The rain starts around the time I ask Clarke to pull through a pair of wrought-iron gates just outside Currolough en route to Gerald’s house, the Drumlish way. Neither of us have spoken much on the drive back down here – both lost in thought, a talk show on the radio filling up the space between us. So when I request the unscheduled stop, he looks surprised but says nothing. Perhaps he thinks I’m unwell. When he spots the sign for the cemetery, Clarke glances quickly over at me.
It’s a tiny graveyard, set on a hill overlooking the fields that lead into the town. You can see a glimpse of Lake Lagan, just a skim of dark beyond the valley before it dips down towards the sea. All around is a patchwork of purples and greens, tiny dots of livestock grazing in fields, the soft grey of damp rooftops, stark straight lines of electricity wires dissecting the otherwise blurry landscape. He eases the car into a space in front of the cemetery caretaker’s small stone building and turns off the engine. I stare straight ahead at the wet stone, trying to slow my breathing.
‘Why are we here?’ he asks gently, but I don’t have the words to explain what I have to do.
‘Do you mind if we sit here a minute?’
I’m trying to find the strength to get out of the car. This isn’t the first time I’ve done this, you see. It’s not the first time that I’ve driven here and sat as close to the slabs scratched with sad words as I can without actually confronting them. Every time, the power of my grief has prevented me from walking up over there – to the two graves on the right side of the slope – and to just be with them. The closest I got, the time before, was to the gate, a few weeks after the accident, where I hung on, shaking. Roe called it a panic attack. All I knew was that my feet refused to walk the short distance to see their freshly filled-in plots – even with Aunt Roe by my side, coaxing me forward. Now I try to coax myself: People do this all the time, Ally. Besides, it’s been more than twenty-five years. It might even help.
Water pours from the gutter of the stone building, washing down the sides, turning the grey stone wall even greyer. Clarke remains on high alert.
In some ways, I think the longer I’ve left it to bring myself here, the bigger this moment has become in my head. I close my eyes, thinking how much I’d kill for a cigarette right now. My stomach flutters. I have new motivations – ones that don’t involve the sticky haze of tobacco, or thorny armour, or the need to be loved at any cost. These new chapters require confronting my devastating past.
We sit in silence for a few minutes. Clarke shifts uncomfortably beside me, struggling probably to say the right thing. After a while, I eventually speak.
‘That story Cynthia Shields was going to run on Nancy…’ I say, glancing out of my window, past the iron railings, towards the tombstones. Through the rain-splattered windscreen, it looks like an impressionist painting – dots of colour distorting into each other, creating wet, shapeless forms. ‘That story, it doesn’t feel quite right,’ I continue. ‘There’s so much more to it than she realises. But I do have another idea.’ I turn to look at him. ‘But I need to check and see what you think first.’
Across, through Clarke’s driver window, I watch the blur of an elderly couple support each other as they walk back from the stone crosses and towards their own car, heads bent against the wind. There’s a large gardening trowel in the man’s hand. Maintaining the last patch in the world for their loved ones. That’s the true labour of love.
‘What if we gave Cynthia a steer on an interesting case from a few years back? One involving the country’s biggest law firm – and an incident that was covered up.’ I give Clarke a half-smile. I’m not sure how he’ll take it.
Clarke’s eyes widen in shock. ‘You don’t mean…’
I nod. ‘Kim might get her justice after all. Or some form of it anyway,’ I say quietly. ‘I’m confident Shields won’t leave any stone unturned. I trust that she’d document it sensitively. There could even be more women. Either way, Simon Glennon’s actions will be put under the spotlight once she comes knocking. Kim can do it anonymously. Or not at all. There’s absolutely no obligation.’
Clarke looks at me, stock still. He has a strange expression on his face – a sadness I know is probably tinged with regret too. I remember how he said they’d been trying for a baby. ‘Thank you, Ally.’
I soften my tone. ‘Maybe she’d prefer not to dredge up the past?’
He considers the question. The fine lines around his eyes crinkle as he thinks of what this might mean – to them both. ‘I’ll speak to her. But, knowing Kim, she’s most likely going to want that bastard to pay for what he did to her.’
