Rory

Rory watched his son walking under the streetlights, hands in his pockets, weariness and despair in every step. His restlessness and anguish resonated. Whether they liked it or not, tonight was a line in the sand. If another day dawned, they would all have to face the fact that—

His phone beeped. Amy! It was one in the morning. As usual, she had no respect for boundaries.

I know you’ve got shit going on, but I am so hurt by Rachel’s behaviour. I am Bridie’s godmother. It’s cruel to exclude me. She’s punishing me for telling you about Nico. It’s a classic case of shoot the messenger. Can you please give me an update on my goddaughter?

Emmet ambled back while Rory contemplated what to say. His son shook out one of the rolled-up blankets, tucked it around his seat, closed his eyes. Rory wished him sleep, oblivion.

There is no news. There is nothing else to say.

He pressed send. Yes, it was a case of shoot the messenger, but Amy’s motives had not been pure. She’d wanted to land Rachel in hot water, to cause trouble. Envy was at play, among other things: in his black-and-white view, the friendship had long exceeded its best-by date.

His phone buzzed again. It was his mother. From another continent, a place in the world where it was already morning.

I am thinking of you and praying for you. The whole church is praying – Father Culnane put a prayer request on the parish Facebook page. Wish we could be there for you. Hope Sean is of some help. Lots of love, Mum

That was the question: was Sean a help or was he the cause? He’d been grocery shopping, made them cups of tea and taken the brunt of the home invasion. But was he linked to what had happened, even as tenuously as his lowlife flatmate downloading photos from his phone? How would their mother – and all of them – cope if Bridie’s disappearance was in some way related to Sean? The problem was, they couldn’t rule it out.

Rory had phoned Detective Mani about the truck driver, the detective confirming that Crime Stoppers had received and escalated the information. Apparently, several detectives were working on the lead, but Mani wouldn’t reveal anything further. He’d reiterated that the family was not privy to all the details of the investigation.

Rory couldn’t blame them, really. The police were conditioned to suspect the family: they’d seen too many cases where parents and spouses had sobbed to the cameras and were later convicted in court. Every day on the news, the terrible things that went on behind closed doors, the grim statistics about homicides and assaults, which exposed the home environment as the highest risk.

When Rory had opened the door to Sean and his rucksacks, had he initiated a terrible chain of events leading to his daughter’s abduction? Knowing about his brother’s addictions and desperate need for money, he should have properly assessed the risks. But it was too late now to turn him away, or give him money for a hostel. Just as it was too late to warn the kids to be wary.

He couldn’t bear to think about it any further: it made him sick to the stomach. He took Emmet’s lead, covered himself with a blanket, closed his eyes. Bridie was waiting. The pudgy, giggling toddler. The five-year-old tea-party princess, pouring him an imaginary cup of tea. The kid at the beach who pottered for hours with her bucket and spade. All the dance concerts, family holidays, quiet meals at home. The caring teenager, fussing over her mother during her illness. The girl who blushed every time she was paid a compliment, who would be extraordinary once she developed some confidence. It was unbearable, unfathomable to think that her future—

‘Dad, are you asleep?’ Emmet whispered.

‘No,’ Rory confessed, opening his eyes. He couldn’t imagine having the peace and calm to fall asleep ever again.

‘How long should we stay here waiting?’ Emmet sent the question into the darkness, into the universe.

‘I don’t know—’ Rory’s voice broke. His faith, what little remained, also broke. ‘I don’t know anything … Only that I don’t want tomorrow to come.’ He was crying then, huge shuddering sobs, and Emmet’s arms were around him, and his son was crying too. Loud, raw emotion that was absorbed into the noncommittal atmosphere.

They eventually pulled apart, sniffing, searching their pockets for tissues.

And that’s when Rory’s phone rang. Detective Mani: 2.33 am, three hours before the dawn of a new day.

‘Mr Sullivan, we have Bridie. We’ve found your daughter.’