by Alex Barclay
Smell the fire! Smell the smoke!
When you’re choking on it, I’ll watch you burn!
I’ll watch you burn!
And I’ll tie the rope around my neck and I’ll tie the end around the bough and I’ll swing from it!
And I’ll die listening to your screams!
And this is what will be left of me!
Can you see me now?
It wasn’t Terry’s notebook. It was Patrick’s.
35
Laura was sitting with her elbows on the table and her face in her hands. Johnny and Murph were sitting by the fire. Patrick was standing beside Murph’s chair.
‘So, what’s the plan?’ said Murph. ‘He’s inside in the confession box in the chapel, and he’s wrapped up … but …’
‘Is that his decent burial, so?’ said Laura.
No one replied.
‘I love this,’ said Laura. ‘The men all sitting around like ye’re the fucking Mafia and this is what ye do every weekend – have a drink and figure out where the next body’s going to go.’ She shook her head. ‘And all I’ll say is this – I’ve had to suck up not going to the guards about all this, but I won’t be sucking up that man’s family having a missing person on their hands for the rest of their lives—’
‘If he was on their hands, though—’ said Murph.
‘I’m fucking serious,’ said Laura.
‘Well, have you any suggestions?’ said Johnny.
‘Me?’ said Laura. ‘No. But if you want I can ask a few of the lads in the prison on Monday if they have any tips.’
‘From their successful friends, though,’ said Murph.
‘And that’s the other thing,’ said Laura, ‘I don’t know if it’s the drink or what, but you’ve fierce confidence in your abilities to cover up a crime. Do you watch any television at all?’
‘Patrick’s sober,’ said Murph.
‘And do ye have a clue what Terry was hit with?’ said Laura. ‘Or could Val’s dog be running around with it between his teeth in the morning?’
‘Can we at least confirm,’ said Murph, ‘that Val has a dog, because it’s been taking up a lot of head space that could be put to better use.’
‘Val has a dog, but it’s ancient, so it won’t be coming near the place,’ said Johnny.
‘Thank you,’ said Murph.
‘Johnny turned to Laura. ‘You don’t have to be here for this.’ He looked at Clare. ‘Either of you.’
‘So, we’re just trusting you, so,’ said Laura.
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ said Clare, ‘what else can we do? Do you want to sit around and have another big discussion about it? Do you want to help haul the body yourself? We’re no use to them at this point, and the less we know the better, to be quite honest.’
‘“Quite honest”,’ said Laura, ‘that’s our gold standard, now, for the rest of our lives.’
‘You are unbelievable,’ said Clare. ‘This late-breaking morality.’
‘I’m done with you, girl, at this stage,’ said Laura. She turned to Johnny. ‘Right – I’m going to bed, so. And, in case I haven’t made myself crystal clear on this … I’m trusting ye. So ye can fucking respect it.’
Johnny and Murph nodded.
‘So do you want to point me in the direction of a room?’ said Laura.
‘Where’s Edie, actually?’ said Johnny. ‘She said she was dropping something down to the office, and she’d follow us right in. She must be still down there. She’ll have the keys. You’re all out in the stables. Helen’s in eight, so take seven, six, five, and four and decide among yourselves.’
‘Not that it matters a fuck where we lay our heads at this stage,’ said Laura.
Murph grabbed her hand as she walked past, giving it a squeeze.
‘Do you want help with your bag?’ said Patrick. ‘If you want to come back up when you get the keys, I can walk you down.’
Laura frowned. ‘You’re fine out.’ She stopped at the door and turned to them. ‘You know something, lads – I’ve woken up to my fair share of strangers looking back at me on a Sunday morning. Just never from the mirror.’
36
Edie sat pale and hollow-eyed at the desk of the office, her hands resting on the notebook, her gaze fixed. She slid her hands on to her lap. Her shoulders slumped and she collapsed into sobs that wracked her entire body. She pulled open the desk drawers and rifled through all of them, eventually pulling out a red paper napkin. She gripped it in her hand as she waited for her sobbing to subside. Then she lunged for the same drawer, slid it open, pulled out a plastic bag, scrambled to untangle it, then vomited into it. She cried harder. She held the bag away from her, turning her head away, working hard to control her breathing. When she had finally calmed, she looked around the room, tied the bag in a knot and dropped it into the bin. She shuddered.
