On the way home, Astarte calls in to visit Ryan. She parks the van and knocks on his door. There is no answer. A cold north wind bites through her clothes, and she stamps her feet and rubs her hands together before knocking again. Ryan is usually home at this time, sitting by the fire, watching television with a bottle of whiskey in his hand. Astarte goes back to the van, then changes her mind as she hooks out her keys, and returns to the house to peer through the window. Through the late afternoon gloom, a dark shape is visible on the floor. Her heart accelerating, she tries the door and finds it unlocked.
Ryan lies in a pool of blood on the floor beside a cold fireplace. Swiftly Astarte checks his pulse, knowing that it is too late; it is obvious that he has been dead for several hours. ‘Oh, Ryan,’ she whispers, stroking his hair. She rises slowly and goes to phone for an ambulance. The emergency services will be familiar with my voice by now, she thinks, as she sobs out Ryan’s address.
When his body has been taken away, she looks around the room. She wants to scrub it clean, but for the moment it must be left as evidence. Ryan’s presence had fled even before his body was discovered; there is no trace of him here. A faint scent of sage blends with the metallic tang of blood and a base note of whiskey. The empty chair has a pathetic poignancy. Wiping her tears away, Astarte leaves, closing the door softly behind her.
Flynn is dishing up dinner when she knocks on his door, entering before he has stepped across to open it. He takes one look at her and enfolds her in his arms. When she sobs out the news of Ryan’s death, a tear runs down his cheek. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers into her hair. ‘He was a good man. He did not deserve this. Come, sit down. You’re wiped out.’
She rests her head in his lap, staring into the fire while he strokes her hair gently, soothingly. ‘We did all we could, Astarte. You were a good friend to him,’ he murmurs.
‘He haemorrhaged.’ Her voice is small. ‘I knew it would happen, it’s been going on for some time. But what a terrible waste of a life.’
‘I know. I know.’ Flynn takes a deep breath. ‘I have Mark’s number. I’ll call him now.’ Astarte nods. She cannot break her promise to Ryan, and Mark has no inkling of the truth of his parentage. He will be terribly upset.
Flynn is visibly shaken when he sets the phone down. He makes mugs of tea, and insists that Astarte shares his meal, carefully dividing it in two and putting it into the oven to warm. They pick at the food in silence, sitting side by side. Afterwards, Flynn opens a bottle of wine. He raises his glass to Astarte. ‘May Ryan rest in peace now,’ he says solemnly. Astarte nods her agreement, and drinks.
The food and wine revive her, and the shock recedes. Ryan has what he wanted, she thinks sadly, and then remembers why she went to visit him.
Flynn bursts out laughing when she tells him that Mairie and Seamus seem to have ended their war. ‘Can you credit that?’ he shouts, slapping his thigh. ‘I never knew they were once in love! Well, it explains a great deal. This is good news indeed.’
Astarte regards him fondly. The firelight casts a rosy glow across his features and picks out streaks of gold in his fair hair. His blue eyes sparkle with astonished amusement. She looks down at his arms, noticing the pale down that covers muscles honed by physical labour.
‘You really are a man among men, Flynn,’ she says softly, raising her eyes to meet his. His laughter stops abruptly, and he stares at her with a longing that pierces her heart. She puts out a hand to run her index finger down his arm. Flynn holds his breath, letting it out in a sigh when she curls her fingers around his. He leans towards her, hardly daring to hope, and she turns her face up to meet his, returning his kiss with a passion that turns his limbs to water.
Hours later he lies beside her, watching her sleep. The covers have slipped from the bed, and gently, so as not to wake her, he reaches down to retrieve them, to keep her from the cold. She stirs, smiling in her sleep. Flynn’s hand touches her hair, gently unwinding a curl, watching it spring back into a spiral as soon as he releases it. He wriggles down the bed so that they are lying eye to eye, and kisses her forehead, her closed eyelids, her lips; breathing in the scent of her skin.
Astarte murmurs and snuggles close, opening her eyes as she reaches for him. A look of shock passes over her face, and she sits up suddenly and slaps a hand against her forehead. ‘What am I doing? I must be crazy!’ Leaping out of bed, she casts around for her clothes, shivering as she puts them on.
‘But Astarte, I thought …’ Flynn wraps the duvet around him and swings his legs over the side to stand in front of her. His voice rises. ‘What are you doing? You started this, and I’m not a toy to be played with and then cast aside! Don’t do this!’
Ignoring him, she pulls on one boot and, the other one still in her hand, hops towards the doorway. Flynn, his stride longer than hers, arrives there first. He places a hand on her shoulders. ‘Please. Don’t do this. Don’t leave,’ he pleads.
She looks up at him, tears in her eyes. ‘Flynn, I’m sorry. I truly am. I keep coming back to you, I know, and a part of me wants to be with you, but it won’t work. I’m no good at this, and I swore I’d never have another relationship. I don’t trust myself. Jesus, I can’t even cope with my own parents, let alone a lover!’
Flynn’s face sets into a mask. ‘Astarte, if you would only speak to your parents and treat them as human beings instead of idiots, you’d find that they are not bad people. They care about you, and so do I.’
She shakes her head. ‘I don’t need any of you, so leave me alone!’
‘Fine, if that’s how you want it,’ Flynn fires back, stepping aside. ‘Go your own way, Astarte. But it’s a lonely road that you are setting out on, with your closed heart and your pig-headedness!’
Stepping aside, Flynn watches her go through the doorway. He turns back to look at the dishevelled bed, and climbs back in, pulling the pillow over his head.