5

LYNDA LEFT the curtains closed across the patio doors. She couldn’t bear to see her garden this morning, not after what had assaulted her yesterday. She didn’t want to look at what she might be forced to see.

She put on the coffee as soon as she heard Robert’s step on the landing. The images of the previous day haunted her. They kept returning, a jerky, hand-held camera, the pictures too bright, the colours gaudy. They hurt her eyes, even if she closed them. Last night, when she eventually slept, her dreams had been full of Danny.

Robert came into the kitchen now. ‘You okay?’ he asked.

She laughed shakily. ‘I don’t know. I haven’t looked out there yet.’

He went over to the doors and pulled the curtains across. Lynda sat at the table and kept her forehead in her hands. She wanted not to hear what he was going to say. If she kept her head down, maybe it would all just slide away, disappearing into the winter dawn. She heard Robert unlock the doors and step outside onto the deck. Then she heard the click and knew that the sensor light had just switched on. She held her breath.

She didn’t want to fight him again. Their recent rows had left her exhausted and trembling. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been so angry at Robert.

‘You just refuse to see it!’ she’d screamed yesterday. ‘You knew Danny was here and you kept on denying it! You wouldn’t even let me see the letters!’

‘I didn’t deny anything!’ Robert had blazed back. ‘I’ve no evidence that those letters were delivered by Danny! You’re obsessed by him!’

‘And you wonder why?’ she’d spat back. ‘He lies to us, steals from us, cheats us – we’ve even had to pay his debts. You just refuse to see how dangerous he is. Don’t you understand? He’ll stop at nothing to get revenge.’

Robert had stared at her. ‘Revenge?’ he’d said. ‘Revenge for what? Danny’s the only one responsible for what he did. No one else.’

Lynda’s anger had seeped away. ‘You don’t get it, do you?’ She’d looked at her husband’s baffled face. He doesn’t understand, she’d thought. He really doesn’t understand. ‘Danny wants revenge for this,’ and she’d spread her hands out. ‘He doesn’t just want money; he’s not looking just to be taken care of.’ She’d stopped, lowered her voice. ‘He doesn’t see the world the way we do. In his fucked-up head, we owe him.’

‘Maybe if I just pay him off—’

Lynda had shaken her head. ‘Even if we could, it’d never be enough. You said it yourself: Danny the eternal victim. And a victim feels entitled.’ She’d paused, memories crowding. ‘That’s what he said after he stole from us, three years ago. After he ripped off your credit cards. “I’m entitled,” he said. “I needed it,” he said. And your rationality will not change that.’

Then she’d started to tremble. The room swam. Robert was beside her in an instant. ‘Sit down, Lynda,’ he’d said. ‘I’ll get you a glass of water.’ When he came back, she’d started to weep, silently. Tears of rage and frustration.

‘Don’t let him destroy us, Robert, please. I have such a bad feeling about this.’ Lynda had rummaged for a tissue in the pocket of her dressing-gown. She’d been frightened at how isolated she felt. Robert did not see what was happening all around them: at least, not in the way she did. Last Saturday, over lunch, he had tried again to reassure her.

‘Even if it is Danny,’ he’d said, ‘he’s sabre-rattling. The letters, the cars – he’s doing it because that’s all he can do. He can’t get any closer.’

But Lynda didn’t believe that. She’d leaned towards Robert, aware of all the other people around them. The restaurant tables were much too close together. ‘I feel vulnerable in a way I never have before. Last time, I could see what Danny was doing. We were able to fight him. But now, he’s both everywhere and nowhere.’

Robert had reached across the table and taken her hand. ‘You’re looking down the wrong end of the telescope,’ he’d said. ‘And it’s not like you.’ He’d paused.

Lynda had looked at him. She’d wondered if she could guess what was coming next.

‘You’re very stressed,’ he’d said, trying to be gentle. ‘I’m just wondering if there are . . . other things going on. Physical things.’

‘Like what?’ She had felt rage igniting. She’d pulled her hand away from his.

He’d shrugged. At least he’d had the grace to look uncomfortable. ‘Well,’ he’d begun, ‘you’ve been complaining of hot flushes and forgetting things and I’m just worried that—’

‘I’m mad and menopausal,’ she’d said flatly.

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘You don’t need to. Don’t insult me, Robert. Whatever you do, don’t insult my intelligence. Your brother is the dangerous, paranoid, delusional monster. Not me.’ And she’d stood up from the table. ‘If I stay, I’ll say things that I’ll regret. I’m going home.’

‘Lynda, please, wait – all I’m saying is that you may be getting things out of proportion.’ He’d started to rummage in his wallet for a credit card. Robert hated scenes.

Lynda had had every intention of causing one. Nothing else made him listen. ‘Stop right there,’ she’d said, raising her voice. ‘And think for a moment about three years ago. And the time before that, when he forged your name as guarantor. And before that again, when your father was still alive – paying Danny’s debts so as not to damage the family name.’

‘Keep your voice down!’ He’d glared at her.

‘No,’ she’d refused. ‘I’ve been quiet for far too long. And you’ve been blind; you just won’t accept that Danny can do it, will do it – all over again.’ And she’d left the restaurant, letting the door swing closed behind her.

Ever since, they’d had an uneasy alliance. When he arrived home, he’d apologized for upsetting her; she’d apologized for walking out on him. But really, nothing around Danny had been resolved.

And then, less than forty-eight hours later, her garden had been defiled. There was no other word for it. Danny was getting close, much too close.

The attack on her garden had felt like a physical assault. How had Danny got to know her so well? How had he figured out the kind of ambush that would leave her feeling defeated, helpless? She’d wept for what seemed like hours when she and Robert had come in from the garden. Everything that she’d believed to be secure and solid had been violated. But she couldn’t explain that to Robert.

‘Sshhh,’ he’d said and held her close. ‘We’ll clean it all up. We’ll get everything back to the way it was, I promise.’

That was yesterday. She’d wondered if he’d ever be able to keep that promise.

And now, this morning, she waited edgily until he came in from the garden. All her senses were primed for disaster.

‘It’s fine. Everything’s fine.’ Robert pulled out a chair and sat at the table beside her. ‘Look, I know how upset you are. But this could just be some lazy bastard who can’t be bothered going to the dump. I’ll take a walk around the back later, see if I can find anything.’ His voice lacked conviction. But he was trying hard, she’d give him that.

She didn’t answer. ‘I want to make sure the back gate is secure,’ she said. ‘I want more locks. And maybe even put in an extra light. The outside light always wakes me when it clicks on. I don’t know why it didn’t last night.’

‘Lynda . . .’ Robert said.

She knew by his tone that he was going to try again.

He looked at her. ‘There’s the laneway to the left of us, remember?’ His tone was gentle. ‘Anybody could have chucked that stuff all over the garden. I don’t want you obsessing over something that just might not be true.’

She went to speak and Robert held up his hand. She’d been about to say: Over the garden is one thing. Such methodical distribution of filth is altogether something different. But he wouldn’t be stopped. She decided it was easier not to interrupt.

‘And I’m sorry that you’re upset about the letters. But there was nothing new in them. They were just . . . Danny as he always was. Poor me, and all that crap. It still makes me mad as hell.’

Lynda shook her head. ‘The difference is he’s here. We know that now. And he’s always created chaos when he’s here.’

Robert sighed. ‘This could well be one of Danny’s mind games. Giving somebody else letters to deliver on his behalf – you know how he can manipulate people. The point is he’s not under our roof this time. He can’t steal from us again, or fool us again.’

Lynda didn’t reply. She couldn’t. Robert hadn’t the imagination to see how Danny might steal from them again, fool them again. While not coming anywhere near them.

‘We fell for the sob story three years ago. I admit that. We believed in his illness shit. And his remorse.’ Robert stood up angrily. He began to search in the dresser drawer for one of his occasional cigarettes.

Lynda waited until he’d found them. ‘We can’t blame ourselves for that,’ she said, quietly. ‘He looked ill enough, down-and-out enough. It’s hard to abandon someone who needs that kind of care.’

Just then, the kitchen door opened. Jon hovered, uncertainly, at the threshold. ‘I just wanted to see if everything was all right. This morning.’

Robert gestured towards the garden. He sighed. ‘Everything out there is fine. I’m not so sure about in here.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Jon. ‘I’m intruding. I just wanted to see if any help was needed.’ He turned to go.

‘Come in, come in,’ said Robert. ‘You’re not intruding.’ He ground his cigarette butt into the ashtray. ‘You’re part of the family. I think we’re beginning to feel a bit under siege. But it’s important not to get things out of proportion.’ He paused. ‘By the way, thanks for yesterday. You and Ciarán certainly got stuck in. You did a great clean-up job, both of you.’

‘Thank you,’ said Jon. He waited, as if getting ready to say something.

‘What is it, Jon?’ Lynda had been watching him.

‘Oh, nothing really,’ he said. ‘It’s just . . .’

‘Go on,’ said Robert.

‘Well, it seems to me that the dumping of all that stuff yesterday was deliberate. I mean, there were dozens and dozens of Styrofoam containers, and huge amounts of vegetable stuff. It really stank. It didn’t look like anybody’s normal household rubbish. It was kinda half domestic, half industrial, if you know what I mean.’

Lynda glanced at Robert. He looked away from her. He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets, agitated.

‘So, I was wondering,’ Jon went on.

They both looked at him.

‘Is there anybody who has a grudge against you? Some neighbour, maybe? Nobody could have dragged sackfuls of that stuff very far. It has to be someone local.’

Robert nodded, considering. ‘You may well be right,’ he said. ‘But let’s hope we don’t have to test the theory again. At least there’s no harm done this time. We all got a bit dirty, a bit smelly, but that’s the end of it.’

Lynda sipped at her coffee. She wouldn’t look at Robert.

‘Right,’ he said, abruptly. ‘I’ve got to run. I’ve a meeting in half an hour and the traffic is going to be the pits. I’ll see you later.’ He came over to where Lynda sat at the table and squeezed her shoulder. ‘I’ll try and get home early, okay?’

She nodded. ‘Yeah.’

‘Take care,’ and he kissed the top of her head. ‘Look after her for me, Jon,’ he said, as he hurried from the kitchen. ‘Make her a nice breakfast.’

‘Of course I will,’ said Jon, and smiled at her. ‘Don’t worry,’ he called after Robert. ‘I’ll take good care of her.’ He turned back to Lynda. ‘How do you like your eggs?’

After Lynda had finished breakfast, Ciarán shuffled into the kitchen in his pyjamas. ‘What’s up?’

‘Not a thing,’ said Lynda. ‘All quiet this morning. Jon has just made me breakfast.’

Ciarán snorted. Then he grinned and jerked his head in his friend’s direction. ‘I wouldn’t trust him if I were you. He’s just butterin’ you up for his birthday present.’

‘Well, I dunno how,’ Jon interjected quickly. ‘As you’re the only one who knows about it.’

Lynda looked at Jon. ‘Happy birthday, Jon,’ she said. ‘I didn’t realize.’

‘Thanks,’ said Jon, grinning. ‘I can’t believe I’m twenty-one.’

Lynda smiled. But she felt a stab of dismay. Who would celebrate his birthday with him? Jon had already admitted to her that he didn’t call his parents: didn’t want to call them. And certainly nobody had come looking for him. It worried Lynda, this silence between himself and home.

‘What if something happens?’ she’d said to Robert. ‘What if he has an accident, or something, and we need to contact them? We have no address, no phone number, nothing. It’s not right.’

‘Leave it,’ Robert had advised. ‘He’s probably still feeling raw. Maybe a bit of time and distance will help to heal the breach. He’ll get back in touch with them when he’s ready.’

Lynda looked over at Jon now. He was smiling. He seemed happy. The banter between himself and Ciarán was constant. ‘You guys in College today?’ she asked.

Jon nodded. ‘Yeah. We’ll be leaving in about half an hour.’ He turned to Ciarán. ‘Smoke before we go?’ He stood up from the table and took the ashtray off the counter beside him.

‘Yeah,’ said Ciarán. ‘Just a sec.’ He left his cereal bowl on the draining-board and made to follow Jon out to the garden.

‘Ciarán,’ said Lynda.

He looked at her. ‘What?’

She tried not to let her exasperation show. ‘Into the dishwasher. If you can carry your bowl as far as the sink, then you can bend down and place it inside the dishwasher.’

He was about to protest, then Lynda caught the look that passed between Jon and him, and he thought the better of it. Sighing, Ciarán opened the dishwasher door and placed the bowl on the rack inside. He made as much noise as he could.

‘Thank you,’ said Lynda, when he had finished.

‘No problem,’ he grunted, and followed Jon through the patio doors. Lynda got up from the table and looked out, hoping that, one of these days, her garden might show signs of spring. The light today was good: clear and bright, with an unusual amount of blue sky. Ciarán and Jon stepped off the deck and onto the gravel, Ciarán scuffing the pebbles with the toe of his slippers. Lynda watched the two of them as they stood, deep in conversation, wisps of smoke trailing above their heads. One dark head; one fair. Each of them at the beginning of their lives. She was struck by how different they were from one another.

On impulse, she walked quickly into her studio and took her digital camera off the top shelf. She moved back through the kitchen, and nudged the patio door open, just a crack. She took a photograph of their heads and shoulders, each young man leaning towards the other, intent on conversation. She was satisfied with the result: it was a good portrait, their profiles natural and unposed. She’d give each of them a copy just as soon as she got around to printing them.

Meanwhile, she’d better go and do some shopping. It seemed they had a birthday to celebrate tonight.

Lynda waited until she heard the key in the lock. Then she set the musical candles going. Ciarán burst into the kitchen first, as he usually did, and stopped short. His mouth fell open. Lynda heard Jon stumble into him at the doorway and mutter ‘Jesus, Ciarán, whattya at?’ Then he looked around him, too, and became suddenly very still.

‘Happy birthday, Jon,’ called Lynda, ‘and many happy returns.’ The candles sang their tinny tune, the plastic ‘21s’ glittered all over the tablecloth, the garish birthday banners fluttered in the draught from the open door.

Jon’s eyes darkened. His face filled with emotion. For an awful moment, Lynda felt embarrassed. Had she done the wrong thing? Then his expression softened and his face relaxed into the smile she knew so well.

‘Lynda,’ he said. ‘This is really great of you. I never . . .’ and his voice trailed off. He came over and gave her a wordless hug. She understood. His gratitude came mixed with resentment. This was something his own parents should be doing for him and she felt almost angry on his behalf.

‘C’mon, mate,’ said Ciarán. He was oblivious to the moment. And for once, Lynda was grateful. ‘Blow ’em out!’

Laughing, Jon did as he was told. Lynda gestured towards the table. ‘Everything’s ready,’ she said. ‘Just help yourselves.’

‘Aren’t you joining us?’ Jon looked dismayed.

‘I have a lot of work to do,’ Lynda said. ‘I’ve had an online order for a dozen matching rings and bracelets, and an invitation to exhibit my paintings in Belfast and there’s something I must finish tonight.’ She couldn’t stop smiling.

‘Wow!’ said Jon. His eyes widened. ‘Congratulations! That’s a really big deal, isn’t it? Which ones? Which paintings do they want?’

‘They want a selection of the silk ones, the Japanese scrolls I’ve been working on. And some of the gouaches, as well. And yes, it is a big deal and I’m pleased.’ Lynda smiled at him. ‘Now go and enjoy your birthday.’

‘Way to go, Mum!’ said Ciarán. ‘And thanks for this.’

‘You’re welcome.’ As she left the kitchen, Lynda reflected that this was not the first time that Jon had shown an interest in her work. It was flattering, she supposed. And it took some of the sting out of the fact that Ciarán didn’t seem to care much, one way or the other, what she did for a living or what her successes and failures were.

Later, Jon came into her studio to thank her again. Ciarán was watching television. ‘Am I disturbing you?’ he asked. It was always his first question.

‘No, not at all,’ Lynda said. ‘I’m finishing off a garden design. It’s due tomorrow. No pressure, you understand.’

He laughed. He leaned over her shoulder, his face close to hers. She became intensely conscious of his presence. His aftershave, the rhythm of his breathing.

‘What’s this?’ he asked, pointing to a detail in the drawing.

Lynda took the opportunity to move away from him, just a fraction. Immediately, he drew back.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Didn’t mean to get in your space. It’s just that I find this Japanese stuff really fascinating.’

From down the hall, Ciarán’s guffaws at the TV could be heard. Jon smiled at her, shrugging a little, as if to say, young people these days.

Lynda felt her annoyance flare. Sometimes, just sometimes, his overt maturity grated on her. Jon was insistent now, pointing at her drawing again. ‘This here,’ he said, ‘what is it?’

‘It’s a ceremonial bell,’ she said, more abruptly than she had intended. ‘They’re associated with hunting and harvesting in Japan. The client wanted something that—’

‘It’s a dotaku, isn’t it?’ he interrupted, impatient.

Lynda was shocked. ‘Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘It’s a bell-shaped bronze called a dotaku. It’s a design I came across in the museum. Jon, how on earth did you know that?’

He cocked his head to one side. ‘About 200 AD?’ he asked. He seemed not to have heard her. He focussed on the drawing, following the flow of its elements with his index finger.

‘Yayoi period,’ she said. ‘The bell dates from about 200 BC to 250 AD.’ She stopped. Somehow, this knowledge of his unnerved her. ‘How did you know that?’

He looked at her. The dark lashes were spiky, she noticed. His eyebrows were fine, like a woman’s. He straightened and smoothed the sheet of paper in front of him, his fingers long and tapering. ‘I told you I found the Japanese stuff fascinating.’

Lynda was at a loss. She watched as his hands moved across the sheet of paper. His fingernails were clean, shaped. In the studio light, they looked almost polished.

‘Can you explain the design on the bell?’ Jon demanded. ‘Is this drawing here a copy of the original or is it an interpretation of your own?’

‘Well, yes, it’s my own,’ she said. She felt flustered, and annoyed at herself for feeling flustered. What was wrong with her? ‘But the designs are all based on the original. The Japanese engraved horizontal bands to decorate ceremonial pieces like this, with blocked patterns.’ She pulled out a larger-scale drawing that she had done some weeks back. ‘Like this one here, can you see?’ she pointed to an example. ‘They often used to use criss-cross designs like these, as well as scenes from rural life. All very delicate, very intricate. I’ve stuck to patterns here, though, rather than figurative scenes. I prefer their simplicity.’

Jon nodded. ‘Good choice,’ he said. ‘Figurative scenes of huntin’, shootin’ ’n’ fishin’ just wouldn’t cut it these days, would they?’ And he smiled up at her, his eyes shining.

‘Well, yes,’ she said. ‘I mean no, they wouldn’t. That’s what I feel, too.’

He nodded. ‘Are these the scrolls?’ He pointed to the silk hangings around the studio, each of them suspended from the ceiling on fine steel wire.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m ready to do the final touches, all the tiny brushstokes. They’ve taken me months and I’m almost sad to be finished. I’ve grown very fond of them.’ And she smiled at him, wanting to make up for any earlier stiffness on her part.

‘I can see why,’ he said, looking up intently. ‘They are stunning. So much work.’

Just then, there was a bellow from the TV room. ‘Jon – c’mere and see this!’

He glanced at Lynda. But this time, there was no complicity, no knowingness in his expression. Perhaps she had imagined it earlier. ‘Gotta go,’ he said softly.

She watched him leave the studio. There was something odd about him tonight; something she couldn’t put her finger on. Then she heard the gusts of laughter from down the hall and shook her head at herself.

Worrying again. Over nothing.

Danny is fascinated by the surface of things.

Glass. Water. The sheen of light on a lake. It’s what still draws him to photographs: what drew him in the first place. Even as a child, he loved the shine on his dad’s black-and-white family photos; the shine that glides over the stories they told. And even more, the stories they didn’t tell.

As Danny grows older, these untold stories become more and more important. They keep on rising to the surface, breaking through the glossy coating that has kept them captive for all those years. A while back, no more than a year or so, Danny spent long evenings poring over the shoebox of photographs he had taken – stolen, really – from his mother’s airing cupboard. It had happened on the last occasion he’d set foot in his family home. Over a quarter of a century ago.

He goes back, by appointment. He remembers how grudgingly Robert lets him in. ‘Ten minutes,’ his brother says. ‘That’s all you have. Don’t make me come and get you.’ He waits at the bottom of the stairs until Danny opens the door to his own bedroom.

Danny has decided to make plenty of noise, opening and closing wardrobe doors, dragging a chair to stand on, slamming boxes onto the floor. After a few minutes, he stamps his way across the landing to the bathroom. On the way back to the bedroom, a quick glance over the banisters shows that Robert has retreated from the hallway.

Quickly, Danny partly opens the door of the airing cupboard. He knows just when to stop to avoid it creaking. He used to hide his dope in there, years back. Emma had caught him, once.

‘What are you doing?’ Her eyes had been wide.

‘Ssshh,’ Danny had said, his fingers to his lips, warning her. ‘It’s some of my special cigarettes. I don’t want Robbie to find them. He’ll smoke them on me like he did before.’ He liked having Emma on his side. And she didn’t know which of his stories were made up and which weren’t.

‘Can I try one?’ Her nine-year-old face had been full of mischief.

She’d always made him laugh. ‘Maybe, one day. But you have to keep the secret, okay?’

She’d nodded. ‘Okay. But promise I can try one?’

He’d grinned. ‘I promise. But you’ll have to be a bit older. Mum would kill me.’

‘I won’t tell, you know that!’ Emma had been indignant. ‘I never tell. I’m good at secrets.’

‘I know you are,’ he’d said. ‘That’s why I’m giving you this one.’

And in the process of hiding his dope, he discovered the box of photographs. And the other one – a smaller, sturdier box, hidden right at the back, under the bath sheets.

After things fall apart, those pictures haunt Danny, particularly the ones with Emma. He wants them. He can’t explain why he wants them so much. Partly, he knows it’s because they’d be precious to the others, and he isn’t letting them get their hands on them. Why is he the only one to get punished? Partly, too, he feels that if the pictures are his, if he has control of them, then he might be able to change the ending.

He lifts the box very carefully now off the top shelf. He freezes for a moment, thinking he hears Robert’s step in the hallway. Nothing. He breathes again. He knows that this box is a fragile thing, donkeys’ years old. The cardboard will need to be folded in on itself, flattened, in order to contain the photos safely.

He flips the lid of the second box now, and pulls out the contents, three small packets. He replaces the empty box under the bath sheets, pushing them well back towards the wall of the cupboard. The envelopes he stuffs into the waistband of his underpants. He’s worn his baggiest jumper for the purposes of concealment. Then, soundlessly, he moves back into his bedroom and continues his rummaging and his packing.

He comes downstairs, just a bit over his allotted ten minutes. He has his rucksack on his back, filled to bursting-point. He hefts a black plastic bag over his left shoulder, shoving the rucksack to one side so that he can balance both across his broad back. The sack is filled with clothes and shoes and personal bits and pieces, the flattened box of photographs safely at the bottom. He knows Robert will not look. He is much too much of a gentleman for that.

As soon as he hears Danny’s foot on the stairs, Robert appears in the hallway. They look at each other. Robert’s face is grey, he notices, with a pronounced five o’clock shadow.

Danny spreads his hands, a gesture of innocence, of resignation. ‘Want to search me?’ he asks softly.

