Dead And Buried. John Brennan

then Conor heard a sharp intake of breath behind him. Ella’s eyes went wide. He turned, knowing already who he’d see.

      ‘Holy mother of god,’ said Christine, and dropped a tray of drinks. The partygoers around her scrambled to get out of the way of the smashed glass – more drinks were spilled, more dresses wine-stained, more neckties sloshed with Guinness. The spilled drinks fizzed and frothed across the floor.

      Conor glanced at Ella over his shoulder. ‘You never told her I was coming?’

      Ella bit her lip. ‘Oops,’ she said, but her sea-blue eyes were laughing.

      Christine hadn’t come alone. As a grumpy-looking member of the bar staff swept up the broken glass, she turned to the man lurking behind her.

      ‘This is Simon. He’s a teacher – a lecturer, I mean.’ Another handshake. This one wasn’t so warm. ‘And this is Conor,’ Christine added. Her tone said no further explanation was necessary.

      Conor and Simon exchanged glad-to-meet-yous. God we’re a pair of lying bastards, Conor thought. He supposed Simon was thinking the same.

      Simon was slender, lightly bearded, casually dressed in grey cords and a polo shirt. Dublin accent. His salt-and-pepper hair was swept back. He carried himself loosely, lazily, like an athlete at rest. Conor didn’t like the way he dangled an arm around Christine’s shoulders – but then, of course, that was exactly why Simon was doing it.

      Christine remembered about the spilled drinks. Simon promptly volunteered to go to the bar for replacements. Conor proffered a twenty-pound note – ‘I was the silly bugger that made her drop them’ – but Simon waved it away, made it clear that he was the one who bought Chris’s drinks now. Conor and Christine were left alone.

      He hadn’t spoken to her since the day she threw him out of the house. After that, the only relationship they’d had had been one conducted through solicitors’ letters.

      ‘He seems like a good guy,’ he tried, lamely.

      Christine had her arms folded defensively across her chest. ‘He is,’ she nodded.

      Conor groped for words. He wanted to say that she looked beautiful – he wanted to say that he was sorry – oh, Christ, he wanted to say so many things, but not one of them could you say over drinks at your daughter’s 17th birthday party.

      So he gave up. ‘A lecturer, eh?’ he said. ‘Impressive.’

      ‘It is. He is. Modern languages. Five languages, he speaks.’ She smiled distantly. ‘Remember what you were like in Paris that time? Took you half the weekend to pluck up the courage to say bonjour to the hotel doorman.’

      Conor had to bite back a retort – he wanted to explain to her that he’d changed (and he could explain it in Swahili if she wanted, or in Kikuyu or Maasai) – he wanted her to see that he was different, that his world was bigger now, that this place, Belfast, it wasn’t what he was about any more.

      But all he said was: ‘And even then I got it wrong, remember?’

      ‘You did. Bon jwah!’ Christine smirked. Then she looked away, and then down at the floor, and then she looked him in the eye. ‘How’s the family?’ she said.

      And Conor was glad that at that moment Simon came back with his hands full of drinks. He was glad because the only thing he could think of to say in reply was: you’re my family.

      IT WAS dark outside the mullioned pub windows and Conor was settling into his fifth pint of Guinness and was kidding Kieran good-naturedly about his support for Glentoran – ‘Do they still have a football team even? When I left, Glentoran was the place Nor’n Irish Under-21s went to die’ – when someone jostled his elbow and a voice at his ear said, ‘So where is she? Sorry I’m late. Where’s the birthday girl?’

      A wave of nausea hit him hard. This was a voice he hadn’t heard in a long time – a voice he’d hoped he’d never hear again. Conor noticed Kieran eye him curiously, and struggled to hide his feelings, keep his grip. His felt his hand begin to tremble and he stuffed it quickly into his jacket pocket.

      Everywhere I turn, Conor thought – everywhere I look there’s a ghost from the past. Or – God, he hated the thought – but maybe, Conor, he told himself, you’re the ghost here. The ghost at the feast.

      He drained his glass and turned. ‘Hello, Patrick,’ he said.

      But Patrick was already gathering Ella into his arms, telling her happy birthday, flattering her dress and her haircut, and now he was kissing Christine, joking with Simon, saluting Kieran with a forefinger cocked sharpshooter-style – quite the fucking life and soul, Conor thought.

      What was Patrick now? Pushing forty, surely, but he didn’t look it. His suit was well-cut to his slim-hipped figure, his urchin pallor replaced by a healthy tan, his necktie silk, his narrow shoes new-looking, his smile wide and white and wealthy.

      Eventually he caught sight of Conor. If he was surprised he didn’t show it.

      ‘So!’ he cried. He seized Conor’s hand with his right and his left gripped Conor’s elbow. ‘Not just a birthday, but a homecoming! A double celebration.’ He lifted his chin and made an unshowy gesture towards the bar. Then he turned back to Conor. ‘I put a case of Roederer behind the bar,’ he said.

      ‘Roederer?’

      ‘Champagne, son,’ Patrick said, and thumped Conor’s shoulder. Conor felt himself darken. But again Patrick acted as though the two of them were the closest of friends.

      ‘It’s good to see you, Con,’ he murmured, pulling Conor close to him with a hand on the back of his neck. ‘Glad you’re back. All of us are glad you’re back.’

      Conor wasn’t about to ask who he meant by all of us.

      ‘Aye, well. I don’t know how long I’ll be stopping around,’ he lied.

      Patrick lifted an eyebrow.

      ‘Is that a fact?’ He nudged Conor in the ribs. ‘’Cause I heard the prodigal son’d returned to take over Kirk’s practice. Did I hear wrong?’

      Shit. How could Patrick have known that? The best he could do was a non-committal shrug – but anyway Patrick was soon off again, working the crowd like a presidential candidate, calling for champagne glasses, high-fiving, glad-handing, throwing comical dance shapes as the sound system pounded.

      And Conor was left with an empty Guinness glass and a feeling he wasn’t sure he could put a name to. He felt like he’d been hit by a truck. He ached. He’d barely been back in Belfast two minutes, and already here was Christine, and here was Patrick.

      The music died and a teaspoon chimed against a champagne flute and he heard Patrick’s voice say, ‘Attention, please, ladies and gents. Presentation time.’

      Craning his neck over the crowd, Conor watched uneasily as Patrick took giggling Ella by the hand and drew her away from her knot of friends.

      ‘Now,’ Patrick said, ‘I’m no good at speeches, so I’ll keep this short.’ He slipped his hand quickly into his jacket pocket and drew something out. It glinted. ‘My favourite niece is seventeen today. Everyone knows, I s’pose, about the five A-levels she earned last month.’ A ripple of applause, until Patrick held up a raised palm for silence. ‘Now, I’ve no A-levels myself – and not enough O-levels to trouble the scorers – but even I know this is a girl that’s going places. And a girl who’s going places can’t be expected to go there on the bloody bus, now can she?’ He held up his hand, dangling a set of car keys. ‘Happy birthday, darling,’ he said, as Ella’s mouth dropped open in delighted surprise. ‘It’s parked outside.’

      Conor followed Ella out into the street. He heard whoops from the girls and admiring murmurs from the men. Something flash, no doubt. He wondered how much Patrick had forked out. The generosity of the present set off an uneasy feeling in Conor’s gut.