‘Peter, I was wondering,’ Dan Cochrane began, ‘when I get out of here—’
Quinn interrupted him. ‘I know. Don’t worry. I’ve got a proposition for you. That’s why I’ve come today’ Cochrane looked at him and waited.
His appeal had failed and he had done six months of his sentence. His release might be only weeks away.
They were on the same plastic chairs in the same visiting room at the prison where he had been on remand. Now he was a longer-term fixture but not as long as some. Other prisoners sat near them with wives, brothers, girlfriends. They talked morosely, dead-eyed. Nothing left to say.
‘We’re all ODCs,’ Cochrane had told Quinn on a previous visit. ‘Ordinary Decent Criminals. That’s what they call us. No terrorists in here.’
Quinn peered at him. He seemed to have lost a bit of weight. The rough regulation cotton shirt hung loose on his frame.
Quinn had been a regular visitor, not just because he knew there was no one else who would bother. He was Cochrane’s friend. He had helped him board up the shutters on his derelict life, sorting out financial matters, like his pay-off from the Education Board. The lease on his flat in Belfast had come to an end, too, and the landlord had wanted the place cleared. Quinn had dealt with everything.
‘Something’s come up,’ he said. A broad grin gleamed through his beard. ‘A wonderful opportunity for me. I’ve been awarded a grant by the Arts Council to go to Japan for eight months and study with one of the great potters. It’s the thing I’ve always dreamed of. The grant isn’t huge but it’s something and with what savings I have of my own I can manage it. The problem is, I’ll need someone to look after the business while I’m gone. Will you do it for me?’
Cochrane’s eyes widened. ‘Me? Peter, I don’t know anything about running a shop.’
Quinn waved a hand, dismissing any suggestion that there might be a problem. ‘It’s not difficult. Jesus, if I can do it . . . Now, I know they haven’t given you a firm date yet but you’ll be out of here at the end of July, the beginning of August at the latest. You need somewhere to stay. I’ve got the flat above the pottery and all your stuff from your old place is sitting in boxes in a corner of my storeroom anyway. As for running the shop, I’ll show you everything before I go – there’ll be plenty of time. All the extra stock for Christmas is in hand so you don’t need to worry about that. I’ll take you through the accounts, who the suppliers are, get you organised at the bank so that you can act legally, signing cheques and so on. There’s the van, too. And your own car’s sitting down in Ardglass. I taxed it for you. Oh and I’ll pay you, of course. We’ll agree a sum and you can draw on it when you need it. It won’t be a fortune, mind, just some handy cash. I haven’t got a lot to throw around. What do you say?’
Cochrane looked bewildered. He opened his arms wide. ‘I don’t know what to say. I’d been about to ask you if you’d put me up in your spare bedroom for a few weeks until I found my feet. This – this is totally unexpected. Why are you doing it?’
‘It suits us both. You need a bit of help – I need somebody reliable.’
‘Reliable? But Peter, look at me. I’m in jail, for God’s sake. When I come out, I’ll be an ex-prisoner. People see me behind the counter in the shop, they’ll be aware of who I am. Ardglass is a small place, you know that. They’ll run a mile. Are you sure this is a good idea? Wouldn’t it be better to get a girl in or something?’
Quinn shook his head. ‘With you living in the flat above the premises I’ll feel a lot happier about being thousands of miles away in Japan. As for you being bad for business, well, very few of my customers are local anyway. They come from Belfast, Bangor, Downpatrick, as well as from across the border. They won’t know who the hell you are. Anyway, I think some of my ladies might quite like you. The fact that you’re young and not bad-looking won’t do any harm.’
Cochrane smiled. ‘And maybe I’ll grow a beard.’
‘There’s one thing.’ Quinn’s glance hardened. ‘I need to know that you’ve come to your senses, that you’ve dropped all this nonsense about that construction company, about Sam Winter.’
Cochrane fiddled with his fingernails. ‘Yeah, well, six months in here has kind of sobered me up.’ He looked up at Quinn. There was contrition in his face.
‘So it’s over and done with?’
‘Dead and buried. I won’t be setting fire to any more hotels.’
‘Or anything else belonging to Seasons Construction, I hope.’
