#(reference to:)

Although there were people going about their business, and unlike deep in the lockdown of earlier in the year he couldn’t hear the sound of birdsong due to lack of traffic, London was still disconcertingly quiet. On the tube from their flat to Enda’s neck of the woods he’d had most of a carriage to himself. No throngs of tourists, bewilderingly using the underground to travel between Covent Garden and Leicester Square, or harassed looking commuters squashed together in mutual discomfort. The posters that lined the platforms were a bizarre mixture of public service announcements and adverts for theatre shows that hadn’t been open for most of the year.

All in all, it was fucking depressing.

But at least the pubs were open - as long as you had dinner. Because apparently covid was able to distinguish between the responsible diner and the feckless types who just want a quiet pint with their oldest friend.

Enda was already there, climbing to his feet when he arrived and they did the awkward dance of not hugging.

“You sure you’re allowed out for this?” Cillian asked as he sat down, flicking a quick look around as he shed his disguise, but nobody seemed to notice him.

“Yeah, she only got sent home because another kid in the class tested positive. She’s not actually sick, she just wishes she was because now she has to do online school instead of scrolling tiktok or whatever shit kids do on their phones that I should probably be more concerned about.”

Cillian chuckled. “Finn’s had to have a PCR test today ‘cause he got sent home sick yesterday. Eoin has to stay home until we know either way and he keeps texting me about how bored he is. And Eef is so up in the rafters about it all that she took a bite out of Clara yesterday.”

“So what else is new.”

Cillian sighed, conceding the point, and ordered a pint as the waitress arrived.

“Do you need a minute on food?”

“Please,” he replied, giving her a small smile, cringing internally when he saw the look in her eye flick from neutral to recognition. He knew he shouldn’t have let Loz give him a pre-emptive haircut that afternoon; it always made him ten thousand times more recognisable. The only saving grace was that at least it wasn’t the full Shelby shear this time.

She disappeared to get his Guinness and he pulled a menu towards him.

“Christ, do you remember when all you could get at this place was crap, soggy chips?” he mumbled, scanning the menu which boasted of heritage this, and local, artisanal that.

“Right?” snorted Enda, doing the same. “Are you definitely going back in January then?”

Drumming his fingertips against his lips as he weighed his options, he nodded. “Looks like it.”

When he looked up, Enda was frowning.

“You don’t seem that enthused..?”

“Ah, no. I am. Not working has been…” He spread his hands, blowing out a long breath. “The fucking pits, to be honest. I need this.”

“So what’s the problem? Is Clara not looking forward to Salford Quays life again?”

“She can’t come,” he replied glumly.

“Why not?”

“Not allowed. Protocols and all that shit.”

Enda laughed. “Are you serious? That’s mad! Clara works in a fucking cupboard, who’s she even going to see to infect you??”

“I’ll be sure to tell her you think she works in a cupboard. She’ll be thrilled. Cheers,” he added as his pint was delivered.

“You know what I mean,” said Enda, rolling his eyes. “Surely she can just be part of your bubble? If you lived in Manchester you’d be at home anyway.”

He took a long pull, shaking his head as he wiped the creamy foam from his upper lip.

“No, I wouldn’t. Everyone - cast, crew, everyone - has to live in this time. No contact, no families.”

Enda’s eyes widened. “Fuck me.”

“I know.” Cillian sighed heavily, tugging on what was left of the longer part of his hair. “No exceptions.”

“But you’re...”

“C’mon, man. I can’t be the only one taking the piss having my fucking wife there with me when everyone else has to deal with it.”

“No, I suppose not…”

Silence fell, both men contemplating their pints.

“How long will it be for?”

“Fuck knows. Depends how many times we get shut down. Four months? Maybe a bit less if we don’t fuck around.”

“Jesus.”

“I know.” He swirled the dark liquid in his glass morosely. “We’ll have been together seven years in February and the longest we’ve been apart is something like three weeks.”

Enda snorted into his drink, wiping his lips. “Well that’s a lie.”

Cillian frowned at him. “No it’s not.”

“For one, you count it from the February??”

Cillian coloured slightly but nodded. “That’s when we got together. Just because it’s not the right way of doing it…”

“Fuck that, I’m not being judgey, you know I love Clara and she was the best thing to ever happen to you - though I still don’t understand why she puts up with you.”

“She makes it a fair fight,” Cillian muttered darkly, a small smile sneaking across his face.

“I don’t doubt that,” grinned Enda. “But if you count it from February and think you’re so cute as to only ever have spent a few weeks apart then you both have a serious case of collective amnesia.”

The girl appeared again, forcing them into decisions over food and it was only when she retreated that Cillian leant forward, clutching his pint.

“What are you trying to say?”

