The Likeness

by Tana French

  “Not a lot they could do,” Sam said dryly. “One of the landlord’s family . . . He could do whatever he liked, sure.”

  “Then this girl got pregnant,” I said. “She claimed William was the father—Simon sounded a little skeptical about that, but either way, Glenskehy was horrified. They treated her like dirt; the general opinion was that she belonged in a Magdalen laundry. Before anyone could send her off, she hanged herself.”

  Brush of wind through the trees, small raindrops flicking leaves.

  “So,” Sam said, after a moment, “Simon’s version takes the responsibility right off the Marches and puts it on those mad peasants down the village.”

  The flare of anger caught me off guard; I almost bit his head off. “William March didn’t get off scot-free either,” I said, hearing the edge in my voice. “He had some kind of nervous breakdown—I don’t have specifics, but he ended up in what sounds like a mental institution. And it might not even have been his kid to start with.”

  Another silence, longer this time. “Right,” Sam said. “True enough. I’m not about to argue over anything tonight, anyway. I’m too happy about seeing you again.”

  I swear it took me a second to catch up. I had been so focused on the chance of seeing the mysterious N, it hadn’t even hit me that I would be seeing Sam. “Less than twelve hours,” I said. “I’ll be the one looking like Lexie Madison and wearing nothing but white lace underwear.”

  “Ah, don’t be doing that to me,” Sam said. “This is business, woman,” but I could still hear the grin in his voice when we hung up.

  * * *

  Daniel was in one of the armchairs by the fire, reading T. S. Eliot; the other three were playing poker. “Oof,” I said, flopping down on the hearth rug. The butt of my gun jammed itself neatly under my ribs; I didn’t try to hide the wince. “What are you doing out? You never get knocked out first.”

  “I kicked his arse,” Abby called across, raising her wineglass.

  “Don’t gloat,” Justin said. He sounded like he was losing. “It’s so unattractive.”

  “She did, actually,” Daniel said. “She’s getting very good at bluffing. Are your stitches hurting again?”

  A fraction of a pause, from the table, in the sound of Rafe flipping his stack of coins through his fingers. “It’s just ’cause I’m thinking about them,” I said. “I’ve got this follow-up appointment tomorrow, so the doctors can poke me some more and tell me I’m fine, which I already knew anyway. Give me a lift?”

  “Of course,” Daniel said, putting his book down on his lap. “What time?”

  “Wicklow Hospital, ten o’clock. I’ll get the train into college afterwards.”

  “But you can’t go in there alone,” Justin said. He was twisted around in his seat, the card game forgotten. “Let me take you. I’ve got nothing else to do tomorrow. I’ll come in with you, and then we’ll go into college together.”

  He sounded really worried. If I couldn’t get him to back off, I was in serious trouble. “I don’t want anyone to come with me,” I said. “I want to go on my own.”

  “But hospitals are awful. And they always make you wait for hours, like cattle, jammed into those hideous waiting rooms—”

  I kept my head down and rummaged in my jacket pocket for my smokes. “So I’ll bring a book. I don’t even want to be there to begin with; the last thing I need is someone breathing down my neck the whole time. I just want to get this over with and forget the whole thing, OK? Can I do that?”

  “It’s her choice,” Daniel said. “Let us know if you change your mind, Lexie.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I’m a grown-up, you know. I can show the doctor my stitches all by myself.”

  Justin shrugged and went back to his cards. I knew I had hurt his feelings, but there was nothing I could do about that. I lit a cigarette; Daniel passed me the ashtray that had been balancing on the arm of his chair. “Are you smoking more these days?” he inquired.

  My face must have been totally blank, but my mind was going like crazy. If anything, I’d been smoking less than I should have—I’d been keeping it at fifteen or sixteen a day, halfway between my normal ten and Lexie’s twenty, and hoping the drop would be put down to me still feeling weak. It had never occurred to me that Frank had only the others’ word for that twenty. Daniel hadn’t fallen for the coma story; God only knew how much more he had suspected. It would have been so easy, terrifyingly easy, for him to slip just one or two bits of disinformation into his interviews with Frank, sit back—those calm gray eyes, watching me without any trace of impatience—and wait to see if they found their way home.

  “Not sure,” I said, puzzled. “I haven’t thought about it. Am I?”

  “You didn’t usually take your cigarettes on your walk,” Daniel said. “Before the incident. Now you do.”

  The relief almost punched the breath out of me. I should have caught that—no smokes on the body—but a research glitch was a whole lot easier to deal with than the thought of Daniel playing, blank-faced, a hand full of wild cards held close against his chest. “I always meant to,” I said. “I just kept forgetting them. Now that you guys make me remember my mobile, I remember my smokes too. Anyway”—I sat up and gave Daniel an offended look—“why are you giving me hassle? Rafe smokes like two packs a day and you never say anything to him.”

  “I’m not giving you hassle,” Daniel said. He was smiling across at me, over his book. “I just believe that vices should be enjoyed; otherwise what’s the point in having them? If you’re smoking because of tension, then you’re not enjoying it.”

