by Alex Barclay
He coughed into his arm and started pulling the beams away from the metal plate. Behind him, Laura rolled on to her stomach, and started to move towards him.
‘Got it!’ he said. ‘Got it! You better be moving back there.’ He paused. ‘Title of your sex tape.’
Laura coughed and laughed and kept moving towards him. Murph hooked his fingers into the two metal rings, heaving off the top. There was a grate underneath. He got his fingers under the edges and pulled it up.
He felt a hand brush against his lower back. He turned around. Laura was lying on her side behind him, her face scrunched up in pain, her finger hooked into the waistband of his jeans.
‘Right in the crack of my arse,’ he said. ‘That’s my girl.’
Behind them, flames bloomed from the altar carpet and illuminated the chapel again. There was a heavy trail of blood along the beams behind Laura. Murph’s eyes went wide. He lowered his hand gently on to her side. Laura looked up at him and smiled. He smiled back.
‘Right,’ said Murph. ‘I’m dropping down into whatever the fuck is down here and then you’re going to slide over and do the same. Except I’ll be down there … waiting for a star to fall.’
53
Patrick arrived back at the door to the suite. It was locked. The curtains were drawn. He slammed his hand against the glass.
‘You fucking bitch!’ he said. He looked on the ground around him. Then he turned and ran over to a pile of earth, and picked up a rock from beside it, and lined up the sharpest edge. He went back and tapped it against the bottom corners of the right-hand door until it shattered.
He stepped through, swiping the curtain back angrily, pulling some of it away from the rail. He glanced at Helen’s wheelchair, upturned to his right. To his left, there were trails of mud leading to the en suite bathroom door. He tried the handle. It was locked. He put his ear to the door.
‘I didn’t want you to see that – what happened with Edie,’ said Patrick. ‘I don’t even know why.’ He unzipped his jacket and took out his car keys. There was a supermarket trolley token hanging from his key ring. He crouched down at the en suite door. Under the keyhole was a metal safety lock with a groove at the centre. He slid the token in and turned it. The lock clicked open. He stood up and pushed in the door. Helen was sitting on the floor against the bath, the knees and the hem of her nightdress soaked in mud.
‘Why?’ sobbed Helen. ‘Why did you have to do that? Why? She would have lied for you. She promised you she would. You knew she would.’
Patrick made a face. ‘Have you ever broken someone’s heart?’
‘No,’ said Helen.
‘At the beginning,’ said Patrick, ‘especially if it’s a sudden and brutal end – the person whose heart you have broken will do anything to make the pain go away. They will promise you anything. And they’ll keep those promises – through all the stages of grief … up to “anger”. Because anger can go anywhere. And anger mutates. And if it turns into hatred? Well, a useful hatred is more powerful than a wasted love. And that’s when it gets dangerous. Promises are the first thing a woman will burn on the bonfire of her ex.’
‘What makes you think you broke her heart?’ said Helen.
‘Because I told her so many times how she ticked every single box on my wish list. And then she found my wish list.’
A frown flickered on Helen’s face.
‘I wouldn’t ask either,’ said Patrick. ‘Now, let’s get you back to bed.’
‘Wh-what?’ said Helen, struggling to control the sobs.
‘Exactly that,’ said Patrick. ‘What’s the best way to do this?’ He looked through the doorway. ‘The wheelchair?’
Helen was sobbing and nodding, wiping her eyes.
‘I can walk.’ said Helen. She started to get up. Patrick went over and gently took her elbow, helping her to her feet. She glanced up at him. He was looking straight ahead.
As they walked past the red emergency pull cord, Helen reached out and yanked it hard.
54
The alarm rang out, loud and piercing. Patrick dropped Helen to the ground, and stared down at her, his eyes wide.
‘Oh, Helen,’ he said. ‘Oh, Helen, oh Helen, oh Helen.’ He stepped over her, went into the bathroom, hit the reset button, and everything went quiet.
Helen lay sobbing on the floor. Patrick crouched down and pulled her up. She let her legs go limp.
