by Alex Barclay
‘What’s this her name is?’
Clare’s legs felt weak. ‘Mademoiselle Autin.’
‘Aren’t you top of the class in French?’ said her father. ‘What more do you want?’
‘Why do I always have to be better than everyone else?’ said Clare. ‘Why can’t I just be an ordinary—’
‘Clare – you will never be ordinary,’ said her father. He lowered his newspaper and peered out over it. ‘But you will not be different.’
Clare stood, heart pounding and breaking and yielding.
45
Edie lay slumped on Helen’s bed.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Helen. ‘I’m sorry. I know you didn’t want to hear that. I know you don’t want to leave me.’
Edie sat up suddenly. ‘But, where is everyone? Where’s Johnny? Why is no one …’
‘I don’t know,’ said Helen. ‘I’ve no idea what’s going on over there. I don’t even know how long we’ve been sitting here. All I know is you need to go and get help. If we’re in danger, then we have a chance if you can do that. No one has a chance if you don’t. No one knows this about Patrick except us. And Terry. And look how that worked out.’
Edie’s eyes darted around the room.
‘Edie!’ said Helen. ‘You have a guard living right next door, so pull yourself together, and go there. Go whatever way Patrick won’t guess you’ll go, if he is looking for you – he might not be! – but go.’
‘I can’t leave you,’ said Edie. ‘You would never leave me.’
‘Yes, I would,’ said Helen.
‘Maybe he’s gone!’ said Edie. ‘He could be gone.’
‘Edie, Edie, Edie … you have Dylan,’ said Helen. ‘And I love that boy. And I don’t want to—’
‘Stop!’ said Edie. ‘Stop! Patrick wouldn’t … I know what you said, I know, I get it, I get it, but …’
‘Edie!’ said Helen. ‘He killed someone tonight. He killed someone.’
‘But that was—’
‘Edie!’ said Helen. ‘You need to hear this. You need to hear this. Patrick is a psy—’
‘No,’ sobbed Edie. ‘No, no. Don’t. Don’t.’
Murph and Laura walked in silence down the path to the chapel, their heads down, their hands in their pockets.
‘There’s no way she’s going to be in here,’ said Murph.
‘Look – we don’t know,’ said Laura. ‘It’s five minutes.’
‘Then we’re in our comfy bed,’ said Murph.
Laura tipped her hood a fraction off her head, and looked up at him from under it. ‘Yeah – those things we’ll never be able to sleep in for the rest of our lives.’
They kept walking until they got to the chapel. ‘Is it open?’ said Laura.
‘I have the key for the back door,’ said Murph, ‘from when we took it to put the …’ He reached under his jacket and put his hand in his jeans pockets. ‘Shite,’ he said. ‘Shite. Maybe Patrick has it.’
‘For fuck’s sake,’ said Laura.
‘I was in shock,’ said Murph. ‘The whole thing’s a blur.’ He put his hand to his chest. ‘Jesus. I did have the key, I think. Did I lock it? Or did I give Patrick that job because I knew better.’ He stared at Laura, wide-eyed. ‘Oh fuck … what if it’s open and we’ve no key to lock it and the guards come looking for Terry? What if I was supposed to lock the fucking thing and I didn’t? Or I left the key in it? Fuck.’
He grabbed Laura’s wrist and started to run down the grassy slope. Laura slipped, and he hauled her up, and they ran on until they hit gravel. They stopped dead at the open door to the sacristy, and exchanged glances.
Murph shrugged. ‘Will we go in?’
Laura rolled her eyes. ‘Of course we’ll fucking go in. That’s why we fucking came here – to look for Edie.’
They walked up to the sacristy door, pushed it open wider, and stepped into the porch. They moved quietly through the doorway into the chapel. In front of the open door of the confession box, kneeling with his back to them was Patrick.
He looked at them over his shoulder, his eyes bright with fear. ‘It was Johnny,’ he said, as he rose from his knees. ‘It was Johnny. He’s lost it.’
46
Murph and Laura exchanged glances.
‘What do you mean “lost it?” said Murph.
‘He killed Terry,’ said Patrick. ‘And … there’s no sign of Edie. And …’ He paused. ‘Is Clare with you?’ He tilted his head to look around them.