  “I’m not tense,” I told him. I collapsed back on my elbows, to prove it, and propped the ashtray on my stomach. “I’m fine.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with being tense just now,” Daniel said. “It’s very understandable. But you should find another way of releasing stress, rather than wasting a perfectly good vice.” That hint of a smile again. “If you should feel the need to talk to someone . . .”

  “You mean like a therapist?” I asked. “Ewww. They said that in hospital, but I told them to fuck off.”

  “Well, yes,” Daniel said. “So I imagine. I think that was a good choice. I’ve never understood the logic behind paying a stranger of undetermined intelligence to listen to your troubles; surely that’s why one has friends. If you do want to talk about it, all of us are—”

  “Holy Jesus Christ almighty,” Rafe said, his voice rising. He slapped his cards down on the table, hard, and shoved them away. “Someone pass me a sick bag. Oh, I validate your feelings, let’s all talk about this—Did I miss something? Did we move to fucking California and no one told me?”

  “What the hell is your problem?” Justin demanded, in a vicious undertone.

  “I don’t like touchy-feely bollocks. Lexie’s fine. She said so. Is there any particular reason why we can’t all just bloody leave it alone?”

  I was sitting up by now; Daniel had put his book down. “That’s hardly your decision,” Justin said.

  “If I’m going to have to listen to this crap, then yes, it bloody well is my decision. I fold. Justin, it’s all yours. Deal, Abby.” Rafe reached across Justin for the wine bottle.

  “Speaking of using vices to release tension,” Abby said coolly, “don’t you think you’ve had enough to drink for one night?”

  “Actually,” Rafe told her, “I don’t think so, no.” He filled his glass, so high that a drop sloshed over the edge onto the table. “And I don’t recall asking for your advice. Deal the fucking cards.”

  “You’re drunk,” Daniel said coldly. “And you’re becoming obnoxious.”

  Rafe whipped round on him; his hand was gripping the top of the glass and for a second I thought he was going to throw it. “Yes,” he said, low and dangerous, “I am in fact drunk. And I intend to get a whole lot drunker. Do you want to talk about it, Daniel? Is that what you want? Would you like us all to have a talk?”

  There was something in his voice, something precarious as the smell of petrol, ready and waiting to ignite at the first spark. “I don’t see any point in discussing anything with someone in your condition,” Daniel said. “Pull yourself together, ha
ve some coffee and stop acting like a spoiled toddler.” He picked up his book again and turned away from the others. I was the only one who could see his face. It was perfectly calm, but his eyes weren’t moving: he wasn’t reading a word.

  Even I could tell that he was handling this all wrong. Once Rafe had worked himself into one of his moods, he didn’t know how to snap back out of it. What he wanted was someone to do it for him, change the note in the room to silliness or peace or practicality so he could follow. Trying to bully him was only going to make him worse, and the fact that Daniel had made such an uncharacteristic mistake sent a jab through the back of my mind: amazement and something else, something like fear or excitement. I could have settled Rafe down in seconds (Oo, do you think I have PTSD? Like Vietnam vets? Someone yell “Grenade” and see if I dive . . . ) and I almost did, it took an effort of will to stop myself; but I needed to see how this played out.

  Rafe caught his breath as if he was about to say something, but then he changed his mind, gave a disgusted head-shake and shoved his chair back hard. He grabbed his glass in one hand and the bottle in the other and stalked out. A moment later his door slammed.

  “What the hell?” I said, after a moment. “I’m gonna go see that shrink after all and tell him I’m living with total loopers.”

  “Don’t you start,” Justin said. “Just don’t.” His voice was shaking.

  Abby put the cards down, stood up, pushed her chair in carefully and left the room. Daniel didn’t move. I heard Justin knock something over and swear viciously under his breath, but I didn’t look up.

  * * *

  Breakfast was quiet, the next morning, and not in a good way. Justin was pointedly not speaking to me. Abby moved around the kitchen with a tiny worried furrow between her eyebrows, till we finished washing up and she prised Rafe out of his room and the three of them left for college.

  Daniel sat at the table and gazed out of the window, wrapped in some private haze, while I dried the dishes and put them away. Finally he stirred, caught a deep breath: “Right,” he said, blinking bemusedly at the cigarette burned away between his fingers. “We’d better get moving.”

  He didn’t say a word on the drive to the hospital, either. “Thanks,” I said, as I got out of the car.

  “Of course,” he said absently. “Do ring me if there’s anything wrong, not that I think there will be, or if you change your mind about having someone with you.” He waved, over his shoulder, as he drove away.

  When I was sure he was gone, I got a Styrofoam cup of approximate coffee from the hospital café and leaned against the wall outside to wait for Sam. I saw him, pulling into a parking space and getting out of his car to scan the car park, before he saw me. For a fraction of a second I didn’t recognize him. He looked tired and pudgy and old, ridiculously old, and for that instant all I could think was: Who is this guy? Then he saw me and smiled and my mind snapped back into focus, and he looked like himself again. I told myself Sam always puts on a couple of pounds during a big case—junk food on the run—and I had been spending all my time with twenty-somethings, a thirty-five-year-old was naturally going to look geriatric. I tossed my cup in the bin and headed over.

