Going to work

By the time she reached the turning out of Harwood Park, Lit had successfully applied concealer and foundation. She checked in the rear-view mirror – perfect – no nasty streaks anyway. She edged out onto Morehampton Road and into the sluggish traffic. Slow traffic was good for mobile make-up application. She reached into the glove compartment and pulled out eyeliner and lipstick.
She channel-hopped – but it was all ‘non-stop’ music stations with incessant talk offering more music and less talk. On the news channel a man with a wheezy voice droned on about development and planning tribunals.
“Booooring!” she chirped airily and pushed the CD button.
The words of a Verve song blasted out from her car stereo telling her that life was ‘a bittersweet symphony’, that she was a slave to money and that she’d die. She sang along at the top of her voice. She turned the music up, enjoying the sensation of the sound filling up the cabin of the car, drowning out the world outside.
Edging forward with her feet delicately playing accelerator, clutch and brake, she returned to the rear-view mirror to apply a discreet touch of eyeliner and shadow. Driving forward while looking backwards into the rear-view mirror was quite a simple manoeuvre really once you got the hang of it. The trick was good reflexes.
Once the eyes were done, sunglasses could be put in their rightful place, firmly on the bridge of her nose. Lipstick now – and her hand hovered and shook as the car edged forward. She just had time to apply two perfect curves of pink to her upper lip when suddenly the cars ahead of her took off in a frantic dash as the lights changed. Applying a hasty and less perfect arc to her lower lip, she rammed her foot on the accelerator and charged unevenly after them.
She didn’t see the patrol motorbike, much less hear it on account of the loud music, until it pulled up alongside her and an angry-looking guard with an imposingly gloved hand signalled her to pull over.
“Why didn’t you stop when you heard the siren?”
“Sorry guard, I didn’t hear it . . . I was listening to the music.”
“You didn’t see us and you didn’t hear us. That could be driving with undue care.”
“What are you going to do? Ban car stereos?” she joked hopefully.
He wasn’t amused. “You shouldn’t have it so loud that is a distraction to your driving or your awareness of other motorists.”
“Right. Sorry, guard. It won’t happen again.”
She flashed him the tiniest gleam of white teeth, framed with an almost perfect of smiling, pink-frosted lips.
He wasn’t impressed. Not even slightly. “And applying lipstick while in charge of a moving motor vehicle is in direct contravention of the Road Traffic Act.”
She thought of removing her sunglasses and doing a little eyelash flutter and perhaps even a tear-filled eye. She thought of explaining to him that she had a ninety-two-year-old father and a son of sixteen and no husband and that this was the only time she could do her make-up. That she owned a business that required her to look immaculate and stunning almost all the time. That she was thirty-four and just past that stage where it was good for the self-esteem to be seen in the harsh light of day without the benefit of make-up. That he was lucky he hadn’t caught her painting her toenails or drying her hair on the car heater. That he should go and catch some real criminals. But she didn’t have the time.
“You’re right. It was very careless of me. I have no excuse.”
“You’re left brake light is broken. Did you know that? That could cause an accident.”
“Sorry, Guard. I’ll have it fixed today.”
“And remember to drive with due care and attention. Next time I’ll have to book you.”

Conrad Budd wakes up

The morning sun cast a greyish light through the magnificent swathe of white muslin curtains as Conrad stirred in the bed, unfolded his limbs, and slowly eased his sleek, lightly tanned body onto bounteous feather-and-down pillows. It felt vaguely as though something or someone was in the room. In the eerie half-light, through a mist of sleep and half-remembered snatches of dreams, he scanned the vast bedroom, across oceans of maple floor scattered with Persian rugs, along walls that housed some of his small but perfectly formed collection of objets d’art. His eyes rested for a moment on the early Giacometti which stood on a granite plinth facing his bed, then slid across the Yeats, the Osbourne and the Le Broquy.
The white muslin curtains swayed and sighed gently in the light morning breeze. There was air conditioning, but Conrad rarely used it, especially at night, when he loved the feel of the breeze flickering on his cheeks as he fell asleep. Perhaps, after all, it was the noise of the curtains that had woken him. Besides, he lived in what was probably the most secure address in Dublin – a penthouse, overlooking the Docklands, above the small but very exclusive Mount Pembroke Hotel, one of a number of properties in his possession. The penthouse stretched across three thousand feet of discreetly monitored space. Who could reach him here? Who could breach the walls of his castle? And besides, he had no enemies. Or none that could reach him here anyway.
He slid back down between the cool cotton sheets, hoping to drift back into slumber once more. But the feeling of another presence persisted – watchful, not threatening, dreamlike and oddly real at the same time.
“Who’s there?” he asked in a low voice at last.
But there was no response. He recalled a shadowy figure from his distant past. But it couldn’t be. It wouldn’t make sense. It must have been the aftermath of a dream, he told himself, and drifted off to sleep once more.

Auntie Sheila worries about the psychological well being of her unmarried niece Lit and Richie – Lit’s son.

In the garden, Auntie Sheila had commandeered Bonnie and was speaking very earnestly about her concerns for Lit and Richie.
“The boy needs a role model.”
Bonnie, distracted by the sight of Seán Tallon making an oddly hasty exit through the patio-doors, was only half listening. “Role model?” Sean had just deliberately kicked the oak tree and sworn aloud. Now what was all that about?
“Yes, dear. Did I tell you I’m reading psychology in the Open University?”
“That must be interesting,” said Bonnie. Matt was now shambling across the lawn to join Seán under the oak tree.
“Yes, dear, it is. I download the material from the Internet. Last week I did role models. The week before, I did ‘The Making and Breaking of Attachment Bonds.’
Anyway, as I say, the boy needs a role model. It’s a disgrace. It’s a dysfunctional family.”
“Dysfunctional family?”
“You see it doesn’t function properly. His mother is projecting the role of husband onto him. He needs a father to slay and dethrone from a godlike position. Otherwise he will fail to break his attachment bonds and he will suffer from self-esteem and autonomy. Well, I ask you? Where is he going to get a proper persona? The end result will be homosexuality – you mark my words. I’ve done my research.”
“Richie – gay?”