She took a step to the side, peering in through the smeared window. The room in which she’d spoken to Carthy following Eugene Cannon’s death was empty. Ah, this was pointless. She’d head back to the car and wait for him. Half an hour wouldn’t make any difference at this stage.
Chapter Thirty-Five
‘I’m sorry, Daddy.’
Felim grinned. ‘What was that, pet?’
‘I’m sorry, Daddy.’
He moved closer to Stephen and looked up at him. ‘That’s better, I—’
And then the sound of the doorbell pealed through the room. Liz’s head jerked around, Felim’s too. And in the split second afforded to him by the distraction, Stephen Millar raised his knee and kicked his father squarely between the legs. There was a muffled grunt as Felim doubled over. Terrified, Liz stared at him. Then she realised the gift Stephen had given her: a couple of seconds. Would they be enough? They’d have to be. Reaching forward with the hand she had managed to wriggle loose from its binding, she grabbed the mouse to the side of the computer screen. It took a second to double click the icon, two more to wait for it to open and pray the password had been saved. Three, as Felim continued to whimper in pain, for her eyes to flicker over the page and pray she’d found the right place. Two more to type the words, and one to post them. And then, as Felim began to haul himself painfully and furiously to a standing position again, she closed the icon and settled back on the chair – with one precious second to spare.
*
Back in the car, Claire felt the phone in her handbag vibrate and reached for it. Maybe Carthy had unearthed something, after all? But the caller I.D. showed, Dean Journo. Oh, go away. Bloody nuisance. She let the call ring out without answering and climbed back into the car.
Then, immediately, a text message.
Call me. Urgent.
He was a bit of a pest, Dean, but honest enough at the back of it. Not one for false alarms. And it wasn’t like she’d anything else to do for the next half hour.
‘This is going to sound mad,’ he said, as soon as he answered her call.
‘What’s going on?’
He sounded breathless, she realised. Almost nervous.
‘I just saw this post, from the Tír na nÓg Facebook page? I mean, it doesn’t make any sense; only Tom uses that account, really. But it was a status update, so it popped up on the feed on my phone.’
‘And . . .?’
Claire only used Facebook to keep track of the school reunions she hadn’t attended, but knew enough to have a vague idea what the younger man was about.
‘It had been posted from the centre,’ he continued. ‘I mean, it must have been, it was tagged there. But it didn’t make sense, you know? Just two words: help me. I mean, it was probably someone messing, but . . .’
It was only afterwards she realised how corny her next words must have sounded.
‘Flynn? Follow me. We’re going in.’
*
Just breathing. That was all that mattered now. The inhale and the exhale. The ribbon of air whistling through her nasal passages. A stab of cramp caused her shoulder to twitch and Liz moved her arm reflexively, trying to ease the pain.
Recovered now, and very angry, Felim strode over to her, spotted her free arm and slapped her across the face. ‘I told you it didn’t matter how it happened, lovey. The end result is all I care about.’ Then, very gently, he pinched the tip of her nose.
The dishcloth in her mouth contracted as she sucked at it frantically. There had to be a gap. Just a straw, just a needle of air. Just a pinprick. But already her head was pulsating, her vision starting to fade. She blinked, tried to see what was happening on the other side of the room, but all she could make out was a shuddering, all she could hear were gasps similar to her own. Black polka dots danced in front of her eyes. Red and black and pain. Was it Tom who would find them? He’d never recover from that. Oh, Tom. You saved me. Don’t ever forget it.
Then she heard a thud, and a muffled shout. Was that the sound of wood splintering? It was coming from very far away.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Just breathing, that was all that mattered now. The inhale and the exhale. The hiss of the oxygen going into her lungs. The hug from the mask. There would never be another panic attack, Liz decided. There would be no more anxiety. Not now, now that she knew how beautiful it was just to be able to breathe.
Sergeant Boyle was leaning over her.
‘I know you’ve been through a terrible ordeal. But if you wouldn’t mind . . .?’
The paramedic was scowling, but Liz removed her mask, and almost smiled.
‘Sure.’
