Do You Want What I Want? Read online

  ‘Yeah, you know, big bedrooms.’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘If you put a double bed in both o’ them, it’ll make it look like you’ve more double rooms and you’ll get more money.’

  ‘That’s pretty impressive. How do you know that?’

  He shrugs. ‘Just do.’

  ‘You sound better than any estate agent I’ve ever met.’

  Jason becomes more enthusiastic. ‘I’m helping Orla sell her house. Giving her tips, like.’

  ‘Orla’s selling?’

  ‘Yup,’ he answers, his stance reminding Rory of rural boys – men before their time. ‘Owen, you know, Owen, who was her husband, he wants half o’ the house. Slimy fecker.’

  ‘Orla told you that?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he glances towards the house cautiously, ‘but she didn’t call him a slimy fecker,’ he says, as if realizing that his comment might lead to trouble.

  Rory smiles. ‘Listen, I’ll see you later, right?’

  The boy shrugs as if he doesn’t care either way. Rory remembers what brought him over in the first place and decides not to tackle him on whatever he has in his pocket. Rory might say something to Orla. Or not. He’ll play it by ear.

  He finds Orla at the kitchen sink, cleaning beer glasses. Always one to roll up her sleeves, Rory thinks.

  ‘They never told me godparenting duties extended to washing glasses,’ he says.

  ‘Well, you’re looking at the fairy variety of godparent.’ She picks up a dishcloth and hands it to him. ‘Here. Wouldn’t want to show you up.’

  He eyes the slightly damp cloth and can almost hear Jason say, ‘Drying is for ponces.’ He hands it back. ‘I’ll wash. You dry.’ They swap places. And work in silence for a while. ‘Can I ask you a question?’

  ‘Shoot.’

  ‘Are you really selling the house?’

  She stops drying, stares out the window. ‘Yep.’

  ‘So Owen can get his half?’

  She traps her lips between her teeth. Nods.

  ‘But can he do that, force you to sell?’

  She puts down the glass she has been drying. In a tight, controlled voice she asks, ‘Can we talk about something else?’

  He looks at her.

  ‘Owen’s your brother, Rory,’ she says.

  ‘I haven’t taken sides,’ he wants to say. But doesn’t. Outside, Jason reaches for another burger. ‘Some kid, eh?’

  She smiles. ‘He’s a good little fellow.’

  ‘A bit rough around the edges.’

  ‘He’s been through a lot.’

  Rory looks curious. But she doesn’t elaborate. Instead, she apologizes. ‘I’m not supposed to talk about his background. It’s confidential.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ He feels out of his depth, uncomfortable.

  They wash and dry in silence until the repetitive action of handing her glasses returns things to normal between them. ‘How long will he be with you? Can I ask?’

  ‘Sure. But I don’t know the answer. Weeks. Months, maybe. Whenever the health board decides his mother is ready to take him back.’

  Rory nods, not understanding why he will be going back, if he had to leave in the first place. ‘What if he doesn’t want to?’

  She looks out at Jason, and speaks with warmth. ‘He does. Despite everything, he loves his mum. When he’s not watching telly, he’s sitting on the stairs, rocking back and forward, humming Mad World, her favourite song. When it’s cold outside, he worries that she won’t have her coat. First time I washed his clothes, he was so upset – I’d taken her smell away. More than anything he wants to go home. Most foster kids do. They want to go home but to a better home, where everything is fixed, perfect.’

  Rory doesn’t realize he has stopped washing. ‘Won’t it be hard for you, letting him go?’

  Her jaw tightens. ‘From day one, you have to remind yourself it’s temporary; it’s your job to get him ready to go back. And he knows that. You talk to him about going home. You tell him his mum is getting better.’

  Rory wonders what’s wrong with Jason’s mother. He also wonders what Orla gets out of the deal.

  ‘I saw you talking to him,’ she says.

  He smiles. ‘For a kid, he sure knows a lot about property.’

  She laughs. ‘He loves his property programmes, anything to do with making money, though he’ll watch anything, soaps, cookery, fashion. He loves Trinny and Susannah. First time he met Jenna, he told her black wasn’t her colour.’

  Rory laughs.

  ‘In some ways he seems so young. And in others, old beyond his years. And I know it’s not just from watching the box.’

  ‘You’ve taken on a lot.’

