Chapter Text

James

There it is again.

He can feel the chasm opening inside him. It tears wider as he strolls along the Irish cliffside; a screaming, screeching void that nips at his heels as he walks. James tries to listen to the tour guide, but the foamy white-capped waves below keep pulling at his eyes, hypnotising him with the way they thrash against the rock faces. It’s dizzying. The edge is just right there , with no guard rail, nothing to stop someone from falling. And the sea below is so, so far down… It makes him wonder. Wonder if one wrong step would send him toppling into the cold. Wonder how long he’d spend falling before hitting the choppy grey waters below.  

At the top of the cliffs, the wind is a dull roar whipping past his ears. It pulls at his hair and claws at his face, numbing any exposed bits of skin. Kate clings to his side, keeping one hand on her head in a futile attempt to keep her long hair from hitting her in the face while the group is buffeted from side to side by the icy breath of the Irish Sea. It whisks away most of the tour guide's words, making their speech near incomprehensible. 

“Reaching up to 214 metres in height— … the cliffs of Moher are named after a fort– …built on the promontory…. The word 'Mothar' in old Gaelic means …--” 

Kate tugs at his sleeve, and he bends his head to hear her over the wind. “How tall is 214 metres?” 

“About… 800 feet? I dunno. Tall.”  

When the tour group comes to a lookout point, Kate says they should take a picture by the railing, and his body moves on autopilot: wrapping his arm around his fiancée, smiling, standing as another tourist takes their picture on the camera he brought…  

What makes him anxious isn’t the possibility of falling, but the opportunity to jump. The drop obsesses him, the void beckoning him down. When he walks, he’s not sure which direction his feet will carry him. 

When they’re done posing, James turns to Kate. “Katie, my Aunt Deirdre has been asking when we’ll be getting to Derry–” 

“Babe, look . This one came out real well,” she cuts him off, showing him one of the pictures on the camera.  

“Erm– yeah. Looks grand. Listen, about Derry–” 

“Oh we’ll get there eventually!” Kate waves him off, “there’s just all this stuff I want to see first– I’ve never been to Ireland before, you know.” 

“Well yeah, but I really want you to meet my relatives. And my friends–”  

“And we will!” 

“It’s just– well, I haven’t been home in a really long time, and I’ve really been looking forward to seeing them.” Work had picked up in the last few years, making the already few and far between trips home to Derry even harder to manage. It’s been five years now since he’d last seen Michelle or any other part of his Irish family, and far longer since he’d seen any of the other Derry girls in person. To be so close to home and still not able to see them felt an odd sort of torture. Michelle, Orla, Clare, and —  

And Erin.  

How many years has it been since they last spoke, now? Probably a good ten years. Maybe more. Ten years since he’s last seen her, and twelve since they’d had a proper conversation; since their fight which ended everything. 

It hadn’t even been that big of a fight. Not really. At least, not in hindsight. Not one worth ending a friendship over. It’d been stupid and petty and all the things young and teenager-ish, and he’d left for America before they could make up. He hadn’t meant for any of it to happen. Hadn’t meant for them to stop talk. Hadn’t meant to lose contact. It just sort of… happened. And he didn’t know how to fix it. Didn’t know if she wanted to fix it.  

By the time he came home for Christmas holidays, it’d been too awkward to bridge the gap. And the damage that had been done felt irreparable.  

He’d caught word through Clare that she was back in Derry— teaching at their old school, of all places. Clare said it was just until she could get back on her feet; a temporary layover during a rather tumultuous time. That’d been four years ago, and to his knowledge, she’s still there.  

He’d be lying if he said that the thought of seeing her didn’t make his stomachs flip in a not all unfamiliar way. Even after all this time. James wonders if it’s Pavlovian. Ring the bell, and the dog starts salivating. A triggered response by being back in Derry, like his heart has learned to stutter at the mention of Erin Quinn.  

Time might not heal all wounds, but it certainly helps them fade. The ache in his chest, the one that used to sit right beneath his rib’s whenever he thought of her, did fade eventually. Sometimes he thinks it’s almost entirely gone— but then, he worries about what that will mean if the pain goes away. 

 “James, I said we are going, didn’t I? I just have other things that I want to see first.” Kate’s eyes flash darkly, warning him to drop the subject.  