‘I want to put it behind me, Peter. I can’t say that being in here has changed the way I feel about those people but it’s made me realise how stupid it is to think I can do anything about it.’
‘I’m relieved,’ Quinn said. ‘Whatever happened to your mother’s farm, it’s done now. What’s past is past. There’s nothing to be gained by storing up hate. You only hurt yourself.’
Cochrane agreed. ‘I lost my freedom. My sense of being an individual. All that was taken from me. I don’t want to lose it again.’
Quinn sat back, rocking slowly on the spindly hind legs of the chair. He nodded his satisfaction. ‘Then my friend,’ he said with a smile, ‘I reckon we have a deal.’
A nurse held Meg’s arm as she walked through the main door of the Musgrave and into the late June sunshine. It was her first trip out.
It would only be for a few hours but she was nervous.
If all went well today, she would start going out a couple of days a week, coming back in the evening, before leaving altogether sometime next month. The nurse had joked that this was her first day of parole.
There was so much space. Distance. She felt light-headed.
Her father was beside his Range Rover, standing almost to attention. She thought of the letter that was tucked in her pocket, that had been sent to her here, the letter that she would show him later. He marched forward to help but she gathered herself, straightening, holding her head up.
‘It’s all right,’ she said, ‘I can manage.’
‘Are you sure?’ the nurse said. Meg nodded.
Sam opened the passenger door and held her arm as she climbed in. The door closed behind her with a confident clunk. The Range Rover smelled warm and sweet. It mingled the odours of metal and leather, polish and rubber.
The picture of the wrecked, blood-coloured MGB flashed through her mind.
It was the first time she had been in a car since that night. She felt suddenly enclosed, trapped in this high, steel cocoon.
Her father got in. ‘Ready?’
She swallowed her panic. ‘Ready,’ she said, then drew the safety belt across and clicked it into place.
He drove at breathtaking speed. ‘Dad, don’t go so fast,’ she said and put her hand on his arm, gripping the sleeve of his jacket.
He glanced at her, puzzled. ‘I’m only doing twenty miles an hour.’
She looked at the dial. It was true. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘It just seemed—’
‘Don’t worry,’ he told her. ‘I’ll take it easy. Everything’s all right.’
But it was not all right.
They stopped at a red light at the end of Musgrave Park where it joined the hurly burly of Stockman’s Lane. In front of her, kamikaze traffic hurtled by in both directions. Cars, container lorries, buses – it was overwhelming. The speed of it, the dreadful noise. She held her breath, waiting for them to crash.
A jabberwocky roared and rumbled past, earth-shaking. Its vertebrae were two rows of 4 x 4 Toyotas. She flinched and gripped the edges of her seat and her knuckles were white.
Her father looked anxiously at her. ‘Are you OK?’
They had told her that at first she might suffer a mild form of agoraphobia but that it would pass. She tried to reassure herself with that but what she really wanted to do was fling open the door and run back as fast as she could to the safety of her little room.
She nodded. ‘I’ll be fine.’
The lights changed and he drove on, turning right up the hill towards the junction with the Lisburn Road. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked.
‘Your house. Truesdale Street. I want you to see what I’ve done with it.’
‘What do you mean?’
He gave her a conspiratorial smile and then winked. ‘You’ll see.’
They were in the traffic, in the middle of utter confusion. There were buses, cyclists with masks and satchels, motorbikes, delivery vans. Now that she looked at them, many of the cars were strange. There were models and shapes she had never seen before.
A few were trying to nose their way out of side streets. A small Ford was so far into the road that she was convinced they would clip it. Her right foot remembered what to do. It hit the floor, pressing hard on a phantom brake pedal.
‘Driving,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘Driving. I don’t think I ever want to do it again.’
‘Just give yourself time,’ he said.
Time. Everyone wanted her to give herself time. Had they forgotten how much of it she had lost?
He slowed down as another set of lights went red. People crossed quickly in front of them, intent, all with their own sense of purpose. Why was everyone in such a hurry? Where were they all going? And who were they?
Had one of them killed Paul Everett? She stared, trying to see if she could read murder in the faces of strangers.
Her father moved off.
Along one side of the road, men were digging in a trench with the machine-gun rattle of a pneumatic drill. A sign explained that they were putting in gas pipes.
