One Hundred Names (Special Edition)

apartment complex. Perhaps she would use the name Kitty in future after all.
    On the bus to her next destination, Kitty tried to ignore the parting words of the previous exchange by making notes in her notepad.
    Story Theory: People who’ve had to move abroad.
    Recession story?
    Kitty hoped that wasn’t the case. She’d had enough of those stories – the media was inundated with the subject – and unless the situation was unique, she knew Constance had believed the same.
    She stared out of the bus window. She had hoped to follow the list in the exact order Constance had catalogued the names, but as Kitty was cold calling door to door, and hadn’t use of a car, she had decided to start with the Dublin addresses first. Sixth on the list, but second on Kitty’s, was Bridget Murphy.
    Number 42 was a terraced house in Beaumont, with nothing in particular to distinguish it from the line of identical pebble-dash houses on that row, opposite it, or around the maze that made up the estate. In an effort to inject colour into the estate some homeowners had painted their houses, though they clearly hadn’t pulled together. There were clashing lemons and oranges, snot greens beside mint greens, pretty pinks beside unpainted murky pebble dash. The house number was displayed as a novelty happy-faced sticker on the wheelie bins out by the front gate, the driveway was littered with abandoned toys and bikes, but there was no car inside the gates or outside on the path. It was 5.30 p.m., people were returning from work and the evening was already closing in. Next door an old woman was sitting at her front door on a kitchen chair catching the last of the evening sun. She was wearing a knee-length skirt, thick tights on her bumpy bandaged legs, and tartan slippers on her feet. She watched Kitty closely and nodded at her when she caught her eye.
    Kitty rang the doorbell to Bridget Murphy’s house and stepped down from the doorstep.
    ‘They’re having their dinner,’ the old woman said. On Kitty’s displaced interest in her, she continued, ‘Chicken curry. They always have it on Thursdays. I can smell it in my house every week.’ She ruffled up her nose.
    Kitty laughed. ‘You’re not a fan of chicken curry?’
    ‘Not of hers, I’m not,’ she said, looking away from the house as if the very sight of it offended her. ‘They won’t hear you out here, they’re a noisy lot.’
    Kitty could hear that from where she stood. It sounded like there was an army of squealing kids dropping knives and clanging glasses. She didn’t want to be rude by ringing again, particularly as she was disturbing a family dinner and she had the old woman as her audience.
    ‘I’d ring again if I were you,’ the neighbour said.
    Happy to receive permission, Kitty pressed the doorbell again.
    ‘Who are you looking for anyway? Him or her? Because he’s not in, doesn’t get home until seven most days. A banker.’ She rolled up her nose again.
    ‘I’m here to see Bridget.’
    The old woman frowned. ‘Bridget Murphy?’
    Kitty checked her notepad again even though she had memorised practically the entire list, but she did that now, checked everything twenty times and then still wasn’t sure.
    ‘Bridget doesn’t live there any more,’ the old woman said just as the front door opened and a flushed-looking mother of the army stared at a confused Kitty.
    ‘Oh. Hello,’ Kitty said.
    ‘Can I help you?’
    ‘I hope so. I’m looking for Bridget Murphy but I’ve just learned that she might not live here any longer.’
    ‘She doesn’t,’ the old woman said. ‘I told you that. I already told her that, Mary.’
    ‘Yes, that’s right,’ the mother said, ignoring the old lady.
    ‘See?’
    ‘Do you know how I could contact Bridget?’
    ‘I don’t know Bridget at all. We bought the house last year but perhaps Agnes here could help.’
    Kitty apologised for disturbing her dinner, the door closed and they heard Mary’s ironic shout for silence rattle through the building.
    She turned to Agnes. Kitty guessed Agnes knew the business of most people on the street. A journalist’s dream. She contemplated climbing over the knee-high wall that separated them but decided Agnes might consider it rude so she walked down the path, out the gate, in at Agnes’s gate and up the path again.
    Agnes looked at her oddly. ‘You could have just climbed over the wall.’
    ‘Do you know where Bridget lives?’
    ‘We lived next door to each other for forty