Set in Stone

by Catherine Dunne

  The watcher permits himself a grin. He’s never allowed himself to be sucked into all that Property Ladder bullshit. His place is small, central, the lion’s share of the mortgage paid off years back. When Amy wanted to extend, put in a new kitchen, change the bedroom he half-gave in, but would borrow only a fraction of what she wanted him to. Just as well, as it turned out, when the job let him go. To this day, he doesn’t know who ratted on him. More than likely a member of his own team, but he doesn’t go there any more. Inappropriate, the brass said he was. Told him to dig the dirt and then told him what he found was inappropriate.

  Well, in fairness, they said his methods were inappropriate, not his information. This is a distinction he is now prepared to accept after ten years. Now that it doesn’t matter any more. He spent a long time being bitter. Until he found ways to get his own back. Jobs like this, for example.

  In the early days, they’d handed him the stuff that the official channels couldn’t be seen doing. Didn’t want to get their hands dirty, Jimmy had told him. Then ‘transparency’ became a buzz word and the work kind of dried up. But he didn’t care. By then, he had a few small properties under his belt, rented out on the quiet. Nothing greedy, like, just little places that flew below the radar. Cash, of course. The immigrants lined his pockets for years.

  Now that they’re going, things are tighter, yeah, but not as bad as they might be had he lost the run of himself. The properties will come right in the end. He just has to hang in there, be ready when the good times roll around again. Thank Christ he never bought shares in banks and construction companies. Even cash in the mattress would have been safer than that.

  He focuses on the house now, makes sure not to get too close, not to make any inappropriate noise. It’s a quiet neighbourhood. One of those places you couldn’t buy yourself into, even if you wanted to. You’d have to be born there. The best of addresses; the most desirable of locations; the most magnificent of views. From the top of the hill where Mrs Lynda’s stately pile is located, he can see the glorious sweep of Dublin Bay. It always makes his throat catch. The surge of the water, blue or grey, makes him feel small somehow. But grateful, too. It’s the sort of beauty that humbles you, Amy had once said to him. And it’s free. These days, it gives the watcher even greater satisfaction to see these fancy folks getting all bent out of shape about falling values, negative equity, the wobbling stock exchange.

  But in a garden that belongs to one of those Fancy People, the watcher feels entitled to be a bit on edge. Wide Boy has told him not to worry – the sensor light will be disabled. I’ve seen to that, he says. You won’t be disturbed.

  The early morning is dark and wet. No moon; no stars showing. Just a solid fall of misty rain, the sort that soaks you without seeming to. And the outside light has stayed off, just as Wide Boy has promised.

  The watcher places the camcorder to one side, where it can see the action. That way, his hands are free to rummage in his rucksack for the necessary tools. He glances at the windows of the house next door. Another check, just to be sure. All quiet, no twitching curtains. This is burglar time, the time when householders’ sleep has become profound and unsuspecting. He is not really expecting any interruptions, but still, it pays to be careful.

  Though he is not stealing anything. When he’d asked Wide Boy straight out, like, what this was all about if not nicking stuff, WB had just smiled. The watcher has been very careful never to let slip that he knows WB’s name. Now that would be inappropriate. ‘There are many types of theft,’ Wide Boy had said, flicking his cigarette butt away from him, out into the street. ‘And I have been a victim of most of them. This is merely settling the score.’

  They were standing outside the pub, apparently for a smoke, but really because Wide Boy had wanted to keep this conversation private, and there had been too many ears at the bar. Settling the score, indeed. In the watcher’s book, scores had to be settled with force and finality, that’s all there was to it. None of this sneaking around back lanes and tinkering at the edges. WB seemed to be aware of the unspoken dissent, because he started to talk at once, stubbing out the new cigarette he had just lit.

  ‘Just do as I ask. You don’t need to take anything away with you, nothing needs to be stolen. Follow the diagram I’ve given you, that’s all. Is it clear enough for you?’

  The watcher knew by his tone that there would be no more discussion.

  ‘Sure, boss,’ he’d said, easily. Who was he to argue? If things did go pear-shaped, all he’d have to do is leg it out the gate, which he’d make sure to leave propped open. It was just a bit of digging and shifting. Rearranging, like. No real damage.