Further on, the doors of a big van were wide open and she could see sides of meat hanging in racks. Two men in white cotton caps were carrying a huge haunch of beef into a butcher’s shop. Outside it an effigy of a jolly Edwardian victualler in moustache and striped apron gave them his fixed avuncular smile as they passed.
The shops. They were different. On this stretch alone there was a patisserie, a couple of smart, discreetly fronted clothes shops that were more like art galleries, their windows almost bare, and a florist of exotic appearance selling voracious-looking plants of bizarre shape. The new kids on the block. They rubbed shoulders with older residents: the hardware shop, the bicycle repair man, the antique dealer, the corner store that sold everything from crisps to coal.
‘Tesco?’ she queried, noticing a sign.
‘All the big British chains are here now,’ her father said. ‘Tesco, Sainsbury, Safeway – they’re all over the place. It’s what the politicians are calling the peace dividend. I can’t complain. The construction business is doing very nicely, I have to say.’
‘No soldiers,’ she noticed suddenly. ‘I haven’t seen an Army patrol.’
‘Withdrawn to barracks. Twiddling their thumbs just in case this is only temporary and wholesale warfare breaks out again. There’s the occasional eruption, of course, the annual atrocity, but mostly we’re all managing to live together in what I suppose you could call an atmosphere of quiet mistrust.’
As they drove, there were restaurants she had not seen before either, with an array of ethnic choices, and there seemed to be a coffee shop every hundred yards or so, tables and chairs set outside under sun umbrellas.
‘I can’t believe all this,’ she said. ‘It’s like another world.’
‘It’s not. It’s the same old one with one or two changes. But you’ll like it. You’ve come back at the right time.’
He made it sound like she had been out of the country, away somewhere on a long trip. She looked at him and smiled. She was beginning to feel calmer.
Something just ahead caught his eye. ‘Hey, do you think you’d be up to a cup of coffee?’ He glanced at her, then backtracked. ‘Still, maybe that’s a bit too much at this early—’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’d like that. A cup of coffee would be nice.’
They parked outside a delicatessen. He opened the door for her and she walked in, taking a mental deep breath. The place had metal-topped tables and chairs, like light alloy garden furniture. Tony Bennett was on the speakers and a coffee machine gasped loudly in a corner. There were shelves of olive oil and sauces, with salami, prosciutto, cheese and fresh salads cool in a display case.
They sat down. ‘This isn’t new,’ she said. ‘I think I remember this place.’ She could smell the warm sweetness of fresh baking.
‘No, it’s been here a while.’
A waitress came. ‘What can I get you?’
‘Just coffee, I think,’ Winter said.
‘Me, too.’
‘Any particular kind?’ the waitress asked. ‘Straight filter, cappuccino, espresso, latte, mocha—’
‘Just the regular kind,’ Winter said. ‘One of those little jug things.’
‘A cafetière?’
‘That’s it. For two.’
‘What was all that?’ Meg asked when the girl had gone.
‘Oh, the coffee fad has taken off in the past couple of years. You ask for an ordinary cup of coffee now and you have to explain what you mean. I’m too old for all this nonsense, too set in my ways.’
‘Surely not,’ she smiled, teasing him. He was looking a lot better these days, perhaps even putting on a little weight. The weariness seemed to have lifted and there was colour in his cheeks. But even on a day off, he found it hard to relax. He sat across the table from her, in suit and sober tie, looking as if he should really be at an important meeting somewhere else.
She took in her surroundings.
Over at the window, three women with glossy lips and smart handbags were in an animated huddle about something very confidential indeed. One had bought new shoes. They were in a bag labelled ‘Charles Jourdan’. An elderly couple, moneyed, clothes
very county, ignored each other behind separate sections of The Times. Two young men were eating scones and jam and reading faxes. One of them was talking into the smallest mobile phone she had ever seen.
Tony Bennett sang over the top of it all:
I wanna be around to pick up the pieces . . .
Life was going on, as it had been doing for the past four years without her. People were wrapped in their own worlds. It was mundane, everyday, and part of her was thrilled by the ordinariness of it.
Another part of her thought of a crashed car and an unknown killer in the woods.
The coffee came and her father poured.
‘You’re sure you’re OK about staying with your mother for a while?’
