The night i killed him, p.18
The Night I Killed Him, page 18
‘We’ll go inside,’ I say. ‘Are you okay to stand?’
Half an hour later, fortified by Dorothy’s builder-strength tea and flapjacks that could double up as the foundations of a detached house, Sarita is about to be sent on her merry way. Dorothy can barely contain her delight.
‘So you’ve absolutely no need to be concerned for my welfare,’ she trills, patting Sarita’s shoulder. ‘Niamh is always on hand and—’
‘And you’ll consider a panic button as well?’ interrupts Sarita, grasping at straws. ‘For when Niamh is working?’
‘Oh yes, I will, of course,’ says Dorothy. ‘I’ll get on to that immediately. One can’t be too careful. Anyone could have a fainting spell. Not just the octogenarians.’
She pauses. It seems an innocent comment. Sarita and I make eye contact. She thinks we’re laughing at her.
‘Mind the hand,’ I say, nodding at where she’s still kind of cradling it in the other. She lets go, shaking her head.
‘Oh, it’s nothing. Honestly. Thanks so much for the tea and the biscuits, Mrs – I mean, Dorothy.’
‘My pleasure,’ says Dorothy, opening the hall door. ‘See you again when you next need to check up on me, hah. And maybe check your iron levels?’
Dorothy nods, and I take the hint, following Sarita down the steps.
‘Are you on foot? I can give you a lift?’ I begin taking my keys out of my pocket. She’s a tiny scrap of a thing, now that I see her upright and outdoors. Somehow she looked more substantial clutching her folders inside. Patches of dappled light from the tall beech trees dance across her shiny dark hair, shift over her smooth cheek. God, she’s pretty.
‘Oh, not at all. Thanks, Niamh. I’ll get the Luas,’ she says, lifting the strap of her briefcase so it’s across the body rather than the shoulder this time. The bag is way too big for her. I tilt my head towards it.
‘Are you sure? Mind yourself now,’ I say, then I wince. What class of an eejit says that? What am I – her granny?
‘Thanks, Niamh, I will.’
I like how my name sounds when she says it.
Back in the house, Dorothy can’t hide her grin.
‘So did you slip tranquillizers into her or what?’ I say, following her to the kitchen with the empty cups. ‘Lucky I came back when I did.’
She takes the cups from me, putting them into the small plastic basin in the sink. Dorothy doesn’t use a dishwasher. She’ll wash the dishes by hand each evening, in about four centimetres of hot water.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake! You shouldn’t joke about things like that – you of all people!’ she scolds, wiping the tray and tucking it against the bread bin. ‘I didn’t do anything wrong – I was eminently cooperative.’ She’s nodding. ‘Even though I told them there was no need and that I’d complied with all the recommendations. But they insisted on sending her out. Well.’ She tosses her head. ‘Ridiculous. This is what annoys me so much about ageing – not the ageing itself, rather people’s expectations. Just because I’ve passed a certain number of years on the planet, I’m expected to tolerate – even welcome – the interference of do-gooders—’
‘It’s her job.’ I tilt my head, lips pursed. ‘And you did have a fall.’
‘Heavens above!’ she tsks. ‘Fine. I fell. I did not have a fall. And you’re right, she’s a lovely girl.’
The word sounds like ‘gahl’.
‘She is—’ I start to say, thinking of the look we’d exchanged, like conspirators. Allies.
‘And she was most relieved to hear that you’ve – ah – moved upstairs,’ she says quietly, turning to look out the window into the back garden. ‘To keep me company.’
‘I see,’ I say, prolonging the ‘ee’ sound. ‘When did that happen? When did I move in?’
She has the decency to look embarrassed.
‘Well, it has to happen this evening – now,’ she says, ‘so that I haven’t fabricated any falsehoods. The bed is made up and I’ve cleared all the cupboards. I’ll be in there.’ She points to what used to be called the breakfast room. I walk over and peer inside. The oak table has been cleared away and a large hospital-type bed now dominates the room.
‘They insisted,’ she says. ‘Though I’m perfectly able to get in and out of bed and to manage the stairs.’ Stahrs.
‘Fair enough,’ I say. ‘I’ll go get my stuff. We’d better keep Sarita happy.’
I like to think of her happy.