James opens his mouth to argue back, but is cut short by his phone. He knows it’s his mother by the telltale chirping ringtone, and he heavily debates the merits of chucking his phone over the side of the cliff. But unfortunately, if his mother wants to talk to him, by God would she find a way to make it happen. Once, when he’d been in a meeting with some producers at MGM, Kathy had faked a minor seizure to get James pulled from the meeting just so she could ask him if he could get her tickets to the Cannes Film Festival.  

He grimaces as he picks up the phone. “Listen mum, I’m really really busy right now so I can’t talk—.” 

“Oh James, I know you and Katie are on holiday right now.” Kathy says, cutting him off. James shoots a glare over towards the woman in question who was busy reading an info board on the cliffs. He couldn’t tell you why, but it really bothers him sometimes that his mother and fiancée got along so well. “Doing some touring, are you?”

“Yeah,” James says flatly. He wishes she'd just get on with whatever she called for. It wasn’t to just chat, it was never to just chat. “ We’re at the Cliffs of Moher right now.” 

“Oh, lovely! Lovely spot, that is,” his mother simpers making him roll his eyes. It was becoming harder and harder to tune out the erratic white noise building in his chest. He’s fraying at the edges— keeping it together with a white-knuckled grip. “Listen, I was chatting with this lovely man here about your movies, and he didn’t believe I was your mother! Can you believe it? — Come here, darling, this is my son James Maguire, the movie director. ” James hears the phone jostle a bit, and then his mother’s voice is replaced by a man’s with a vague European accent.  

“Hello?”  

“Erm— hi,” James says awkwardly, his face heating up with embarrassment.  

“Are you really James Maguire?” James tries to place his accent. Swedish, perhaps? Or maybe Italian?

“That’s what they tell me,” he deadpans. He hates that his mum does this: introduce him to every one of her new suitors like he was some showpony. Her trophy-son that she touts around like she’d always know he was going to do great things. That she’s always been a proud mother.  

It makes him miss the years when she’d forget his birthday, pretend he didn’t exist, or leave him behind in another country. How many times has James wished he could feel only resentment toward Kathy? Or nothing at all? But he supposes that is the problem with love. It’s difficult to unlearn, no matter how hard the lesson might be.  

“How do I know you’re not just some bloke?” The man asks. And James really isn’t in the mood to defend his identity to a stranger his mum picked up.  

He huffs. “Dunno. You’ll just have to take my word for it, I guess.” And hangs up the phone. 

Marching over to Kate, James says “I’ve told my Aunt Deirdre that we’ll be there Friday. I don’t want to change plans on her again, so can we please head back to the hotel now to pack? I’m completely knackered, Katie.” James watches her nostrils flare and adds quickly, “I’ll edit those photos we took so you can post them to your blog later too.” 

She agrees, but the way her face is pinched, James can tell he’s in for a night of judgmental silence. Honestly though, he’s not as bothered by it as he should be, he thinks, a quiet night sounds just fine to him.

Erin  

The piercing sound of the stovetop kettle cuts through the quiet of the Quinn household, making its presence known with a long, drawn out whistle. Cursing to herself, Erin darts into the kitchen with her toothbrush jammed in her mouth, toothpaste foaming at the corners of her lips. Shooting a pointed glare at Michelle, lounging at the kitchen table, she says, “ mhhhfffm! ” Which roughly translates to: “you were sitting right there and couldn’t be arsed to move the kettle at the very least?” to which Michelle simply shrugs. 

Erin quickly moves the kettle aside as Michelle continues chattering away behind her. She fills the waiting teapot, but her eyes snag on the glowing red spiral of the burner below. She can feel the steam billow up into her face, and her hands itch at her sides. 

They’re just little reminders. Really. That’s all they are. That’s what she tells herself, anyways. And that’s what she’d say if someone asked, if someone noticed.

Reminders that she’s here, that she feels, that she can feel.

Holding her hand over the glowing burner, Erin feels the heat radiate off the stovetop in waves. It soaks into her fingers, warming her hand until it starts to prickle at the pads of her fingers. The heat envelops her hand like a glove, crawling towards her wrist with needle-like legs. She creeps her hand closer, the pricking sensations turning into a biting sting, but she thinks she can move her hand closer. She can take the pain. It, honestly, doesn’t hurt that bad. Not once you settle into it. Accept it. 

