Flanagan and Adebayo

By Trevor Conway

Flanagan missed his days as a shopkeeper. The faces. The chat. The fact that someone or other would comment on how great it was that he did it all himself – served customers, took deliveries, donned apron and gloves to handle the meat. The odd customer complained about how slow he was, but if they wanted fast service, he said, they wanted another shop.

He walked the pier at Greystones, a man of medium height, thin build and a pinkish scalp with a dusting of wispy, white hair. Since he’d lost his wife, eight years previously, he felt he was simply waiting for days to pass, like a prison inmate. At least he had the freedom to go on these walks, he told himself.

His wife had been in a car accident with a Polish man. Two years later, she was dead from cancer. The driver had no small amount of alcohol in his system. Flanagan felt sure the trauma of the accident had caused her sickness. Still, considering the minor nature of her injuries, he thought it harsh that the man had spent six months in jail.

Before turning for home, he watched a speedboat passing in the distance. He thought about how he might die. It was likely to happen in his sleep, he imagined, or maybe on one of these daily walks. The only scenario he feared was dying slowly on a hospital bed. All that warm air swimming around him like soup. Nauseating. He pictured himself on the DART to Dun Laoghaire. Unnoticed, or presumed asleep for hours. A sudden jolt, and he’d fall face-down onto the floor. What a scene!

Sylvia Kennedy was watering the flower pots on her windowsill. The vandals had left them alone for a few weeks now. Sylvia had lost her husband long before Flanagan’s wife died. She was one year older than Flanagan, and lived two doors down the row of terraced houses. Jim Corrigan had joked about them getting together, but Flanagan couldn’t imagine it, even if he briefly entertained thoughts of pairing up with someone.

Sylvia claimed a connection to President John F Kennedy. Everyone knew it was nonsense. Most dismissed all her talk as nonsense. Every third or fourth time she and Flanagan met, Sylvia referred to some Polish person in a negative light, and she would invariably mention the man who had “killed” Flanagan’s wife. Flanagan would never contradict her. He preferred silent disagreement. It was easier. Someday, he told himself, he might just tell her to shut up.

Lately, her favourite topic of conversation was the Nigerian family renting the house between them. They’d moved in two months before. Since then, Sylvia claimed, they were always “shouting and screaming like cats. Or lions, more like.” Flanagan hadn’t heard any of this from his own home. He put it down to Sylvia’s dramatic nature. Although it did remind him of his recent idea to look into a hearing test.

“They seem nice to me,” he told her. “Three little ones they have, isn’t it? Fierce cute, the youngest, the way she smiles up at you.” He didn’t say that he found the husband quite brash, especially when speaking to his wife. “I told them to call over any time they need anything,” he added.

Sylvia shook her head.

“Aren’t they getting enough as it is?”

“The husband works,” said Flanagan. “He has that van parked out front. A plumber he is, is it?” He added that he’d seen another woman dropping children over, so he presumed the wife was a childminder.

“And is she paying any taxes on that?” said Sylvia. She pointed across the road: “No more than that lamppost over there, I’d say.”

Flanagan was too polite to end the conversation abruptly. He lingered on until it petered out. Pressing his Irish Independent under his arm, he twisted the key in the door and made his way toward the kettle. As it started to rumble, he removed the Bic pen from the drawer. A sequence of actions so ingrained it seemed like a bodily process.

The completion of the crossword was another matter. He didn’t enjoy difficult clues. They vexed him like the kind of DIY jobs that always came easy to his brother. Flanagan’s wife used to shake her head when Flanagan got irritated. “I don’t know why you do those daft things when they put you in a bad mood for half the day,” she’d say. At least she had a point. Flanagan couldn’t understand why she gave out to him for being too helpful. How can someone be too helpful? he’d wonder. And he still did on occasion.

Easy clues didn’t quite satisfy him either. It was those that took a good, long moment of thought that gave him a light, happy feeling. He even smiled as he filled the boxes with wide capital letters. Leaving three clues uncompleted – for now – he felt a weight on his eyes, a murky dizziness in his head. He rested his arms on the kitchen table. His head followed. And soon, his long, slow breaths filled the room.

