Set in Stone

by Catherine Dunne

  ‘Mum, what’s wrong? You were supposed to call me last night. Why didn’t you answer my texts?’

  ‘I’m sorry, love – my battery ran out. We’re okay, but I have something to tell you.’

  ‘I’m coming home,’ Katie said, once Lynda had finished.

  ‘No, Katie, there’s probably no need and anyway . . .’ Lynda could hear her voice trail away. Suddenly, Katie at home seemed like a very good idea.

  ‘I don’t care what you say. I’m on my way,’ Katie’s voice was firm. ‘Today. There’s a flight tomorrow I can make if I organize myself. I’ll keep in touch. And put your mobile on charge, Mum.’

  Lynda smiled. ‘I will,’ she said.

  After she’d hung up, Lynda felt energized. She cleaned up the living room, searching for anything that might help her understand what had happened the previous night. The cream shoe was there, a poignant reminder. She could see Larissa’s face all over again; the open mouth, the ghostly dress, the rain-soaked hair. And one thing was sure. That girl had been fleeing from something that absolutely terrified her.

  Suddenly, Lynda decided she couldn’t just sit there and do nothing any more. This house no longer felt like home. She needed to get out. And there was supermarket shopping that needed to be done. A distraction, of sorts.

  She gathered together clothes for the dry cleaner’s: Robert’s suit from last night; Ciarán’s trousers; her silk dress, probably destroyed by the rain. Before she left, Lynda put the cream high-heeled shoe into her car. She’d search the local shoe shops, see if she could find anything similar. It was a long shot, but she needed to do something. It felt as though there was a web surrounding her, one that needed to be untangled, strand by sticky strand, before it suffocated her.

  She locked the front door, checking several times that it was secure. For a moment, she felt as though she was going through the motions. Nothing had kept Danny out of her home. Security was an illusion.

  She passed the roundabout, Emma’s roundabout. Lynda negotiated the traffic carefully, aware that some part of her was still distracted. She needed to focus. When she arrived at the shopping centre, she was astonished at how normal everything seemed. People went about their business; babies cried; teenagers lit cigarettes, huddled around shop doorways. It was hard not to feel that everyone else must have been shaken up, just as she was. She and her family; her universe. But the rest of the world gave no sign of it. Lynda parked the car and made her way across the pedestrian crossing into the shopping centre.

  As she passed the shoe shop, Lynda glanced at the plate glass window. Boots were reduced. Heavy winter footwear was gradually making way for sandals and smart leather heels. Not that we ever have much of a summer, she thought. And there was nothing in the window that resembled the cream shoe that lay, she now realized, behind the passenger seat of her car. She was annoyed with herself for not having put it into her shopping bag.

  Lynda decided to bypass the supermarket and go straight to the dry-cleaner’s. She wanted to get rid of the bag of clothing she carried. Apart from anything else, it was tainted with bad memories. As she went by she glanced at the checkouts, trying to see how busy they were. Lynda hated queuing. She’d rather sit and wait somewhere else until things calmed down, buy a newspaper and a cup of coffee. Waiting in line was such a waste of . . .

  She froze. The girl had her back to Lynda, of course she did, but there was something familiar about that profile, that white-blonde hair. Unaware of any scrutiny, the girl at the checkout continued to scan groceries, pushing them to the end of the belt where a harassed-looking woman with three children was attempting to pack them away. One child was on her hip, howling. One was in a buggy, wrestling with the restraining strap. The third was attempting to help, but had just dropped a carton of eggs on the ground. Lynda could swear that she heard them smash, although she was much too far away. But it seemed that every other noise had stilled: the howling, the rattle of trolleys, the conversations around her.

  It was Larissa. She was sure of it. Lynda looked around her, aware of the perspiration already beading across her upper lip. She could not lose this girl, could not even lose sight of her – but she had to go back to the car for the cream shoe. Without it, she might not be able to convince this girl that she had seen her flee, that she understood her terror. That she wanted to help her.

  That she needed to save her son.