Pain isn’t that bad, Erin thinks. Cuts, bruises, burns, bites. It doesn’t hurt that bad. In fact, she kind of likes it. 

Her hand is a hair’s breadth away from touching the burner— the stinging sensation has penetrated past her skin, burrowing deep into her skin, making a home in her bones, daring her to touch— 

“I’ll tell ya, Erin, the thing they don’t mention enough is just how mad horny you get when you’re pregnant,” Michelle says between mouthfuls of salt and vinegar taytos. “Like, I’ll stick anything up my hole at this point. The other day, I just about sodomised myself with a– are you even listening to me?” 

Erin jumps, yanking her hand away from the stove like a child caught trying to nick a sweet. 

“Sorry?” She tries to say, but it comes out muffled around her toothbrush, sounding more like: “ Mhmm? ” 

Michelle glares at her suspiciously and Erin feels her eyes go wide, innocent. She wasn’t doing anything, she tried to say with her face. Don’t ask about it. It’s fine. Everything’s fine. 

Michelle opens her mouth, about to say something when her eyes flick to the side at the last minute, and instead she says, “Oh, morning, Anna!” 

“ Moooornin’, ” yawns the sleep-rumpled teen as she stumbles into the kitchen. Dressed in her Our Lady Immaculate College uniform, Anna looks much the same as Erin did at seventeen. The major difference between the sisters is the dyed black hair and thick fringe that Anna wears like a crown.  

With Michelle’s attention off her, Erin moves to spit out her toothpaste in the kitchen sink. Rinsing off her brush under the faucet, she wipes at her mouth with the corner of her sweater sleeve before turning to her little sister. “Morning Anna, sleep well?”  

Pouring herself a cup of tea, Anna turns to Michelle, ignoring her sister. “What were you going to sodomize yourself with, Michelle?” 

“A baguette.”

“Michelle!” Erin gasps. 

“What? She asked, so she did.” 

“Sounds like a recipe for a yeast infection,” Anna comments dryly, sipping her tea. 

“Nah, see cause I was gonna wrap it in cling-film so I wouldn’t get any crumbs in my bits.”

“Just because she asks, doesn’t mean you have to answer! That’s my baby sister, or did you forget?” Erin scolds. 

Michelle rolls her eyes. “Ach, wise up, Erin. The wains seventeen, so she is. Anna's old enough to know about riding, right Anna?” 

“Like how it’s a cardinal sin and abstinence is the only solution? Sure. Rings a few bells.” 

“Right, that’s enough,” Erin flaps her hands about as if trying to rid the air of their conversation. 

It’s then that Anna’s eyes finally land on Erin. “ What are you wearing?”  

“Oh, yeah, I wanted to ask about that too,” Michelle says, jumping in, “Erin, you realise you’re thirty not seventy, right?”

Erin looks down at her outfit. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” She’s dressed in her usual work slacks and loafers with a fuzzy knit jumper over a button-down shirt. “I’m just teaching the wains, it’s not like I’ve got anyone to impress at Our Lady Immaculate.” 

“There’s dancing cats on your babs!” Michelle says, as though that is enough explanation.  

“Are you wearing one of mammy’s jumpers?” Anna asks sharply. Erin goes cold at the mention of Mary. She meets her little sister’s tempestuous gaze, and Erin’s heart lurches like she’s just walked into the path of a predator.   

“What?” She says faintly. “No, I– no, I bought this jumper…” It had reminded Erin of her mother’s collection of jazzy jumpers. She looks at her sister. “No, Anna.” 

Anna holds her gaze for a moment longer before dropping it. With her eyes off her, Erin let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding.  

The sisters exist in a tenuous truce at all times, and have since Mary’s funeral.  At first, Erin thought that this tension would resolve, the longer she was back in Derry, but Anna only seems to grow more prickly and petulant with each passing year. Mentioning Mary had become all but a key phrase needed to cause Anna to detonate. At this point, Erin had lost count of the amount of shouting matches she and her sister had gotten into. 

Since Joe’s first heart attack back in ‘98, his health had been on a steady decline. Each time she came home for the holidays, Joe would be a little thinner, a little more frail, a little less… Joe. As fucked up as it may sound, Erin had almost been grateful that she’d been away at Uni for the last few years; she didn’t have to suffer through the front row seat to his drawn-out demise the same way Anna had. When he had finally passed, it had almost come as a relief. No more anxious days waiting for an update on her Granda’s health, no more restless nights worrying if she’d make it home in time before he’d pass, no more wondering if this would be the last time she’d get to talk to her Granda. They’d had years to prepare for Joe’s passing; years to slowly come to terms with the inevitable.  

