The night i killed him, p.15
The Night I Killed Him, page 15
‘And my parents, oh my God! They loved him! He was everything to them. And I destroyed that.
‘And I wanted to die. Because after Max was gone, I realized how much I loved him. I hid from the world. I hid behind Conleth, and I let him – I hide in this world he’s created and I feel so bad lying to you, to you all. I’m a useless daughter, mother, sister, friend. I can’t even protect my son – and I want to be – I want to be true to you all, and I’m so tired of lying. I just want to tell the truth. And I am! I swear. I am – but I have to – I have to – that’s—’
A door slams upstairs. I freeze, and it’s almost comical. It’s like the tears are hoovered back into my tear ducts. I stand there half naked, heart thumping. But it’s probably just one of the tenants going out. We share the front entrance.
But no! No! Footsteps on the stairs. Why is he coming in that way? It’s Conleth back again. Quickly, I press stop, then I throw the pile of clothes on the bed and start to get into the top outfit on the pile. I hear him hesitate outside the door. He won’t want to come in while I’m filming.
‘This dress has a V neck and an elasticated waist,’ I say, loud enough for him to hear outside the door. ‘So comfy – and it’s all about comfort for me. But it still shows my shape. And, ladies, it has pockets. Gotta love the pockets. Comes in navy as well.’
I dry my tears on the inside of the dress as I take it off, then I take my hair out of the ponytail and let it hide my face. By the time he comes into the room it just looks as though I’m a bit red-faced from the heat.
‘I spoke to your friend Penny,’ he says, layering the word with irony. ‘She’s kind of nosy, isn’t she? She’s worried about you. She gave me a card with some counsellor’s name on it. Wants me to encourage you to talk to someone.’
My hand flies to my throat.
‘Conleth, I didn’t—’
‘You can talk to anyone you want,’ he says, flicking the card on to the floor in front of me. ‘But just remember that if you do anything to jeopardize this family—’ He pauses, and I watch him scan the room, like a wolf sniffing a scent. His eyes stop and rest on the phone. He narrows his gaze. Oh my God! Did I actually press stop? He takes a step towards it, then changes his mind.
‘Finish your post,’ he says, turning to leave. ‘And don’t waste time. We’re going to make a statement at twelve thirty – outside the club. That way they’ll have it for the lunchtime news bulletin.’
Hands shaking, I make a new reel. I say nice things about each outfit, paying particular attention to stitching details, pockets, quality, comfort. I add the sticker icon and do a poll: ‘The suit has it’ versus ‘Stick with the classic dress’. Laura said it might be another day before they release the body.
I’ll be gone by then. There’s no other way. We both will.
#Asafehavenformax
#Keeponsailing
#Styleitout
#Coastallife
#Comfydresses
#Casualbutsmart
#Lovemybrother
@missymurfi: I hope you’re taking it easy @gemstone because you need rest. You’re always cleaning your house – maybe your husband would take over for this week. You should make him stay home and clean and you can walk on the pier and get an ice-cream. That would be nice.
@annahanna: @missymurfi always looking out for @gemstone! Good idea. Or we could bring you for a coffee at the library.
@missymurfi: Just us. No husbands. I don’t have one anyway.
@nolimitsgrl: No rush @missymurfi haha! A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.
@missymurfi: But fishes can’t ride bicycles.
@annahanna: @nolimitsgrl you are hilarious. But the coffee idea is a good one. We should do a coffee morning.
@missymurfi: Little Ferdia is a great fella and he must be your pride and joy. @gemstone it was nice to see you on the seat all cuddled up close.
34
Laura
I’m outside Corrig Point garda station finishing up a call with Matt when Niamh gets into the car, looking pale. She clocks me about to hang up.
‘Bye, honey!’ she trills in a constricted Southside squawk which is meant to sound like me, presumably. ‘Love you, baby. Wear your sexy gear tonight again, won’t you?’ The opportunity to tease now brings a flush of colour to her cheeks.
‘Hi, Niamh,’ Matt’s voice holds his grin. ‘Don’t tempt me.’
