Claire looked at Eimear and Matt, their brows knitted in identical fashion. How come she had never noticed how similar they were before? Her own mother was smiling – Anna’s smile. She saw it every morning, but had never admitted before where it came from. But it turned out that, no matter how far you sprinted, you could never outrun them. Families. Her instinct was to fight them, tell them she’d be fine on her own, that she’d manage. That she always had and always would. But she was just so bloody tired.
She yawned, and picked up the plate of stew again.
‘Well. You can start by telling me what’s for dessert.’
Epilogue
She had forgotten how to breathe. And then she remembered. In, out. In, out. Naturally. The way she’d been doing for months.
On the other side of the desk, Dean shifted uncomfortably. He was nervous, Liz realised. Despite having been given a staff job at Ireland 24 some months before, this was his first live studio interview. Liz resisted the temptation to lean over and pat his hand. To tell him not to worry, that they’d get through it together.
They were quite the double act now, herself and Dean. After she’d been discharged from hospital, after Lar Millar had been arrested and the details of what had happened that evening in Tír na nÓg began to emerge, everyone had wanted to speak to Liz Cafferky. All of the papers, all of the TV and radio stations. Some of the British channels had sent reporters too, carrying chequebooks and offering to fly her to London, offering crazy money. But Liz had called Dean up, told him she’d give him an exclusive. She owed him one, she told him. Or, more to the point, they owed each other. And then she’d told him everything. Everything that had happened to her in Tír na nÓg, and everything that had brought her to that point: the dark days, the drink, the drugs. The girl she’d abandoned in the alleyway, and how guilty that had made her feel. At least she didn’t have to worry about her anymore. Sergeant Boyle had, as she put it, ‘made a few phone calls’ and discovered that the young woman had woken up in hospital the following morning with nothing bothering her other than a grazed chin, a huge lump on her forehead and the realisation that she needed to find new friends. So Liz had told Dean everything. It was the best decision she could have made. Turned out, if you didn’t hide anything, then there was nothing that could be discovered about you. He in turn told the world and, the next day, she was free.
A voice in her ear: ‘Are you happy, Elizabeth?’
She nodded into the camera, and winked at Dean. He was on the programme to discuss a major story he’d been working on – a report on a drugs gang who’d been operating out of Dublin. He hated being in the studio, preferred being out on the road. But his boss had insisted they do it this way.
Their boss, she should say. Ireland 24 had offered her a job almost as soon as she’d been discharged from hospital, but Liz had waited until the Lar Millar trial was over. On the day of his sentencing, she’d shaken hands with Stephen Ford on the steps of the court and wished him luck. She’d handed him Tom’s phone number and told him he was the man to turn to for help and advice, if he wanted it. Tír na nÓg was now closed; it had been impossible to keep the centre open once Tom admitted he needed residential treatment for his gambling addiction. But her former boss had helped find the clients other resources, other places to go, and she knew he’d help Stephen too – if he needed it. Stephen had had his hair cut and bought a new suit for the day in court. He’d found a new job, he told her, and was using the books Mr Mannion had left him to start his studies again. There was a ‘People of the Year’ award planned to honour the bravery he had shown, in that dark, dusty room. Liz herself was going to present it to him. She was looking forward to the ceremony. The more live television experience she could get, the better, or so her agent said, anyway.
She smiled, and turned towards the camera.
‘Four and three and two and one.’
‘Good afternoon, I’m Liz Cafferky. Welcome to Dublin Today.’
THE END
Acknowledgements
To the ever supportive and enthusiastic Sheila Crowley at Curtis Brown, thank you for always having my back, and to Becky Ritchie for your help and constant good humour. To all at Quercus, in particular my wonderful editors Jane Wood and Katie Gordon, thank you for making my books the best they could be. To Helen and Declan at Gill Hess, thanks for your guidance on the other side of the publicity curtain during the Can Anybody Help Me? adventure, and to all at Hachette Ireland for your support with this book.
To my family and friends who came to the book launch, particularly to those who travelled long distances, your support means more to me than you will ever know. Go raibh míle maith agaibh. To my first readers, Caroline, Ciara, Mags and Treasa, thank you for your insights, advice and encouragement. Much love to you all. Thank you Eimear Cotter and Rick O’Shea for your help and support.
To the online crime-writing community, bloggers and writers, your books might be full of murky deeds but you are lovely people! Thank you for your encouragement and virtual friendship. I’ve met some of you in real life, and you’re even nicer on the other side of the screen. Thanks to Jane Casey, Liz Nugent and Louise O’Neill. Stars, all. Special thanks to my RTE colleagues, especially Hilary McGouran, Laura Fitzgerald and Ray Burke for all of your support and good wishes.
To all at Dublin City Libraries, you provide a safe, warm space for people to tap into their lap tops for hours on end. All this, and free books too? I couldn’t do it without you. And to all coffee shops who tolerate writers nursing one drink for hours at a time, thank you. Keep the kettle on.
To Conor and Séimí: People keep asking how I get anything done with you two, but the truth is, you inspire me. Grá Mór.
This book is dedicated to my husband, Andrew Phelan, with all my love.
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