  Lynda dumped the bag of clothes beside a litter bin. She didn’t care if they were stolen by the time she got back: she could run a lot faster without them. She hurried out of the mall, breaking into a run as soon as she reached the car park. It had filled up in her absence. People were circling, waiting for spaces. All the shops were offering special deals for the weeks leading to Easter. Suddenly, shoppers had become very cagey with their money. She reached her car and yanked open the passenger door.

  ‘You leavin’, Missus?’ she heard.

  A car hovered just behind her, its hazard lights blinking. Lynda didn’t waste time replying. She reached in behind the seat and grabbed the single shoe. She stuffed it into her handbag, locked the car and pressed the alarm fob. The tail lights blinked twice.

  ‘No need to be so rude!’ she heard a voice call after her. ‘Snooty bitch!’ But she didn’t care. She raced back to the supermarket, her heart hammering. She was still there. Thank God. The girl was still there. It was Larissa, wasn’t it? The similarity was too striking to be a coincidence. There was only one way to find out.

  Pulling the bag of clothes from its spot beside the litter bin, Lynda walked quickly into the supermarket. The line at Larissa’s checkout had lengthened. Lynda took a basket from the pile at the door and made her way to the aisle that led directly to her. She flung items at random from the shelves into the basket. She didn’t care what she bought, as long as the line led her to Larissa. Now all she had to do was wait.

  As Lynda approached the checkout, she glanced at her watch. Almost lunchtime. Would the girl be due a break, she wondered. If so, that would be a perfect opportunity to buy her a cup of coffee and speak to her away from supermarket prying eyes.

  Lynda was last in the queue. She prayed that no one else would join it. She needed to speak to Larissa on her own, to see her reaction. She was prepared for the girl to run, too. She placed the items from her basket carefully onto the belt and smiled at the girl, noting with relief that her name badge was clearly visible on her uniform. There it was, in black and white. Larissa.

  ‘Hello, Larissa,’ she said, and pushed the packets of spaghetti and penne along the belt towards her. ‘My name is Lynda. You won’t remember me, but we’ve seen each other before.’ She glanced over her shoulder. But no one else had joined the queue.

  The girl smiled. ‘Hello,’ she said, her accent obvious even in that one word. The ‘h’ almost guttural, the vowels foreshortened. ‘Here?’ she said, scanning the packets. ‘We see each other here, yes?’

  Lynda shook her head. ‘No, Larissa. Not here. Last night. Out on the street. The weather was very bad.’

  The girl blinked. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I stay home on last night. Bad storm.’ And she continued to concentrate on her work. But her face had paled and her hands weren’t as certain as they had been.

  ‘Larissa,’ Lynda said gently. ‘I want to help you. You are not in any trouble. I just want to talk.’

  Larissa looked up, her lip trembling. ‘Please,’ she said. ‘Go away.’

  ‘Have coffee with me now. I promise I will go away then if you want me to. It’s lunchtime. Take your break,’ Lynda urged. She reached into her handbag and withdrew the tip of the shoe, just enough for Larissa to recognize it as hers. The girl looked as if she was going to be sick. Lynda felt sorry for her. ‘It’s yours, isn’t it?’

  Larissa nodded, bit her lip. Even if she had lied, her face would have given her away.

  Poor kid, Lynda thought. ‘I’ll wait for you outside. We’ll go to Bernie’s coffee shop. I promise, all I want to do is help. Half an hour of you
r time, that’s all I ask.’

  Larissa put the ‘closed’ sign on the checkout and signalled to someone Lynda couldn’t see – she was afraid to turn around, in case Larissa disappeared from sight.

  ‘We go now,’ Larissa said. She pulled a fleece from a shelf to the left of her chair and led the way to the front entrance. She did not speak again until she and Lynda sat at a table in the coffee shop, facing each other.

  ‘What would you like?’ Lynda asked.

  ‘Coffee.’

  ‘Two coffees, please,’ Lynda said to the waitress who hovered.

  ‘It’s lunchtime,’ the waitress said impatiently. ‘There’s a cover charge.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Lynda. ‘Bring us two coffees and two sandwiches, please.’