  The watcher gets to work. He begins to concentrate on the smaller stone, first, the one that looks a bit like an animal’s head, kind of pointy at the front. He pushes the crowbar into the ground, and feels some resistance. Plastic sheeting; he had expected as much. Amy uses it. Keeps the weeds from jumping up everywhere, in between the gravel. She’d insisted on having it, even though their garden is about the size of a pocket-handkerchief. He pushes harder now, feeling something give. And then he’s underneath the covering, deep into the soil. Not too hard a job, considering. The ground is soft enough after two months of almost constant rain and snow. One of the things he remembers from school – about the only thing, if you ask him, useless bunch of tossers they were – is the law of the lever. Arkymeedays, someone like that. He remembers his teacher saying that you could lift the whole world using a lever, if you could only find somewhere to stand. They’d all laughed at that, but he’s never forgotten it. It’s surprising how useful a small piece of information like that can be.

  He begins to work the crowbar back and forth, back and forth. When it’s about two thirds submerged in the sea of stones, he presses down on it sharply with his booted foot. The headstone – headstone! – he thinks, like robbing someone’s grave, begins to shift. He works the lever for a few more minutes, pushing from side to side, then up and down, until he thinks it might be worth trying now. He bends down and, hooking both hands as far underneath the stone as he can, he aims for a rolling movement, one that will release the stone from its captivity. It begins to yield. Grunting, he heaves it towards him, and it’s done, free. Now all he has to do is roll it – or lift it – towards the pond. He decides on lifting. It’s less noisy. He’s sweating now, the wool of the balaclava prickling against his nose, his breath hot and sour. He lifts it away, pushing it high onto his forehead.

  Keeping a weather eye on the windows of both houses, the watcher, little by little, hefts the stone towards the pond. There is a lip of smaller stones and plants around the edge, but they are easily pushed to one side. Gently, so as not to make too much of a splash, he lowers the head into the water, disturbing some green shiny leaves that litter the surface. Lily pads, maybe. They bow to this new arrival, and some are sucked underneath the surface with it. Then what the hell. A bit of showmanship is called for here. He just can’t resist it. He turns his face towards the camcorder, grins and gives the thumbs up.

  The larger stone is more problematic. Now that the head is gone, the watcher has the uneasy feeling that he is dealing with a real dismembered body. For a moment, its shape in the darkness reminds him of a giant tortoise. He flinches from touching it. A bird swoops suddenly, making him lose concentration. He staggers a bit, cursing. Bloody wood pigeons. But the interruption has done the trick. He gets a grip, focuses again on the task in hand. At least this one doesn’t need to be shifted so far, just realigned and prettied up a little.

  When he’s done, the body stone now lies at right angles to its former position, the gravel all around it disturbed, pushed up into small, angry waves. The watcher removes the can of spray paint from his pocket, taking care to stand well back so that his clothes don’t get spattered. Anything at all, Wide Boy had said. ‘Artistic licence’. And he’d laughed.

  The watcher has already decided on a swastika and a peace sign – that should be enough to confuse anyone
. He glances at his watch. Five-fifteen. Time he got a move on. He sprays his signs, crudely, and sticks the can back in his pocket. One more thing, and then he’s gotta leg it.

  Carefully, almost gently, he tugs at the shrubs that have been planted all around the periphery of the pond. They yield eventually, some with soft sucking sounds, others like sinews tearing. He tries his best not to damage them. Then, he places them in a line across the decking, their roots facing the patio doors. Quickly now, it’s almost time. He looks around, grabbing the camcorder for one, good final sweep of the garden. It looks bare, defeated. He is surprised at how lacking in personality it now seems. He’s never thought it had much before, but there you go. It must have done.

  He packs away his crowbar, brushes the muck from his jacket and boots. On the edge of the gravel, he changes into a pair of shoes. He shoves the boots into a plastic bag, then into the rucksack. That way, no muddy footprints will be left behind. Just enough time to secure the gate, walk around the block, and position himself at the top of the garden wall again. He hopes that Mrs L will come out, according to routine, in about twenty minutes. The last non-Eventful few weeks, he thinks, should have done the trick. False sense of security. Or sense of false security?