Then she stood up, grabbed the notebook and, clutching it, ran out the door.
‘Jesus Christ Almighty – you scared the fucking shit out of me!’ Laura was standing in front of her, booming into her face. Edie stepped back.
‘Edie,’ said Laura, putting a hand on her arm. ‘I was looking for you.’ She frowned. ‘Are you OK?’
Edie nodded. ‘Yes.’ She smiled but it trembled so hard, it didn’t last. ‘Sorry, I’m …’ She let out a thin sing-song breath. ‘I’m OK, ‘I’m … It’s … I … just … could you get me a bottle of water from the fridge?’
‘If you’ll sit down for me,’ said Laura.
Edie nodded, then lowered herself on to the bench.
‘Hang in there,’ said Laura. ‘I’ll be back.’
As soon as the sound of her footsteps disappeared, Edie kicked off her shoes and put on a pair of rain boots. She grabbed a torch and a rain jacket, and went out the back door.
She ran across the grass towards the stables. Instead of going through the arch that led to the courtyard garden, she ran the length of the unfinished buildings, down to the end where the eight finished suites stood, overlooking the sea, with sliding French doors that opened on to a private terrace. She knocked on the glass of Helen’s room. She knocked harder. Then she slipped the key in the lock, opened the door, and went inside.
‘Helen! Are you awake? It’s Edie!’ She closed the door behind her.
‘Come in, come in,’ said Helen, rolling on to her back.
Edie went over to her bed and sat on the edge of it.
‘What’s up?’ said Helen.
‘Mind your eyes,’ said Edie, turning on the torch.
Helen shielded her eyes with her hand. When she lowered it, she caught Edie’s face in the light. ‘Oh, my God – what is it?’
‘I need you to look at something,’ said Edie. ‘And give me your professional opinion.’
‘What?’ said Helen.
‘This notebook,’ said Edie. ‘It’s Patrick Lynch’s. From when he was sixteen. I found it tonight and it’s … I don’t know what it is. It was like … he hated all of us. He hated us—’
‘Whoa, whoa, whoa,’ said Helen. ‘What?’
‘I want you to look at it,’ said Edie, ‘I want you to tell me …’ She paused.
‘Edie,’ said Helen. ‘Edie, breathe. Breathe. It’s only an old notebook. What—’
Edie shook her head. ‘No, no, no, it’s—’
‘Let me take a look at it, OK? Has he given you any reason otherwise tonight that he might be a threat in any way?’
Edie paused. ‘No.’
Helen reached for her glasses from the bedside table, put them on, and opened the notebook. She pulled the torch a little closer, and started to read. Edie watched her, panic dancing in her eyes.
Helen looked up at her ‘Where is he now?’
Edie’s eyes widened. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Where is he?’ said Helen.
‘I don’t know,’ said Edie. ‘In the bar?’
‘How did you get this?’ said Helen. ‘Does he know you have it?’
‘I found it. And then I wa
lked right into him. And I told him how disturbing it was, but I didn’t know it was his.’
‘Whose did you think it was?’ said Helen.
‘Just – what do you think?’ said Edie, looking down at the notebook. ‘What do you think?’
Helen shook her head. ‘This is not good, Edie. This is … alarming.’
‘In what way?’ said Edie.
‘Like …’ she paused.
‘But he was only sixteen, though. ‘There’s no way he feels the same way now. I mean – why would he have come here tonight if he did? Why would he have helped me?’
‘He tried to burn us all alive,’ said Helen, looking up at her.
‘But he didn’t,’ said Edie. ‘He saved us. He must have changed his mind when the whole thing became real. He changed his mind, so—’
‘Reading this,’ said Helen, ‘I would be amazed if he’d changed his mind. I don’t know what happened that night, but … this reads like someone who …’ She looked up at Edie. ‘… won’t stop.’
