Set in Stone

by Catherine Dunne

  She’d liked the certainty then that she would meet him, that Robert looked on her as someone who would be part of his life in the future.

  ‘I will,’ she said. ‘I’ll keep it in mind.’ She paused and said: ‘Can I ask you a question?’ She kept her voice low, serious.

  He looked at her. His eyes filled with apprehension. ‘Sure,’ he said quickly. He placed his empty glass on the table in front of him. Then he faced her with a confidence she guessed he didn’t feel.

  ‘This Danny,’ she said. She trailed her beads through her fingers. Pretended to concentrate on them. ‘What if I like him? What if I fancy him and not you?’

  He searched her eyes until she couldn’t pretend any longer. She started to laugh and watched as his face lit up in a slow, wide smile.

  ‘Then it’s off,’ he said softly. ‘If you even look at him, I won’t ask you to marry me.’ And he kissed her.

  She didn’t like Danny when they met, three weeks later. Didn’t like his cocky assurance, or the way he looked at her. Half-amused, as though Robert had pulled off something that he didn’t expect, as though the territory of women and romance was his and his alone.

  ‘Well,’ he’d said, his eyes appraising her, his hand holding onto hers for too long. She’d tried to tug it away, but that seemed to please him even more. ‘What have we got here?’

  Robert had reacted angrily. ‘Cut it out, Danny,’ he’d said. ‘This is Lynda. Maybe you could pretend to be a civilized human being, just for tonight.’

  Danny had dropped Lynda’s hand, pretending to be shocked. ‘Me?’ he’d said. ‘I was only admiring your taste, brud. Didn’t know you had it in you.’

  Just then, Robert’s mother had approached, smiling. Just as well, Lynda thought. Another minute and the brothers might have been squaring up to one another.

  ‘Lynda,’ she said, smiling. Her face was a striking mix of her sons’ – Robert’s grey eyes, Danny’s square jaw and chin. She shook hands warmly. ‘You are very welcome. Come and have a cup of tea,’ and she led Lynda into the front room. Robert followed, not saying a word. He’d smiled quickly at Lynda once, his eyes saying: ‘You’re on your own!’

  They had tea in the oddly formal front room. Mrs Graham still believed in the concept of ‘the good room’ – one used only at Christmas and for family state occasions. The chairs were deep and comfortable, the carpet olive green, the drapes ornate. Everything was muted, everything matched, but Lynda had the sense of having been transported to another time. The room was about solid, old-fashioned good taste, not fashion. If that was what Mrs Graham had been aiming for, then she had succeeded. It was also a room that kept the visitor slightly off balance. Lynda had been aware of the force of a personality at work here – quite what the force was, she couldn’t decide.

  Robert had warned her about his mother’s pretensions. ‘But they’re harmless, really,’ he’d said. ‘Little eccentricities. She’d have liked to live a slower, grander life, with a lot more money and a lot more elegance. All it means is loads of doilies and tiny sandwiches whenever anyone comes to visit. Don’t let it put you off. Her heart’s in the right place.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I won’t be put off.’

  To her own surprise, Lynda had liked the quiet, firelit sense of occasion. Although it was May, the weather was still damp and chill and the fire was a perfect antidote to the grey outside the bay window. She’d settled into the armchair that Mrs Graham indicated and decided to prepare herself for the interrogation that Robert had assured her would be coming. But if the older woman was scrutinizing her, she gave no sign. The conversation was polite, gracious. Danny was nowhere to be seen.

  When they had finished, Mrs Graham stood, brushing her tweed skirt briskly. ‘Now, I’m sure you two have a much more exciting evening planned and I’m not going to keep you from it. But Emma has been dying to meet you, Lynda, and I know that she won’t be able to contain herself for very much longer. Would you mind?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Lynda said, surprised. ‘I’d be delighted. Robert has told me all about her.’

  Mrs Graham looked at her son, fondly. ‘Apple of our eye, isn’t she, Robert? No point in pretending otherwise.’

  ‘No point at all, Mum,’ Robert agreed. ‘I’ve learned to deal with the trauma of rejection. I’ll only ever be second best.’ He sighed, theatrically.

  ‘Well, we mustn’t grumble. We all know who’s boss,’ Mrs Graham said. ‘I’ll just go and get her.’

