Page 52 of Love Unlocked

‘Walter and I are in love with each other. We want to be together.’

Al had sat in shock on the couch he’d bought and had sex with his fiancée on, in a pair of shorts with tomato sauce stains from dinner, and a new pair of sports socks that had made him happy when he’d put them on moments ago. That simple joy seemed idiotic now. Walter had hovered by the Christmas tree awkwardly, and Tara had sat on the footstool with hidden storage, and it’s like all this hidden stuff started to come out of her too, like she was becoming one with the pouffe. It was a surreal moment, he couldn’t take in what they were saying. It felt like a practical joke but there was nothing funny at all about any of it.

Walter had said nothing at all up until this point. Occasional looks back and forth to each other, as encouragement for Tara to keep going. Al could have believed that Walter had nothing to do with this either, that it was all in Tara’s head, until Walter spoke and then it was clear why Tara had been elected spokesperson.

‘Nothing has happened between us, we haven’t had sex.’

Sex! They planted the grotesque image in his head. He’d wanted to rugby tackle Walter into the Christmas tree.

They said they wanted to give him time to process the break-up before he went home for Christmas. They broke this all to him as though they’d been thinking of him, they believe they’d shown him deep respect.

Despite their plan to be alone together in the house over Christmas, Al hadn’t gone home to his family. He didn’t want to face anybody, and no doubt Walter and Tara were relieved. They got their first Christmas together, despite the acts of vandalism and the late-night drunken calls from Al, but their consciences could be clear for the Christmas period while they engaged in festive merriment and immersed themselves in the ugly pictures they had planted in his head.

With the dangerous anger having passed, and the sadness having taken its place, now Al can face the music, he can go home. He needs a hug. He needs to breathe. He needs to allow the sadness to seep through him slowly, not to keep running from it because it will only delay the inevitable. The corners of his eyes sting as they continuously leak, on the same worn trail each time.

On his drive home he listens to ‘Fake Plastic Trees’, a song by Radiohead from their second album, The Bends. It’s sad. So utterly, utterly sad, from the depths of Thom Yorke’s haunting voice. To Al it’s about fakeness. A fake relationship with fake love, with a worn-out man and a woman who don’t love each other. Maybe he wants to be but he can’t be what she wants. It has the feeling of giving up, what’s the point in trying, nothing is real. This whole world is fake with fake people, and nobody has any power. The dejection, the exhaustion, Thom’s voice comes and goes, voice fading, power coming and going. He builds it up and then drops out again. Worn out, energy spent.

All of Al’s memories of being with Tara and Walter, were they all fake? What had been going on with his two best friends? If he missed their love for each other, what else is he missing? What is this world?

It wears him out too, Thom.

He cries all the way to Moate. He has the song on repeat. It gives him a heavy feeling, pulling him down as though he’s trying to run in a dream, trudge through mud, wade through quicksand. It has slowed him down, so that he can examine every minute detail for all of its flaws and fragility. He drives slowly, cars passing him.

Before Al gets to his family home in Moate, he ventures to Athlone where he walks along the River Shannon. He stops at a bench to watch a youth rowing team in training. He’s here to meet his rowing buddies who have a private friendly Saturday race with another club. He’s agreed to come down and watch, followed by drinks afterwards. Rowing, until he met Tara, was his life. From the young age of twelve he joined the rowing club and worked every second he could to be the best, eventually going on to represent Ireland in the world rowing junior championships.

When Al relocated to Dublin he had all intentions of remaining with his rowing team, but keeping up with training proved impossible and he sadly had to let his place go. Then he planned on joining a Dublin rowing club, but he met Tara, and Tara became his new hobby. Pursuing her became his new obsession and, with work, it was hard to sustain his motivation to find a new team.