“I’m saying, what about all those months you were broken up? Or am I the only one who remembers the night, in this very pub no less, where you decided to finally man up and leave Aoife..?”

“I was pretty pissed,” Cillian mumbled. “My overriding memory is you forcing me to eat crap chips.”

Enda laughed. “Yeah well if I hadn’t, you wouldn’t have been fit to go on stage the next day and then we’d have all been fucked.”

*****

Summer 2014

He didn’t remember the journey back to Liverpool that night. He drifted through the world in a haze, numb, unable to comprehend what had just happened.

“Cill?” called Tim the director, drawing him to one side after lunch the next day. “Are you with me today?”

“Sorry,” he mumbled, pushing his hands deeper into Tommy’s suit trouser pockets. “I overdid it on Saturday night.”

“So did everyone, apparently,” laughed Tim. “But the rest of them aren’t on screen in almost every scene. And you know we don’t have the budget to cut today loose.”

He hung his head, nodding. There was no denying he’d been sleepwalking through his scenes all morning.

“I’m sorry, I’ll do better.”

Tim slapped him gently on the arm. “I’m going to swap set ups to the one scene you’re not in. You’ve got an hour. Go and get your head down, or together, or whatever you need to do. Ok?”

He nodded again, sloping off towards his little trailer, face burning with mortification.

The next day was a little better, and by Wednesday he thought he’d found a new rhythm. Focus on the work to the exclusion of all else. Wake up, work, eat and read the next day’s dailies, sleep. Repeat.

Under no circumstances think about Clara.

Yeah right. He caved on that several times a day. In fact, if he even managed to go several consecutive minutes without experiencing some kind of crippling flashback of that night, he was counting it as a win.

At least during the day he could keep himself busy though, focus on doing the best work he could manage. It was the nights that were the hardest, alone in bed. Her absence suffocating, a yawning empty space next to him where she should be.

His lowest moment came late on the Saturday night. He’d been alone all afternoon - almost everyone else had wrapped and left the apartment building now. A bottle of wine in his system, he lay in bed, staring at the place she usually occupied, and found himself calling her. Again. He didn’t know why he kept trying, given she hadn’t responded to any of his calls or texts since he’d left her flat the previous Sunday, but he couldn’t seem to control himself.

So he was somewhat unprepared when, after half a dozen rings, she picked up.

“Clara—”

“You need to stop calling her,” barked a man’s voice down the line, making him sit up.

“Who is this? Where is she??”

“She doesn’t want to speak to you. Which I don’t think could be any fucking clearer.”

“Please, I just need to—”

“No. This ends right fucking now. You call her again, text her again, and I swear I will come over there, knock the shit out of you and tell your wife just how much of a sleazy cunt you are. Are we clear?”

But whoever he was, he didn’t wait for a reply before he hung up, the line going dead against his ear. Shaking slightly, Cillian dropped the phone on the bed beside him and buried his face in his palms.

Who was he? Had she moved on already..?? He didn’t want to believe that was possible, but it was nothing less than he deserved. And she didn’t have a brother so…

God he was stupid. Andy. Of course it would be Andy. Who else would she run to.

He dragged a hand down his face, letting out a deep sigh.

Enough. It was time to accept it was over.

Really over.

Climbing out of bed he sat on the sofa in his underwear, in the dark, and demolished half a bottle of whiskey.

*****

Finally, there were only a few days left of the shoot; just two big set pieces left to do, both out on location. One at Chatsworth House with Charlotte Riley, and another in a muddy, windswept field. He sat at the back of the little minibus that took them out into the Peak District, reading his pages, occasionally distracted by the majestic glow of the early morning light on the high craggy rock formations, rising above little rivulets of dawn mist in the valleys.

Turning the page, he realised with a jolt which scene he and Charlotte were doing later that afternoon and immediately he was catapulted somewhere else.

In another place, in another time, and she was sitting on the edge of his dining table in London, dark green skirt sliding up her thighs, cheeky glow in her eyes.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he tried to squeeze the memories away but it was no use. All he could hear was her pretend cut-glass accent. The tiny gasp in her throat when he invaded her personal space. And the soft warmth of her mouth when he couldn’t restrain himself a moment longer.

“Are you alright?” asked Charlotte, turning in her seat to look at him. “You don’t get travel sick, do you..?”

“M’fine,” he said gruffly, clearing his throat to try and dislodge the grapefruit sized ball of emotion that seemed to be wedged in it. “I’m fine,” he said again, more clearly, offering a forced smile.

“Do you want to run those lines while we’re on the move?” she asked, pointing to the paper in his hands. “Save us some rehearsal time later?”

“Sure,” he shrugged.

Somehow he managed to make it through the scene without falling apart.

Chatsworth was alive with activity when they arrived, crew running here and there, splashing through puddles made by a sudden downpour, Loz and Jane directing all manner of styling operations from their more austere location facilities.

