by C. L. Taylor
Do I trust him? Just because he’s Irish doesn’t mean he’s not a threat. He could still be an undercover policeman.
‘Do you know anything about cars?’ I ask. ‘The warning light came on. I think there might be something wrong with the engine.’
‘No, engines are beyond me, I’m afraid. I thought you might need a tyre changing or have battery trouble. I’ve jump leads in the boot.’
‘No, I’m pretty sure it’s the engine. Is there a garage round here? I was going to call one but …’ I pause. I don’t want to tell him that the battery has gone in my mobile. I feel vulnerable enough as it is, without him knowing that.
‘There are plenty in Drogheda,’ he says. ‘I’m on my way back to Clogherhead. I could drop you off en route if you want.’
It’s the second time he’s offered me a lift. Either he’s genuinely friendly or he really wants to get us into his car.
‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘That’s OK, thank you. I’ll … um … I’ll ring.’
‘OK, well,’ – he gets to his feet, brushing grass from his backside and legs – ‘I won’t bother you any longer. You have a good day, OK.’
I say nothing but, as he walks back to his car, Elise wriggles in my arms and demands that I let her go. I’ve only got one carton of apple juice and a couple of bananas in the car. Once they’re gone I’ll only be able to keep her occupied for as long as the iPad battery lasts. I could ask if I can use the stranger’s phone to ring a mechanic but we could be here for some time before one turns up. If they turn up at all. I need to trust my instincts and my gut is telling me that we’ll be safer if we go than if we stay.
‘Wait!’ I shout.
The man pauses beside his open car door and looks back at me. ‘Yes?’
‘You’re going to Clogherhead?’
‘That’s right.’
I shift Elise off my lap, take her hand and get to my feet. ‘I’m really sorry. I’m very tired and we’ve had a long journey. I’m not normally so rude when a stranger offers me help.’
‘Right.’ Now he looks wary.
I walk towards him holding out my hand. ‘Helen Carr. And this’ – I gesture towards Elise – ‘is my son Ben.’
He takes my hand and squeezes it. ‘Sean Hogan. Pleased to meet you, Helen.’
Sean hasn’t stopped talking since we got into his car. He’s told me about his landlady (widowed, no children), his job, his parents and his plans to buy a house in Clogherhead. He’s from Dublin originally, he tells me, but he’s grown tired of the bustle of the city and he wants to live somewhere quieter and settle down, get married and have kids. He meets my gaze as he says this and the base of his neck flushes red, as though he’s just admitted something embarrassing. I didn’t have him down as a nervous man but his breathless monologue and damp brow betray him. As he talks I watch his face. He’s older than I initially thought. The laughter lines around his eyes don’t disappear when he stops smiling and there are a few greys speckling the dark hair at his temple. He’s probably late thirties, early forties tops. I wasn’t wrong about his eyes though. They’re the palest blue I’ve ever seen, made paler by his dark eyelashes and thick eyebrows.
‘So, are you married then, Helen?’
Sean’s gaze leaves the road and flicks towards my hands, gathered in my lap.
‘Widowed,’ I say softly. Separated or divorced would be closer to the truth but both answers would invite more questions than I’m willing to answer.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘That must be tough on the little one, and you, obviously.’
I twist round in my seat to look at Elise but she’s staring out of the window, looking for the sea.
‘Yes,’ I say.
We lapse into silence as the road becomes more winding as we leave Drogheda behind. There’s a low wooden fence to the left with a stream beyond it, and a long stone wall to the right. The fields are dotted with trees and little white houses with grey roofs. Above us the clouds have gathered into thick white knots, blocking out the sky. I want to break the silence, to let Sean know that he didn’t say anything inappropriate, but how? If I tell him that I’m fine, that I’m over my husband’s supposed death, he’ll find that strange. If I tell him that ‘Ben’ is missing his dad I’ll further lower the mood. I decide on small talk instead.
‘Do you have brothers and sisters?’ I ask, at exactly the same time that Sean says, ‘Do you still have relatives here?’
We both laugh and the awkwardness lifts.
‘Three sisters,’ Sean says. ‘I’m the youngest.’