As soon as Al began rowing, he knew immediately he’d found his tribe. They were his closest friends, trained together, travelled to races together around Ireland and internationally. They had adventures and experiences that only the team could ever understand. They’d been best men and groomsmen at each other’s weddings, godfathers and alibis. From boys to men who are fathers and husbands now, most of them are still in shape, life has been crueller to some more than others, but they all still meet at the club to compete. He gets to the boat club early and watches the young teams train on the River Shannon, remembering his youth. Rushing breakfast to get to training, his dad driving him everywhere he needed to be. He’d spend all summer at the rowing club, training and then working at summer camps as a teen. His first serious girlfriend was on the girls’ team – Michelle Mullins – if ever two people were never made to be in the same boat, they couldn’t keep the balance. Their union was so full of drama and headaches, even his coach suggested they break up.

He smiles thinking about how serious it all was then, how the rowers he watches now are having their own silent dramas. His friend Beano texts him to meet them at the gym where they’re working out first before the race. As he walks down the corridor towards the gym he hears them loud and clearly; the slaggings and the laughs, like they’re all still twelve years old.

Before he enters, he braces himself for impact. He has turned to mush over the past six weeks, and that won’t stand with these guys. No tears in the locker room.

‘The Stroke is here!’ Beano yells, so named because his surname is Heinz, and they all cheer. They stop what they’re doing and crowd around him in a hug, smashing his face against their sweaty bodies.

The four heavies in the middle of the boat, three, four, five and six are Mick – because his name is Michael, Brick – because of his build, Flick – because of his long boyband hairstyle which is now gone and he’s bald, and Stick – because he’s the tallest and has the longest legs in prime position in the centre of the boat, as the longer the stroke the further it travels. The bow pair, one and two, Bo and Eddie – are the smallest pair, not as strong as the heavies in the middle, but still skilled; they are technical rowers. Bo is so named because he’s the bowman and Eddie’s real name is Nigel but his role is to keep it steady … Eddie. Brick was responsible for the nicknames, and is now a firefighter, and Al never did and still won’t argue with him. Flick and Stick both teach history in secondary schools and history teachers in Ireland are a force to be reckoned with. Brick sometimes calls Stick, ‘Prick’, if the race doesn’t go well. It can get complicated.

Finally, number seven, whose sweaty hairy armpit is currently in Al’s face, is Bobby aka Buff because his job is to act as the buffer between Al at number eight and the rest of the rowers. He’s also fit and strong, was barking at Al’s heels for years, took over from time to time when Al was injured or being punished, and made him a better athlete all the way up. But Mark ‘Buff’ Cassidy was also prone to taking all his clothes off when they got drunk, so ‘in the buff’ was apt.

Al is ‘The Stroke’, like the Fonz. As number eight, closest to the stern, the stroke’s seat is the hardest position because of the responsibilities. The rower in this seat is usually one of the most technically sound members and the best and most competitive rower. Al had had his eyes on the prize since he began at twelve years old, and took the seat proudly in his teens.

‘Jesus Christ, the stink of you all,’ Al says and they cheer and jostle him even more. Through the heat and stickiness he feels the pats, rubs, smacks and hair ruffles as they offer him comfort. They were all recipients of the text message he sent out about Walter and Tara. Despite inhaling sad music all morning, he will not allow himself to cry.

They laugh, and disperse.

‘Where’s your kit?’ Brick asks, looking at his jeans. ‘You can’t row in them.’

‘I’m not rowing. Beano said to come and watch you lads. I have my banner made up and everything.’

The lads look at Beano.

‘I think you got played,’ Stick says, laughing.

‘We’re a man down,’ Beano, the coxswain, says. The ninth man in the boat, the coxswain is usually the smallest. Beano is shorter than the rest and he’s light, an air traffic controller in real life, he’s the calming force on the boat. He’s the communicator, who coaxes and motivates the eight-man engine.

But Al is not feeling coaxed or motivated right now. He’s been tricked. He didn’t plan on racing.

‘I haven’t been Stroke since the summer regatta,’ Al says, not ready to take on the role today. ‘I’m not fit.’