Sometime later – it felt like an hour, though Flanagan wasn’t accustomed to looking at clocks – he finally made his coffee. He took the jar of Maxwell House from the press and tilted it till a good heap gathered near the edge. He gave three shakes into the mug, poured the water and lingered for just a moment to savour the smell. He couldn’t understand why some people went to so much bother making coffee, leaving it to sit and go cold in a French press or rattling the air by grinding beans. Waiting for the slow drip of a percolator seemed no more fun than watching a leak.

When he set the carton of milk on the counter, he noticed her – the Nigerian woman from next door. It was the high pitch of her crying that attracted his attention. She stood near the white fence that separated their gardens. When she turned around, she had a wild look, her face wet and bewildered. Maybe this was the kind of thing Sylvia meant when she said they reminded her of animals.

The woman from next door kept looking back to the house, shaking her head. It was almost violent, the way she did it. She banged her fist against the fence and sobbed some more. Flanagan took the first sip of his coffee. He watched her as he lifted the mug to his lips another three times. Finally – after telling himself it was none of his business and wondering what the woman and her three young children had to put up with it – he opened the back door. His steps were slow at first. He thought it only right to let her know of his presence, so he walked on the gravel around the stone slabs.

He intended to ask if she was okay, but she spoke first:

“Oh…h-hello,” she stuttered. Her wavy, black hair was messier than usual.

Flanagan gave his customary nod. As he got closer, he asked:

“Is everything okay?” His tone was alarmed but warm.

“I…don’t know,” said the woman. Flanagan had it in mind to tell her of the “home for battered wives,” as he called it. But to do so would be prying. A significant sin in Flanagan’s eyes.

She started muttering about something. Flanagan failed to understand. It was more her emotion than her African accent that made it incomprehensible. Flanagan smiled. He nodded and said, “Mm” at places that seemed appropriate.

In the midst of it all, he heard the word “knife”. She repeated it. She also said “dishwasher”, he was sure. Her emotion subsided. It was then that a word he’d heard her say before sounded clearer: “dead”.

“Dead?” said Flanagan.

“Yes.” She closed her eyes, and tears streamed down her cheeks.

“Your husband?” Flanagan asked.

She nodded a good number of times.

“It was an accident,” she sobbed. “I tripped…on the dishwasher.”

“And you’re sure…”

“Yes. There is blood. A lot. I touched him for the…” She pointed to her wrist.

“His pulse,” said Flanagan.

“Yes, the pulse.”

“When did all this happen?”

“Only moments ago. Minutes.”

“And you called an ambulance?”

“No. No.”

“Why not?”

“I tell you why. There is no need to. He is dead. I cannot pay for the ambulance.”

“But…it doesn’t cost you anything. At least I think it doesn’t. Really, I think you should.”

“They will take me away from my children. I will go to jail.” She said it with such certainty that Flanagan knew she’d thought it through already. This made him wonder if the man had been lying dead for much longer than she said.

“They can’t do that,” said Flanagan. “It was an accident…It wasn’t self-defence, was it?”

“Self…?”

“You didn’t kill him to stop him from hurting you, did you?”

There was a pause. She looked down before turning her eyes to Flanagan again.

“No,” she said a little forcefully. Impatiently, even. “It was an accident, as I have told you. I was taking the dishes from the dishwasher. My daughter was shouting at me. I cut the orange for her, but she still shouted. I turned, and I fell. My husband stood on the other side. There was no space. It is such a small kitchen.” Throughout all of this, Flanagan noted how intensely her big eyes were focused on his.

A child ran into the garden. One of the younger ones, aged about three. She ran on chubby little legs in shorts that appeared a size too small.

“How did you get out from the room?” asked her mother.

The child didn’t answer. Just smiled up at her, then at Flanagan. He’d always loved children at that age. Just about able to string a few words together. Coming out with funny things. Whenever he’d imagined he and his wife having children, they always seemed to be that age. Smiling. Admiring him as a man who could do no wrong.

“Get back inside,” the child’s mother whispered. The girl stayed put. Her mother turned to Flanagan. “Oh, I hope they haven’t seen him.”

“Seen…your husband?”

“They watched TV when it happened – my other children. I locked the door. I put this one in the bathroom, but I must have forgot to…What am I going to do?” She looked Flanagan in the eye. He wanted to hug her, but it didn’t seem the right thing to do.

She walked away from him and stopped near the back door. The child followed.