  When she’d left the room, closing the door behind her, Robert grinned. ‘You’ve passed the test,’ he said. ‘With flying colours. Otherwise, Emma wouldn’t be called on to give the seal of approval.’

  ‘Don’t exaggerate,’ Lynda said. ‘Besides, a nine-year-old giving a seal of approval? I don’t think so.’ But she was pleased. Being liked made life easier.

  The door flung open and a small, dense whirlwind in shades of pink erupted onto the fireside rug. The white of the sheepskin was startling against the deep pink of her shoes.

  ‘You’re Lynda, Mum said. Robert’s girlfriend. Are you going to be married? Can I be a bridesmaid, or maybe a flower girl?’

  ‘Emma,’ Robert warned. But Emma paid no heed. She turned her huge brown eyes on Lynda.

  ‘Well,’ Lynda said. ‘It’s very early days. Robert and I only met a few weeks ago. Who knows what will happen?’

  The girl regarded her steadily, summing her up. ‘But if you do,’ Emma persisted, ‘can I be your bridesmaid?’

  Lynda laughed at her earnest expression. Robert groaned and put his head in his hands. Suddenly, Lynda knew that only a direct, honest answer was going to satisfy this child. Energy radiated from her. She glowed. It was easy to see how the household revolved around her.

  ‘I tell you what,’ she said. ‘And this is a promise. Whenever I get married, and whoever I get married to, I’ll make sure that you are my bridesmaid or my flower girl. Is that a good enough answer?’

  Emma looked back at her, her head cocked to one side. ‘Yeah,’ she said, having thought about it. At that moment, Lynda was struck by how like Robert she was. ‘That’s a good answer. And I think you keep your promises.’

  Lynda was taken aback. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘I do. I make a point of it.’

  ‘Okay,’ Emma said, turning to her brother. ‘I hope you’re taking her somewhere really special. She deserves it.’ And then she flung herself out of the room in more or less the same way she had flung herself into it.

  ‘That’s our Emma,’ Robert said, ruefully, ‘the human cyclone.’

  The air in the room seemed curiously flat and dusty after her departure. ‘She’s a tonic,’ Lynda said. ‘And I meant what I said, no matter what happens between us.’

  Robert reached for her hands and pulled her to standing. ‘We’ll keep that promise together,’ he said, putting his arms around her and kissing the top of her head, hugging her close to him. ‘Watch this space.’

  And so when she’d got the call on that hot afternoon in July, Lynda had had trouble understanding.

  ‘What are you saying?’ she’d asked Robert, her voice catching in her throat. ‘What do you mean? There has to be some mistake.’

  But there was no mistake. A hit and run. Out of the blue on a sultry July day. Two seventeen-year-old youths, twins, driving their father’s car. It was no consolation that they had been caught, arrested on that same afternoon. By the time Lynda reached the house, the desolation was palpable, like smog in the air. She’d rung the doorbell, expecting Emma’s light and mischievous steps down the hallway. Instead, Robert had answered, his face raw, his clothes askew, as though he had dressed in a hurry and mismatched buttons and buttonholes, belts and loops. When he saw her, he threw his arms around her and wept so hoarsely she was frightened. She’d tried to soothe him, to offer comfort, anything that would stop the keening that shivered around her soul.

  Even then, Lynda knew that the loss of Emma had catapulted her into Robert’s life in a way that might not ha
ve happened otherwise. She and Robert were suddenly, inextricably, bound to each other. Their courtship was over. In the space of just a month or two, they had become a couple, defined by tragedy. They were no longer separate people, no longer boyfriend and girlfriend. They were something much more sedate, much more grown-up.

  Lynda had felt a hot shudder of guilt at the time. She’d been appalled that she could even think that way, in the midst of grief. But part of her had sorrowed after the carefree part of her life, hers and Robert’s, that she’d known was over. She had never voiced it, and neither did he. But both of them knew that it had died along with Emma.

  ‘I’m so sorry, so sorry,’ was all she could say as she wept into his shoulder and the image of Emma had stayed with her during all the days that followed. Even now, the memory had the power to throw her off balance, to bring her back to the unfashionable living room with the olive green carpet and the brocade drapes. And as for Danny . . .

  ‘What’s that?’ she said to Robert now as they approached the end of their road. The rain was still torrential and the windscreen wipers were having difficulty keeping up.

  ‘What?’ asked Robert, peering ahead. He looked dazed.