Robert’s face flushes. Danny sees his fists clench, the way they used to when Robert lost a fight back when they were kids. Or when Danny had succeeded in goading him to lose his temper. Pansy, he used to call him, and watched his brother’s rage ignite.

‘Just go, Danny,’ he says, tiredly. ‘Go now.’

Danny, there and then, decides to try one more time, just for the hell of it. He settles his feet more firmly, stepping a bit wider, squaring up to his brother. ‘I’d like to see Mum before I go.’

‘Out of the question,’ Robert holds up one hand, a cartoon Mr Plod. ‘I’ve already told you.’

Danny settles his rucksack more comfortably across his shoulders. ‘Who gives you the right?’ he says. But Robert does not respond. Danny waits, but this seems to be some sort of new tactic on his brother’s part. The Silent Treatment. Danny tries again. ‘So,’ he says, ‘I’m being cast out into the exterior darkness. Just like that.’

Robert looks at him. Shock registers, yellowly, across his features. Danny is interested to see that. He’d never known before now that shock had a colour.

‘I don’t believe you,’ Robert says. He shakes his head in that maddening, superior way he has. ‘I really can’t believe you. Have you still got no idea what you’ve done?’ He stares at Danny. Then something seems to occur to him, and he changes tack. He becomes all brisk, almost businesslike. ‘Nobody’s casting you anywhere,’ he says. ‘You’ve done this all by yourself. As usual. And you’ve torn this family apart.’

His tone is flat, dismissive, without emphasis. He might almost have said ‘You forgot to close the door again.’ Danny wonders why Robert does that: he speaks of important things as though they are of no significance at all, as though Danny is of no significance at all. He feels as though Robert has just waved him away, as though he is a fly that keeps circling, pestering others.

Danny has his reply ready. He has been waiting for this opportunity to deliver it. He opens his mouth to speak but his brother’s response surprises him. He has to admit that.

Robert shakes his head and smiles a slow smile. ‘No more talking, Danny. No more listening to you convincing me that one and one makes five. I’m not falling for poor vulnerable Danny, Danny who always means well. Not any more. Now leave.’ He opens the front door. ‘Go,’ he says. ‘And don’t come back.’

Danny feels caught off-guard. That has never happened before.

Robert is looking past Danny, as though there is already something compelling over his shoulder, something that Danny keeps getting in the way of. His new future, perhaps. One without Emma and now, one without him.

Danny can feel the pulsebeat beginning to gather in his ears. ‘You’re all sorted, then,’ he says softly. ‘Got the whole lot of it to yourself now, haven’t you? And a new girlfriend, an’ all.’ He gestures towards the house and garden, a sweep of his arm encompassing all that he sees, and more. ‘Maybe I did you a favour.’

Perhaps it’s turning his head that does it; perhaps it’s because his vision is already clouding over with rage, pinpoints of black and white dancing madly. Whatever it is, he doesn’t see it coming. Robert’s fist catches him just under the right eye, and pain explodes in great scarlet sunbursts, no matter what way he looks. He staggers, trying to right himself, to find his balance somewhere between the pull of the black plastic bag, the rucksack, gravity. He falls, sprawled on the driveway, arms and legs every which way. He can feel his hands already smarting, bits of the tarmac lodged in the soft flesh just below the thumb. Instinctively, he tries to protect the packets that are threatening to unleash themselves from the waistband of his underpants.

He looks up. Robert is standing over him. His face is contorted. Not with rage, Danny is surprised to see, but with something else. Something that has rage within it, but more besides. Tears roll freely down his brother’s face, a face that is now flushed with high spots of colour on each cheek.

‘Don’t you ever darken this door again,’ he says, ‘or I swear to Christ I’ll kill you. I mean it.’

Danny has scrambled to his feet by then. ‘Fuck you,’ he says evenly, and walks away. He makes it to the bus stop in less than five minutes. A good, steady pace. When the bus comes, he swings himself aboard and dumps his stuff in the luggage section. He begins to feel in his pockets, to see if his John Player Blue and his lighter are still there. He hopes he hasn’t left them behind him, scattered in the flowerbed, or something.

As he shifts on the seat, a girl opposite turns to look at him. He catches her eye and she looks away, quickly, a pink flush beginning just along the fine line of her jaw. Danny smiles to himself. The three packets are still there, still safely hidden – and a girl has just half-smiled at him. A gorgeous, sexy girl. They are the only two on the bus – at least downstairs. He moves towards her, pulling his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans. He bends his head to the level of her ear. She doesn’t even turn round, although he knows she knows he’s there. Her heightened colour tells him that.

‘I get off after two more stops. That’s where I live. I’d love to buy you a drink.’ He watches as her shoulders stiffen. Now for the best part. He allows his voice to falter, just a little. ‘I mean no disrespect. I think you’re beautiful. I won’t disturb you again.’ He makes to move back towards his seat, but hesitates, just before he goes. He allows his voice to drop even further. ‘If you’ll join me, I’d consider it an honour. My name is Danny Graham.’

For the next couple of hundred yards, he watches her. He can see the indecision written all over her bent head, her shoulders. He knows she’s dying to look back at him, but she won’t let herself. He’s in with a chance, here. He can feel it.

He’d kill for a smoke, though. Must have dropped the cigarettes when Robert hit him. He pats the three envelopes for reassurance, their bulky presence making him happy all over again. Five hundred quid in each, part of Mum’s secret stash. She was always hiding money, always. Rainy days loomed large in her philosophy.

Well, it’s pouring now, as far as he’s concerned. And these will see him home and dry. Not a bad day’s work, all in all. He pats his cheek where Robert has hit him – a punch that carried surprising weight for Pansy. It feels as though it will grow into a right shiner.

Fuck him, fuck them all. He doesn’t need them.

The bus pulls into his stop. The girl makes no move. She keeps her head bent, her hair falling like a dark curtain over her cheek. Danny hoists his stuff onto his shoulders and eases himself off the platform onto the waiting kerb. His leg still hurts since the accident. His foot is badly swollen where they said some small bones were chipped. Not that anybody gives a shit about that. And his face hurts, too. He is reminded of just how much as the pain seems to jolt up from the pavement and lodge somewhere around his eye. For a moment, pain is all he can think about. As the bus pulls away, something tugs at his sleeve.

He turns, already having forgotten her. She is smiling up at him.

‘Hi,’ she says. ‘I’m Julie, and I’ve never done anything like this before.’ Her smile is tentative, but her eyes are like a blue flame. He knows desire when he sees it.

He takes both her hands in his. ‘Julie,’ he says, savouring her name, ‘I’m so glad you decided to join me.’ He gestures across the green. ‘I live just over there. Let me dump my stuff in the house and we’ll go and have a drink.’ He pauses, as if it has only just occurred to him. ‘But, please, why don’t you wait for me in Reilly’s, in the lounge.’ He points to the pub on the corner. A dump. Even from this distance. ‘There’s no need for you to come to the house.’ And he shifts the rucksack, making sure to stumble a little under the weight of the black sack.

‘Please,’ she says. ‘Let me help you with some of that. It’ll only take a minute. Besides, I don’t like sitting in pubs on my own.’ And she smiles at him.

‘Well, if you’re sure?’

She nods.

‘Okay, then. Let’s go.’ He leads the way across the green. The flat is reasonably clean, the bed made, and there is at least one bottle of plonk in the cupboard in the kitchenette.

They climb the stairs to his place, pain lighting up his face with every step he takes. She looks younger in the bright light of the flat, but he doesn’t care. They drop the bags on the floor in the tiny living room and she comes to him easily enough.

He calls a taxi for her afterwards, at her insistence. She won’t stay the night. Seems edgy, anxious to be gone. That’s fine by him.

When Julie leaves, Danny upends the plastic sack onto the bed. He holds onto the two bottom corners and shakes the stuff out, most of it landing where he aims it, some of it slithering across the floor. He rummages for cigarettes in the bedside table, lights one and sits cross-legged on the rug. He pulls the box of photographs towards him and scatters the contents all around him. He pushes them back and forth, waiting for the ones he wants to come to the surface. He watched someone read Tarot cards once. He likes to think that this reading of photographs is kind of the same thing. It’s just another way of seeing the future in the past.

Now Danny’s eyes alight on one particular photograph, one that has made its way to the top of the black-and-white landslide on the floor. He sees the old rambling house, his family home, bathed in the sunshine of early childhood summers. Were all those summers sunny ones? That’s how they seem now, although he is sure some sort of meteorology anorak would tell him different.

The tartan blanket is on the front grass – what his mother grandly likes to call the lawn – in the same way that she says ‘lounge’ for other people’s ‘sitting room’ and ‘lavatory’ instead of ‘toilet’. He sees the three of them, Robbie, Danny and little Emma, having a picnic. Emma likes to pour, the pink teapot full of MiWadi orange, a teddy bear emblazoned on its potbellied surface. Other, smaller teddies decorate the tiny plastic teacups and plates that occupy all of Emma’s attention. A drink of orange and a plate of biscuits: all the delights of a summer afternoon. Sometimes, ice cream – but that tends to come in fat wafers, the ice cream melting, sometimes running in a thin white river down your arm.

His mother emerges from the front door, smiling, a damp cloth in her hands to wipe their hands and faces. Danny’s most of all: he always manages to drop everything on his clothes – ice cream, orange drink, biscuit crumbs – and that always makes her crease her forehead crossly, two little lines springing up in the space between her eyebrows . . .

But wait – there’s something wrong with this image. When Danny looks at the familiar photo again, he is not there. For a moment, he feels confused. He knows that he was there, but in the photograph, he is missing. And yet he can remember the day clearly. Robbie and Emma are on the blanket and there are three doll-sized cups, three plates, a scattering of biscuits, all captured, frozen by the glossy weight of photographic paper. He realizes he must have been standing on the edge of this scene, a scene recorded by his father, like all of the others, proud of his new Leica. Danny is outside the frame, on the edge of the happy family action.

He starts to rummage again now, looking for other stories, other days. He comes across Robbie’s First Holy Communion, his Confirmation, his first two-wheeler. The firstborn, the favoured one, the one-who-could-do-no-wrong son. And there are others, too. Robbie’s first day at secondary school. Robbie in the first eleven. Robbie in the local choir, for Christ’s sake. And, by extension, these photographs tell Danny’s story, too, by the act of omission. Oh, sure, the school photographs are all there. The ones that got taken by other people. But he’s missing from too many of the family ones, as though he’d been cut adrift long ago. All the important ones are of somebody else.

Sins of omission . . . he remembers Mr Lennon at school, his voice booming as he warmed to his theme. The not doing of something can be equally as sinful as the doing. Even worse, thinking about doing something bad – even if you don’t end up doing it – is as bad, as sinful as if you already have.

Then why not go ahead and do it anyway, and enjoy yourself, sniggers Blue O’Dwyer, hiding his mouth behind his hand. But he isn’t quick enough. Old Lennon catches him, makes him repeat what he thinks he has heard. Blue doesn’t have the wit to deceive. There is no way Loony Lennon can have heard what he’s said, not at that distance. All he’s seen is the tilted head, the hand to the mouth: all he has is the conviction that words have been spoken. Blue ends up getting three of the best for that. Never could keep his mouth shut.

Other photographs reveal the same thing. Omission after omission. Emma is there, over and over again, dressed in pretty dresses with ribbons in her hair. As a fairy in the Christmas play. Like a miniature bride on her Communion day. God, he remembers the way she loved those white lace gloves, and the little bag that hung around her wrist, all satin and beading. His brother and sister are like bookends, he thinks. The pair of them: the oldest and the youngest. It’s the one in the middle that’s missing. Much too often. And his story, too, is missing. Like him, it lurks on the outside. It’s one that has never been properly told, never properly seen. A story that once took place, and is still taking place, beyond the image. On the margin; on the edge.

Funny the way these were the words they had kept using to describe him. The hospital just outside London, the one he’d managed to get away from before anyone noticed he was gone. Danny remembers their questions, some of them solemn. All of them to do with boundaries, and borders and being outside. His ‘frame of reference’, one psychologist offered, and the phrase delighted Danny. He liked the way everything came together: he’d wanted to talk about the photographs, and the man with the pointy head wanted to talk about frames, frameworks. It had a nice kind of symmetry to it.

Danny knows that someday very soon now, he will restore himself to the centre of things. It’s been twenty-something years, but he will get back to the core of his own life. It has taken planning and willpower and money. A lot of money. And it will need more planning, and persistence, and, curiously, courage. No more fuck-ups, like the one three years ago.

It is time to gather up the pieces for the last time and remake the jigsaw, to line the photographs edge to edge, so that the real picture emerges.

 

6

IT COULDN’T BE. It simply could not be. Lynda rummaged in the drawer again, opening jewellery boxes, closing them, tossing them onto the top of the bedside table. She had to be losing her mind. She checked again. It was the same blue box, velvet, heart-shaped. The one she always used. But it was empty. The neat, vertical cut into which she slipped her diamond ring at night before going to bed, was empty.

She couldn’t stop looking at it. She turned it over, shook it and let it fall onto the duvet. It stared back at her, yielding nothing. She sat on the side of the bed, feeling her legs heavy, about to give way. ‘Think, Lynda, think,’ she said aloud. She lifted the small box off the bed now and held it in both hands, pressing down on the tiny silk pillow inside. Maybe the ring had slipped underneath, somehow, and lay there, silent. Hiding from her. She pressed down again, using both thumbs. Nothing.

She reached over and pulled the drawer of the bedside table from its moorings. Then she tipped the entire contents onto the duvet and began to search through them, opening and closing boxes she hadn’t used in years. Bits of old necklaces fell out, single earrings, a few tarnished brooches that had belonged to her mother. She ran her fingers through whatever she found. At the same time, she tried to think back over the past few days.

Today was Friday. Yesterday was Thursday. She hadn’t worn the ring since Wednesday. She’d removed it and her wedding band and placed them both carefully into their separate boxes on Wednesday night. That much she was sure of. Rings off, hand cream on. The usual routine; nothing out of the ordinary. She could see herself, sitting on her side of the bed, just as she was now. She’d taken longer than usual that night, waiting for Robert to come home.

And yesterday, she’d been taking cuttings and potting plants all morning in preparation for her horticulture students today. So she hadn’t put her rings on because she hated the texture of gardening gloves. Part of the pleasure of it all was plunging her hands deep into compost, firming the plants into their new containers, the delicate roots clean and snug. She loved the optimism of all the gardening rituals of spring. She even loved the grit under her fingernails.

Slowly, she replaced all the jewellery boxes into the drawer now, fitting it back onto its runners again. At least her head was clear. She was able to piece together the last few days with surprising accuracy. It was three weeks now since the rubbish had been dumped in her garden; three weeks since she had begun to understand that Danny was back in their lives again. Lynda had used the time to get ready.

Without saying anything to Robert, she had become alert and vigilant. She had decided to behave as though someone was watching her. Her movements, even inside her own home, were more guarded. She varied her daily activities as much as possible. Sometimes, she’d go through all the routines of locking up and putting on the alarm. She’d leave the house, then, full of purposeful efficiency. Once inside the car, she’d drive quickly around the block and come straight home again.

She wanted to catch Danny in the act – whatever that act might be. She wanted to be the one wielding the element of surprise, this time. Right now, she didn’t fear him physically. Perhaps she should, but each day that he didn’t appear made her feel stronger. She was ready for him, finally; would be almost happy to meet him. Draw him out of the shadows and into the light.

Everything that was happening to her was part of yet another spiral. Lynda understood that now. This was how Danny operated, how he’d always operated, it seemed to her. But it would take something dramatic to make Robert believe that the threat from his brother was as real now as it had always been. Every time she’d tried to talk to him, to get him to see what she saw, he became impatient. ‘Leave it, Lynda,’ he’d say, his face creasing in annoyance. ‘You’re getting things out of proportion again. This isn’t like before. We’re on top of it.’

The flat tyres, the rubbish in the garden – these things were nothing to worry about, as far as Robert was concerned. We’re on top of things. This is not like before. He can’t touch us this time. Robert’s mantra: denying the menace of Danny. Despite what had happened in the past. Or perhaps because of it: the memories of the last time were still painful ones. But Lynda was convinced. This gradual escalation of destruction had Danny’s prints all over it.

First something small, just as it had been three years before. There had been the innocent smashing of a vase on the day he’d arrived. One of Robert’s favourites, it had belonged to their mother.

Danny had been all apologies. ‘Jesus, Robert, I’m sorry. It’s the illness. It affects my balance, sometimes. All the medication . . .’ And he’d shrugged, his face grey, ghostly. Then it began in earnest. Lynda could see it clearly now, of course, but she couldn’t have back then. Within a couple of days, Danny needed money. His requests had been apologetic. ‘Wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t crucial,’ he’d say with his small, sad smile. ‘Haven’t been able to work much, recently. You know. The tiredness . . .’ He’d let his voice trail away.

Robert had been visibly horrified at Danny’s appearance. His brother had simply turned up on their doorstep, less than a week before. No letter; no call; no warning. Just the element of surprise. He’d looked haunted; gaunt and unkempt. Lung cancer, he’d told them. And, coughing harshly, said he’d prefer to take his chances in Dublin rather than Liverpool. At least he had family here, ‘even if you’ll never forgive me for Emma’.

It had been an emotional evening, the evening of his return. Lynda remembered how she had left him and Robert, talking late into the night. The following morning, Robert had taken her aside, quietly. ‘It’s serious, Lynda, no doubt about it. It looks like he has about six months. I know what he did, and I don’t excuse it. I can never forgive him for that. But he is my brother, and there’s no one else but us. Can you bear it, us having him here for however long it takes?’

Lynda didn’t even need to think. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘It won’t be easy – particularly for you. But if you can let go of the past, then so can I.’ She’d been shocked, too, at how ill and grey Danny had looked. Like a homeless man, rootless and wandering.

‘Not let it go, as such,’ Robert had said, after a moment. ‘But I think I can let it lie, for now.’

Lynda had almost welcomed the opportunity to take Danny in. It might, in its own strange way, allow her to atone for her affair with Ken. Robert had never known about it, she was almost sure of that. He may have suspected, but he’d let that lie, too. They both had. This return of Danny’s would help her make her own amends for a betrayal that her husband might never even have known he’d suffered.

Robert had smiled at her then, grateful. ‘Thanks, Lynda. I know my father would never have let him across the threshold again, no matter what. But this was my mother’s house, too. I’d like to do it for her sake.’

Lynda watched as all the familiar griefs made his face sag. Are we ever going to be finished with this, she remembered thinking at the time.

‘I think Mum would have wanted him looked after,’ Robert had said to Lynda. ‘No, I’m sure of it. He can have the sofa bed in my office downstairs. There’s plenty of room. He has hospital appointments almost every day. I’ll deliver him, if you can collect him, even a couple of mornings a week.’ And he’d held her; they’d held each other close for a long time. Lynda felt that, at last, the same river had just been crossed by both of them.

‘I’ll do whatever I can, Robert, you know that. We’ll look after him together.’

Robert held onto her; his grip on her hand now was almost painful. ‘What should we tell Ciarán and Katie?’ he asked, after a moment.

‘The truth,’ she’d replied promptly. ‘We’ll tell them that their uncle is seriously ill and we’re going to look after him. They’re old enough to help.’

She remembered saying that now. The truth. If only she’d known. But that time had been a dress rehearsal for today. She’d never let Danny fool her again. She’d be waiting.

Back then, it had taken just three weeks for her to find out that Danny’s illness was a lie. Quite by chance, Lynda had discovered traces of make-up on the clothes she’d taken from Danny’s room to wash. He’d kept protesting that no, he didn’t want to be any trouble, he didn’t want her picking up after him, he was perfectly capable of using a washing-machine himself.

But one morning, after Danny had already left for the hospital with Robert, Lynda had gone into the office to leave him clean sheets and towels. She’d spotted a pile of crumpled clothes at the end of the sofa bed. On impulse, she picked them up. She’d have them washed and dried and back again before Danny even knew they were gone.

She went straight to the utility room and began to sort the laundry before putting it into the machine. Something around the collars of Danny’s shirts began to stain her fingers, making them look grey and powdery. At first, she didn’t know what it was. She was puzzled. There was something vaguely familiar about it . . . She rubbed her fingers together. She knew she’d seen this shadowy stuff before.

Finally it hit her. A long-ago memory, from her days in the college drama society. This was make-up; theatrical make-up. Thick, putty-coloured.

The implication stunned her. It couldn’t be, surely. Danny was so thin and ill-looking. The pallor was only part of it. But anger had already begun to surface. Jesus – if this was another one of his tricks . . .

She replaced the shirts on the floor of the office where she’d found them and said nothing to anyone. But that evening, she’d watched Danny closely. He was thin, yes, but the gauntness was an illusion. The hollows on his face were expertly done; the pallor was a masterstroke; so were the dark shadows under his eyes. But she needed to be sure of what she was seeing before she said anything to Robert. In case she couldn’t trust the evidence of her own eyes.

After dinner, Lynda announced that she’d take a lift with Robert and Danny on the following morning. ‘I’ve a pile of stuff to do in town,’ she said. ‘I might as well go in with you two. I’ll get the Dart home when I’m finished. Maybe Danny will be ready by then and we can come home together?’

She saw the way he looked at her. The quick glance, the quicker calculation. Lynda was struck by how powerful her sudden new knowledge was. It allowed her to interpret what she saw before her in a radically different light. She was surprised at how it energized her, made her feel fiercely protective towards her two children. Although Danny was no threat to them, surely. But, suddenly, she didn’t want either Katie or Ciarán in their uncle’s presence. He tainted all around him.

‘Sure,’ Danny’d said. ‘I’d like that. Thing is, I can never guarantee what time I’ll be finished at.’ He shrugged then, a little helplessly.

Nice touch, thought Lynda.

‘Sometimes,’ he added, ‘these clinics go on for ages. I’d hate to think of you hanging around.’

‘Mum,’ said Katie, interrupting. Lynda didn’t correct her. ‘Can you pick me up the German text-book I need? O’Connor’s are sold out.’

‘Sure,’ said Lynda. ‘No problem. Just write down the name for me.’ Right now, she thought, I’d buy you anything you wanted. ‘Ciarán?’ she said. ‘Do you need anything for school while I’m in town?’

He shook his head, his mouth full of roast potato. Wish you wouldn’t do that, she thought. But I’m saying nothing, not in front of Danny. This family’s ranks are now closed. She turned to Danny. ‘You still have Ciarán’s old mobile?’

He nodded. ‘Yeah.’

She was satisfied to see he was looking uncomfortable now. ‘Then there’s no problem,’ she smiled. ‘We’ll keep in touch by text. I can wait for you. I’m in no hurry tomorrow.’

Early the next morning, Danny looked greyer than ever. He was agitated, twitchy. He insisted he needed to leave at once. He’d forgotten that today was the day he had to be fasting, to have his bloods done.

‘Come on,’ said Robert to Lynda. He was anxious. ‘We’d better skip breakfast. We can always pick up something later.’

Lynda turned to Katie. ‘You’re last out. Make sure you lock up and put on the alarm.’

Katie looked up to heaven. ‘Yes, Mum.’

‘Ciarán, your gym stuff is in the hall. Don’t forget it. If they send you home, I’ll bring you back. I mean it. You’re not missing school again.’

Ciarán nodded. ‘Yeah. I know. You already told me.’

‘Have a good day, both of you,’ she said. Then she followed Danny and Robert out to the Jeep.

