He looked at her, alarmed.
She nodded. ‘Yes, every single morning. Things like old photos, bottles, broken cups and saucers. Deliberate stuff – things that can’t just get there on their own.’ She saw his face. ‘Some mornings, I can’t even bear to pick them up. And no, I’m not being paranoid. It’s like Danny’s taunting us. Telling us how close he’s getting. What’s to keep him from getting into the house again?’ This was too important to let go. ‘And you’ve never showed me his letters, never even told me what was in them.’
‘Because it’s the usual stuff – you’ve heard it all before.’ But he looked away from her.
‘No,’ she insisted. ‘Because this time, the letters weren’t posted. This time, they were delivered by hand. That makes it different: it means he is here again.’ Lynda made an effort to lower her voice. ‘It’s not just the garden he’s destroying, can’t you see that? It’s us.’
Robert reached for her hand, held it between both of his. ‘I suppose I didn’t take him seriously enough.’
‘We have to take him seriously. He’s left us no option. Tell me what he said, Robert. All of it. You can’t protect me. I can’t protect you. The only thing we have is trust. Tell me what he said.’
Robert nodded. His face was white, his lips bloodless. ‘He said he was coming back to finish what he’d started. Three years ago.’
Lynda felt something creep along her spine. She glanced over at the double door that led to the deck. Once Ciarán and Jon were safely inside, she’d make sure to lock it again. ‘Have you still got the letters?’ she asked quietly. ‘I need to see them for myself.’
Robert left the kitchen without a word. When he returned, he had three envelopes in his hand. He pushed them across the table to Lynda. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘You’re right. I can’t protect you. I can’t even protect my own family!’ His voice was bitter. ‘They’re the latest three to arrive.’
Lynda looked up, sharply. ‘This is not your fault,’ she said. ‘Danny is destructive and manipulative. We couldn’t have prevented what happened last time. But maybe we can stop it from happening again.’ She pulled the first letter out of its envelope. The pages of handwriting were familiar, too familiar. She scanned them quickly.
The double doors were opened and Jon and Ciarán came back into the kitchen. They stopped to take off their trainers which were caked with mud. Instinctively, Lynda put her hand over the pages of Danny’s letter.
‘Anything else we can do, Mum?’ asked Ciarán.
She shook her head. ‘No, thanks. Not for now.’
‘May I ask something?’ Jon’s question was sudden. He addressed himself to Robert.
‘Sure,’ said Robert.
‘This Danny person. Your brother. Can’t you tell the police?’ He sounded angry.
Ciarán was nodding. ‘Yeah, Dad, why not?’
‘It’s complicated,’ said Robert. ‘I don’t rule it out. But it’s complicated.’ He was going to say more and stopped.
‘I understand that family is precious, but if someone did this to me, to my home . . .’ Jon stopped, his voice full of emotion. ‘I don’t have brothers or sisters. You guys feel like my family. I just can’t bear to see this . . . this havoc. You’re good people.’
‘Thank you, Jon,’ Lynda tried to smile at him. ‘And thank you for your support, and your help.’
‘Keep us in the loop, won’t you?’ asked Ciarán. ‘I mean about what you’re goin’ to do. He can’t be allowed to get away with this.’
‘We will,’ said Robert. ‘Now, Lynda and I have some things to discuss. Thanks for the clean up. You did a really good job.’
‘Yeah,’ said Ciarán. ‘No worries. We’re outta here. Back around seven. Okay, Mum?’
She nodded. ‘That’s fine.’
They left the kitchen and closed the door quietly behind them. Lynda got up from the table and locked the patio doors. When she sat down again, she leaned towards Robert and spoke softly. ‘I know it’s a strange thing to say,’ she whispered. ‘But what Danny is doing may well backfire on him. Ciarán is actually behaving like a grown-up. That’s some comfort.’
‘Don’t be too optimistic,’ said Robert with a faint smile. He stood up to put on the kettle again. ‘Read the letters. Then tell me how you feel.’
‘More coffee?’ asked Robert. He’d sat, silent, while Lynda read and re-read the letters.
