‘Why did you do it, Dad? You complete moron,’ she said. ‘Mum said she knew, we were all OK with it; why would you go and get drunk because of it? Especially when you’ve been off the drink for so many years, why?’
She needed Ralphie. She went back into the room.
‘Honey,’ she said, shaking his shoulder.
‘Errgh,’ he said sleepily.
‘You’ve got to get up. Dad went on the piss last night and, we need to find him, if we can, sober him up and—’ she stopped for a minute – ‘and I don’t know if my mother will want to marry him. But at least if she sees him she can make the decision.’
‘OK,’ said Ralphie, sitting up, trying to focus. ‘OK, I’m with you. Do we have time for coffee?’
‘Hell, yes,’ said Eden, ‘I think we’re going to need it.’
Ralphie was parking the car in his normal neat fashion. Eden had already undone her seatbelt and was attempting to get out before he’d stopped.
‘Stop,’ shrieked Ralphie, ‘you’re going to get killed.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ she said.
He’d braked as soon as she’d opened the door.
‘Maniac,’ he said.
‘You’re a good driver: you won’t squash me.’ She leaned over and gave him a long, lingering kiss on the lips. ‘Thank you.’
‘I haven’t done anything yet,’ said Ralphie.
‘Yes, you have, and there’s more to come,’ said Eden with a grimace.
All she had was her phone on a hastily constructed phone-holder around her neck and the little useless bridesmaid’s bag that Vonnie had insisted on purchasing for all of them. There was no room in any of these fairy bags for something as prosaic as a mobile phone, which was why Eden’s now dangled on an old long-forgotten ribbon and container yoke around her neck.
Her father’s flat was not somewhere she’d ever spent a lot of time. She and her father walked together, that was their thing. They walked along the seafront, up Killiney Hill and then they’d get a coffee or have something to eat. Walking, that was it. Now, as Eden fumbled in the useless little handbag for her father’s spare apartment keys, she wondered was it because she didn’t like where he lived? It was an odd, perilous building set up in a cliff, but ancient, looking as if it might all crumble into the sea because climbing plants had practically occluded all brickwork at the front. It took her a minute to figure out which was the front-door key. And she shoved her way in, leaving it on the latch for Ralphie. Then she bounded up the stairs. Her father’s apartment was on the third floor, the top. And, needless to say, the crumbling old wreck that was Liffey Heights did not have a lift. There was a smell of cat pee and dust and food stuck to microwaves. There were two doors on Pop’s floor and she paused to catch her breath outside his. It was painted the same dull matte cream as the rest of the woodwork in the place. She knew her father had a cleaning lady who came in occasionally. It didn’t look as if the cleaning lady had ever applied herself to the front door. Eden knocked.
‘Pops, are you in there? It’s me, Eden.’
It was eight o’clock in the morning and she knew there was an old fellow who lived in the apartment opposite, who might or might not yet be up. Might think eight on a Saturday was practically dawn. But she didn’t care if he was up or not. She began shouting louder.
‘Pops, it’s me, Eden, let me in.’
There wasn’t a sound.
‘Feck.’
She grabbed the keys that she’d dumped back into the useless little handbag. Found the actual front-door key and let herself in. Not for her father any of the folderols like security chains. No, Stu Robicheaux had always been convinced that he could take on any burglar, which was why they had no burglar alarm in the Sorrento Hotel. There was nothing to steal, her mother used to say. It didn’t look or smell like there was anything to steal here either, was Eden’s first thought as she went through the door. The smell was of eau de brewery.
Oh, Pops, thought Eden, what have you done, you bloody moron. The place was different from the last few times she’d been there. Obviously, her mother had stayed over and her father had been making more of an effort. Or else her mother had actually cleaned the place up and put flowers on the table. Eden was quite sure she could remember a bowl of roses on the table. Now there were cereal bowls. The family jug – a milk carton – sat there along with plates, bits of toast stuck to them, flies buzzing happily around. Maybe Pops was dead on the bed, she thought. Jesus, where was Ralphie? She moved back to the door and she could hear him coming, bouncing up the stairs. She’d wait for him, because, if something had happened to her father, she wasn’t sure if she was able for it.
‘Eden,’ croaked a voice.
The bedroom door had cracked open. And there, in pyjama bottoms, a very wrecked old Rolling Stones T-shirt and beard stubble, stood her father, leaning against the door jamb. The door jamb seemed to be supporting him, because it looked like he mightn’t be able to stand up on his own.
Behind her, Ralphie’s hands slid around her waist.
‘You all right, love?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said Eden, looking at the wreck that was her parent. From across the room, she could smell the bang of alcohol. It was like walking into a wine tasting and having someone throw the slops of the previous week’s wine tasting all over you. Not just wine, possibly whiskey and beer too.
‘Oh man, Stu, what have you been doing?’ said Ralphie.