I smile. ‘That must have been interesting.’
‘Particularly when they dressed me up like a dolly when I was,’ – he pauses – ‘sixteen.’
We both laugh again.
‘The sea!’ Elise shouts from the back of the car, arm waving. ‘The sea!’
I look beyond Sean and there it is, beyond the grass verge and a cluster of holiday cottages, stretching across the landscape like a faded blue blanket. The sea. So pale it almost blends into the sky. It’s been 33 years since I last saw it but my stomach still flips and a feeling of utter joy floods my body. I wind down the window and inhale the air, sucking it deep into my lungs. I can’t smell the sea. I can’t smell anything at all, but the exhilaration makes me throw back my head and laugh. I’ve dreamed of this place since I was eight years old; dreams that became so blurry over time it was almost as though I’d imagined it. It’s nothing like I remembered, but it’s real. It’s here. My daughter is squealing with excitement and I’m smiling so much my cheeks are aching. I’m home.
As Elise quietens and I press my head against the seat rest and take a deep, contented breath, Sean glances at me and smiles. ‘I wish I’d recorded that. I could have sold it to the tourist board for a ton of euros. Want to do it again? I might get enough for a deposit for a house!’
Chapter 41
Mary hurries from the kitchen at the sound of the car pulling up outside the house and steps into the hallway. She scurries back to retrieve a yellow duster and a can of polish from the cupboard under the sink, then busies herself spraying and buffing the small hall table. She knows she’s being ridiculous, feigning a reason to bump into Mr Hogan, but he’s such a lovely young man, a proper breath of fresh air, and she really enjoys their chats. So nice to be able to talk about something other than ailments, soap operas and gossip for a change. Not that she doesn’t appreciate the ladies in the church group, they’re lovely women – on the whole. And they got her through a terrible time when she lost Niamh and Patrick within five years of each other. But they’re not close. Not like she was with Brigid. She could have told her anything.
‘Will you look what I’ve got here for you!’ Sean opens the door with a flourish and ushers into the hallway a tired-looking woman with wild red hair holding a scruffy-haired boy in her arms. ‘New guests!’
The woman looks at her with startled eyes. She reminds Mary of her next-door neighbour’s cat. It gives her the same kind of suspicious look from the wall when she steps into the garden, then quickly scurries away.
‘I’m sorry we didn’t ring ahead,’ the woman says, ‘but my phone ran out of battery and when the car died too,’ – she glances behind her, towards Mr Hogan, who’s closing the front door – ‘Sean kindly stopped and offered us a lift. He said you might have a room free.’ She pauses then, when Mary doesn’t immediately reply, and adds, ‘If not we could hire a cottage. If Sean wouldn’t mind giving us another lift.’
‘Oh, shut up.’ He slaps a friendly hand onto her shoulder, making her jump. ‘I’m sure Mrs Byrne can sort you out with a room. Can’t you, Mary?’
Mary stiffens at the casual use of her first name but Sean softens it with a wink. He’s playing with her – being all jovial and flirtatious. It’s a little game they play, where Sean pretends she’s not 67 and she pretends he’s not young enough to be her son. It’s ridiculous, a woman of her age playing along like she does, but it’s harmless, make-believe, like the s
oaps her friend Cathleen Quinn likes so much. But she can’t play along now, not with new guests. It wouldn’t be appropriate. So she doesn’t return his smile.
‘If you’d have thought to ring me, Mr Hogan, I could have prepared a room,’ she says, knowing full well that all of her rooms are spotless and the linen was freshly laundered yesterday, despite not being used.
‘It’s OK, honestly,’ the red-haired woman says, setting the child on its feet. ‘I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’
‘It’s no bother,’ Mary says. There’s something about the woman that isn’t sitting right with her and not just the fact that she’s English. They get a lot of tourists in Clogherhead, of all different nationalities, but there’s something odd about this one. Whenever she speaks there’s a breathy tone to her voice as though she’s attempting to suck the words back in even as she says them. And she seems to wilt under Mary’s gaze, stooping as though she’s trying to hide without actually leaving the room.