‘Please,’ she said. ‘I know you tore up the first couple, but can you remember anything, anything at all about any specific threats?’
‘It’s more than two months ago,’ said Robert. ‘To be honest, I scanned them, rather than read them. They gave me the creeps and I just wanted to get rid of them as fast as possible.’
Lynda held out her cup and Robert filled it. ‘There’s something he’s not saying,’ she said. ‘Something he’s expecting us to guess. Like here: ‘But things change. Nothing stays the same. Life rewards you sometimes, when you least expect it. You lose something – or somebody – and something else takes its place. There’s a kind of law of compensation. Too much has been taken away from me. Too much stolen. It’s time to balance the scales.’
Robert frowned. ‘I have no idea what he means. It’s the ramblings of a lunatic.’
‘But he keeps coming back to it, again and again. It’s in all of these letters. This harping on about “compensation”.’ She shuddered. ‘I can feel the menace. It’s laced into every word.’ She pushed the pages away from her.
‘So does reading them help?’ asked Robert quietly.
‘Yes,’ she said at once. ‘At least I can be sure that I’m not losing my mind.’ She stopped and looked at him. ‘And you can be sure that I’m not losing my mind. Which might be even more important.’ She tapped the closely written sheets. ‘This is a deliberate campaign to make us suffer. And you’re right. They’d make your flesh crawl.’
‘I’ll put them away safely,’ said Robert. His voice was grim. ‘We may need them in the future as evidence.’
‘Oh, God,’ said Lynda. ‘As if we didn’t have enough to contend with.’
Robert looked as though he was about to tell her something but his mobile rang and he jumped. He left the kitchen, and headed for his office. What now? wondered Lynda. When he came back his face was unreadable.
‘What were you going to say to me?’ she asked.
He looked at her, his eyes blank.
‘Before your mobile rang,’ she prompted. ‘You were going to tell me something.’
He shook his head. ‘Can’t remember. It’ll come back to me.’
Lynda knew he was lying. ‘Robert,’ she warned. ‘Don’t keep anything from me. We’re in this together. Any chink in the armour and Danny will slide right in there. Don’t shut me out.’
‘And you’ve never shut me out?’ he snapped. ‘Not once, in all the years we’ve been together?’
There was a long silence in the kitchen. Lynda could hear the ticking of the clock on her studio wall, through the half-open door. So, she thought. We’ve come to it at last. ‘That’s a long time ago, Robert,’ she said cautiously. How much did he know? How much did he suspect? ‘And we were in a very different place. I thought we’d put it behind us.’
‘So did I,’ said Robert. ‘So did I. I don’t know why it’s tormenting me now.’ He shook his head, angrily.
Lynda swallowed. ‘I won’t insult your intelligence by telling you it meant nothing. But the truth is, you and I mean a lot more – so much more . . .’
Robert rubbed his unshaven cheeks. ‘Look, I’m sorry for bringing it up now. A case of straw and camel’s back, and all that.’ He looked at her, his face ashen. ‘It’ll keep until I come back.’
‘Why?’ asked Lynda, suddenly terrified. ‘Where are you going?’
‘James and I are in one hell of a lot of trouble.’
Lynda stared at him. She’d never known him to be so blunt before.
‘Business is bad, credit is worse. We have to try and pull something
together, and fast.’ He shrugged. ‘I didn’t tell you because I hoped it would get better. We both did. Now we need to work out some sort of a salvage plan.’
Lynda pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sat down. She couldn’t think of what else to do. ‘Will the business survive?’ she asked.
He picked his keys up off the kitchen table. ‘I don’t know yet. I hope so. I’m prepared to do anything, even if it’s on my own – attic conversions, painting and decorating, extensions. All the stuff people do in a recession instead of moving house.’
She nodded. That made sense.
‘We’re meeting in Wicklow,’ he said. ‘That was James on the phone. He’s managed to get a hold of our accountant and a tax expert. So,’ and he struggled into his jacket, ‘we’re going to hole up there until we’ve sorted things out,’ he said. ‘Sorry it’s so sudden, but the money men have only just confirmed that they’ll be there on Friday morning and James and I need to hammer out a proposal first.’
