‘I mean it,’ she said. ‘It’s probably already too late, but this is too much, just too much.’ She paused, afraid her anger was about to get the better of her. ‘There is nobody left to protect, Robert. We have let Danny away with so much over the years. Way too much. Like the time he stole from your mother. I’ll never forget that.’
Lynda stopped. She’d promised herself never to bring that up again. She had seen the pain it caused, all those years ago. ‘And my little Emma only dead,’ Mrs Graham had whispered to her. She’d clutched convulsively at the lace handkerchief she held, twining it around her fingers again and again. ‘How could he? Oh dear God, how could Danny do that?’ Her lip had trembled. ‘He stole it. Stole the money I need to bury my daughter. My baby.’
Even now, Robert flinched at the memory.
‘Do it, Robert,’ Lynda said, her voice quiet. ‘Do it or I will.’
But Danny had fled by then, of course he had. Vanished. But he’d left plenty of traces behind him. Soiled clothing; unhappy memories. She had looked around her, surveying once more the devastation caused by Danny.
Lynda felt ambushed by memories of that morning now as she continued to search for her ring. It was the same mix of disbelief and panic. How could this be happening all over again?
She’d have to stop for now. It was time to go to work. But when she came home, she’d have to pull apart every corner of this house, starting with the probable and ending with the impossible. She had no idea how Danny’s hand could be part of this. All she knew was, every instinct she had was screaming his name.
Somehow, he had got under her roof. His presence kept making itself felt.
Like a low growl, crawling under her skin.
When Lynda came home from work, she began her search immediately. First, in the bedroom, a methodical search that included turning out pockets, looking in shoes, rummaging through folded clothes.
She was about to go downstairs when she heard the front door opening. Please God, let it not be Robert. Not just yet. Ciarán and Jon fell into the hallway, laughing.
‘Did you ever see anything like her?’ Jon was saying. ‘Talk about a slapper!’
They both stopped short when they saw Lynda, standing at the top of the stairs. Jon’s expression immediately became serious. He glanced at Ciarán, who was staring at his mother. ‘Lynda? Are you okay?’
‘You’re very white, Mum,’ said Ciarán. ‘Has something happened?’
‘I need your help,’ Lynda tried to keep her voice firm. ‘Both of you. I have mislaid my engagement ring. I have no idea where I left it.’
‘We’ll help you find it,’ said Jon at once.
‘When did you have it last, Mum?’
‘Wednesday night,’ said Lynda. ‘I know I had it on when I was writing up notes for class. I know because I remember saying to myself that I had to leave it off on both Thursday and Friday, or it would get damaged.’ She stopped. ‘I remember distinctly putting it into my ring box before I got into bed. But it’s disappeared.’
‘Where have you looked?’ asked Jon.
‘I’ve torn my bedroom apart. It’s definitely not there.’
‘Okay,’ Jon’s voice was brisk. ‘We’ll start downstairs. What does it look like?’
‘It’s a solitaire – a single diamond.’ She paused. Robert had had it reset for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. She was afraid to speak. Too many memories, too much emotion.
‘Let’s do the studio first, Ciarán,’ Jon was saying. ‘We’ll divide it between us, come on.’
Both boys disappeared. Lynda went into the downstairs bathroom, running her hands over all the surfaces, getting down on her hands and knees. Then the kitchen. But she found nothing, apart from some dust balls and safety pins. The boys found nothing in the studio, either.
Just then, she heard Robert’s key in the lock. She could feel her heart plummet.
‘What is it?’ he said, as soon as he saw her. ‘What’s up?’
When she told him, he looked relieved. His relief angered her. ‘Aren’t you even concerned?’ She could feel herself glaring at him. ‘My ring is missing!’
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Of course I’m concerned. But at least this is something we’re responsible for ourselves. Not something out of our control.’ He glanced over at her. Danny. He meant Danny. She made no reply.
They searched for over three hours. Lynda was close to accepting that the ring was gone; close, even, to doubting herself, her memory and her certainty. Then there was a sudden whoop from outside, in the hallway. Ciarán came bouncing in. ‘We’ve got it!’ he said. ‘We’ve found it!’