  He’s never sure which.

  Once he has hunkered down in his usual spot, the watcher sets up the Cantek. By now, he has all the distances judged just right and the final quality is always superb. He’s ready just in time. The lights go on downstairs, filtered dimly through the heavy curtains. Then the drapes are pulled back and the double doors open outwards.

  Miraculously, the sensor light switches on again. The watcher grins. Your man has got that right. Perfect timing!

  The woman pauses.

  The watcher aims the camcorder, compensating for the sensor light.

  She steps outside.

  Showtime.

  7

  LYNDA PAUSED just outside the patio doors, blinking. The light seemed brighter than usual. She waited for her eyes to become accustomed to the sudden glare. She looked around her, searching out the comforting contours of her tortoise, her shrubs, the undulating outline of the pond.

  But her eyes refused to focus on what she saw before her. For a moment, she didn’t know where she was. She wondered had she stumbled into another garden somewhere; a parallel dimension, perhaps, like Alice in Wonderland. Shapes had shifted, shadows had grown where there had been none before, nothing was what it seemed. Her garden was suddenly unfamiliar, yet familiar at the same time. Snapshots began to register, quick snatches of colour, of light and shade. She could feel herself begin to process what lay beyond her feet. Then her hands began to tremble and cold perspiration started to gather across her upper lip.

  ‘No,’ she heard someone cry. ‘No, no, no!’ and realized that the voice was hers, that she was weeping, gasping, unable to draw breath. ‘Robert!’ she screamed. ‘Robert! Robert!’ Her stomach shifted and her throat filled with nausea. Unable to move, she vomited where she stood, retching until tears came. Dimly, she was aware of the patio doors opening behind her.

  ‘Lynda,’ a voice at her ear said, alarmed. Two strong arms were placed around her shoulders. ‘Lynda, what’s the matter?’

  She clung to the hands that held her, afraid that the sensation inside her head was going to make her faint. Points of light and darkness danced in front of her eyes; she could feel hot nausea gather again, wave after wave of it.

  ‘Come inside,’ the voice urged. ‘I’ll make you tea.’

  Lynda turned to look. Jon was gazing at her, his face troubled. His hands were kind. But she wanted her husband. ‘I need Robert,’ she said. To her own ears, her voice sounded like a mumble. But he understood her.

  ‘Yeah, of course,’ Jon said. ‘Come back inside and sit down. I’ll get him for you.’

  And then, suddenly, he seemed to see what she saw. His hands gripped her shoulders even more tightly. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he whispered. ‘What the fuck has happened here?’

  Then Lynda knew it was real. She started to weep again, could feel the tears sliding down into the collar of her dressing-gown. ‘It’s Danny, I know it’s Danny,’ she gasped. ‘It’s more of his revenge. I know it.’

  ‘Come inside,’ Jon urged. ‘Please. We’ll talk inside.’

  She allowed herself to be led back through the double doors. She turned once more to where her stone tortoise used to be. Her eyes searched for the bits of its body, her grief intense. ‘I know what’s happening,’ she said. ‘Oh, God, I know what’s happening.’ She took the tissue Jon handed her, sat on the chair he pulled out for her.

  ‘I’ll go and wake Robert,’ he said.

  ‘I can’t believe he’s still asleep,’ said Lynda. She could hear the anger in her voice.

  ‘You actually made very little noise,’ said Jon.

  She looked up at him, puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I went to the bathroom,’ he said, quickly. ‘I thought I heard something and came downstairs to take a look. You were on the deck, but the doors were closed.’

  She nodded.

  ‘I knew by the way you were bent over that something was wrong. But I didn’t hear you until I opened the door.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ she said, distracted. Every time she glanced out at the garden, the tears started all over again. Jon walked over and pulled the curtains closed.

  ‘I’ll help you fix it, I promise,’ he said. The green eyes were alight with sympathy.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, sobbing again. She watched as he left the kitchen, heard his light step as he ran up the stairs to call Robert.

  But she knew that this could not be fixed. Whatever Danny destroyed could not be fixed.

  That was something she had learned a long time ago.