There would be a crash later, she decided. Probably tears. But right now she was high – more blissed out than she had ever been during the dark years of dependency – buzzing on the knowledge that she’d been rescued. High, and she didn’t care how goofy it sounded, on being alive.
The detective was speaking again: ‘You sent the Facebook message?’
‘Yes.’ Liz nodded, then replaced the mask and took another blissful drag. Clean air, cool streams. What was that TV show, high up in the mountains? Grizzly Adams. All she was missing was the bear. She almost chuckled and saw the guard’s eyes narrow. Hey, maybe she was a little out of it, but who could blame her? It had been like a movie. The room retreating and then the noise, and the shouting, the figures bursting through the door.
She blinked and remembered what she had forgotten.
This woman, Detective Boyle, and the other fella – Flynn, that was his name – they had been there. And Stephen.
Stephen and the look on his face when the office door burst open, and the way his head had jerked backwards.
No. Don’t remember. Just breathe.
‘We’ve arrested Mr Millar – Lar Millar. But we will need to talk to you when you’re able.’
The cop was bent almost double, crouched into the back of the ambulance while the paramedic tutted and tapped his watch.
‘We’ll be leaving in a minute. This young lady needs to be checked out.’
‘I know.’
Sergeant Boyle attempted a smile but she looked, Liz thought, exhausted. As well she might. Over her shoulder, a blue light pulsed through the darkness. The path outside Tír na nÓg was packed now with onlookers, Garda tape keeping the crowd outside the gate. Two separate sirens wailed, intersecting in the night air. It’d be all over the news, Liz knew. Before they’d put her in the ambulance, she’d seen the flash of at least one camera, the bobbing of several microphones. Dean would be out there with the rest of them. She’d been so angry with him when Tom told her the full story of why he’d asked her for an interview that first day. Now, none of that seemed to matter.
‘Is he dead?’
There were probably more delicate ways to put it, but her throat was really hurting, numb nerve endings reawakening. With the pain came memory. And with the memories, fear. She just wanted to lie back now and let this nice man and his nice ambulance take her somewhere safe. But first she had to know.
Sergeant Boyle shook her head and allowed herself a proper smile this time. She had a nice smile, Liz decided. It made her look less fierce.
‘All I can tell you is that there were no fatalities at the scene.’
The smile widened and she bent closer.
‘But Stephen will be OK. He was hurt, but he’ll be OK. That’s all you need to know. We got there in time – thanks to your message. You did good, Elizabeth. Take care, won’t you? And we’ll talk properly when you are feeling better.’
Then Sergeant Boyle backed out of the low doorway and Liz put the mask back over her face – properly, this time – and allowed herself to drift away.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The absolute exhaustion. Even turning off the car engine seemed like too much hassle. The pain in her head was pinning her to the seat. It was all over, and Claire wanted everything else to be over too, for the rest of the evening. Control, alt, delete.
&nb
sp; For a fleeting moment, she wished she was single. No Matt, no Anna. No one to ask her how the day had been. No demands, no questions. No hugs, even. She’d trade them all. Trade them for an empty house with a warm bath and a full bottle of red. Nineteen-eighties’ Irish rock on shuffle. Rinse and repeat.
Then she dismissed the thought. She needed them, both of them. A kiss from Matt. The feel of Anna’s hair, soft against her cheek. A pre-warmed bed. She turned off the car engine and eased herself and her creaking body out of the seat and up the path. She turned the key and slowly unlocked the door.
Then the smell hit her. The last thing she’d been expecting.
Good God, had someone been baking?
Her mother emerged, smiling, from the kitchen, Matt trailing in her wake.
‘Ah, there you are, pet. That was a long day; we saw it all on the news. Go on into the sitting room, love, and I’ll bring in your dinner.’
A flapping gesture from her husband: Don’t make a scene; go on inside; I’ll explain. Too tired, too astonished to protest, Claire allowed herself to be led to the sofa.
‘The fuck?’ No other words, just an eyebrow raise. But it was all she needed to do.
‘I was going to call you, but I heard what happened . . .’