They hadn’t been prepared for Mary to die just six months later.  

Letting out a beleaguered sigh, Erin leans over from where she’d been standing by the kitchen counter to check the big clock in the hall. “Anna, get your blazer, we’re going to be late for school.” 

From over her teacup, Anna shoots her sister a withering glare. “I’m gonna take the bus with the rest of my friends.” 

“But we’re going to the same place, I thought–” 

“I’m not riding with you in your manky wee Volvo,” Anna snaps. Her teacup lands in the sink with a clatter, and Erin flinches at the sound. 

“Okay,” Erin drops the subject, not trying to start the first day of fall term with a fight. “Well, I made you a lunch–” 

“I’m buying,” Anna doesn’t spare her sister another glance as she tosses her hair over her shoulder and exits the kitchen. Soon after, Erin and Michelle hear the slam of the front door. 

Erin turns to Michelle with a scowl. “Christ, I don’t think we were ever that bad at her age, were we?” She tuts. “She’s melting my head in, so she is.”

Michelle shoots her a look that seems to say: ‘You know why, though.’   

“Oh,” Michelle smacks the side over her head, “but speaking of head melters– Jenny O’Reily, formerly Joyce, is having a leavers reunion party next weekend.”

Erin frowns, derailed at the sudden change of subject. “Why is Jenny O’Reily, formerly Joyce, having a leavers reunion party? We had our ten year two years ago.”

“Because James is gonna be back in town,”  Michelle rolls her eyes. “ Everyone wants to meet the big-shot Hollywood director.” 

“When is James getting into town, again?” Erin asks, keeping her tone as normal as possible– or trying to, at least. Erin suddenly wasn’t sure what her ‘normal’ was after Michelle mentioned James. He hadn’t been back to Derry in several years. The idea that soon he would be here– in Derry – was causing Erin’s inside to do a funny little gymnastics routine.  

“Haven’t a baldies, maybe today– he keeps moving the date around. Katie’s apparently dragging him all over the island before they come here.”

Erin stays pointedly quiet. And if Michelle notices this, she doesn't comment.  

To Erin’s credit, she has been doing a grand job so far of not thinking about James, thank you very much. She’s been especially not thinking about how he’s bringing a fiancée with him. The effervescent Kate Martinez of Summer in Naples fame that The Daily Mail had called “flawless and formidable” on-screen and off. The actress to his film director.  

She clears her throat, changing the subject with a: “the Office after work?”

Michelle shrugs. “You know I’ll be there.” 

Erin snorts as she shrugs on her jacket, and shoulders her bag. “I don’t know why you’re still working at your stage. When does Seamus get in, anyways?”

“Not until the end of next month, the limey bastard,” Michelle says affectionately. 

“He’s cutting it close.” 

“That’s what I told him,” Michelle clicks her tongue, “but I think the paycheck he should be bringing home with him should ease the sting of him not being here to wait on my every need.” 

 “I’ll be off, then. Tell da when he rises he can have Anna’s lunch in the fridge.” 

Michelle gives a little salute, and with that, Erin steps out into the grey autumn morning.  

The first day back after a break is always peaceful. There’s no papers to grade yet, or tests to hand out, and it allows her to simply go through the motions of her day while in her head, she tries to not think of him.  

She’s hesitant. She doesn’t know what seeing him will bring out of her. Over the years, Erin had convinced herself that it was all just a teenage fancy. A passing infatuation. A chemical reaction born out of his kindness and their proximity and her constant, cloying need to feel wanted; certainly nothing that could withstand years apart.  

But now, faced with putting that theory to test, she doesn’t feel so confident. 

Not thinking about him is proving to be harder than usual, though, as it seems the whole school is abuzz with James's imminent arrival. Erin nearly throws a book at her fifth years when they couldn’t quiet down about the “Hollywood fella visiting Derry”. 

Since going to film-school in America, James has found steadily growing success as a filmmaker in the Hollywood scene. Once word got around Derry that the wee English fella was making a name for himself across the Atlantic, the town was quick to claim him as one of their own. Reminding anyone who brings him up that his mother is from Derry. And, really, we can’t blame the lad for where he was born, can we?  

