IT WAS PITCH black when I left the house the next morning, and bitterly cold. A light sprinkling of snow had fallen overnight, a day earlier than expected, gathering in the eaves and by the sides of the road. I suspected it was a mere precursor of something more significant to come. I took my time driving down the peninsula. The road across the mountain to Quigley’s Point is tough going at the best of times, full of unexpected bends, but lethal in any kind of icy conditions, especially in the dark. The heating in the Mini had just about kicked in by the time I reached the Foyle, where it began to snow again, making me wonder if the plane would even take off; I didn’t fancy having to drive the whole way to Dublin in this weather. On the other hand – I stole a glance at the clock on the dashboard – if the flight left on time, I was going to miss it; the speed at which I was forced to drive meant I would be half an hour late to the airport.
As it turned out, the flight left an hour later than scheduled, but my meeting wasn’t until twelve so I had plenty of time. Although I’d have preferred the extra hour in bed instead of in Derry airport’s drafty departure area.
The flight from Dublin to Derry is by way of a thirty-two-seater turbo-prop plane, not one for the faint-hearted. I like it. It reminds me of a bus service – it’s rare that I don’t run into someone I know, and this morning was no different. As we waited for the call to board, I noticed Carole from the Oak sitting a couple of seats away from me. She briefly caught my eye and studiously avoided my gaze from then on. I was happy not to force the issue. I generally like to be alone with my newspaper both on and off the plane, and had never been a great fan of Carole’s anyway.
Unfortunately, on the plane, we were seated together.
“Oh, hi,” I said, keeping up the pretense that we’d only just seen one another. “Cold morning.”
“Aye, it’s Baltic.”
I shoved my briefcase beneath the seat in front. “I wasn’t sure we’d be able to take off.”
“I wouldn’t know. It’s my first time. I usually take the bus,” she said in a tone that implied no small degree of resentment towards those who didn’t usually take the bus.
“I’ve done that too,” I said. “It’s a good service. But if you have to be in Dublin early, you really do have to fly.”
I don’t know why I felt the need to justify myself. The reality was that I couldn’t afford the time away from the office that driving would entail. But – and I sighed inwardly at this – it wasn’t the first time I’d been on the back foot with Carole; she could be harsh in her judgements of people she didn’t know, and not slow in offering her opinion.
I took my seat and was surprised to find myself squashed into a tighter space than usual. Though petite, Carole had managed to take over both armrests, and her elbows encroached even further as she shook out her magazine. With difficulty, I snapped my seat belt shut.
“You heading down for business, then?” she asked. Despite her obvious resentment, her tone was inquisitive.
I nodded. “Yes. You?”
I wasn’t surprised she sidestepped the question. With Carole, information was generally a one-way street. She sniffed. “How long is the flight?”
I checked my watch. “We should be landing about half past nine, all going well.”
She didn’t respond, just stared straight ahead and chewed the nail of her index finger, before picking up her magazine again. This time I noticed a set of wooden rosary beads on her lap. She caught my glance and quickly gathered them up to shove into the pocket of her coat.
“Is Tony on holidays, by the way?” I asked.
Carole peered at me over her magazine, the headline on the cover Mother marries daughter’s killer. Pregnant with twins at fifty-five!
“Why?” she asked.
“I haven’t seen him around for a while. With Christmas coming up, I thought it would be his busiest time.”
“He’s got me,” she said defensively.
I backed off. “Of course.”
Carole shrugged and returned to biting her nails and reading her magazine, which she continued to do for the remainder of the flight.
We landed at half past nine on the dot. The weather in Dublin was no different from Derry – a flurry of snow greeted us as we made our way into the terminal building, a crocodile of hunched, and for the most part suited, individuals carrying briefcases and coats above their heads, trying their best not to get soaked.
Liam McLaughlin, the estate agent from Glendara, was sitting in the waiting area when we walked through.
He grinned when he saw me and tapped his watch. “What time do you call this? You’re over an hour late.”
