Sunday

As Audrey drifted awake she became aware of hot, quick breath on her face. She screamed and leapt out of bed—and her flailing left arm caught the little dog and sent her flying in the opposite direction with a startled yelp.

“Oh—” Audrey scrambled back across the mattress and peered over the side of her generous double bed “—oh, I’m so sorry. Are you all right?”

Her new pet looked none the worse for her abrupt departure from the pillow. She trotted back to the edge of the bed and Audrey scooped her up and settled back against the headboard, pulling the sheet around both of them.

“You gave me the fright of my life,” she told the little animal. “I thought I was being attacked. Of course, if you’d slept in your own bed this would never have happened.”

She’d lasted forty minutes the night before, determined to ignore the surprisingly loud whines that drifted up from the kitchen. To give in would be a disaster: Audrey’s years of experience in the classroom had taught her that. You had to establish who was boss from the start. She would be resolute, and the whining would eventually stop, and a lesson would have been learned.

But the whining hadn’t stopped, the whining had shown no sign of stopping. Audrey had buried her head under a pillow, vowing to stick to her guns. The laundry basket was a perfectly adequate bed, and very comfortable with the old cushion in it. Really, you couldn’t get better.

As the minutes ticked by, the noise from the kitchen seemed if anything to increase in pitch. In the face of such obvious distress, Audrey’s resolve had begun to weaken. She’s only a few weeks old, her inner softie had pointed out. She’s still a baby, probably not long separated from her mother. Maybe she had lots of brothers and sisters who all snuggled up together at night. No wonder she’s lonely now, all by herself in a strange dark room. How can you be so hard-hearted?

Stop it, Audrey the teacher had commanded—but both Audreys had known that the battle was lost, that it was only a matter of time before victory was declared by the smaller of the two warring factions. When her clock radio showed midnight, Audrey had finally admitted defeat. She’d gotten out of bed and padded wearily downstairs, hearing the whines turning to excited yaps as she’d approached the kitchen door.

Scolding as she went—“You’re perfectly safe in this kitchen, there’s nothing to be afraid of. I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss, I’m only up the stairs”—she’d hefted the laundry basket back to her room, the pup scampering delightedly around her feet.

“This is only for tonight,” she’d warned, placing the basket in the corner of the room. “In you go.” She’d patted the cushion encouragingly, but the new arrival was trotting happily around, scrabbling at the duvet in an attempt to scale the bed, pushing her nose into Audrey’s bundle of folded clothes on the chair and sending them tumbling to the floor.

“Come on now,” Audrey had ordered, “into your basket. Good dog. Good girl.” She’d crossed the room, scooped up the little dog, and placed her in the basket. “Stay,” she’d said firmly—​but the minute she’d turned towards the bed the pup had leapt onto the floor and padded after her, and Audrey had been too tired to argue.

She scooped up the animal and placed her at the bottom of the bed. “No more whining,” she’d ordered, getting in herself and switching off the lamp, “and certainly no barking. And please try to keep to your end.”

The pup had padded around the duvet, turning in circles until she’d settled herself squarely on Audrey’s feet, dropping her head onto her paws with a satisfied grunt.

Audrey had listened to the tiny, rapid breaths coming out of the darkness, had felt the corresponding rise and fall within the little body at her feet. She’d had to admit that it was pleasant to have another presence in the room, even if a small hairy four-legged creature wouldn’t have been top of her list of bedroom companions.

Still, for the first time in her life as an adult she wasn’t alone as she’d fallen asleep, which could only be a good thing. The laundry basket would be moved back to the kitchen first thing in the morning, and Audrey would be unrelenting the following night.

She’d begun to consider possible names as she’d drifted to sleep, and somewhere during the night, the perfect one had floated into her head. She lifted the pup now and looked into her face.

“Dolly,” she said.

The pup yapped, one of her ears pricking up, her pink tongue darting towards Audrey’s face.

“Dolly,” Audrey repeated. “I hereby name you Dolly Matthews.”

Her first pet, with a name chosen by her, totally dependent on Audrey for food and shelter. She’d look on it as a rehearsal for the real thing—because the babies would come along in due course, like they came for everyone else. So what if Audrey had to wait a bit longer? She was still only thirty-seven, lots of people didn’t start having children until they were that age, or well past it even.

Didn’t things always fall into place eventually? Hadn’t her life drawing model come along, just like Audrey had trusted she would? Within minutes of meeting her, Audrey could tell that Jackie was just what she’d been looking for, and now everything was sorted for Tuesday. Things always worked out if you waited long enough.

“Come on,” she said, pushing away the sheet and sliding to the edge of the bed, “time for breakfast—and I suppose you need to spend a penny.”