Jon followed, proudly holding out the ring. ‘Here it is,’ he said. His voice was jubilant, eyes shining with delight.
Lynda took it from him. Her hands had gone suddenly cold. ‘Where did you find it?’ she asked.
‘In the downstairs bathroom,’ Ciarán said. ‘Behind the – the whatever you call that thing that holds up the basin, yeah?’
‘The pedestal,’ said Lynda automatically.
‘Yeah,’ said Jon, nodding his head. ‘Behind the pedestal. We were just about to give up, and there it was!’
‘Thank you,’ said Lynda. She was aware that Robert was looking at her strangely. ‘Such a relief,’ she said, and smiled at the two boys. They looked at her, then at Robert. She could feel their puzzlement. Nobody spoke.
‘I think I’m going to have to lie down for a while,’ she said at last. ‘I’m really sorry, but I feel kind of overcome, to be honest.’
Jon nodded. ‘Yeah, you don’t look well. You must have been really worried.’
‘Frantic,’ she said, trying to smile. ‘I’ve been frantic about it, all day. Thank you both.’ And she left the room.
She could hear voices, low murmurs as she climbed the stairs. After a few minutes, Robert came into the bedroom. ‘Close the door,’ she said.
He obeyed. His eyes were troubled. ‘Are you okay? All’s well that ends well, eh?’ But his question was a tentative one.
Lynda tried to breathe deeply. ‘I’m not so sure,’ she said. ‘Robert, I know you’re not going to believe this, but I know I put that ring in its box on Wednesday night. I am absolutely certain of it.’
Robert said nothing. He didn’t need to: she could see what he was thinking. Could write the script for what came next.
‘Lynda,’ he said slowly, and sat on the bed. ‘You’ve been under a lot of strain in the past few weeks. We’ve already talked about this. Frankly, you’ve been forgetting things lately. You said so yourself.’
‘This is different, Robert, I—’
But he held up his hand, that gesture she knew so well.
‘And there’s nothing wrong with forgetting,’ he went on, as though she hadn’t spoken. He took her hand. ‘We all do it. What is more natural than leaving your ring on the side of a basin when you wash your hands?’ He spread his palms, a gesture of resignation, of forgiveness. ‘Maybe you knocked it onto the floor and then forgot that you’d been wearing it. It happens.’ He patted her hand now.
She could feel her irritation growing. But he didn’t notice.
‘There’s nothing strange about this, Lynda,’ he said. ‘Please don’t make something out of it.’
She looked at him, her gaze steady. ‘This is something to do with Danny,’ she said.
‘Ah, Jesus,’ said Robert. ‘Not again.’ He let go of her hand abruptly and stood up. He was angry now. He began to pace around the bedroom. ‘Tell me how, for Christ’s sake? How on earth could this have anything to do with Danny?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said, truthfully. ‘But I know that it has. And I’ll tell you something else.’
He looked at her.
‘Remember last week when I told you that the sinks downstairs were blocked? When I’d to stop using the one in my studio? Well, when I tried to wash my brushes in the downstairs bathroom, the water kept backing up there, too.’
He nodded, wary.
; ‘I called your plumber guy, last Thursday, the number you gave me. Naturally, he hasn’t come, but that’s not the point.’
‘And what is?’ asked Robert. He sounded tired.
‘I haven’t gone near that bathroom since. I’ve used the en-suite, and made sure the boys used the main bathroom upstairs. I didn’t want us to make things worse.’ She paused then, afraid of the storm that she could see gathering across Robert’s face. ‘And I wore that ring all week, up until Wednesday night. How do you account for that?’
‘What are you saying, Lynda?’ his voice had an edge to it.
It sounded ludicrous, even to her own ears. ‘Someone took that ring out of the box, here in the bedroom, and put it downstairs. That’s what I am saying.’
Robert looked at her, his eyes glazed with disbelief. ‘Ah, you can’t be serious,’ he said. He stopped pacing; couldn’t take his eyes off her. He dragged his hair back from his forehead with both hands. The gesture was loud in its fury. ‘Why the fuck would anybody do that? And how could anybody do that? It just doesn’t make sense.’