When Robert pulled up at the hospital entrance, he and Lynda waited until Danny had gone inside. Just as Robert was about to pull out into the traffic again, Lynda said, as though she’d just thought of it: ‘I might as well get out here, too. Save you stopping again. You go on ahead.’

‘But it’s miles from the centre,’ he protested. ‘Let me take you to Dame Street, at least.’

But she shook her head. ‘No. It’s ages since I’ve been up this neck of the woods. And it’s a lovely day. I’ll walk. Talk to you later.’ She leaned over and kissed him. ‘Take care,’ she said. His expression made her feel guilty, all over again. She knew he believed Danny, that he wanted to forgive him. Despite all that had happened, she knew that he felt in part responsible for what had become of Danny’s life.

The prodigal son. Shouldn’t he always have a welcome home, always have the fatted calf? And what about the one who stayed at home, Lynda often wondered. The faithful, patient one. Danny had had too many homecomings, of one sort or another. Too many fatted calves over the years.

Leaving others nothing but the bones.

Lynda was surprised at how easy she found it to lie to all of the consultants’ secretaries. About her brother, ill and confused and mixing up his appointment dates. Would it be possible to check when his next one was? Date of birth? Of course. All correspondence to this address.

There was no Daniel Graham listed anywhere. Two hours after she’d arrived, Lynda left the hospital. Outside the gates, she hailed a taxi and went straight home. On the way, she called Robert.

At first, he didn’t believe her. Then he seemed to freeze. ‘Jesus, Lynda,’ he said. ‘I gave him five hundred euro this morning to keep him going. Felt sorry for him.’

Lynda was puzzled. ‘But that’s not the end of the world,’ she said.

‘No,’ said Robert, slowly. ‘But I took it from my stash in the office. Danny was in the shower, so I just nipped into the room while he was gone.’

‘Go on,’ said Lynda.

‘He walked in on me just as I was putting it back into the safe. I turned around and suddenly he was there. I got paid for the job in cash yesterday. I was going to lodge it today, but—’

‘But he distracted you,’ Lynda finished for him. ‘This morning. He distracted both of us.’ She could see Danny’s face even now, pale, avid. The lips twitching from time to time.

‘Thing is,’ said Robert. ‘I don’t think I locked the safe after me. He was in such a state all I wanted to do was get on the road. Christ.’

Lynda drew a deep breath. ‘No wonder he was in such a hurry. I think you’d better come home. If he’s there, I don’t want to confront him on my own.’

‘You’re not to,’ said Robert, sharply. ‘Wait for me in Cronin’s coffee shop. I’ll be there within the hour.’

By the time they’d got home, the damage was done. The safe was empty. Danny had disappeared.

‘How much?’ asked Lynda.

Robert looked distracted.

‘How much, Robert?’ she persisted.

He looked ashamed. ‘Thirty grand. And that’s not all. After you called, I checked my wallet. My credit cards are missing.’

‘Call the police,’ Lynda said, at once.

Robert looked at her. She could see all the familiar hesitations, all the family loyalties, all the old humiliations.

‘I mean it,’ she said. ‘It’s probably already too late, but this is too much, just too much.’ She paused, afraid her anger was about to get the better of her. ‘There is nobody left to protect, Robert. We have let Danny away with so much over the years. Way too much. Like the time he stole from your mother. I’ll never forget that.’

Lynda stopped. She’d promised herself never to bring that up again. She had seen the pain it caused, all those years ago. ‘And my little Emma only dead,’ Mrs Graham had whispered to her. She’d clutched convulsively at the lace handkerchief she held, twining it around her fingers again and again. ‘How could he? Oh dear God, how could Danny do that?’ Her lip had trembled. ‘He stole it. Stole the money I need to bury my daughter. My baby.’

Even now, Robert flinched at the memory.

‘Do it, Robert,’ Lynda said, her voice quiet. ‘Do it or I will.’

But Danny had fled by then, of course he had. Vanished. But he’d left plenty of traces behind him. Soiled clothing; unhappy memories. She had looked around her, surveying once more the devastation caused by Danny.

Lynda felt ambushed by memories of that morning now as she continued to search for her ring. It was the same mix of disbelief and panic. How could this be happening all over again?

She’d have to stop for now. It was time to go to work. But when she came home, she’d have to pull apart every corner of this house, starting with the probable and ending with the impossible. She had no idea how Danny’s hand could be part of this. All she knew was, every instinct she had was screaming his name.

Somehow, he had got under her roof. His presence kept making itself felt.

Like a low growl, crawling under her skin.

When Lynda came home from work, she began her search immediately. First, in the bedroom, a methodical search that included turning out pockets, looking in shoes, rummaging through folded clothes.

She was about to go downstairs when she heard the front door opening. Please God, let it not be Robert. Not just yet. Ciarán and Jon fell into the hallway, laughing.

‘Did you ever see anything like her?’ Jon was saying. ‘Talk about a slapper!’

They both stopped short when they saw Lynda, standing at the top of the stairs. Jon’s expression immediately became serious. He glanced at Ciarán, who was staring at his mother. ‘Lynda? Are you okay?’

‘You’re very white, Mum,’ said Ciarán. ‘Has something happened?’

‘I need your help,’ Lynda tried to keep her voice firm. ‘Both of you. I have mislaid my engagement ring. I have no idea where I left it.’

‘We’ll help you find it,’ said Jon at once.

‘When did you have it last, Mum?’

‘Wednesday night,’ said Lynda. ‘I know I had it on when I was writing up notes for class. I know because I remember saying to myself that I had to leave it off on both Thursday and Friday, or it would get damaged.’ She stopped. ‘I remember distinctly putting it into my ring box before I got into bed. But it’s disappeared.’

‘Where have you looked?’ asked Jon.

‘I’ve torn my bedroom apart. It’s definitely not there.’

‘Okay,’ Jon’s voice was brisk. ‘We’ll start downstairs. What does it look like?’

‘It’s a solitaire – a single diamond.’ She paused. Robert had had it reset for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. She was afraid to speak. Too many memories, too much emotion.

‘Let’s do the studio first, Ciarán,’ Jon was saying. ‘We’ll divide it between us, come on.’

Both boys disappeared. Lynda went into the downstairs bathroom, running her hands over all the surfaces, getting down on her hands and knees. Then the kitchen. But she found nothing, apart from some dust balls and safety pins. The boys found nothing in the studio, either.

Just then, she heard Robert’s key in the lock. She could feel her heart plummet.

‘What is it?’ he said, as soon as he saw her. ‘What’s up?’

When she told him, he looked relieved. His relief angered her. ‘Aren’t you even concerned?’ She could feel herself glaring at him. ‘My ring is missing!’

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Of course I’m concerned. But at least this is something we’re responsible for ourselves. Not something out of our control.’ He glanced over at her. Danny. He meant Danny. She made no reply.

They searched for over three hours. Lynda was close to accepting that the ring was gone; close, even, to doubting herself, her memory and her certainty. Then there was a sudden whoop from outside, in the hallway. Ciarán came bouncing in. ‘We’ve got it!’ he said. ‘We’ve found it!’

Jon followed, proudly holding out the ring. ‘Here it is,’ he said. His voice was jubilant, eyes shining with delight.

Lynda took it from him. Her hands had gone suddenly cold. ‘Where did you find it?’ she asked.

‘In the downstairs bathroom,’ Ciarán said. ‘Behind the – the whatever you call that thing that holds up the basin, yeah?’

‘The pedestal,’ said Lynda automatically.

‘Yeah,’ said Jon, nodding his head. ‘Behind the pedestal. We were just about to give up, and there it was!’

‘Thank you,’ said Lynda. She was aware that Robert was looking at her strangely. ‘Such a relief,’ she said, and smiled at the two boys. They looked at her, then at Robert. She could feel their puzzlement. Nobody spoke.

‘I think I’m going to have to lie down for a while,’ she said at last. ‘I’m really sorry, but I feel kind of overcome, to be honest.’

Jon nodded. ‘Yeah, you don’t look well. You must have been really worried.’

‘Frantic,’ she said, trying to smile. ‘I’ve been frantic about it, all day. Thank you both.’ And she left the room.

She could hear voices, low murmurs as she climbed the stairs. After a few minutes, Robert came into the bedroom. ‘Close the door,’ she said.

He obeyed. His eyes were troubled. ‘Are you okay? All’s well that ends well, eh?’ But his question was a tentative one.

Lynda tried to breathe deeply. ‘I’m not so sure,’ she said. ‘Robert, I know you’re not going to believe this, but I know I put that ring in its box on Wednesday night. I am absolutely certain of it.’

Robert said nothing. He didn’t need to: she could see what he was thinking. Could write the script for what came next.

‘Lynda,’ he said slowly, and sat on the bed. ‘You’ve been under a lot of strain in the past few weeks. We’ve already talked about this. Frankly, you’ve been forgetting things lately. You said so yourself.’

‘This is different, Robert, I—’

But he held up his hand, that gesture she knew so well.

‘And there’s nothing wrong with forgetting,’ he went on, as though she hadn’t spoken. He took her hand. ‘We all do it. What is more natural than leaving your ring on the side of a basin when you wash your hands?’ He spread his palms, a gesture of resignation, of forgiveness. ‘Maybe you knocked it onto the floor and then forgot that you’d been wearing it. It happens.’ He patted her hand now.

She could feel her irritation growing. But he didn’t notice.

‘There’s nothing strange about this, Lynda,’ he said. ‘Please don’t make something out of it.’

She looked at him, her gaze steady. ‘This is something to do with Danny,’ she said.

‘Ah, Jesus,’ said Robert. ‘Not again.’ He let go of her hand abruptly and stood up. He was angry now. He began to pace around the bedroom. ‘Tell me how, for Christ’s sake? How on earth could this have anything to do with Danny?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said, truthfully. ‘But I know that it has. And I’ll tell you something else.’

He looked at her.

‘Remember last week when I told you that the sinks downstairs were blocked? When I’d to stop using the one in my studio? Well, when I tried to wash my brushes in the downstairs bathroom, the water kept backing up there, too.’

He nodded, wary.

‘I called your plumber guy, last Thursday, the number you gave me. Naturally, he hasn’t come, but that’s not the point.’

‘And what is?’ asked Robert. He sounded tired.

‘I haven’t gone near that bathroom since. I’ve used the en-suite, and made sure the boys used the main bathroom upstairs. I didn’t want us to make things worse.’ She paused then, afraid of the storm that she could see gathering across Robert’s face. ‘And I wore that ring all week, up until Wednesday night. How do you account for that?’

‘What are you saying, Lynda?’ his voice had an edge to it.

It sounded ludicrous, even to her own ears. ‘Someone took that ring out of the box, here in the bedroom, and put it downstairs. That’s what I am saying.’

Robert looked at her, his eyes glazed with disbelief. ‘Ah, you can’t be serious,’ he said. He stopped pacing; couldn’t take his eyes off her. He dragged his hair back from his forehead with both hands. The gesture was loud in its fury. ‘Why the fuck would anybody do that? And how could anybody do that? It just doesn’t make sense.’

‘I know. But I am serious.’ She was calm now. For her, the mystery had been solved. Somehow, Danny had come in from the garden. In from the cold. Somehow, he had got inside.

Robert just looked at her. His face looked unhealthy all of a sudden, almost yellow. ‘I’m going downstairs,’ he said, finally. ‘You are definitely losing the plot. And I’m going now. I can’t take any more of this.’

Lynda watched him leave. The door closed, none too gently, behind him.

She had a sudden, vibrant memory of Ken. He’d said exactly the same thing to her, five years ago. When he’d told her it was over, that Iris suspected another woman. ‘Not you,’ he’d said. ‘Her friend. She’d suspect anyone but you.’ He’d paused. ‘I’m not risking my marriage for this, Lynda. I’m sorry you and Robert are falling apart. But it’s over. We’re over.’ He’d stood up. ‘I’m going now,’ he’d said. ‘I can’t take any more of this.’

And he’d left the restaurant where they’d met that night, one that was miles away from home. Discreet, expensive. Where they wouldn’t run into anyone they knew. She’d watched him leave; watched him so that she could gather memories. She knew that she’d always known this time would come. But hating it, nevertheless.

Ken had saved her: that was the simple truth of it. Seven years ago, when Robert’s parents had died within six months of each other, it was as though Robert went missing from his own life. He still came and went, ran his business, spoke to his clients, but it was as though he wasn’t there. His home was something he left each morning, returned to each night. That was all: he spoke to no one. Not to his children. Not to her. His grief had frightened Lynda. She couldn’t reach him.

And then the threats from Danny began: the challenge to the will, the accusations of undue influence over elderly parents, his rights and entitlement to a share in the family home. ‘Well, perhaps he has a point,’ Robert had replied when Lynda showed him the solicitor’s latest letter. She’d looked at him in disbelief. ‘What are you saying?’ She could hear the hysteria in her voice.

‘Let him have it. I don’t care any more. I’m tired of looking after everybody.’ Then he’d shrugged his way into his jacket and left the room. Stunned, Lynda had followed him down the hallway.

‘Robert – we have to deal with this. We need to talk.’ She’d forced herself to speak quietly.

‘You deal with it,’ he’d said, not looking at her. ‘I’ve had enough of it. All of it.’ He’d opened the front door.

‘Enough of me?’ she’d asked then. ‘Enough of your children?’

He’d paused at that. ‘I don’t know. I just don’t feel that anything matters any more. What’s the point?’ And he’d left, closing the front door behind him.

Lynda had walked back into the kitchen and sat down, hunching over the table. Almost immediately, the doorbell had rung. Robert. He’d come back. She’d felt almost dizzy with relief, had leapt up from the table and raced down the hallway, flinging open the front door.

Ken had stood on the step. ‘Lynda,’ he’d smiled. ‘Hope I’m not disturbing you, but—’ He hadn’t got any further. Lynda had sobbed, her legs had given way and she’d slid to the floor. Ken had caught her, helped her back into the kitchen, made her tea.

And that was how it had begun. With concern, tenderness, friendship. She’d known all along that it was wrong; they both had. But she’d craved the intimacy Ken offered her. He’d made her feel less lonely. It was as simple as that. When they’d parted, she knew it was because the time had come for a decision that neither of them was prepared to make.

Katie had found her when it ended, crying at the kitchen table. She’d been about sixteen at the time, sharp-eyed, hostile. Lynda had brushed her away. But from time to time afterwards, she felt that Katie had burrowed deep into the truth of things. She watched her whenever Ken or Iris were around. Followed her, when Lynda went to pick up the post next door, or to open curtains. They’d never spoken of it. Not of it, nor of Katie’s sudden, fierce protectiveness towards her father.

And now, Lynda’s recent fights with Robert reminded her too painfully of that time, all over again. She couldn’t let them drift apart as they had before. They’d managed to struggle back from whatever place they’d been, five years ago. Part of her had always wanted to believe that Robert hadn’t known about Ken – or if he had, that he’d chosen not to say. They’d built something good together afterwards, something that had withstood even Danny. She couldn’t risk losing him again, not now.

She had to follow him, do whatever it took.

Now this, even the watcher has to admit, is bizarre.

It’s been more than four weeks since the incident with the rubbish. He is in his usual position, ready to proceed with the next ‘Event’, as Wide Boy calls it. Except that he’s been calling it the next ‘Exterior Event’ and has looked very pleased with himself as he does. So pleased that the watcher hasn’t asked. He wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

And so he’s here again. Still. Freezin’ his arse off in the cold. And likely to be for the foreseeable future. This looks like runnin’ even longer than he thought. As long as my knees last, the watcher grumbles to himself.

He has come to think of this as a war of attrition. Every day, he chips away a little more at the composure of the house that lies below and it might be his imagination, but the house has begun to look untidy of late. The curtains aren’t properly closed, sometimes, and outside in the garden, several bits of paper litter the gravel. He’s been leaving little things around the place, too, these mornings. And sometimes, they’re not being picked up as quickly as normal. A pity, that. He’s chosen things that have plenty of ambiguity about them.

Whatever you like, Wide Boy said. Maybe a few old photographs, newspaper clippings, the odd bottle or two. Something that raises questions.

And so, for the past few mornings, the watcher has scattered a couple of dozen black-and-white photographs around the gravel. There’s nobody special in them. He’s bought them in one of the junk shops along the quays. Then some food wrappers. And beer bottles, bits and pieces of old crockery, placed strategically around the place. Stuff that can’t make its way there on its own. Puzzle-making stuff.

Have they been carried there by the high winds? Or has some malign hand delivered them to Mrs Lynda’s stone tortoise? Your starter for ten.

He remembers now that a few days after the incident with the rubbish, the patio door was opened tentatively. It was the first time Mrs Lynda had stepped out onto the deck since things had been cleaned up. The watcher had recorded that, too, as per instructions. Two young men, presumably the sons, had got stuck in with rakes and brushes and dustpans. Wide Boy had seemed pleased about that.

But when she had re-emerged, the watcher had been able, even from here, to see the uncertainty on her face, in her movements. Mr Robert followed and took her hand. He seemed to be showing her that all was safe, that there was nothing to be concerned about. He’d looked around him, all his movements exaggerated ones. See? His hand gestures kept on saying. Didn’t I tell you? There’s nothing to worry about.

But Mrs Lynda held herself stiffly away from him, as though she knew something he didn’t. As though she knew better.

Then Mr Robert had put his arms around her. His kiss had been a reassuring one. Her answering smile was thin.

You have no idea, the watcher thought, as he trained the camcorder onto Mr Robert’s face. You really have no idea.

Now, the watcher pulls the blanket off his legs and folds it neatly. He pushes it well down into his rucksack. Inactivity is all very fine, but early March is a bloody cold time for this much hangin’ around. It’s time to get ready. He screws the little plastic cup back onto the Thermos, puts it into the rucksack on top of the blanket and struggles to his feet.

Wide Boy is right now planning a future Event, before this one is even finished. But he hasn’t as yet shared the detail of his latest plans with the watcher. Talk about being full of it, last night. The watcher wonders what these people ever did to WB to make him hate them this much. He wonders what’s coming next. It worries him a bit. He judges that WB is a man well capable of going overboard.

But for now, the watcher has more than enough on his plate. Four o’clock in the morning and he is about to do one of the strangest bits of sabotage he has ever done in his life.

He has reached Mrs Lynda’s back garden, having made his way down the slope, around the corner and through the side gate, which he’s opened very slowly to stop the metal singing. It is unlocked, as he expected. He is dressed from head to toe in black and his eyes are barely visible under the balaclava. He is moving around stealthily, not really enjoying the feeling that someone might mistake him for an IRA man. Still, probably not too many trigger-happy neighbours in this neck of the woods.

It’s now four-fifteen. And the list of instructions is even more specific. A drawing really, rather than a list. Full of arrows pointing this way and that, the precise position of things noted and underlined. The watcher feels a bit wary about this. It’s one thing taking up position on someone’s back wall, where escape is not just possible, but assured. Quite another thing being on someone else’s property. And we all know how sensitive people are about their property, especially these days.

The watcher permits himself a grin. He’s never allowed himself to be sucked into all that Property Ladder bullshit. His place is small, central, the lion’s share of the mortgage paid off years back. When Amy wanted to extend, put in a new kitchen, change the bedroom he half-gave in, but would borrow only a fraction of what she wanted him to. Just as well, as it turned out, when the job let him go. To this day, he doesn’t know who ratted on him. More than likely a member of his own team, but he doesn’t go there any more. Inappropriate, the brass said he was. Told him to dig the dirt and then told him what he found was inappropriate.

Well, in fairness, they said his methods were inappropriate, not his information. This is a distinction he is now prepared to accept after ten years. Now that it doesn’t matter any more. He spent a long time being bitter. Until he found ways to get his own back. Jobs like this, for example.

In the early days, they’d handed him the stuff that the official channels couldn’t be seen doing. Didn’t want to get their hands dirty, Jimmy had told him. Then ‘transparency’ became a buzz word and the work kind of dried up. But he didn’t care. By then, he had a few small properties under his belt, rented out on the quiet. Nothing greedy, like, just little places that flew below the radar. Cash, of course. The immigrants lined his pockets for years.

Now that they’re going, things are tighter, yeah, but not as bad as they might be had he lost the run of himself. The properties will come right in the end. He just has to hang in there, be ready when the good times roll around again. Thank Christ he never bought shares in banks and construction companies. Even cash in the mattress would have been safer than that.

He focuses on the house now, makes sure not to get too close, not to make any inappropriate noise. It’s a quiet neighbourhood. One of those places you couldn’t buy yourself into, even if you wanted to. You’d have to be born there. The best of addresses; the most desirable of locations; the most magnificent of views. From the top of the hill where Mrs Lynda’s stately pile is located, he can see the glorious sweep of Dublin Bay. It always makes his throat catch. The surge of the water, blue or grey, makes him feel small somehow. But grateful, too. It’s the sort of beauty that humbles you, Amy had once said to him. And it’s free. These days, it gives the watcher even greater satisfaction to see these fancy folks getting all bent out of shape about falling values, negative equity, the wobbling stock exchange.

But in a garden that belongs to one of those Fancy People, the watcher feels entitled to be a bit on edge. Wide Boy has told him not to worry – the sensor light will be disabled. I’ve seen to that, he says. You won’t be disturbed.

The early morning is dark and wet. No moon; no stars showing. Just a solid fall of misty rain, the sort that soaks you without seeming to. And the outside light has stayed off, just as Wide Boy has promised.

The watcher places the camcorder to one side, where it can see the action. That way, his hands are free to rummage in his rucksack for the necessary tools. He glances at the windows of the house next door. Another check, just to be sure. All quiet, no twitching curtains. This is burglar time, the time when householders’ sleep has become profound and unsuspecting. He is not really expecting any interruptions, but still, it pays to be careful.

Though he is not stealing anything. When he’d asked Wide Boy straight out, like, what this was all about if not nicking stuff, WB had just smiled. The watcher has been very careful never to let slip that he knows WB’s name. Now that would be inappropriate. ‘There are many types of theft,’ Wide Boy had said, flicking his cigarette butt away from him, out into the street. ‘And I have been a victim of most of them. This is merely settling the score.’

They were standing outside the pub, apparently for a smoke, but really because Wide Boy had wanted to keep this conversation private, and there had been too many ears at the bar. Settling the score, indeed. In the watcher’s book, scores had to be settled with force and finality, that’s all there was to it. None of this sneaking around back lanes and tinkering at the edges. WB seemed to be aware of the unspoken dissent, because he started to talk at once, stubbing out the new cigarette he had just lit.

‘Just do as I ask. You don’t need to take anything away with you, nothing needs to be stolen. Follow the diagram I’ve given you, that’s all. Is it clear enough for you?’

The watcher knew by his tone that there would be no more discussion.

‘Sure, boss,’ he’d said, easily. Who was he to argue? If things did go pear-shaped, all he’d have to do is leg it out the gate, which he’d make sure to leave propped open. It was just a bit of digging and shifting. Rearranging, like. No real damage.

The watcher gets to work. He begins to concentrate on the smaller stone, first, the one that looks a bit like an animal’s head, kind of pointy at the front. He pushes the crowbar into the ground, and feels some resistance. Plastic sheeting; he had expected as much. Amy uses it. Keeps the weeds from jumping up everywhere, in between the gravel. She’d insisted on having it, even though their garden is about the size of a pocket-handkerchief. He pushes harder now, feeling something give. And then he’s underneath the covering, deep into the soil. Not too hard a job, considering. The ground is soft enough after two months of almost constant rain and snow. One of the things he remembers from school – about the only thing, if you ask him, useless bunch of tossers they were – is the law of the lever. Arkymeedays, someone like that. He remembers his teacher saying that you could lift the whole world using a lever, if you could only find somewhere to stand. They’d all laughed at that, but he’s never forgotten it. It’s surprising how useful a small piece of information like that can be.