‘You’re not making this easy,’ he said, dragging her to the bed. He wedged her against it as he reached over and threw the duvet back wider. Then he rolled her up on to the bed, shifted her body across and settled her head on to the pillows. He sat down and rested his hand on the folded-down cover.
‘I’m going to ignore that,’ he said. ‘They’re irresistible, pull cords. I always want to pull one to see what happens.’ He paused. ‘Now, I know. Fuck all if someone can reach the reset button. Definitely fuck all if the owners of the establishment are dead.’
Helen sobbed quietly.
‘Relax,’ said Patrick. ‘Relax. I’d hardly be making you comfortable if I was going to kill you.’
Helen’s breath caught.
Patrick nodded. ‘What kind of prick would I be if I killed the Birthday Girl? In the wheelchair? With …’ He looked around. ‘The candlestick?’
Helen followed his gaze to two tall, gold candlesticks on the cabinet inside the door, each with a gold hummingbird perched half way up. Patrick looked down at the wrapping paper on the floor below it.
‘Was that your present from Edie?’ said Patrick.
Helen nodded and cried.
‘Why?’ said Patrick.
Helen didn’t reply.
‘Why hummingbirds?’ said Patrick.
Helen said nothing.
‘I know why,’ said Patrick. ‘Beauty and healing. You and Edie.’ He paused. ‘Do you know the parable about the hummingbird? And the forest fire? When all the rest of the animals were standing around staring at the fire, panicking, this one tiny hummingbird flew back and forth to the flames, carrying a single droplet of water in his beak each time. No matter how seemingly limited his impact could be, no matter how open to ridicule he might have been, he fought the big fight. Moral of the story? Fire puts the shits up everyone.’
He reached over to the bedside table and picked up Helen’s tenth-birthday photo. ‘Haven’t we all done things in our childhood we’re not proud of?’ he said. ‘What do you think? Should we still be held accountable when we’re older? Aren’t we all different people now?’ He pointed to the key rack in the photo – mounted on the kitchen wall behind her. Then he slid his finger back and forth under it. ‘I wonder would any of these unlock a mystery?’ He stopped at one key.
Helen went very still.
‘Say you did something terrible as a child …’ said Patrick. ‘Should that one thing define you for the rest of your life? Stop everything. Helen is done. Or Patrick is done.’
Helen didn’t reply.
‘Or,’ said Patrick, ‘is it as simple as some people are born evil? But then … define evil. What one person might call an act of evil, someone else might call an act of survival. And that survival impulse is strong.’ He smoothed down Helen’s cover. ‘Here’s what I think about evil. Evil is like cancer. We’re all born with the potential for it, but it doesn’t flare up in some people. Until something happens. Do you know that feeling when you do something terrible and it’s like a clock stops? You are no longer that pure person you used to be, and you know you never will be again. And you can tell yourself you were the victim first, and what you did was only in response to someone else’s actions. But that’s not very spiritual, is it?’
Helen’s eyes filled with tears.
‘Spirituality is all about the self, isn’t it?’ said Patrick. ‘So no matter how much you delude yourself, no matter how well you perform for the people around you, you know in your soul … in your SELF … that you have been destroyed … by your … self. And then the flood gates go down … to hold
back the lifetime of tears you won’t be able to bear crying. Or – and this is what I’m getting at – for some people, different flood gates open. And they’re the ones that release those microscopic cells into your body. And no light and no love and no hopes and no prayers can change a fucking thing.’
55
HELEN
Saturday, 30 July 1983
The Night of the Rape
He was a masked man, and he was in my kitchen. The back door was open. The back door was always open. My parents were out. I’m old enough to be left on my own, but Miriam’s babysitting. She thinks I’m too old for a babysitter too. So sometimes she goes out. Not tonight. Tonight, I think she’s sneaked a boy into the guest room. She lets me use her Walkman if I don’t tell on her.
She’s not in the kitchen. But the masked man is. I fought him off. I fought really hard. And it’s all so quiet. It’s like the sound of slaps. Lots of slaps. And breathing that I know only I can hear. I’m fighting him. I’m strong. But it’s only pyjama bottoms, and then it’s only pants, and it’s all just elastic to pull down. And he does. Far enough. And he tries to … he tries.
