On the Edge of the Loch: A Psychological Novel set in Ireland by Joseph Éamon Cummins

know what it’s like. What do you see in me? Apart from my being bright or sceptical.’
    ‘Blue eyes. Maybe blue soul.’ He smiled awkwardly.
    ‘I’m serious, Tony. Look at me. Who am I? What do you see? Tell me. Tell me.’
    ‘Who are you?’ His eyes broke from hers. ‘On the outside, a very attractive woman, which you know. On the inside, the same. Bit mysterious too. What do you think?’
    ‘Hardly. First, physical beauty is an accident of genes, has no meaning. Second, everyone has secrets, even you. Zero marks.’ Amid shared amusement she drew his face closer and kissed him. ‘Want me to tell you what I see inside Tony MacNeill?’
    He suggested ordering another pot of tea instead. She pressed for his compliance and won it, then drew back in regard of him. ‘Denim shirt, jeans, climbing boots, brown-red hair, smart, resilient, big fire burning inside, doesn’t trust, been betrayed, made a big mistake or two. Yes?’
    ‘No comment,’ he said, hoping it was over.
    ‘Nothing is permanent, Tony,’ she said. ‘Today’s truth is tomorrow’s lie. Everything goes on changing. Not even the past can be trusted, history of any kind.’
    ‘Wouldn’t go that far. We direct our own lives. Some parts of what we are are always changing, but some parts – ’
    ‘But even so, even if we do direct our own lives, it’s still in a random universe. That’s my point. Look at how we met – accident! Fate is not a matchmaker; it didn’t bring you and me to that station to meet each other. Things just happen. Good or bad, all change comes out of chaos. Control is a construct, a philosophical illusion. If we had control, we’d all change our inner worlds.’
    ‘We can change what we decide to change. Most things. Takes time and belief. Most people never try hard enough to get what they say they want.’
    ‘You sound like a counsellor,’ she said with a touch of angst.
    He smiled dismissively.
    ‘Things that happened years ago; tell me, who can change those?’
    ‘Day comes we decide. We say this or that is not going to haunt us any longer. We leave the past behind. Why look back, even to good times? Life is this very minute.’
    Lenny reclined in silence. Then it struck him, their exchanges had an intensity that comes only out of personal pain, and neither was trying to hide that fact.
    ‘Sounds fine, in theory,’ she said flatly. ‘When all the good times are in the past, what do you do then? Tell me.’
    His mind juggled how he might avoid her fervour. Clearly, she had contemplated these questions. The irony was that he had long shared her perspective, but he dared not tell her so. And despite alluding to her happiness being in the past, she hadn’t once in their hours together mentioned her own past. But his best escape, for now, he decided, was retreat.
    ‘The one thing I’m sure of, absolutely certain of, is that I must, immediately, if I am to defeat an accident of genes, go to the bathroom.’ He hobbled away clownishly, moving only from the knees down, then turned to her. ‘I’ll have all the theories figured out by the time I get back.’
    On his return he found her reflective. She took his hand and studied it: palms, back and fingers. The sense of her he had already absorbed set him on alert. Whatever was on her mind now was about to find voice.
    ‘I love, really love, how you think,’ she said, ‘about the past, what it can do to you if you let it. The present is what matters, and the future. I’m learning that. Slowly.’ Her fingers pressed along his jaw, then across his lips, as if authenticating his carnal actuality. ‘I’m thrilled you’re here,’ she whispered in his ear. ‘I don’t care about anything else.’
    On the approach of evening they left the Beehive, strolled hand in hand through the buzz of Market Street, down to the ocean, where at the end of the steps they sat staring out to the restless water, sharing each other’s warmth, and talking hardly at all.
    In time,