Guilty

by Siobhan MacDonald

The old man displayed little emotion when Luke dropped by. There were no outward signs of welcome. His rheumy eyes blinked in and out of synch and he studied Luke with caution. Whether he had difficulty in recognising Luke, or whether a natural distrust had kicked in, it was hard to tell.

  Back at the Glasshouse, Wendy had decided to stay on indefinitely. She asserted that Toni was perfectly capable of running the bar in Sydney on her own. In snatches of overheard conversation, Luke was amused to hear her dispense advice to Toni. Wendy had a habit of shouting at the laptop screen.

  Luke was interested to meet the woman who could cope with his sister’s bossiness. He’d see her at Christmas when they went to Sydney. Wendy said the sunshine would be good for him. These days everyone was at pains to tell Luke what was good for him.

  Neighbours, friends and colleagues all subscribed to the notion that Luke had enjoyed a happy marriage. In their eyes, he was bereft. Even those who knew Alison and Gilligan had enjoyed more than business dealings preferred to disregard the truth. They trotted out their condolences. Acknowledgement of any estrangement between Alison and Luke would have proved too awkward. It was easier to draw on protocols used for dealing with a grieving spouse.

  In the weeks following Alison’s death, Luke played along with the charade, looking mournful and shaking hands. He hated every minute of it. He balked at the faux sincerity of an overly squeezed hand and the intrusive, sympathetic locking of the eyes.

  Luke was beset by an urge to declare his feelings. I fell out of love with Alison a long time back, he longed to confess. I found it hard to even like her, and I doubt that I shall miss her, he wanted to say. He imagined in the unlikely event of any such utterances, they would be dismissed and ignored. Everyone loved the illusion of the successful couple that Alison had created. No one wanted to shatter the image of the Crow Hall Camelot.

  Luke had plenty to do after the funeral. There were phone calls for a start. Alison’s accident had attracted lots of media coverage. He expected her Marfan’s specialist, Raymond Grogan, would be aware of her death. Even so, he thought it courteous to phone and cancel her quarterly check-ups. It annoyed him when his own patients missed appointments that others would gladly fill. He readied himself for forthcoming expressions of sympathy.

  ‘Doctor Grogan’s rooms,’ came the frosty greeting.

  ‘I’m ringing to cancel my late wife’s quarterly check-ups with Doctor Grogan.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ A little softer now.

  ‘Yes. She died last month.’

  ‘I’m very sorry to hear that. Can you give me your wife’s name?’

  ‘Alison Forde-Thompson.’

  ‘OK … if you could just bear with me a second.’

  ‘Sure.’

  He listened to the gentle breathing on the other end of the line.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the woman apologised, ‘but I don’t seem to have a record of anyone with that name at this practice. Is it possible she went by another name?’

  Then he remembered. Alison had been with Grogan for years. She would have used her maiden name.

  ‘She probably went by Alison Thompson, her maiden name.’

  More breathing followed.

  ‘Again, I’m sorry, but I’m not seeing anyone by that name on our database either.’

  ‘Can you hold the line a second, please?’ he asked. ‘I want to check on something.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  Phone in hand, Luke went to the equestrian calendar in the kitchen. He flicked through every three months. As he thought, the appointments were regular. As far as May this year, the eighteenth of every third month was circled with the letters RG.

  ‘I’ve just checked my wife’s calendar. If you check your diary, I think you’ll find she attended on the eighteenth every third month.’

  He waited.

  ‘I’m really sorry but I can categorically tell you that no one of that name has attended this practice on those dates for the past year.’

  Luke stared unseeing at the calendar.

  ‘I see,’ he said slowly. ‘There appears to be some confusion. Thank you for your help.’

  ‘No problem. Thank you for your call.’

  It seemed impossible. Yet there was only one possible explanation he could think of. It looked like Alison’s old school friend, Nicola, had been telling the truth. And yet it seemed so shallow, so selfish, so vain, that he had difficulty accepting it. He cast his mind back to the conversation he’d had many years earlier, the day of Nina’s welcoming ceremony. That September afternoon in the garden at the Glasshouse.

  He’d thought Nicola absurd for suggesting Alison had never wanted to ruin her figure by getting pregnant. That Alison would prefer to have a child that was potty-trained. That Alison always got what she wanted. Remarks he’d attributed to begrudgery at the time.

  He tried to grasp the enormity of what this meant. For eighteen years the woman he had married had masqueraded as a Marfan’s sufferer. She had created the Marfan’s myth. For sure, Alison had physical traits that could be construed as outward indicators of the syndrome. Luke had been suggestible and had embraced the deceit. What was it Alison used to say? ‘I can create myths and I can make ugly truths go away.’

  Something occurred to him now. The initials R and G. Roddy Gilligan. The same initials as Raymond Grogan. Was Roddy Gilligan the RG that Alison would meet every few months in Dublin? A lovers’ assignation? Would she have been so bold as to mark that in the calendar, taking delight in duping Luke? His head hurt to think about it all.