“Listen guys,” Erin says exasperatedly, tossing her syllabus down on her desk. It was her last class of the day and her sixth years had fully given up on any pretence of listening to her, opting to instead turn and chat amongst themselves. “I know the whole ‘ showing Ms. Quinn respect’ is a fun charade we like to play amongst ourselves, but this is too much. Can’t you at least pretend to listen to me?” 

 From the third row, Máiréad O’Dea shoots her hand up. “Ms. Granny-Pants, is it true you went to school with James Maguire?”  

Erin frowns, pretending to look over her syllabus. “That’s funny, I don’t see a Maguire anywhere in our required reading…” 

Giggles burst out across the room. 

“Ach, come on Ms. Granny-Pants, don’t be like that!” The girls whine at her. 

Erin sighs and checks the clock on the back wall. Only fifteen minutes left of the day. “Fine. Might as well,” she leans against her desk. “Who has questions about James Maguire?” 

A dozen hands shoot up into the air.

Erin rolls her eyes and makes a lazy ‘ go on’ motion. 

“Did you go to school with Mr. Maguire?”

“I heard he got beat up for Fatboy Slim tickets!”

“Is it true he went to Our Lady Immaculate instead of the boys school?”

“Were you friends with him? I heard from Aoife’s mammy that you guys were in the same friend group.” 

“What’s he smell like?”

“Is he really bringing his wife? I heard he was gay.” 

“Okay– oi! Do you want me to answer or do you want to shout at me?” The classroom quiets with a few muttered “Sorry Ms. Quinn”/”Sorry Ms. Granny-Pants”. Erin claps her hands. “Alright, so in order: Yes, no– that was a story Michelle Mallon made up, yes, yes, how would I know?, and other people’s sexuality isn’t a topic for gossip, but he is bringing his fiancée.” 

Mutters ripple across the room as the girls absorb this new information just as the bell rings, signalling the end of the day.  

“Alright. Shift it– oh, and! Make sure to pick up your textbooks from the library before next class!” Erin calls after them as the schoolgirls rush for the exit.  

Erin turns, beginning the process of packing up her things when Sister Michael appears in the door to her classroom. She ignores the sister’s presence, continuing to pack her bag, hoping that if she just pretends Sister Michael is not there that she’ll just leave on her own.  

“Ms. Quinn–”

“No, no Sister! My shift is over, whatever you have can wait until Monday.” Erin says stoutly as she swings the strap of her satchel over her shoulder. Sister Michael raises her eyebrows, silently watching Erin close up the classroom for the weekend. At this point in her life, Erin has known Sister Michael long enough to spot the mischievous glint in the older woman’s eyes and knows that it means nothing good. 

She sighs. “Fine. What is it?”

“Anna’s in detention.”

There’s an audible slap as Erin’s hand meets her face. 

“Not again,” she whines, “I’ve got plans tonight! What’s she gone and done now?” 

“Blasphemy during bible study.” There’s a smirk tugging at the corner of Sister Michael’s lips as she withdraws a slip of paper from her robes. “She said, and I quote: ‘God is dead, and we killed him’.” 

Erin buries her face in her hands, letting out a muffled scream. Lifting her face, she glowers at the barely concealed mirth on the Sister’s face. “You know, you don’t have to enjoy this as much as you are.” 

“No, Ms. Quinn, I really couldn’t.” 

Erin rolls her eyes at her old headmistress turned colleague before storming off in the direction of the detention hall. With her free hand, she shoots a quick text to Michelle: 

Erin: Anna in detention

Michelle: class

Not class 

u still comin to the office, so?

Ach, dunno. I need to make dinner at some point

shame. james was looking forward to seeing u  

This stops Erin dead in her tracks. 

James is here?? At the office???

sure i told u this morning he’d be here.

You said *maybe* today!!

sorry should i send him back?

i’ll go tell him and katie to pack it in 

MICHELLE

u comin or what  

Erin let out a frustrated groan, raking an aggravated hand through her hair. 

I won’t be there until late

I’ll get this sorted and be there as soon as I can

grand so. i’ll tell the others 

Erin scowls down at her phone before shoving it back into her pocket and sprinting off down the hall to pick up her dose of a little sister.