Clarke rubs his hands over his face. His eyes shine. A quiet kind of misery. I put my hand on his arm lightly. It’s the first time I’ve touched him since we sat on the floor in my apartment, and he looks up. The rain drumming staccato beats on the roof of Clarke’s SUV is getting heavier. It’s now or never. It’s time to do what I’ve been avoiding for so long.
‘Okay.’ I take my hand away. ‘I won’t be long.’ I take a breath and open the car door.
‘Ally.’ He throws me an umbrella. ‘Take this or you’ll get soaked.’ Raindrops scatter into the puddles with the force of the door slamming. Outside the air is salty-fresh. I’ve always loved when the rain first falls – that damp, leafy tang. I walk towards the gates to the graveyard.
I take a right to where I know the graves I seek lie – the ones with Fields chiselled into the heavy slabs, embossed with formal gold swirls. I should have brought flowers, I think, as I see the pretty rose garlands and displays of cheerful plants at the base of others, the petals softening the cruel lines of marble and granite. A voice in my head tells me it’s too hard, that I should go back. My feet drag. I wish those I loved lay anywhere but here. I focus on controlling my breathing. ‘We can do hard things, Ally,’ Sammy always said. ‘You’ve got this.’
But this pain is unmanageable. The deafening sound of water rushes through my senses. That feeling of being underwater, the crashing of waves against my brain. I force my feet forward reminding myself that I’ve new motivations now.
And then, there they are. It’s just me and them.
I cry out, my hand to my mouth, the brutality of having nothing but cold stone and distorted memories left of them. I picture the warm flesh of their touch, the eyes that tried to smile as I approached, no matter the mood.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, kneeling heavily into the pools of rainwater that have gathered on the surface of the grass. I pull my hood up over my head like a shield, the umbrella useless against this windy onslaught. ‘I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you both.’
Brendan went in after her you see. I always thought Mother had brought him with her, but Sammy and I prefer to think he went in to try and save Mother. It’s silly, I know, but I want them to see my bump – to see that life can bloom, despite a lack of sunshine.
What I say next rests between us – between shoulder-wracking sobs and words that should have been said aloud a long time ago. I let some of the anger empty from my pores and down into the soggy grass beneath. What’s left is a different type of pain – the sting replaced by a dullness I know is probably healthier, in a way. And when I finish saying what I came to say, I look up to the swirling clouds and let the rain fall on my face. I think of all the times we stood in the field near our house and invited this type of drenching – a battle cry to the universe to do its worst. Now I’m here with my own unborn child and I do the same. A defiance to the elements – here I am, and I’m not going to let this stop me. No more, I say softly.
No more.
As I make my way back to the car slowly, I spot Clarke at the other side of the main gates – to the left of the caretaker’s office. His fancy shirt is soaked through, stuck salmon pink in places against the skin of his back. He’s crouched down by a small statue of a mother and child and looks up over his shoulder as I approach. His hair is dark and dishevelled with rain and suddenly I feel something I can’t explain.
All I know is that next to Clarke I feel safe. And I haven’t felt that in many years.
‘Baby Liam Wills,’ I read what he’s pointing at. ‘Taken from us.’
I touch the chilly curve of marble and shiver as I make another promise. This one I know I can keep. For Nancy’s sake. At the car, Clarke distributes the snacks he’s packed.
‘Baby’s probably hungry.’ He shrugs, taking a bite of his own apple when I raise my eyebrows. I think once more how like Sammy he really is. He stretches to place the umbrella into the back seat, and I try to ignore the flash of exposed skin.
Hormones, Ally.
As we pull out of the cemetery, the light is fading fast. A creeping dullness seems to follow us as we head east towards Drumlish – towards Haycote Manor, towards Gerald Barrows’s house.
It’s already dark when we get here. But the meeting with the solicitor in the Drumlish Arms Hotel isn’t for another hour. We are taking a chance we’ll catch him here first. As we drove from the cemetery, I explained my theory to Clarke. I told him what I’d discovered.