‘No,’ said Laura.
‘She’s gone to bed,’ said Murph. ‘But … where’s Johnny now?’
Patrick held up his grazed hands. ‘He attacked me, accused me of all kinds of things. I fell. I got away. And I came here because I knew it was open from earlier. He was like a mad man. I don’t know what happened – was it the coke, the stress, the whole money situation—’
‘And you don’t know where Edie is,’ said Murph.
Patrick shook his head. ‘I don’t think … I think she’s gone … I think she’s gone. He had … blood all over him.’
Laura looked up at Murph, her eyes filled with fear. ‘He couldn’t have. There’s no way.’
Patrick nodded. ‘I’m afraid … I mean … I don’t know for sure, but …’
‘What are you doing in here?’ said Laura.
‘Getting away from Johnny,’ said Patrick, ‘and looking for these.’ He held up Terry’s keys. ‘I just found them on him. We have to get out of here. His van’s around the corner. We can take that. Johnny could be waiting by my car if he thinks anyone’s trying to get away.’
‘But what about Helen?’ said Laura.
‘I’m going to get Helen now,’ said Patrick. He handed Murph and Laura the key to the front door of the chapel. ‘Go around the front, lock yourselves in there. Johnny doesn’t have a key for that. I’ll get Helen. I’ll come back and give three knocks and you can let me in.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Murph.
Laura’s face was white.
‘No,’ said Patrick. ‘Keep her safe.’
‘No – go,’ said Laura, sobbing. ‘Go to Helen. I’ll be fine.’
Patrick shook his head at Murph. ‘It won’t take two of us,’ he said. ‘You stay here. Murph will look after you.’ He gave Laura a half smile then turned and ran.
Murph and Laura ran around to the front door of the chapel, let themselves in, and locked the door behind them.
The moon was a sliver in the black sky. Patrick walked down the slope from the chapel, his head high, the rain like needles on his cheeks. His steps were deliberate, firm on the shifting ground. He crossed the grass to the shed. He slid back the bolt, and stepped inside. He shone the torch all around it. In a mottled mirror, propped against the countertop, he caught the smile on his face when he found what he was looking for.
Murph sat against the wall of the chapel, his arm wrapped around Laura, her head against his chest. There were three firm knocks on the door.
Murph tapped Laura’s shoulder and she sat up. Murph got to his feet and went to the door.
‘It’s me,’ said Patrick.
Murph unlocked the door and let him in.
‘Right,’ said Patrick. ‘I don’t know where Johnny is. I have Helen in the van—’
‘What about Edie?’ said Murph.
‘I don’t know!’ said Patrick. ‘All I can do is at least get the three of you somewhere safe.’ He pointed at Laura. ‘Hang on here – two minutes. Lock the door after us if you want, but we’ll be quick. Murph – I need you to help me move Terry’s body in here.’
‘In here?’ said Murph. ‘Why?’
‘Because Johnny knows where it is,’ said Patrick. ‘It could have evidence on it. Whatever about Terry, if he’s laid a finger on anyone else …’
Murph and Patrick ran around to the sacristy.
‘Right,’ said Patrick, going to one side of the tarpaulin, crouching down. ‘Grab his legs.’
Murph crouched down.
‘Lift,�
� said Patrick.
Murph lifted and frowned. ‘This is way heavier.’ He looked down.
‘I found some of Terry’s tools when I came in here,’ said Patrick, pushing against Murph, making him walk backwards. ‘I was thinking that Johnny might have used one of them to hit him. He might have wiped off the blood, but left his prints on them somewhere if he wasn’t careful. So I threw the tools in with the body just in case.’
They carried the body around the side of the chapel. The door was still open. Laura was sitting by the wall where they had left her. Patrick took several steps backwards through the door and stopped. They put the body down. Patrick strode to the door. ‘Right. Come on.’
He looked at Murph and pointed to Laura. ‘Quick. Help her up.’
Murph walked over to Laura. Patrick took the key from the door, slipped back outside, and locked it behind him.
47
Patrick walked around the side of the chapel, opened the sacristy door, and walked in.
‘Hello!’ he said.