41
Laura
‘Are you tired, Mummy?’ Noah’s tone is uncertain. It’s seven thirty and Alva has him already in the pjs. I muster a smile. I’ve just come in. I insisted that Niamh left early – it seemed the least I could do. She looked shattered.
‘Hang on, pet,’ I say, my hand going to my hip. I need to put the Sig in the gun safe. ‘I just need to do something, then we’ll have a snuggle. Where’s Katie? Where’s Dad?’
‘Dad is on a run. Katie’s upstairs with Alva cos she’s crying.’ I pause.
‘Why is Katie crying?’
‘Not Katie. Alva. She’s making Alva better. She drawed a picture to make her better.’
‘Oh.’ I hurry into the hall and lock the gun away, coming back to take Noah’s hand.
‘Poor Alva. Come on, we’ll go upstairs and help Katie.’
‘Yes,’ he says, stoutly. ‘I can tell jokes.’ He looks up at me. That’s his latest thing. My youngest – always trying to find something his sister hasn’t already done better, faster, earlier. It was magic tricks last month. Just for a second, I think of Gemma, only emerging from Max’s shadow after his death.
‘Can’t I, Mummy?’
‘You sure can.’
‘An’ if you’re cranky, I can tell you jokes too,’ he continues, letting go of my hand to hold on to the rail of the narrow attic staircase.
‘I’m never cranky,’ I say, stung. He turns, holding the banister with both hands and looking at me in surprise.
‘You are, Muma. But it’s not your fault. Daddy says it’s work – hiya!’
Spotting Alva and Katie, his tone changes to a shriek and he bounds into the room. They’re snuggled under the duvet looking at a photo album. Alva’s eyes are red-rimmed from crying and Katie is like a miniature therapist, complete with professional smile. She’s working hard, but cracks when Noah leaps on to the bed and starts burrowing under the covers too. A feeling too complicated to unpack in the instant takes hold of me. I’m angry and sad and sorry for Alva and profoundly, disgustingly – jealous, I realize. And then I catch myself with a lurch, as I consider the possibility that her dad – our dad – may have died and she had no one to—
‘Oh! Hi’ – Alva hiccups – ‘I’m sorry for—’
‘What happened?’
‘Alva says I can sleep here tonight,’ announces Katie, in triumph. She’s been asking for ages, and I always say no.
‘We’ll have to see—’ I begin, before being interrupted by a wail from Noah.
‘That’s not fair! I want to sleep in Alva’s bed too!’
They start shouting over each other and it occurs to me, not for the first time, that Niamh’s whistle from GAA refereeing might be a useful parenting tool. I hold up both hands.
‘Sssh! Indoor voices!’ Nothing. I clap my hands. Nothing. ‘Quiet!’ I yell.
‘You are cranky,’ sobs Noah, bursting into tears.
I remember a tip from Niamh with the coaching: Tell them what’s going to happen, then make it happen.
‘Now, you two are going to be quiet and let me talk to Alva for five minutes on our own. On. Our. Own. And if – if – you’re really quiet and if Alva says it’s okay, you can sleep in here on the air mattress.’
I look at Alva. ‘If Alva would like some company. But she’s not going to want fighting children for company, is she?’
Noah shakes his head. Katie is holding her finger to her lips. There’s complete silence. How they adore her.
‘So you’re going to creep downstairs like mice, and brush your teeth—’
‘I’ve already—’ begins Noah. Katie shushes him. She takes hold of his hand. ‘And if you’ve already brushed your teeth, then you go to the bathroom and wash your hands and get your teddies and you can creep back up again, but only if Alva says so.’
They scurry out of the room.
‘Sorry—’ Alva starts.
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ I sit on the end of the bed. ‘Is – did something happen with—’ I can’t utter the word.
She shakes her head, and the feeling of relief that surges through me is astonishing. I don’t speak to him. I haven’t spoken to him or allowed him in my life since he walked out over thirty years ago. But I’m not ready for him to die.
‘No,’ she’s saying, ‘but we spoke to the palliative care team, and it – it won’t be long. He’ – she looks at me, but it’s like she’s looking through me – ‘he’s trying – he wants to write letters to us, you know, to say goodbye, and I – I just don’t know if I’m strong enough to – he needs someone to write them, you see. He’s too weak.’
She blows her nose and takes a deep breath. From the hallway outside, we hear stage whispers of intense cooperation.