He begins to work the crowbar back and forth, back and forth. When it’s about two thirds submerged in the sea of stones, he presses down on it sharply with his booted foot. The headstone – headstone! – he thinks, like robbing someone’s grave, begins to shift. He works the lever for a few more minutes, pushing from side to side, then up and down, until he thinks it might be worth trying now. He bends down and, hooking both hands as far underneath the stone as he can, he aims for a rolling movement, one that will release the stone from its captivity. It begins to yield. Grunting, he heaves it towards him, and it’s done, free. Now all he has to do is roll it – or lift it – towards the pond. He decides on lifting. It’s less noisy. He’s sweating now, the wool of the balaclava prickling against his nose, his breath hot and sour. He lifts it away, pushing it high onto his forehead.

Keeping a weather eye on the windows of both houses, the watcher, little by little, hefts the stone towards the pond. There is a lip of smaller stones and plants around the edge, but they are easily pushed to one side. Gently, so as not to make too much of a splash, he lowers the head into the water, disturbing some green shiny leaves that litter the surface. Lily pads, maybe. They bow to this new arrival, and some are sucked underneath the surface with it. Then what the hell. A bit of showmanship is called for here. He just can’t resist it. He turns his face towards the camcorder, grins and gives the thumbs up.

The larger stone is more problematic. Now that the head is gone, the watcher has the uneasy feeling that he is dealing with a real dismembered body. For a moment, its shape in the darkness reminds him of a giant tortoise. He flinches from touching it. A bird swoops suddenly, making him lose concentration. He staggers a bit, cursing. Bloody wood pigeons. But the interruption has done the trick. He gets a grip, focuses again on the task in hand. At least this one doesn’t need to be shifted so far, just realigned and prettied up a little.

When he’s done, the body stone now lies at right angles to its former position, the gravel all around it disturbed, pushed up into small, angry waves. The watcher removes the can of spray paint from his pocket, taking care to stand well back so that his clothes don’t get spattered. Anything at all, Wide Boy had said. ‘Artistic licence’. And he’d laughed.

The watcher has already decided on a swastika and a peace sign – that should be enough to confuse anyone. He glances at his watch. Five-fifteen. Time he got a move on. He sprays his signs, crudely, and sticks the can back in his pocket. One more thing, and then he’s gotta leg it.

Carefully, almost gently, he tugs at the shrubs that have been planted all around the periphery of the pond. They yield eventually, some with soft sucking sounds, others like sinews tearing. He tries his best not to damage them. Then, he places them in a line across the decking, their roots facing the patio doors. Quickly now, it’s almost time. He looks around, grabbing the camcorder for one, good final sweep of the garden. It looks bare, defeated. He is surprised at how lacking in personality it now seems. He’s never thought it had much before, but there you go. It must have done.

He packs away his crowbar, brushes the muck from his jacket and boots. On the edge of the gravel, he changes into a pair of shoes. He shoves the boots into a plastic bag, then into the rucksack. That way, no muddy footprints will be left behind. Just enough time to secure the gate, walk around the block, and position himself at the top of the garden wall again. He hopes that Mrs L will come out, according to routine, in about twenty minutes. The last non-Eventful few weeks, he thinks, should have done the trick. False sense of security. Or sense of false security?

He’s never sure which.

Once he has hunkered down in his usual spot, the watcher sets up the Cantek. By now, he has all the distances judged just right and the final quality is always superb. He’s ready just in time. The lights go on downstairs, filtered dimly through the heavy curtains. Then the drapes are pulled back and the double doors open outwards.

Miraculously, the sensor light switches on again. The watcher grins. Your man has got that right. Perfect timing!

The woman pauses.

The watcher aims the camcorder, compensating for the sensor light.

She steps outside.

Showtime.

 

7

LYNDA PAUSED just outside the patio doors, blinking. The light seemed brighter than usual. She waited for her eyes to become accustomed to the sudden glare. She looked around her, searching out the comforting contours of her tortoise, her shrubs, the undulating outline of the pond.

But her eyes refused to focus on what she saw before her. For a moment, she didn’t know where she was. She wondered had she stumbled into another garden somewhere; a parallel dimension, perhaps, like Alice in Wonderland. Shapes had shifted, shadows had grown where there had been none before, nothing was what it seemed. Her garden was suddenly unfamiliar, yet familiar at the same time. Snapshots began to register, quick snatches of colour, of light and shade. She could feel herself begin to process what lay beyond her feet. Then her hands began to tremble and cold perspiration started to gather across her upper lip.

‘No,’ she heard someone cry. ‘No, no, no!’ and realized that the voice was hers, that she was weeping, gasping, unable to draw breath. ‘Robert!’ she screamed. ‘Robert! Robert!’ Her stomach shifted and her throat filled with nausea. Unable to move, she vomited where she stood, retching until tears came. Dimly, she was aware of the patio doors opening behind her.

‘Lynda,’ a voice at her ear said, alarmed. Two strong arms were placed around her shoulders. ‘Lynda, what’s the matter?’

She clung to the hands that held her, afraid that the sensation inside her head was going to make her faint. Points of light and darkness danced in front of her eyes; she could feel hot nausea gather again, wave after wave of it.

‘Come inside,’ the voice urged. ‘I’ll make you tea.’

Lynda turned to look. Jon was gazing at her, his face troubled. His hands were kind. But she wanted her husband. ‘I need Robert,’ she said. To her own ears, her voice sounded like a mumble. But he understood her.

‘Yeah, of course,’ Jon said. ‘Come back inside and sit down. I’ll get him for you.’

And then, suddenly, he seemed to see what she saw. His hands gripped her shoulders even more tightly. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he whispered. ‘What the fuck has happened here?’

Then Lynda knew it was real. She started to weep again, could feel the tears sliding down into the collar of her dressing-gown. ‘It’s Danny, I know it’s Danny,’ she gasped. ‘It’s more of his revenge. I know it.’

‘Come inside,’ Jon urged. ‘Please. We’ll talk inside.’

She allowed herself to be led back through the double doors. She turned once more to where her stone tortoise used to be. Her eyes searched for the bits of its body, her grief intense. ‘I know what’s happening,’ she said. ‘Oh, God, I know what’s happening.’ She took the tissue Jon handed her, sat on the chair he pulled out for her.

‘I’ll go and wake Robert,’ he said.

‘I can’t believe he’s still asleep,’ said Lynda. She could hear the anger in her voice.

‘You actually made very little noise,’ said Jon.

She looked up at him, puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I went to the bathroom,’ he said, quickly. ‘I thought I heard something and came downstairs to take a look. You were on the deck, but the doors were closed.’

She nodded.

‘I knew by the way you were bent over that something was wrong. But I didn’t hear you until I opened the door.’

‘I suppose so,’ she said, distracted. Every time she glanced out at the garden, the tears started all over again. Jon walked over and pulled the curtains closed.

‘I’ll help you fix it, I promise,’ he said. The green eyes were alight with sympathy.

‘Thank you,’ she said, sobbing again. She watched as he left the kitchen, heard his light step as he ran up the stairs to call Robert.

But she knew that this could not be fixed. Whatever Danny destroyed could not be fixed.

That was something she had learned a long time ago.

‘I don’t understand it,’ Robert was saying.

He was standing with her in the kitchen, watching as Jon and Ciarán gathered up the shrubs and placed them into black plastic sacks. In the early morning light, the garden looked like a moonscape: pockmarked, mysterious, eerie. All the life had left it. ‘I don’t understand how the light didn’t go on. It always wakes you, doesn’t it?’

Lynda nodded. ‘Always.’ She felt a physical pull, as acute as pain, as she watched the boys toss her plants and shrubs into refuse sacks.

‘But you could always plant them again,’ Jon had said. ‘Look . . .’ He pointed at the roots eagerly. ‘They’re not damaged, are they? Ciarán and I can help – you just tell us what to do.’

But Lynda had shaken her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘They make me sick even to look at them. Danny has touched them. I don’t want them – don’t want anything he has touched in my life.’

Jon had looked at her then, his gaze half-curious, half-bashful. ‘I don’t mean to pry, but who is Danny?’

‘My brother,’ Robert had said, sharply, walking up the two steps to the deck, wiping his hands on his jeans. He’d attempted to re-position the tortoise, had persuaded Lynda to direct him. She’d done so, reluctantly. But she knew that it would never be the same again. Robert had been insistent, and she’d been too weary to argue. Her tortoise was damaged beyond repair. Even if she could clean the paint off its back. And she’d been adamant about the plants and shrubs. ‘In the bin,’ she’d repeated. ‘Straight away. No discussion.’

Robert had handed the roll of black refuse sacks to the two boys. ‘Off you go,’ he said. ‘Come on, Lynda. Let’s go back inside and leave the lads to it. You don’t need to be standing out here in the cold, looking at this.’

Now, he made her coffee, insisted she have a shot of brandy to go with it. ‘Sit down. You’re like a ghost,’ he said. ‘Take it. It’ll help settle your stomach.’

‘The deck,’ she said, remembering. ‘I was sick . . .’

‘It’s okay,’ Robert said. ‘Jon and Ciarán hosed it down. I saw them do it.’

Lynda poured the glass of brandy into the steaming coffee. Without lifting her head, she said, ‘What are we going to do, Robert?’

He glanced at her, his face already beginning to close. He poured himself more coffee. The spoon chinked against the china as he stirred.

‘Don’t shut me out,’ she said. ‘And don’t make me beg. This is Danny’s handiwork. You must see that.’ She kept looking at him. Her eyes demanded that he respond. Please don’t pretend this isn’t happening, she thought. The only way out of this is together. Please don’t fight me any longer.

He sighed. ‘I know. I know it is. You’re right.’

Lynda felt relief wash over her. At last. ‘Can we call the Guards? We have to do something.’

‘And tell them what?’ asked Robert. She watched as frustration clouded his face. ‘That someone has dumped rubbish and moved stones around? That a ring went missing and suddenly reappeared on a bathroom floor? That nothing has ever been stolen? Or that a few plants have been damaged?’ His voice kept getting louder. Each question seemed to anger him more.

She went to speak and he held up his hand. ‘I know what you’re going to say, but I’m talking from the police perspective, Lynda. And from their point of view, nothing has been destroyed. Things could be planted again – but you don’t want to. How do you think that sounds? It doesn’t even qualify as vandalism.’

‘It’s intimidation and deliberate damage to our property,’ Lynda cried, feeling anger surge all over again. ‘Doesn’t that count?’

He looked at her, his expression weary. ‘Sweetheart, this is a city where thugs are shooting each other over drugs. Bus drivers get their fingers broken at night by drunks. Business premises get set on fire: where would your priorities be?’

She felt the sobs catch in her throat. ‘I can’t live like this, Robert. I just can’t. I wake up terrified every morning wondering: What next? What today? First the cars, then the rubbish, then the ring. Now my tortoise.’ She stopped. She hadn’t told Robert about the other daily reminders of Danny’s existence; she had known that he wouldn’t want to hear her. But she had his attention now. ‘And bits of stuff all over the garden every morning, like calling cards. I haven’t even told you about them, because you wouldn’t want to listen.’

He looked at her, alarmed.

She nodded. ‘Yes, every single morning. Things like old photos, bottles, broken cups and saucers. Deliberate stuff – things that can’t just get there on their own.’ She saw his face. ‘Some mornings, I can’t even bear to pick them up. And no, I’m not being paranoid. It’s like Danny’s taunting us. Telling us how close he’s getting. What’s to keep him from getting into the house again?’ This was too important to let go. ‘And you’ve never showed me his letters, never even told me what was in them.’

‘Because it’s the usual stuff – you’ve heard it all before.’ But he looked away from her.

‘No,’ she insisted. ‘Because this time, the letters weren’t posted. This time, they were delivered by hand. That makes it different: it means he is here again.’ Lynda made an effort to lower her voice. ‘It’s not just the garden he’s destroying, can’t you see that? It’s us.’

Robert reached for her hand, held it between both of his. ‘I suppose I didn’t take him seriously enough.’

‘We have to take him seriously. He’s left us no option. Tell me what he said, Robert. All of it. You can’t protect me. I can’t protect you. The only thing we have is trust. Tell me what he said.’

Robert nodded. His face was white, his lips bloodless. ‘He said he was coming back to finish what he’d started. Three years ago.’

Lynda felt something creep along her spine. She glanced over at the double door that led to the deck. Once Ciarán and Jon were safely inside, she’d make sure to lock it again. ‘Have you still got the letters?’ she asked quietly. ‘I need to see them for myself.’

Robert left the kitchen without a word. When he returned, he had three envelopes in his hand. He pushed them across the table to Lynda. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘You’re right. I can’t protect you. I can’t even protect my own family!’ His voice was bitter. ‘They’re the latest three to arrive.’

Lynda looked up, sharply. ‘This is not your fault,’ she said. ‘Danny is destructive and manipulative. We couldn’t have prevented what happened last time. But maybe we can stop it from happening again.’ She pulled the first letter out of its envelope. The pages of handwriting were familiar, too familiar. She scanned them quickly.

The double doors were opened and Jon and Ciarán came back into the kitchen. They stopped to take off their trainers which were caked with mud. Instinctively, Lynda put her hand over the pages of Danny’s letter.

‘Anything else we can do, Mum?’ asked Ciarán.

She shook her head. ‘No, thanks. Not for now.’

‘May I ask something?’ Jon’s question was sudden. He addressed himself to Robert.

‘Sure,’ said Robert.

‘This Danny person. Your brother. Can’t you tell the police?’ He sounded angry.

Ciarán was nodding. ‘Yeah, Dad, why not?’

‘It’s complicated,’ said Robert. ‘I don’t rule it out. But it’s complicated.’ He was going to say more and stopped.

‘I understand that family is precious, but if someone did this to me, to my home . . .’ Jon stopped, his voice full of emotion. ‘I don’t have brothers or sisters. You guys feel like my family. I just can’t bear to see this . . . this havoc. You’re good people.’

‘Thank you, Jon,’ Lynda tried to smile at him. ‘And thank you for your support, and your help.’

‘Keep us in the loop, won’t you?’ asked Ciarán. ‘I mean about what you’re goin’ to do. He can’t be allowed to get away with this.’

‘We will,’ said Robert. ‘Now, Lynda and I have some things to discuss. Thanks for the clean up. You did a really good job.’

‘Yeah,’ said Ciarán. ‘No worries. We’re outta here. Back around seven. Okay, Mum?’

She nodded. ‘That’s fine.’

They left the kitchen and closed the door quietly behind them. Lynda got up from the table and locked the patio doors. When she sat down again, she leaned towards Robert and spoke softly. ‘I know it’s a strange thing to say,’ she whispered. ‘But what Danny is doing may well backfire on him. Ciarán is actually behaving like a grown-up. That’s some comfort.’

‘Don’t be too optimistic,’ said Robert with a faint smile. He stood up to put on the kettle again. ‘Read the letters. Then tell me how you feel.’

‘More coffee?’ asked Robert. He’d sat, silent, while Lynda read and re-read the letters.

‘Please,’ she said. ‘I know you tore up the first couple, but can you remember anything, anything at all about any specific threats?’

‘It’s more than two months ago,’ said Robert. ‘To be honest, I scanned them, rather than read them. They gave me the creeps and I just wanted to get rid of them as fast as possible.’

Lynda held out her cup and Robert filled it. ‘There’s something he’s not saying,’ she said. ‘Something he’s expecting us to guess. Like here: ‘But things change. Nothing stays the same. Life rewards you sometimes, when you least expect it. You lose something – or somebody – and something else takes its place. There’s a kind of law of compensation. Too much has been taken away from me. Too much stolen. It’s time to balance the scales.’

Robert frowned. ‘I have no idea what he means. It’s the ramblings of a lunatic.’

‘But he keeps coming back to it, again and again. It’s in all of these letters. This harping on about “compensation”.’ She shuddered. ‘I can feel the menace. It’s laced into every word.’ She pushed the pages away from her.

‘So does reading them help?’ asked Robert quietly.

‘Yes,’ she said at once. ‘At least I can be sure that I’m not losing my mind.’ She stopped and looked at him. ‘And you can be sure that I’m not losing my mind. Which might be even more important.’ She tapped the closely written sheets. ‘This is a deliberate campaign to make us suffer. And you’re right. They’d make your flesh crawl.’

‘I’ll put them away safely,’ said Robert. His voice was grim. ‘We may need them in the future as evidence.’

‘Oh, God,’ said Lynda. ‘As if we didn’t have enough to contend with.’

Robert looked as though he was about to tell her something but his mobile rang and he jumped. He left the kitchen, and headed for his office. What now? wondered Lynda. When he came back his face was unreadable.

‘What were you going to say to me?’ she asked.

He looked at her, his eyes blank.

‘Before your mobile rang,’ she prompted. ‘You were going to tell me something.’

He shook his head. ‘Can’t remember. It’ll come back to me.’

Lynda knew he was lying. ‘Robert,’ she warned. ‘Don’t keep anything from me. We’re in this together. Any chink in the armour and Danny will slide right in there. Don’t shut me out.’

‘And you’ve never shut me out?’ he snapped. ‘Not once, in all the years we’ve been together?’

There was a long silence in the kitchen. Lynda could hear the ticking of the clock on her studio wall, through the half-open door. So, she thought. We’ve come to it at last. ‘That’s a long time ago, Robert,’ she said cautiously. How much did he know? How much did he suspect? ‘And we were in a very different place. I thought we’d put it behind us.’

‘So did I,’ said Robert. ‘So did I. I don’t know why it’s tormenting me now.’ He shook his head, angrily.

Lynda swallowed. ‘I won’t insult your intelligence by telling you it meant nothing. But the truth is, you and I mean a lot more – so much more . . .’

Robert rubbed his unshaven cheeks. ‘Look, I’m sorry for bringing it up now. A case of straw and camel’s back, and all that.’ He looked at her, his face ashen. ‘It’ll keep until I come back.’

‘Why?’ asked Lynda, suddenly terrified. ‘Where are you going?’

‘James and I are in one hell of a lot of trouble.’

Lynda stared at him. She’d never known him to be so blunt before.

‘Business is bad, credit is worse. We have to try and pull something together, and fast.’ He shrugged. ‘I didn’t tell you because I hoped it would get better. We both did. Now we need to work out some sort of a salvage plan.’

Lynda pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sat down. She couldn’t think of what else to do. ‘Will the business survive?’ she asked.

He picked his keys up off the kitchen table. ‘I don’t know yet. I hope so. I’m prepared to do anything, even if it’s on my own – attic conversions, painting and decorating, extensions. All the stuff people do in a recession instead of moving house.’

She nodded. That made sense.

‘We’re meeting in Wicklow,’ he said. ‘That was James on the phone. He’s managed to get a hold of our accountant and a tax expert. So,’ and he struggled into his jacket, ‘we’re going to hole up there until we’ve sorted things out,’ he said. ‘Sorry it’s so sudden, but the money men have only just confirmed that they’ll be there on Friday morning and James and I need to hammer out a proposal first.’

She nodded. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I’ll text you later and let you know.’ He came over to her. ‘I’ll do my damnedest to see us through this.’ He squeezed her shoulder. ‘I’ve already done a lot of research, Lynda. I can repackage myself, and what I offer. I’ve a website ready to get up and running and I’ll work as hard as I need to.’

‘I know you will.’ Solid, dependable Robert. Predictability made flesh. ‘And so will I. We’ll pull together, just like before.’ She reached up, put her hand on his.

He nodded. ‘Talk to you when I can.’

‘Okay. Sooner rather than later.’

As he left the kitchen, Lynda called out. ‘Robert?’

He turned. ‘Yeah?’

‘Take care. We’ve done it before. We’ll do it again. Survive.’

He smiled the ghost of a smile and closed the door softly behind him.

Lynda felt stunned. She sat at the table, watching what she thought of as her life begin to fall away from her. After a moment, she stood, shakily, and made her way out into the hall. She reached the window just in time to see the tail lights of the Jeep disappear down the road towards the roundabout.

She sat on the bottom stair, just outside Robert’s office. Gradually, her mind was becoming sharper, more focussed, the fog of shock beginning to lift. She was not going down without a fight. They were not going down without a fight. She’d find a way.

She had to find a way before their life slipped through her fingers and changed into something they no longer recognized.

First Danny. Now this.

What next?

The day is thundery. Sky like a bruise. The leaves of the trees are livid against pewter, like someone has spattered green paint. They stand out too much, etched against the stillness.

‘Come on, Danny,’ Emma is saying. ‘It’s goin’ to be my birthday soon. Please? As part of my present?’

Danny grins at her. ‘Part of your present?’ he teases. ‘How do you know I’m givin’ you any present at all? You’re gettin’ far too big for birthdays, anyway.’ And he flicks his cigarette butt into the flowerbed, using his thumb and middle finger to make it go the distance. It is a gesture his mother hates. Occasionally, he forgets, and she catches him in the act.

‘Don’t do that, Danny,’ she sighs, ‘if you must smoke. It makes you look like a guttie.’

He laughs then and says he’s sorry, keeps forgetting. Then he promises not to do it again, and that makes her happy. It works every time. For his mother, a promise made is as good as the deed done.

They are sitting on the front step, he and Emma. He’s taken the day off, to celebrate his new bike: a second-hand Kawasaki 1000 GTR in great nick. He’s buffed up the leather and polished the chrome and changed the oil. Danny likes doing these things himself – it gives him a sense of competence, of grown-up ownership. She’s ready to rock ’n’ roll. He needs the open road, though. Pottering about suburbia is no place for this baby.

It is July, the heat intense. He can smell the bike’s leather from over here, see the sunlight harsh on chrome. Nineteen years of age, and he’s itching to get going. But Mum has insisted he stay with Emma till she gets back.

‘I’ll be no later than three, Danny,’ she says, ‘and I don’t ask you to do much. I can’t take Emma with me, she’d be bored silly. And in this heat.’ She fans herself, as if to make a point that he might otherwise miss.

‘I’m relying on you,’ she says, squeezing his hand as she gets into the car. ‘Don’t let me down.’ Looks him right in the eye as she drives off.

Relying on you. ‘Unreliable’ is his father’s word for Danny. He’s big into your ‘word’: if a man gives his ‘word’, then he should stick to it, come hell or high water. These speeches piss Danny off. Always have. Mum often sticks up for Danny. He has to give her that. He will look after his little sister today, though. He will be the reliable one. In fact, Danny’s even kind of glad that she’s asked him. He feels in a really good mood. One, because he’s just collected his new bike and two, because Robert is stuck all day today at his shitty summer job. And Danny is the one who is free. Danny takes great care, always, to make sure that his days off do not coincide with Pansy’s.

Emma jumps up off the step, her fists clenched. She opens and closes her small hands, as if she’s squeezing her impatience. ‘Well, if you won’t bring me for a spin, then at least let me sit on the seat.’

He laughs and sweeps her off her feet and onto the pillion in one easy movement. Her eyes are shining. Just two days away from being ten, she has more life to her, more grit and determination than Pansy ever will.