‘You frigid fucking bitch,’ and it’s a whisper but he’s glancing up at the door behind me snarling at me in my ear the whole time. His eyes are bulging inside in the black mask. I don’t know those eyes. I don’t know who he is. He smells so bad. He smells of sea salt, and fish, and stale raincoats. He raises his hand to hit me, and then he stops, and jumps up, and jumps back away from me.
‘Jesus Christ – look at you!’ he’s roaring. ‘Look at you. You’re after soaking yourself. You little bitch.’
He’s standing at my feet, trying to zip up his pants.
‘Shut the fuck up, will you? Shut the fuck up.’
I don’t even know I’m crying. I don’t even know. I can’t hear anything except him, roaring. I can’t even feel tears. Nothing. I can’t feel my body.
‘Get the fuck up,’ he says. ‘Get the fuck up off that floor.’
I do, and he comes right up to me, grabbing my arms, shaking me, shaking me, and my teeth are knocking together, and my head is loose on my neck.
‘If you open your fucking mouth about this,’ he says, ‘I’ll come back, and I’ll fucking kill you. I’ll come back and I’ll kill your father, and I’ll rape your fucking mother, and I’ll kill her too. And I’ll stab you all t’fuck! There’ll be blood all over this floor. And I’ll kill all your little friends and I’ll bury them in the woods. And I’ll rape you the next time. So you keep your fucking mouth shut.’
I’m nodding so much and he tries to shake me but I’m stiff as a board and it’s only my head that’s knocking back and forth.
‘I’ll have my eye out for you the whole time,’ he says. ‘I don’t miss a trick, girl. I’ll be watching you when you go out that door to school in the morning, and I’ll be watching you all the way home.’
He stares at me with those bulging eyes.
My head is floating, and I don’t feel well.
He turns to the wall and sees the key rack. There’s a line of hooks in a piece of timber, with bunches of different keys. Mam used to write the names or the numbers on the little tag to keep track. He’s looking at them and I try to run, back into the hall, to get to the front door, to get out, to get away, and he launches at me, and he grabs my wet leg, and he drags me back, and I fall, and he flips me over. And he’s disgusted with me. He yanks me up, so I’m half-standing, and he shakes me a few times until I’m standing straight, and his eyes again, burning inside the holes. And they’re absolute madness.
‘Stop whingeing t’fuck!’ he’s saying, shaking, shaking, shaking me. ‘I fucking told you,’ he’s saying. ‘Do you hear me? I’ll kill the lot of you. I’ll kill the fucking lot of you.’
I can hear the rattle of the keys this time. I’m thinking it’s my parents back. My parents aren’t back. He’s the one with the keys. He took them from the rack. He dangled them in front of my face. I can see the little boat, the blue boat, and I know what it is, I see it on the side of Clare’s dad’s trucks. I know who works there.
‘Are these from next door?’ he says to me. ‘Kevin Crossan’s place?’ And the little boat is swinging back and forth, making me sick. ‘Where your little friend lives? That skinny little dark-haired one?’
I couldn’t say no.
56
Patrick reached over and pulled a fistful of tissues from the box beside Helen’s bed and handed them to her.
‘How did you know?’ said Helen. ‘How could you possibly have known that?’
‘Sister Consolata told me,’ said Patrick.
‘What?’ said Helen. ‘How did she know? Why would she tell you?’
‘Oh, the things that woman told me,’ said Patrick. ‘All through my life. And beyond her own.’
Helen frowned.
‘You know I came to view Pilgrim Point as a favour to Edie, back in 2015. Well, that was interesting timing: it happened to be right after Father Owens died. Poor Father Owens was losing his marbles for years, no one realized. Leaving his diary about the place, sticking things in it that weren’t meant to be there, not doing what the sick and the dying were asking of him, like – in Consolata’s case – giving a letter to her solicitor to be given to Patrick Lynch on the occasion of her passing. So I was here for the viewing, and Father Owens’ housekeeper gets wind of that, and drops the letter into the estate agent for me, probably thinking it’s a “Dear Patrick, Thank you for mowing the lawn—” letter, and … fuck me. No. No, it was not.’
