
“Don’t even talk to me,” Lorraine said, when Catherine walked back into the sitting room, shaking, the tears finally, frantically beginning to fall. “Don’t even look at me, Catherine. I can’t believe you. I can’t believe you would try to do that to him. After all that he’s gone through. After all we’ve seen him go through. He’s finally happy, and you try to — you try to — I can’t even understand you. I don’t want to understand you. I have to be honest with you, Catherine, I think you should go. I think you should leave. I don’t think there’s any place for you here anymore.”
(He never said he was happy, was what Catherine thought.)
* * *
And she did not expect that Lorraine would talk to her again.
She expected that the silent treatment she was given that evening, and the next evening, and all of Saturday morning, and into Saturday afternoon — Lorraine and Cillian ignoring her, talking to one another as though she was not there — would continue, and that it would be a full weekend of silence, and a full week of it, and another, until she managed to find another place in which to live—
And she was fine with that. Or she was growing fine with that. She had cried all the tears she had to cry. She had hoped all the hope she was going to bother with. She had no use for it anymore. She needed to leave no room for it. This was not, it turned out, a terrible feeling. This numbness, this emptiness, was not the worst way to feel. She watched a lot of television, and she did not move from the armchair which was farthest from the sitting-room door, so that, if someone came in, she would find herself less tempted to look at them, less naturally inclined—
It was golf on the television all that Saturday afternoon, which she did not understand even in the slightest, but which she let herself watch for hours anyway. Slumped in the armchair for two days. No horoscopes on the Friday; they could do without her, she had decided. She had made a couple of grand out of them, and that would keep her going for a while, that would give her the deposit and the first month’s rent on a new place, and someone else, some other robot, could create lies about how people’s lives were going to turn for them, about how people’s days were going to be—
Her poems; maybe she would go back to her poems now, or maybe—what happens in the heart—maybe, actually, probably not. Something else. Something with a cleaner, blanker kind of slate. Putt again of the golf ball, and murmur of applause from the crowd so genteel that they did not even need a cordon, the crowd who stood there like good boys and girls, trailed the golfers across the course like a sea of chaperones. Putt. And applause. And the sun was streaming hot through the big bay window. And the picture on the television was filtered through its dusty, heavy haze. A red band running around the bottom of the screen now, but Catherine could not make it out, Catherine could not be bothered to squint at it; putt, and applause. Putt, and applause. Walk, and the crowd goes with you — stop, and the crowd stops too—
Then a clatter from the hallway. The clatter of someone tripping on the way from the kitchen, and then, over the clatter, someone calling her name. Someone coming closer; someone up on their feet again, coming towards the sitting room, calling — shouting — Catherine’s name.
Lorraine.
Catherine almost laughed at the sound of her; that didn’t last long, was what she thought. Probably, Lorraine had discovered that all her cigarettes were gone, and had made the assumption that Catherine had helped herself to what was left of hers. But she was wrong, and Catherine looked forward to telling her. Catherine looked forward to—
Lorraine at the sitting-room door now.
“Catherine,” she said again, and Catherine saw; Lorraine had the transistor radio from the kitchen clutched in her hands.
Her voice, when she said Catherine’s name, sounded at once very old and very young.
And her face. It surprised Catherine that faces could actually turn that pale. That they could be so drained; drained of every drop of blood. And yet, still, the freckles as dark as ever; seeming darker, even, and more vivid, even, against the whiteness; spilling across the whiteness like tarnished stars.