It was a question she hadn’t been expecting; she had thought this was all settled.
‘I think so. It’ll just be for a couple of weeks, until I get my bearings. We did discuss it, remember. You said you wanted to spruce the house up a little, now that the tenants were out of it.’
He nodded but she thought his agreement was a bit reluctant.
‘Is there anything wrong with that?’
‘No,’ he said, ‘nothing. Your house is more or less ready now but I know it’s a good thing for you to be with someone for a while. It’s just that – I shouldn’t say it – well, I’m suspicious of your mother’s motives, that’s all. She and I feel differently about the fact that you’re back with us. She thinks it’s all some sort of divine plan, that you’ve been spared for a purpose.’
‘She’s mentioned it.’ She raised her eyes to heaven.
‘I just worry that she’ll want something from you, that she’ll expect you to change.’
‘I think maybe I have changed a bit.’ She thought of Elizabeth’s visit.
‘You probably have,’ he said.
‘In what way? You’ve never said – but you must have come to some conclusion.’
He looked at her, thinking. ‘It’s lots of little things, I suppose. You’re certainly a lot more – what’s the word – reflective, I suppose you could say. Less impetuous.’
She gave a little laugh. ‘Well, I’ve hardly had much of an opportunity to be that, have I?’
‘Your mother . . . He was struggling, picking his words. ‘When I talk about her expecting you to change, I mean – I think she’s waiting for you to – you know, choose the way of the Lord.’ He gave her a forlorn look. ‘I just hope she doesn’t try to put too much pressure on you to do anything you don’t want to.’
‘I’ll be fine, Dad. I know what Mum’s like. It’s just for two weeks, to keep her happy. I think I can handle it.’
‘You didn’t always, you know. You’re much more tolerant of her now than you used to be. That’s another thing I’ve noticed. But that’s good, of course. For both of you.’ She had her hand on the table and he patted the back of it. ‘I worry that she sees this as an opening. I don’t want anything to distress you.’
‘Well, let’s wait and see what happens.’
She sipped her coffee. It was so much better than anything the Musgrave provided and with a touch of guilt she realised she felt a kind of liberation. She was outside, unconfined.
Dr Sands had been frank with her. He had told her there was a risk that people who had been in hospital for a long time could become institutionalised. Like long-sentence prisoners being released, they sometimes found it difficult to cope with a world where there were no walls, no barriers. She did not think that would apply to her. True, this afternoon she had experienced mild distress at first but she had recovered herself. Whatever problems, even dangers, lay ahead, this was preferable to what had gone before.
But now she had something to tell her father. She steeled herself for it, taking her glasses off and setting them on the table.
‘Dad,’ she said, ‘I need to let you know about a couple of things. I’ve been doing an awful lot of thinking.’
‘Let’s hear it.’
‘First of all, I want you to know I really appreciate everything you’ve done for me for all these years.’ He waved the sentiment away.
‘No, listen,’ she said, ‘please. The cost of all of it – it must have been astronomical.’
‘It wasn’t a problem,’ he insisted, shifting in his chair. ‘Selling out to Malone Group left me very comfortable. The money was there. I’m your father. End of story.’
‘Look, I don’t want to embarrass you – I’m not going to make a speech.’
‘Thank heavens for that,’ he smiled.
‘I just want you to know I’m conscious of the sacrifices you’ve made. You’ve been very good to me in other ways, too, looking after my financial affairs and everything. I know that for the time being I’ve no worries on that score but I’ve got to think further ahead. Like – what am I going to do with the rest of my life?’
She paused to sip her coffee, letting him work on the thought. ‘It seems to me that there’s one thing I’ve got to try – indeed that I want to try, very badly. I’m a properly qualified physician with several years experience. I’ve got to find out if I can pick it up again.’
‘It won’t be easy,’ he said. ‘With your background—’
‘I know what you’re going to say. I couldn’t just walk into my old job, even if it was still there for me. Of course not. People will need a lot of convincing. All the stuff in the papers – they probably think I’m some sort of mental case. But I’m prepared to do whatever it takes.’
‘So what have you in mind?’
