‘We can look at your phone record, see if it’s a known number. Apart from that, I’m afraid we have very little to go on.’
Of course. It was as much as she had expected. They’d check the number – if they even bothered with that – but they wouldn’t be able to trace it. Was it any wonder so many cases went unsolved?
On Wednesday, she went online and tweeted to find out if anyone happened to have a copy of the missing person’s supplement that had been printed with the Sunday World. An hour later, she received a message on Twitter. It wasn’t anyone she knew, a random follower who had a shared interest in true-life crime. She looked at his profile: @darbryan1. His interests, apart from following true-life crime stories, it said, were film noir and folk music. He looked pretty normal. She read his message.
@darbryan1: Hi Caitlin. I have that supplement. Can pass it on if you want it? Dar.
Caitlin wrote back.
@caitlindavis: Thanks. Do you know if there’s a link?
@darbryan1: I don’t think so. Could post it to you if you give me address?
Address. Was it a good idea to send some random stranger her address? Maybe there was an easier way to get the supplement. She didn’t answer darbryan1’s message. Instead, she phoned the Sunday World, but they told her they didn’t have any spare copies to send out and the supplement wasn’t available online.
She sat looking at her computer screen. She could ask darbryan1 if there was any mention of a David Casey in the supplement. She hadn’t changed her maiden name when they’d got married, so at least he wouldn’t make the connection.
@caitlindavis: That’s okay. Thanks. I don’t suppose you recall if there was anything about a guy called David Casey in there?
@darbryan1: Hmm, not sure. I can check for you. Hope you didn’t think I was some weirdo asking for your address! J
@caitlindavis: That’d be great, thanks.
About a half hour later, she received another message from darbryan1. He’d scanned and attached a page of the supplement. A brief paragraph mentioned David, saying he’d last been seen at a music shop on 16th October 2016, that his car had been found in the city centre but that no leads had suggested where David might have gone. Several sightings had led nowhere. At least now she knew; the hoax call had very likely come about as a result of the article. She’d put her phone number on all of the missing persons posters she’d put up at the time. It was a miracle, she thought, that she hadn’t received any calls up until now. The guards had told her it hadn’t been a good idea, making her number public like that, but she didn’t care. If anything was reported, she wanted to know about it.
@caitlindavis: Thanks Dar.
She typed back.
@caitlindavis: That’s exactly what I was looking for.
@darbryan1: No problem. Happy to help. Too many missing people out there. L
She wondered if he had a story of his own, but she didn’t ask him.
Gillian wasn’t surprised when she told her the response she’d got when she called the guards. She didn’t tell her about darbryan1, or the article. What was the point in killing her hope completely? Caitlin was fuming. What sort of person would get amusement from making a call like that? Some sicko. She was glad, suddenly, that David had insisted on their telephone number not going in the directory. At least the man didn’t know where she lived. Who knew what a person like that might do? – but God, he’d be choosing the wrong woman to mess with. She only wished that she could track him down. He’d be sorry he’d ever made that call.
CHAPTER NINE
Michelle
Michelle pulled off the road and parked beside the low wall outside the cottage. A dog barked ferociously, and she strained to see where it was, but among the caravans and general chaos of the garden she couldn’t spot it. The lock was not on the gate, which meant the old woman was available. She stepped from the car and hovered outside, looking at the door and the window, checking again to see whether there was any possibility that the dog was loose, but the rest of the garden was fenced off from the footpath, so she took her chance.
As soon as she tapped on the door, a cacophony of barking erupted from the house. The unseen hound started up again in tandem. She heard the old woman telling the dog to stop and a few minutes later the door opened and she was beckoned inside.
Nothing had changed since she’d last been here. The old woman led her into a room filled with old newspapers, religious relics and an array of paraphernalia that must have gathered over decades. In contrast a wide-screen television was mounted above the fireplace, the sound now muted. Michelle sat on the sofa that was covered by an old quilt and tried to ignore the stench of urine and something else, something rotten that she couldn’t identify, as the small dog eyed her warily from behind the old woman’s legs.
