Dark Chapter Read online

  *

  Past 9:30 on a Wednesday night, and she’s still in the office.

  She is twenty-nine, and her life has become an endless torrent of work. All interesting projects – ongoing television productions, new ideas to pitch and develop, evenings spent at screenings or in post-production houses or at industry drinks events. But she doesn’t have much time to herself, after this ongoing trawl of energy spent on her job. Weekends she often has to work, read scripts, watch other productions to be informed.

  Even yesterday afternoon, she had had a meeting with her boss and told her how stressed she was feeling over the amount of work she had.

  “There’s just so much to do, I don’t even know how I’m going to get it all done.”

  Erika, her boss, had been understanding. After seeing Vivian’s to-do list, she said she’d take on a few of those items, reassign others to their assistant. “Just get through these, go away, have a good trip, and hopefully things will calm down in a few weeks.”

  They’ve been hoping that for months now but in reality it’s never-ending. Besides, busy means good in the world of television. If you’re not busy, you’re not producing anything. Work brings in more work; business leads to more business. That’s the goal, isn’t it?

  She looks out the window, acknowledging that it’s already dark outside. Everyone else has gone home hours ago, but she has that usual pre-trip crunch: emails to send, budgets to update, pitches to finalize, that final giant wrap-up email to her boss.

  The office phone rings.

  She frowns, looks at the time, and knows it can only be one person: her mom.

  Great. It’s gonna be another hour before I get out of here.

  With a sigh, she picks up the phone. “Eagle Entertainment,” she says in her professional voice.

  “Hey, Eagle Entertainment,” her mom says, trying to be light. “You sound very busy.”

  “Hi Mom. Yeah, I um… I’m trying to get a lot done at work tonight. I’m going away for something tomorrow.”

  “Well, that’s good. It’s good to work hard. I just wanted to see how you are, since it’s been so long.”

  It hasn’t been that long, really. Maybe two weeks since they last spoke.

  “Yeah, I’m sorry. I’ve just been running around a lot and haven’t had time to call.”

  “Well, you want to do a good job at work,” Mom reminds her.

  She sighs at the familiar statement. Words she’s heard countless times before. Most parents would tell their kid to go home if they spoke to them in the office this late.

  “What’s this trip, then?”

  “Oh, it’s just this reunion to celebrate the tenth anniversary of the peace process in Northern Ireland.” She says it as if it’s something casual. When really it seems odd to her that they should be inviting her to such a momentous event, just because she happened to study in Ireland years ago.

  “They’re inviting all the former Mitchell Scholars,” she explains to her mom. “Remember that woman Barbara, who runs the US-Ireland Alliance in DC? She’s organizing the whole thing.”

  “Oh, so you’re flying to Dublin?”

  “No, Belfast. Northern Ireland. The peace process was for the North.”

  “Oh right… Is it for work?”

  “Yes and no. I’ve scheduled in a few meetings with potential work contacts while I’m there.”

  The events are all day and evening Thursday and Friday. Saturday she’s free. Sunday night, she’s been invited to the red-carpet premiere of a film she helped develop the script for. So she’s booked her flight to come back to London on Sunday midday. Get back, rest up, and get ready for this premiere.

  She doesn’t really want to go to the reunion, which consists of the usual schmoozing events, cocktail parties, dinners. She seems to be always doing this. If she can just make it to Saturday – then she’ll be able to go on a hike she’s been planning.

  On the far corner of her desk sits her Lonely Planet guidebook, which she brought into work as some kind of veiled incentive to get through her to-do list. The book has listed an 11-mile hike on the outskirts of Belfast. Start in some place called Glen Forest Park, and work your way up north, over hills with fine views of the city, to finish in Cave Hill. She imagines herself on her own, atop these hills and looking out at the city below her, and that will be worth it.

  Get to Saturday, and you’ll be okay.

  “I’m coming back on Sunday, and then we have the red- carpet premiere of a film that night.”

