I stand up, brush the grass from my skirt, remove a pigeon feather from my hair. I walk towards the cage, pull the bolt back, open the door. The bird waddles inside, hops onto the nearest perch, tucks his head inside his plumage and goes back to sleep. I press my face against the bars of the cage, shut my eyes. But the dark cannot protect me from the glaring truth.

I have run out of road.

28

Your vehicle must have mirrors fitted so that you
always know what is behind and to each side.

I wake with a blinding headache, a sawdust-dry mouth, and a keen aversion to the brightness of the day. I kick the duvet off my sweating body. It does little to alleviate the weight of heat with which I am suffused.

And the weight of an all-too-vivid recollection of what passed between me and Iris last night.

The memory of what I said—what I did—is shard-sharp. Mother Nature’s way of making up for my father’s disintegrating recall, perhaps.

And Iris. My wonderful friend, Iris. The accusations I hurled at her. And before that, back at the start. In Dublin. The promise I made her. The one I never intended to keep. The pretenses I employed, to get her to agree to my presence here.

My intentions were good.

And here we are now. On this paved road to hell.

And there is Vera again, shaking her head at my stupidity. My blind refusal to accept what was there the whole time. Right there, in front of my face.

I struggle out of bed, kick the duvet out of my way and stumble towards the bathroom, where I swallow two of Dad’s painkillers, on an empty stomach, washed down with possibly bacteria-laced French tap water that I collect in the scoop of my hand.

I make the mistake of looking at myself in the mirror.

My eyes are the worst. The lids pulpy and swollen from crying, the whites threaded with red veins, semicircles of bruised and baggy purple skin beneath.

I go back to bed without even checking on Dad.

I feel detached. Like a balloon that has slipped from the grip of a child and is lifted away by the wind, becoming smaller and smaller before it disappears.

I form no thoughts. I have no plan.

I lie in bed, stare at the ceiling, wait for the painkillers to do their job.

I don’t know how long it takes. Long, I think.

When the worst of the headache has passed, I ease myself out of bed, stumble to my suitcase, grab the first thing I see, pull it over my head. I don’t have the energy for the onslaught of a shower. I check on Dad. He is asleep, so I close the door gently and move to Iris’s room.

I knock.

There is no answer. I knock again. “Iris?” I whisper.

No response.

I knock again. And again. “Iris?” Louder this time.