‘Life is good?’ the woman said.
Michelle attempted a smile. ‘Not bad,’ she said. She always tried to tell the woman as little as possible: she didn’t want to lead her in any way; although, if the woman was still as good as she’d been before, the strain in her voice would be enough to alert her that something was the matter. Nick, in his scepticism, was accurate about that. Michelle knew there were any number of charlatans out there. She remembered the time she and her friend, Anna, had gone to see your man off the television – the one who told horoscopes. They’d gone in one after the other, and afterwards when they’d consulted, they’d realized that he’d been too lazy to even invent different stories. They were both about to meet a man with a tan briefcase. They’d laughed about it after, pockets lighter by forty euros. Anna had sworn never to visit a psychic again. But Michelle knew that the old woman was good. Hadn’t she told her about her mother’s illness? A sickness of the blood and the bones, she’d said. There was no more accurate description of the cancer that had attacked her mother’s bone marrow. Within five years she was gone, leaving Michelle and her sister devastated.
The old woman took Michelle’s hand and rubbed it gently, watching her face all the time. ‘You work in a place with a lot of people,’ she said. Michelle only slightly inclined her head in affirmation. ‘A lot of women, dancing.’
Michelle smiled. ‘That’s right.’ The old woman hadn’t lost it.
‘You’re good at your job. You’ll have your own business maybe in the next year or so.’ Again, the psychic was right. At least that was the plan. She’d already looked into starting her own Zumba and Pilates classes. She’d spoken to a friend to find out what it would entail, setting herself up as a business, taking out personal insurance. She was saving some money before she quit her job to set out on her own. It was her goal, and she knew she’d do it.
‘Things haven’t been so good in love,’ the old woman said.
‘No.’
‘How long were you together?’
‘Almost eight months.’
‘And everything was going well before. You were thinking of moving in together?’
They hadn’t talked about that, but Michelle had thought that it hadn’t been too far off. She spent three or four nights a week at Nick’s place anyway. He said he hated it when she wasn’t there. She did too. She’d loved living alone before. She liked the freedom, the not having to answer to anybody. Before, she’d lived with a man for almost three years, and it had stifled her. Everywhere she went, he’d asked questions. The thing he’d claimed to love most about her, her free spirit, was what tore them apart in the end. And then a year later, Nick had come along.
‘Things went bad – just like that.’ The old woman clicked her fingers with her free hand, then rested it on top of Michelle’s.
Despite herself, she could feel the tears coming. Nick would surely laugh at her for that – a flashing neon sign for the psychic to interpret. Damn him anyway.
‘No explanation.’
‘No, he just … disappeared.’
‘He’s torn,’ the woman said. ‘Wants you in his life and doesn’t.’ She was silent for a moment. ‘Is he well?’ she asked
then.
‘You mean healthy?’ Michelle shrugged. ‘I think so.’
The woman looked confused. ‘A drinker maybe?’
Nick drank a few beers, but he didn’t drink too much, did he? She’d never seen him particularly drunk, no more so than a lot of their friends.
The old woman sighed. ‘I’m not sure this is a good situation for you, lovey. This man, he has a good heart, but he’s not willing to commit. There’s a reason, but it’s not clear to me. There isn’t another woman?’
‘No. I mean, he was married before, but that’s finished.’
‘A child?’
‘No.’
‘Funny, I see a child. A dark-haired little girl and a woman.’
Strange. There was no child – unless he hadn’t told her. He wouldn’t have kept something like that a secret – not after eight months, would he?
‘How old is this child?’
‘Four, maybe five, and Johnny …’
‘Johnny?’
The old woman looked sharply at her. ‘You said his name was Johnny?’
‘No. No, it’s Nick.’
‘Nick?’ The woman looked confused. She let go of Michelle’s hand, ran her palm across her forehead. ‘I’m sorry, dear. Ignore that. It’s … I don’t know, I’ve given you a wrong reading, I think.’