‘What do you mean “won’t stop”?’ said Edie.
‘These are the writings of an extremely disturbed teenage boy,’ said Helen, ‘rage, violence, sexual violence …’
‘I know, but …’
Helen frowned.
‘I know, I know,’ said Edie. ‘I know. I know what you’re saying. And you know about all this. And … I know …’ She glanced down at the notebook. ‘But he was … sixteen. And look at his life … his mother …’
‘This is not about his mother treating him mean,’ said Helen.
‘And his dad not being on the scene,’ said Edie, ‘and—’
‘It’s not as simple as that,’ said Helen.
‘But what is it?’ said Edie. ‘What are you saying?’
Helen gestured to the notebook. ‘Something like this – this is beyond that. I don’t have all the answers, I’m not a psychiatrist, I can’t diagnose him, but … somebody like this … this level of rage, the detailed, violent fantasies. Someone like that doesn’t change. This is—’
‘But how do you know that for definite?’ said Edie, her eyes wide. ‘Lots of people change. They have to. I—’
‘Edie,’ said Helen, opening a page of the notebook. ‘Listen to this: “You pushed my face into a sink full of butter knives and every time, I used to imagine rising up out of it with the handle of a hunting knife between my teeth and taking it in my hand and turning to you and—’
‘Stop!’ said Edie. ‘Stop!’ She put her hands to her ears.
Helen looked at her.
‘Obviously that was his mother doing that to him!’ said Edie. ‘That would mess anyone up.’
‘And what I don’t get is …’ She paused. ‘Did you not think he was completely normal tonight?’
‘He hardly spoke,’ said Helen. ‘He had to be drawn into every conversation.’
‘But he’s shy!’ said Edie.
Helen looked at her. ‘Why was that piece I read out “obviously” his mother?’
Edie stared at her. ‘What?’
‘I think you’re right, but’
‘Maybe Jessie told me – I can’t remember. It doesn’t matter. The main thing is—’
Helen spoke softly. ‘You showed up here in an awful state – I’ve never seen you like this.’ She put her hand on the notebook. ‘And I’ve never read anything like this. It’s so disturbing—’
‘I know, I know,’ said Edie, ‘but … I just can’t—’
‘Why do I feel like you came to me so that I would tell you Patrick Lynch is OK now? It seems to matter to you beyond—’
‘I know, I know, but it’s my fault he’s here, tonight—’
Helen nodded. ‘Forget that—’
‘And what if he’s … what if …’ She bent over and started rocking.
Helen put her hand on Edie’s back and rubbed it gently. ‘Edie, pet … something’s happened … hasn’t it?’
Edie sobbed. She drew herself slowly upright.
‘What is it?’ said Helen.
‘I think … I think he might have killed Terry Hyland. Terry’s dead.’
Helen’s eyes went wide. She sat up straight. ‘What?’
Edie nodded. ‘Terry was killed tonight, and it’s all a mess and—’
‘Oh my God,’ said Helen. ‘Are the guards here?’
‘It’s a mess!’ said Edie. ‘We’ve all been trying to figure out what to do and we haven’t a clue, and …’
‘And where does the notebook fit in?’ said Helen. ‘Where was it?’
‘In Terry’s van. I don’t know how Terry got it, but …’ Her gaze couldn’t settle anywhere.
Helen shook her head. ‘Edie! What’s going on? You’re going to have to tell me. This is not about Terry. This is about something else.’
Edie covered her face with her hands, and sobbed. ‘Oh, Helen, I messed up, I messed up so bad, I messed up so bad.’
37
EDIE
DUBLIN
16 July 2018
Edie sat on the hotel bed, a firm pillow between her and the headboard, one long leg folded over the other. She was dressed in a black lace push-up bra and black lace Brazilian-cut knickers. The curtains were drawn. The warm light came from the bedside lamp. The searing white came from the reading light she had angled over her book. She heard the door click. She turned off the reading light, put the book down, and stood up. She walked around to the end of the bed, and stopped.
