by Claire Allan
But they will all be talking. The rumour mill will be in full flow. Someone will have heard something and passed it on, and the Chinese whispers will have spread. He’s not home yet. Something must be up. Did someone hurt him? I always thought that girl of his looked like a bad sort! Do you remember the time …
I push the pram out of the shop, out onto the quay again, without making eye contact with anyone. I hear their voices anyway, as I walk as fast as I can, the rain thumping down now – thick, icy drops. I try to focus on my senses. What I see, smell and hear again. But it’s all too much.
I want to scream at everyone to just shut up. I keep my head down trying to block out the noise, but it just seems to be getting louder and louder. It comes as a huge shock to me then when I look up and see that save for a few cars driving past, the street is empty.
I pause as tears roll down my cheeks, mixing with the raindrops. I pause and focus on the real noises around me. Try to slow my breathing.
Then my phone rings.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Ciara
Now
‘I never thought I’d have him back under this roof,’ Mum says.
The coroner has agreed to release Joe’s remains to her. He is satisfied there is no further physical evidence to be gathered from his body, and that we can go ahead and lay him to rest.
Well, I say we. There was no way they were letting his remains come back to his home at Aberfoyle Crescent and certainly not to any of us ‘suspects’.
My mother, on the other hand, with the help of a canny solicitor, has come to an arrangement that her home would be suitable for him to be brought back to.
My mother is beside herself with emotion that he will be back in what was our family home. It does nothing to make me believe she doesn’t still love him. That she never stopped loving him.
We can’t all escape the overall feeling that everything is off-kilter, though. Yes, we will be able to bury him, and that will provide a small amount of relief, but a cloud hangs over us all. Nothing is really resolved. They will be watching us all intently as we grieve. Looking for clues. For some reason, they don’t seem to be picking up on my hints about Heidi. As usual she seems to be able to win people around with her little-girl-lost act. But I’m not buying it and I’ll make sure no one else does, either.
‘Can we keep the house private, Mum?’ I ask. It will be bad enough to have the police hovering.
‘Lots of people will want to say their goodbyes to your father,’ she says.
It’s virtually unheard of for houses to remain closed to visitors during a wake. She’s right, of course people will want to traipse in and out, pay their respects, offer a quick prayer by the coffin side and then sit with us and drink their tea while eating curling sandwiches.
‘Lots more will want to gawk,’ I say. ‘People are talking, Mum. They know something is up. Don’t you think they’ll all just want a nosy at us? They’ll be trying to figure out whodunnit.’
The expression sounds more flippant than I intended and my mother baulks.
‘There’s no need to be so crass. Your father is dead, Ciara. Murdered, if the police are right.’
She says the word ‘murdered’ in a whisper. None of us can really believe we are even saying these words or thinking this way.
‘Well, that’s more reason not to have all and sundry walking in through the door, then. There’ll be people who didn’t even know him or care about him wanting in. They can gawk at the funeral if they want, but give us this at least.’
‘He deserved a better send-off than this …’
Mum looks bereft. I’ve never understood how she remained so fond of him for all these years. I remain convinced that if he had asked her if they could try again she would have jumped at the very thought. Her continued loyalty to him is something that I have to admit I struggle to understand. Then again, she doesn’t know everything. That angers me. Her unyielding loyalty to him.
‘What he doesn’t deserve is people wanting to make him nothing more than a news story and what I don’t need is people eyeing me up, trying to work out if I’m responsible for putting him in the ground in the first place!’
My voice is high-pitched. Screechier than normal. I can see Mum recoil further and further as the volume of my voice increases.
‘Ciara, please,’ she says, her voice small, lacking in its usual authoritative tone. ‘Please just stop. I don’t want to have this conversation.’
‘Don’t you?’ I ask her. ‘Don’t you want to have this conversation instead of dancing around it all? We’re all walking on eggshells. You’ve not even asked me if I did it, Mum. Don’t you want to know if it was me? If I was the one who put the pillow over his head and pressed down until he stopped breathing?’