  “Oh, that’s exciting,” Mom says. “So how are things with you otherwise?”

  “Other than busy with work, not much really.” Of course, her social life is always busy. Six years living in London and you collect a lot of friends – there’s always birthday parties, flat-warming parties, leaving parties, and lately, a lot of engagement parties. She wonders if her mom realizes what her life, day-to-day, is actually like, who her friends are, how she spends her free time, what she’d like to do if she had more time.

  “Oh, I was hoping maybe you’ve been busy because…”

  And she knows what her mom is about to say, and a note of annoyance creeps into her voice. “Because?”

  Mom’s voice is mischievous and inquisitive at the same time. “Because maybe you’ve met someone?”

  “No,” she answers firmly. “I haven’t. I told you. Please stop asking me about that, and if there’s any news to report, I’ll tell you.”

  Yes, six years in London and dating is more confusing than ever. There appear to be men aplenty in this city, but guys will offer any number of excuses for not really embarking on a relationship – I’m not over my ex yet, it’s not a really good time for me right now, I recently realized I’ve been in love with someone else my whole life. Etc., etc. The flush of a night spent with someone inevitably turns to misread signals, unanswered text messages, a temporarily broken heart. Retreat, refresh, reboot, get back out there. Absolute minefield.

  She doesn’t say anything else on the phone, but her mom continues on the same topic. “Oh, I don’t really understand it. Your sister was already married at twenty-seven.”

  Her gaze wanders over to the Lonely Planet guidebook again, and she feels a familiar twinge of longing for the cover image: a solo hiker on a promontory, while green-and-grey cliffs fall away to the frothing ocean below.

  Just get through to Saturday.

  Her computer screen says 9:56 now.

  She looks down at her to-do list.

  “Mom, I have to get back to my work.”

  *

  This is what they call a forest?

  Well, maybe for West Belfast. There’s trash scattered over the ground: plastic soda bottles, fish-and-chip papers, squashed cardboard boxes, crushed beer cans.

  Hm, not quite pristine wilderness here.

  She tries to ignore it.

  It’ll get better, the deeper I go into the park.

  Glen Forest Park. The 11-mile Belfast Hills Walk that’s described in her guidebook. She is impatient to skip through the uninspired urban part of the trail. But still, even being among this sorry version of nature is refreshing in some way. She breathes in the smell of the trees, a grin breaking across her face when she passes under a patch of sunlight.

  Her watch says just after 1pm, so she has the whole afternoon ahead of her. The weather is balmy for April, perhaps the first time this year that she’s been able to go on a hike. All the weight of London and the whirl of the past two days, the small talk she made at the tenth-anniversary celebration, the shaking of hands with Belfast politicians who were somehow instrumental in the peace process, slides away, forgotten. And there is just herself, and the trees, and the trail.

  She consults her book where the page for the Belfast Hills has been dog-eared: Well-surfaced paths lead away from the visitor centre into young, mixed woodland.

  The place isn’t entirely deserted. For a Saturday afternoon this warm, there are enough locals walking around, enjoying the weather.
She passes a father and his two young kids.

  They smile and nod at her, and she smiles back.

  There’s something about being out of the city. Everyone’s immediately friendlier, as if to acknowledge their mutual enjoyment of nature.

  Don’t cross the mini-suspension bridge but keep on the left of the river for 1km before crossing a bridge.

  Following the directions, she stays on the path until it reaches a fork. She takes the left path, perhaps because it is empty of people. She has the path to herself for a few blissful minutes. Then two young men come toward her, drinking cans of Tennent’s. They pass her, chatting to each other, then continue down the path, ignoring her.

  A stream gurgles to her left. She steps off the paved path for a second, to pause on the stream’s bank, watching the water slide over pebbles in the sunlight. An early swarm of mayflies dances above the water, and small white flowers star the grass of the opposite bank.

  She smiles again, appreciating this, then continues back onto the path.