‘Well?’ she says after I end the call. ‘What are you grinning at? Did ye go out last night for the romantic dinner followed by the missionary-position mind-numbing PE that passes for sex with you old-timers?’
‘Very funny,’ I say, concentrating on reversing out of the parking lot, hoping she won’t notice the blush which says yes, that’s exactly what we did. Right down to the position. What can I say? I like it. He likes it. Though it’s so rare nowadays, poor Matt would like anything that passes for sex.
Neither of us mentioned the whole scenario with Alva and my father. It’s like we both knew that would mess up the whole night. We stuck to the script.
‘So?’ I say, glancing over at Niamh now. She’s tied back her hair, and it occurs to me that perhaps she had to, if she was throwing up. ‘Have you done a test yet?’
She frowns in irritation. And that’s so unlike her, I reckon the pregnancy test is a foregone conclusion.
‘Didn’t want to jinx it,’ she says, her face serious. ‘They said not to test until two weeks. So I’ve to wait until Saturday.’
‘Well, yeah,’ I say, pulling into the outside lane, ‘but you could buy the test to be ready, couldn’t you?’
A shrug. I feel like I’m driving my teenage daughter to school. For detention.
‘I’ll pick one up later, will I? And keep it safe.’
She grins.
‘Thanks, yeah, great. Okay. And leave it out on the bed – give Matt a heart attack. No, better yet, leave it sticking out of your handbag when Justy is over. She’ll freak if you go past the 2.2 kids quota. Speaking of Justy, am I invited to the party? Surely she’s doing something fab for you in the mansion? Or the tennis club – or could it be the golf club?’
I sigh. As usual, Niamh’s not that far off course. Justy has been trying to persuade me – via Matt, naturally – to let her ‘take the reins’ and plan a fortieth-birthday party for me. She called over the other night when I was out and started making plans with him and was most put out when I arrived home with a thundering headache and basically put the kibosh on it all. She’d gathered her keys and phone together with much clanking of bracelets and metalwork – a sort of huffy jangling – then looked at me closely.
‘You do too much,’ she said, resting her tennis-tanned bony hand on my forearm. It’s only May, and she’s already mahogany. ‘Do try to rest.’
‘Actually, yeah, that would be brilliant if you’d buy it,’ Niamh says, and for a moment I’ve forgotten what she means. Oh, the kit.
‘Hannah from my club works in my local chemist, and I don’t want word getting out.’ She pauses, and a huge grin creeps across her face. ‘Also, because I’m so hormonally challenged I’m in danger of mortifying myself every time I step out the door.’ Her shoulders shake with laughter and a little snigger bursts from her nose.
‘Okay, don’t tell anniewan, an’ I’ll tell you—’
I wait.
‘Swear?’
‘I swear.’
‘Right, so Dorothy asked me to pick up a pint of milk on my way back last night, so I hopped into the garage to get it, and I was rummaging around in my bag looking for my purse, which I couldn’t find – because of course I’d left that at home.’
‘Oh wow!’ I say. ‘Poor you.’
‘No, that’s not it – whisht!’ she snaps. ‘So in another section of the bag, I have this little small purse – only a tiny thing, like for if you’re clubbing or, well, not that you’d be clubbing, or me now either, but—’ Another pause, in which I say nothing.
‘An’ in that purse I’d only ever keep like a folded twenty, and a credit card and a pantyliner – I mean, the essentials, you know?’
‘Uh-hum,’ I say, beginning to smile.
‘Yeah, and the young fella on the till is cranky-looking as shite and even though I’m only buying a pint of milk I know I’ll have to tap, so I put my fingers in the purse, eyeballing him like crazy because—’
‘Because he’s a cranky-looking shite?’
‘Exactly. And as I’m eyeballing him, I go, like: “I presume I can tap,” and he just stares at what’s in my hand, and so I look down and we both realize that I have just tried to tap for a pint of milk with a pink pantyliner.’
She throws her head back against the seat, closing her eyes and snorting with laughter.
‘Oh Jaysus! If you’d seen his face!’
