The Rachel Incident(74)



I turned around. Two women in their forties had their heads together and were making no secret of the fact that they were discussing us.

“Oh. God.”

“What shall we do?” Gem said.

“I don’t know. Ignore them.”

“They’re still looking.”

“Well, so?”

“It’s rude.”

“People are rude!”

When we got up to leave, Gemma marched up to them while I was putting on my coat.

“Excuse me—do we know each other?” she said.

“No, I don’t think so,” one of them responded.

“Well, you’ve been looking at me and my friend for this entire meal. I thought you might have something to say.”

One of the women looked bashful, but the other met my gaze.

“You’re Rachel Murray,” she said.

“Yes,” I replied. “Hello?”

“My husband works with Aideen Harrington.” Her tone was a cold bare bulb in an interrogation room. The woman had not been at the party, which was the most terrifying thing. She just knew me, the way people often knew each other in Cork. She knew me by reputation. She knew me to see.

My stomach dropped into my hips. I waited for a few seconds for the blood to come back to my face, then walked out.

“What was that?” Gemma asked. “Who was that?”

I just said goodbye, and walked fast to my bar shift with my head down.

After that, I noticed strangers’ reactions to me more and more. I felt naked, stripped of a shell, a soft baby-pink thing. It’s hard, when you work behind a bar, to know who is looking at you and who is looking at the drinks lined up behind you. Intense eye contact is often just someone trying to focus on what tequila you carry. But it registered the same with me: the tequila gazers, and the people who knew who Rachel Murray was and what she had done.

Another night, a drunk girl came up to me and told me that we used to be in the same American Lit class.

“Cool,” I said. “You have a good memory. That class was huge.”

“Yeah,” she said, then bent her head low, conspiratorial. I smelled the high synthetic sting of a vodka Red Bull on her breath. “You know, I always wondered if his dick was as big as he was.”

She laughed and kissed me on the cheek. “You’re a legend, girl,” she said, and my gut sank as I noticed a table of her girl friends, looking over at our conversation like they had scripted the opening line.

These kinds of interactions didn’t happen every day, or even every week. But I behaved as if they were about to. I was always conscious that I was minutes away from my next Dr. Byrne–related run-in, and held myself stiff. I didn’t want to be caught doing something that would further cement me in the Cork consciousness as That Girl.

Round red circles, the size of coins, appeared on the tops of my breasts and arms.

“Oh my God,” James said, smothering a laugh. “You actually have ringworm?”

Ringworm and scabies. The first thing we ever talked about, and we had just passed our first anniversary of it.

I did not have ringworm. I had something my family GP called “button psoriasis.” I was asked if I had any new stresses in my life.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I lied. “The economy?”

Our savings were more important than ever. I never went out any more, because I worked nights, and I never spent during the day, because I was asleep or getting ready to work again. James was also vigilant, and we were both putting away fifty a week.

“We need to get out,” I said to James.

“We need to get out,” he confirmed.



* * *





A Google search, December 2021:


Dr. Fred Byrne UCC cork

Dr. Fred Byrne UCC cork sick

Dr. Fred Byrne UCC cork sick coma

Aideen Harrington

Aideen Harrington sick husband coma

Deenie Harrington sick husband coma



And finally:


Alistair Harrington daughter husband sick coma



I search them all, like telegrams posted into the ether. Strangely enough, Alistair Harrington proves fruitful. A short interview in the Evening Echo had run at the beginning of October.


CORK POET TO RECEIVE RETROSPECTIVE AT CRAWFORD ART GALLERY



My eyes skitter down the page, taking in nonsense phrases like “the homecoming Cork’s poet laureate deserves” before finally landing on a quote from Deenie.


Speaking on behalf of her father’s estate, Aideen Byrne has said that she is “thrilled” the event will finally be taking place, her archival work having been delayed several times due to family illness.

“There’s been a lot of renewed interest in Dad’s work over the years. Poetry is big again, and I think younger audiences are beginning to realise how resonant his work still is.”

Alistair Harrington: Ashes to the Fire, Crawford Art Gallery, 10 October–15 December, Tickets €8



My first thought is: I should book my flight right now, brave the Christmas crowds at Stansted, and surprise my parents with a visit from their heavily pregnant daughter. Stand in the Crawford, my butt cheeks clenched, trying not to let out nervous pregnancy wind while I stare at the letters and photos that I once touched in the sun-drenched kitchen of the Harrington-Byrnes.

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