  ‘I don’t understand it,’ Robert was saying.

  He was standing with her in the kitchen, watching as Jon and Ciarán gathered up the shrubs and placed them into black plastic sacks. In the early morning light, the garden looked like a moonscape: pockmarked, mysterious, eerie. All the life had left it. ‘I don’t understand how the light didn’t go on. It always wakes you, doesn’t it?’

  Lynda nodded. ‘Always.’ She felt a physical pull, as acute as pain, as she watched the boys toss her plants and shrubs into refuse sacks.

  ‘But you could always plant them again,’ Jon had said. ‘Look . . .’ He pointed at the roots eagerly. ‘They’re not damaged, are they? Ciarán and I can help – you just tell us what to do.’

  But Lynda had shaken her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘They make me sick even to look at them. Danny has touched them. I don’t want them – don’t want anything he has touched in my life.’

  Jon had looked at her then, his gaze half-curious, half-bashful. ‘I don’t mean to pry, but who is Danny?’

  ‘My brother,’ Robert had said, sharply, walking up the two steps to the deck, wiping his hands on his jeans. He’d attempted to re-position the tortoise, had persuaded Lynda to direct him. She’d done so, reluctantly. But she knew that it would never be the same again. Robert had been insistent, and she’d been too weary to argue. Her tortoise was damaged beyond repair. Even if she could clean the paint off its back. And she’d been adamant about the plants and shrubs. ‘In the bin,’ she’d repeated. ‘Straight away. No discussion.’

  Robert had handed the roll of black refuse sacks to the two boys. ‘Off you go,’ he said. ‘Come on, Lynda. Let’s go back inside and leave the lads to it. You don’t need to be standing out here in the cold, looking at this.’

  Now, he made her coffee, insisted she have a shot of brandy to go with it. ‘Sit down. You’re like a ghost,’ he said. ‘Take it. It’ll help settle your stomach.’

  ‘The deck,’ she said, remembering. ‘I was sick . . .’

  ‘It’s okay,’ Robert said. ‘Jon and Ciarán hosed it down. I saw them do it.’

  Lynda poured the glass of brandy into the steaming coffee. Without lifting her head, she said, ‘What are we going to
do, Robert?’

  He glanced at her, his face already beginning to close. He poured himself more coffee. The spoon chinked against the china as he stirred.

  ‘Don’t shut me out,’ she said. ‘And don’t make me beg. This is Danny’s handiwork. You must see that.’ She kept looking at him. Her eyes demanded that he respond. Please don’t pretend this isn’t happening, she thought. The only way out of this is together. Please don’t fight me any longer.

  He sighed. ‘I know. I know it is. You’re right.’

  Lynda felt relief wash over her. At last. ‘Can we call the Guards? We have to do something.’

  ‘And tell them what?’ asked Robert. She watched as frustration clouded his face. ‘That someone has dumped rubbish and moved stones around? That a ring went missing and suddenly reappeared on a bathroom floor? That nothing has ever been stolen? Or that a few plants have been damaged?’ His voice kept getting louder. Each question seemed to anger him more.

  She went to speak and he held up his hand. ‘I know what you’re going to say, but I’m talking from the police perspective, Lynda. And from their point of view, nothing has been destroyed. Things could be planted again – but you don’t want to. How do you think that sounds? It doesn’t even qualify as vandalism.’

  ‘It’s intimidation and deliberate damage to our property,’ Lynda cried, feeling anger surge all over again. ‘Doesn’t that count?’

  He looked at her, his expression weary. ‘Sweetheart, this is a city where thugs are shooting each other over drugs. Bus drivers get their fingers broken at night by drunks. Business premises get set on fire: where would your priorities be?’

  She felt the sobs catch in her throat. ‘I can’t live like this, Robert. I just can’t. I wake up terrified every morning wondering: What next? What today? First the cars, then the rubbish, then the ring. Now my tortoise.’ She stopped. She hadn’t told Robert about the other daily reminders of Danny’s existence; she had known that he wouldn’t want to hear her. But she had his attention now. ‘And bits of stuff all over the garden every morning, like calling cards. I haven’t even told you about them, because you wouldn’t want to listen.’