And we’re both laughing, proper giggles that last, threading from one to the other, for a full minute.
‘So annieway,’ she says, finally, ‘you’ll—’
‘I’ll pick up a test for you,’ I say. ‘And I’ll pay with money rather than pantyliners.’
We’re quiet for a few minutes, and as I turn off the motorway heading towards the coast she speaks in a different voice. All laughter gone.
‘Do you think I’m crazy to do this? You can say it, Laura. Be honest.’
Bloody hell, I’m not used to this version of Niamh. I turn to make eye contact.
‘No! Not at all! Niamh, I swear to God, I think you’re brilliant. You’re going to be the most amazing mum.’
‘Brilliant but crazy?’ she says, gesturing for me to keep an eye on the road. ‘I haven’t told Mam and Dad yet in case they – well, I’m not telling them till it’s too late.’
I nod but say nothing.
‘What? Do you think I should?’
‘No – no. Actually, not at all.’
‘Yeah, but you’ve gone all quiet,’ she says. ‘Are you disapproving? Seriously?’
‘No – no, you’ve got it all wrong,’ I say. ‘I’ve gone quiet because I was remembering when I did the test and found out I was pregnant with Katie. And I couldn’t wait to tell Matt, because he was so, you know, invested in the whole thing. And I did, and he was thrilled and lovely and – it’s Matt. So he said all the right things. And we told his parents a couple of weeks later and of course they told all their friends. But then—’
I indicate off the roundabout and sweep into the smaller roads, the beautiful wide tree-lined roads on the outskirts of Dalkey. Niamh waits. And I think about what she’s gone through. This is her second round of IVF; she went through the whole thing once before, but the embryo didn’t take.
I can’t believe she kept it all secret and I can’t believe I didn’t notice. That we sat together, drove together, worked together and I didn’t pick up a single clue. So much for my detective skills.
When she told me the whole story, I saw a Niamh – a side to her I’d never known existed. Absolute commitment, determination, resilience – all of that is a given with Niamh. But when she told me of her longing for a baby and the fact that she had decided to do this alone, I was blown away.
‘Later, I wished that I’d waited before telling anyone – even Matt. I wished I’d had a bit longer when it was just me and her. I don’t think I even had an hour of just me and the baby on our own. Our own world. A secret.’
‘I can understand that.’
‘So, what I’m saying is that whatever you want – and, you know, however you want to do this – I’m here for you.’
I blush again, because we don’t usually talk like this. But Niamh doesn’t laugh.
I slow as we pass Bullock Harbour, both of us looking out at the jumble of boats in and out of the water, the little row of colourful cottages, the stylish, white-stepped sweep of Pilot View – our destination – opening out in front of us.
‘Jaysus,’ she whispers. ‘Imagine actually living here.’
I look over at her; she looks like she’s drinking in the sight.
‘Would you love it?’
She gives a do-you-have-to-ask shrug. ‘Eh, yeah? Who wouldn’t? The sea, like? I’d be swimming every day.’
I nod.
‘I’ll have you know that even us landlocked Tipperary boggers learn how to swim, all right?’ she snaps, as though I’ve accused her of something.
I hold up a hand in surrender.
‘Of course you do.’ I grin. ‘Never thought otherwise.’
Normal service restored.
35
Niamh
I hop out and tap in the entrance code, waving Laura on to let her know I’ll meet her at the door. Holy God! I watch her park, the straight back and the driving position that looks like she’s literally doing her driving test and, judging by the rigid set to her, not that sure of passing. She’s been like that from the day I met her – a strung-out streel – like someone’s twisting a dial in her brain to the max. But then, when we met, she was already a mam – or about to be. So maybe that’s it. Maybe she’s wired because she cares so much.
The thought occurred to me recently that maybe we humans are okay until we decide to start making babies. Maybe the mania and the stress, it’s like that’s nothing until you take on the biggest risk of all. It’s like this high-risk investment. An investment in life, capital L. And it’s terrifying to do it alone, but so what. It’s worth it.