  He looked at his watch. 11.05 a.m. He made for the drinks cabinet. He unlocked the walnut door, racked out the recessed tray, and set out a crystal tumbler. He ripped the seal on a rare malt that Hugh had gifted him. He filled the tumbler to the top. Raising the tumbler to his lips, he swallowed. The amber liquid burned his throat, his oesophagus, and finally hit his trembling stomach. He wanted to feel something, anything, other than what he felt now.

  When Wendy and Nina returned from their shopping trip late that afternoon, they found him passed out on the sofa. There was a blanket over him when he woke. Duffy had climbed onto the sofa and was at his feet. The tumbler and the half-empty whiskey bottle had been cleared away. Neither Wendy nor Nina queried him about the episode. He was grateful for that. He wasn’t going to talk about it to them or anyone. It was all too monstrous.

  In the weeks that followed, the weather improved. It got warmer and it was now possible to walk outside on the Glasshouse lawn without sinking ankle deep. Summer was on the way. Luke needed to put alternative arrangements in place for someone to cut the grass.

  Early one morning, with a rare few minutes to spare before heading off to the hospital, he sat at the kitchen table, laptop open, and searched for a gardening service. An alert suddenly popped up on his screen:

  Body found during wind-farm groundworks.

  Diggers

  Luke clicked on the alert:

  Yesterday afternoon on the shores of Lough Carberry, engineers from Zephyr Energy made a gruesome discovery. While conducting groundworks for wind turbines they found what appear to be the remains of a body. The works were taking place close to Crow Hall. The body was discovered at a depth of five feet, on the border of two local estates. One of the estates belongs to Roddy Gilligan and the other to Senator Cornelius Thompson.

  Police were called immediately and they preserved the site. A state pathologist is currently at the scene where she is conducting a preliminary investigation. There is some speculation that the body could be that of casual labourer Thomas Delahunty who disappeared twenty-eight years ago.

  Thomas was raised in a state care home along with his sister. The eighteen-year-old youth spent a summer working at Crow Hall, disappearing shortly afterwards. Despite ill health, his sister has never given up hope of finding out what happened to her younger brother. ‘People said that Thomas was a tearaway. But they never gave him a chance,’ she said. ‘To me he was just a young lad like any other. He
was mad about horses. He had a sense of humour and a cheeky smile. I miss him.’

  Locals remain tight-lipped about the find. They are still grieving the loss of their much-loved Minister, Alison Forde-Thompson from Crow Hall, who died in a car accident during the spring floods.

  More to follow …

  Luke stared at the screen and read the news again. He now understood exactly why Cornelius had been so uneasy about the siting of the turbines. He knew there were human remains just beyond the boundary of his land. Cornelius knew, because the bad bastard had put them there himself.

  Luke reached for his phone. He called the landline at Crow Hall.

  ‘Hello?’

  It was Gilligan.

  ‘Hi, it’s Luke. I’ve just read the news. Just ringing to see how the old man is doing?’

  ‘It’s busy today with all the police. We’re all pretty shocked, as you can imagine.’

  I’ll bet you are, thought Luke.

  ‘Do you know anything about it, Roddy? Is it true?’

  ‘I know nothing. Myself and Sly were interviewed earlier this morning and the police are speaking to Cornelius now. But of course I don’t think the old boy understands much of what’s going on.’

  Even in ill health Cornelius was running rings around everyone. ‘Has any of the old boy’s speech returned?’ Luke feigned concern.

  ‘Up to now progress has been pretty slow,’ Gilligan replied. ‘But he’s managing a few more words. I call in most days.’

  I bet you do, thought Luke.

  ‘Sly and Myra are in and out a bit as well,’ said Gilligan. ‘And the old boy seems to be getting on well with the new homecare package.’

  ‘Is that right?’ said Luke. He looked at his watch. He should go.

  ‘Yeah. A new agency nurse has moved in to Crow Hall. Cornelius has round-the-clock care now. It’s working out well. She seems like a lovely woman. Her name is Sophie.’

  Acknowledgements

  Heartfelt thanks to my agent Jo Bell for her support, encouragement and sunny guidance. Thanks also to the wider team at Bell Lomax Moreton.

  Thank you to Krystyna Green, Rebecca Sheppard, Howard Watson and all at Little, Brown.

  Thank you to Elaine Egan and all at Hachette Ireland.

  The extent of my copious references to the world of medicine became clear while editing. A million thanks to Clodagh O’Gorman for putting me right on all my sticky-noted queries. And apologies for hijacking you for a lot longer than a quick cup of coffee!

  Writing a novel is a solitary business so the good company and encouragement of my friends and family mean everything. Thanks to my early readers, Sarah O’Donoghue and Joanna O’Donoghue. Also to Joanna Leahy, always there to lend a helping hand. Thanks to Jamie and Alasdair – who never fail to make me laugh. The support of other writers is invaluable, and special thanks to Judi Curtin for allowing me to bend her ear on many an occasion.

  And finally, thanks to Neil as always. First reader, first editor, first responder (when it’s all going pear-shaped). Always my first.