“The rain is supposed to clear up later this morning, so we’re going to get the love scene in the can before lunch,” said Tim, coming into where Cillian and Charlotte were having their make-up done. “Then we’ll do the scenes in the library and stables this afternoon. And Cill, we’ll need to get the hero shot of the house from the car, when the light’s right later on.”

He smiled kindly at them both. “Tess will be waiting for you over on set when you’re ready.”

“Tom said Tommy and Alfie should have had an intimacy coordinator,” laughed Charlotte as they walked the short distance over to the room they were using for May and Tommy’s midnight tryst.

“That’s only because of how Tom chose to play Alfie,” chuckled Cillian. “It was borderline harassment.”

Charlotte laughed, squeezing his arm. “He was kidding about, practicing the accent at home, but I didn’t think he was actually going to use it.”

“I’ve learned to be ready for anything with him,” he smiled, following Tess as she ushered them to one side for their final conversation to check they were both comfortable with what was going to happen before blocking could begin.

Everything was going perfectly until it came to their first real take.

There might be nothing less natural than simulating sex on camera but he still had to make it look real. Action was called and he was barely through the door before her mouth was on his, both tugging urgently at clothes. Walking her backwards, he manhandled her onto the bed like they’d practiced, but as they pulled apart momentarily, her face was replaced by Clara’s and he jerked back in shock.

“Cut!”

“Sorry,” he mumbled, running a hand down his face, feeling warmth rising to his cheeks.

“Did I do something..?”

He shook his head quickly, fumbling the buttons on his shirt back into place and heading for the door to reset for their opening position. “No, no, was just me. My fault. Got in my own head.”

“You ready?” asked Tim and they both nodded.

The next series of takes went off without a hitch as he forced himself to be the professional he was supposed to be. But it was agonising. The closeness, the softness of her skin, her very very believable desperate little cries in his ear and how she tugged on the longer part of his hair as her character, May, crested the wave.

He would never have this again with the woman he loved.

He wished he’d known that Saturday would be the last time, he would have savoured it more.

Except that was a lie.

Knowing would have killed him.

Sitting out in the landing as the cameras and lights were moved around to shoot the reverse, both wrapped in cosy robes for warmth and modesty, Charlotte was busy tapping away at her phone. He generally tried to avoid his own when he was working but he’d left it in his robe pocket in a moment of absent mindedness, and he felt it vibrate against his leg.

Childish hope leapt to his chest as he fished it out, only to be dashed when he saw it was from Tom.

Put my wife down you tart

He rolled his eyes and leaned across to show it to Charlotte who snorted. She loosened the top of her robe a little to show some skin and leaned coquettishly towards him, holding her camera high to snap a selfie.

“Oh yeah, that’s really going to rein him in,” he chuckled as he watched her sending it to her husband, tongue trapped between her teeth in a cheeky grin.

Luckily they were called back to work before Tom could reply again.

Lunch came and went and they moved on, down to the beautiful old stately home’s library. Anxiety jittered in his stomach as they rehearsed, fumbling his lines more than once even though he they were ingrained in his memory.

“Are you alright?” Charlotte asked quietly as they waited for adjustments to be made to the lighting rig. “You don’t seem quite yourself.”

Swallowing, he forced a neutral smile to his face. “Just didn’t sleep very well. And I’m fucking shattered. I think being able to see the finishing line is making me snatch at it.”

Not entirely a lie. It had happened to him before like this, stumbling slightly at the final fences before the line, exhaustion getting the better of him. And he really hadn’t slept well - Clara haunting him in his dreams. A flicker of red hair constantly disappearing out of frame. He ran and ran until his lungs felt fit to burst but no matter what he did she was always out of reach.

“Do you need a break..?”

He shook his head firmly. He just needed to get this next scene over with.

“I’ll be alright. Sorry.” He fidgeted with his hair, feeling her eying him. “Thanks for asking though. I’ll try not to fuck it up too much when we get going.”

When the AD called them back into position he took a moment under the guise of having a long drink of water.

Get it the fuck together, he ordered himself. You’re a fucking professional.

Tucking his bottle back into the pocket of his seat he took his position, drew in a deep breath, and let the spectre of Thomas Shelby take over his body.

*****

Naively, he’d assumed that day would be the worst he’d have to endure. A foolish notion that was debunked as early as the following day.

He knew the scene they were doing, part of the climax of the series, Tommy’s plan having gone awry and his death in a grave in a muddy field an absolute certainty.

It was colder than the last few weeks and the wind whipped at his clothes and hair as one of the make-up team applied the finishing touches to his face, dabbing a dribble of blood to his temple.

Tim called them to order and a hush fell over the crew, he and the three other men settling into their positions.

