Set in Stone Read online

  The Twinnies should have been different. He couldn’t understand why they had gone over to the other side, why they had left him as they had, right at the best part. And then told on him.

  But he didn’t care – he didn’t need them.

  He’d go back to the tracks tomorrow, see if the skull was still there. Once all the fur and stuff fell off, it would be a good souvenir.

  He slept that night, and dreamt of flying.

  2

  ‘HELLO, MUM?’ Ciarán, home from college.

  ‘In here,’ Lynda called.

  Ciarán stuck his head around the studio door. ‘Still workin’?’ he said.

  What does it look like? Lynda wanted to ask. She felt tired, cranky. Her day had not been a good one. ‘Yep. Still at it.’

  He edged his way closer to her, negotiating a passageway between the bench, the coffee table strewn with books and the Indian footstool. All the low surfaces in the studio were littered with photographs and sketches. As Ciarán passed, the piles of paper trembled, threatening a landslide.

  ‘Mind that rucksack,’ Lynda said, sharply. ‘Make sure you don’t disturb anything. I’ve just sorted out all that lot.’ She waited, expecting the usual response. But there wasn’t one. That surprised her. No bristling; no swearing. No throwing his eyes up to heaven.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ he said. He looked around him, disbelieving. ‘I’ll leave it outside, then. Yeah?’ He’d brought with him the smell of cold air and stale cigarette smoke.

  Lynda nodded, bending over her drawings again. ‘Do that,’ she agreed. And tonight, she thought, he could smoke for Ireland, for all she cared. At least he hadn’t flung his way up to his bedroom and slammed the door. Or complained about all the shortcomings of home. Lynda had learned, lately, to dread the sound of his key in the lock, the stamp of his foot in the hallway.

  Robert never saw these outbursts of temper. By the time he came home in the late evenings, the anger was spent. Ciarán would be subdued. Sometimes, he was even apologetic. Robert’s eyes would glaze over whenever Lynda tried to explain how it had been, how it still was, in his absence. Eventually, it had become easier to stop trying.

  She heard the thud as Ciarán dumped his rucksack in the hall, and was reminded of the post hitting the floor that morning. Reminded all over again of Danny. She sighed. Then she heard Ciarán mutter something. She looked up sharply. She hated his sotto voce complaints: he always made sure they were barely audible. Most of the time she didn’t challenge him. Today, though, she was in no mood for it.

  ‘Ciarán. Did you say something to me?’

  There was no reply. She went to call out to him again and was made suddenly curious by a scuffling sound from behind the door he had just closed. She pushed her chair back from the bench and stood up. The door opened abruptly and Ciarán was framed there, looking, she thought, as he used to look as a small child. Defiant. That was the word. It leaped its way across the distance between them, crossing the bridges of all those years. She had a sudden memory of a childhood photograph: Ciarán in red Wellington boots, holding a single daffodil. Squinting up at the camera, refusing to smile. He elbowed his way back into the room now, dragging someone behind him.

  ‘I’d like you to meet a friend of mine,’ he said.

  At first, Lynda thought her son’s reluctant follower was a girl. She saw fair hair, expensive clothes, a tanned face. The figure was tall – almost as tall as Ciarán – but there was no evidence of breasts beneath the tight white T-shirt. A fellow, then, Lynda thought, taken aback. She made to move towards him at last – the least she could do was be polite. But Ciarán began to speak and forestalled her.

  ‘This is Jonathan, but we all call him Jon.’ He gestured awkwardly at the young man just behind him. ‘I invited him to have dinner with us tonight.’ His eyes challenged her.

  ‘And you’re very welcome,’ Lynda said. Ciarán never brought anyone home. She’d always known who Katie’s friends were, but Ciarán’s life was a mystery to her. Now, it seemed that he had taken somebody captive. He gripped Jon’s shoulder tightly. The other boy – Jon – stood up straighter and detached himself. He looked as though he was standing his ground. He held out his hand, beating Lynda to it.

  ‘Mrs Graham,’ he said. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you. I told this . . . this reprobate to behave himself and give you more notice, but you know how impossible he is.’

  Lynda was disarmed at once. Reprobate. That was Robert’s word. ‘I do indeed,’ she agreed. ‘I know just what he’s like. It’s very nice to meet you, Jon. Please, make yourself at home.’

  His smile was dazzling; so were his pale green eyes and dark lashes.