When Amber and I broke up, I realized there was no point in waiting around for a perfect partner to have a baby with. I decided I’d go for it on my own so that, if in the future there’s anyone on the horizon – if I do decide to do the whole girlfriend thing again – well, it’ll already be a done deal. Me and the baby – the kid – whatever. Maybe even two of them. Why the feck not? Any prospective partner can take us as they find us. So yeah, maybe I should be thanking Amber for the rage that propelled me to do this alone. Rage, energy, whatever. Thanks, Amber.
Three months ago I lay in the clinic looking up at the screen, shivering, the gel evaporating on my skin, after the injections and the bloody harvesting of eggs, the plans and scans and months of hoping, and I heard the nurse say, ‘I’m sorry. That’s very disappointing – there’s no heartbeat.’
But I’d already boarded this train, so I dug deep, swallowed the tears.
‘Sure, haven’t I two more in your freezer,’ I’d said, although the tone came out kind of wrong because it sounded like I didn’t care, when in actual fact I’d never cared about anything more. ‘How soon can I go again?’
And here we are. I’m doing this. I’m not second-guessing myself and I’m not stopping. Decision not to be revisited. If this one doesn’t work, I’m going again. End of.
I speed up to catch Laura, who has her finger poised above the intercom. She’s watching me with this gentle smile and, in fairness, I have a strong desire to tell her to feck off.
‘Will ye stop giving me the Holy Mary look, for pity’s sake!’ I snap. ‘Forget I said anything.’
She smiles, leaning in towards the disembodied voice on the intercom.
‘Good morning, Mrs Skehan, we’re from Corrig Point garda station. Laura Shaw and Niamh Darmody. I called earlier?’
‘Oh yes. Top floor – take a right.’
We’re buzzed in and start making our way up the wide stairs. At the top, a tiny, tanned blonde woman who could be any age from fifty to eighty waits outside the door to her apartment. She’s wearing a thick white V-neck jumper over a bright blue shirt, white tailored trousers and a pair of navy docksiders with a white trim. Her eyes dart, taking everything in, and her movements are jerky and thrumming with nervous energy, like a nautical squirrel. Is there such a thing as a sea squirrel? If there is, she’s it.
Laura is pure professional as usual, but I’m finding it hard not to gasp. The flat has a view which people would kill for. Views – not just one. She brings us into the living room, which has a double-height window looking out over Bullock Harbour, and beyond, to Dún Laoghaire and Dublin Bay. Miles of sea. This room opens out into an L-shape with a kitchen in the smaller section where there’s another big window – and more sea.
I think of the good room at home, always in semi-darkness. Of Mam standing at the sink in the kitchen, drinking in the pitiful square of grey light. Maybe the human race would be a whole lot kinder if we all lived somewhere as beautiful as this. And then I remember what my landlady Dorothy said, because it was Dorothy I trusted with the secret first, Dorothy who brought me home and looked after me when they did the egg collection, Dorothy who held my hand after the miscarriage. She’s like a human confessional – somewhere secrets can lodge undisturbed. Maybe because of her role as village pharmacist, she’s just so wise. Nothing shocks her.
‘When you have the child, you’re moving upstairs,’ she’d said. And I tried telling her that I love my basement flat and I’m happy out, but she was having none of it. ‘Nonsense. The child will need light, space and a garden. You’ll move up here to the first floor. Besides, that will free up the basement for the Kovalenko family. It will all work out swimmingly.’
‘Call me Carol-Ann,’ says Carol-Ann, pouring a coffee for Laura and handing me a glass of chilled water. Last time, I couldn’t face coffee. But it might be nothing. I sip my water.
‘So, can you talk to us about the Fitzgeralds?’ says Laura. ‘How well did you know the family?’
She smiles, and her face creases into a million wrinkles, especially around the eyes. Hers is a face that has spent a lifetime outdoors, the kind of face you’d associate with wisdom and generosity. Which is why her next sentence is a bit of a shocker.
‘Oh, very well,’ she says, stirring sugar into her cup. ‘Well enough to know that the golden boy Max wasn’t quite as golden as he seemed.’
36
Laura