Murph’s voice boomed from the other side of the confession boxes. ‘What the fuck is going on? What the fuck are you doing?’ He slammed his hands against it. ‘Fucking answer me!’
‘We’re fucked!’ said Laura. ‘It’s fucking Patrick. He killed Terry. And he’s locking us in here so he can—’
‘So he can what?’ said Murph. He slammed his hands against the confession box. ‘So you can what, you prick? Just get the fuck out of here. Just go. What do you think we’re going to do?’
Patrick stood, motionless, his ear tilted towards them.
‘Fucking answer us,’ said Laura, her voice as close as Murph’s, both of them now hammering on the confession box. ‘Let us the fuck out and you can fuck off with yourself! No one’s going to say anything to anyone! Just go!’
‘Little Miss Sergeant’s Daughter?’ said Patrick. ‘You were the most eager to go to the guards.’
‘That was before this!’ said Laura.
‘Morality goes out the fucking window when your ass is on the line, is that it?’ said Patrick.
‘She’s got kids at home,’ said Murph, ‘and they need to see their mammy again—’
‘And I have never given so little a shit in my life about morality,’ said Laura. ‘So yeah … there you go.’
‘You’re something else,’ said Patrick.
‘I don’t care what the fuck you think of me,’ said Laura. ‘I don’t. I don’t know what you’re doing over there. But we’ll sit here all week if we have to, and you can go wherever it is you want to go. And we’ll stand up in any court of law and swear that we saw Terry Hyland fuck you off a cliff if it means you can walk off into the sunset.’
Murph started whispering to Laura. Patrick listened to their footsteps moving away from him, listened to the sound of tarpaulin being unwrapped.
Laura screamed. ‘Clare!’
‘Jesus Christ!’ said Murph. ‘You sick fuck.’
Patrick laughed. ‘Were you looking for the tools? No. No tools … unless there’s a judge’s gavel in there. But that’s not going to have much of an impact, physically.’
Murph’s footsteps thundered towards the confession box. He hammered a fist against it. ‘You just tell us whatever you want us to do and we’ll do it.’
‘I think I just want you to die,’ said Patrick.
He opened the confession box door.
‘Die?’ said Murph. ‘What the fuck are you talking about – “die”?’
‘Die,’ said Patrick. ‘Jesus Christ, Murph. The fire – it was me. I set the fire. You told me you were going to tell that story, you asked me to run it by you again, you asked me to show you how I’d made all that smoke. And, of course, that wasn’t good enough for you. You had to go bigger and bolder. And that suited me down to the ground. I was fucking sick of you all, you fucking assholes. Good enough to help you with the entertainment, not good enough to be part of the night, though. Clare going crying to her fucking French teacher about what I was doing in the library and she goes to Consolata and she fires me, then, and how could I explain that to the mother, and then Jessie … and I’d listened to Jessie enough times, the two of us fucked in the head with all that went on and me helping her out so many times, hidden away, because I’m the freak all of a sudden when all she’d ever said was that the two of us were the same like we were the broken halves of the same child and then she’s gone like everyone else and all she wants to do is get pasted, and stand me up, so she can hang out with you pricks, laughing at me behind my back, but I’m good enough for you now, amn’t I?’
‘Well, you got your accent back, didn’t you, you prick?’ said Murph.
‘Patrick, what are you talking about?’ said Laura. ‘You were good enough for us after the—’
‘After it!’ said Patrick. ‘After it!’
‘But we’ve been friends for years!’ said Laura. ‘I don’t get it! You saved us! You changed your mind in the end! So why are you—’
Patrick groaned. ‘You’re all so fucking nice! It’s painful. I didn’t fucking save you – I got caught! By Consolata. She – as she put it – “gave me the gift of being a hero” to see if that would straighten me out. And I did enjoy it. But not in a nice way. In a fuck-you kind of way. Obviously. Anyway …’ He reached into the confession box, took out a blue container of kerosene and unscrewed the lid. ‘Let’s try this again.’
‘Try what again?’ said Laura. ‘What are you doing?’
Patrick poured the kerosene into the confession box, then all across the floor and on to the rolled-up altar carpet, and in a trail as he backed out through the sacristy door.
