Are You Watching Me

by Sinéad Crowley

  Tom picked up his coffee, using the cup to warm his hands. ‘I told you my dad had Alzheimers, and that was why I started Tír na nÓg, didn’t I?’

  Liz nodded.

  ‘Well, that’s true, but it’s not the whole story – just the Ladybird version, you know what I mean?’

  Tom’s attempt at a smile was even more disconcerting than his earlier strained expression and Liz didn’t attempt to return it, just nodded again at him to continue.

  ‘Well, the bones of it are exactly as I told you. Mam died suddenly and I went home to look after my father. I was an only child, so nobody thought there was anything strange about it. The neighbours thought I was some sort of saint, you know? Jesus. If only they knew.’

  He reached his hands up to his face and pulled at the skin around his eyes. He looked, Liz thought, more like a client of Tír na nÓg than the man in charge.

  ‘The fact of the matter was, I had to get away. Dad getting sick was just the excuse. I was . . . I was getting a bit too fond of the gee-gees, if you know what I mean?’

  Liz stared at him, blankly.

  A flush of red crept across his pale face. ‘The horses, I was into the horses. Gambling. I was in trouble, Liz. Serious trouble.’

  ‘OK.’

  She couldn’t think of anything else to say, but many things were starting to make sense, now. The sympathy Tom had for the men at the centre, for her. Maybe it had been empathy, all along.

  His secret out, Tom’s words began to tumble over each other as if he was afraid to stop their flow.

  ‘I was in way over my head. I was a teacher; it’s a decent enough salary but it wasn’t enough for me. I had a house, sold it, lost the money. Rented an apartment, lost it. Moved into a horrible bedsit, but I was still having problems making the rent there. You understand, don’t you?’

  A memory struck Liz: the sound of a cork popping; the glug of the first glass of wine as it flowed into the glass; the spice hitting the back of her throat; the instant sense of relaxation and, more than that, the peace. She understood, alright.

  Tom was still talking.

  ‘You know what it’s like to want something so, so badly, even when you know it’s no good for you. To crave it. To think about it all the time . . . In a way, gambling is the worst addiction of all, I think, because there is always the promise that one more shot is going to fix everything. You fool yourself into thinking there’s a science to it; you’re out there, studying the form. I thought I was a bloody expert! I used to buy the racing papers – you know, the specialist ones? I wrote everything down, all the tips, watched the telly, listened to the commentators – all the shite – even the oul lads down the bookie’s who reckoned they had a sure thing – I listened to them all. And, every so often, you’d get a win, a small one or a decent one, and you’d think, Yeah, I’m on a roll now. I’m grand. But you’re never grand.’

  He paused for a moment and looked out into the body of the café. A lone waitress, back bent, was cleaning a table and, from behind the counter, they could hear the jangle of a till.

  Tom sighed. ‘So, when the chance to move home came, I saw it . . . Well, I saw it as a sign, I suppose. I could move in with Dad, who knew nothing about what was going on with me. There’s only one bookie’s shop in the village and I didn’t want everyone seeing me going in and out and knowing my business. So I thought moving home would do me the world of good. Sure, I hadn’t a feckin’ clue.’

  He reached into his pocket, took out his phone and laid it on the table between them.

  ‘First thing I did when I got home was get the broadband installed, just for a bit of company, you know? Something to do in the evening. And then I discovered you don’t have to go to the bookie’s anymore. They’d followed me home.’

  He picked up the phone, tapped it and looked up at her.

  ‘Swipe of a finger; everything has an app now. So things got worse, not better. I got a credit card, and that filled up and I got another one. And then –’ he put down the phone again and placed his hands flat on the table as if to brace himself – ‘I used his. Dad gave me power of attorney; I had access to every penny he had. And I used it. I spent his money, Liz.’

  She had been listening intently, as if to a story, just another sad story being shared by one of the lads in Tír na nÓg. But now her stomach rolled over.