“Action!”

“Were any of you men in France..?” he asked, eying the hole in the ground and the trio who had been sent to dispatch Tommy. “Allow a man a cigarette?”

“The Somme… Black Woods,” answered one of the men.

He nodded fractionally. “Somme, the Bulge.”

The man matched his nod. “Smoke.”

“So fucking close,” he whispered, shaking his head, the paper crackling as he sucked in a deep lungful of the smoke that wasn’t supposed to be harmful.

Yeah right. When you’ve smoked three hundred of them is that still true?

But the smell reminded him of her, laughing outside the pub they used to go to as a group. The warmth of her leg pressed against his under the table. How she tasted of wine and smoke when they’d make it back to the flat, beyond the view of prying eyes.

“So fucking close,” he said again, a heavy pressure building in his chest. He ignored the stage directions, moving on instinct, turning to look up at the sky, drawing deeply on his cigarette, his next lines thick in his throat.

“Oh… and there’s a woman,” he sighed, her face in his vision behind closed eyelids. “Yeah… A woman. Who I love… And I got close.”

The raw wound in his chest ached, Tommy’s pain his pain. Or was it the other way around..? Blinking into the milky white sky he let it all come rushing to the surface. Everything he’d been fighting to conceal for the last fortnight.

“Nearly got fucking EVERYTHING!” he bellowed, winded by the visceral truth of the words that were not meant to be his own.

“Cut!”

His hands were shaking, and he dropped the cigarette butt into the mud before he remembered he wasn’t supposed to.

“That was great, Cill,” Tim was saying when the roar of his own broken heart stopped rushing in his ears. “Let’s go again and can I get a camera over there for when he turns, please,” he called to the crew who were already moving to cover the new angle his unscripted move had caused.

Over and over they repeated the scene, each one a fresh cut. Like bearing his soul. When they finally moved past his speech and into the unexpected twist, his shambolic stumbling away across the field was no longer an act. His legs like jelly, his emotional well running dry.

In one take he slipped and fell forward onto his hands and knees, and he was so at the end of himself that the pain and guilt and shame and mortification all came spilling out in a mighty roar into the mud. He was vaguely aware of the crew shifting, poised to help him but Tim kept rolling without a sound and he hauled himself back to his feet, following the path he was supposed to take towards the camera, tears burning behind his eyes and in his throat.

“Cut.” Tim came towards him, catching him by the shoulders as he sucked in deep breaths trying to recover his composure. “That’s it, that’s the one,” he said kindly. “You ok..?”

He nodded mutely, afraid to try and speak.

Giving his arm a gentle squeeze, Tim turned away to address the crew.

“Well everybody, we did it. That’s a wrap on Peaky Blinders, Series Two.”

*****

But if he thought being in Liverpool was bad, where her absence haunted him and every scene seemed calibrated to slice him open, the reality of going back to Dublin was much, much worse.

He could barely look Aoife in the eye, the guilt and shame gnawing at his guts like a wolf. He could practically see it, following him around, gaunt and salivating, stalking him with glowing eyes.

And those feelings were only intensified by the fact that he knew he was being a sullen, withdrawn cunt. While it wasn’t unusual for him to sleep half the day after a long stint on set - and Tommy Shelby, he was discovering, was harder to shake off than most - it wasn’t the usual exhaustion that kept him laying in bed long after Aoife left for work each day.

Without the routine of the shoot that demanded his adherence, he simply couldn’t seem to move. He would spend hours just staring at the ceiling, or scrolling his phone mindlessly, fighting the urge to call her again.

And when he did manage to drag himself from his pit, he roamed the house listlessly, unable to find solace even in his usual twin pillars of music and books.

The only energy he had in those early days back home was spent on trying to be a not totally shit father to his kids. From the hours of three until bedtime he was on duty, collecting them from school, playing football, making dinner and helping with end of term projects.

They were the only things that kept him from untethering from reality completely.

Only a few weeks after he got back, the summer holidays started. With Aoife out all day, he was in charge of the boys and the demands of sticking to a routine again seemed to reinvigorate him. For eight hours a day he could just be dad, without having to perform his role as husband too.

Throwing himself into it, he planned trips and treats. He had other people’s kids over for playdates, making cheese toasties by the loaf for the hoards of small boys he found himself in charge of. And at the end of June, when Finn turned five, he organised his birthday party.

Unfortunately, and only after he’d paid the deposit at the trampoline place Finn said he wanted - Pirates and Dinosaurs were big fans of bouncing apparently - it transpired that Aoife had other ideas for what it should be. This led to a series of terse conversations that devolved into snippy texts, until finally, their talking was reduced to the bare minimum required for parenting.