  ‘I’m getting a lot.’ She puts down the dishcloth. ‘After Owen left and Jenna went off to boarding school, the worst thing was the silence. I wasn’t aware how much noise one person can generate. Music. The phone – always for her. Even the hairdryer. Then nothing. A neighbour who’s a social worker told me about fostering. She knew of so many kids needing homes. I could hear the frustration in her voice. I did it to help out. But the fact is, I’m getting as much as I’m giving. Jason’s brought life back into the house. The fridge is full. I’ve someone to cook for. Someone to collect from school.’ She stops, laughs. ‘Sound desperate, don’t I?’

  ‘No.’

  They’re quiet.

  ‘You know, Orla, if you ever want anything…’

  Rory tracks Siofra down in the children’s bedroom, changing the baby.

  ‘What is Owen up to?’ he asks.

  She looks up. ‘What?’

  ‘He’s kicking Orla out on the street.’

  She puts a used babywipe in an orange plastic bag.

  ‘Can he do it?’ he asks. ‘Demand half?’

  ‘Apparently so.’

  ‘But I thought the law protected mothers. It’s still the family home.’

  ‘By law, he’s entitled to half.’

  ‘Isn’t there any other option? Can’t she buy him out or something?’

  ‘Where’s she going to come up with half a mill? She’s an agony aunt, not an investment banker.’ Siofra tapes the fresh nappy down, makes a face at Daisy, and starts popping fasteners on the white towelling babygro.

  ‘Where’ll she go?’

  ‘She’s looking for an apartment.’

  ‘What about the dog?’

  ‘She’ll have to find a home for Lieutenant Dan.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake.’

  ‘That about sums it up.’

  ‘You know, I looked up to him. All my life.’

  ‘I know. It was pathetic.’ She rolls her eyes.

  There was a time Rory would have defended Owen – as he often had to with Siofra. Growing up, his older brother by five years was his hero, the only one of them who didn’t care what their father thought of him, the only one who stood up to him. Siofra was the dutiful one, always helping, always good. To her, Owen was a troublemaker, disturbing the status quo she so carefully tried to maintain. Rory tried to act as peacemaker between his siblings, but secretly longed to be like Owen. Sharing a room with him meant witnessing close up his efforts to break away – summer jobs from the age of fifteen meant money, good clothes, girls and music. Rory’s abiding memory of Owen is combing his hair in front of the mirror to the sound of Freebird as he got ready to go out. Rory always felt left behind, though never as much as when Owen moved out of the house as soon as he’d done his Leaving Cert. No college for him. No more depending on his parents. A job in the bank meant money, freedom.

  ‘Where is he now?’ Rory asks.

  ‘Gone. Didn’t come back here at all after the church.’

  2

  Rory is coming back downstairs, in search of Louise, when his mobile rings. He breaks into a smile at the sound of his friend Barry’s voice.

  ‘Barry, what’s up?’

  ‘I’m supposed to be doing Doctor on Call tonight…’

  Rory doesn’t like the sound of ‘su
pposed to be’.

  ‘Dee’s gone into labour. She’s dilating at a rate of knots.’

  Too much information, Rory manages not to say.

  ‘I’m bringing her in. You couldn’t bail me out, could you? Sorry to ask, but you’re on their books from way back. All they’d need is your medical indemnity insurance and up-to-date registration. That’s if you’re free. If you can do it.’ All this has been said in one breath.

  Rory takes pity on the man at whose wedding he was Best Man. ‘Sure,’ he says, sounding more willing than he feels. The thought of a night of non-stop house calls followed by a Monday morning on the wards makes him want to lie down.

  ‘Oh God, thanks.’ Barry’s relief is audible. ‘I owe you one. I was due on at eight. I’ll drop my bag off on my way past,’ he says, knowing that as a hospital doctor Rory won’t have one.

  ‘I’m not home. I’ll collect it from you.’

  ‘We’re leaving now.’

  They arrange for Rory to pick it up from a neighbour.

  Rory and Louise do a quick round of goodbyes.

  In the car, she jokes, ‘I know you wanted to leave, but isn’t this a bit extreme?’

  He smiles. ‘What are you going to do for the rest of the evening?’

  ‘Don’t know. Work on my website, maybe.’