Laura and Murph smelled it at the same time. Laura screamed.
Patrick reached into his jacket and pulled out four loose pages from the notebook. One page had the same line repeated from top to bottom: NONSENSE.
On the next page, the ink was diluted in places.
I MET MY DAMAGED REFLECTION AND THERE WAS NO MIRROR IN BETWEEN. I COULD REACH OUT AND TOUCH ANOTHER ME. SO WHAT SHARDS ARE MAKING ME BLEED?
The next page said:
WHAT BRIDE OF CHRIST ARE YOU? THE ONE STANDS AROUND SMOKING IN HER WEDDING DRESS. IN THE FIRES OF HELL.
The last page had one question:
WHAT’S THE PENANCE FOR THIS, MAMMY?
He took the pages, twisted them tightly, bent down and dipped them in the kerosene on the floor. Then he walked over to the confession box, took out a lighter, flicked up a flame, and held it to the paper.
He stood, staring, as the flames took hold.
He watched his words burn. ‘I confess?’
48
MRS LYNCH
Castletownbere
July 1991
Mrs Lynch stood in the tiny back yard, with a basket of wet laundry sheets at her feet. In front of her, a double sheet was folded over the washing line, letting sunlight through its threadbare patches – the scars of her painful writhings. Sunlight … through the places her heels scrambled against, through the places her knees would burn when her body was shunted forward.
She had always hidden her body, but that hadn’t stopped men wanting what lay beneath the armour of her clothes, layers she had started to build since the first time her uncle had quietly opened her bedroom door and walked the floor to pull back her covers. Halfway across, there was one floorboard that creaked, and it was either that or the smell of whiskey breath that would waken her. It was never his touch. She was always awake before that, always had time enough to feel the terror, and over the years, to train herself to shut it down.
Patrick’s father had a different approach. She met him when he was sixteen years old and she was eighteen, gone from her family, slowly beginning to hope that one day – there was no rush – she could get married, one day, she could feel safe in a man’s arms. Patrick’s father lured her in with tenderness. But only one evening of it. As soon as she had given in to her hope, he did everything he could to prove to her that it was pointless.
&nb
sp; It didn’t matter that she had only ever presented herself to the world without enhancement or adornment; no make-up, no jewellery, no perfume, hair cut by a barber, eyebrows unplucked, nails clipped short, but bare. All she had ever been was scrubbed clean, looking younger than her years. Maybe that’s all it was, she thought. She was scrubbed so clean that to dirty her was a special triumph.
It had been a month since Terry Hyland had first knocked on her door for a reason other than to fix something. When she opened it, he was standing on the street, looking at her like she had called him there. He broke the silence of her confusion by telling her he had something to say to her, asking her could he come in, and she let him, but she didn’t know why. She brought him into the kitchen and put the kettle on out of politeness.
‘I learned to read,’ he said.
Mrs Lynch heard what he was saying, but couldn’t match the expression on his face to the words. He was saying one thing, a good thing, but there was a darkness in his eyes that spoke only of bad things. A chill started a slow crawl across her back, then quickened, spreading out like tentacles when she saw Terry take out Patrick’s notebook from his jacket pocket. She stared at the thing that she and her son had never spoken of, the thing she had taken from his desk drawer the night of the fire that had brought her to her knees by her bed to pray for his soul.
Terry held it up and tapped the air with it. ‘He’s some fucked-up prick.’
Mrs Lynch’s gaze followed the notebook as he slipped it back into his pocket.
‘And do you know who taught me?’ said Terry. ‘To read.’
The tick of the clock was the only other sound in the room.
‘Mrs Brogan,’ he said, nodding. He shrugged. ‘I was doing a job in the house, and, sure, she could see straight away that I couldn’t read. A woman like her would know all the tricks. She said there was no shame in it. She was fierce impressed a man my age had got so far without it, saying I must have a fierce memory because she knew I had to. You cover it up, I suppose. Cover it up.’
Mrs Lynch knew the value of silence, knew how words could make a man turn on you. Terry’s eyes met hers and she caught the flicker of what some would see as nervousness, but she recognized it as the thrill of his sudden, opportunistic power and the sight of her and the silence of her proving to him that he could wield it without complaint.