‘Let’s bring two teddies each,’ hisses Katie. ‘One for us and one for Alva.’
‘Yes,’ Noah hisses back. ‘Then she has two, and it isn’t fair but it’s okay because she’s sad.’
Our eyes meet, and I feel the jealousy fall away.
‘He really, really wants to see you,’ she whispers. ‘I’m sorry. He made me promise to tell you that.’
I don’t have a sister. Niamh is the closest friend I’ve ever known, and she’s sister, brother and sometimes mother to me. With Alva, I’ve been paying lip service to the whole idea of family, I realize. I’ve let her live with us, but I’ve never really accepted her. She’s never moved beyond the polite layer. Niamh’s right. I’m closed off.
Alva is my little sister. Can I do this for her? Even if I can’t do it for him?
‘I – I—’ I’m struggling to find the words, and then my work phone buzzes.
‘I have to take this.’ I point at the phone, stepping out of the room. ‘I’m sorry.’
Katie and Noah take this as the green light, and they barrel past me and start clambering on to Alva’s lap. As I go to close the door I pause to look at the image, framed in a narrow rectangle by the doorjamb. Alva’s tears are gone and she’s the centre of a triptych flanked by my children, who look up at her adoringly. I don’t know what I think about that.
‘Shaw? Can you hear me okay?’
‘Yes, Laura Shaw here. Sorry about that. Who—’
‘No worries. Yeah, it’s Stephen Bourke from Corrig Point station. Look, sorry, you’re probably gone home, but I wanted to tell you that Rob Skehan called back – he’ll be in Dublin at the weekend and is going to come in to talk to us. He was sound – very helpful.’
My phone pings, and I move it away from my ear to look at it.
‘He sent this. Have you got it?’
‘I have,’ I say, frowning at the image. At first glance, it’s a photo of the Skehans, Carol-Ann and the husband – Petey, I think she said he was called. They’re shiny and flushed – perhaps both a little worse for wear. His arm is around her shoulders and he’s squeezing her against him. She has tilted her head towards his shoulder in a girlish gesture and she’s smiling – but it’s a kind of desperate grimace. And something is happening behind them – your eye is drawn past the smiling pair to a drama playing out in the background.
‘What do you make of that?’
I zoom in as much as I can to the two faces in profile behind the Skehans. It’s Max Fitzgerald and Conleth. They’re squaring up to each other. Conleth is the taller man by a couple of inches and he’s glaring at his friend, the strong jaw jutting forwards, shoulders set and elbows flexed as though ready to throw a punch. I can just make out the knuckles of a clenched fist behind the outline of Carol-Ann’s hip.
‘Well now, that’s something to think about,’ I say, shifting the zoom across to study Max. ‘A new angle, what do you reckon?’
‘You betcha,’ says Stephen. He waits, and I check out Max. He too has a stubborn line to his mouth, but Max’s body language is different. Both his hands are in front of his body, palms and fingers facing upwards. He’s frowning, mouth slightly open, as if the camera caught him saying something. What could it be?
‘Thanks for this.’ I click out of the photo, hearing the front door close downstairs. There’s no point in doing anything now. ‘Will I meet you—’
‘Yeah, great,’ he interrupts. ‘We’ll talk in the morning. And I’ll show you – I got Nolan’s notes. A whole box of them. All his notebooks too. We can go through them tomorrow.’
‘Thanks, Stephen,’ I say, coming down the stairs into the hallway as I end the call.
Matt stands at the bottom step looking up at me – and both the aspect and the blue eyes seeking mine emphasize the similarities between him and his three-year-old son. He’s flushed from his run and his hair is wet. It’s not raining. He just always pours the remainder of his water over his head as he finishes his run.
‘Steeephen,’ he says, batting his eyelashes. ‘Sergeant Stephen from the yacht club gardaí – should I be worried?’
I try not to grin, but one escapes anyway. He reaches up and grabs me into a hug.
‘Ew, gross! Sweat!’ I say, though a tiny thrill shivers through me at the sudden contact – and the smell of my husband’s sweat. Like Niamh says, hormones are bastards. I’m too busy. On cue, I hear a wail from upstairs, and I turn, preparing to go back up. Matt sweeps his hand down the small of my back to cup my buttock. He gives a playful squeeze.
‘I’ll sort it,’ he says. ‘You’re in no fit state to deal with children.’