She nodded. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I’ll text you later and let you know.’ He came over to her. ‘I’ll do my damnedest to see us through this.’ He squeezed her shoulder. ‘I’ve already done a lot of research, Lynda. I can repackage myself, and what I offer. I’ve a website ready to get up and running and I’ll work as hard as I need to.’
‘I know you will.’ Solid, dependable Robert. Predictability made flesh. ‘And so will I. We’ll pull together, just like before.’ She reached up, put her hand on his.
He nodded. ‘Talk to you when I can.’
‘Okay. Sooner rather than later.’
As he left the kitchen, Lynda called out. ‘Robert?’
He turned. ‘Yeah?’
‘Take care. We’ve done it before. We’ll do it again. Survive.’
He smiled the ghost of a smile and closed the door softly behind him.
Lynda felt stunned. She sat at the table, watching what she thought of as her life begin to fall away from her. After a moment, she stood, shakily, and made her way out into the hall. She reached the window just in time to see the tail lights of the Jeep disappear down the road towards the roundabout.
She sat on the bottom stair, just outside Robert’s office. Gradually, her mind was becoming sharper, more focussed, the fog of shock beginning to lift. She was not going down without a fight. They were not going down without a fight. She’d find a way.
She had to find a way before their life slipped through her fingers and changed into something they no longer recognized.
First Danny. Now this.
What next?
The day is thundery. Sky like a bruise. The leaves of the trees are livid against pewter, like someone has spattered green paint. They stand out too much, etched against the stillness.
‘Come on, Danny,’ Emma is saying. ‘It’s goin’ to be my birthday soon. Please? As part of my present?’
Danny grins at her. ‘Part of your present?’ he teases. ‘How do you know I’m givin’ you any present at all? You’re gettin’ far too big for birthdays, anyway.’ And he flicks his cigarette butt into the flowerbed, using his thumb and middle finger to make it go the distance. It is a gesture his mother hates. Occasionally, he forgets, and she catches him in the act.
‘Don’t do that, Danny,’ she sighs, ‘if you must smoke. It makes you look like a guttie.’
He laughs then and says he’s sorry, keeps forgetting. Then he promises not to do it again, and that makes her happy. It works every time. For his mother, a promise made is as good as the deed done.
They are sitting on the front step, he and Emma. He’s taken the day off, to celebrate his new bike: a second-hand Kawasaki 1000 GTR in great nick. He’s buffed up the leather and polished the chrome and changed the oil. Danny likes doing these things himself – it gives him a sense of competence, of grown-up ownership. She’s ready to rock ’n’ roll. He needs the open road, though. Pottering about suburbia is no place for this baby.
It is July, the heat intense. He can smell the bike’s leather from over here, see the sunlight harsh on chrome. Nineteen years of age, and he’s itching to get going. But Mum has insisted he stay with Emma till she gets back.
‘I’ll be no later than three, Danny,’ she says, ‘and I don’t ask you to do much. I can’t take Emma with me, she’d be bored silly. And in this heat.’ She fans herself, as if to make a point that he might otherwise miss.
‘I’m relying on you,’ she says, squeezing his hand as she gets into the car. ‘Don’t let me down.’ Looks him right in the eye as she drives off.
Relying on you. ‘Unreliable’ is his father’s word for Danny. He’s big into your ‘word’: if a man gives his ‘word’, then he should stick to it, come hell or high water. These speeches piss Danny off. Always have. Mum often sticks up for Danny. He has to give her that. He will look after his little sister today, though. He will be the reliable one. In fact, Danny’s even kind of glad that she’s asked him. He feels in a really good mood. One, because he’s just collected his new bike and two, because Robert is stuck all day today at his shitty summer job. And Danny is the one who is free. Danny takes great care, always, to make sure that his days off do not coincide with Pansy’s.
Emma jumps up off the step, her fists clenched. She opens and closes her small hands, as if she’s squeezing her impatience. ‘Well, if you won’t bring me for a spin, then at least let me sit on the seat.’