“Hardly my fault.” I paused to chat to him and lost Carole at the same time. Two birds with the one stone.
Liam nodded to her as she passed and she gave him a smile.
“How’d you manage that?” I asked, nudging him. “I’ve been sitting beside her the whole way down and she hasn’t smiled at me once.”
“It’s my irresistible charm,” he said with a smirk. “What are you down for?”
“Sale closing.”
“Without me?” He faked indignation.
“Not all the conveyancing I do is with you, Liam. What has you in Dublin anyway?”
“Ach, an auld course. One of those continuing education yokes. Dull as fuck … Stayed for a few pints last night so thought I’d treat myself to a flight rather than driving up and down.”
“Good plan. Especially in this weather.” I glanced through the windows of the terminal. Slush covered the runway and the sky looked full and dark.
“Are we going to get those two farm sales done next week?” Liam asked.
“I hope so. Give Leah a shout when you get back to Glendara and she’ll tell you if there’s any hold-up with the checks.”
“Will do,” he said as he headed off towards the boarding gate with a wave.
I took a taxi into town, catching a glimpse of Carole dragging a large suitcase from the baggage carousel on my way through the airport. I wondered where she was off to with so much luggage. If she was going to be away for a while, I supposed Tony must have reappeared to run the pub. The Oak had various part-timers who stepped in now and then, but none who could have taken charge. I decided to give him a call again later about Stan.
The sale closing went smoothly, apart from a slight hiccup when a property search in the Registry of Deeds couldn’t be located but turned up just in time, and an uncomfortable moment when the solicitor for the bank and I recognized one another from a time I was sure neither of us had any desire to remember. By unexpressed mutual agreement it wasn’t referred to and the moment passed. Law in Ireland is small; these things happen.
I telephoned the Greys to deliver the good news on my way out of the enormous cube of green glass that housed the seller’s solicitor’s office, and when I finished the call, my head was splitting. I hadn’t had anything to eat since five; I needed coffee and something sweet. When I looked around, I saw that I wasn’t far from where I’d worked years before, and I remembered a place I used to go, a little Italian that did great pizzas and pastries. I wondered if it was still there.
The pavement was slushy and unpleasant as I picked my way carefully along the Luas tracks. Pedestrians passed with the equivalent of snow tires on their shoes, a fad that hadn’t yet reached Donegal. And then I spotted it, the Italian, in a little square between the Luas and the Liffey.
I ordered a cappuccino and a Danish at the counter and chose a table by the window, tucking my briefcase and bag beneath my seat. Someone had left a paper on the table and I picked it up, the headline on the front page catching my eye. Rural Garda stations set to close! The image below was shocking – dozens of naked, bleeding people. Then I read the caption underneath the picture: Hundreds take part in “bloody” protest against bullfighting in Madrid. I smiled. The headline and picture didn’t match. I sipped my coffee and read the piece on Garda stations – rural Ireland is gradually being closed down. What will be next? Our post offices, our doctor’s surgeries? – until my phone vibrated in my bag and I took it out to answer it. Molloy.
As usual, he dispensed with opening pleasantries. “You’re in Dublin.”
“You got my message, then.”
“I did. Sorry I didn’t get back to you last night …” His voice began to fade in and out. “I’m going to lose you … I’m on the Muff road.”
The road between Derry and Quigley’s Point is a notorious black spot for mobile phone coverage, probably because of its proximity to the border between Northern Ireland and the Republic. I’d often lost the connection there during an important exchange.
“Text me,” I said in a loud whisper.
“When are you back?” he asked, his voice muffled by static.
“Tomorrow. I’m staying with my parents tonight,” I said, but I had no idea whether he heard me or not – the connection was gone.
I tried to ring back, but the call went straight through to voicemail and I didn’t leave a message. We seemed to be finding it difficult to communicate at the moment, and I couldn’t blame it all on static.
I flicked to the article connected to the bloody photograph: Thousands of Spaniards have taken to the streets to demand an end to the centuries-old tradition of bullfighting in the city. Protesters covered themselves in red paint and carried banners with captions such as “Bullfighting, a national shame,” and “The torture of animals is not entertainment.” There were a number of arrests.