  ‘I spent every fucking penny he had. And, as long as I presented a nice happy face to the world, nobody knew. Dad was getting very ill at that stage. I was looking after him, you have to believe that.’

  He shot her a quick, fierce look.

  ‘I really want you to believe that, even though I don’t suppose it matters a damn whether you do or not. But I took good care of him, honestly, I did. When the nurse would call, or the doctor, he’d be fresh-faced and shaven and they’d ask me had he a good night, and I’d say grand . . . but then I’d close the door on them and I’d make sure he was settled and, God help me, it would all start all over again.’

  He slammed his hands on the counter to the rhythm of the final words.

  ‘It would start – all – over – again. They’d ask was I coping OK? And did I know there was help out there? And I’d smile and put on a serious face – you know, serious but coping – and say, “Well, it’s not easy, but he’s my father; it’s important I do it for him,” and they’d go away. I’m not blaming them; I’m a bloody good actor. Or maybe you’ve guessed that by now.’

  The waitress was cleaning the table next to theirs and unashamedly listening in, but Tom either hadn’t noticed, or didn’t care.

  ‘Then he died. He died, God rest him, and suddenly there were all these people around. Relatives – they all turned up then – aunts and uncles and cousins I hadn’t seen in years, the whole lot of them down on top of me. I hadn’t a bloody minute to myself. After the funeral, I realised I hadn’t placed a bet in three days. So I tried to go another day. And another one. It wasn’t easy, you know that – Jesus, Liz, you know that more than anyone. But I did it. I knew I couldn’t keep going on my own, and I didn’t want to go to counselling – the thought of it, telling some young one or young fella my story – no, that’s not me. So I came up with a plan. I knew he’d left the house to me – sure, what else was he going to do with it? – and, if I stayed there, I’d only get myself into more trouble. So, I sold it. And I came up here, and opened Tír na nÓg. Invested every penny I had in it, so I couldn’t do anything more foolish with the money. Surrounded myself with fellas who were just like me – they thought I was supporting them! But we were helping each other, really. And it worked, it really worked, for two years. For two years I didn’t put a foot wrong.’

  When he exhaled, his breath was shaky but he seemed determined to finish the story.

  ‘Then Greg died. You remember . . .?’

  Liz gave a brief, hard nod.

  ‘I’m sorry, of course you do. I was low – lower than I had been in a long time. I blamed myself – for everything, for shutting the place at the weekends and not answering the phone . . . Anyway. There’s no need to go over that again. But his brother came to see me; do you remember the brother? Big, well-dressed man. Some sort of builder, the well-to-do kind, and he gave me a massive donation – I mean, it was huge. I didn’t want to take it; I felt, all along, I’d failed Greg. But he insisted. It was all cash. I walked to the bank that afternoon and I had to pass the bookie’s on the way. I was walking past – I swear to God, I was walking past – but the door just swung open and I got this blast of warm air and noise and energy and, before I knew it, I was inside. I only put on a tenner. And I won fifty. So, sure, that was a sign, wasn’t it?’

  He spat out the word sign, moisture landing on the table between them.

  ‘And I had two more small wins. More signs.’

  He sat back in the chair suddenly and ran his hands over his dishevelled hair.

  ‘Ah, you can guess the rest. I lost it all. Every penny. And everything in petty cash – everything we had. I was
sure you were going to find out – there wasn’t money in the account to cover the next electricity bill and I knew you opened all the letters. So I was panicking. And then Dean turned up at the door, looking for someone to do a television interview about the place; some politician had mentioned it to him, he said, and he wanted to find out more. I wasn’t up to it; it was all I could do at that stage to keep my head together in front of you and the men. But, you know Dean . . .’

  A ghost of a smile warmed his face briefly, and then disappeared again.

  ‘He told me it’d be good for us and that it would bring in a few bob. He’s a smart man, Dean. I think he knew that there was something . . . that I was struggling. When I said I didn’t want to do it, he asked if there was anyone else around. I mentioned you, and, well, that’s Ireland for you, isn’t it? He asked if you were the same Liz Cafferky he knew from school. One of those mad coincidences. And we both reckoned you wouldn’t do it if you felt like you were being set up, so Dean said he’d make it look like he had just kind of wandered into you, you know, just bumped into you on the street. And, well . . .’