‘If you’re sure,’ the English woman says. ‘Oh, Lee, be careful with that!’ She snatches up the statue of the Virgin Mary from the hall table before her boy’s reaching fingers can grab it. She places it back on the table and looks at Mary. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘No bother.’ Mary bends at the waist and peers at the child. ‘You didn’t want to break it, did you? You just wanted a look?’
The child takes a step back, towards its mother, but its eyes are still on the statue.
‘Here.’ Mary crouches down with the statue in her hands and holds it towards the child. ‘You can touch it if you like, but only gently, just with a finger.’
The child takes a step forward hesitantly.
‘It’s OK,’ his mother says.
The boy reaches out a finger and presses it against the face of the statue.
‘Lovely, isn’t she?’ Mary says. She studies the child’s face. He has very soft, fine features for a boy. Lovely dark, feathery eyelashes framing the most brilliant big blue eyes. Niamh had green eyes. ‘As green as a meadow,’ Patrick used to say. She was a curious child too, always getting into everything. Mary couldn’t turn her back on her in the kitchen without her opening a cupboard and rifling through the pots and pans.
‘She’s pretty,’ the child says, in the same soft English tone as his mother and the image of Niamh sinks back into the depths of Mary’s mind like a stone dropped into the sea.
She stands back up and puts the statue back on the table. ‘Lee, did you say his name was?’
‘Ben,’ Mr Hogan says.
Mary looks at the mother. The expression on her face has changed from fraught to fearful. ‘I thought I heard you call him Lee.’
‘My Lee Lee,’ the child says, pointing to his chest.
‘Yes,’ the mother says. ‘I do call him Lee, too. His name’s Ben but Lee’s his middle name. He prefers it.’
‘I see,’ Mary says, but she doesn’t. There’s something about the mother’s response that doesn’t quite ring true. Why would you let a child choose its own name when you’d chosen a perfectly good one? And then introduce that child by the name they didn’t like? ‘Well, I’m Mary Byrne. And you are?’
‘Helen.’
‘Will you be staying long, Helen?’
‘In Clogherhead?’
‘No. Here.’ Strange or not, she can’t let them go to the holiday cottages – not with the damp that would settle on the boy’s chest and the electricity meters that have a tendency to turn themselves off at all times of the day and night. And anyway, she has rooms to fill. ‘Will you be staying long here, at Seamount?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe a week. Maybe longer. I … I’m not sure of my plans just yet, but at least a week.’
‘I don’t have a cot for the little one.’
‘That’s OK. He can share a double bed with me.’
‘No bother. Let’s call it a week. You can settle up with me next Tuesday and let me know if you’ll be staying for longer. Does that sound OK to you?’
The woman smiles for the first time since she stepped through the door. ‘That sounds wonderful. Thank you. Thank you so much.’
‘You can thank me when you leave. You’ll find a list of house rules in your room but make sure you abide by this one.’ She crosses the hallway and taps the small plaque affixed to the front door.
Make sure the door is properly shut when you enter and leave.
Chapter 42
Enjoying your time in Ireland, are you, Jo? Have you taken Elise to the Wicklow Mountains? Or to Powerscourt Gardens? Or perhaps to the beach? Oh, wait, you won’t have done that because you’re hiding. You’re sweating it out in run-down B&Bs, jumping at every sound and starting at every shadow. You’re driving for miles, checking in the rear-view mirror to see who’s following you. Do you see my face looking back at you? Do you dream about me at night? I imagine you’re in quite a state by now. Dark circles under your eyes because you can’t sleep. Trouble breathing? Feeling trapped. That’s because the net is closing in around you, Jo. I look forward to seeing how much you squirm when you finally realise that you’ve been caught.
Chapter 43
The stairs creak as I walk down them, hand in hand with Elise. I feel like an intruder, creeping around in this huge, empty house, and, as we walk into the breakfast room, I immediately look for Sean. But there’s no sign of him. Or anyone else for that matter. After Mary showed me to my room last night Sean told me that we were the only guests. Low season, he said, and business was quiet. Not that it bothered him. He’s been staying with Mary on and off for two years – whenever his firm sends him up to Drogheda for a client meeting. He could have stayed in a hotel in town but he’d chosen Clogherhead instead because he wanted to be by the sea. Mary’s B&B was the only one with a free room.