“I need you to help me,” said the woman. “Will you help me?” She turned to Flanagan.

“Help you?...” He didn’t realise he was shaking his head.

She stepped closer and whispered, “Hide my husband.”

“Hide him? But…he’s dead…You need to call the police!”

“They will take me from my children.”

“They won’t. Of course they won’t.” As soon as he’d said it, he sensed the weakness of his words. There would be an inquiry. Evidence. Perhaps a trial with a jury. What kind of coroner would suggest it was an accident? She’d stabbed her husband. They’d been heard fighting by a neighbour. He imagined Sylvia Kennedy sitting in the witness box. Comparing them to animals. Making them sound like awful people, whereas, in fact, they seemed like quite a nice family.

“Can you drive a van?” she asked him.

“Drive a van? Well, I’ve only driven cars…Why?”

“I need your help,” she said again. “When it is dark, we must take him away.”

“The police are going to have questions,” said Flanagan. “Don’t you think it’s going to look suspicious if you try to hide his body? Much better to simply tell them what happened.”

“No!” she snapped. “I will not lose my children…If they do not find a body, they cannot put me in jail – am I not right?”

“Well, I don’t know about these things. I suppose…I don’t know.”

“I will contact the police myself – tomorrow – and explain that my husband did not return from his work. I will say he is missing.”

“And then what?”

She raised her shoulders. Her eyes widened.

“I can’t bury your husband,” said Flanagan. “I mean, I’d like to help in any way I can, but…”

“I will drive,” she said. “I will bury. But I will need you to help me to carry him to the van.”

“Tonight?”

She nodded. “And please stay with my children,” she added.

Flanagan didn’t answer. His silence seemed like assent. He knew that, and he knew he had no intention of doing these things. He might help her in some small way, but that was all. And still, he said nothing.

“Please understand,” she pleaded: “I am desperate.”

Flanagan looked into her eyes.

“You said there’s blood?”

“Yes. There is a lot.”

“You’ll need to clean it all up,” he told her, his voice a little hushed.

“Of course.”

“Do you have cleaning products?”

“I have some, but I will need…”

“Bleach,” said Flanagan, “and other things. Do you have black bags, sponges, cloths?”

“Black bags?”

“Rubbish bags,” he explained.

“Yes.”

“You could use those to cover the body, stop any more blood getting all over the place…I can get some things for you, but that’s all,” he said, aware of his sudden sternness. “I can’t clean up the mess, and I can’t help you carry the body. I don’t want to be a part of it. And you can’t tell anyone I got these things for you.”

It took her a long time to respond, but finally, she said, “I understand.”

Flanagan returned to his home, unsure whether to go to the shop or phone the police. Standing didn’t seem to help his thought process, so he sat on the sitting room couch. It had always felt new to him, this particular piece of furniture. It was nine years old. Purchased just before they’d had that meeting with his wife’s doctor, the one in which the doctor – a tanned woman with prematurely wrinkled skin – had said the word “metastasised”. Flanagan rarely used the couch. He sat on it only when he felt his routine had become stale, in need of a change. Although his wife had insisted it wasn’t real suede, Flanagan was convinced otherwise. He ran his hand along the armrest.

That poor Nigerian woman, he thought. She’d suffered all kinds of hardship. And was that a bruise on the side of her face? He’d only noticed it in the garden when she turned at a certain angle. So close to the shade of her skin. He wanted to help. Of course he did. He didn’t want to see her children taken into care. But what would happen if he helped her and the police found out? When he thought about it – when he considered the slow procession of hollow days he had left compared to the years ahead of this woman and her children – he found that he didn’t care about the consequences. And if he did do as she asked, what was the worst that could happen for buying some cleaning products and minding three young children?

Supervalu was quiet. He could hear the hum of the fridges from the next aisle. It added to the feeling that this was a dream. He asked himself more than once if he really was buying these items for a woman who had killed her husband. He stopped near the rubber gloves. His heart was beating fast. He held onto the shelf and breathed slowly, half expecting his legs to give way. They held firm, and soon, he was ready to carry on.