Pixie, Danny calls her. She loves her pet name. Danny can still recall the day when Mum brings her home from hospital. He is nine, Pansy twelve. He can’t believe his eyes when he sees her. Is she really that tiny?

‘Careful, now,’ Mum warns him, as he pulls back the honeycomb pink blanket to see her face. Mum is always telling him to be careful. She doesn’t tell Robert nearly as often. He, Danny, usually ends up getting the blame for whatever it is that goes wrong.

‘She’s like a little elf,’ Pansy blurts out.

Mum laughs, and ruffles Robert’s hair. ‘That’s because she was born a little bit early. She only weighs five pounds. You two monsters were over nine pounds, each of you – almost twice her size!’

He and Robert grin at each other then, a rare moment of shared monstrosity.

‘My precious little girl,’ Mum croons, while Dad paces proudly up and down in front of the television.

Suddenly, the baby starts to wail. Danny stands transfixed, wondering where all that noise is coming from.

‘She’s got a right pair of lungs, all the same,’ laughs Dad. ‘Five pounds or no five pounds. This little lady’ll make us all sit up and take notice. Beware, boys: the boss has arrived.’

Right there and then, Danny decides he will call her ‘Pixie’. An elf is far too wishy-washy a thing: pixies are bright, darting creatures. They get up to all sorts of adventures. Danny can still remember the stories Mum used to read to them at bedtime when they were small. Elves were the boring ones – a bit like Pansy. Elves only swanned around the forest, mooning over flowers and fairies. At least pixies knew how to get up to mischief.

And Emma – Pixie – more than lives up to her name.

‘Come on, Danny,’ she is saying now, her small shoulder wheedling against his arm. She has just finished eating an apple and he can smell the green sweetness of it off her breath. ‘Just one little spin around the block – I’ll hold on really tight. And I won’t ever tell Mum.’

He is tempted. What harm can it do? The breeze would be nice: a change from all this humid stickiness, the air around them heavy with the threat of rain. Pixie is now kneeling behind him, her face resting in the space between his shoulder and his ear. ‘C’mon, Danny. I won’t tell. You know I won’t.’

Danny grabs her around the waist, then, and tickles her till she shrieks. He can feel himself weakening already. It can’t do any harm, not if he’s really careful. And no one ever needs to be told. Pixie is able to keep a secret, as Danny well knows. And she’s right. If he doesn’t do it now, he’ll never get another chance to treat her. It is her birthday, after all, day after tomorrow.

‘Okay, Pixie,’ he says. ‘But this has to be our secret, yours and mine. You’re not to tell anyone, or I’ll end up in a shitload of trouble.’

Emma giggles. She loves it when he uses bad words in front of her.

‘Promise,’ she squeals. ‘No one will ever know.’

She wriggles backwards, her bare legs squeaking on the hot leather, leaving room for Danny to hop on in front of her. He shows her where to rest her feet, carefully placing each sandaled foot on the chrome bar. ‘Keep ’em there, now,’ he says. ‘Otherwise, you’ll get oil on your socks, and then Mum will know.’ She nods, thrilled by the conspiracy of it all.

Danny kick-starts the engine, taking pleasure in its throaty growl. Then he swings himself on, turns to grin at Pixie, and says, ‘You hold on, now. Hold on for dear life.’

He won’t go fast. He’ll proceed at a leisurely, steady pace. Down the driveway, out onto the road, down the hill towards the sea and back again. A spin of maybe ten minutes. More than enough for Pixie. And it’s more than enough time to get back before Mum arrives home.

Pixie shouts with delight as they move off sedately. He can feel her small hands holding on fiercely, just as he’s told her. He checks the traffic right and left, and begins the steep descent towards the sea. Pixie is chattering away: he can feel snatches of her words just underneath his shoulder blade, where she has pressed her face. But whatever she is saying is being whipped away by the breeze that keeps getting stronger, the closer they come to the sea.

He slows as they come to the last roundabout, waits for the only car – a clapped-out Mini – to make its careful exit. Pixie is shouting to him. He can hear her excitement as he slows down.

‘Go faster, Danny, just for a minute! This is cool!’

Danny has no intention of going any faster. He is being Reliable. A couple of hundred yards more, then back towards home. He turns his head, so that she can hear him. ‘You just hold tight, Miss Speed-Freak. Leave the driving up to me. And Happy Birthday!’ He puts the bike into gear and begins to move forward, the Mini puttering away in front of him.

He has no chance. The Merc comes at him out of nowhere. It careens onto the roundabout, then off it again, silver-flashing, glinting, blinding in the sunlight. And Danny’s thoughts hurtle in the split second that’s left: of course it’s going to stop Christ what’s happening fuck it’s not stopping Jesus.

He jams on the brakes, but the Merc slams into them, just catching the motorbike’s front wheel. All Danny is aware of is impact. A sledgehammer, gut-churning blow to the chest. He feels winded as never before: all the breath seems to leave his body and, instead, he is filled with a desperate instinct to hold on, to keep control, to keep upright. He struggles with every bone, every muscle, every sinew against the reeling force of the impact, transformed into a human wall. The bike skids backwards across the hot road, keeling over like a yacht in full sail.

When he rights himself, a thousand years later, a horrified knot of people has gathered around something crumpled and bloody, lying in the middle of the road. For a moment, Danny is puzzled: ‘Did I hit a dog?’ and turns to make sure Emma is okay. Then he realizes that she is no longer holding onto him, that her face is no longer pressed against his shirt.

And it’s as though somebody switches the sound back on. Suddenly, there is noise, commotion. A woman’s voice keeps screaming, over and over again: ‘Call an ambulance! Call an ambulance!’ He wishes she would stop. She’s hurting the inside of his head.

People scatter to their houses. Danny watches as some emerge with blankets, pillows, all the useless accompaniments of tragedy.

Jesus, has he hit someone? Or is it someone from the Merc, catapulted onto the road? Dimly, he can see the Merc, out of the corner of his eye. It has stopped just off the roundabout, right beside where it hit him. He has already seen its doors opening suddenly and two figures darting up the road. A man detaches himself from the group of people nearby, and shouts: ‘Oi, you! Stop right there!’ He gives chase. Danny is aware of all of it, but aware only in the way you are aware of the background music to a movie. You know it’s there, but it serves to highlight the real action, the stuff that’s happening on screen.

And what is happening now is that little mound in the middle of the road. It keeps growing until it fills the entire screen, despite its smallness. A great pool of red seeps outwards. There is something eerily familiar about the small hand that curls towards him from under a pink blanket. The fingers are open, as though they have just now let go of something. Danny limps towards the hand, fear, sickness, terror all fighting for space inside his chest and he realizes that the howl that he hears somewhere outside of himself is him. He finally sees that the crumpled form that lies unmoving, just in front of him now, is his little sister.

People are holding him back, their mouths opening and closing in what he presumes are words. She is lying there, little Pixie, with her head rolled to one side. Just like the cat on the railway track, he remembers. Broken. A sob escapes him. His head fills with noise, the scene swims before him. He vomits his guts up, while someone holds onto him, making some sort of reassuring sounds.

Then the ambulance arrives and soon after there’s the hospital. The grave face of the doctor. The nurses. All of them. And when his mother arrives, flinging back doors, she fights all round her like a madwoman. A lioness in search of her cub.

He’s in a cubicle, curtains drawn almost all the way around the bed. But he can still see her. And he knows her voice, would recognize it anywhere. The curtain is wrenched aside and she stands there, just looking at him. A nurse hurries over.

‘Please,’ she says, ‘you can’t be in here. You need to wait outside. We need to attend to this man’s injuries.’

He wishes his mother would go. He can see by her eyes that she doesn’t believe it, any of it. Somewhere, she clings to hope, that this is a mistake, this is someone else’s daughter – anybody else’s daughter except hers.

‘It’s okay,’ Danny says. ‘This is my mother.’

The nurse looks from one to the other. ‘All right, then. But let me bring you somewhere more private,’ she says. ‘And you’ll have to come back to have that leg attended to.’

Danny nods. He slides off the bed and manages to walk, a kind of half-drag, half-hop motion. But his mother doesn’t even ask him how he is, or how badly his leg is injured.

The starched nurse shows them to the poky relatives’ room. Danny hates her professional sympathy. He hates all of them. All that white, unfelt empathy.

‘Danny,’ his mother says as the nurse closes the door. Her eyes are begging him. ‘Is it true?’ He knows by looking at her that she will sacrifice any child – maybe even her own sons – to make sure that this is not, that this cannot be, her baby. There is nothing he can say. Then she sags and weeps, she and Danny together.

‘How could you?’ Her voice is hoarse, pleading now, as though she really wants an explanation, a route towards forgiveness. But Danny knows that really, she is looking for someone to blame.

Some of the numbness is beginning to wear off. His leg is starting to hurt like hell. He wants, desperately, to remake the story, to change the ending. But he’s not able to. ‘It isn’t my fault,’ he says, weeping, unable to stop the tears. ‘I promise I did nothing wrong. I was going really slowly, really carefully, and then this guy in a Merc just shot off the roundabout and – ’

‘Danny,’ she says, pulling back from him, her voice barely above a whisper, ‘I left her in your care. I told you I was relying on you. It was only for a couple of hours. What were you thinking? You didn’t even have a helmet for her.’

He can see that she is struggling to understand something. That her daughter is never coming back. ‘She kept begging me for a spin, she wouldn’t leave it alone. She kept going on and on about it being her birthday.’ Danny wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘And anyway, there would be no helmet small enough for her.’

His mother’s eyes widen. He can see the rage coming, has seen it before, although not like this. Never as bad as this. She comes at him, taking him by surprise, pushing him off balance. Her fists are up, and now she’s pounding on his chest, shrieking. ‘She’s a child! A ten-year-old child! What have you done to my baby? What have you done?’

Danny tries to ward her off. But she’s strong and his leg and shoulder are hurting him. She still hasn’t even asked him how he is. And his knee has started to bleed again.

Suddenly, the door slams open, crashing against the wall with a splintering of wood. Danny’s father rushes in, his eyes wild, his face askew, as though someone has assembled bits of it in the wrong order. Danny is aware of two bulky, blue presences behind him, grappling with shoulders, arms. But Danny’s father is more than a match for them. Their ‘Sir! Sir!’, their ‘Take it easy, now,’ has no effect on him. He and Danny share the same build, the same blunt strength.

He flings all of that strength at Danny now, his tears rasping. ‘You’re not my son!’ he sobs. He lifts one arm, but that is a mistake. It gives the two security men something to hold on to. Both of them grab at the raised fist and force it back down to his side. Then he crumbles, as if he, too, has been winded by the impact. All of the fight has gone out of him.

‘Mary, Mary,’ he wails. ‘Our baby, our baby.’

Danny’s mother goes to him then, and takes him in her arms. ‘I’ll never forgive you for this,’ she says to Danny, over her husband’s shoulder.

He waits, not knowing what else to do. His parents hold each other, oblivious to his presence. After a moment or two, the security men nod to each other and withdraw. They close the door gently behind them.

Then Danny’s father wipes his eyes, his sobbing stilled for now. He looks at Danny. His gaze is steady although Danny can see he’s having trouble controlling his chin. It keeps trembling off in the wrong direction, creasing, pulling both sides of his father’s mouth downwards.

‘Tell me why you did it. Just that. Nothing else. Tell me why you did it.’

‘It wasn’t my fault . . . I didn’t mean . . .’ Danny begins.

His father slams his fist on the low wooden table, making the artificial flower arrangement leap in the air and then roll, sadly, onto its side. Even the air feels shocked.

‘I said, tell me why you did it.’ The tone is even, but Danny can feel all the rage that lurks underneath that surface.

‘She kept begging me for a spin,’ he says. His tone is flat, now. He senses defeat. ‘I didn’t know how to say no.’

‘You didn’t know how to say no,’ his father repeats, nodding. Danny has seen him do stuff like this before. It’s as though he’s considering the wisdom of the statement. Then he locks eyes with his son’s. ‘But you’ve known how to say “no” to us often enough, haven’t you? About important things, necessary things. And you couldn’t keep a little child safe for an afternoon, because you couldn’t say “no”?’

He pauses, and the silence is fearful. Then:

‘I could never trust you. I knew that, years back. You’ve never known what it is to give your word and keep it, Danny.’ He stops, pretending to think things through, pretending that this speech is not one he prepared ages ago. It’s as though he has been waiting for the opportunity to make it. There’s no stopping him.

‘And then when things go wrong, you just blame somebody else. Usually Robert, sometimes me, sometimes your mother. But never you, never Danny. Danny always means well, Danny’s intentions are good – if I’ve heard it once, I’ve heard it a million times.’

Danny tries to speak, but his father raises his hand. He’s always doing that, not letting Danny speak.

‘Your mother was a fool to trust you. But she’ll suffer for that now. We all will. For the rest of our lives . . .’ His mother begins to weep again, convulsing.

His father looks at him and Danny can see pure hatred in those eyes. ‘You’ve broken this family. Is that what you wanted? Is it?’

At that moment, someone knocks on the door, softly. The three of them turn as yet another nurse opens the door. She looks at Danny’s parents. Danny can see Robert’s face, white and frightened, just above her left shoulder. ‘Mr and Mrs Graham?’ she says. ‘Would you like to come with me? You can see your daughter now.’

For a second, Danny’s heart leaps. Is she alive?

Robert comes into the room now and pushes his way past Danny without even a word. He walks right into his parents’ arms and the three of them hold onto each other, sobbing. Danny can see by the way his parents begin to droop as they leave the room that there is no hope. This is the last time they will ever see Emma.

Danny’s father stops as he passes. He turns and looks at his son. His hands are menacing. ‘Don’t even think of coming with us. You’re not worthy to see her. Not welcome. We’ll never forgive you for this. I mean it. Never.’

The three of them leave the room. Robert won’t even look in Danny’s direction. The nurse takes their mother’s arm, Robert puts his around his father’s shoulders.

Danny knows now that there is no chance. Once his father says ‘We will never forgive you,’ Danny knows that it’s over. Not ‘I’, but ‘we’. In that one small word, Danny understands how everything is to be. His mother has been exonerated. Emma has been exonerated. Robert is the perfect son. The fault for everything, once again, is all Danny’s. He is to be the scapegoat, forever pushed beyond the ‘we’. His intentions no longer matter: only the outcome, over which he’s had no control. A pair of joy riders on a bright July afternoon. Who would have thought it?

He tries not to see the blank, blanketed mound in the middle of the road. It keeps flashing back and forth in front of his eyes. Poor little Pixie. And he has a stab of sorrow. They won’t even let him see his little sister one last time. He feels aggrieved. It’s not fair. He makes up in his head all the things he’ll say to his father for treating him like this. He hobbles back out to the ward. He can’t keep bleeding all over the place. The nurse from earlier sees him and hurries over.

‘In here,’ she says, flicking back the curtain of the cubicle. He eases himself onto the edge of the bed, but it seems to swim away from him. Next thing he knows, his head is being forced down towards his knees. Gradually, the cubicle rights itself, his blood stops roaring in his ears.

‘Better?’ she asks.

He nods. She’s young. Pretty. He wonders if . . . But no. Another time, maybe. Not now. She does a good job of stitching up his leg. The bandages feel secure, give him a bit of support. When she’s finished, he doesn’t know where to go, what to do with himself. The nurse tells him to take care and then goes off about her business. He feels dismissed. So he goes back to the Relatives’ Room, opening the door cautiously. His father’s coat is still there, his mother’s hasty cardigan. They’ll have to come back for them. When they do, his father looks surprised to see him sitting there. His mother seems older somehow, her face raw. She leans against his father, who leans against Robert. He seems to be propping both of them up. And still, not one of the three of them even asks about his leg.

‘I want you to leave the house,’ his father is saying. ‘Go this evening, now, otherwise I won’t be responsible for what I’ll do to you.’ And he turns away, gathering his weeping wife in his arms.

Without actually remembering how he gets there, Danny arrives at the house and lets himself in. He packs his holdall from the gym with a few clothes, a toothbrush, his aftershave. He’ll have to come back for the rest of his stuff. They’ll have to let him do that.

They say he’s had a miraculous escape. One leg very badly bruised, but nothing broken, just some small bones chipped. Painful enough, but nothing that needs plaster. Some ligaments are damaged. His shoulder is painful. But it’s nothing that won’t heal in time.

He lets himself out the front door, slamming it behind him. Leaving all of them behind. Fuck them. He doesn’t need them, any of them. His barman’s apprenticeship is nearly over, he can work anywhere he chooses. And the tips are great. Danny’s found out how easy it is to be charming to people he doesn’t know. All it takes is a little effort, and faces light up. Women, in particular. They laugh easily at his jokes, appraise him with their keen eyes.

Nothing that won’t heal in time? he thinks.

He’ll see about that.

 

8

IT WAS FIVE DAYS before Robert came home. Five endless days that saw Lynda become increasingly anxious.

‘No, things aren’t good, Lynda, I’m not going to lie to you,’ he’d said when he phoned her the evening following his departure. ‘The business stuff is complicated and frustrating and there are no easy answers.’

Lynda knew of old that there was no point in asking Robert for detail. As far as he was concerned, a phone was for the imparting of information: quickly, succinctly and impatiently.

‘I’ve a few prospects around South Wicklow that I’m going to follow up once we’re finished here. I’ll let you know when I’m on my way home.’

When she heard his key in the lock at lunchtime, Lynda felt her heart begin to speed up, her breath begin to catch at the back of her throat. He came straight into her studio, looking as though he hadn’t slept since he left. She ran to him, putting her arms around him. ‘I’m so glad you’re back,’ she said. ‘You look exhausted.’

He kissed her distractedly. ‘I am,’ he said. ‘It’s bad, but I’ll tell you all the details tonight. Right now, I have to shower and go straight back into town.’ He gave her a quick hug. ‘I’ve booked a table for us in The Merman tonight. For eight o’clock. Will you bring the Jeep? I’ve back-to-back meetings today and I haven’t the time to scramble for parking spaces.’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Do you want a lift now?’

‘No, thanks. I’ve a taxi booked. I’ll see you at eight.’

Now they faced each other across the candlelit table.

‘So,’ said Lynda. ‘What’s the news? How did the meeting with the money-men go?’

‘Badly.’ Robert’s tone was blunt. ‘The last few months have been crazy,’ he said. He paused while the waiter refilled his glass. ‘It’s been crazy for everybody in the business.’ He shook his head. ‘But I really believed that we could trade our way out of it. When it all started two years ago, we weren’t overextended – at least, not to the extent that some of the guys were.’ He sipped at his wine.

Lynda had to curb her impatience.

‘At first, I thought it was just us – you know, a bit more competition around than there used to be. And then there was a bit of a slowdown in the market when nobody knew what was going on with Stamp Duty. That sort of thing. We’ve seen the ups and down before, over the years. We’re all old enough to remember the eighties.’ He stopped, trying to smile at her. ‘Things come and go. But there’s always been a market for the sort of high-end builds that we do. That’s always been our niche.’ He poured himself more wine, his eyes distracted. It was as if he was talking to himself.

But I’m listening, Lynda thought. And what I’m hearing is frightening me.

‘Generally, market blips in the past didn’t affect us. We pulled through the first dip fine, a year ago, and we might have pulled through this one, too – until the global meltdown happened. Banks that were pushing funds at us eighteen months ago won’t look at us now. I can’t even get an appointment. Everyone is suddenly very busy and very nervous – even the guys I’ve dealt with for over twenty years, who know I’m solid. Nothing’s working. I had my last stab at it today.’ He drummed his fingers on the table. ‘And so – we have to let most of the crew go.’

Lynda looked at him. It was probably the longest speech she had ever heard him make about his business. In fact, about anything. She tried to understand what he was telling her. Had he just gone bust? Was he just about to? ‘How many?’ she asked, after a pause. ‘How many have you to let go?’

He didn’t answer at once. Lynda counted the beats. It must be really bad.

‘At least fourteen,’ he said at last. She could feel him wince.

Lynda could feel the shock registering. She was glad that she wasn’t standing up. ‘Have you . . . have they been let go already?’

‘Yes,’ he said abruptly. ‘James told them. Two days ago.’

Lynda swallowed. She looked over at her husband, careful to keep her expression neutral.

‘So. That means just you and James left, then.’

Robert shifted in his seat a little. ‘Well, that’s the thing,’ he said. ‘I think that James is going to bail out.’ He signalled to the waiter. ‘Whiskey,’ he said. ‘A double.’

Lynda knew at once that James’s bail out was already a certainty. Robert didn’t deal in speculations – he dealt in facts. ‘What’s he going to do?’

‘He’s trying to sell me his half.’ Robert spread his hands, both palms facing upwards. The classic gesture of resignation. Lynda wished that he had a little more fight in him. Why did James get to have things all his own way?

‘I can’t raise the cash to buy him out, not in the current climate.’ Robert reached over, put a hand on her arm. ‘No one else can raise the cash either, by the way, so I’m not in danger of being taken over, or forced out, or anything like that. Half of the business is still mine. It just means I’ll be left holding the baby – running what’s left of the show, essentially.’

‘Tell me, how does James get to walk away?’

Robert shrugged. ‘He has been very canny over the years – he’s got a lot salted away. All James wants to do now is ride off into the sunset of retirement.’

His voice was suddenly shadowed by bitterness. He stopped and patted his pockets for the occasional cigarettes he carried with him. He didn’t find them and clicked his tongue in irritation.

‘And what have we got?’ Lynda asked. She surprised even herself, asking the question. Robert had always looked after their future. He’d reassured her time and again that their savings were safe. ‘Blue Chip’, he’d call them. ‘Safe as houses.’

Now he looked at her. ‘That’s part of the problem,’ he said. ‘I don’t know how to tell you this. I’ve been trying to fight fires for the past few weeks, but . . .’

‘Anything to do with Anglo-Irish Bank?’ she asked at once. The newspapers had been full of it, radio and television commentators convulsed by it. A spectacular collapse, with suspect dealings and plummeting share prices.

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘It’s a complete disaster. Even more so than the other banks. It’s unbelievable.’ He shook his head.

‘There’s been nothing else on the news since you left. What have we lost?’ Lynda was amazed at how matter-of-fact she sounded. Robert’s long pause made her know the worst before he said it.

‘Everything. Or everything that wasn’t already invested in Cement Roadstone Holdings.’

‘The construction industry,’ she said, flatly.

He nodded. ‘These days, the share value is pretty much worthless.’ His voice sounded small. ‘It’s gone, Lynda, all of it. I just didn’t know how to tell you. Particularly with all this other stuff that’s going on with Danny.’

Lynda leaned across the table. ‘The only way we’re going to get through this is if you keep talking to me, Robert, let me know what’s going on. This is my life, too – all our lives. You and I have kept things from each other before, and it’s only done damage. To both of us.’ She kept her voice low. She was conscious that their silence seemed to have spread throughout the restaurant.

‘I need to know what’s happening,’ she went on. ‘Day by day, all the detail. Not just the general stuff. Don’t shut me out.’ Lynda bit her lip. ‘And I won’t shut you out. Ever again. We need to plan.’

Robert took both her hands in his. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘It’s been rough, and it’s going to get rougher. I need you, Lynda. I always have. From the first night I met you.’ And he tried to smile. ‘Right now, I’m terrified.’ He sighed and briefly rested his head in his hands. At that moment, Lynda thought how very like Danny he looked. The thought shocked her. She stroked his face, lightly. ‘We’ve got through tough times before,’ she said, quietly.