‘Mary’s lonely,’ he said. ‘She won’t admit it but it’s there, you know? Like a dark cloud hanging over her.’
I was surprised by how insightful he was, how much he seemed to care about our landlady. Not that I could sense any vulnerability in her. She’d been brusque and cold as she’d talked me through how to operate the shower and the TV, and there were laminated signs all over the house, telling guests what they could and couldn’t do.
‘Will you be wanting the Irish breakfast then?’ Mary suddenly appears behind me, making me jump. It’s eight o’clock in the morning and she hasn’t got a hair out of place. Her blonde fringe is neatly combed across her forehead, showing off the small pearl earrings in her earlobes. They match the string of pearls around her neck, oddly incongruous against her blue and white striped apron. It’s only her slippers, grey and faded with the backs trodden down, that aren’t perfectly polished or neatly pressed.
‘Yes, yes, please.’
‘And the little one?’ Mary’s gaze falls to Elise who’s making a grab for the condiments basket on the nearest table.
‘He’ll have the same. But no black or white pudding, please.’
‘Take a seat then.’ She gestures at the table nearest the window. ‘Will you be wanting tea or coffee?’
‘Coffee, please.’ I pull out a chair and settle my daughter onto it. ‘And a cup of milk for El … Lee … if that’s not too much trouble.’
A strange expression crosses Mary’s face. It’s only there for a split second but long enough for me to worry. I must never slip and call Elise by her full name. If anyone suspects that she’s not a boy questions will be asked and we’ll have to leave. Not that we can stay long. It won’t be long before Paula or the police realise my connection with Clogherhead and turn up looking for me. I need to find Mum’s sisters and brother, maybe even some of my cousins. I’m hoping they’ll be able to point me towards another part of Ireland where I really can disappear. I’ll need to borrow some money too, enough to tide me over for a few weeks. After that, I don’t know. At some point I need to ring Mr Harrison to ask if he’s heard from the police. The best outcome would be him telling me that Paula’s been arrested and I’m safe to return to th
e UK. And the worst? I don’t want to think about the worst. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder.
Last night, after Mary finished her guided tour of my room, Sean tapped on the door and asked me if I wanted any help finding a mechanic to fetch my car. When I told him I’d use the iPad to look one up he laughed. Mary didn’t have Wi-Fi, he said, but he could sort one for me if I wanted. I could have hugged him. Instead I gave him a warm smile and said that if there was anything I could do for him in return just to ask.
‘No, you’re all right, I—’ He broke off, gazing past me to the window where Elise was playing. My stomach lurched. She’d dug one of her dolls – a baby in a pink hat, dress and booties – out of one of the plastic bags and was pressing her face to the glass, telling her to look outside. Shit. We’d cut our hair, we were wearing borrowed clothes and using Helen and Ben’s passports (I’d hidden our originals in a side pocket of the suitcases, along with Max’s that I’d accidentally snatched up when we left), but it hadn’t occurred to me to ask Helen to lend me some of Ben’s toys. I’d automatically snatched up Elise’s favourites when I’d packed up the house. I hadn’t considered that someone might see her playing with them.
‘It’s … he …’
Sean smiled. ‘C’mon now, Jo. We’re a bit more open-minded over here than you might remember. Well, some of us anyway. If a little boy wants to play with dolls it’s no skin off my nose. All good preparation for being a da.’
Sean took my silence as a sign that it was time for him to leave and then gave me a nod.
‘I’ll leave you alone. You must be tired after all the day you’ve had. Don’t worry about the car. I’ll sort it.’
I didn’t see him for the rest of the day but when I woke up this morning there was a note pushed under the door:
Mechanic has got your car. They said they’re a bit backed up with work but they’ll look at it as soon as they can. If you need to rent one while you’re waiting give me a shout and I’ll give you a lift to Drogheda – there’s a few hire places there. Sean.