  “Ah, God,” Sam said, wrapping me in a massive hug, “it’s good to see you.” His kiss was warm and strong and unfamiliar; even the smell of him, soap and fresh-ironed cotton, seemed strange. It took a second before I figured out what this felt like: that first evening in Whitethorn House, when I was supposed to know everything around me inside out.

  “Hi,” I said, smiling up at him.

  He pulled my head against his shoulder. “God,” he said, on a sigh. “Let’s forget all about this bloody case and run away for the day, will we?”

  “Business,” I reminded him. “Remember? You’re the one who wouldn’t let me wear the white lace undies.”

  “I’ve changed my mind.” He ran his hands down my arms. “You look great, do you know that? All relaxed and wide awake, and not half as thin. It’s doing you good, this case.”

  “Country air,” I said. “Plus Justin always cooks for about twelve. What’s the plan?”

  Sam sighed again and let go of my hands, leaned back against the car. “My three lads are coming into Rathowen station, half an hour apart. I figure that’s plenty of time; for now, all I want to do is feel them out, not put their backs up. There’s no observation room, but from reception you can hear everything that goes on in the interview room. You can just wait in back while I bring them in, then slip out to reception and have a listen.”

  “I’d like a look, too,” I said. “Why don’t I just hang out in reception? It might do no harm to let them see me, accidentally on purpose. If one of them’s our guy—for the murder, or even just the vandalism—then he’s going to have a pretty strong reaction to me.”

  Sam shook his head. “That’s what I’m worried about, sure. Remember the other night, when we were on the phone? You thought you heard someone? If my boy’s been following you around, and then he thinks you’re talking to us . . . We already know he’s got a temper.”

  “Sam,” I said gently, linking my fingers through his, “that’s what I’m there for. To get us closer to our guy. If you don’t let me do that, I’m just a lazy wagon getting paid to eat good food and read pulp fiction.”

  After a moment Sam laughed, a small reluctant breath. “Right,” he said. “Fair enough. Have a look at the lads when I bring them out.”

  He squeezed my fingers, gently, and let go. “Before I forget”—he fished inside his coat—“Mackey sent you these.” It was a bottle of tablets like the one I’d brought to Whitethorn House, with the same pharmacist’s label announcing loudly that they were amoxicillin. “He said to tell you your wound isn’t all the way healed yet and the doctor’s worried you could still get an infection, so you’ve to take another course of these.”

  "At least I’m getting my vitamin C,” I said, pocketing the bottle. It felt too heavy, dragging at the side of my jacket. The doctor’s worried . . . Frank was starting to think about my exit.

  * * *

  Rathowen station was craptacular. I’d seen plenty like it, dotted around back corners of the country: small stations caught in a vicious circle, getting dissed by the people who hand out funds and by the people who hand out posts and by anyone who can get any other assignment in the universe. Reception was one cracked chair, a poster about bike helmets and a hatch to let Byrne stare vacantly out the door, rhythmically chewing gum. The interview room was apparently also the storeroom: it had a table, two chairs, a filing cabinet—no lock—a help-yourself pile of statement sheets and, for no reason I could figure out, a battered eighties riot shield in one corner. There was yellowing linoleum on the floor and a smashed fly on one wall. No wonder Byrne looked the way he did.

  I stayed out of sight behind the desk, with Byrne, while Sam tried to kick the interview room into some kind of shape. Byrne stashed his gum in his cheek and gave me a long depressed stare. “It’ll never work,” he informed me.

  I wasn’t sure where to go with this, but apparently it was no reply required; Byrne retrieved his gum and went back to gazing out the hatch. “There’s Bannon now,” he said. “The ugly great lump.”

  Sam has a lovely light touch with interviews, when he wants to, and he wanted to that day. He kept it easy, casual, nonthreatening. Would you have any ideas, any at all, about who might have stabbed Miss Madison? What are they like, those five up at Whitethorn House? Have you seen anyone you didn’t recognize, hanging around Glenskehy? The impression he gave, subtly but clearly, was that the investigation was starting to wind down.

  Bannon mainly answered in irritable grunts; McArdle was less Neanderthal and more bored. Both of them claimed to have no clue about anything, ever. I only half listened. If there was anything there, Sam would spot it; all I wanted was a look at John Naylor, and at the expression on his face when he saw me. I arranged myself in the cracked chair with my legs stretched out, trying to look like I’d been dragged in for more pointless questions, and waited.

  Bannon was in fact an ugly great lump: a serious beer
belly surrounded by muscles and topped off with a potato head. When Sam ushered him out of the interview room and he saw me, he did a double take and shot me a vicious, disgusted sneer; he knew who Lexie Madison was, all right, and he didn’t like her. McArdle, on the other hand—he was a long skinny streak of a guy, with a straggly attempt at a beard—gave me a vague nod and shambled off. I got back behind the desk and waited for Naylor.

  His interview was a lot like the others: seen nothing, heard nothing, know nothing. He had a nice voice, a quick baritone with the Glenskehy accent I was starting to know—harsher than most of Wicklow, wilder—and an edge of tension. Then Sam wound it up and opened the interview-room door.