A chasm yawned between, emphasised by the fact that they had barely touched each other since he’d come home. On the rare occasion they did, it was perfunctory, over as fast as he could reasonably manage, and always in the dark. As if, if he couldn’t see her, it might somehow be Clara instead.

But try as he might to pretend, he could never escape the fact that it wasn’t.

In an effort to limit the inevitable moments afterwards of sitting in the bathroom with his head in his hands, he’d taken to staying up reading. Or at least pretending to, and usually with a glass of wine, until he was certain she’d fallen asleep.

Relief came in the form of work, as June drifted towards July. Committed to performing at the Galway Arts Festival, with follow on dates in Dublin, Cork and London, he threw himself into working on Enda’s new play, Ballyturk.

Aoife sniped about him spending more time away from the kids but they were happily ensconced in various summer clubs. He would drop them off and pick them up but from nine ‘til four each day he raced around the rehearsal room like a man possessed. It was like some kind of mania came over him there, the surreal setting and Enda’s strange, unsettling dialogue allowing him to unleash himself in a way he hadn’t been able to since that dreadful weekend in May. He cannoned around the space, heart pounding with exertion and raw energy, he and his friend and co-star, Mikel, engaged in an unspoken game of physical one-up-manship. Until, one day, he crashed into a wardrobe so hard he smashed it to bits.

“What the fuck is the matter with you??” asked Enda when they were alone having a pint later that evening.

“Ah c’mon, I was just a bit over-zealous.”

He avoided the wrinkle of concern on his friend’s brow.

“Well can you not smash anymore of our props? We’ve got fuck all budget as it is.”

Cillian chuckled quietly. “I know, sorry. I’ll pay for it.”

“Fucking right you will,” grinned Enda. “Only one of us has got a tv show coming out this autumn.”

*****

The play was a roaring success in Galway. Or at least, people came, and they laughed in mostly the right places, and they left looking suitably bamboozled. His whole extended family decamped to Galway for the first week of the run, taking over a rambling old farmhouse and cottages on the outskirts of town. It was boisterous and messy and musical, and for the first time in months, the pain in his chest eased into something more bearable. He didn’t think about her every waking minute. In fact he managed to go whole days without thinking of her at all.

Even he and Aoife were on better terms and he stopped avoiding being left alone with her. On the contrary, with built-in babysitters around, they were encouraged to go out for a meal just the two of them on his night off. They talked and laughed and later he took the lead, taking his time with her in a way he hadn’t in a very long time. Falling asleep with her back pressed against his chest, his arm sling loosely over her hip, he remembered why he’d married her in the first place, the vestiges of love floating back to the surface.

He knew she felt it too, even if she didn’t know how far they’d fallen. And, buoyed up by hope that perhaps he could crawl out of the pit he’d been in and salvage something of their relationship, they took a family holiday. Two weeks of sunshine, pizza and pasta in Lake Garda.

But Italy was a low point. Without the joint buffers of having his family around, and work to consume him, their tentative progress stalled. They rowed more than usual, the heat making everyone sticky and tetchy.

And for the first time, the admission lingered on the tip of his tongue.

I had an affair.

I don’t love you anymore.

But he shied away from it. He couldn’t do it. Not there. Not so far from home and ruining his boys’ summer holiday.

One thing was for certain though: he wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep doing this.

There was never a good time though, and he refused to throw a grenade into his kids’ lives when he wasn’t going to be there to pick up the pieces. Almost immediately after their disastrous trip, he was back at work. Their next stop for the play was Cork and he took the boys down to stay with his parents, Aoife staying behind in Dublin for work.

When he got back home for the final week or so of the school holidays, they hardly saw each other. During the day he took care of the boys, passing them like a baton in a relay team, racing out the door to get to the theatre as soon as she got home.

She was asleep every night when he got home and he took to sleeping in the spare room, so as not to disturb her.

He should have done it then.

But as September arrived, and the kids went back to school, once again he was preparing for a long stint away from home.

“Do you have to go?” asked Finn, clambering up on the bed, watching Cillian pack his suitcase the night before he was due to fly to London.

He sighed, coming to sit beside his son, running a hand over his thatch of blonde hair that was beginning to fade to light brown.

“I have to go to work again, buddy. But it’s only for a few weeks this time.”

As if Finn, at the ripe old age of five years and two months, had any real concept of how one month differed from four months.

Pulling him into a cuddle, he dropped a kiss to the crown of his head.

“I’ll be home before you know it, I promise.”

No matter how often he’d done this - packed up and disappeared to another place for work - he would never, ever get used to the wrench that came from leaving his children behind.

He had no such emotions about leaving Aoife behind. All he felt was shame at his complete inability to end things. And the worst part was that he wasn’t even entirely sure she’d noticed they were falling apart. Since they’d got back from Italy, she appeared to have simply resumed the usual rhythm of her daily life as if nothing was wrong.