  ‘Are you an artist, Mrs Graham?’ he asked her at last, his eye caught by the drawings that littered her bench.

  ‘Oh, well,’ she said. She never knew how to answer that. ‘I paint and I make jewellery: silver stuff, mostly. And I design Japanese gardens as well.’

  ‘Wow,’ Jon said. He was clearly impressed.

  ‘And please, don’t call me “Mrs Graham”,’ Lynda added. ‘It makes me feel old. My name is Lynda.’

  He smiled. ‘Okay, then. Thanks, Lynda. Does that mean that you design Zen gardens, the dry landscape kind of stuff? And the meditation spaces?’

  Lynda was startled. That was an odd sort of knowledge for a young man to have.

  ‘Take a look out the window and see,’ interrupted Ciarán. ‘She’s done one out here, in the back garden. I already told you. We can pull up the blinds, if you like.’

  But Jon ignored him. It was as though he hadn’t heard. He kept his gaze fixed on Lynda, his pale eyes searching hers.

  ‘Well, yes,’ she said. ‘That is what I do. That, among other things.’ Jon’s interest intrigued her – she wasn’t used to it. She glanced over at Ciarán, conscious of him standing by the footstool. His way was barred as Jon moved swiftly towards her bench.

  ‘May I look at the drawings?’ he asked. She could hear the excitement in his voice.

  ‘Of course.’ Lynda moved back to her chair and pulled out the garden sketches she had just started working on. Jon took one of the A1 sheets she offered him. He peered closely at it. As he did so, Lynda noticed that his hand was trembling. When he looked up at her again, the green eyes were almost translucent.

  ‘These are beautiful,’ he said. ‘I’ve always been interested in design.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ Ciarán interjected. But his tone was benign. ‘Never mind all this artsy-fartsy stuff, I’m starvin’. What’s for dinner?’

  ‘I haven’t decided.’ Lynda was annoyed at his interruption. ‘If you’re so hungry,’ she said, ‘why don’t you start to cook dinner? What would you like to make?’

  He looked at her sideways. ‘Takeaway?’

  ‘You pulled that stunt the last time,’ she said. ‘How about some real food, for a change?’

  ‘Nah. I think it’s vastly overrated,’ he said. He dragged one hand back and forth through his hair. As a small child, he’d do this whenever he felt frustrated, whenever he was expected to do something he didn’t want to do.

  ‘Let’s have a stir-fry,’ she said. ‘You can make a start and I’ll join you both in a few minutes, once I put these drawings away.’

  He nodded. ‘All right then. Sound.’ He made a show of strangling Jon, placing both hands around his friend’s slender throat. ‘Come, slave!’ he said. ‘Your task awaits! Your master commands!’

  Jon followed Ciarán as he led the way towards the kitchen.

  ‘Don’t you make Jon do all the work,’ Lynda called after them. ‘I know your style.’

  Jon turned and smiled at her. For an instant, his eyes seemed knowing. He glanced towards Ciarán, and then back again at her. Lynda was startled, unsure how to respond. Almost at once, the tanned, handsome face was smooth again, neutral.

  Her gaze followed her son as both boys left the room together. Ciarán was good-looking too, but in a different way from Jon. He had Robert’s dark h
air, strong features and his easy, lanky height. He had an air of self-possession that could be convincing. But as he walked away, she saw the innocence of his back, his longish hair, his loping strides. There was a vulnerability that lurked just beneath the surface of Ciarán’s skin. Even Robert acknowledged it.

  On the other hand, this new friend seemed very grown-up. Lynda wondered where all that confidence had come from. She glanced at her watch and made a pencilled reminder to herself of the time, on the right-hand corner of the latest of her drawings. That way, she’d know which version to start with in the morning.

  ‘We entertaining royalty, or what?’ Robert asked, as he came into the kitchen. ‘Do I need to dress for dinner?’ He was shrugging out of his jacket and looking around him with exaggerated amazement. Lynda had set the table with her best china and glassware.

  She put her finger to her lips. ‘Shhh – not so loud! Ciarán’s brought a friend.’

  Robert grinned at her. It was a grin that said: See? Told you so. Told you it was only a matter of time. You fret too much.

  Lynda ignored it. ‘It’s the first time he’s had anybody here since – I can’t remember. We should celebrate, be welcoming.’

  Robert nodded. ‘Sure. Why not? Male or female?’

  ‘Male. His name is Jon.’