  Climb steadily through improving woodland rich in ferns to a bridge carrying the A501 road.

  Right, no sign of that bridge yet, but the woodland is definitely improving. Ferns nod at the foot of the trees.

  A father, wearing a green-striped Celtic shirt, and his two sons and one daughter come towards her. They are all ginger-haired, the kids young and ruddy-faced. One of the sons has a Jack Russell terrier on a lead, and the father smiles as they approach.

  “Hello,” she says to them.

  “Hello,” they say back.

  They pass her, and then they are gone.

  *

  He’s down among the settled people now. Definitely still feeling them yokes from last night. But nothing better to do, so here you are down the glen.

  He’s skulking. He’s seeing what he can see.

  But not much here, really.

  Everyone’s old and ugly. Or has screaming kids.

  Not even that many women. Here’s a couple going for a walk, but she’s probably someone’s nan, she’s that old. Minging anyway.

  A man and his dog. A man and his wife and a dog. A man and his kids and a dog.

  Boring.

  A beour there, but she’s with two lads. Two big lads who’d kick the shite out of him. They’re laughing and carrying a crate of beers – ha ha, all the fun these buffers have. He hates them all. He has a closer a look and her tits jiggle in her tight pink T-shirt and his hard-on does a little jig jiggle too and… well, they’re gone now, away off in that direction.

  What to do. What to do.

  Stand on the edge of the lawn here, where the grass meets the trees, and no one will look at you much. See, all too bothered with their own perfect settled lives. Walk the dog. Play with the kids. Breathe the fresh air. Ignore that pavee standing right there. He means no harm.

  Heh.

  Look who comes down the path. A man and his sons. A couple and their dog. And what’s this… what’s this…?

  What’s this girl coming down the path. On her own.

  A woman. Alone.

  Take a few steps closer, squint your eyes. See what you can see.

  She’s a beour, ain’t she? Different. Dressed different. Blue shirt, long sleeves, everything all covered up, too bad. But see the outline of her tits, her slim frame. She’s tiny, thin waist and all. And long black hair. Nice long black hair.

  She’s a Chink.

  And not a bad-looking one.

  Never expected to see that here, all on her own.

  Imagine that long black hair, bunched in your fist…

  Anyone with her? No, she’s coming closer. Walking faster than the others, this one. Like she has somewhere to go.

  Book in her hand?

  Ha, no, she stopped. Bending down to put the book in her backpack. What’s in there? How much money? Where’s this beour from?

  Not from here.

  Let’s find out.

  *

  She steps out of the shade of the tree canopy, as the tarmac path continues onto open ground. Here the park widens a bit – a green lawn under the sunlight. The sun warms her face, and she wants to stop and soak it in, but she is self-conscious, with all these people passing by.

  Here there’s more people ambling about. A couple pushing their baby in a pram, while another kid toddles at their feet. A woman walking two dogs: a big Alsatian and a Labrador, both of them straining at their leads when a man walks his cocker spaniel past.

  The tarmac path skirts the wide green lawn and halfway across, she spots a lone figure standing there.

  It’s a young man, or a boy, and he looks out of place because… why? Because of what he’s wearing. A bright white zip-up jumper, slim jeans. Almost what he would wear to go out at night, not for a walk in the park. Everyone else is wearing T-shirts and sweatpants, but not this one.

  He’s just standing there, not moving. Hands in pockets, a swatch of white against the green of the lawn.

  Strange, she thinks. And keeps on walking.

  The trail beckons, the bridge that she needs to pass under, and then the upper part of the glen.

  But he moves now, the young man in white. A few steps. He’s definitely heading toward her.

  Why me?

  That’s the last thing I need, right now. I just want to continue on the trail.

  *

  Getting closer to her now, and he can see her better. Yeah, she’s a beour. Black hair and tan skin and eyes a bit slanty like all them Chinks. How old?

  Who cares? She’s still slim. None of these fat-arses waddling around Glengoland.