  He was afraid she might say that. The christening was supposed to be an opportunity for Louise to take a break. She’s been flat out since setting up the business.

  ‘Will you be OK, working all night and tomorrow?’ she asks.

  ‘Won’t be the first time.’ However he managed as a junior hospital doctor he will never know. He pities Barry still having to do doctor on call at this stage of his career. ‘Remind me never to have kids.’

  ‘Never have kids.’ She smiles.

  ‘I mean, look what they’ve done to Barry. There he and Dee are, out in Vancouver, Vancouver, having the time of their lives and they have to go and start a family. Suddenly they’re coming home, and he’s starting over, setting up in practice from scratch. It’s madness. His GMS list is tiny.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s hardly any public patients, any income. So, by night, he has to do Doctor on Duty; by day, try to stay awake in case the few private patients he has happen to become ill. And now they’re having a second. Why do people put themselves through that?’

  ‘Beats me,’ Louise says, taking out the Blackberry Rory bought her so she could pick up emails on the move. A mistake, he now sees, as it only means she brings the business everywhere with her. Still, it could be worse. She might have wanted to start a family. The thought of all that responsibility, that pressure. It’s enough to have a man consider vasectomy. Almost.

  Rory eyes the logo on the side of the silver Seat Ibiza owned by the Doctor on Duty operation – a stethoscope and doctor’s bag – and frowns. Talk about drawing attention to yourself. He ducks his head, climbing into the front passenger seat and is joined by his driver – a heavyset man, fortyish and Slavic.

  Rory introduces himself, extending a hand.

  ‘Renatis’ shakes it.

  ‘Many calls?’ Rory asks.

  ‘Three. We go first to Blackrock.’

  They set off. Renatis seems to be the shy silent type.

  ‘So, where’re you from?’ Rory asks eventually.

  ‘Lithuania.’

  Rory nods. He knows nothing about Lithuania. And doesn’t want a geography lesson. On the dashboard, a Blackberry vibrates, its red light flashing. Rory watches Renatis check it when they next stop at lights.

  ‘OK. So,’ he says. ‘A fever in Rathmines.’

  ‘Are they emailing the calls from the office now?’

  Renatis nods.

  ‘The amazing world of technology.’

  ‘Costs less,’ Renatis says.

  By the time they get to Blackrock, Rory has learned that Renatis is also a doctor, working as a driver while waiting for the Medical Council to recognize his qualification. While Rory will be in making his calls, Renatis will be reading the map, working out his route to the next call. Then he will listen to English language tapes.

  ‘OK. So, is a good job. I learn English and the city also.’

  ‘Your English is already good.’

  ‘I learn too from my son. He is fast learner. At school. You know?’

  Rory nods, hoping that’s the end of the child talk. They’ve a long night ahead.

  The Blackrock call and those that follow prove to be straightforward enough – anxious parents overly concerned. As the night wears on, Rory becomes aware that Renatis is repeating back to him a lot of his own expressions. Rory wasn’t aware he said things like, ‘Fair dues, man’, ‘Get off the stage’ or ‘Deadly’. And he’d prefer not to know. Their sixth call, heading for midnight, is at a block of flats not far from Dun Laoghaire.

  ‘This is not so good area,’ says Renatis, eyeing the poorly lit building.

  Rory makes a face. ‘Ah, it’s not so bad. It’s the inner city you’d be worried about.’

  Renatis doesn’t look convinced.

  Rory, reaching for the door, reassures him. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll soon get used to the city.’

  Renatis nods as if he’s taking that on board, but locks the doors anyway. Rory strides towards the flats, his footfall loud, confident. Catching sight of his shadow against the streetlights, he jokes to himself. Caped hero enters enemy territory. He reaches the stairs that go up into the flats. Passing a hooded youngster, he says a quick, ‘How’s it going?’ and takes the steps two at a time.

  On the first floor, he finds the flat he’s after. A middle-aged man looks relieved to see him. Rory apologizes for the delay, as he does at every call. The average wait is two hours. He is ushered into a bedroom where the man’s wife is lying curled up on her side, her face contorted by pain. Rory takes a history, gently palpating her abdomen. When he qualified, Rory trained as a GP before returning to the world of hospital medicine and specialization. Had he not, he would not be qualified to do Doctor on Call. It’s been a while, and though he’s a little rusty on general medicine, it doesn’t take a genius to work out that this patient needs to be admitted for urgent investigation, possibly surgery. He gives her a shot of pethidine to ease the pain and calls an ambulance. Ideally, Rory would like to stay with her until the paramedics arrive, but there’s that long list of calls waiting. He offers reassurance that the ambulance will be along shortly.