As he wheeled his cart to the checkout, he imagined the Nigerian woman struggling to drag her husband’s body. He imagined himself lifting the man’s legs and carrying him, first to the front door, then – when she had checked to see if anyone was coming – all the way to the van. Of course, he hadn’t seen the body. He imagined the blood, thick and sticky, all over the man’s clothes and on the floor. He’d never seen a body in such a state before, and he wondered how it would affect him. It felt selfish to think of this. How awful it would be if the children saw it.

He walked past the dead man’s van as he approached his home. “I will repair what your husband fixed,” it read. He thought of how it might make him laugh on another occasion, but not now. 

Sylvia Kennedy was coming from the opposite direction. He hadn’t seen her behind the row of cars. He could beat her to the door if he hurried, but the idea of walking fast bothered him. They arrived at the same time.

“Did you hear it?” she shouted over.

Flanagan couldn’t make out what she said. Sylvia came closer.

“The howling and wailing earlier,” she explained. “I swear to God, I thought someone was getting killed. The two of them were at it. I was even afraid myself, and me on the other side of the wall. I was on the verge of calling the guards. And I might yet. God knows what that woman and her children have to put up with. They’d be better off with him out of the picture.”

Flanagan thought it best to say nothing. But she carried on about calling the guards, and he felt he had to sway her:

“These things sometimes happen in phases,” he said. “It’ll die down, and they’ll solve their problems.”

She looked him in the eye and shook her head.

“You always were an optimist,” she said. “What was it Máire used to say about you? You were born with a smile on your face. I wish I was so good at finding the good in people. How long is she dead now?”

“Eight years,” he told her. Not for the first time. He dreaded the day he’d have to say “ten years”. He hated the idea so much so that he honestly wished he wouldn’t be alive to say it.

When they parted, Flanagan opened his front door. He stepped inside and waited. After a few seconds, he popped his head out. Sylvia had closed her door. He rang the Nigerian family’s doorbell. The woman opened it slowly, like she was expecting someone else. Flanagan told her about Sylvia Kennedy and how she mentioned she might call the police.

“If you’re looking to hide that body,” he said, “you might need to do it before it gets dark.” After a moment, he added, “Or would you think about calling the guards now and telling them the truth? The whole truth.” He hadn’t meant to use a phrase straight from a courtroom, and once he said it, he wished he hadn’t.

She didn’t answer. Instead, she took the things from his cart and set about cleaning the scene as Flanagan watched. The sight of the dead man didn’t shock him as much as he thought it would. The knife – a large, silver one – lay in a pool of blood beside the body. It looked to Flanagan as though the wound was near the heart. It must have taken no small force to get past the breastbone. The man’s skin was pale, especially his lips, as if a thin coat of ice was beginning to form. Flanagan might have lingered on this thought but for the noise the woman made as she lifted her dead husband’s head and wrapped a black bag around him. A few tugs, and it reached his belly.

“You might need another,” said Flanagan, “in case it breaks.” He helped her pull a second bag over the head and shoulders.

Together, they dragged two more bags up over his legs until the two halves overlapped.

“Have you got brown tape?” said Flanagan.

“No,” said the woman. “Only sellotape.”

“Well, that won’t cut the mustard!” Flanagan gave a little laugh as he said it, feeling giddy at the thought of what he was doing. She didn’t react. “I feel a bit like…Bonnie and Clyde, is it?” he went on, and he thought of how he used to have a habit of making jokes at funerals until his wife commented on it. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“My name?...Uzoamaka.” She said it so quick he couldn’t catch it. Even when she repeated it, he struggled and asked her surname instead.

“Adebayo,” she told him. That was easier.

“Flanagan and Adebayo,” he said. “Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

He told her he’d be back in a minute. He should have some tape in the shed.

Sylvia was doing something with her plants again. She didn’t notice him come out of the neighbours’ door. When she saw him go to his own door, she shouted over, “I did it!”

“What’s that?” asked Flanagan.

“I called the guards! I told them all that was going on in there. It might put an end to it all, and I might get a decent nap for a change.”

Flanagan went into his house and out to the shed. His thoughts grew foggy as he imagined the police arriving. They’d knock on the door and surely look to get in. But when? That depended on what Sylvia had told them, if she’d called them at all. She sometimes said things for the sake of talking. It made her feel better.

He got the tape and waited for Sylvia to go inside before returning next door. There was shouting and crying from the room where the children were. They were banging against the door.