She slipped her feet into the fluffy purple mules she hadn’t been able to resist a week ago and pulled on her blue-and-white dressing gown, and she and Dolly left the room and went downstairs.

And happily, the discovery of pennies spent during the night wasn’t made until well after the full Irish breakfast.

—————

As soon as James cut the engine Charlie unclipped her seat belt and shot from the car.

“Easy—” he said, but she was already halfway up the garden path. The front door was opened before she reached it, and Charlie was enfolded in her grandmother’s arms.

“There you are at last,” James heard. He locked the car and walked up the path as the other two disappeared inside. He met his father-in-law in the hall.

“Peter.” Timothy shook his hand. “How’re you keeping?”

His tone was perfectly civil. If you didn’t know either of them, if you were ignorant of their history, you’d swear the two men were as close as any in-laws could be.

“Keeping well,” James said. “And you should know that I’m not using ‘Peter’ anymore, I’ve switched to ‘James,’ my second name. Thought it was best.”

“Right.” Timothy nodded, unsurprised. “I’ll mention it to Maud.”

“If you would,” James said. “It’s just for Charlie, so she doesn’t get confused. I need everyone to use the same name.”

“Of course. I can understand that.” Timothy indicated the sitting room. “Come on in. You’ll have a drop of something.”

They’d been there for Charlie, all through the nightmare. When James was useless with grief and rage, when everyone had been convinced that he’d done it—he must have done it, he was the husband—Maud and Timothy had taken care of Charlie, somehow managing to see past their own devastation to the bewildered little girl who kept asking when her mother would be coming home.

And they’d never once said a word against James to her, never tried to turn her against him—even though they must have suspected him too, they must have had questions they’d hardly dared to voice, even to each other. They must have wondered, lying awake in the night, if James had ended their daughter’s life. Maybe they still did.

“How are things?” Timothy filled a glass with room-temperature 7UP and handed it to James. “How’s the new job?”

“Fine,” James answered.

The new job wasn’t fine, the new job was far from fine. Being an architect was all he’d ever wanted, and if the fates hadn’t decided to destroy his life, he’d still be an architect, with his own company. But there was little to be gained by saying that now. Timothy didn’t want to hear any of that.

“And the house is all right?”

“The house is okay,” James answered. The house actually was okay, insofar as it was fairly clean and tolerably well furnished. It was the neighborhood that was the problem—but saying that would sound horribly snobbish, and again, it wasn’t what Timothy needed or wanted to hear.

“And Charlie? She’s settling into the new school?”

“She is, aye. She seems to like it.” James sipped his drink, wishing for ice, and a lemon slice to cut the sweetness. “I think she has a boyfriend,” he added.

Timothy raised his eyebrows. “At six?”

“Ach no, I’m joking—but she’s got friendly with some boy in her class. I’m just glad she’s happy.”

Timothy poured himself a small dark sherry. “Of course.” The mantel clock ticked. From the kitchen they could hear Charlie’s piping voice.

“I’ve enrolled in an evening class,” James said when the silence started to stretch. “Art.” He wouldn’t say life drawing, Timothy might get the wrong idea.

“Evening class? Have you someone to mind Charlie?”

James smothered the stab of irritation. Timothy was concerned, that was all. Just looking out for his granddaughter. “The next-door neighbor,” James told him. “Nice woman. Her husband goes out on Tuesday nights, which happens to be when the class is held, so it suits her to babysit.”

“That’s good…I didn’t knew you had any great interest in art, though—I mean, that kind of art.”

“I thought I’d give it a go,” James said. “You never know.”

They passed the time with this idle conversation, this polite chitchat, until Charlie appeared at the door.

“Granny says lunch is ready.”

And James saw, with a stab of sorrow, that his daughter looked happier than he’d seen her all month.

—————

Michael Browne warmed milk and added a dessert spoon of whiskey to it like he always did. He brought the glass upstairs and sipped from it as he undressed and got into his blue pajama bottoms. He washed his face and cleaned his teeth in the bathroom before putting on the pajama top. He got into bed and set his alarm for half past seven and switched off his bedside lamp and lay down.

So far, so normal. He closed his eyes and waited for sleep, suspecting it wouldn’t come.

Why had she turned up? Why had this…vexation been visited on him? Hadn’t he had enough, hadn’t the fates dealt him more than his share of rotten hands? Leave me alone, he shouted in his head to whatever malevolent beings might be listening. Get the hell away from me, go and bother someone else with your nasty little tricks.

We were together, she’d said. Me and Ethan. Which could, he supposed, be the truth—what had he known about his son’s friends in the last eight years of Ethan’s life? Not a thing.

