Page 108 of The Last Love Song
‘Goodnight, Sorcha.’
‘Night, Mammy.’
Sorcha sank into bed, every bone in her body aching for the peace and sleep. But every time she began to doze off, she thought of the stiff, grey-lipped corpse dressed in its Sunday church suit lying on the dining-room table. In the end she turned on the light, pulled down an old children’s book from her shelf and started to read.
After a few minutes, she became aware of the sound of sobbing.
She climbed out of bed and padded across to her mother’s room. As a child she’d been forbidden entry without knocking. Tonight, she opened the door and walked into the darkness.
‘Mammy? Mammy?’ Sorcha searched for the bed and climbed in under the sheets.
‘I’m sorry, Sorcha, really I am. I didn’t mean to disturb you. And you so tired.’
‘I couldn’t sleep either. Maybe we’ll both feel better when Daddy has gone out of the house.’
‘Yes, yes, I’m sure we will. Oh, Sorcha, I...I’m trying to be brave, but I can’t believe he’s gone. And you know the worst thing?’
‘What, Mammy?’
‘I don’t know whether I ever loved him. Sometimes I could swear I even hated him. But he was all I had. And in his way he was a good husband. He looked after me.’
Sorcha snuggled in closer. ‘Budge up and let me get comfortable. I’m staying here tonight.’ She rearranged herself on the pillows that had only two days ago supported Seamus’s head. Then she reached for her mother’s hand under the covers.
‘I missed you, Mammy, something fierce.’
‘You did?’ Mary sounded calmer.
‘Oh yes. Now, before the birds start their dawn chorus, let’s both of us try and get some sleep. Night, Mammy.’
‘Goodnight, sweetheart.’
34
Con, unusually, woke early. He lay with his eyes closed, willing sleep to return. He had a busy day rehearsing in the studio, then he was speaking at a rally of the Campaigners for Peace in Trafalgar Square in the evening.
After half an hour of trying, Con gave up and reached for his packet of cigarettes. He lit one up, then lay back on the pillows and took a deep drag.
He felt, as he had for some time, unsettled and unhappy.
‘Why?’ he whispered to the empty room.
Con Daly, the boy from nowhere, with statistically little chance of making anything of his life, had risen to achieve fame and fortune beyond his wildest dreams.
So why did nothing give him pleasure any more? He knew how difficult he was being with Sorcha, Todd and the rest of the band, yet it seemed he couldn’t help himself.
He was still in his twenties. He was too young for a mid-life crisis, surely?
Even music, always the great passion in his life, no longer gave him the buzz it once had. He thought of next week and the huge open-air concert in Central Park. Con no longer felt anticipation or excitement. All he could think of was the crush of bodies that would await his limousine – the pushing and shoving that saw him protected by minders as he made his way backstage.
To top everything off, rehearsals had not been going well. Todd and he had done little more than argue about what they would play. Con wanted to try some of the new stuff he’d written, but Todd argued that with almost a quarter of a million people in attendance, they should stick to the tried and trusted numbers that had made them such a huge success. ‘That’s what the fans will be coming for,’ he had said. And he was probably right.
Con felt the claustrophobia weigh in on him. It was as if his fame, which should give him so much power, had taken away his freedom both personally and professionally.
He could no longer go where he wanted or write what he felt he should. Creatively, he felt stifled. He knew Todd disapproved of his political anthems, but then his bandmate was a middle-class boy who’d never known what it was like to go to bed so hungry your stomach ached.
Con ground out his cigarette into the pot plant that stood on the floor near the bed.
He had too much success to be so bitter. What the hell was he becoming?