Their mother looked tired. Ready to give up. Her cheeks were wet. Flanagan didn’t mention the police. He bent down and taped the black bags together near the dead man’s waist. The children got louder. He looked to the woman. She stood there as if she didn’t hear them. All the while, Flanagan waited for the doorbell to sound.

He went to the room where the children were. Twisted the key. The noise stopped. He opened the door and saw three faces looking up at him. They looked a little scared, but also confused. So innocent, he thought. Their lives were about to change dramatically. They might even end up in different homes, never to see each other again.

“I’m here to help you,” he told them. All he wanted was to quiet them down. “If you stay here for just another little while, I’ll go to the shop and get you lots of sweets. Do any of you like chocolate?”

The oldest – a five-year-old with a bare chest – barged past and ducked under Flanagan’s arm. His mother grabbed him as he tried to run away. She carried him back to the room. “No! No! No!” he kept shouting. He kicked out, but his mother was too strong for him. He couldn’t have seen his father’s body wrapped in the bags, thought Flanagan.

She brought him back to the room, and Flanagan helped her get the door closed again. As all this was happening, the doorbell rang. Flanagan locked the children into the room. The woman walked through the hallway. She took a long breath and opened the front door.

“Hello,” Flanagan heard. It was the voice of a guard if he ever heard one. “We were called to a disturbance. Can we come in?”

“But why?” asked Flanagan’s neighbour.

“We just need to check things out. Are you okay? Is anyone else here?”

“No. Just my children.”

Her words sounded weak, thought Flanagan. Like his own words, at times. He wished they both spoke with stronger voices, with some kind of extra weight.

The guard reiterated that he needed to enter the house. She began crying. The guard asked if she was okay. Told her he was there to help.

All the while, the children got louder. The guards could surely hear them. Flanagan wondered about slipping out the back door and trying to lift himself into his own garden. What was the point? What was the point in anything? Instead, he stepped into the hallway. There were two guards. The man was tall. The other was small, blonde. She looked like she might have dark skin, though it was hard to tell from the silhouette.

“Hello,” said the man. “Do you live here?”

“No,” said Flanagan. His voice was vague, a little phlegmy. He wanted to sound firmer.

“Can I ask why you’re here?” said the guard.

“Did Sylvia Kennedy call you?” asked Flanagan. “I wouldn’t believe a word of what that woman says. She’s always creating drama. You know, she claims she’s related to John F Kennedy.”

There was a pause. Flanagan went on, explaining how Sylvia Kennedy was an alcoholic, a pathological liar, someone who belonged in jail for making up lies about others.

“I’m actually related to Sylvia,” said the guard. His tone was softer now, more open. “And she is related to him,” he said. “But anyway…a disturbance has been reported, and we need to check everything and find out what’s going on.”

There was a high-pitched scream from one of the children. Both guards looked towards the room it came from.

“We need to come in,” said the man.

“Please don’t,” said Flanagan’s neighbour, shaking her head. She held her hands to her mouth as the guards walked past. The blonde went straight to the door where the children were. She was so distracted by all the noise she hadn’t seen the body.

“I have something to tell you,” said Flanagan as the man passed him. “There’s a dead body in there…I killed her husband…I had to do it, before he’d kill her himself. I couldn’t stand the noise of their screaming and shouting, so I did it. I just did it.”

The blonde guard unlocked the door where all the children were. They poured out, crying. The younger one in tight shorts grabbed Flanagan’s leg. It reminded him of how his wife used to clutch his leg in her sleep. The child looked into his face. He felt a warm sensation through his chest and up into his head, making his eyes water. He hadn’t had that feeling in a long time. Not since his wife had died.

THE END

Author Bio: Trevor Conway, from Ireland, writes poetry, fiction, and songs. His short fiction has been published widely in the US, the UK, Ireland, India, and Australia. He has published three collections of poetry: “Evidence of Freewheeling” (Salmon Poetry, 2015), “Breeding Monsters” (2018), and “No Small Thing” (2023). Also available from Amazon is his guide to writing poetry, aimed at child/young adult poets, “Nurturing the Creative Child: A Guide to Writing Poetry”. He is currently revising a poetry collection titled “A Banquet of Sorts”, centred on the themes of science and nature, and a collection of short fiction. Publishers, interested?

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