  At first, Lynda thought that her memories of Emma had just been transformed into some waking dream that played itself out on the road in front of her. A shimmering figure, luminous in the car headlights, suddenly lurched in front of them and Lynda swerved, pulling the Jeep abruptly to the right.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ she heard Robert yell. ‘What the fuck was that?’

  Lynda braked, her heart hammering. So he had seen it, too. It wasn’t a ghost. It wasn’t Emma. That much was a relief . . . What was she thinking? Of course it wasn’t Emma, it couldn’t be Emma! The figure that had thrown itself into the path of the Jeep was alive, running – and terrified.

  Seared onto Lynda’s retina was a pale, oval face: hair matted, eyes wild and rounded. Mascara, eye shadow – whatever it was – streaming in two muddy rivulets down her cheeks. But what Lynda remembered most was the mouth. Scarlet lips, in the shape of an O. Like Munch, Lynda thought suddenly. That was what she had seen. She had just seen ‘The Scream’ made flesh.

  ‘Jesus, Robert, that girl is in trouble.’ Lynda sat shocked, trying to put the gear lever into reverse. ‘We have to find her. She looked absolutely terrified.’

  ‘Where has she gone? Which way did she go?’ Robert was twisting in the passenger seat, looking wildly in every direction. ‘We didn’t imagine her, did we?’ he asked. His face was white. His eyes looked black and deep in the shadows of the car.

  Instantly, Lynda knew that the roundabout had sparked off his own memories of Emma. He had fallen asleep and woken suddenly to the sight of a ghostly young woman, fleeing from something that he couldn’t see.

  ‘Look at me, Robert!’ Lynda cried. ‘She was real, flesh and blood real! We have to find her and help her!’

  ‘Reverse into that gateway,’ he said, snapping back to himself. ‘She can’t have got far. She had her shoes in her hand.’

  ‘What?’ Lynda looked at him in horror.

  ‘She had her shoes in her hand,’ he repeated. ‘Someone must be after her, but I can’t see anyone. Jesus, this weather is getting worse!’

  Lynda slammed the Jeep into reverse and bumped against the kerb of the opposite pavement. Robert opened the passenger door and leaned out. ‘You’re fine,’ he said. ‘Miles of room.’

  ‘Quick, which way do you think she went?’ Lynda started to sob. She was filled with compassion for the frightened girl. Even then, she knew that the emotion was intensified by her memories of Emma. It was as though they were connected, somehow. She had not been able to save Emma, but maybe there was a chance that she and Robert could save this girl, whoever she was. She was somebody’s daughter, somebody’s sister. She could be Katie, in another, parallel life. ‘Where should we try first?’ Lynda tried to calm the storm inside her that she could feel gathering, despite herself.

  ‘Try that way,’ Robert pointed down the hill. ‘Go down Cedar Walk. But she could have turned off anywhere. We’ll never find her in this weather.’

  ‘We’ve got to try,’ Lynda said. She began to drive slowly, back down towards the roundabout. She kept peering ahead, stopping whenever anything glimmered in the distance. Robert slid the passenger window open, to try and clear the rain from the glass. ‘I can see nothing,’ he called against the gale. ‘There isn’t even a trace of her.’

  ‘Let’s give it another twenty minutes,’ said Lynda. ‘She can’t have got that far.’

  Robert closed the window, and rubbed his hands together briskly to warm them. ‘Maybe she lives nearby and she’s gone home,’ he said. He sounded suddenly irritable. ‘We can’t just drive around aimlessly all night.’

  ‘Twenty minutes,’ Lynda repeated, evenly. ‘Just to satisfy myself that she isn’t in a heap on the side of the road somewhere. Then we’ll go home. What if it was Katie?’ she demanded. ‘Wouldn’t you want somebody to help Katie? We can’t just leave her. Jesus, Robert, what if she’s been raped, or something?’

  They drove around the new estates for twenty minutes. All the houses that had sprung up around them in recent years, anywhere there had been a gap. Like veins leading to a main artery. Their road, Ashfield Terrace, old-fashioned and sedate, and once sparsely populated, had given birth to Cedar Drive, Cedar Park, Cedar Avenue. Then Sycamore Road, Sycamore Close, The Saplings. The new roads were endless.