  ‘Okay. Right. Let me just go and get out of all this muddy stuff first.’

  Just then, both Ciarán and Jon burst into the kitchen, laughing, trailing a cloud of energy with them. They stopped short when they saw Robert, Jon looking unsure, even wary. He glanced from Robert to Lynda, and back again, almost as if he were appealing for help. He is shy after all, Lynda thought, amused.

  ‘Jon – come and meet Robert. Robert, this is Jon, Ciarán’s friend from college.’ At that moment, Robert’s mobile rang. He held his hand up and fished his phone out of his pocket. ‘Just a minute,’ Lynda heard him say. ‘Give me a second.’ He pointed towards the door, apologetically. She could still hear his voice, even after he’d closed the kitchen door behind him.

  ‘That’s my dad,’ Ciarán said, with ironic cheerfulness. ‘Making his second million. He gave up on the first, though. The going was too tough.’

  But Jon didn’t laugh.

  ‘That’s enough, Ciarán,’ Lynda said. She felt uncomfortable. ‘Your dad works very hard.’

  ‘Pity about the credit crunch, though, isn’t it?’ Ciarán put down two cans of beer on the counter in front of him. ‘They say things are goin’ to get even worse. Particularly for builders. Sorry, I mean developers.’ Ciarán made imaginary inverted commas around the word, waggling his two index fingers in the air. He tugged at the ring pull on one of the cans until it made a hissing sound. He pushed the second beer towards Jon. ‘Help yourself,’ he said.

  But Jon didn’t move. Nor did he acknowledge Ciarán’s offhand invitation.

  Lynda felt a surge of anger. And where do you think all of your comforts come from, you little shit, she wanted to shout. Your allowance, your clothes, your mobile phone? Even the beer in your hand. But she calmed herself. She was aware that Jon was looking at her. The air around him was puzzled, thick with questions. Lynda glanced at her son’s face. The shadow of a sneer still lingered. Jon’s presence made her see Ciarán as though from a distance, as a stranger might. And she didn’t like what she saw.

  Finally, Jon spoke. ‘Anything I can do to help?’ he asked. His tone was casual. He pushed the can of beer very slightly back in Ciarán’s direction, then he turned to face Lynda.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. She was glad that the silence was broken. ‘Thanks. Chop these peppers for me, if you don’t mind. I’ll go and put on the rice.’ Lynda walked past Ciarán on her way to the larder.

  Her anger simmered. She’d deal with him later.

  Robert joined them just as they were finishing their meal.

  ‘Sorry, guys,’ he said. ‘Never a dull moment.’ He put his plate in the microwave. Then he turned to Jon, smiling. ‘Well, Jon, very nice to have you here.’ He held out his hand. ‘Don’t get up. Please excuse that rude interruption earlier – but we live in interesting times.’

  ‘You don’t need to apologize, Mr Graham,’ said Jon, shaking Robert’s hand. His face flushed slightly. ‘It’s very nice to be here.’

  ‘So, how do you two know each other?’ Robert took his meal from the microwave and sat down at the table.

  Lynda was glad that she hadn’t risked asking the question earlier. She knew how much Ciarán hated what he saw as prying. But Robert’s curiosity was normal. It was a natural, friendly thing to say.

  ‘Are you doing the same subjects?’ Robert looked from one to the other.

  At first, neither answered, then they both spoke together.

  ‘Yeah, but . . .’

  ‘No, because . . .’

  Then they each laughed at the collision.

  ‘So, which is it?’ Lynda smiled at them. ‘Yes or no? Same course or not?’

  ‘Well, kind of both, really.’ Jon paused. ‘I’m doing History, same as Ciarán, but . . .’ There was silence. Lynda could feel Ciarán’s eyes on her. It wasn’t a glare, not yet, but it was close to becoming one.

  ‘I should be a year ahead, but my parents had some . . . problems . . . lately, so I’m repeating a couple of courses with Ciarán’s year and . . . well, working part-time.’ Jon’s face had sagged. ‘It’s going okay, though.’ He began to speak quickly, rushing ahead, filling the gaps. ‘I’ll just get it over with right now and tell you that I do part-time modelling as well – sometimes for department stores, sometimes for hairdressers. People often have a problem with that. They think that “pretty face” means “empty head”.’ His voice was unsteady.