He looked at her. ‘Yeah, well, this is different. Back then, it was just us: we were the only ones in trouble – because of Danny. The whole world wasn’t. We were able to recover, with both of us working ourselves to a standstill. That’s not possible, not this time.’ He gave a thin, bitter, smile. ‘There’s just not enough out there. Of anything. Opportunity. Work. Credit. Particularly credit.’

Then, as though he had read her mind, he said: ‘You’re not run off your feet either, are you? When did you last get a commission?’

Lynda nodded. ‘It has been slow – a few enquiries, nothing much. But I’m due to be paid for the last three jobs – I’m owed quite a bit. And then there’s the exhibition coming up in Belfast.’ I have a little ‘running away money’, too, she thought. That had been Robert’s mother’s advice to her, more than twenty-five years ago.

‘Always keep a little bit in reserve, dear. You never know the day nor the hour. Be like the Wise Virgins.’ And she’d winked. ‘I have my own few pounds that David doesn’t know about. It’s always a comfort for a woman. That little bit of independence.’ She’d smiled then, Emma’s smile. ‘Just in case the men lose the run of themselves.’ That was before Emma, of course. After Emma died, the woman had shadowed into herself, as though her light had gone out. Lynda shivered. She didn’t even want to think about what the loss of a child must have meant.

Robert reached for his jacket. ‘Let’s go home,’ he said. ‘I’d rather be on our own. This place is beginning to feel oppressive. You okay to drive?’ He signalled to the waiter.

‘Sure,’ she said. ‘I’ve just had the one glass.’

When they step outside, the ferocity of the wind takes Lynda’s breath away. She feels her dress slap against her thighs. Rain stings her face.

‘Jesus, where did this come from?’ she gasps as Robert puts one firm hand under her elbow and steers her towards the Jeep. She leans into him, suddenly glad of the comfort his solidity offers her. She holds her handbag in front of her face, shielding her eyes.

He opens the driver’s door for her and she struggles into the seat. The wind gusts and threatens to wrench the door from his grasp. His jacket flaps madly about his waist, his tie flings itself over one shoulder. ‘Quick!’ he shouts. ‘I’m soaked through!’ He slams the door and runs around to the passenger side. Lynda can see him through the windscreen: his figure distorted by the rain, huge drops of it acting as fat magnifying glasses. He keeps his head down, one arm in front of his face as he battles against the onslaught. She wipes her soaking hair with a handkerchief and drags it back off her forehead. She notices her hands are trembling. The sudden turn in the weather has shocked her.

Robert climbs in and exhales deeply. ‘Christ,’ he says, ‘it’s savage out there. Force nine at least.’

Lynda turns on the radio to listen to the ten o’clock news and weather forecast. Robert reaches out one hand.

‘Leave it,’ he says. Then: ‘Leave it, please,’ aware that his tone has been abrupt. ‘I don’t want any more bad news this evening. The worst has already happened.’

‘Okay,’ Lynda says. She waits until he has his seatbelt fastened. ‘Home, James?’ she asks lightly.

‘And don’t spare the horses,’ he agrees, smiling at her.

She reaches over, touches his cheek. ‘I love you, Robert,’ she says, quietly.

He takes her hand, kisses it. ‘I love you, too,’ he says.

Lynda pulled slowly out of the restaurant car park. At this time of night, and in this weather, it was hard to judge distances. She’d never liked night-time driving anyway. Perspectives seemed to shift, familiar landmarks disappeared. Her eyes tired more easily. And there were always those, too, who drove on full headlights, blinding the oncoming motorists. She slowed again as she approached the roundabout. She could feel the Jeep being buffeted by the gale, even its sturdy body rocking a little from side to side. She glanced over at Robert. Sometimes they acknowledged it, sometimes they didn’t, that this was the roundabout where Emma had been killed. Twenty-six, almost twenty-seven years ago. More than a quarter of a century. Lynda shivered. The memory of it was still raw, even after all this time.

‘Cold?’ asked Robert. He turned up the heating. ‘It’ll get warm in a minute.’ Lynda was glad of the noise the fan made. Tonight, it was easier to drive without speaking.

They had only just met, she and Robert. Lynda remembered that night now, only a few short months before Emma’s accident.

‘I don’t usually do this – come to the theatre,’ Robert had confided to her all in a rush, on the evening that Charlie had introduced them. ‘But I’m very glad I did tonight.’ Richard II, she remembered. A rousing interpretation by Dramsoc. She had been spellbound, wondering if she’d ever have the courage in the future to take even the smallest of parts. The stage terrified her – all that empty space. She was happier behind the scenes: the scenery that she had painted.

Robert’s eyes had widened when Charlie nudged him towards Lynda.

‘This is the extraordinarily talented Miss O’Brien,’ she’d said. ‘Robert, meet Lynda. Designer, wardrobe mistress, scene stealer, sometimes lighting expert,’ she laughed. ‘She does it all.’ Then she’d turned to Lynda. ‘Lynda, meet Mr Robert Graham. Rugby-player, tennis-player, engineering student. You’re from the same neck of the woods. Get acquainted while I’m gone. Coming!’ she yelled, responding to a frantic, gesticulated summons. And she dashed off towards the stage door.

‘That’s Charlie – Charlotte, if you want to be formal – the Dramsoc whirlwind. Director, stage manager, publicity woman – and she talks about me!’

Robert laughed. ‘Seems like the two of you have the world pretty much sewn up between you. This is my first time here – hope that doesn’t make me sound like a peasant. Niall insisted I come along. Bums on seats, he said.’

Lynda nodded. ‘Thanks, yeah. It’s great to have a full house on opening night.’

‘Well, Niall said that Charlie would have killed him if he hadn’t gone out into the highways and byways. Saying “no” wasn’t really an option.’ He lowered his voice. When he spoke again, his tone was conspiratorial. ‘Tonight was my first time to meet her. Charlie, I mean. I’m glad I made the decision to come. I don’t think I’d be able to bear her wrath. She’s terrifying!’

He looked at Lynda sideways then, an expression she was to become very used to over the following years. Half shy, half quizzical. As though he was trying to gauge how terrifying she might be. He gestured towards the table in the corner. Lynda could see some wilting sandwiches, some sad and sweaty cheddar cheese. The usual opening night fare, bludgeoned out of some local supermarket, or ‘borrowed’ from parents’ cupboards and wine racks.

‘The white wine is warm and the red – well, frankly, you wouldn’t know whether to drink it or put it on your chips.’ He nodded, as though weighing up his choices. ‘You finished here, by any chance?’

She knew immediately what he was asking. Lynda had already decided, the moment she laid eyes on him, that if Robert didn’t ask her to slip away on their own somewhere tonight, she would have to ask him. She’d liked him instantly: his obvious strength, his open expression and the way he carried himself. As though he was comfortable with his bulk, even proud of it. He didn’t slink away into his body, a tortoise withdrawing into its shell. He was upright and at the same time grounded. Steady on his feet. She tucked a strand of curly blonde hair behind one ear. It was always escaping. She was conscious of how well they would look together, she and Robert: her fair hair and slender build a striking contrast to his dark looks. His tallness, too, felt comforting, protective. Steady on, Lynda told herself. You’ve only just met.

‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘I’m done here for tonight. I won’t be missed.’ She was surprised at her own directness.

He grinned at her. ‘Then let me buy you a glass of something decent.’

‘Guinness,’ she’d said bravely. ‘Actually, I think I’d like a pint of Guinness.’

His eyebrows had shot up. ‘Better and better,’ he said. ‘I know just the place.’

They ducked out the door while Charlie’s attention was elsewhere. Lynda knew that she’d be forgiven, eventually. For once, she didn’t care how long eventually took. There was an eager boyishness to Robert that appealed to her more and more. She wasn’t about to pass up the possibility of a real date. As they hurried outside, Robert had taken her by the hand. They both stopped. Lynda held her breath.

‘I like you,’ he’d said. For a moment, he looked bashful again. Lynda wanted to laugh. His expression didn’t seem to fit with his body. ‘Are you about to make fun of me?’ he asked suddenly.

She shook her head. ‘No, not at all. I’m smiling. I like you too.’

It had been that easy, almost as though they were speaking lines that each had already rehearsed. Their own private theatre. It felt intimate, her hand in his. Natural, and exciting at the same time. Lynda tugged at his sleeve, pointing towards the bus stop. ‘Quick, there’s a number ten about to leave. If we run, we’ll just make it!’ He hesitated and she stopped. ‘What is it?’

‘Promise you won’t laugh?’ he said.

‘Promise,’ she agreed. She wondered what was coming next.

‘I have my own transport,’ he said, with a degree of dignity she found comical.

‘Oh – why didn’t you say!’

‘Well – and this is why you promised not to laugh, okay?’

She nodded, waiting.

‘I am the proud owner of a . . . Honda, navy-blue, 500 cc scooter. Bit of a sewing machine on wheels, really.’

Now she did want to laugh. She’d seen the careful scooters around college, put-putting through the car parks. The image of Robert, tall and robust, on one of those machines made her want to smile. But even then, she knew better.

‘Glamorous,’ she said gravely. ‘Most impressive.’

He looked at her. His face was stern. ‘You promised not to laugh.’

‘Who’s laughing?’ she said. Then, as a deflection: ‘I don’t feel it would be right for two of us, though, do you?’

‘Maybe not,’ he agreed. He seemed relieved. ‘I just wanted you to know.’

‘Before someone else told me?’ she risked teasing him, just a little.

‘Pretty much,’ he confessed. ‘Not great for the image, though – but all I could afford. My brother Danny gives me enough grief about it.’

‘I think it’s fine,’ she lied. ‘But tonight, let’s take the bus, okay?’

His face brightened then, as though confession had eased his conscience. ‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘Race you.’ And he let go of her hand.

Stunned, Lynda watched him take off. Then she gathered herself and followed, long coat flying out behind her. She easily overtook him, and jumped onto the platform of the bus, triumphant. The driver gunned the engine, impatiently. ‘Just a minute,’ she cried. ‘Hang on – my boyfriend’s coming!’

Robert hurled himself onto the bus, just as it had begun to leave the stop. Gasping, he put his arm around her and steered her to the stairs. ‘Boyfriend, eh?’ He pushed her up ahead of him. ‘That’s pretty forward of you.’

‘You objecting?’ she asked. ‘Because if you are . . .’

Then he grinned. ‘Go on,’ he whispered. ‘Walk up the stairs in front of me. I like the view.’

‘Is this how you like to embarrass women who have beaten you, fair and square?’ Lynda demanded. She turned to look down at him, one hand on her hip. She was exhilarated after the race. She could feel her heart thumping, the blood singing in her veins. My boyfriend, she had said. My boyfriend. She wanted to tease him, to make him admit that she had won, that he had lost.

He shrugged. ‘Not much of a race, really. Besides, I let you win. You have to see that.’ The bus lurched forwards. Robert grabbed her and held onto her waist. ‘Why don’t we talk about it when we’re sitting down?’ he said. ‘There’ll be much more time for you to see reason.’

They went to Mulligan’s after that, Lynda remembered, pushing their way into the bar already crowded with Friday night students. He’d bought the first drink, she the second and by the time the pub closed, she knew all about him. About his rather proper mother, his sound father; his little sister Emma and his younger brother, Danny.

Almost to her surprise, Lynda told him about her family: about how being an only child had made her feel responsible for her elderly mother and father, as though she were the parent, they her children. And she told him, too, about her love of art and design, and how that had been a bridge too far in her small family. Something practical, her parents had insisted. Something teachable. A good career, teaching, they had said. All this arty stuff is much too unpredictable. And so she’d chosen English and French – but most of her time was spent designing and painting scenery for Dramsoc. Listening to Robert, Lynda realized again how fascinated she was by other people’s siblings. The way Robert spoke about Danny in particular had intrigued her.

‘Is he like you?’ she’d asked. His reply had surprised her.

‘I hope not,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid my brother is a shit.’ Seeing her face, Robert laughed. ‘Don’t worry – it’s not a taboo or anything. I accept it. I’ve always accepted it. He’s selfish and wild and irresponsible towards everyone – my parents included. I hate seeing how he hurts them. But there’s nothing I can do about it.’ He finished his pint in one gulp. ‘To tell you the truth, I’m ashamed of him. Just keep that in mind when you meet him.’

She’d liked the certainty then that she would meet him, that Robert looked on her as someone who would be part of his life in the future.

‘I will,’ she said. ‘I’ll keep it in mind.’ She paused and said: ‘Can I ask you a question?’ She kept her voice low, serious.

He looked at her. His eyes filled with apprehension. ‘Sure,’ he said quickly. He placed his empty glass on the table in front of him. Then he faced her with a confidence she guessed he didn’t feel.

‘This Danny,’ she said. She trailed her beads through her fingers. Pretended to concentrate on them. ‘What if I like him? What if I fancy him and not you?’

He searched her eyes until she couldn’t pretend any longer. She started to laugh and watched as his face lit up in a slow, wide smile.

‘Then it’s off,’ he said softly. ‘If you even look at him, I won’t ask you to marry me.’ And he kissed her.

She didn’t like Danny when they met, three weeks later. Didn’t like his cocky assurance, or the way he looked at her. Half-amused, as though Robert had pulled off something that he didn’t expect, as though the territory of women and romance was his and his alone.

‘Well,’ he’d said, his eyes appraising her, his hand holding onto hers for too long. She’d tried to tug it away, but that seemed to please him even more. ‘What have we got here?’

Robert had reacted angrily. ‘Cut it out, Danny,’ he’d said. ‘This is Lynda. Maybe you could pretend to be a civilized human being, just for tonight.’

Danny had dropped Lynda’s hand, pretending to be shocked. ‘Me?’ he’d said. ‘I was only admiring your taste, brud. Didn’t know you had it in you.’

Just then, Robert’s mother had approached, smiling. Just as well, Lynda thought. Another minute and the brothers might have been squaring up to one another.

‘Lynda,’ she said, smiling. Her face was a striking mix of her sons’ – Robert’s grey eyes, Danny’s square jaw and chin. She shook hands warmly. ‘You are very welcome. Come and have a cup of tea,’ and she led Lynda into the front room. Robert followed, not saying a word. He’d smiled quickly at Lynda once, his eyes saying: ‘You’re on your own!’

They had tea in the oddly formal front room. Mrs Graham still believed in the concept of ‘the good room’ – one used only at Christmas and for family state occasions. The chairs were deep and comfortable, the carpet olive green, the drapes ornate. Everything was muted, everything matched, but Lynda had the sense of having been transported to another time. The room was about solid, old-fashioned good taste, not fashion. If that was what Mrs Graham had been aiming for, then she had succeeded. It was also a room that kept the visitor slightly off balance. Lynda had been aware of the force of a personality at work here – quite what the force was, she couldn’t decide.

Robert had warned her about his mother’s pretensions. ‘But they’re harmless, really,’ he’d said. ‘Little eccentricities. She’d have liked to live a slower, grander life, with a lot more money and a lot more elegance. All it means is loads of doilies and tiny sandwiches whenever anyone comes to visit. Don’t let it put you off. Her heart’s in the right place.’

‘Don’t worry. I won’t be put off.’

To her own surprise, Lynda had liked the quiet, firelit sense of occasion. Although it was May, the weather was still damp and chill and the fire was a perfect antidote to the grey outside the bay window. She’d settled into the armchair that Mrs Graham indicated and decided to prepare herself for the interrogation that Robert had assured her would be coming. But if the older woman was scrutinizing her, she gave no sign. The conversation was polite, gracious. Danny was nowhere to be seen.

When they had finished, Mrs Graham stood, brushing her tweed skirt briskly. ‘Now, I’m sure you two have a much more exciting evening planned and I’m not going to keep you from it. But Emma has been dying to meet you, Lynda, and I know that she won’t be able to contain herself for very much longer. Would you mind?’

‘Of course not,’ Lynda said, surprised. ‘I’d be delighted. Robert has told me all about her.’

Mrs Graham looked at her son, fondly. ‘Apple of our eye, isn’t she, Robert? No point in pretending otherwise.’

‘No point at all, Mum,’ Robert agreed. ‘I’ve learned to deal with the trauma of rejection. I’ll only ever be second best.’ He sighed, theatrically.

‘Well, we mustn’t grumble. We all know who’s boss,’ Mrs Graham said. ‘I’ll just go and get her.’

When she’d left the room, closing the door behind her, Robert grinned. ‘You’ve passed the test,’ he said. ‘With flying colours. Otherwise, Emma wouldn’t be called on to give the seal of approval.’

‘Don’t exaggerate,’ Lynda said. ‘Besides, a nine-year-old giving a seal of approval? I don’t think so.’ But she was pleased. Being liked made life easier.

The door flung open and a small, dense whirlwind in shades of pink erupted onto the fireside rug. The white of the sheepskin was startling against the deep pink of her shoes.

‘You’re Lynda, Mum said. Robert’s girlfriend. Are you going to be married? Can I be a bridesmaid, or maybe a flower girl?’

‘Emma,’ Robert warned. But Emma paid no heed. She turned her huge brown eyes on Lynda.

‘Well,’ Lynda said. ‘It’s very early days. Robert and I only met a few weeks ago. Who knows what will happen?’

The girl regarded her steadily, summing her up. ‘But if you do,’ Emma persisted, ‘can I be your bridesmaid?’

Lynda laughed at her earnest expression. Robert groaned and put his head in his hands. Suddenly, Lynda knew that only a direct, honest answer was going to satisfy this child. Energy radiated from her. She glowed. It was easy to see how the household revolved around her.

‘I tell you what,’ she said. ‘And this is a promise. Whenever I get married, and whoever I get married to, I’ll make sure that you are my bridesmaid or my flower girl. Is that a good enough answer?’

Emma looked back at her, her head cocked to one side. ‘Yeah,’ she said, having thought about it. At that moment, Lynda was struck by how like Robert she was. ‘That’s a good answer. And I think you keep your promises.’

Lynda was taken aback. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘I do. I make a point of it.’

‘Okay,’ Emma said, turning to her brother. ‘I hope you’re taking her somewhere really special. She deserves it.’ And then she flung herself out of the room in more or less the same way she had flung herself into it.

‘That’s our Emma,’ Robert said, ruefully, ‘the human cyclone.’

The air in the room seemed curiously flat and dusty after her departure. ‘She’s a tonic,’ Lynda said. ‘And I meant what I said, no matter what happens between us.’

Robert reached for her hands and pulled her to standing. ‘We’ll keep that promise together,’ he said, putting his arms around her and kissing the top of her head, hugging her close to him. ‘Watch this space.’

And so when she’d got the call on that hot afternoon in July, Lynda had had trouble understanding.

‘What are you saying?’ she’d asked Robert, her voice catching in her throat. ‘What do you mean? There has to be some mistake.’

But there was no mistake. A hit and run. Out of the blue on a sultry July day. Two seventeen-year-old youths, twins, driving their father’s car. It was no consolation that they had been caught, arrested on that same afternoon. By the time Lynda reached the house, the desolation was palpable, like smog in the air. She’d rung the doorbell, expecting Emma’s light and mischievous steps down the hallway. Instead, Robert had answered, his face raw, his clothes askew, as though he had dressed in a hurry and mismatched buttons and buttonholes, belts and loops. When he saw her, he threw his arms around her and wept so hoarsely she was frightened. She’d tried to soothe him, to offer comfort, anything that would stop the keening that shivered around her soul.

Even then, Lynda knew that the loss of Emma had catapulted her into Robert’s life in a way that might not have happened otherwise. She and Robert were suddenly, inextricably, bound to each other. Their courtship was over. In the space of just a month or two, they had become a couple, defined by tragedy. They were no longer separate people, no longer boyfriend and girlfriend. They were something much more sedate, much more grown-up.

Lynda had felt a hot shudder of guilt at the time. She’d been appalled that she could even think that way, in the midst of grief. But part of her had sorrowed after the carefree part of her life, hers and Robert’s, that she’d known was over. She had never voiced it, and neither did he. But both of them knew that it had died along with Emma.

‘I’m so sorry, so sorry,’ was all she could say as she wept into his shoulder and the image of Emma had stayed with her during all the days that followed. Even now, the memory had the power to throw her off balance, to bring her back to the unfashionable living room with the olive green carpet and the brocade drapes. And as for Danny . . .

‘What’s that?’ she said to Robert now as they approached the end of their road. The rain was still torrential and the windscreen wipers were having difficulty keeping up.

‘What?’ asked Robert, peering ahead. He looked dazed.

At first, Lynda thought that her memories of Emma had just been transformed into some waking dream that played itself out on the road in front of her. A shimmering figure, luminous in the car headlights, suddenly lurched in front of them and Lynda swerved, pulling the Jeep abruptly to the right.

‘Jesus Christ!’ she heard Robert yell. ‘What the fuck was that?’

Lynda braked, her heart hammering. So he had seen it, too. It wasn’t a ghost. It wasn’t Emma. That much was a relief . . . What was she thinking? Of course it wasn’t Emma, it couldn’t be Emma! The figure that had thrown itself into the path of the Jeep was alive, running – and terrified.

Seared onto Lynda’s retina was a pale, oval face: hair matted, eyes wild and rounded. Mascara, eye shadow – whatever it was – streaming in two muddy rivulets down her cheeks. But what Lynda remembered most was the mouth. Scarlet lips, in the shape of an O. Like Munch, Lynda thought suddenly. That was what she had seen. She had just seen ‘The Scream’ made flesh.

‘Jesus, Robert, that girl is in trouble.’ Lynda sat shocked, trying to put the gear lever into reverse. ‘We have to find her. She looked absolutely terrified.’

‘Where has she gone? Which way did she go?’ Robert was twisting in the passenger seat, looking wildly in every direction. ‘We didn’t imagine her, did we?’ he asked. His face was white. His eyes looked black and deep in the shadows of the car.

Instantly, Lynda knew that the roundabout had sparked off his own memories of Emma. He had fallen asleep and woken suddenly to the sight of a ghostly young woman, fleeing from something that he couldn’t see.

‘Look at me, Robert!’ Lynda cried. ‘She was real, flesh and blood real! We have to find her and help her!’

‘Reverse into that gateway,’ he said, snapping back to himself. ‘She can’t have got far. She had her shoes in her hand.’

‘What?’ Lynda looked at him in horror.

‘She had her shoes in her hand,’ he repeated. ‘Someone must be after her, but I can’t see anyone. Jesus, this weather is getting worse!’

Lynda slammed the Jeep into reverse and bumped against the kerb of the opposite pavement. Robert opened the passenger door and leaned out. ‘You’re fine,’ he said. ‘Miles of room.’

‘Quick, which way do you think she went?’ Lynda started to sob. She was filled with compassion for the frightened girl. Even then, she knew that the emotion was intensified by her memories of Emma. It was as though they were connected, somehow. She had not been able to save Emma, but maybe there was a chance that she and Robert could save this girl, whoever she was. She was somebody’s daughter, somebody’s sister. She could be Katie, in another, parallel life. ‘Where should we try first?’ Lynda tried to calm the storm inside her that she could feel gathering, despite herself.

‘Try that way,’ Robert pointed down the hill. ‘Go down Cedar Walk. But she could have turned off anywhere. We’ll never find her in this weather.’