‘I’ve decided that when I get out and get settled, I’m going to make an appointment to go and see the head of emergency medicine at the New Central. I’ll simply ask for advice about re-training and so on and we’ll go from there. It’ll be a start. What do you think?’
He was unsure. ‘What if they say it’s impossible, that there’s no way you can practise again? I can’t see the medical profession exactly welcoming you back with open arms, can you? You’ve got amnesia. What if you were to forget something else, at a crucial time, have a black-out during an operation or whatever?’
‘Dad?’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘Come on, you know my amnesia’s not like that. I’ve got to give this a chance. Don’t write me off before I’ve even made the effort.’
He held up a hand. ‘I’m not. I’m just putting myself in their shoes, seeing it from their point of view.’
‘Well don’t. Why can’t you just see it from mine?’
They stared at each other.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to snap.’
‘It’s OK. I just want what’s best for you, you know that.’
‘There’s something else.’ She put her hand into her pocket and took out the letter she had brought. ‘This was sent to me at the Musgrave.’
He opened it. It had Granada Television’s letter heading.
‘It’s from a producer on a morning show,’ she explained. ‘They want to interview me. They want to take me to London and put me in the studio, talk to me about my experiences, what it’s like to come back from the dead. You get the picture.’
‘Oh, I certainly do. Bloody vultures,’ he said, reading. ‘We’ll put it in the bin with all the others.’
‘No, I think I’m going to do it.’
He looked up. ‘What? You’re not serious.’ He saw that she was. ‘God, Meg, I don’t think that’s a terribly good idea.’ She smiled. ‘It’s all right. I want to do it.’
‘But why, for heaven’s sake?’
‘Well, for a start, if I do this one thing it might just get all the others off my back. The story we got into the Telegraph was all right as far as it went but I didn’t feel up to doing an interview then and anyway print’s different. They can twist things, re-write what you say. On a live TV show I can be myself and tell my story in my own words without anybody editing it. I need to talk about this, to get it all out in the open.’
‘But why?’ he tried again.
‘All sorts of reasons. To let people see how normal I am, that I’m not a freak. It might even help me get a job.’
‘Meg, this isn’t wise. I don’t want you to do it. I have to insist. God, just now I was saying you weren’t impetuous any more. Have you any idea how stressful appearing on television is at the best of times? But for you, just coming out of hospital, it could be disastrous. Does Liam Maginnis know about any of this?’
‘No,’ she said firmly, ‘and it’s none of his business either. He doesn’t own me, the hospital doesn’t own me. Nobody does.’ She looked at him and meant neither do you. ‘Dad, I’m afraid I’m the one who’s going to have to insist.’
It was difficult but she had to stand her ground. Over the past few months she had noticed how they were behaving but she had said nothing. In both his mind and her mother’s she had become a little girl again, someone to be guided and advised, to be looked after. Just like a child.
She could not let it go any longer. She had to remind both of them that she was a grown woman.
‘It’s time I tried to stand on my own two feet,’ she said, ‘and started making my own decisions. If they’re not good ones, then that’s my problem. I have to live with it.’
He looked towards the window, silent for a moment, his face turned away from her.
‘The real reason . . .’ she said.
He turned back.
She sighed. When she spoke there was a tremor in her voice. ‘It’s Paul Everett. God, even saying his name makes me feel . . . weird. I can’t get him out of my mind. I see his face all the time, that damned photograph. I just know that if I’m ever to recover properly from this . . . this thing, I’ve got to find out more about him, to somehow discover how I came to be with him that night. And I thought: maybe if I do this television show, then someone out there will remember something and be able to help.’
She did not ask him what he thought. She could see it in his face.
He told her anyway.
‘Meg, it could be damned dangerous. Somewhere out there is the person who killed Everett. Don’t forget that.’
‘I don’t. I can’t. I think about it every single day. For God’s sake, all the way down the Lisburn Road just now I was looking for him. But I can’t go through the rest of my life without knowing.’
‘What if this person comes after you?’
‘It’s a risk I have to take. Then again, maybe there is no person any more – maybe he’s dead or something, left the country. But wherever he is, I can’t let the fear of him stop me doing what I feel I have to do.’ She tapped the table with her forefinger to make the point. ‘I need to reclaim my memory, to find out what happened and why I was with Everett. Nothing’s more important than that.’