‘I know. But I am serious.’ She was calm now. For her, the mystery had been solved. Somehow, Danny had come in from the garden. In from the cold. Somehow, he had got inside.
Robert just looked at her. His face looked unhealthy all of a sudden, almost yellow. ‘I’m going downstairs,’ he said, finally. ‘You are definitely losing the plot. And I’m going now. I can’t take any more of this.’
Lynda watched him leave. The door closed, none too gently, behind him.
She had a sudden, vibrant memory of Ken. He’d said exactly the same thing to her, five years ago. When he’d told her it was over, that Iris suspected another woman. ‘Not you,’ he’d said. ‘Her friend. She’d suspect anyone but you.’ He’d paused. ‘I’m not risking my marriage for this, Lynda. I’m sorry you and Robert are falling apart. But it’s over. We’re over.’ He’d stood up. ‘I’m going now,’ he’d said. ‘I can’t take any more of this.’
And he’d left the restaurant where they’d met that night, one that was miles away from home. Discreet, expensive. Where they wouldn’t run into anyone they knew. She’d watched him leave; watched him so that she could gather memories. She knew that she’d always known this time would come. But hating it, nevertheless.
Ken had saved her: that was the simple truth of it. Seven years ago, when Robert’s parents had died within six months of each other, it was as though Robert went missing from his own life. He still came and went, ran his business, spoke to his clients, but it was as though he wasn’t there. His home was something he left each morning, returned to each night. That was all: he spoke to no one. Not to his children. Not to her. His grief had frightened Lynda. She couldn’t reach him.
And then the threats from Danny began: the challenge to the will, the accusations of undue influence over elderly parents, his rights and entitlement to a share in the family home. ‘Well, perhaps he has a point,’ Robert had replied when Lynda showed him the solicitor’s latest letter. She’d looked at him in disbelief. ‘What are you saying?’ She could hear the hysteria in her voice.
‘Let him have it. I don’t care any more. I’m tired of looking after everybody.’ Then he’d shrugged his way into his jacket and left the room. Stunned, Lynda had followed him down the hallway.
‘Robert – we have to deal with this. We need to talk.’ She’d forced herself to speak quietly.
‘You deal with it,’ he’d said, not looking at her. ‘I’ve had enough of it. All of it.’ He’d opened the front door.
‘Enough of me?’ she’d asked then. ‘Enough of your children?’
He’d paused at that. ‘I don’t know. I just don’t feel that anything matters any more. What’s the point?’ And he’d left, closing the front door behind him.
Lynda had walked back into the kitchen and sat down, hunching over the table. Almost immediately, the doorbell had rung. Robert. He’d come back. She’d felt almost dizzy with relief, had leapt up from the table and raced down the hallway, flinging open the front door.
Ken had stood on the step. ‘Lynda,’ he’d smiled. ‘Hope I’m not disturbing you, but—’ He hadn’t got any further. Lynda had sobbed, her legs had given way and she’d slid to the floor. Ken had caught her, helped her back into the kitchen, made her tea.
And that was how it had begun. With concern, tenderness, friendship. She’d known all along that it was wrong; they both had. But she’d craved the intimacy Ken offered her. He’d made her feel less lonely. It was as simple as that. When they’d parted, she knew it was because the time had come for a decision that neither of them was prepared to make.
Katie had found her when it ended, crying at the kitchen table. She’d been about sixteen at the time, sharp-eyed, hostile. Lynda had brushed her away. But from time to time afterwards, she felt that Katie had burrowed deep into the truth of things. She watched her whenever Ken or Iris were around. Followed her, when Lynda went to pick up the post next door, or to open curtains. They’d never spoken of it. Not of it, nor of Katie’s sudden, fierce protectiveness towards her father.
And now, Lynda’s recent fights with Robert reminded her too painfully of that time, all over again. She couldn’t let them drift apart as they had before. They’d managed to struggle back from whatever place they’d been, five years ago. Part of her had always wanted to believe that Robert hadn’t known about Ken – or if he had, that he’d chosen not to say. They’d built something good together afterwards, something that had withstood even Danny. She couldn’t risk losing him again, not now.