‘You think it’s someone else?’
‘No, not someone else. Sometimes things get confused. I don’t know. Maybe you could come back tomorrow, dear. We could try again.’
Michelle took out her purse, but the old woman waved her hand and told her to put it away. ‘No money,’ she said. ‘Not for today.’
Michelle left, disappointed. She thought of the woman’s reading. Johnny. She didn’t know anyone called Johnny. She hoped the old lady hadn’t had some premonition about the future. A woman and a dark-haired child. It didn’t make any sense, but then the other things did. She’d known that she taught dance to a lot of women. That she planned to start her own business. Maybe she had good days and bad, the old lady. Michelle contemplated how old she might be. She’d first visited her ten years before, and she’d thought she was ancient then. Maybe her powers were going as the years advanced, her visions becoming blurry. Powers. She heard Nick mock her. You don’t really believe in all that nonsense, do you? Maybe he was right. Maybe it was all nonsense, and she ought to just get on with her life.
CHAPTER TEN
Nick
‘Do you know what year it is?’
Tessa’s voice intruded on his vision.
‘It’s 1980.’
‘Where are you?’
‘At home. It’s Cait’s birthday. She’s five. They’ve made a cake, her and Rachel.’
‘Are you Nick or Johnny?’
‘Johnny. John Davis.’
A pause on the recording, then he speaks again.
‘She’s so happy. We’ve got her a bicycle. She’s starting school soon … Rachel is planning on going to college.’
‘What’s Rachel going to do?’
‘Design. She works in a home store, but she wants to be a designer. Interiors.’
‘And what about you, Nick?’
He doesn’t answer.
‘What do you do?’
Still no answer.
‘What’s going on, Nick?’
‘Rachel, she says she has to go out this evening. I don’t want her to go. It’s Caitlin’s birthday, but she says she has to. She’s meeting Orla.’
‘Who’s Orla?’
‘Her friend. She’s trouble, I don’t like her.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t know. There’s something about her. Rachel’s annoyed. She says it’ll only be for a few hours.’
‘Are you jealous? Jealous of Orla?’
‘No. I think she’s hiding something … she’s not being honest.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t know … I’m not sure yet.’
Tessa leaned forward and stopped the recording. ‘That’s pretty much it,’ she said. ‘I bring you out of it then.’
Nick looked at her. ‘It’s so weird, listening to myself …’
‘What do you think is happening, Nick?’
‘I don’t know. It seems so real and now, I mean the year: I wasn’t born then. This sounds ridiculous, but I’ve been reading about it, you know, the past life stuff. I’ve always been a cynic, but I’m beginning to wonder … maybe it’s the only explanation.’
Tessa wasn’t as quick to dismiss it as usual. She doodled on the notepad with her pen. He noticed she’d scribbled the year and the name, his name: John Davis. Johnny.
‘We’ll keep going, Nick. See what happens.’
The craving was strong. Nick pulled into a supermarket car park and went into the off-licence. Just a mouthful. A mouthful would stop the trembling in his hands. He returned to the car with a small bottle of whiskey. He put the paper bag on the passenger seat, breathed deep and made a fist. Michelle. He hadn’t heard from her since she’d turned up at the house that night. He’d fought the urge to contact her, had picked up the phone a thousand times, and had to keep reminding himself that it wouldn’t be fair. What was done was done. And yet, if he told her, she could help. She could be the only thing between him and that bottle of whiskey.
He took his phone from his pocket, the craving getting worse as the ringing went on. He hung up without leaving a message. What was she doing? Not sitting by the phone anyway. That was good. He wouldn’t expect her to. Maybe she was too angry now to even answer.
At home, he opened the bottle of whiskey and poured a shot. This would be it, his last, something to steady him while he tried to figure out what the hell was going on. He raised the glass to his lips, swallowed it in one and gripped the sink as the liquid burned the back of his throat. He picked up the bottle to pour again, and then, mad at his own weakness, made a fist and tried to overcome it.