He laughs and sweeps her off her feet and onto the pillion in one easy movement. Her eyes are shining. Just two days away from being ten, she has more life to her, more grit and determination than Pansy ever will.
Pixie, Danny calls her. She loves her pet name. Danny can still recall the day when Mum brings her home from hospital. He is nine, Pansy twelve. He can’t believe his eyes when he sees her. Is she really that tiny?
‘Careful, now,’ Mum warns him, as he pulls back the honeycomb pink blanket to see her face. Mum is always telling him to be careful. She doesn’t tell Robert nearly as often. He, Danny, usually ends up getting the blame for whatever it is that goes wrong.
‘She’s like a little elf,’ Pansy blurts out.
Mum laughs, and ruffles Robert’s hair. ‘That’s because she was born a little bit early. She only weighs five pounds. You two monsters were over nine pounds, each of you – almost twice her size!’
He and Robert grin at each other then, a rare moment of shared monstrosity.
‘My precious little girl,’ Mum croons, while Dad paces proudly up and down in front of the television.
Suddenly, the baby starts to wail. Danny stands transfixed, wondering where all that noise is coming from.
‘She’s got a right pair of lungs, all the same,’ laughs Dad. ‘Five pounds or no five pounds. This little lady’ll make us all sit up and take notice. Beware, boys: the boss has arrived.’
Right there and then, Danny decides he will call her ‘Pixie’. An elf is far too wishy-washy a thing: pixies are bright, darting creatures. They get up to all sorts of adventures. Danny can still remember the stories Mum used to read to them at bedtime when they were small. Elves were the boring ones – a bit like Pansy. Elves only swanned around the forest, mooning over flowers and fairies. At least pixies knew how to get up to mischief.
And Emma – Pixie – more than lives up to her name.
‘Come on, Danny,’ she is saying now, her small shoulder wheedling against his arm. She has just finished eating an apple and he can smell the green sweetness of it off her breath. ‘Just one little spin around the block – I’ll hold on really tight. And I won’t ever tell Mum.’
He is tempted. What harm can it do? The breeze would be nice: a change from all this humid stickiness, the air around them heavy with the threat of rain. Pixie is now kneeling behind him, her face resting in the space between his shoulder and his ear. ‘C’mon, Danny. I won’t tell. You know I won’t.’
Danny grabs her around the waist, then, and tickles her till she shrieks. He can feel himself weakening already.
It can’t do any harm, not if he’s really careful. And no one ever needs to be told. Pixie is able to keep a secret, as Danny well knows. And she’s right. If he doesn’t do it now, he’ll never get another chance to treat her. It is her birthday, after all, day after tomorrow.
‘Okay, Pixie,’ he says. ‘But this has to be our secret, yours and mine. You’re not to tell anyone, or I’ll end up in a shitload of trouble.’
Emma giggles. She loves it when he uses bad words in front of her.
‘Promise,’ she squeals. ‘No one will ever know.’
She wriggles backwards, her bare legs squeaking on the hot leather, leaving room for Danny to hop on in front of her. He shows her where to rest her feet, carefully placing each sandaled foot on the chrome bar. ‘Keep ’em there, now,’ he says. ‘Otherwise, you’ll get oil on your socks, and then Mum will know.’ She nods, thrilled by the conspiracy of it all.
Danny kick-starts the engine, taking pleasure in its throaty growl. Then he swings himself on, turns to grin at Pixie, and says, ‘You hold on, now. Hold on for dear life.’
He won’t go fast. He’ll proceed at a leisurely, steady pace. Down the driveway, out onto the road, down the hill towards the sea and back again. A spin of maybe ten minutes. More than enough for Pixie. And it’s more than enough time to get back before Mum arrives home.
Pixie shouts with delight as they move off sedately. He can feel her small hands holding on fiercely, just as he’s told her. He checks the traffic right and left, and begins the steep descent towards the sea. Pixie is chattering away: he can feel snatches of her words just underneath his shoulder blade, where she has pressed her face. But whatever she is saying is being whipped away by the breeze that keeps getting stronger, the closer they come to the sea.
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