Her husband gave an apologetic shrug, but Claire’s headache was building now, throbbing against her temples. This was supposed to be the bit where she came home, collapsed into the sofa, dropped a kiss on her sleeping baby, got a high five, maybe, from her husband. Opened a beer. Clearly, that was too much to ask. Instead, she seemed to have wandered straight into some sort of shaggin’ family reunion.
‘I’ve kept it warm for you.’ Nuala Boyle bustled into the room.
She must have brought her own apron with her, Claire thought, in a daze. She can’t have found that pink patterned monstrosity in here. And then, as the smell of red-wine-soaked beef hit her, her stomach gurgled traitorously. Beside her on the couch, her husband had opened a decent bottle and pushed a glass into her hand.
‘I’ll leave ye to it.’
Was that Nuala Boyle being subtle? Very few stranger things had happened, thought Claire, and this was coming at the end of a very strange day. She thought briefly about giving the plate back, leaving the house again, heading for the twenty-four-hour Maccy D’s around the corner. But as the steam met her nostrils she abandoned the suggestion. Fine. She’d eat their last supper. Didn’t mean she had to thank them, though.
‘Tough day?’ Matt’s conciliatory tone. The one he used when he’d broken something or forgotten to set the D.V.R.
Claire chewed, but ignored him. She took a sip from the wine, a gloriously full-bodied Cabernet, and shivered as the alcohol hit her bloodstream. One of her wishes had come true, so. She was paying a high price for it, though.
‘Listen, I’ve been meaning to talk to you . . .’
Was that nervousness in her husband’s voice? Was Matt actually afraid of her? But before Claire could fully process his tone, the door to the sitting room opened again.
‘She drank most of the bottle; she’s back down again now. Ah, Claire! I see you’re home!’
Claire doubted if Matt’s mother owned an apron. Eimear’s usual armour was in place: the bang-on-trend glasses, the power suit that had been her trademark look before the term had even been invented. All of which made the empty baby bottle in her hand look even more incongruous. This was too much.
Claire glared at her husband. ‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on?’
But it was his mother who answered her, in a tone of voice that had encouraged the signing of a thousand contracts. ‘You must be starving. Finish your dinner, Claire, and then we can all have a chat.’
‘Excuse me?’ Claire put the plate on the floor but held on to the wine. ‘Are you telling me what to do? In my own sitting room? Seriously?’
‘Ah, Claire, love, don’t be like that . . .’ Nuala Boyle had reappeared in the doorway and was twisting her hands together repeatedly, a gesture Claire recognised well and which irritated her every time.
But Eimear Mackey remained calm. ‘I know what this looks like.’
‘I’ll tell you what it looks like –’ Claire drained her glass and grabbed the bottle off her husband – ‘an episode of Dr Phil, that’s what it looks like! What’s the story, Matt? Finding it difficult to cope, are you? Couple of late nights with the baby and you go running to Mummy? Is that it? Good God!’
All of the day’s tension fizzed up inside her and she was horrified to find tears in her eyes. She blinked them back and decided to be furious instead.
‘If you have a problem with me or with how I look after my family, you come to me, OK? Not to my mother, or your mother.’
‘Well, I’d have to be able to get in touch with you first, wouldn’t I?’
‘I can’t believe—’
Matt raised his hand. ‘Give us a minute, Mum, yeah?’
‘Sure.’
The older women left and walked into the kitchen. Claire could have sworn she heard another cork pop before they closed the door.
She turned to her husband. ‘What’s she doing, giving Anna a bottle? Putting her back to sleep? How did you even know she was going to settle for her?’
Matt took a large draught from his own drink. ‘Because she’s been looking after her for days.’
Claire swallowed furiously and slammed her plate down on to the floor. ‘You are joking me.’
‘No.’
Matt shrugged.
‘I needed time off; you didn’t seem to want to give it to me. I told you I needed a break. So I called Mum. And she was glad to help. She’s been here for an hour or two most evenings this week. Don’t look at me like that, Claire! It wasn’t like I was having an affair, or something. I went for a run. Just got a bit of head space, that was all.’