She had to follow him, do whatever it took.
Now this, even the watcher has to admit, is bizarre.
It’s been more than four weeks since the incident with the rubbish. He is in his usual position, ready to proceed with the next ‘Event’, as Wide Boy calls it. Except that he’s been calling it the next ‘Exterior Event’ and has looked very pleased with himself as he does. So pleased that the watcher hasn’t asked. He wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
And so he’s here again. Still. Freezin’ his arse off in the cold. And likely to be for the foreseeable future. This looks like runnin’ even longer than he thought. As long as my knees last, the watcher grumbles to himself.
He has come to think of this as a war of attrition. Every day, he chips away a little more at the composure of the house that lies below and it might be his imagination, but the house has begun to look untidy of late. The curtains aren’t properly closed, sometimes, and outside in the garden, several bits of paper litter the gravel. He’s been leaving little things around the place, too, these mornings. And sometimes, they’re not being picked up as quickly as normal. A pity, that. He’s chosen things that have plenty of ambiguity about them.
Whatever you like, Wide Boy said. Maybe a few old photographs, newspaper clippings, the odd bottle or two. Something that raises questions.
And so, for the past few mornings, the watcher has scattered a couple of dozen black-and-white photographs around the gravel. There’s nobody special in them. He’s bought them in one of the junk shops along the quays. Then some food wrappers. And beer bottles, bits and pieces of old crockery, placed strategically around the place. Stuff that can’t make its way there on its own. Puzzle-making stuff.
Have they been carried there by the high winds? Or has some malign hand delivered them to Mrs Lynda’s stone tortoise? Your starter for ten.
He remembers now that a few days after the incident with the rubbish, the patio door was opened tentatively. It was the first time Mrs Lynda had stepped out onto the deck since things had been cleaned up. The watcher had recorded that, too, as per instructions. Two young men, presumably the sons, had got stuck in with rakes and brushes and dustpans. Wide Boy had seemed pleased about that.
But when she had re-emerged, the watcher had been able, even from here, to see the uncertainty on her face, in her movements. Mr Robert followed and took her hand. He seemed to be showing her that all was safe, tha
t there was nothing to be concerned about. He’d looked around him, all his movements exaggerated ones. See? His hand gestures kept on saying. Didn’t I tell you? There’s nothing to worry about.
But Mrs Lynda held herself stiffly away from him, as though she knew something he didn’t. As though she knew better.
Then Mr Robert had put his arms around her. His kiss had been a reassuring one. Her answering smile was thin.
You have no idea, the watcher thought, as he trained the camcorder onto Mr Robert’s face. You really have no idea.
Now, the watcher pulls the blanket off his legs and folds it neatly. He pushes it well down into his rucksack. Inactivity is all very fine, but early March is a bloody cold time for this much hangin’ around. It’s time to get ready. He screws the little plastic cup back onto the Thermos, puts it into the rucksack on top of the blanket and struggles to his feet.
Wide Boy is right now planning a future Event, before this one is even finished. But he hasn’t as yet shared the detail of his latest plans with the watcher. Talk about being full of it, last night. The watcher wonders what these people ever did to WB to make him hate them this much. He wonders what’s coming next. It worries him a bit. He judges that WB is a man well capable of going overboard.
But for now, the watcher has more than enough on his plate. Four o’clock in the morning and he is about to do one of the strangest bits of sabotage he has ever done in his life.
He has reached Mrs Lynda’s back garden, having made his way down the slope, around the corner and through the side gate, which he’s opened very slowly to stop the metal singing. It is unlocked, as he expected. He is dressed from head to toe in black and his eyes are barely visible under the balaclava. He is moving around stealthily, not really enjoying the feeling that someone might mistake him for an IRA man. Still, probably not too many trigger-happy neighbours in this neck of the woods.
It’s now four-fifteen. And the list of instructions is even more specific. A drawing really, rather than a list. Full of arrows pointing this way and that, the precise position of things noted and underlined. The watcher feels a bit wary about this. It’s one thing taking up position on someone’s back wall, where escape is not just possible, but assured. Quite another thing being on someone else’s property. And we all know how sensitive people are about their property, especially these days.
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