‘We’ve got to try,’ Lynda said. She began to drive slowly, back down towards the roundabout. She kept peering ahead, stopping whenever anything glimmered in the distance. Robert slid the passenger window open, to try and clear the rain from the glass. ‘I can see nothing,’ he called against the gale. ‘There isn’t even a trace of her.’

‘Let’s give it another twenty minutes,’ said Lynda. ‘She can’t have got that far.’

Robert closed the window, and rubbed his hands together briskly to warm them. ‘Maybe she lives nearby and she’s gone home,’ he said. He sounded suddenly irritable. ‘We can’t just drive around aimlessly all night.’

‘Twenty minutes,’ Lynda repeated, evenly. ‘Just to satisfy myself that she isn’t in a heap on the side of the road somewhere. Then we’ll go home. What if it was Katie?’ she demanded. ‘Wouldn’t you want somebody to help Katie? We can’t just leave her. Jesus, Robert, what if she’s been raped, or something?’

They drove around the new estates for twenty minutes. All the houses that had sprung up around them in recent years, anywhere there had been a gap. Like veins leading to a main artery. Their road, Ashfield Terrace, old-fashioned and sedate, and once sparsely populated, had given birth to Cedar Drive, Cedar Park, Cedar Avenue. Then Sycamore Road, Sycamore Close, The Saplings. The new roads were endless.

But there was no sign of the girl anywhere. She had simply disappeared. And perhaps Robert was right. Perhaps she had fled home from whatever frightened her, and was now safely back inside her own four walls. Reluctantly, Lynda decided it was time to give up. She’d ring the local Garda station when they got home. The girl’s expression haunted her: she’d never forget that face.

She drove to the top of the hill.

As she turned into Ashfield Terrace again, Lynda began looking for clues. Clues to what? She had no idea. For all she knew, the young woman might have been involved in an innocent lovers’ tiff. Even now, she could be back in her boyfriend’s arms, the row forgotten, the drama enjoyed by each of them, transformed into passion.

‘It was one shoe,’ said Robert, suddenly. ‘Just the one shoe.’

Lynda glanced over at him, feeling suddenly cold again. As she approached the driveway, she could see light from their hallway spilling out onto the slick paving.

‘What the . . .’ began Robert.

At the same time, she could feel the thump, thump, thump of rock music vibrating through the metal doors of the Jeep. Robert looked at her, his face aghast. ‘Christ,’ he said, ‘the front door is open. What is he playing at? That racket is . . .’ But he didn’t finish. Instead, he leapt out of the car before Lynda had pulled to a halt. Through the open door, she could hear the pounding bass of Ciarán’s favourite band, Nine Inch Nails.

She wrenched open the driver’s door and slid to the ground, aware of the slippery surface underneath her feet. And then she saw it. A shoe. Cream, high-heeled, studded with sequins.

‘Jesus, no!’ she whispered to herself. She bent down and picked it up. At the same time, the house was plunged into silence. The music had stopped abruptly and the calm was sudden, eerie. Lynda felt something prickle across the back of her neck. She made her way through the open hall door, stepping further and further into silence as she went. Where was Robert? Why hadn’t he come back, or signalled to her to let her know that everything was all right?

She pushed open the door of the living room. Robert was standing with his back to her and his stance was what she remembered from the days after Emma’s death: stiff, poised. Now, he faced Ciarán and Jon, who were both sitting on the floor. Ciarán’s legs were stretched out in front of him, his feet casually crossed at the ankles. The smell of dope was overpowering. Robert’s bottle of Bushmills lay on its side on the carpet, a faint shadow where it had leaked onto the wool. Ashtrays were scattered here and there, beer bottles, packets of cigarettes, Rizla papers.

Lynda stumbled through the doorway. The power seemed to have left her legs.

‘Drunk again, Mum?’ Although it sounded more like ‘Srunk again.’ Ciarán cackled. He tried to draw on the joint in his fingers, but he kept missing his mouth. ‘Fuck it,’ he said.

Robert approached his son. Both of his fists were clenched. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked, his voice very quiet. Ciarán looked at him. ‘Shit, Dad,’ he said. ‘We’re just havin’ a good time, me an’ my ol’ buddy here.’ And he gestured wildly to his left.

Slowly, Lynda looked away from her son to Jon, who was sitting on the floor beside him. His face was blank, white. She didn’t know whether he was drunk, or stoned. ‘Jon?’ she said.

He looked at her, his face impassive. He was nothing like as incapable as Ciarán. He was very quiet, very still. He made no move to speak. For an instant, Lynda thought he looked at her apologetically, shrugging his shoulders ever so slightly. She was about to speak to him again, to challenge him this time, when Ciarán began to laugh. He was pointing at her, his laughter becoming more and more hysterical.

‘The lovely Larissa,’ he kept intoning. ‘The lovely Laaaarissaaaa, all the way from sunny Latviaaaa.’

Robert looked at Lynda. She could see he was about to wade in, to lift Ciarán bodily, to bring this to an end. Already he was moving towards his son. Lynda held up her hand, stalling him for a moment. Who was Larissa? Then she realized. Ciarán was pointing to the cream-coloured shoe she still held in one hand.

‘Does this belong to Larissa?’ she demanded.

Ciarán nodded. He turned to Jon. ‘You remember Larissa, dontcha?’ He put down the joint and the glass of whiskey, freeing up both his hands. ‘The one with the massive . . .’ and he made the gesture for breasts, smiling down at his own handiwork as he did so.

‘Yes,’ Jon replied. ‘I remember your friend, Larissa.’ He reached over and took the joint off the carpet. It had just begun to smoulder.

Lynda looked at him, shocked. He was very sober. His eyes were clear. As he stood, his coordination was fine. Lynda looked at each of the young men in turn. What sort of circus was this?

Suddenly, Ciarán keeled over and slumped against the green armchair. Almost at once, he began to snore.

Jon stood and put up both his hands, warding off the attack that Lynda could see Robert was about to make. ‘Lynda, Robert, hear me out.’ His poise astonished her and she found his use of their Christian names offensive. They were not equals here. He was a guest in their home, one who had just abused their hospitality.

‘I tried to stop him, truly I did. It started off with a few beers, and I was fine with that.’ He paused. ‘I wanted to buy some, but he kicked up a huge fuss. Said there were loads here and I could get some for another night.’ He shrugged, his lips trembling. ‘I think he’d already had a few joints by the time he got home because he was acting all weird. I didn’t know what to do.’

‘Why didn’t you call us, if you were so worried?’ Robert’s voice was harsh.

Jon looked at Robert. Lynda could see all the things he wouldn’t say, couldn’t say. He’s not a babysitter, she thought, Ciarán isn’t Jon’s responsibility. His voice was low, calm. ‘I wasn’t worried, exactly. I thought something had happened, and maybe a few beers would help him get it off his chest, whatever it was.’

‘And?’ Robert prompted.

‘I don’t think that I should—’ Jon began.

‘Forget any misplaced loyalty,’ said Robert. ‘What’s going on with him?’ His voice was almost a snarl. Jon stood up straight, met Robert eye to eye.

‘We played some music and shared a couple of joints. There’s no point in lying to you about that. We did nothing wrong.’

Robert interrupted him. ‘I’ll be the judge of that. Tell me what you talked about, what was going on with him.’

‘He kept going on about wanting to get out of college. He said that you wouldn’t understand.’

Robert made a gesture of impatience. Lynda put her hand on his arm. ‘Let’s hear Jon out,’ she said quietly.

‘The next thing I knew,’ Jon continued, ‘this girl Larissa was on the doorstep. Ciarán said he’d met her last weekend at a club – Zeitgeist, I think – and that she was really good fun.’

‘Good fun?’ asked Robert bluntly. ‘What does that mean?’

Jon looked uncomfortable. He glanced in Lynda’s direction.

‘Go ahead, Jon,’ said Robert. His voice was cold, his anger contained for now. ‘You won’t shock us.’

‘Look, it all started out harmless enough. We’d a few drinks, then she arrived. I made myself scarce.’

Lynda interrupted him. ‘Why did she run away from this house like a bat out of hell?’

Jon looked surprised. ‘Did she? I didn’t know. I went upstairs after she arrived and stayed in my room until about half an hour ago. I didn’t even know she’d left at that stage.’ He pointed towards the hallway. ‘I came down because the front door was open and there was a gale blowin’ through the house. Doors were slamming everywhere. I’ve done nothin’ wrong,’ he said again, his tone suddenly defensive.

‘Why, if you were so concerned, did you leave the door flying open?’ demanded Robert.

‘Because Ciarán insisted I did. Your woman had thrown a strop but he said she’d be back. I could see he was in a bad way and I didn’t want to make things worse. Look, I haven’t done anything here.’

Robert pointed to the empty whiskey bottle. ‘I suppose you haven’t had any of that, either? Or the dope?’

‘I told you, I smoked a couple of joints, yeah, but Ciarán drank the whiskey. Him and Larissa. I’m not your son’s keeper.’ Jon was becoming agitated. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes blazing. ‘Ciarán was the one who wanted to party. Try stopping him when he gets started! When he really wants to do something. But obviously, you both hold me responsible.’ He stood his ground, just as he had on the day Lynda met him first. He looked her in the eye, then Robert. ‘I’ll pack my stuff and leave, if that’s how you feel. I won’t be where I’m not wanted or trusted.’

‘You have nowhere to go,’ Robert said, evenly.

‘Thank you, sir, for reminding me of that,’ Jon retorted. ‘Then I’m no worse off than I was a few months ago. I’ll find a hostel. I don’t need anybody to tell me I have no home to go to.’ And he turned to leave the room.

Lynda felt her anxiety rise like sap. ‘Wait. Jon. Wait. Nobody’s trying to blame you. But something has happened here tonight and we need to get to the bottom of it. He obviously can’t tell us anything right now.’ She gestured towards Ciarán. ‘We’d appreciate anything you know about how he was feeling, anything at all about what happened here this evening.’

‘Lynda . . .’ Robert began.

She turned to face him. ‘No, Robert, you listen to me now. I’ve tried to explain to you before about Ciarán’s rages. Just because he’s been better-behaved in the last couple of months doesn’t mean that the problem has gone away. This,’ and she gestured towards her son’s slumped body beside her, ‘is not a total surprise to me. I’m asking Jon – as a gesture of friendship – to tell us anything that might help us help Ciarán. That’s all.’

Jon nodded slowly. ‘I’ll tell you what I know. But I don’t think I’ll be much help.’

Lynda felt tiredness engulf her. ‘Well, either way, you can’t leave at this time of night and in that storm. I’ll make tea and we’ll talk.’

‘What about Ciarán?’ said Robert. ‘We should try to sober him up, shouldn’t we? Make sure he’s safe to go asleep? We can’t leave him in this state.’ His anger was abating. Lynda could see it drain away, leaving him as exhausted as she suddenly felt.

‘You and Jon get him up on his feet, try to get him walking. I’ll make the tea and we’ll get him to drink some. Other than that, I don’t know what we can do.’

‘How much did he have?’ Robert turned to Jon. His tone was conciliatory. Lynda was glad. Jon wasn’t guilty of anything: Ciarán was the one lying insensible on the ground.

‘He and the girl polished off the bottle of whiskey. Before that, he had about three beers and a few joints. I don’t know how many. And I don’t know what else. I was in my room from just after Larissa arrived.’

‘What time was that?’

‘Maybe about half-past eight, nine o’clock?’

‘What was he thinking?’ said Lynda. ‘He knew we’d be back.’

‘Not thinking at all,’ said Robert grimly. ‘That’s what seems to be the problem. Give me a hand here, Jon.’

Together, they hauled Ciarán to his feet. His body was limp, his face pale and shadowed. Something struck Lynda. She turned to Jon. ‘What did you mean when you said you didn’t know “what else”?’

Jon looked at her blankly.

‘Just now,’ Lynda insisted. ‘You listed the beer and the whiskey and then said you didn’t know “what else”. What did you mean by that?’

He looked away from her.

‘Jon, whatever it is, we need to know. This is our son, and he’s in trouble.’ Robert’s voice was beginning to crack.

‘We won’t say where we got the information,’ Lynda said. ‘Please, Jon. This is more important than you know.’ Lynda could see reluctance written all over his face. ‘That’s a promise.’

‘You’ve been very good to me,’ said Jon. His eyes were translucent against the pallor of his face. ‘I can’t say for sure tonight, but I know that Ciarán takes coke. And ecstasy. On a regular basis.’

Lynda could hear the intensity of the silence that gathered itself around them. Something seemed to have stopped, and remained suspended in the air.

‘And just how do you know that?’ asked Robert, sharply.

‘Because I’ve seen him buy it.’

‘And you don’t? You don’t indulge, yourself?’ Robert was trying to keep Ciarán upright, but he was losing the battle. Even with Jon’s help, Ciarán had become a dead weight. His body kept on sliding towards the floor.

‘I can’t afford to,’ Jon said, simply. ‘I don’t have the cash. And if I did, if I turned up to even one modelling job stoned, or hungover or with a runny nose, that’s it. No more work.’

Ciarán began to moan. ‘Let him lie down, Robert, and turn him on his side. I think he’s going to be sick.’ Lynda dashed into the kitchen and grabbed a bowl and a towel. She ran back to the living room and dropped to her knees beside her son’s prone form. ‘Get me some water, Jon, will you?’

He obeyed instantly. She turned her face to Robert as they both knelt on the floor. ‘There’s no point in interrogating Jon,’ she said, keeping her voice to a whisper. ‘Anyway, what he does or doesn’t do is not the issue. It’s Ciarán we need to deal with. So drop it for tonight, okay? We may have to bring Ciarán to Casualty if he doesn’t come round very soon.’

Robert nodded. ‘Okay. I hear you.’

Jon returned and poured a pint glass of cold water into the bowl at Lynda’s knees. She soaked a corner of the towel and began to dab at Ciarán’s temples. Then she moistened his lips. They looked cracked and dry. By now, his head was turning first one way, then the other, his moans intensifying.

Jon went back to the kitchen and reappeared by her side, this time with a tumbler filled with water and ice. ‘If we lift his head, I think I can try to get him to drink some of this,’ he said.

Robert positioned himself behind Ciarán’s head and lifted it, letting it rest back against his knees. Jon eased a plastic straw between his lips. ‘C’mon, buddy,’ Lynda heard him say. The tenderness in his voice brought a lump to her throat. Just then, Ciarán’s eyes opened. The pupils were hugely dilated and Lynda wondered what he was seeing. Suddenly, he lurched to one side, retching. Lynda placed the bowl under his mouth, just in time.

‘Thank Christ for that,’ muttered Robert, holding his son’s head. ‘I thought he was in a coma.’

A good twenty minutes later, Ciarán struggled into sitting and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked bewildered. ‘What’s going on?’ he said. ‘What’s happening?’

‘You tell us,’ said Robert. Now that the crisis seemed to be over, Lynda could see the fury gathering across his face. She reached out, put a hand on his arm.

‘Not tonight, Robert. It’s almost one a.m. It’s been a hell of an evening, one way or another. Let’s leave it till the morning.’

Robert nodded but said nothing.

‘I can’t remember what happened,’ Ciarán said. His pupils were still huge. ‘Am I in trouble?’

‘Come on, mate,’ said Jon, gently. ‘We’ll go up the stairs together. Things’ll be better in the morning.’ He reached out and took firm hold of Ciarán’s arm. He draped it around his own shoulders and half-pulled, half-carried him towards the stairs.

Robert began to follow but Jon turned to him. ‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘I’ve got him. I can manage him from here.’

Lynda watched as both boys made for the door. ‘Will you help me remember?’ she heard Ciarán whisper, as he shuffled along.

‘Sure. Sure I will. Just let’s get you upstairs and into bed. Then we can talk.’

Lynda turned to see Robert’s face fill with grief. As though he had just lost someone. She put her arms around him. ‘It’s okay,’ she murmured. ‘It’ll be okay. Thank God he had Jon with him.’

Robert wiped his eyes quickly, with the back of one hand. ‘For small mercies, at least,’ he said. ‘And now, I need a drink. Will you join me?’

‘Yes,’ said Lynda. ‘I’m weary. Weary and empty.’

Robert handed her a tumbler of whiskey. ‘Here. There’s none left of the good stuff.’

She smiled. ‘Don’t think I’d notice.’

The following morning, Lynda’s head felt light with lack of sleep. Something hot and sandy scratched across the back of her eyes. She had heard Ciarán and Jon murmur long into the night. Jon had made frequent trips downstairs for water and ice. Lynda, unable to sleep, had got up several times, and knocked on Ciarán’s door. She felt like an intruder.

Sometimes, Jon answered, his finger to his lips. Over his shoulder, she could see Ciarán, his face to the wall. He was restless, mostly. Even the room felt unquiet. Other times, the door remained closed, resolute. Once, she had eased it open to see Jon lying on the floor beside Ciarán’s bed, a sleeping bag thrown over him, a cushion under his head. She’d been about to go in search of a spare duvet, but something told her to leave well enough alone. She’d stepped back onto the landing then, pulling the door silently to.

Ciarán came downstairs at about ten o’clock. His eyes were red, his skin dry and blotchy. ‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ he said, as he came into the kitchen. Jon followed him. Despite the late night, Jon looked rested and alert. Lynda was struck by how polished he seemed, particularly compared with Ciarán. She put her arms around her son without a word. He began to sob, the way he used to when he was five. He clung to her. Jon waited, a discreet distance away.

‘I don’t know what’s going on,’ Ciarán sobbed. His face was distraught. ‘I need to try and work out what happened last night. Right, Jon?’ He turned to Jon, who was hovering at the doorway. ‘I can’t remember anything after the joints. I don’t even know anyone called Larissa. At least, I don’t think I do. I don’t know what’s happening to me.’ He looked back at Lynda now, his eyes wide and terrified. ‘I just don’t know what’s happening. I don’t even know if I did anything to her. Jon said she ran out of the house, like I’d scared her.’

‘Sit down, Ciarán,’ said Lynda. When she looked again, Jon had disappeared. She felt grateful to him for his discretion. ‘We have a lot to talk about.’

He nodded, his expression eager for forgiveness. There was no rage, this time, no aggression. Now there was only fear.

‘Even if last night had never happened,’ Lynda said, aware of the need to tread carefully, ‘there are things you need to talk to us about.’

‘Like what?’ his face was bewildered.

‘Whatever it is you’re taking,’ said Lynda bluntly. ‘Drugs can make you paranoid.’

‘It was only dope,’ said Ciarán. He looked away from her. And there it was again, the old evasiveness. Why lie about it now, she thought, wearily.

Just then, Jon came back into the kitchen. ‘I’m really sorry to interrupt,’ he said, ‘but I have to go. I have a photo shoot in an hour.’ He paused. ‘Maybe Ciarán might like to come with me?’

Ciarán nodded, his face brightening. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Yeah, I would. We can keep on trying to figure out last night. Right, Jon?’

‘Sure,’ said Jon. He smiled at Ciarán and Lynda felt soothed by his presence. His affection for Ciarán had been obvious throughout it all. Even Robert had been impressed.

‘He’s a good lad, young Jon,’ he’d said as they finally fell into bed. ‘He really cares for Ciarán. I’m sorry if I was a bit hard on him earlier.’

Lynda had hesitated. It was nothing she could explain to Robert, nothing she could even articulate to herself, but something about Jon’s ownership of Ciarán’s distress had disturbed her. She approved of their friendship, of course, was grateful for it – but something about the way Jon had taken over made her feel uneasy. It seemed as though there had been a kind of smugness to his being in charge. She shook the thought away. Jon was loyal to Ciarán; they looked out for one another. That was all.

She’d reached over then and kissed Robert. ‘Don’t worry about being hard on him,’ she’d said. ‘He’ll get over it. Everyone’s emotions are running high. We’ll gather our forces tomorrow.’

‘No matter what happens,’ Robert had said, ‘I’ll be home by seven at the latest tomorrow night. We can’t let this slide. We’ll have to confront Ciarán. Christ only knows what’s waiting in the wings if he did any harm to that girl.’

He’d put his arms around Lynda, kissed the back of her neck. ‘I love you.’ He’d slept, curled around her, keeping close. She’d held his hand in hers. But his words had haunted Lynda all night. If he did any harm to that girl. Even when she’d slept, fitfully, the girl, Larissa’s, face was always before her eyes. Ciarán’s memory loss terrified her. What if it was caused by something he wanted to deny, something that was too impossible to admit?

Now, this morning, Lynda felt that it would be a relief to spend some hours on her own, without the constant reminder of Jon and Ciarán, Ciarán and Larissa, everywhere she looked. ‘That’s not a bad idea,’ she said now. ‘You could both do with a change of scene. But I want you home by seven, at the latest. Robert will be here by then. And we will all sit down together and talk this through.’ She wanted to make sure Jon knew he was included.

Ciarán shuffled himself into the jacket that Jon handed him. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘And maybe I’ll have a handle on it all by then.’

Lynda felt a sharp pang of grief. He looked so lost. And he seemed to have got thinner, smaller. It was something she noticed only now, as he zipped up the oversized jacket.

‘Either he is a superb liar,’ Robert had said to her earlier that morning, before they came downstairs, ‘or he was genuinely so out of it that his memory is a blank. I just don’t know what to think.’

She sat at the table after Jon and Ciarán had left. They’d refused a lift. Jon said the walk to the Dart would do them both good. She wished Robert was home. Her life felt precarious, more fragile than it ever had before. As she looked around her, she saw a house of cards, ready to topple if there was even one more tremor.

By midday, Lynda had had enough of the silences of the empty house. She couldn’t work, couldn’t concentrate. She needed to call Katie, now that last night had happened. A weekend in Toulouse was impossible, with Ciarán the way he was. They couldn’t leave him on his own. And Katie deserved to know the truth. She was old enough not to be fobbed off with excuses. Lynda reached for her mobile and discovered that it was out of charge. She took the house phone and dialled her daughter’s number. To her relief, Katie answered at once.

‘Mum, what’s wrong? You were supposed to call me last night. Why didn’t you answer my texts?’

‘I’m sorry, love – my battery ran out. We’re okay, but I have something to tell you.’

‘I’m coming home,’ Katie said, once Lynda had finished.

‘No, Katie, there’s probably no need and anyway . . .’ Lynda could hear her voice trail away. Suddenly, Katie at home seemed like a very good idea.

‘I don’t care what you say. I’m on my way,’ Katie’s voice was firm. ‘Today. There’s a flight tomorrow I can make if I organize myself. I’ll keep in touch. And put your mobile on charge, Mum.’

Lynda smiled. ‘I will,’ she said.

After she’d hung up, Lynda felt energized. She cleaned up the living room, searching for anything that might help her understand what had happened the previous night. The cream shoe was there, a poignant reminder. She could see Larissa’s face all over again; the open mouth, the ghostly dress, the rain-soaked hair. And one thing was sure. That girl had been fleeing from something that absolutely terrified her.

Suddenly, Lynda decided she couldn’t just sit there and do nothing any more. This house no longer felt like home. She needed to get out. And there was supermarket shopping that needed to be done. A distraction, of sorts.

She gathered together clothes for the dry cleaner’s: Robert’s suit from last night; Ciarán’s trousers; her silk dress, probably destroyed by the rain. Before she left, Lynda put the cream high-heeled shoe into her car. She’d search the local shoe shops, see if she could find anything similar. It was a long shot, but she needed to do something. It felt as though there was a web surrounding her, one that needed to be untangled, strand by sticky strand, before it suffocated her.