  She won’t like ‘Hello,’ not this one. Seems too set on wherever she’s going.

  Something more. Almost in front of her. Turn on the Sweeney charm.

  What to say to her? She had a book, like she was looking at it.

  Here. Now.

  Act innocent, act stupid.

  “Hiya, I… I think I’m lost. I don’t know where I’m going.”

  Done now. It’s begun.

  See what she says.

  *

  What?

  She’s stumped for a moment. Is he talking to me?

  But there’s no one else it could be. No one else next to her, or behind her.

  After a split second, she regains her composure, ever the helpful, well-traveled professional, even if this situation seems a bit odd.

  “Um, where are you trying to get to?”

  The boy – and it really is a boy, younger than he seemed from a distance – seems to waver on his feet, uncertain. He’s just a kid, almost scrawny, ginger-brown hair, freckles. He’s kinda out of it. She wonders if he’s sober.

  “I’m lost. I… I don’t know where I am.”

  Maybe he had a big night out, but it’s past 1pm. How’d he end up in this park?

  “Listen,” she says, attempting to mask her annoyance. Really, the last thing she needs when she’s setting off on a hike. “Where are you trying to go?”

  He holds a hand up to his head, like he’s confused.

  “I’m just… I’m just trying to get to Andersonstown,” he mumbles, blue eyes not quite focusing. “Can you tell me where’s Andersonstown?”

  Andersonstown. She remembers it from the map. She passed through it on the bus over here. At least she can answer that much.

  But, really. Of all the people, I’m obviously not from here. Why ask me?

  “For Andersonstown, I think you just want to walk down the glen that way.” She points helpfully to make it clear. “And you’ll hit a busy road, and you can take a bus from there.”

  She looks at him, cool and neutral.

  Firm, informative, hope that did the job. Now please let me continue in peace.

  *

  American, is she? And with a voice low like a man.

  Didn’t expect that to come out of her, did we?

  Ah well, don’t make her less of a beour, not really. Just an odd one.

  Up close, he inspects her face. She’s
pretty. Nice lips. And no, don’t look at her tits, not this early. Eyes on her face.

  But beour beour beour beour… he feels it twitch, knowing how close she is.

  All you have to do is reach out and…

  But no, there’s people close by. Fucking settled people with their dogs and kids and watch watching. See, see the pavee talk to the Chink.

  But American. Not Irish. Not from here.

  All on her own.

  And talking to him. Actually answering his questions, not the way all them other buffers pretend he don’t exist.

  Maybe he’s onto something here.

  *

  Why’s he still standing there? I gave him the directions, told him where to go.

  She turns away, heads down the tarmac. A definite signal that the conversation’s over.

  There’s something weird about this kid.

  But now, he’s walking alongside her, like they’re friends or something. Almost like he’s chatting her up, but that’s impossible, he’s so young.

  “How old are you?”

  She frowns, but tries to stay lighthearted, conversational, yet firmly in control. “How old do you think I am?”

  “How old do you think I am?” he mimics her.

  Is this kid for real?

  “How old are you?” she shoots back at him.

  “I’m thirty-one.”

  Gimme a fucking break.

  “No, you aren’t,” she tells him, irritated.

  “No, you’re right. I’m not thirty-one.”

  “How old are you?”

  “I’m twenty.”

  She gives him a cynical look.

  “Okay okay, I’m not. I’m twenty-three.”

  He grins at her, and her annoyance grows. She keeps on walking.

  “Where you from?” he asks.

  “New Jersey,” she answers tersely, still walking. “Where you from?”

  Don’t give this kid an inch. Everything he asks you, you ask him right back.

  But to be honest, she’s just doesn’t want to talk to him at all.

  “Ah, I know New Jersey. I’ve been to New Jersey.”

  She almost stops, hearing that. “Really? No, you haven’t.”

  “Yeah, I have.”

  “Where in New Jersey have you been?” Even more cynical now.