Take the drink and pour it down the sink, Nick. Tessa’s voice. You don’t want it. Don’t need it.
But he did. He’d begun pouring the second glass when his mobile rang. The jangly sound of it almost made him drop the bottle. Michelle. Her name flashed up on the screen and he answered it before he had time to think.
‘Hey. Did you ring?’
‘Yeah. Sorry, were you in class?’
‘No, soup run. We’ve just finished.’ Her tone was uncertain, but at least she wasn’t mad. He couldn’t handle that.
‘Could you … I mean is there any chance you could you come over?’
A beat before she answered. ‘Okay. I’ll just go home first, get changed …’
‘No. I mean, do you think you could come straight away? There’s something I need to tell you.’
She picked up on the urgency in his tone. ‘What is it? Is everything all right?’
‘I don’t want to discuss it over the phone, how soon can you get here?’
‘I guess around thirty minutes, all being well …’
Relieved, Nick hung up and paced the room. He looked at the bottle of whiskey, but he didn’t pour another drink. He could hold out; Michelle was on her way, she could help him. He screwed the top onto the bottle and put it in the press, Tessa’s voice nagging in his head, telling him to pour it down the sink, but he couldn’t do that. Not yet. He’d do it later, after he’d told Michelle.
Johnny. What was going on? He turned his laptop on and sat at the table. He had a year now; he had names. He typed the name ‘Johnny Davis’ into Google. A number of sites came up – nothing that looked familiar. He clicked on Google Images, scrolled through looking at picture after picture – and then he saw it. A grainy black-and-white shot. A long-haired man in a black T-shirt. He peered at it but couldn’t make out if it was the same person he’d seen under hypnosis. He went back to the search engine, added the year ‘1980’ and the word ‘murder’. Hand shaking, he hit the return key and closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, he found himself reading the words he’d dr
eaded.
Three Dead in Horror Spree, Child Escapes.
Christ. He clicked the link. It was archived information from the Independent newspaper.
The bodies of a man and a woman in their early thirties were found at a house in south Dublin in what appears to have been a domestic killing. The alarm was raised by a neighbour who heard screams coming from the house at around 6 p.m. The woman has been named as Rachel Davis, who lived at the address. Police are still trying to identify the man. In what is believed to be a related incident, a car plunged off Dun Laoghaire pier at approximately 7 p.m. A five-year-old girl was saved in a dramatic rescue by a man who swam out to the car. The driver who drowned at the scene has been identified as John Davis, husband of the deceased woman. He is believed to have handed the child out through a window just before the car was submerged. Police are not currently questioning anyone else in relation to either incident.
The shake in his hand had got worse. This was all so horrifyingly familiar. He clicked on another link, saw himself, or rather Johnny Davis, and the woman, Rachel, smiling at the camera, looking very much in love. Three dead. Johnny Davis had killed himself, and attempted to take the little girl with him, but had changed his mind at the last second. The girl, the orphan, Caitlin, was that her name? He searched again, desperate for his assumption to be disproved, for there to be some other explanation for what he’d witnessed under hypnosis.
He scanned the other news stories, but none of them mentioned the child’s name. He started again, typed ‘Caitlin Davis’ into the search engine. It was a long shot; the girl would be what – forty-two now? She could be married, or if not, she could have taken the name of her adoptive parents.
There were a couple of women called Caitlin Davis on LinkedIn. Nick stared at the profile pictures and clicked to enlarge one of them. It had to be her. She bore such a resemblance to the woman, Rachel, that it just couldn’t be coincidence. He read her profile. She was the owner and editor of a woman’s magazine. He looked at her sites. She had a Twitter account. Her most recent tweet asked if anyone had a copy of a newspaper supplement about missing persons. It was probably a story she was working on, he thought.
When Your Eyes Close Page 5