I feel the sharp sting of her hand across my cheek before I even register what is happening. My mother has never once, in all her life, lifted her hand to me. She never smacked me as a child. Even as a teenager when I was a little bitch and probably deserved a good slap, she would let me rage until I was spent, and then we would sit down and talk together.
The shock of feeling her strike me winds me. I gasp, stare at her, while I bring my own hand to my injured cheek, feel the heat of it rise.
I can see my mother’s gaze, steely and strong. She doesn’t look shocked that she hit me. She certainly doesn’t look sorry.
‘Ciara McKee, I never want to hear you talk that like again, do you understand?’
I stare and she steps closer to me, dropping her voice lower. It’s more menacing than her screaming at me could ever be.
‘I said, do you understand?’
I nod, willing the tears that sprung to my eyes to stay where they are and not to betray me by falling.
‘I don’t need to ask you if you did it because I know you, Ciara. You are my child and I know you could never have done something like that. You’re not capable of it, and even if you are too stubborn to admit it, I know you loved your father just as he loved you. Now, I want you to pull yourself together and help us all get through the next two days. We’ll do it your way. Closed house. Now let that be an end to this stupid conversation.’
She turned on her heel and walked away before I could say anything else. Before I could tell her that she was wrong. I did not love my father. It wasn’t something I was simply too stubborn to admit. I hated him.
And I did have bad bones in my body – a badness I’d maybe inherited from him. Or maybe, just maybe, it was more that I had a sense of justice. You couldn’t mess up people’s lives without any consequences. That was not how the world worked. Everyone had to learn that lesson, no matter how painful.
‘You’re awful pale-looking,’ Kathleen says.
We are sheltered together on the back porch of my mother’s house. I’m sucking on my e-cig but it’s still not quite hitting the mark. I remind myself it’s better than nothing.
Kathleen has ‘tapped’ a sneaky cigarette from Pauline, who swore she didn’t smoke but always has a box in her bag ‘for emergencies’. My aunt is clearly not an experienced smoker – she splutters and coughs as she tries to inhale the warm smoke.
‘Out of practice,’ she says when she’s got her breath back. ‘But it’s either this or a double vodka.’
I am shocked. With her new sensible appearance, her conservative take on life and the rosary beads she had pulled from her bag and insisted were to be placed in my father’s hands when the coffin was opened, I didn’t see her as the double-vodka type. I don’t even see her as the single-vodka type, if I am honest.
Her hand is shaking ever so slightly as she lifts the lit cigarette to her lips one more time and inhales again, exhaling more naturally this time.
‘It’s all too much at times, isn’t it?’ she asks, looking out at the small patch of lawn that makes up my mother’s garden.
‘It is,’ I agree, asking for a drag of her ‘proper’ cigarette, enjoying the hit of the warm smoke at the back of my throat. ‘I’m nerv
ous. Of seeing him again, you know. Is that silly?’
‘Is that what has you so shaken up?’
I nod. I’ll not tell her about the set-to I’ve just have with my mother, even though the sting of her hand still burns at my cheek.
‘Among other things,’ I say wryly.
‘Do you think they have any evidence?’ Kathleen asks. ‘I mean, you see these shows now on the TV and they always catch the killer. There’ll be a hair, or a fingerprint, or a drop of blood or something …’
I shake my head. ‘I don’t know. I’m trying not to think about it much. I’m still hoping they’ll come back and say they made a mistake.’
‘Do you think they will?’ Her eyebrows raise. ‘I thought it was all pretty conclusive at this stage. They wouldn’t release his body if there was any question.’
Her expression sags again as she speaks. Almost as if she allowed hope to flicker in for the briefest of seconds before the reality of where we are sets back in.
I suck on my e-cig before sending a billow of fragrant steam into the air.
‘I don’t get the impression they are minded to drop the investigation any time soon,’ I say.
