from Deceptions
Dublin is a city with eyes. A gossiping great-aunt who sees around corners or peers suspiciously through the walls of quiet pubs and dimly lit restaurants. This is crazy, she thinks, the two of them behaving so recklessly, but there is also the long-forgotten thrill of being in the open, playing perilous deceptive games.
Traffic is light along Strand Road. They pass the Martello Tower and the tall palm trees, the sand palely gleaming on the retreating tide. She stares across the sea towards the jetties and wharfs glittering reflectively on the waters of Dublin Bay. He turns at the South Port roundabout and drives towards the Great South Wall.
They leave the car and walk towards the shadows. They are impatient now. No time or space for the slow removal of clothes. He opens her coat, pulls her dress to her waist. Their pleasure, heightened by the events of the night, is swift and intense.
When it is over he lights two cigarettes. Their rituals are as exact as if they have been married for many years. But the familiarity created within marriage has never touched their relationship and even this simple act of smoking, their exhaled smoke mingling unseen in the dark, is imbued with meaning.
They are about to return to the car when the shriek of the alarm freezes them. The noise ceases for an instant, almost teasingly, then starts to whirr again. He begins to run. She flings her cigarette towards the sea and follows him.
The door on the driver’s side is ajar, the window broken. Glass has been scattered across the driver’s seat. He picks up the pieces, cries out when a shard cuts deep into his hand. His handkerchief is quickly saturated with blood and he reaches into his briefcase, cursing with frustration as he tries to locate a packet of tissues. Silencing him, she bandages the wound, her
movements swift and efficient.
A ferry looms out of the night, sailing towards the North Wall terminal. Its lights glitter on the black sea. It begins to rain. The wipers are no longer working but the rain is light, a slight drizzle gleaming on the windscreen as she drives away. Across the bay the lights from the ferry terminal blur against the glass.
A plastic bag, bloated with air, startles her as it flaps past the broken window. It flutters like the wings of an injured seagull and forces her eyes off the road. At first, when the figure looms before the car, she believes he is in her imagination. Somewhere at the back of her mind she knows this is a man, his figure elongated in the glare of headlights, but it takes a heart-stopping instant before she brakes. Her companion appears to be in the same suspended state of disbelief and shouts a warning when it is too late. The figure rises in the effortless poise of a dancer, pirouettes before them with an almost-obscene gracefulness before sinking back again to the road. Even the squeal of brakes, the shouts of her companion who has covered his eyes, fail to banish the impression that she is witnessing a surreal ballet sequence performed on a wet, glistening stage.
The car seems possessed of a manic energy, shuddering, screeching, bucking against her hands as she fights to bring it under control. She brakes and slumps across the wheel. A guttural sound rises from her abdomen and escapes from her mouth. She is disassociated from the sound yet she knows it belongs to her – and to the horror that awaits her when she steps outside. Her companion is already bent over the sprawled body. The young man lies to the right-hand side of the car. In the headlights, she sees blood trickling down the side of his mouth. Otherwise, his face seems unmarked. A woolly hat is low on his forehead. His head appears dwarfed by the width of a padded anorak and his hands, in fingerless gloves, are limply splayed across the concrete.
The wind sweeps in from the sea and lifts her hair, blowing it over her eyes, offering a blinkered protection from the sight in front of her. Her companion shudders as he reaches out to touch the young man’s wrist. He draws back on his heels, sways to his feet. Fear and self-preservation overwhelm her. Already she is thinking like a different person. She ignores his protests and insists they leave now, before they are discovered. The car is a beacon, flaring a signal for anyone to witness.
When they reach the roundabout he looks around, as if awakening from a nightmare. “We have to make a call.” He searches his jacket pockets for coins, fumbling loose change which spills across the seat.
“Not here,” she says, pressing harder on the accelerator. “It’s too close … too close –”
“Jesus Christ! We must call an ambulance. He could still be alive.”
“He’s dead.” Her voice fills the car. “It doesn’t matter when the ambulance gets there.”
She does not stop driving until they reach a road filled with small terraced houses and a phone kiosk. She picks up the coins, unable to remember the last time she used a public phone. It will provide anonymity and, if their call is traced, they will be many miles away.
His face remains expressionless as she drives towards the late-night car-park where
they met earlier when their night held nothing but promise. An ambulance should have arrived by now. The police will find shattered glass and a shattered life. Nothing else. She does not hover on the edge of this chasm but leaps it cleanly. Too much is at stake: reputations, marriages, investments, friendships, their future.
When she reaches her house the outside lantern is shining. She steps into the amber glow and glances at her watch. It is later than she thought. Stolen property, stolen hours; thievery has
many faces. She opens her front door and closes it quietly behind her.
Deceptions was published by New Island. 
June writes: “From the time I was a child I wanted to be a writer but I was in my late twenties before I put pen to paper. Once started, I couldn’t stop. I’ve now written sixteen novels, twelve for children, four for adults, and collaborated on four ghost writing projects. I’ve also worked as a journalist and editor, and give regular workshops on creative writing. For further information check juneconsidine.com.
I can also be contacted through Facebook.”