Watermelon
Page 62
And the poor terrorist would be exhausted and horrified by her.
"Shut up, bitch," he might say.
Although, this being Northern Ireland, "Shot op, botch," would be more like it.
And she might shut up for a moment or two before she'd be off again.
"These are lovely handcuffs. I have handcuffs too but they're only crappy old plastic ones. I suppose this must be one of the perks of the job, being allowed to borrow the good handcuffs. You know, to tie your girlfriend up and that. Although it must be a problem when you've got a prisoner. But I wouldn't mind. You could take them tonight and I promise I won't try to escape..."
And on and on until the terrorists cracked.
Grown men sobbing uncontrollably, "She's horrible, horrible! I'll do whatever you want, but just make her stop."
Helen would arrive back safely to her home, not only with the ransom money returned untouched, but with a sympathy note for her family from the terrorists.
Anyway she eventually left. Some poor idiot named Anthony had the dubious pleasure of her company on the three-hour drive to Belfast. Off she went, sitting in the front seat wearing a pious expression and clutching a bottle of holy water.
She didn't mention Adam before she left.
The cow.
Maybe he was going to Belfast also.
Maybe he was already there.
Maybe all the phone lines in Rathmines were down and that was why he hadn't called me.
Maybe he had been knocked off his bike and was in the hospital with a selection of injuries.
The important thing was that he hadn't called me.
And he wasn't going to.
So now what was I going to do?
215
What I really found peculiar was the way I'd barely given James a thought over the last days. My head had been full of Adam, Adam, Adam.
In the same way that the stewards on the Titanic were more concerned about the unemptied ashtrays on the bar than the enormous hole in the side of the ship which was letting in zillions of gallons of water, I too was worrying about the unimportant and ignoring the vital.
Sometimes it's easier that way.
Because although there was little I could do about the huge hole, it was still within my power to empty an ashtray.
A nice analogy.
But the practical consequences of my feeling that way were that I spent Tuesday mooning around the house.
Not mooning in the drunken football team party sense of the word.
Mooning in the feeling miserable and looking tragic sense of the word.
Did I call James?
I'm sorry, but I didn't.
I was having a bad case of the Self-Pitys.
I was stricken by a particularly virulent form of the Poor-Mes.
No excuse, I realized.
God knows, I wasn't trying to justify myself.
But I was, I was...I was depressed, goddammit.
216
twenty
The next day I wasn't much better.
Jesus! Did you ever meet anyone as self-pitying as me? It was ridiculous and it had to stop.
So I dragged myself out of the bed and tended to Kate. Then I tended to myself. Oh, don't worry, we're not going to have a repeat performance of the getting-drunk-and-not-washing-myself senario.
Oh no, things weren't that bad.
I got through the day.
To be fair, I didn't achieve anything really impressive.
I didn't find a cure for cancer.
I didn't invent run-proof stockings.
And I'm ashamed to tell you that I didn't even call James.
I know, I know! I'm sorry. I know that I should have. I knew that I was avoiding my responsibilities.
But I felt so empty and lonely.
Sad and alone and all the other emotions coming under the genus "Loss," subspecies "rejection."
Anyway I did get up on Thursday.
Not only that, but I called James.
And I wasn't even nervous.
I had Adam to thank for that, because I approached calling James with the attitude of "Huh! Don't think that you're anything special. Because you're not. You're not the only man who can make me feel sad and lonely and rejected. Oh
217
no! There's millions of others who can do exactly what you did. So there!"
Perhaps not an ideal attitude from a self-esteem point of view, but whatever...at least when I dialed the number in London, my hands didn't shake and my voice didn't quaver.
How interesting, I thought.
James no longer had the power to reduce me to a quaking wreck. Well, at least dialing his office number no longer had the power to reduce me to a quaking wreck.
Let's not get carried away here.
In a confident and steady voice I asked the receptionist in his office in London if I could speak to him. I felt as if London was a million miles away. As remote as another planet. You'd never have thought that I saw it every evening on the news. The receptionist sounded very far away, very foreign.
Mirroring the way I felt. My life with James had become very far away, very foreign. Or maybe it was because the receptionist was Greek.
Either way, I was perfectly calm as I waited to speak to him.
I mean, what was the big deal?
What did I have to lose?
Nothing.
As someone once said--a miserable, sardonic, misanthropic someone--freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose.
Up until I heard that I'd thought freedom was being able to go swimming when you had your period.
How misinformed I was.
Of course, you believe anything when you're about twelve.
Did you know that you can't get pregnant if you do it standing up? Honestly, it's true.
And did you know that you can have a baby if you suck the man's thing? But the twelve-year-old me knew that would never happen to me because I'd never do anything as disgusting as suck the man's thing. And I didn't believe for one moment that anyone, anywhere, would do something so revolting and alien.
I could weep for the innocent child, the idealistic twelve-year-old, that I once was.
218
Oh, sorry, sorry, you want to know what happened with James.
Oh, didn't I say?
He wasn't in.
At a meeting, or something.
And, no, I didn't leave my name.
And, yes, you're right if you suspect that I was a bit relieved at not having to talk to him.
But I was in an unimpeachable position.
I'd called him, hadn't I?
I defy anyone to say that I hadn't.