Patrick was standing in front of the door, dressed in a dark blue suit, and a white shirt with the top button open. Edie smiled. He smirked, then, ran his gaze slowly up her body at the same time he was lowering his zip. As she walked towards him, he was taking out his cock, and by the time she was on her knees, he was ready to push it into her mouth. She looked up at him as she took it all in, then watched his eyes close, and his head tilt back. He looked down, grabbed her head with both hands, and pulled it towards him. He held it there, his fingers firm, and started moving his hips in short sharp thrusts.
‘I love fucking your face.’
She looked up at him, her eyes sparkling. He stared down at her, his eyes dark, the smirk back. A shiver ran up her spine, a ripple of fear that she buried. He pulled her to her feet, reached behind her neck, and yanked her towards him, kissing her hard. Then he released her, and she stepped back as he got undressed, her eyes never leaving his cock. He walked towards her, reached out, and grabbed her wrist, pulling it up, then twisting her around, and pushing her, face down, on to the bed. He grabbed her knickers and yanked them off. He unhooked her bra, and waited for her to pull it off. He knelt against the end of the bed, between her legs, and slipped his arm under her waist, pulling her back against him, grabbing her breasts. He pushed inside her from behind, fucked her hard, then turned her on to her back. She moved up the bed, and he followed her, climbing on top of her, pushing inside her again. He held his hand over her mouth, and pressed down hard. Her eyes widened, and her shout against his closed palm was a muffled hum vibrating between them. His eyes were cold and dark, fixed on hers, and then they were over her head, and far away.
She lay under him watching the movement of his taut chest muscles, his arms, his neck. Then his eyes were on hers again, and she could see the challenge in them, then he looked away, and she could feel his hand slide a fraction higher so the edge of his little finger was covering her nostrils. She grunted, shifting under him, twisting sideways, aiming with her sharp hipbone to push him off her, digging her heels into the bed, trying to leverage her weight against him. He didn’t stop. He looked down on her again. Her chest was heaving, her eyes wide. He shifted his hand a fraction to let her take in some air. She rocked against him again, threw him off balance, until he took his hand away from her mouth, grabbed her arms, and held them over her head. He smiled down at her, kissed her hard, fucked her harder. She closed her eyes, lifted her hips, let him grind against her, then gave him two sharp squeezes, and he released her so she could wrap her legs around hi
s waist. He hooked his arm under the small of her back, and yanked her up towards him. She squeezed her legs tighter around him, grabbing his neck to pull her mouth up to his. He watched her face, listened to her breathing. Then he slid his arm out from under her and let her head fall back on the pillow and he held the palms of his hands to each side of her neck, and squeezed as he moved slower inside her, then tighter against her, grinding and slamming until he squeezed as tight as he could and she came hard, and he pressed his hand over her mouth and she cried into it.
As her body relaxed under him, he flipped her over, and fucked her from behind as she was still gasping for air.
He came, then fell back on to the bed beside her. He lay there, his chest heaving, one arm over his head. She turned towards him and smiled, and he straightened out his arm, and she lay her neck on to it, and he rolled her into him, her head on his chest, her leg over his. She slid her hand up the centre of his chest, and rested it there.
‘Hey,’ he said.
‘Hey, yourself,’ she said.
She kissed his chest, then moved her hand up to his face and held it there. He kissed her head and pulled her closer.
‘I love you, Edie Kerr.’
‘I love you, Patrick Lynch.’
It still blew her mind that after one meeting, after all these years here they were. If someone had told her when they were ten years old that there would be a time when she would be in love with Patrick Lynch, wrapped around him, wanting him, needing him …
‘Can I show you my ideas for the spa?’ she said.
‘Yes!’ said Patrick, sitting up. ‘I’d love to see them.’
Edie hopped up, went to her overnight bag, and took out a notebook. As she walked back to him, he told her to stop.
‘You are so beautiful,’ he said.
She smiled. ‘Thank you. And you’re so handsome.’ She climbed up the bed to him, and slipped under the covers, pulling them up around her chest. She opened the notebook and turned it sideways. ‘Ignore my “artwork”. Spa, lap pool, gym,’ she said, pointing.