On the day he left, she simply got up for work as he got the boys ready for school, like it was any other day.

“When is it that you’re back again?” she asked as they were corralling the boys out the door.

“Twelfth of October,” he replied, helping Finn zip up his coat. “There you go,” he smiled, ruffling the little boy’s hair.”

“That’s ages away,” muttered Eoin, the straps of his schoolbag shrugged halfway down his arms, a dark look on his young face.

“I know, but it’s only five weeks and it’ll go in a flash. And it’s the last big job I have to do this year.” He tried to straighten Eoin’s bag but he jerked away, scowling.

“You’re never here.”

He flicked an appealing glance at Aoife but she wasn’t listening, flicking through emails on her phone with a frown.

“That’s not true. I’ve been here for the last three months.”

“Can we come with you, daddy?” asked Finn, eyes round and blue. “We’ll be good.”

Hunkering down, he gently pulled him into a hug, reaching for Eoin too, who gave in reluctantly.

“Not this time, monkey. You’ve got school. But I’ll ring you every day and I want to hear all about what you’re learning, ok?” Pressing kisses into their hair, he pulled back, holding them both out so he could see their faces. “I love you both so much and I’m going to miss you. Promise me you’ll be good for mummy.”

Finn nodded and, after he’d raised an eyebrow at him, Eoin did too.

“C’mon, you’ll be late for school.”

He ushered them gently outside where Aoife was waiting, shoving his hands deep in his pockets as she got them into the car.

“See you in a few weeks,” she said quietly, leaning up to wrap her arms around his neck, kissing his cheek briefly.

“Yeah, see you soon,” he mumbled.

“Love you,” she called, heading for the driver’s door.

He swallowed. “Yeah, you too.”

*****

It was strange being back in London. On the one hand it was a welcome relief from the constant burden of trying to behave like his marriage wasn’t falling apart. On the other, he couldn’t stop thinking about when he’d been there in February and how different life had been back then.

It took everything in him, every last shred of self control and the tattered remnants of his pride, to stop himself from going to her flat.

If it hadn’t been for the fact that he was there with Enda and Mikel, he would have caved within the first week. As it was, he was sure he was going to bump into her everywhere - on the tube or walking along the South Bank. Every flash of red hair was her, except it never was.

But what would he even say to her if he saw her, assuming she didn’t just turn and run in the opposite direction? Nothing had changed. He was still married.

Still a fucking coward.

Thank god for work.

He’d always loved working at the National Theatre, the brutalist modernist giant, hunkered next to the Thames in a confusing array of jutting concrete levels. The scale of the place was dizzying from the stage but yet strangely intimate.

On his first day he turned up to find Enda in a huddle with several others, their new set - a larger version than they’d had in Galway to fill the bigger space - under construction backstage.

“Cill,” he called when he spotted him trying to slope off towards the rehearsal rooms. “Come and meet the team.”

He fixed a smile to his face and went over, shaking hands as Enda introduced people whose names he should know by now but would inevitably have forgotten again by Halloween.

“And you remember Jack, from the lighting team.”

A bolt of cold shot through him as he took the outstretched hand of the dark haired man in front of him.

“Nice to see you again,” Jack smiled.

“Yeah, you too man,” he choked back, ignoring the flicker of concern that passed over Enda’s face.

Tucking his hands back in his pockets he cleared his throat awkwardly. “I’d better go and… y’know…”

“Yeah, alright,” said Enda, eyes narrowing. “Mik’s already back there.”

Nodding, he bid a hasty retreat, but not to the room they were using, instead heading for the bathrooms. Locking himself in a stall, he collapsed heavily on the toilet. Burying his face in his hands, he groaned.

He’d forgotten about Jack Mullan and his sexy Scottish burr.

Terrible images of Clara and Jack together dashed through his mind, the overactive imagination that made him great at his job, working overtime. Maybe they’d even got back together. Maybe he was wrong and it was him who had told him to leave her alone..? It wasn’t impossible. It’s not like she seemed to hate him or anything - hadn’t she even defended him?

He groaned again.

Apparently there was literally nowhere he could go that he wasn’t going to be haunted by her and his catastrophic failings as a man.

On the Sunday before opening night he and Mikel went for dinner at Enda’s, a delightfully cosy moment of normality in the midst of all his worries. His god-daughter Ava, Enda’s eight-year old, was excited to see him, demanding his undivided attention as she showed him things she’d made and her latest art project from school. He was roped into the bedtime routine, reading to her even though she was more than old enough to read it herself.

“C’mon, that’s enough, Avie,” cajoled Enda from the doorway. “Time for bed.”

“Just one more chapter,” she whined but her father, used to this ruse, was unmoved.