  Robert looked up, but said nothing. Lynda reached over and touched Jon on the shoulder. ‘You don’t need to explain, not about anything. We didn’t mean to give you the third degree. Your private life is just that.’ She could feel Ciarán’s eyes boring into her. ‘Please, accept my apology.’ She stopped, aware of Jon’s struggle to compose himself. ‘And I don’t think that modelling is empty-headed, either,’ she added.

  He looked at her, and she saw that the luminous green eyes were almost opaque.

  ‘It’s fine, really,’ Jon said at last. ‘And I know that my family situation is anything but unique.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘At least, not these days.’ He seemed about to say something else and then stopped.

  ‘My mother, the Grand Inquisitor,’ said Ciarán, after a pause.

  Lynda flashed him a look. ‘I have apologized,’ she said.

  ‘That’s enough, Ciarán,’ Robert’s interjection was quiet.

  ‘Well, maybe if you were a bit less of a Silent One, your folks wouldn’t need to ask,’ Jon’s voice was sudden, full of mischief. He took all of them by surprise, Lynda in particular. She looked over at him, not knowing what to say.

  He glanced back at her and laughed. ‘This,’ and he jerked his thumb at Ciarán, ‘is one of the most secretive people I’ve ever met. I call him Silent One, or Reprobate.’ And he let one of his hands hover back and forth in mid air, as though considering. ‘You know, whichever fits him best at the time.’

  Ciarán looked over at Jon. He pretended to pick up his knife. ‘Don’t y’all even think of gangin’ up against me, y’hear?’ But he was laughing.

  It felt as though the room had just exhaled. Time to move before the tension had the chance to gather again. Lynda stood up and gestured towards the empty plates. ‘Hand me those, love, will you?’

  Robert began to pile up bowls and dishes.

  ‘That was really good, Mrs Gr . . . um, Lynda,’ said Jon. ‘Thanks for looking after me.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Lynda said. ‘You’re more than welcome.’

  ‘Yeah, Mum, thanks.’ Lynda could hear a note of apology in Ciarán’s voice. She smiled at him, wanting to show him how easily he could still be forgiven. ‘You’re welcome, too. Better than a takeaway, then?’

  He yawned. ‘Dunno about that
, though.’

  Jon nudged him. ‘Move,’ he said.

  Ciarán looked at him in surprise. ‘What? Why?’

  ‘Duh – dishes time. C’mon, get up.’ Jon was already on his feet, clearing the rest of the cutlery and glasses.

  Robert pushed his chair back from the table. ‘Well, seeing as you guys have everything under control, I’m going to go and do a bit of work. I’ve some invoices to catch up on.’ He turned to Lynda. ‘I’ll be in my office if you want me.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘See you later.’

  Ciarán began to load the glasses into the dishwasher. At the same time, Jon was filling the sink with hot water.

  ‘What’re you doin’?’ Ciarán demanded. ‘That’s what a dishwasher is for.’

  ‘Not for those glasses, it’s not,’ Jon said. ‘Give them here.’

  Lynda walked to the other end of the room, smiling to herself at Ciarán’s complaints. She saw Jon plunge his arms into the hot, sudsy water, while Ciarán went in search of a tea towel. There was reluctance written all over his face. He rummaged in the drawer for a minute and then flung a clean cloth over one shoulder. He bent down and fiddled about with the CD player. Suddenly, the sound of Neil Diamond and ‘I Am . . . I Said’ filled the kitchen.

  ‘Ciarán! Not so loud!’ Lynda called. He turned and grinned at her. He waved and lowered the volume fractionally. Then, both boys began to sing along.

  ‘C’mon Jon, give it loads!’ cried Ciarán.

  Lynda watched, delighted. Ciarán played an air guitar while Jon threw his head back and sang. His voice was good. He could carry a tune. She watched his dramatic, rock-star movements while he kept standing at the sink, up to his elbows in water. When the song finished, he bowed to his audience. Lynda clapped, laughing, and Ciarán sashayed back down the kitchen to change the CD.

  ‘Well done, both of you,’ she said. ‘My, to be in the presence of such undiscovered talent!’

  She bent down to put the table mats in the drawer. She was still smiling. It had been a long time since she’d seen Ciarán happy. As she closed the drawer, something, some movement caught her attention and she stopped halfway. She glanced in Jon’s direction. He was still at the sink, but he had grown very quiet. He was staring out the window, his entire body arched forwards. Everything about him seemed to be on high alert. She approached him, concerned.