She sniffs at the air, drops the half-smoked cigarette to the ground and grinds it out with the heel of her shoe.
‘What if they can’t pin it on anyone? What do you think they’ll do? Will it be worse if we don’t ever really know what happened?’
She looks sad. Lost. Dad was her only sibling. She has him on some out-of-reach pedestal and while I’d love to knock it out from under him and tell her the truth, not even I would be that cruel.
‘I don’t know,’ I say with a shrug.
I can’t think straight any more. I’m exhausted with thinking. I’m exhausted by it all.
My mother’s voice from the kitchen, announcing that she needs us to discuss a floral tribute, disturbs us. I take one last drag from Kathleen’s cigarette before handing it back to her.
‘I suppose we should get on with this,’ I tell her.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Heidi
Now
I’m back at Aberfoyle Crescent, picking through a house that has been picked through by the police a number of times now. There is dust from where fingerprints have been taken. Things have been placed back on the chest of drawers, or on shelves but just not quite in the right order. Kathleen wanted me to pick up some things for the wake. A framed picture of Joe at the library, one of his silk hankies to place in the pocket of the suit jacket he is to be laid out in. His prayer book, so that she can help Father Brennan choose some of Joe’s favourite readings from the Bible or prayers for the funeral service.
I’ve been looking for the book for twenty minutes now, in all the usual spots, but it can’t be found. I don’t actually recall the last time I saw it, but then it had become such a part of him, I’d almost stopped noticing it at all.
‘I’m really sorry,’ I tell her over the phone. ‘But I haven’t seen it and I’m not sure where else to look. Unless maybe the police put it somewhere?’
‘Why would they do that?’ she asks, an accusing tone in her voice.
‘I don’t know,’ I answer. All I know is that I can’t find it and I don’t want to be here for any longer than I need to be.
I hear Kathleen have a muffled conversation with someone in the background before her voice comes back on the line.
‘Ciara seems to think she saw you with it, but sure, maybe she’s mistaken? These things happen.’
There’s a tone in her voice that lets me know she doesn’t quite believe me.
I have pulled open every drawer in his room and in the living room. Opened every cupboard and wardrobe looking for it. As the clock moves closer and closer to the time Joe’s remains will be brought back to Marie’s house, Kathleen is becoming more frantic. I’m tempted to tell her it’s okay to use whatever prayers she sees fit. It’s not like Joe will be able to hear them anyway.
‘I didn’t see his prayer book,’ I tell her truthfully. I’ve not seen it days, come to think of it. ‘I’m not sure what Ciara saw me with, but it wasn’t that.’
Kathleen sighs. ‘Why is nothing going right?’ she says, and I’m not sure for a moment or two if she expects an answer. ‘Look, I think maybe just get here to Marie’s. Joe’s remains will be back soon and we really do need to give a united front. Things are bad enough as it is.’
Her negativity weighs heavy on my mind as I drive to Marie’s. Not even picking Alex up from work and having him sit beside me can calm my nerves. I notice that I’m gripping the steering wheel tightly. The rhythmic swiping of the windscreen wipers, battling the sleety rain, gives me something to try to concentrate on, to time my breathing with. Neither Alex nor I talk.
I’ve never been in Marie’s house before, but I can’t imagine, despite what she has said, that I’ll be made to feel welcome there. And up until now I didn’t think it possible that I could feel any less welcome than I already have over the last few days.
Marie lives in a terraced house in Lower Creggan. Her home is clearly her pride and joy, the small front garden beautifully manicured and tended. Flower beds and garden ornaments guide us along the concrete path to her front door, which Alex knocks on while Lily and I shiver behind him.
The door opens and Marie is standing dressed all in black, face solemn. ‘Alex,’ she nods at him before looking at me. ‘Heidi,’ she says, offering me a half-hearted kiss on the cheek. ‘Come in,’ she says as Kathleen calls out, ‘We’re through in the living room.’