  But there was no sign of the girl anywhere. She had simply disappeared. And perhaps Robert was right. Perhaps she had fled home from whatever frightened her, and was now safely back inside her own four walls. Reluctantly, Lynda decided it was time to give up. She’d ring the local Garda station when they got home. The girl’s expression haunted her: she’d never forget that face.

  She drove to the top of the hill.

  As she turned into Ashfield Terrace again, Lynda began looking for clues. Clues to what? She had no idea. For all she knew, the young woman might have been involved in an innocent lovers’ tiff. Even now, she could be back in her boyfriend’s arms, the row forgotten, the drama enjoyed by each of them, transformed into passion.

  ‘It was one shoe,’ said Robert, suddenly. ‘Just the one shoe.’

  Lynda glanced over at him, feeling suddenly cold again. As she approached the driveway, she could see light from their hallway spilling out onto the slick paving.

  ‘What the . . .’ began Robert.

  At the same time, she could feel the thump, thump, thump of rock music vibrating through the metal doors of the Jeep. Robert looked at her, his face aghast. ‘Christ,’ he said, ‘the front door is open. What is he playing at? That racket is . . .’ But he didn’t finish. Instead, he leapt out of the car before Lynda had pulled to a halt. Through the open door, she could hear the pounding bass of Ciarán’s favourite band, Nine Inch Nails.

  She wrenched open the driver’s door and slid to the ground, aware of the slippery surface underneath her feet. And then she saw it. A shoe. Cream, high-heeled, studded with sequins.

  ‘Jesus, no!’ she whispered to herself. She bent down and picked it up. At the same time, the house was plunged into silence. The music had stopped abruptly and the calm was sudden, eerie. Lynda felt something prickle across the back of her neck. She made her way through the open hall door, stepping further and further into silence as she went. Where was Robert? Why hadn’t he come back, or signalled to her to let her know that everything was all right?

  She pushed open the door of the living room. Robert was standing with his back to her and his stance was what she remembered from the days after Emma’s death: stiff, poised. Now, he faced Ciarán and Jon, who were both sitting on the floor. Ciarán’s legs were stretched out in front of him, his feet casually crossed at the ankles. The smell of dope was overpowering. Robert’s bottle of Bushmills lay on its side on the carpet, a faint shadow where it had leaked onto the wool. Ashtrays were scattered here and there, beer bottles,
packets of cigarettes, Rizla papers.

  Lynda stumbled through the doorway. The power seemed to have left her legs.

  ‘Drunk again, Mum?’ Although it sounded more like ‘Srunk again.’ Ciarán cackled. He tried to draw on the joint in his fingers, but he kept missing his mouth. ‘Fuck it,’ he said.

  Robert approached his son. Both of his fists were clenched. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked, his voice very quiet. Ciarán looked at him. ‘Shit, Dad,’ he said. ‘We’re just havin’ a good time, me an’ my ol’ buddy here.’ And he gestured wildly to his left.

  Slowly, Lynda looked away from her son to Jon, who was sitting on the floor beside him. His face was blank, white. She didn’t know whether he was drunk, or stoned. ‘Jon?’ she said.

  He looked at her, his face impassive. He was nothing like as incapable as Ciarán. He was very quiet, very still. He made no move to speak. For an instant, Lynda thought he looked at her apologetically, shrugging his shoulders ever so slightly. She was about to speak to him again, to challenge him this time, when Ciarán began to laugh. He was pointing at her, his laughter becoming more and more hysterical.

  ‘The lovely Larissa,’ he kept intoning. ‘The lovely Laaaarissaaaa, all the way from sunny Latviaaaa.’

  Robert looked at Lynda. She could see he was about to wade in, to lift Ciarán bodily, to bring this to an end. Already he was moving towards his son. Lynda held up her hand, stalling him for a moment. Who was Larissa? Then she realized. Ciarán was pointing to the cream-coloured shoe she still held in one hand.

  ‘Does this belong to Larissa?’ she demanded.

  Ciarán nodded. He turned to Jon. ‘You remember Larissa, dontcha?’ He put down the joint and the glass of whiskey, freeing up both his hands. ‘The one with the massive . . .’ and he made the gesture for breasts, smiling down at his own handiwork as he did so.

  ‘Yes,’ Jon replied. ‘I remember your friend, Larissa.’ He reached over and took the joint off the carpet. It had just begun to smoulder.