  Heading out of the flats and hurrying down the stairs, Rory is still debating whether or not he should have stayed, when out of the shadows steps the hooded figure from earlier, blocking his path. Rory stops. When he sees the syringe, he takes a hesitant step back. The guy moves forward into the weak light thrown from the window of a nearby flat. His face, still half-shaded by the hood, is long and thin, ghostly pale. He glances around quickly.

  He says two words. ‘The bag.’

  Rory raises a palm. ‘Look, it’s not mine. There isn’t much… Just penicillin…’

  ‘Gimme the fucking bag, you fucking asshole.’

  Rory’s knees buckle. ‘OK, here,’ he says, trying to keep his voice steady. ‘Take it.’ He holds it out. But instead of snatching it from him, Rory’s attacker grabs his arm and yanks him forward in a sudden violent movement so that they are face to face. A pair of constricted pupils. A reek of cigarette smoke. Rory lets go of the bag, about to back away when it happens, a sudden movement, a sharp downward jab into his right cheek.

  ‘Next time, speed the fuck up.’

  He is shoved backwards. He stumbles trying to regain his balance, watching wide-eyed as his attacker disappears around a corner, quickly and quietly into a night he seems to belong to, leaving Rory holding his bloodied cheek in total and absolute silence.

  His survival instinct kicks in. He has to wash the cut out. And fast. He turns back towards the stairs, taking the steps two, three at a time, up, back to the flat he has just come from.

  Covering his cheek with a hand
, he tells the man he needs to use the bathroom.

  In the mirror of a plastic bathroom cabinet, his black hair contrasts with the pallor of his face, making him even more ghostly. His eyes look haunted, darker than usual. Black almost. He feels for the tap, while examining the cut. He’s seen worse. But it’s not what it looks like that matters. It’s what might be in there. HIV? Hepatitis B? C? Rates among Dublin’s heroin addicts are high, very high. His attacker didn’t look like the type to get involved in needle exchange programmes. When did he last use that needle? And why didn’t Rory just throw the goddamn bag at him and run? He scrubs at the cut with soapy water, trying to make it bleed. He hears the paramedics arrive outside, and checks the cabinet for an antiseptic. Brylcream, toothpaste, shampoo, conditioner, razors and deodorant. He lifts the can of Sure Activresponse and directs it at his face.

  Back out in the hall, he briefs the paramedics on the woman’s condition, covering the cut with his hand. He stands aside as they help her onto a stretcher, then accompanies them down to the waiting ambulance, blue light flashing quietly in the night. If only he had waited with her in the first place. This would never have happened.

  Renatis does not hesitate. He starts the engine and chases after the ambulance. Their destination is the same now. The remaining calls will have to be passed to another doctor. Outside the car, life goes on. Light traffic of mainly taxis in no hurry. On the pavements, people wander home after nights out. At empty intersections, traffic lights go through their usual routine. Rory sees none of this. Inside his head, there is a debate raging. If he does what Renatis insists he should, and what he himself would advise anyone else to do (go straight to casualty to get tested and vaccinated), he is putting his career on the line – if he tests positive for AIDS or hepatitis B or C, he becomes an infection risk; his career is over. But if he does nothing, ignores it, hopes for the best, he is gambling with his life.

  Next time a Lithuanian tells him about his city, he’ll bloody well listen.

  3

  Rory is waiting in a narrow corridor outside the casualty treatment area with an ever-growing line of Dublin’s ill and wounded, some like him, well enough to sit, others lying on back-to-back trolleys. It is the standard A&E experience in one of the world’s most successful economies. Rory’s friend, Sinead, the casualty registrar, has knocked hours off his wait by having him bypass the actual waiting room. The people who are with him now have already spent hours there. And while part of him feels guilty about that, another part wishes he could have gone straight through with no wait at all. Infected blood is coursing through his veins. Time is everything. He’d do the tests, vaccines himself, if they’d let him and if he knew the protocol. But he is not a casualty doctor. And this doesn’t happen too often.