Not since you threw him out of the house at sixteen. The voice was back, the voice he thought he’d silenced forever.

Michael turned over, punching his pillow angrily. “He left me no choice,” he said loudly into the darkness. “It was his own doing.” How many times had he used those very words to Valerie, in tears at the thought of her brother roaming the streets in the rain?

“You can’t just desert him, Dad,” she’d wept. “It’s cruel, he’s only a child.”

“He’s an addict,” Michael had insisted, over and over. “We can’t help him unless he admits he needs help. You saw what he was like before he left—”

“Before you kicked him out, you mean.”

“Valerie, he was out of control. He was stealing from me, he was lying—”

But nothing Michael said had made any difference. Whatever his problems, Ethan was her big brother, and Michael was the monster who’d banished him from the house. So of course Valerie had left too, as soon as she could afford it, and now what little contact they had was forced and polite, more like distant acquaintances than father and daughter.

She visited him out of a sense of duty, he knew that; affection didn’t come into it. And he’d never once been invited to her apartment—his only glimpse of it had been on the day she’d moved in, when he’d insisted on helping.

He looked at the clock and read 2:53. A car passed in the street outside, tires sloshing through water. He was sick of this country, sick of the interminable rain, the awful unrelenting greyness. He and Ruth had dreamed of living in the south of Spain, or somewhere equally balmy. Italy maybe, or Greece. You could open a pet shop anywhere. And the kids would love it, growing up with blue skies and sunshine.

But before they had a chance to put their plan into action, Ruth had pulled up at a roundabout on the way to visit her mother, and a truck in the next lane had braked too sharply and jackknifed into her car, and Michael hadn’t been allowed to view her body. Ethan had been four, Valerie just two—

Enough, enough of that. Michael shoved the memory away, the pain of it still sharp after more than twenty years, and turned his thoughts instead to yesterday’s dilemma.

Who was to say that the boy was Ethan’s? There was only the mother’s word for it. Presumably she had known Ethan, it sounded like that part was true—but couldn’t they simply have been casual acquaintances? It was hard to see what might have attracted Ethan to such a downtrodden, pathetic creature.

Much more likely that they’d somehow become known to each other, that she’d discovered by chance that Ethan’s father owned a shop, and decided to try passing her boy off as his grandchild. Ethan wasn’t around to confirm or deny it, so how could Michael challenge her?

I was dealing, she’d said—and Michael knew all about that, how drugs turned you into a liar and a thief, how they stripped you of your self-respect, tore away every shred of decency you possessed. He’d hardly recognized Ethan in the last few terrible weeks before the final row. The surly teenager who went through his father’s pockets and stayed out all night bore no resemblance to the little boy Michael had pushed on the swing, or taken to the park to feed the ducks.

The child in the shop was younger than Ethan had been when Ruth was killed, no more than two or three, by the look of him. What kind of a life must he have, with an absent father, whoever he might be, and a mother involved in drugs? Michael dreaded to think what kind of a dump she and the boy shared with other down-and-outs.

She claimed to have given up dealing, which Michael doubted. Why would she give it up if she was making money from it? So easy to prey on the weakest, so tempting to wrest every last cent from them when they were begging for a fix, when they’d do anything for it.

She’d said something about being thrown out of wherever they were living—so the boy would be homeless, not even a filthy bed to lie in.

Stop. Michael punched his pillow again, willing his mind to shut down, longing for sleep—but the thoughts refused to leave him alone, Ethan refused to leave him alone. Michael’s only son, his only beloved son, dead two years ago from an overdose, aged just twenty-four. Lying under six feet of earth in the graveyard, next to his mother.

And what if her story was true, what if Ethan had become a father before his death? Because distasteful as it was to Michael, there was an infinitesimal possibility, wasn’t there, that she was telling the truth? Maybe Ethan had held that boy as a baby, maybe he’d had feelings for that girl—

Michael shook his head angrily. Nonsense, all nonsense and lies. Someone trying to pull a fast one, someone trying to con money out of him. He wasn’t responsible for a couple of down-and-outs, they were nothing to him.

He heard the wind whipping up, and a fresh rattle of drops on the window. More bloody rain. He remembered lying in bed after Ethan had gone, listening to the rain pelting on the roof and wondering if his son had any shelter from it. He remembered wondering what Ruth would have thought of him kicking Ethan out of the house. He imagined her arguing with him, like Valerie had. Maybe if she hadn’t been killed, Ethan wouldn’t have gone near drugs.

He turned over again, pulling the covers up to block out the sound of the rain—and at two minutes to seven he finally tumbled into a deep sleep.