‘Even your life?’
‘What sort of a life is it going to be without a memory? With all this emptiness? I can’t just leave it like that, no matter whether it’s dangerous or not. Until I find out more about Everett, about why he was murdered, I won’t know for certain whether I’m at any kind of risk. Dad, I’ve got to give it a try. This TV show might be a start. It’s the best shot I’ve got.’
She looked around, aware that she might have raised her voice, but if she had, no one had noticed. The elderly couple had gone, leaving The Times crumpled and discarded. The women were still in a huddle and the young business types were scribbling notes on their papers. Tony Bennett kept on singing. It seemed strange to be thinking about danger.
‘Meg,’ her father said, ‘don’t rush into anything. Promise me you’ll think about it.’
‘I have,’ she said at once. But she saw his concern and knew she couldn’t just dismiss it. ‘All right, I will. I promise.’
She pushed her cup and saucer away in a gesture that said the subject was closed. Then she sat back and gave him a smile. ‘Well now, I thought you were going to show me this house of mine.’
Truesdale Street was familiar straight away and the sudden sense of recognition excited her, making her wonder if being here would open any locked doors.
It had been built in the thirties, bathrooms added later. The thin terraced houses with their little bow windows faced each other across the narrow street in which, she remembered, she always had trouble parking. There were the same tiny front gardens with their low front gates and paths you could cover in a single stride. A couple of ‘for sale’ signs leaned drunkenly.
Her father found a space at the bottom of the street, parking half up on the footpath so that other drivers could get past his bulky vehicle. The Range Rover was like a green cuckoo in a nest of Clios and petite Peugeots.
They walked back to number thirty. The front door was open and a man in white overalls was painting it red. He stopped when he saw them.
‘Don’t mind us, George,’ Winter said. ‘Just you carry on. We’ll try not to get in your way.’
George gave an unintelligible mutter as they walked into the house. Meg saw the look he tried not to give her. He knew who she was.
Just inside the front door, they stopped and her father turned. ‘Well?’ he asked with a big smile. It was a different house.
The whole downstairs, which had consisted of a front living room, a kitchen and a tiny hall, was now one open room. Even the stairs had gone, how and where, she could not understand. The floor was bare polished wood with a couple of big middle-eastern rugs. The walls were magnolia, the woodwork white and shining in its freshness. There was a small dining table and four chairs at the window, two small leather settees and big plants in terracotta pots.
‘Come and see the kitchen section,’ he said.
Not a kitchen any more: a kitchen section.
It was lined with cupboards made of dark wood over work surfaces with a grey marble effect. There was a small Aga, black and gleaming.
‘And there’s more.’
She found where the stairs had gone. They had been re-sited at the back of the kitchen and just beyond that was the downstairs bathroom, ripped out and replaced. There had been stripped pine before but now there were speckled Italian tiles everywhere, a new bath and wash basin and a proper shower instead of the flimsy curtain that had always made her think of Psycho. She was glad that had gone.
‘Up here.’
He led her up the stairs and she discovered that instead of two bedrooms there were now three. ‘But how—’ she began.
‘I had a whole new extension done a year ago,’ he said proudly. ‘I knocked down the old bathroom and rebuilt it and then I put all this on. And have a look out here.’
He directed her to the window in a back bedroom that had not been there before.
She looked out on to what had been an empty, plain patio made of square stone slabs. Now it was floored in weathered brick and it sat on two levels. A small garden seat with wrought iron legs faced the sun. Petunias, fuchsia and geraniums bloomed in pots and wisteria had claimed ownership of the wooden fence that formed the border with next door.
They went back downstairs.
‘Well, what do you think?’
‘I don’t know what to think,’ she said with an honesty she knew he would not want. It was a lot to take in. She felt bombarded by change, the curious fusion of styles, none of them hers.
‘Don’t you like it?’
‘Oh, I do,’ she tried to assure him, ‘it’s fabulous. It’s just . . . I thought maybe that when I came in here I’d find something.’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know – something in my mind, perhaps. But this . . .’
She gazed around the unfamiliar room. Nothing here seemed right. The place had no spirit, no resonance for her at all.
‘It doesn’t feel like it’s my house,’ she said. ‘It’s as if I’ve never even been here before.’