  But Liz had stopped listening and was sitting, motionless, in the chair.

  ‘You set me up? Both of you? You tricked me?’

  ‘Ah, now, I wouldn’t say it was like that, exactly—’

  ‘Really? And what the fuck would you say it was, Tom?’

  The waitress was staring openly at them now.

  ‘It seemed like a good idea . . .’ The pitch of his voice had risen; there was a whine there, a childishness she had never heard before. ‘It worked, didn’t it? Dean got his story and, yeah, we made money out of it.’

  ‘Which you spent.’

  ‘Well – yes. But not all of it. I mean, we kept the centre going, and—’

  ‘You absolute piece of shit.’

  ‘Don’t say that, Liz.’ Tom stared at her, horrified. ‘Please don’t say that. I told you all of this because I thought you were my friend. Please, Liz. I need you—’

  Liz scraped her chair back from the table. ‘I have to get out of here.’

  ‘Don’t go. I’m sorry – I can explain.’

  ‘I’ve had weirdos writing to me, you know that? Probably following me, and all sorts. I could have been in serious trouble and you did that! You and Dean, putting me out there on the TV. On the internet. And all for what? So you could get your jollies down the bookie’s? Christ almighty, Tom.’

  Her voice cracked on the last word and she turned to go.

  ‘I can explain.’

  But she didn’t want to hear any more, and ran out of the café, careering into tables on her way, not caring what the waitress thought. The café door slammed behind her and she stopped dead. Where could she go? She couldn’t go back to Dean’s place; after all he had been in on it, too. She could go home but she felt like that space had been violated, as well. The pub across the road had never looked so tempting. Lost in misery, it took her several minutes to hear the noise coming from her pocket. She took the phone out and checked it. Four missed calls? Someone was keen. As she held it in her hand, it rang again and she answered it without thinking.

  And it turned out that, yes, the day could get worse. Felim sounded terrified.

  ‘I’m at the centre and I think we’ve been broken into. Can you come? Straight away?’

  Throwing the phone into her bag, she hailed a taxi. Tom was a problem she’d have to think about later. Dean was a shit. But she owed it to the clients to keep the centre going – at least until she figured out where to go from here.

  Chapter Thirty

  ‘I just want you to understand one thing, detective, before we get started. I’m here . . . I’m here out of my own free will. Is that clear? I’m helping you with your enquiries, that’s all.’

  Richie McBride sat up straighter in his chair and smoothed down his suit trousers, fussily. He might have been far from home, Claire thought, but he was still going to make a good stab at controlling his environment.

  Well, good luck with that, councillor.

  ‘I’ll be delighted to hear what you have to say, Mr McBride.’

  The younger of the two men in front of her shifted miserably on his chair. In the luxurious surroundings of his own office, Gavin McBride had looked a little overweight, big-boned, well built, carrying a few pounds or one of any number of non-threatening euphemisms. But here, perched on the edge of a small, Garda-station standard seat, his belly sagged on to his thighs and his pristine white shirt collar was leaving red ridges in the skin around his neck.

  ‘Detective, I really must insist that—’

  ‘I’ll handle this, Gavin.’ Again, the tone was that of the chair of Rathoban Council. Richie McBride gave a mournful half smile. ‘The thing is, detective . . .’ Somehow he managed to make the word sound uncertain, like he was using the title just to humour her. ‘The thing is, I might have misremembered something I told you on the phone a couple of days ago.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ Apart from a twitch of one eyebrow, Claire kept her face and voice neutral.

  McBride smiled again. ‘You asked me, I think, if I had heard from Stephen Millar in recent times.’

  ‘I did, yes. Stephen Millar, who now goes by the name Stephen Ford.’

  The man paused and shifted his wristwatch higher on his wrist. ‘I may have given you the impression that I hadn’t, in fact, heard from him.’