She locked the front door, checking several times that it was secure. For a moment, she felt as though she was going through the motions. Nothing had kept Danny out of her home. Security was an illusion.

She passed the roundabout, Emma’s roundabout. Lynda negotiated the traffic carefully, aware that some part of her was still distracted. She needed to focus. When she arrived at the shopping centre, she was astonished at how normal everything seemed. People went about their business; babies cried; teenagers lit cigarettes, huddled around shop doorways. It was hard not to feel that everyone else must have been shaken up, just as she was. She and her family; her universe. But the rest of the world gave no sign of it. Lynda parked the car and made her way across the pedestrian crossing into the shopping centre.

As she passed the shoe shop, Lynda glanced at the plate glass window. Boots were reduced. Heavy winter footwear was gradually making way for sandals and smart leather heels. Not that we ever have much of a summer, she thought. And there was nothing in the window that resembled the cream shoe that lay, she now realized, behind the passenger seat of her car. She was annoyed with herself for not having put it into her shopping bag.

Lynda decided to bypass the supermarket and go straight to the dry-cleaner’s. She wanted to get rid of the bag of clothing she carried. Apart from anything else, it was tainted with bad memories. As she went by she glanced at the checkouts, trying to see how busy they were. Lynda hated queuing. She’d rather sit and wait somewhere else until things calmed down, buy a newspaper and a cup of coffee. Waiting in line was such a waste of . . .

She froze. The girl had her back to Lynda, of course she did, but there was something familiar about that profile, that white-blonde hair. Unaware of any scrutiny, the girl at the checkout continued to scan groceries, pushing them to the end of the belt where a harassed-looking woman with three children was attempting to pack them away. One child was on her hip, howling. One was in a buggy, wrestling with the restraining strap. The third was attempting to help, but had just dropped a carton of eggs on the ground. Lynda could swear that she heard them smash, although she was much too far away. But it seemed that every other noise had stilled: the howling, the rattle of trolleys, the conversations around her.

It was Larissa. She was sure of it. Lynda looked around her, aware of the perspiration already beading across her upper lip. She could not lose this girl, could not even lose sight of her – but she had to go back to the car for the cream shoe. Without it, she might not be able to convince this girl that she had seen her flee, that she understood her terror. That she wanted to help her.

That she needed to save her son.

Lynda dumped the bag of clothes beside a litter bin. She didn’t care if they were stolen by the time she got back: she could run a lot faster without them. She hurried out of the mall, breaking into a run as soon as she reached the car park. It had filled up in her absence. People were circling, waiting for spaces. All the shops were offering special deals for the weeks leading to Easter. Suddenly, shoppers had become very cagey with their money. She reached her car and yanked open the passenger door.

‘You leavin’, Missus?’ she heard.

A car hovered just behind her, its hazard lights blinking. Lynda didn’t waste time replying. She reached in behind the seat and grabbed the single shoe. She stuffed it into her handbag, locked the car and pressed the alarm fob. The tail lights blinked twice.

‘No need to be so rude!’ she heard a voice call after her. ‘Snooty bitch!’ But she didn’t care. She raced back to the supermarket, her heart hammering. She was still there. Thank God. The girl was still there. It was Larissa, wasn’t it? The similarity was too striking to be a coincidence. There was only one way to find out.

Pulling the bag of clothes from its spot beside the litter bin, Lynda walked quickly into the supermarket. The line at Larissa’s checkout had lengthened. Lynda took a basket from the pile at the door and made her way to the aisle that led directly to her. She flung items at random from the shelves into the basket. She didn’t care what she bought, as long as the line led her to Larissa. Now all she had to do was wait.

As Lynda approached the checkout, she glanced at her watch. Almost lunchtime. Would the girl be due a break, she wondered. If so, that would be a perfect opportunity to buy her a cup of coffee and speak to her away from supermarket prying eyes.

Lynda was last in the queue. She prayed that no one else would join it. She needed to speak to Larissa on her own, to see her reaction. She was prepared for the girl to run, too. She placed the items from her basket carefully onto the belt and smiled at the girl, noting with relief that her name badge was clearly visible on her uniform. There it was, in black and white. Larissa.

‘Hello, Larissa,’ she said, and pushed the packets of spaghetti and penne along the belt towards her. ‘My name is Lynda. You won’t remember me, but we’ve seen each other before.’ She glanced over her shoulder. But no one else had joined the queue.

The girl smiled. ‘Hello,’ she said, her accent obvious even in that one word. The ‘h’ almost guttural, the vowels foreshortened. ‘Here?’ she said, scanning the packets. ‘We see each other here, yes?’

Lynda shook her head. ‘No, Larissa. Not here. Last night. Out on the street. The weather was very bad.’

The girl blinked. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I stay home on last night. Bad storm.’ And she continued to concentrate on her work. But her face had paled and her hands weren’t as certain as they had been.

‘Larissa,’ Lynda said gently. ‘I want to help you. You are not in any trouble. I just want to talk.’

Larissa looked up, her lip trembling. ‘Please,’ she said. ‘Go away.’

‘Have coffee with me now. I promise I will go away then if you want me to. It’s lunchtime. Take your break,’ Lynda urged. She reached into her handbag and withdrew the tip of the shoe, just enough for Larissa to recognize it as hers. The girl looked as if she was going to be sick. Lynda felt sorry for her. ‘It’s yours, isn’t it?’

Larissa nodded, bit her lip. Even if she had lied, her face would have given her away.

Poor kid, Lynda thought. ‘I’ll wait for you outside. We’ll go to Bernie’s coffee shop. I promise, all I want to do is help. Half an hour of your time, that’s all I ask.’

Larissa put the ‘closed’ sign on the checkout and signalled to someone Lynda couldn’t see – she was afraid to turn around, in case Larissa disappeared from sight.

‘We go now,’ Larissa said. She pulled a fleece from a shelf to the left of her chair and led the way to the front entrance. She did not speak again until she and Lynda sat at a table in the coffee shop, facing each other.

‘What would you like?’ Lynda asked.

‘Coffee.’

‘Two coffees, please,’ Lynda said to the waitress who hovered.

‘It’s lunchtime,’ the waitress said impatiently. ‘There’s a cover charge.’

‘Fine,’ said Lynda. ‘Bring us two coffees and two sandwiches, please.’

‘What sort?’ Her tone was cross now.

‘Cheese,’ said Larissa.

‘Two cheese, please.’

The waitress disappeared.

‘Who are you?’ asked Larissa.

Lynda noticed her nails were bitten. Up close, her skin was rough, pock-marked. She wore no make-up today: no rivulets of mascara ran down her cheeks. She searched Lynda’s face, her blue eyes cloudy with anxiety. She had begun twisting a cheap ring around her thumb.

‘I was driving the car that you almost ran into last night,’ Lynda said. ‘I could see how frightened you were and I drove around the streets looking for you, but I couldn’t find you. The only thing I did find was this shoe.’

‘You are the mother, yes, of the boy?’

‘Yes,’ said Lynda, her heart sinking. ‘I am the mother.’

The waitress returned and placed the cups of coffee on the table. Liquid sloshed out of each of them, pooled in the saucers. Any other time, Lynda thought . . . She waited until the sandwiches were put in front of them before attempting to speak again. But Larissa got there first.

‘I am not prostitute,’ she hissed suddenly, her eyes lighting up with anger.

Lynda didn’t have to pretend to be surprised. ‘I never thought you were! Not for a moment.’ She leaned closer to the girl. ‘But that was my home you were in, and something frightened you. You are not the one in trouble. My son is. But before I can punish him, I need to know what he did.’

‘You do not punish him,’ she said, shaking her head.

‘Yes,’ said Lynda, forcefully. ‘Yes, I will. My husband and I are agreed. My son has behaved badly. He will not get away with it. That’s how it is in our family. You do wrong, you get punished.’ From nowhere, the thought came. Well, not everyone gets punished. Danny got away with it. But that’s not how things would be for Ciarán.

Larissa looked at her, her expression uncertain.

‘He said you would not,’ she dropped her eyes. ‘That you never punish. That he is golden boy.’

Lynda felt sick. ‘What did you call him?’

‘Not me,’ Larissa said. She sipped at her coffee. ‘Him. He called himself that. Golden boy. Apple of your eye.’

Apple of our eye. No point in pretending. Robert’s mother. Emma. All those years ago. Lynda shook away the memory.

‘Listen to me, Larissa. No matter how much we love him, no matter how “golden” he thinks he is, if he . . . if he hurt you, he will pay for that. But he remembers nothing. You have got to tell me.’

Larissa stood, pushing her chair back. ‘See? Remembers nothing? And you believe him? You believe that?’ She leaned down, her face pushed right into Lynda’s. ‘If he hurt me? You do not forget rape, I think.’

Lynda drew back, shocked.

‘See?’ the girl persisted. ‘Already you do not like the truth. You do not come to punish – you come to protect.’ She leaned over, so quickly that Lynda wasn’t fast enough to stop her. She yanked her shoe out of the handbag on Lynda’s lap. ‘This is mine,’ she said and turned to leave.

‘Wait!’ cried Lynda. She grabbed Larissa’s arm. Her elbow caught the coffee cup and it fell to the ground and shattered. Cloudburst of coffee. White shards everywhere, like the morning of the Homer Simpson mug. A lifetime ago. Heads turned, watching them.

‘Tell me where it happened.’ Lynda’s voice was a whisper. Something had begun to stir in her memory. Something that was struggling to come to the surface.

The girl looked puzzled. ‘Where it happen?’ She pulled her arm free. ‘In your house. The house where you see me running.’

‘Sit down. Please.’ Lynda could hear the entreaty in her own voice. The waitress glared at her, dustpan and brush already in her hands. ‘Leave us, please,’ Lynda spoke more sharply than she had intended. She pulled a twenty euro note from her purse. ‘Here, that should cover it. Now, please, give us some privacy here. We won’t be long.’

Surprised, the waitress scooped up the shards of china and quickly ran a cloth over the floor. Then she made herself scarce, tucking the note into the pocket of her uniform.

‘I know it was my house,’ she said, quietly. ‘I know it happened. I believe you, Larissa. I saw how you ran away, how terrified you were.’ She leaned closer, blotting out the other faces in the cafe. ‘I just need you to tell me where in my house.’ She stopped, and prayed.

‘Upstairs,’ Larissa said. Her voice was harsh. ‘Upstairs in your son’s bedroom. He take me there to smoke a joint.’ She paused. ‘I want to stay downstairs, but his friend, he was too drunk and too noisy. So, your son take me upstairs.’

Lynda looked at her. One final, desperate hope. ‘Just answer me one more question, please.’

Larissa nodded. ‘One more. Then I go.’

‘What colour was his hair, the boy who took you upstairs?’

Larissa looked at her as though she was stupid. ‘What colour?’ she repeated.

‘Yes,’ said Lynda. ‘It’s very important. Please.’

She shrugged at the obvious. ‘Golden boy. Blond hair. Like mine.’ She pointed to her head, as though afraid that Lynda might not understand. Lynda could see that she was puzzled. Stupid woman, she could almost hear the girl thinking.

‘Thank you,’ whispered Lynda. ‘Thank you.’

‘Why you thank me?’ Her expression was bewildered.

‘For telling me the truth,’ said Lynda. She scribbled her mobile number on a piece of paper. ‘Take that. Please, keep in touch. This boy will be punished – and not by me. By the police.’

Larissa’s alarm was palpable. She shot out of her chair. ‘No!’ she cried. ‘I tell police it never happen! Go away! Leave me alone!’ And she ran out of the cafe, knocking into tables and chairs as she fled. Lynda let her go. She knew where to find her – and right now, she had other, more urgent things to see to.

Lynda drove fast. Up the hill, past the roundabout. For once, she didn’t care about speed limits, Guards, getting caught. That girl, Larissa, had been telling the truth, no doubt about it. She pulled into the driveway, tyres squealing against the still wet surface. To her relief, Robert’s Jeep was there. Thank God, he was home early. She stumbled out of the car and rummaged in her bag for house keys. She couldn’t find them. Her hands seemed to have stopped working, the fingers frozen and clumsy.

In desperation, she upended her handbag onto the front step and spilled everything out, not caring. Then she had difficulty fitting the key into the lock. Too impatient to try again, she pressed the bell and kept her finger there. She could hear the ring echoing throughout downstairs. She swept everything back into her bag, jamming in the purse that refused to fit.

Through the frosted glass she was able to see Robert make his way down the hallway. Robert and not Jon. Not Ciarán. Just Robert. She almost wept with relief. She pushed the door just as it was opening.

‘Hey!’ said Robert. ‘Steady on! You nearly knocked me over!’

‘Are you on your own? Have the boys come back?’ She was breathless.

Robert looked at her in surprise. ‘No. They’re not here. I’m way earlier than I should be. Why? What’s wrong?’

‘The girl. I found her.’

It took him a couple of seconds to get it. Lynda tried to breathe more evenly.

‘The girl from last night?’ he said. His voice was filled with alarm.

‘Yes. Her name is Larissa. She works in Superquinn. At the checkouts.’ Lynda stopped. ‘I spoke to her, found out what happened.’

‘Take your time,’ Robert said. ‘As it happens, we have all night. Ciarán has just phoned to say that himself and Jon wouldn’t be home tonight. He said they were going to a party, that we could always talk tomorrow. He was aggressive, Lynda. We had a row and he hung up on me. Now he’s not answering his phone.’

Lynda slumped against the kitchen wall. ‘Jesus, Robert. Let’s sit down. You have to listen to me! Just stay with me while I try and work this out.’ She tried to still the hammering of her heart.

‘Take it easy,’ he said. ‘You’re shaking.’

She took off her coat and draped it over one of the kitchen chairs, then she sat, leaning her elbows on the table. ‘The girl, her name is Larissa. She’s eastern European, I think – I didn’t ask. Just heard her accent. I showed her the shoe.’

Robert placed a mug of tea in front of her. ‘And?’

‘She admitted it was hers. Seemed absolutely terrified. I told her she wasn’t in trouble, that Ciarán was the one to be punished.’ She stopped. Tears threatened.

‘Go on,’ said Robert, gently.

‘She didn’t believe me. Said my son was a “golden boy” and I’d protect him, not punish him.’

Robert said nothing for a moment. Then, ‘A reasonable fear, in the circumstances.’

‘But she wasn’t talking about Ciarán.’

Robert looked startled. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘It was Jon. Jon who took her upstairs. Jon who raped her. She called Ciarán “the friend downstairs”. The one who was so drunk and noisy that Jon brought her upstairs to get her away from him.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Robert slowly.

‘I asked her what colour his hair was. She said blond. Said that he called himself Golden Boy.’

‘Jesus Christ!’ said Robert. He looked stricken. ‘What the fuck is going on here?’

Lynda reached over and took his hand. ‘I’ll tell you what’s going on. It’s Danny, Danny is what’s going on. I don’t know how, but the two of them have to be linked, in some way. Jon and Danny. This . . . this spiral has all started to happen since Jon moved in in January. Three months ago. Think about it.’

Robert looked disbelieving. ‘Now, steady on,’ he said. ‘I can accept that Danny is behind the garden stuff but—’

‘Listen to me!’ Lynda’s voice was urgent. ‘I know it sounds bizarre, but I haven’t lost my mind. Trust me. Remember the letters?’

Robert nodded. ‘Of course.’

‘Go get them. Let’s go through them again. With a fine-tooth comb. You said they were “off the wall” and I agreed with you when I read them. But we weren’t reading them right. Danny was warning us. Those letters are full of clues, they have to be.’

He still looked doubtful. ‘I’ll go and get them,’ he said, but she knew by his tone that he was humouring her.

When he left the kitchen, Lynda rummaged in her handbag. She pulled out her mobile phone and scrolled down to Ciarán’s name. She pressed the call button and prayed.

Robert reappeared at the kitchen door as Lynda waited for Ciarán to answer. She held up a hand, making sure Robert wouldn’t speak, as the phone clicked on to Ciarán’s message minder. She kept her voice light.

‘Hi, Ciarán, Mum here. Sorry I missed you. Can you give me a call when you pick this up? I’ve a nice little windfall for you here. Talk soon.’ She snapped closed the cover of her phone. She looked up. Robert hadn’t moved. He was still standing there, just looking at her.

‘What?’ she said. Her mind was buzzing, all her senses on high alert. So many things were beginning to make sense.

‘The letters,’ he said. ‘Danny’s letters. They’re gone.’

They sat, trying to piece together everything that had happened since January. Slowly, like river mist beginning to clear, markers began to stand out. Now Lynda was suspicious about everything.

‘Just think about it for a minute,’ she said. ‘The sensor light not working on the morning of the flat tyres? Jon had stayed over the night before. Remember how I couldn’t understand the way the light worked afterwards? He’d switched it off to let Danny – or whoever – do what they needed to do in the dark. He had to have.

‘And it was exactly the same in the back garden each time something happened. I kept trying to figure out why the light didn’t wake me – thought I must be going mad.’ She stopped, remembering something. ‘And – the morning the garden was destroyed, Jon was the one to come out onto the deck and find me. He was awake because he was the one switching on the lights again.’

She couldn’t slow down. Her mind was making connections, finding links between the improbable and the impossible, illuminating everything.

Robert still looked sceptical.

‘I know I’m right,’ insisted Lynda. She took his hand. ‘And my ring. How else could my ring have disappeared and then suddenly turn up again? You and I don’t lock our bedroom door, Robert. We never did and we lost the key for the door almost as soon as we moved in. We’re trusting people. We believed in Jon.’ She stopped and drew breath. ‘I know that there are pieces of the jigsaw still missing but we’ll find them. In the meantime, Jon is bad news. I don’t know how Danny is pulling his strings, but he is. I’m going to find out. This family is not going to go under.’

Lynda felt filled with a rage she couldn’t describe. It was as though she was suddenly made of steel.

And relieved, at the same time. She wasn’t over-reacting, or over-sensitive. Or over-forgetful. This was a real and tangible threat, and one that existed under her roof.

‘I’m going up to search Jon’s room,’ Lynda said. ‘Maybe there’ll be some clue as to where he comes from, who he is.’ She stopped, and looked at Robert. ‘I don’t even know his surname, do you know that?’

Robert frowned. ‘Didn’t he mention it? I know I asked him.’

‘Can you remember?’

Robert shook his head. ‘It was something ordinary and Irish, like Murphy. Or maybe Power, or Phelan. Something like that, I think. I probably wasn’t paying much attention. I’ll come upstairs with you. God alone knows what you might find.’

Upstairs, Robert tried the handle of Jon’s room. ‘It’s locked,’ he said. ‘We don’t have a key, do we?’

‘Yes, we do now,’ she said. ‘Hang on.’

Lynda went into her bedroom and rummaged for the key in the drawer of her bedside table. It was time to tell Robert. No more secrets. He was looking at her, his expression curious.

‘I got this from a locksmith,’ she said. ‘Seeing as how Ciarán always kept his door locked. And it fits all the internal doors.’

Robert looked at her in surprise. ‘When?’

‘When I searched our son’s room, last summer. I was trying to find out why he was so angry.’

‘I see.’ Robert was taken aback. ‘And did you find anything?’

‘No,’ said Lynda. ‘Though I did find out that I didn’t like myself very much.’ She fitted the key into the lock and turned the handle.

All around the room, Katie’s dolls and teddies had been replaced, as though they had always been there. Robert opened the wardrobe door. It was empty.

As if in a final, mocking farewell, the bed had been stripped. The sheets and pillowcases were folded neatly, the duvet doubled over.

It was as though Jon had never been.

Tonight’s the night, Wide Boy tells the watcher.

What’s more he has insisted that they meet early. Moving things up a gear now, he says. The tyres and the garden rubbish worked out well; the tortoise turned out to be inspired. But now it’s time for the real showdown. This is what we’ve been leading up to, he says, lighting his cigarette behind his cupped hands.

He’s a dirty smoker, the watcher thinks. Clouds of smoke hover around him; his clothes are always speckled with ash. He notes, too, that Wide Boy’s index and middle finger are almost black with nicotine stains. His hair looks greasy tonight and he smells as if he hasn’t washed in a few days.

The watcher recoils slightly as Wide Boy moves closer. Even the cold air outside the pub isn’t enough to dampen down the smells of unpleasantness that seem to halo around him. His breath, his clothes, his hands – it’s as though something dark clings to him. Amy would say that he stinks, frankly.

And it’s yet another pub. Wide Boy will not meet in the same place twice. The watcher hopes that this will be the second to last meeting. Tonight, to plan. Then, next time, to review and pick up his money. And then he’s outta there. Your man has really started to give him the creeps. A fishing boat on Lough Conn and some fresh air have never seemed more appealing than they do tonight.

Right, Wide Boy says, back inside the pub again. He settles himself at the table, pint of Guinness in front of him. Here’s what’s next. The watcher doesn’t like what he’s hearing. Breaking and entering was never his style. Doin’ damage to a garden is one thing, but actually stepping inside a house? Even when Wide Boy explains that it’s only technically breaking and entering, he’s not convinced. Of course he’s not. He knows the law. If he’s caught, it doesn’t matter that he hasn’t stolen anything: he’s still technically a burglar. No can do, the watcher tells him. Absolutely not. At the same time, he is aware of a creeping, uncomfortable sensation, as though he is being dragged slowly towards a precipice. First the top of the garden wall was the deal; then the garden itself; and now the inside of the house? He feels as though he is being sucked into something, that control has somehow been stolen from him while he wasn’t watching.

Then Wide Boy goes all steely on him. Oh really? he says. Then I’ll have to turn over your recordings to the cops; particularly the one that has you giving the thumbs-up to the camera. Remember? The one where you’re vandalizing a back garden? He shrugs. It’s my civic duty.

The watcher could kick himself for that one bit of stupid vanity. What had he been thinking? He can feel his mouth go dry. There’s no danger of you being caught, Wide Boy goes on, taking a good slug of Guinness. You’ve logged the movements yourself. Mrs L is never at home on a Friday morning. A smile flickers. She teaches gardening, remember? House is empty until lunchtime. All you have to do is make a bit of a mess. Here he smiles broadly. ‘Show that the citadel has been stormed. Know what I mean?’

The watcher feels a wave of nausea that stops close to where he swallows. Should he just cut and run? Take the risk that Wide Boy would never want to explain where he got those images from? He’s been paid two grand already. But Wide Boy seems to read his mind. He leans closer. ‘There’s another five hundred in it, on top of the three grand I already owe you. And the job’s risk free. Safe as houses.’ And he laughs at his own joke.

The watcher is tempted. Take Amy abroad on a holiday as well. They haven’t been away to the sun together in donkeys’. And Wide Boy has delivered on all the other stuff he promised: a good hiding place, no unpleasant surprises, even the sensor light disabled. Maybe it would be all right.

And so he agrees. Reluctantly, but nevertheless. Wide Boy nods and closes his eyes briefly. It’s an expression that says he never had any doubt.

Today’s Tuesday. They agree on this Friday, three days’ time. No point in waiting for another week, although WB tries to push him on it. A little more air between the tortoise Event and this one might have been better, he says. Particularly as he has other things in the mix as well, ramping up the volume. The watcher doesn’t rise to this bit of bait and he is adamant about pressing ahead. He wants to get it over with.

He leaves the pub before Wide Boy. His head is buzzing. If he could find a way out of this, he would. He doesn’t like all this breaking and entering crap.

Doesn’t like it at all . . .