I walk up and down the street a few times, checking every single car for her parking disc. Maybe she bought a new car, maybe she drove in another car, and if that’s the case, I hope she’s transferred the new vehicle details to her disc or I’ll have to ticket her. But there’s nothing that belongs to her or her business. I stare through the window, confused. She looks up briefly and catches my eye again. She smiles, all professional, always on the lookout for new customers. I turn around and walk away quickly, heart pounding at the connection.
I stop at the head of James’s Terrace and look down the street. My heart is pumping, pounding. I don’t know if I want to see the Ferrari or not. I feel weary as I make my way down past the cars, an impending sense of doom, and somebody runs out of number eight – not him, it’s the curly-haired lad. Dressed casually, fashionably preened and polished in a T-shirt and jeans, so unbusinesslike for an office environment. I wonder what they do in there, apart from ruin people’s existences. He looks at me, grinning, as he runs down the steps. Digging for money in his pocket, he hurries to the pay-and-display machine, then to the Ferrari. He opens the door, places the ticket on the dashboard, winks at me as if he’s beaten me in a game I have no desire to play, or do I, and runs back inside.
Ah, he’s been promoted to a parking angel.
I’m glad Ferrari fella has paid, or at least sent out one of his footmen, but only paying because he sees me coming isn’t the point at all. This is not a cat-and-mouse game, this is not about me, you’re supposed to pay for all the hours. I’m agitated again.
I need a break. I haven’t had coffee or breakfast but maybe I should take an early lunch. I walk by the office, looking straight ahead, down the steps to the coast road. I head for my bench but it starts to rain and I have to divert immediately. It’s bucketing down, big thick cold raindrops. Wet rain, as we’d say. I hurry to the public toilets on the corner, beside the tennis club. Pretty flower boxes outside, and hanging baskets. Standing, I eat my cheese sandwich, making sure my back is to number eight. Look at her eating her lunch by the skanky toilets in the rain, I imagine the male models say, as they place their Prada trainers on their desks and lean back to drink cappuccinos with half almond milk half llama milk.
For distraction I watch the windows of the garda station, bright strip lighting peeking through vertical office blinds, wondering what they’re working on, wondering if my parking tickets will ever help them solve a case.
It rains for the remainder of the afternoon, a grey day made greyer, dirtier and cold. A cold wind picks up, sending the promise of spring away and plunging us back into winter again. By the time I’m finished for the day I arrive home freezing. My feet are numb and my fingers are so cold I can barely wrap them around my door key. I could do with babysitting tonight, the kids would be a nice distraction. Usually Becky and Donnacha go out on Tuesdays, but the house is quiet. I walk across the flagged stone pathway through the secret garden to the gym.
The rain has enticed worms and snails outside up from their hiding places.
I feel a crunch underfoot. I twist my shoe to wipe the snail’s slush off.
I stand in the shower for a long time. It takes a while for the heat to soak through my skin and reach my bones. The mist and steam are so thick I can’t see through the glass, and I’m finding it hard to breathe. I’ve heat rashes all over my skin, and yet I turn the temperature higher.
Later I can’t sleep. My mind is too busy, it won’t settle. It won’t focus on one thought for long enough, it keeps jumping back and forth, to nonsense. To five people.
I hear a sound outside. A crash, a bang. It sounds like the wheelie bin. It’s windy but not so much that it would send a wheelie bin flying. The McGovern family wheelie bins are gathered together in an area nearer to the house. Sectioned off behind khaki painted fencing. Two green bins for recycling, a brown bin for food and a purple for home refuse. I have one of each outside the garage for my own use. I’m meticulous with my recycling. Everything must be separated, food cleaned out of plastic before binning, labels peeled off. All rules must be obeyed. It pains me to see what other families do after all my hard work. To think that their crap will be bunged in with mine. I picture that plastic swirl in the sea. The bang has come from right outside my window. I look outside but don’t see anything. There’s a security light that comes on with motion sensors but I switched it off because the tree outside my window kept setting it off every time it swayed.
I pull on my lounge pants again, throw a sweater on and hurry downstairs. The lights are off in the office and gym. I’m alone in the building. I open the door and look outside and come face to face with a fox. He looks up at me and doesn’t blink. He has toppled the green bin. Bad idea, my friend, no food in there, though he may have sniffed out the remnants of food from the packaging. My heart’s pounding as we take part in a staring match. I daren’t breathe. Or blink. His tail is hugely bushy, white at the tip. Not too dissimilar to a dog but its tail gives it away.
Madra rua, the red fox.
We stare at each other, I don’t know for how long, probably not as long as it feels. His stare isn’t threatening, but is he dangerous. Maybe if you’re a chicken. Are you a chicken, Allegra. Bok bok bok. Are you going to let what that man said break you down, knock you off your axis. Are you, Allegra. He called you a loser. He thinks that the five people you spend the most time with are losers and that you’re a loser and maybe you are because look how you’ve reacted, Allegra. Or should I call you Freckles. Who are you since you arrived here. Allegra or Freckles. Come on, make up your mind.
I step back inside and close the door on the fox, heart pounding in my chest.
Bok bok bok.
Beneath the duvet I realise I’m running the fingertips of my right hand across the skin on my left arm. I’ve been tracing the scarred raised skin near my bicep over and over as though wearing a path. I don’t need to look at which constellation I’m focused on because I know by feel. Cassiopeia. A five-star constellation. I still remember the star names; Segin, Ruchbach, Navi, Shedar, Caph. As I run my fingers over each star I think about the words Ferrari fella said to me.
Five people. Five stars. Freckle to freckle. Star to freckle. Person to star. Person to freckle. Over and over again until I fall asleep.
Nine
I’m looking at the dashboard of the Ferrari. It ran out of pay-and-display juice thirty minutes ago. I’m momentarily pleased, not because I can ticket him again, but because I can see he has again made an effort. Then I’m angry with myself for dropping my standards. To simply make an effort is not acceptable.
I take the four steps up to number eight. The steps have been cleaned and polished, restored, unlike all the others in the terrace which are uneven, chipped and broken over time. There’s not a sign of my mucusy slime from when he stepped on me, crushed me with his words. The Georgian door is black, shiny, with a grand gold knob and a large gold 8 above it. To the right-hand side there is just one buzzer along with the company name Cockadoodledoo Inc. I press it, step back and clear my throat.
It takes a while and as I consider leaving, the door is finally pulled open by a woman, probably my age, who, while tall, only fills a quarter of the height of the door. She looks like a miniature person, a doll in a doll’s house. I’m startled by a loud deep male cheer, as though a football team has scored a goal. She barely reacts and as soon as I realise the cheer was not at my expense, as far as I can tell anyway, I settle.