‘And you didn’t think to tell me?’
‘And how was I supposed to do that? Your phone is never on and, even when you’re here, you’re not listening to me.’
‘We talked about this, Matt!’ Claire stared at her husband in disbelief. ‘We talked it up, down and backwards before Anna arrived. Before I got pregnant, even! We knew it was going to be tough and you said you were cool with it. I’m the bigger earner of the two of us. I was the one who was going to keep working; you were going to go freelance and try and work your hours around her. We agreed!’ The last word came out almost as a screech and she bit her lip, forcing herself to calm down.
Her husband’s voice remained level, but his anger was still audible. ‘Nobody tells you what it’s like, being here all day. Not having a minute to yourself. I love Anna, but minding her and running the house and trying to get my own job done – I was cracking up, Claire. I was worried. I needed to get out, go for a run, clear my head.’
And what about me? she wanted to say. When do I get time? But her husband was still talking.
‘Mum rang one evening, and she could tell I was in a bad way. She offered to come over.’
Claire’s voice rose again. ‘So it’s all my fault, is it? Jesus Christ, Matt. It’s not like I’ve been on the town; I saved someone’s life today.’ She paused, wondering if that sounded as corny to Matt’s ears as it had to hers. Well, feck him. It was the truth, wasn’t it?
Matt gave a watery smile. ‘I know that. And I’m really proud of you. But the fact of the matter is, I can’t cope with Anna on my own and keep the business going too. You need the flexibility to be able to come and go as you please and I can’t give you that. Not on my own.’
‘So are you asking me to give up work? Is that it?’
Her husband looked shocked. ‘Jesus, no. Was that what you were thinking? No.’
‘He’s asking you to accept help.’ Eimear had re-entered the room, condensation running down the glass of white wine in her hand. ‘Don’t look at me like that, Claire! I’ve had a chat with Nuala and we’ve come up with a plan.’
Claire glowered at her. ‘We don’t need help.’<
br />
Her mother-in-law crossed the floor and sat down on the sofa beside her. ‘Do you think that I didn’t have any? I had my mum living with me when Mattie was small!’
‘Really?’
Claire stared at her husband in surprise and he shrugged, helplessly.
Eimear nodded. ‘Of course I did. I was widowed at thirty-four, Claire, I had two young sons and I was just starting out in my career. What did you think I did with them, stuck them in a filing cabinet?’
‘Well, I . . .’
Would it be rude, Claire wondered, to admit she had never thought about it at all? But Eimear was still talking.
‘And when they were older they went away to school, but I still needed help. Au pairs in the school holidays. Mum at weekends. I didn’t do it alone, Claire, no one does.’
Nuala Boyle walked into the room quietly, as if apologising for being there, and took a seat across from them. Claire looked at her.
‘So is this why you’re here too, Mum? To tell me I’m useless and can’t cope?’
‘Not at all, love.’ She took a sip from her glass and made a face. Claire’s mother only drank wine at funerals and on Christmas Day. Claire wondered which category this evening fell into. ‘I want to help, that’s all,’ she continued. ‘Sure, your dad and me, we don’t see half enough of the little one. I’d be down here every week, if you’d have me, with the free travel.’
‘To prove I’m a crap mother, is it? That I can’t manage on my own?’
Claire rested her head back on the sofa, exhausted again now that her initial anger was fading. But her mother’s answer woke her up again.
‘No, love. So you can achieve what I didn’t.’
Nuala laughed at the look of surprise on Claire’s face.
‘What did you think, that I enjoyed spending my days cleaning up after ye? Claire, my dear girleen. I love your father, and you, but there are only so many times you can clean the kitchen floor without feeling you are going to go out of your mind. I had to give up work when I got married, that was the law back then. So when I had a little girl I swore she wouldn’t have to do the same. Let us help you, love. Eimear is happy to do the odd evening during the week and we’ll travel down at weekends, or you can come up to us, have yourself a night away. Please, Claire. We all know what you did today. You’re bloody brilliant at what you do. Don’t throw it away.’
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