‘Jesus Christ, of course. It makes sense,’ he says now, leaning forward to try and see the driveway through the windscreen wipers. Even though they’re on the highest setting, the rain is making visibility almost impossible. He shakes his head in disbelief. ‘But why?’
‘That’s what I’m trying to figure out,’ I say, rubbing the persistent ligament pain on my side with my thumb and index finger. I feel incredibly swollen and exhausted. I know I should be sitting with my feet up directing someone to make the crib that’s still currently sitting in the box by my bed, but if I’m right, the Wills case could be about to draw to a close. Or one part of it at least. The emotional fallout from what happened the night of the fire is another matter entirely. That could take years to untangle.
The wind hits the car sideways. I can feel the pull of it against the steering as Clarke battles to keep it steady. It’s a real Atlantic storm. I remember them from when I was younger. There’s no storm like a Kerry storm, my mum used to say, and by the looks of this evening we are in for a serious show. As we turn slowly into the driveway of Haycote Manor, there’s a low rumble of thunder. A moment later, a flash of lightning rips through the sky. Shadowy heaps in the fields as we crawl slowly up the driveway are revealed to be wooden show-jumping structures that glow eerie pale against the storm’s illuminations.
The trees bend and sway violently as we pull up outside the big stone house. It’s a Friday evening and we haven’t given any warning of our arrival, so part of me wonders if Barrows will be there at all. There are two cars in the driveway, one with a trailer attached where a boat usually sits. Right now it’s empty. I remember the jetty at the back of the house that leads into the lake. There won’t be much sailing this week, I imagine. Lights on inside the hallway glow through the frosted glass panel on the front door. Clarke looks at me as he kills the engine and for a moment neither of us speak.
‘That seemed like a lot back there.’ His eyes are steady on mine. ‘Were you close?’
I nod. ‘I wanted to go… you know, before the baby comes.’
‘That must have been tough.’
Even though he’s probably only acting like he cares, it loosens something deep within me. It makes me want to tell him all about them – how lovely my family once was. Clarke, with his stupidly kind eyes, is making me want to share my memories with him.
Blushing with the unfamiliar intimacy, I realise I have to shut this down, or we’ll have to stop working together entirely. If I can’t manage to keep things on a professional level, we’ll be finished as colleagues. Plus, the atmosphere between us is classic pregnancy vulnerability, especially after what happened with Frank. I try to imagine what my psychology professor, Mark Jessop, might coach. Stop projecting, Fields, he’d probably say. Stop mistaking what looks like caring for something else entirely.
I hear Frank’s voice in my ear. He pities you, Ally. Just like everyone else.
‘Let’s go, Casey,’ I tell Clarke, all business.
We battle towards the front door against sheets of rain. Then, leaning on the bell, I turn my back against the glass and indicate for Clarke to do the same. No point in giving those inside the house time to deliberately ignore our evening callout. This visit is too important, and we’ve come too far to have the door remain unanswered. I push my dripping fringe back off my face and watch the violence of the storm above the fields where we’ve just driven up. Another flash tears a gash across the navy sky, its spectacular fury both mesmerising and somehow fitting. I feel Clarke’s eyes on me and I glance over at him, but he looks away. Then the door swings open.
And there she stands. The woman in the picture by Nancy’s bedside table. She’s wearing an apron cloudy with flour, strings knotted into a neat grey bow at the front. Her brown eyes blink. There’s a little face behind her.
‘No,’ is the first word Vera Tierney says when she recognises Clarke and me. ‘No, no, no, no, no.’ A continuous stream of repetition that gets progressively more frantic. She pushes Dexter quickly behind her, shielding him from the house call she must have been dreading every day for six long years. Friday night is pizza night, the noticeboard had said, next to the hazy pictures of Vee Tierney with her sister in the field of horses on the digital frame the day we called to see Gerald. I knew she looked familiar when we interviewed her at her apartment, and then the photo of her at Nancy’s bedside had clicked. But I still don’t know how or why any of this ever happened.
Vee’s voice rises, hysterical now. And as I reach out both hands to calm her, she slams the heavy wooden door in our faces, and she runs.