“I’ll come back and read some more another night,” promised Cillian, extricating himself with cracking joints from where he’d been lying. Leaning down, he dropped a kiss on top of her head. “Night love.”

Laughter floated up from the kitchen where Jo and Mik were washing up, and as they headed back down, Enda stopped him in the hall.

“Is everything ok?”

“Course,” he said quickly. “Why’d you ask?”

Enda studied him for a second, shrugging a little. “You just don’t seem quite like yourself.”

Cillian cleared his throat. “Well, everything’s grand. Just ready to get going, y’know.”

Enda nodded but the squint of his eyes told Cillian he remained unconvinced.

“Has something happened with Jack Mullan that I need to know about..?”

Fuck.

“What?? No. I barely know the bloke. He’s the lighting guy, right?”

“You were weird with him.”

He felt heat rush to his face. “Ah, no I wasn’t… Was I..?”

Enda dropped his chin, levelling him with the directorial stare he usually reserved for when they’d taken messing around in rehearsals a step too far.

“I just…” He fumbled for a believable lie. “I just didn’t remember him. And you said it like I should and I was embarrassed because he could walk past me in the street and I’d not know him, y’know?”

Enda visibly relaxed, shoulders dropping. “Fuck, me too. I know I should know them all by now but I can’t never fucking retain their names. I thought it was just me.”

Cillian chuckled, relief coursing him through him. “Well at least we can be shit at this together.”

*****

He made it all the way to the final week of performances without incident, the rigour of the schedule keeping him focused, the exertion of the performance leaving him with little energy to do anything other than eat and sleep. But they had Mondays off and with nothing to distract him all day he suddenly found himself staring down the barrel of a flight back to Dublin in seven days time.

The thought of it made his stomach turn.

By lunchtime, in an effort to find distraction, he forced himself out of the rented flat near the theatre, but October was making herself known, wind howling in from the river, shortly followed by a hefty downpour. Seeking shelter, he found himself in a pub, so he bought a drink and settled in to dry off.

The rain kept falling so he had another.

And another.

At six, Enda texted and asked if he wanted a beer at his local and somehow he managed to navigate his way to Kilburn without significant mishap. If you didn’t count going the wrong way on the tube for several stops before he realised he was approaching Canary Wharf and not Baker Street.

“Fuck me, how long have you been drinking??” asked Enda in hushed tones as he half fell into the chair opposite him.

“A while,” he grinned lopsidedly at his friend. “Actually,” he turned to get up again, “I need to get a pint…”

“Yeah, of water. Jesus fuck. Wait here.”

Enda disappeared to the bar, leaving him alone, fingers drumming idly on the tabletop.

“The fuck is this??” he exclaimed when Enda returned and placed a pint glass of water in front of him. “I ordered a Guinness!”

“Drink it,” Enda ordered, sitting down with his own - proper - pint, sipping slowly, his brow knotted. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing…” he muttered, pulling a face at the chilly tap water. “God, London lager really is shit.”

Enda spluttered a chuckle into his glass, and wiped his mouth. “Why are you shitfaced?”

“Why aren’t you?” he muttered, childishly.

“We’re not talking about me.”

He set down his water and dropped his face into his palms, groaning.

“I can’t do it.”

“Do what..? The show’s going really well…”

Cillian lifted his head to frown at him.

“Y’what?”

“The play. It’s going well. If you’re having some kind of actor crisis…”

“I’m not having a fucking actor crisis.” He mimicked Enda’s voice except several octaves higher, earning a heavy roll of his friend’s eyes.

“So why are you hammered on a Monday afternoon?? What can’t you do..?”

Cillian sighed heavily.

“I can’t go home, man. I just can’t. I can’t do it.”

Enda paused, frowning at him.

“Why not..?”

Cillian dropped his head again, fingers weaving through his hair.

“Because I can’t pretend anymore,” he mumbled and Enda leaned forward, straining slightly to hear him over the hubbub. “I can’t keep fucking acting every day of my fucking life.”

“What’re you…”

“I can’t be with her anymore.”

“Who…?? Aoife..?”

Cillian nodded slightly, hands tugging roughly at his hair now.

“I’m a coward and a shit. A shit and a fucking liar, and…and…”

“And what..?”

“I love her, Ends. I don’t know how to stop. I keep trying but I can’t.”

“Eef..? But you just said…”

“No not her,” he muttered tersely, looking up with bloodshot eyes.

“Then who..?”

“You were right y’know? You told me.” He laughed bitterly, taking a drink of water and grimacing, having clearly forgotten it wasn’t beer. “I’m fucked.”

“Mate, I have no idea what you’re talking about… are you saying there’s someone else..?”

“You told me. You looked at her picture and you knew.”

“Wait…” said Enda, sitting up straighter. “Are you talking about that girl?? The one from Edinburgh? The redhead?”