  ‘You did.’

  McBride steepled his fingers under his nose. ‘Well, I was . . . um . . . busy at the time you called me. I think, casting my mind back, I would have spoken to him more recently. Yes.’

  Claire felt any vestiges of patience drain out of her. She had a murder to solve, two of them, in fact, and a baby who she wanted to get home to, preferably before she started school.

  ‘Can you just tell me what you came here to tell me, please? You did speak to Mr Ford, is that right?’

  The older man paused for a moment and then, clearly incapable of coming up with a more convoluted answer, nodded. ‘Yes. He contacted me a couple of months ago.’

  Beside her, Claire could hear the scratch of Flynn’s pen on his notebook. She herself had grown totally still, her gaze focused on McBride, her skin prickling with the certainty that they were finally going to get some useful information out of him.

  ‘Mr Millar was looking for advice on a personal matter.’

  McBride was now refusing to meet her eyes.

  ‘He wanted to know if he could make a complaint, a legal complaint, about something that happened over thirty years ago.’

  He took his glasses off and rubbed the bridge of his nose before continuing. His eyes were red, she noticed, the skin beneath them sagging.

  ‘I must apologise, detective, for misleading you the other day. I thought . . . Well, to be honest with you, I thought things would be better left alone. That’s what I told Stephen Millar too, when he came to me: that there was no point in digging up the past. But my son, here, says I’ve made a mistake. So here I am.’

  A look passed between senior and junior. Suddenly, subtly, Claire felt the balance of power shift between them. McBride senior coughed, the sharp bark echoing around the room.

  ‘Stephen, um, phoned me, out of the blue, about three months ago. He said he wanted legal advice. I told him I was retired, that I could put him in touch with several other people, if he liked, people up in Dublin, nearer to where he lived. But he said he wanted to talk to someone he knew. I would have done legal work for his father, many years ago. He would have been a big businessman in the town – a lot of employees. Lar Millar kept all of his business local; he was good that way. Anyway, Stephen said he had found my number in some old documents he’d kept from his parents’ house. He sounded quite distressed, to be honest with you.’ He coughed again. ‘Do you think I could get a glass of water?’

  Silently, Flynn disappeared and then returned a few moments later.

  McBride’s hand shook as he lifted the plastic cup.

  ‘He
wanted to know what the statue of limitations was for suing someone. Somebody who had hurt him.’

  Flynn stopped writing. ‘Statute of limitations?’

  ‘Yes.’

  McBride took another sip of water before continuing.

  ‘Those were the words he used. Poor Stephen. It sounded like he’d heard them on television, or something. He wanted to know what would happen if someone had injured him thirty years ago – if he could still bring them to court. He wanted to know what his options were.’

  ‘Sure, he could have gone to the guards at any stage.’

  ‘Yes. But I told him that he couldn’t.’

  Claire kept her voice low. ‘So you lied to him?’

  ‘Well, I mean, a lie –’ McBride shrugged, some of the old bluster returning – ‘I mean, it’s very black and white to say “lie”, isn’t it? I was just giving him the advice I thought he needed, that’s all. In my day . . .’ He sat up straighter in the seat and met her eyes. ‘In my day, we had a phrase: let sleeping dogs lie. No one believes in that anymore. It’s all about tribunals and investigating and closure and all that nonsense. Much good it does anyone, raking up the past. But that’s what’s in vogue now, it appears. According to my son, anyway – and, God knows, he’s the expert.’

  The colour had returned to his face now and he shot McBride junior a resentful look.

  ‘I just didn’t see the point of Stephen Millar raking up oul stories from thirty years ago, that was all it was. Sure, what good would it do him? Or anyone else? So I told him he’d no option, that he should leave things alone.’

  Claire shot a quick look at Flynn. This was good; it gave them an excuse to recall Stephen Ford for questioning, at least. She’d had a feeling McBride had been holding out on them, and now she had proof. But there were a couple of other issues she had to clarify as well.