‘What was it?’ said Helen.
‘I call it,’ said Patrick, ‘a tale of four fathers. There was a very bad father. And then there were three … I was going to say good fathers?’ He paused. ‘Anyway, I don’t know, but … isn’t mourning in the eye of the beholder? What can any of us do but mourn the loss of the person we knew? Or avenge it? The person I lost may not be the same person you killed. The hole left behind in a life may be a different shape to what you tore away to make it.’
Patrick studied Helen’s face.
‘I know you want me to understand what you’re saying,’ said Helen, ‘and I want to, but—’
‘You can’t. I realize,’ said Patrick. ‘And I can’t. I … You know she killed Murph’s dog – Consolata. She killed Rosco. Hit him a few slaps of a shovel across the back of the head. I saw a little paw sticking out of a black rubbish bag in the shed in the convent one Saturday.’
‘Why would she do that?’ said Helen.
‘Rosco was nosing about where he shouldn’t have been,’ said Patrick. ‘Wouldn’t let it go.’
‘Wouldn’t let what go?’ said Helen.
‘Nothing – I don’t want to talk about Sister Consolata’s secrets any more,’ said Patrick. ‘The good news is that your secret is safe with me. And here’s why: there was carnage here tonight. There’s a fire raging in the chapel. The fire brigade are going to be here any minute because someone is going to see smoke. I don’t know how far I’m going to get. So we need a story. It can be Johnny went on a rampage. Paranoid, drunken, coked-up Johnny at his wits’ end, owing money everywhere, under pressure from Terry Hyland. But, then there’s Dylan. Your godson, left behind with that legacy. So, it looks like Terry went on a rampage. Desperate, broke, drunken Terry finally snaps at the luxury of it all – so near and yet so far. Edie can go into the sea, running from Terry. Johnny could have been the hero who tried to save her and died trying.
He paused.
‘Did Edie ever tell you about Jessie in the fire? That she wanted to die, that we watched her die? That she chose that. I was wondering if there wasn’t a small part of you that was relieved? That you wouldn’t have that sad, pretty face as a reminder every time you looked at her? I know. That’s a hard one. I’m sure that one reared its head for you a few times. You probably signed up for a new spirituality course every time.’
Tears slid down Helen’s face.
‘So,’ said Patrick, ‘you’re going to
help me out here. All you need to do is tell the “Terry Is the Bad Guy” story. And who’s not going to believe Father Lynch? And definitely who’s not going to believe … Poor Helen?’
Patrick started to stand up. Behind him, Helen caught a movement at the French door. She kept her eyes steady on Patrick. She didn’t flicker. She reached out and grabbed his wrist. ‘Wait.’
He stared down at her hand, and looked up at her.
‘Can I read you something?’ she said. ‘It’s short. It’s about you.’
He frowned. ‘About me?’
Helen nodded. ‘The book is in my handbag.’
‘I’m not falling for that.’
The shadow passed at the door again.
‘You can take it out yourself,’ said Helen. ‘It’s at your feet. The page is bookmarked.’
‘Why do you want me to read it?’ said Patrick.
‘I want you to hear it,’ said Helen.
‘Why?’
She paused. ‘I could give you so many good answers to that, answers that a different kind of person would fall for. But to be honest? I want to see your eyes.’
‘I’m curious now.’ He glanced down at the handbag, in front of the bedside table.
Behind him, the curtain, half-ripped from the curtain rail was moving centimetre by centimetre across the opening.
57
Patrick shunted forward an inch on the bed. Without lowering his head, he shoved his foot under the handbag and slid it up the bedside table until he was within reach of the long strap. Patrick took the book out and handed it to Helen. She opened it at the bookmark, and glanced up at him.
Behind him, the curtain was almost free of the shattered doorway.
‘It’s getting cold in here,’ said Patrick, his body half-twisting towards it.
Helen grabbed his wrist again. ‘Listen,’ she said, pressing down on his hand, firm but gentle.