Cillian nodded miserably.

“What the fuck man,” he breathed, eyes wide. “You’re sleeping with her??”

“No…” Cillian shook his head, fidgeting with a spare beer mat. “I mean, yes. Or at least I was. We were together but I fucked it up. I’ve fucked everything up.”

His head dropped into his hands again, the heavy threat of tears burning in his throat.

“I tried to forget her. I tried to move on. I tried to make it ok with Eef.” He raked a hand through his hair. “Actually no, I didn’t. That’s another fucking lie.” He laughed, a short, mirthless rush of air. “I can’t stop fucking lying.”

“So let’s try the truth,” said Enda. “Are you saying that you had an affair but it’s over?”

He nodded.

“But you’re in love with this woman?”

He nodded again. “‘Cept she hates my guts. Which is fair to be honest.”

“And you’re certain you don’t love Aoife anymore? Because what you’re talking about… are you sure you want to throw away your marriage, fuck up your kids’ lives over some fucking dalliance..?”

Shame crawled up his spine to his neck, rising high to burn his face. Despite the fact the room was blurry around the edges, he felt like I’d never been able to see so clearly.

“I’m sure,” he whispered. “I know I have to leave her. I’ve known for months. But I just can’t seem to make myself do it. And I keep telling myself it’s because I don’t wanna fuck up the kids but that’s just an excuse, ‘cause it’ll be worse for them in the long run if I carry on pretending. I’m… I’m just scared shitless about doing it.”

He paused, picking up the beer mat again and proceeding to peel its layers apart.

“I’m afraid they’ll hate me for it.”

“They might,” Enda sighed. “But you need to grow a pair and do it anyway.”

Cillian looked up sharply at the sternness in his best friend’s voice.

“I know,” he mumbled.

“No. You actually need to do it. Or you need to get over it. But either way, it’s not fair on Eef you behaving like this. She’s a lot of things but she’s a good woman, Cill. She deserves better.”

Cillian cleared his throat and took a long drink of water.

“I know.”

“Whether this other woman wants you or not.”

“I know.”

“‘Cause the kids will only hate you more if you mess their mother around like—”

“I said I fuckin’ know, jesus!” he snapped, immediately holding up his hands in apology, a headache beginning to bloom behind his eyes.

“What’s her name?” Enda asked more gently and Cillian sagged a little.

“Clara.” He shook his head sadly. “She was the one, man. The One. I fucked it up so badly.”

Enda sighed and laid a hand on his friend’s arm, squeezing gently.

“Just focus on doing the right thing for the kids. For Eef.”

Cillian nodded, swallowing thickly.

“Fucking hell… Right,” said Enda, standing up, “I’m gonna get you some chips. You can’t go on stage tomorrow like this. Don’t move.”

*****

November 2020

Cillian let out a small breath of melancholy amusement.

“I would have been alright. It wouldn’t have been the first time I’d had to get on stage the day after a heavy one.”

“Yeah except you weren’t twenty anymore.”

“Ah, I wasn’t that bad.”

“Bullshit, you were off your head.”

“I was… yeah alright, I was stocious,” he conceded with a small, self-conscious smile. “But it helped - never underestimate the insight of the inebriated.”

Enda rolled his eyes, sipping his pint.

“D’y’know, I’m not sure I’ve ever said thank you, have I?” continued Cillian.

“Thank you for what..?”

“For knocking some sense into me.” He started fiddling with a beer mat, only to be struck by a visceral flashback and dropped it immediately. “I was so lost. So wrapped up in the inertia, the fear, I think I’d sort of lost sight of the damage I was doing.”

“It was a big decision. And you didn’t know then that Clara would have you back. How happy you were going to go on to be.”

“I still can’t believe it sometimes, that she gave me another chance.”

“You’re not the only one,” grinned Enda, and Cillian cracked a smile, taking a long pull of his pint.

“Thank fuck she did. Can you imagine how much of a morose fucker I’d be if she hadn’t?”

“Christ, it’s hard to imagine how it could get much worse than it already is.”

Cillian shook his head, rolling his eyes. “Yeah alright, I walked into that one. I definitely think I could plumb new depths though. Really go for it.”

Enda raised his glass. “Thank fuck for Clara.”

Cillian clinked his against Enda’s. “Thank fuck, indeed.”

“It’s only a few months,” Enda said more gently, “you’ll be absolutely fine. You’ve survived worse.”

Cillian nodded solemnly.

“Yeah, we certainly have.”

Part 33

I told you, he’s the worst but he’s getting there. You just need to suffer through her parallel timeline and then we’ll be getting to the nitty gritty of things! Please do scream your feelings (nicely) in all the usual ways 😘

Masterlists: CILLIAN | LOCKDOWN | MAIN

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