42
Gemma
Conleth is in a good mood – the best I’ve seen him in for a long time. He taps a small amount of white powder from the bag on to the marble surround of the bathroom sink.
‘This will get right up the nose of poor old ENT Rob,’ he grins, bending to snort the first line. ‘In a manner of speaking.’
He straightens up, pressing his thumb against one nostril, watching himself, watching me in the mirror. I lean forward to release the bathwater, bracing myself for his cold, appraising stare, for a cutting comment. I’d hoped to finish before he got back, but I wasn’t fast enough. I’m not allowed to lock the door.
Avoiding his eyes, I step out of the bath and reach for the towel on the rail. Conleth pulls it so it drops to the floor, and he laughs. At this point, he’s still having fun. It’s a game. I have to bend – shivering – to pick it up. Conleth smiles with satisfaction and does another line. He quotes statistics about the number of killings having doubled or something since 2021 and all the while his eyes stay on me in the mirror and the smirk stays on his mouth. He knows I want privacy. We both know I can’t have it. There is nowhere he won’t spy on me. There’s nothing he won’t watch. I’m his property and his plaything.
He thumbs his nostrils together, then brushes the last traces of white powder off his upper lip, watching me.
‘You’re getting flabby,’ he says, while I struggle to cover myself with the towel. ‘Which is quite an achievement. How does someone with no muscle tone whatsoever manage to look both too fat and too thin?’
I don’t answer. That’s not a question I’m meant to answer. I wait, clutching the fabric against my chest, breathing in the scent of fabric softener. Trying to concentrate on that.
‘Have you been doing the sit-ups? You haven’t, have you?’
‘I—’
‘I went to the trouble of writing you your own personal schedule, didn’t I?’ he says, taking up his phone. ‘Wait. Let me see,’ he goes on, moving his thumb across the screen, searching for—
‘Here,’ he says, turning the phone so I can see the photograph. It’s me, standing on this same spot a few months ago. Naked. ‘This was meant to be the Before shot, Gemm–a.’ He emphasizes the syllables of my name slowly as his smile stretches.
I remain shivering on the bathmat, my toes whitening as they clench the soft fabric. As if the action of touching something soft can calm me. Why don’t I just walk away? I could just—
‘But it’s not like we got to where we were going, is it?’
Exaggerated head movements as he looks from the screen back to me, back to the screen.
‘Saggy and baggy,’ he says, with a weary regret in his voice. ‘Then and now. Even though I wrote out a whole programme for you. Ten minutes twice a day, that’s all it would have taken you – but oh no. You’re too lazy for that. I don’t know why I bother.’
‘Conleth, I did – I do – I’ve been walking, and I—’
He holds up a hand.
‘Don’t bother.’ He sighs. ‘You’re just going to lie and go for sympathy and tell me that it’s loose skin after pregnancy and you’re so busy with the child and the job and blah blah blah. Excuse after excuse. It’s important for your career, Gemma. This is not me being cruel or unkind. I’m thinking of your career.’
He glances at himself in the mirror once more, and the sight seems to perk him up. He’s wired. I reach to get my silk kimono, which is, thank Christ, hanging by the door. Without meeting his eyes, I tie it around myself and step towards him.
I think I can salvage this. He bought me this. He loves the silk.
‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper, leaning against him. ‘I’ll try harder.’ A beat. Then he pockets his phone and begins sweeping his hands over the smoothness of the fabric.
‘You’d better,’ he says. ‘Show me.’
Afterwards, I lie awake, remembering. Thinking about Ferdia – about giving over my body to my baby and giving it to a man – to my husband. How different it is – but how both can take what they want unless – yeah. Unless I can find a way not to let him. With Ferdia, the pregnancy ended before I was ready – before he was ready. And I know it sounds crazy, but I wish I could have had more time sharing my body with my baby. That was a takeover I wholeheartedly welcomed. When our hearts beat together. When he was safe. But Ferdia was born ten weeks early. And when I saw his little body in the neonatal ICU, strips of narrow tape holding naso-gastric tubes in place, monitors attached to his blue-veined taut flesh, huge eyes taped closed against the heated lamp – like an incubator chick – I vowed I would do anything for him. Anything. I will tolerate all of this – all of it, it’s nothing – if his life is spared. Putting up with Conleth is part of it.