We follow her through a small hall into her lounge, where I notice a row of sympathy cards lined up on her mantlepiece, declaring how very sorry people are for her loss. It strikes me as more than a little odd, given how long ago their marriage ended, but I realise that saying anything to that effect wouldn’t be received well. So I keep quiet and let Marie continue acting the part of the grieving ex-wife with aplomb.
‘Here, let me help you with your things,’ Kathleen says, taking the changing bag from me and trying to help me out of my coat, even though I’m more than able to take it off myself.
Marie adds, ‘Ciara has just nipped out to the shop but she’ll be here soon. As will Father Brennan. Joe should be home in about an hour.’
She looks fidgety, on edge. Her nervous energy adds to my own.
‘I’ve cleared the box room upstairs for him,’ she says. ‘Ciara asked that the house be closed, so I figured we wouldn’t need that much room.’
‘Thank you for doing this for him,’ I say, because it feels like the right thing to do.
‘Why wouldn’t I do it? It should be from his own home, but I’ll do my best for him. And I suppose this was his home for a time, and most of that time it was a happy home.’
Her tone is sharp, her comments pointed. I want to turn and leave, but that would only give them something else to think badly of me about.
‘Of course,’ I mumble and turn my attention to my still-sleeping daughter, taking her out of her car seat and slipping her out of her snowsuit.
It feels too warm in Marie’s living room. I can’t have Lily overheating. It’s bad enough that I can feel the first prickles of sweat on the back of my own neck.
The doorbell rings, a sharp, shrill noise that, given that we are all on our nerves at the moment, makes us jump. Marie takes a deep breath as if settling herself and goes to answer the door. I hear her tone, markedly more welcoming than she was with me.
‘Come in, Father,’ she says. ‘You’re very good to come, and this not even your parish.’
‘Sure, he’ll be buried from his own church, even if he couldn’t be waked from his own home. How’re you all holding up?’
Father Brennan speaks in hushed tones. A soft Donegal lilt that I sometimes swear they train priests in at the seminary in Maynooth.
‘As best as can be expected,’ Marie replies, although to me she appears to be in her element as chief mourner. ‘Sure, you go on in to the living room and I’ll
bring through some tea.’
He walks into the room, nodding, as always, to me and then lifting one of his long, pointy fingers and trying to tickle a still-sleeping Lily under the chin.
‘A blessing in these dark times,’ he mutters.
I resist the urge to slap his hand away.
Father Brennan is a small man, whose shoulders always seem to slump and whose head always seems to be nodding in some perpetual motion, so it looks, at least, like he is always listening to you. Joe had a great deal of time for him. I did not. Something about him gave me the creeps – perhaps it was the way he regarded me up and down every time he saw me.
He sits down and doesn’t even try to make small talk, something for which I am eternally grateful. He speaks, of course, when Kathleen comes into the room, asking her how she is. Telling her it’s an awful business altogether and that he is here for her should she ever need his counsel.
She thanks him for his time, sits down and straightens her skirt, and we fall into silence while waiting for Marie to arrive with the tea.
‘Maybe I should offer to help,’ I say to no one in particular.
‘I’m sure she has it under control,’ Kathleen says.
I interpret that as a clear message that I’m not wanted in Marie McKee’s kitchen. The front door opens again and I hear Ciara shout her hellos as she comes in. Once she takes her seat in the living room I will feel truly outnumbered.
I try to remind myself to breathe.
Ciara comes in, closely followed by her mother.
‘Did you really not find that prayer book?’ Ciara asks as if I’d not looked hard enough, or had hidden it just to be difficult.
‘I looked high and low and couldn’t see it,’ I say. ‘I’ve not seen it in days.’
Marie sighs deeply. ‘That’s a shame, you know.’
‘I could have sworn I saw you with it. The day he died?’ Ciara’s tone is accusatory.
I shake my head. ‘No, you have to be mistaken. I did see his diary, when I was with you, but you took it from me, remember?’