Was it my fault that he was unavailable?
"Shut up, bitch," he might say.
Although, this being Northern Ireland, "Shot op, botch," would be more like it.
And she might shut up for a moment or two before she'd be off again.
"These are lovely handcuffs. I have handcuffs too but they're only crappy old plastic ones. I suppose this must be one of the perks of the job, being allowed to borrow the good handcuffs. You know, to tie your girlfriend up and that. Although it must be a problem when you've got a prisoner. But I wouldn't mind. You could take them tonight and I promise I won't try to escape..."
And on and on until the terrorists cracked.
Grown men sobbing uncontrollably, "She's horrible, horrible! I'll do whatever you want, but just make her stop."
Helen would arrive back safely to her home, not only with the ransom money returned untouched, but with a sympathy note for her family from the terrorists.
Anyway she eventually left. Some poor idiot named Anthony had the dubious pleasure of her company on the three-hour drive to Belfast. Off she went, sitting in the front seat wearing a pious expression and clutching a bottle of holy water.
She didn't mention Adam before she left.
The cow.
Maybe he was going to Belfast also.
Maybe he was already there.
Maybe all the phone lines in Rathmines were down and that was why he hadn't called me.
Maybe he had been knocked off his bike and was in the hospital with a selection of injuries.
The important thing was that he hadn't called me.
And he wasn't going to.
So now what was I going to do?
215
What I really found peculiar was the way I'd barely given James a thought over the last days. My head had been full of Adam, Adam, Adam.
In the same way that the stewards on the Titanic were more concerned about the unemptied ashtrays on the bar than the enormous hole in the side of the ship which was letting in zillions of gallons of water, I too was worrying about the unimportant and ignoring the vital.
Sometimes it's easier that way.
Because although there was little I could do about the huge hole, it was still within my power to empty an ashtray.
A nice analogy.
But the practical consequences of my feeling that way were that I spent Tuesday mooning around the house.
Not mooning in the drunken football team party sense of the word.
Mooning in the feeling miserable and looking tragic sense of the word.
Did I call James?
I'm sorry, but I didn't.
I was having a bad case of the Self-Pitys.
I was stricken by a particularly virulent form of the Poor-Mes.
No excuse, I realized.
God knows, I wasn't trying to justify myself.
But I was, I was...I was depressed, goddammit.
216
twenty
The next day I wasn't much better.
Jesus! Did you ever meet anyone as self-pitying as me? It was ridiculous and it had to stop.
So I dragged myself out of the bed and tended to Kate. Then I tended to myself. Oh, don't worry, we're not going to have a repeat performance of the getting-drunk-and-not-washing-myself senario.
Oh no, things weren't that bad.
I got through the day.
To be fair, I didn't achieve anything really impressive.
I didn't find a cure for cancer.
I didn't invent run-proof stockings.
And I'm ashamed to tell you that I didn't even call James.
I know, I know! I'm sorry. I know that I should have. I knew that I was avoiding my responsibilities.
But I felt so empty and lonely.
Sad and alone and all the other emotions coming under the genus "Loss," subspecies "rejection."
Anyway I did get up on Thursday.
Not only that, but I called James.
And I wasn't even nervous.
I had Adam to thank for that, because I approached calling James with the attitude of "Huh! Don't think that you're anything special. Because you're not. You're not the only man who can make me feel sad and lonely and rejected. Oh
217
no! There's millions of others who can do exactly what you did. So there!"
Perhaps not an ideal attitude from a self-esteem point of view, but whatever...at least when I dialed the number in London, my hands didn't shake and my voice didn't quaver.
How interesting, I thought.
James no longer had the power to reduce me to a quaking wreck. Well, at least dialing his office number no longer had the power to reduce me to a quaking wreck.
Let's not get carried away here.
In a confident and steady voice I asked the receptionist in his office in London if I could speak to him. I felt as if London was a million miles away. As remote as another planet. You'd never have thought that I saw it every evening on the news. The receptionist sounded very far away, very foreign.
Mirroring the way I felt. My life with James had become very far away, very foreign. Or maybe it was because the receptionist was Greek.
Either way, I was perfectly calm as I waited to speak to him.
I mean, what was the big deal?
What did I have to lose?
Nothing.
As someone once said--a miserable, sardonic, misanthropic someone--freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose.
Up until I heard that I'd thought freedom was being able to go swimming when you had your period.
How misinformed I was.
Of course, you believe anything when you're about twelve.
Did you know that you can't get pregnant if you do it standing up? Honestly, it's true.
And did you know that you can have a baby if you suck the man's thing? But the twelve-year-old me knew that would never happen to me because I'd never do anything as disgusting as suck the man's thing. And I didn't believe for one moment that anyone, anywhere, would do something so revolting and alien.
I could weep for the innocent child, the idealistic twelve-year-old, that I once was.
218
Oh, sorry, sorry, you want to know what happened with James.
Oh, didn't I say?
He wasn't in.
At a meeting, or something.
And, no, I didn't leave my name.
And, yes, you're right if you suspect that I was a bit relieved at not having to talk to him.
But I was in an unimpeachable position.
I'd called him, hadn't I?
I defy anyone to say that I hadn't.
Was it my fault that he was unavailable?