When I left the café, the sky was heavy with the next fall of snow. Walking back towards the Luas, I tried Tony Craig’s mobile again. Again, it rang out, but this time the ringtone was local, so he was back in the jurisdiction. I sent him a text asking him to give me a call when he had the chance.
A tram approached and I stood at the edge of the tracks to let it pass, taking the opportunity to put my phone back in my bag. When I looked up to cross, a man was watching me from the other side. He gazed at me evenly, without expression. For a second I was suspended in time, a freeze frame in a film, disbelieving. Then the sickening reality hit and my throat tightened. The man I was looking at was Luke Kirby.
I couldn’t move my limbs. Since I’d heard he was out, I had imagined the moment when I might see him: what I would say, what I would do – most of the time I had a gun or a knife in these imaginings. Now it was here and I was frozen, unable to do anything but shake.
Kirby crossed the tracks, palms raised cowboy-style. Mocking. A numbing sensation crept up my neck and into my face, like poison working its way around my body. He stopped about ten feet away, hands still in that exaggerated gesture of conciliation. He didn’t speak, just continued to look at me in that self-assured manner he always had, waiting for me to say something. I couldn’t even look at him.
“Sarah,” he said eventually.
That voice: silky, English, educated. Speaking my name, a name I no longer used because of him. I had nothing to say to him. It was too late. Nothing I could say would change a damn thing. Tears pricked my eyes as I turned to walk away.
He spoke to my back. “Looking good, babe.”
I spun on my heel and he smiled, showing a set of perfect white teeth. I tasted bile in my mouth and realized with horror that it was perfectly possible that I might retch, right here on the street in front of him. I stumbled away, unsure of where I was going or what I was doing, knowing only that I needed to keep moving. He didn’t follow. Somehow, after everything, he was in control, watching me walk away.
I don’t know how long I walked, but when I finally took in my surroundings, I was at O’Connell Bridge and I badly needed a drink. I made my way down Westmoreland Street and turned in at Fleet Street, darkened now with a line of buses waiting to depart. I fought my way through the huddled groups on the footpath and called into Bowes, a pub I used to go to when I was at college. Dark wood, warm and comforting, like the Oak. I ordered a whiskey with ice and sat in one of the booths to drink it. The whiskey burned my throat but relieved some of the numbness I was feeling.
I’d hoped that prison might have broken Kirby, taken away some of the arrogance that had so attracted me in the first place, but it seemed to have had no more effect on him than nine years in a solicitor’s office. Less. Fewer grey hairs. He’d looked fit, had probably had to bulk up; men who kill women are known to have a hard time in prison. His Oxford-educated accent wouldn’t have helped. The thought gave me comfort. I hoped he’d been cornered in the showers; I hoped he … And then: what the hell was he doing in Dublin? Molloy had said he had returned to the UK. The notion that he was out of the jurisdiction had given me more comfort than I’d realized.
I drained my glass and when I checked my watch it was half past two. I had told my parents I would be with them about four. I couldn’t mention my encounter with Luke, not when they were finally doing so well. But how the hell was I going to conceal this dread I was feeling in the pit of my stomach? While I figured it out, I ordered another drink.
I managed to limit the whiskeys to two and was soon in a taxi to Chapelizod. Thankfully, my parents were so full of excitement about their trip to Iceland, they didn’t notice that I was quieter than usual.
“Are you sure you’ll be okay on your own for Christmas?” my mother asked me for the umpteenth time as she handed me a plateful of turkey and ham. “You could still come with your father and me, you know. I’m sure the others wouldn’t mind.”
“I’ll be fine, Mum.” I smiled for the first time since my encounter in town. The notion of an adult daughter traveling with her parents made me think of an Agatha Christie novel.
My mother shot me a quizzical look. “So who will you spend Christmas with?”
“A friend of mine has asked me for dinner,” I said, grateful, not for the first time, for Phyllis.