  ‘What sort?’ Her tone was cross now.

  ‘Cheese,’ said Larissa.

  ‘Two cheese, please.’

  The waitress disappeared.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked Larissa.

  Lynda noticed her nails were bitten. Up close, her skin was rough, pock-marked. She wore no make-up today: no rivulets of mascara ran down her cheeks. She searched Lynda’s face, her blue eyes cloudy with anxiety. She had begun twisting a cheap ring around her thumb.

  ‘I was driving the car that you almost ran into last night,’ Lynda said. ‘I could see how frightened you were and I drove around the streets looking for you, but I couldn’t find you. The only thing I did find was this shoe.’

  ‘You are the mother, yes, of the boy?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lynda, her heart sinking. ‘I am the mother.’

  The waitress returned and placed the cups of coffee on the table. Liquid sloshed out of each of them, pooled in the saucers. Any other time, Lynda thought . . . She waited until the sandwiches were put in front of them before attempting to speak again. But Larissa got there first.

  ‘I am not prostitute,’ she hissed suddenly, her eyes lighting up with anger.

  Lynda didn’t have to pretend to be surprised. ‘I never thought you were! Not for a moment.’ She leaned closer to the girl. ‘But that was my home you were in, and something frightened you. You are not the one in trouble. My son is. But before I can punish him, I need to know what he did.’

  ‘You do not punish him,’ she said, shaking her head.

  ‘Yes,’ said Lynda, forcefully. ‘Yes, I will. My husband and I are agreed. My son has behaved badly. He will not get away with it. That’s how it is in our family. You do wrong, you get punished.’ From nowhere, the thought came. Well, not everyone gets punished. Danny got away with it. But that’s not how things would be for Ciarán.

  Larissa looked at her, her expression uncertain.

  ‘He said you would not,’ she dropped her eyes. ‘That you never punish. That he is golden boy.’

  Lynda felt sick. ‘What did you call him?’

  ‘Not me,’ Larissa said. She sipped at her coffee. ‘Him. He called himself that. Golden boy. Apple of your eye.’

  Apple of our eye. No point in pretending. Robert’s mother. Emma. All those years ago. Lynda shook away the memory.

  ‘Listen to me, Larissa. No matter how much we love him, no matter how “golden” he thinks he is, if he . . . if he hurt you, he will pay for that. But he remembers nothing. You have got to tell me.’

  Larissa stood, pushing her chair back. ‘See? Remembers nothing? And you believe him? You believe that?’ She leaned down, her face pushed right into Lynda’s. ‘If he hurt me? You do not forget rape, I think.’

  Lynda drew back, shocked.

  ‘See?’ the girl persisted. ‘Already you do not like the truth. You do not come to punish – you come to protect.’ She leaned over, so quickly that Lynda wasn’t fast enough to stop her. She yanked her shoe out of the handbag on Lynda’s lap. ‘This is mine,’ she said and turned to leave.

  ‘Wait!’ cried Lynda. She grabbed Larissa’s arm. Her elbow caught the coffee cup and it fell to the ground and shattered. Cloudburst of coffee. White shards everywhere, like the morning of the Homer Simpson mug. A lifetime ago. Heads turned, watching them.

  ‘Tell me where it happened.’ Lynda’s voice was a whisper. Something had begun to stir in her memory. Something that was struggling to come to the surface.

  The girl looked puzzled. ‘Where it happen?’ She pulled her arm free. ‘In your house. The house where you see me running.’

  ‘Sit down. Please.’ Lynda could hear the entreaty in her own voice. The waitress glared at her, dustpan and brush already in her hands. ‘Leave us, please,’ Lynda spoke more sharply than she had intended. She pulled a twenty euro note from her purse. ‘Here, that should cover it. Now, please, give us some privacy here. We won’t be long.’

  Surprised, the waitress scooped up the shards of china and quickly ran a cloth over the floor. Then she made herself scarce, tucking the note into the pocket of her uniform.

  ‘I know it was my house,’ she said, quietly. ‘I know it happened. I believe you, Larissa. I saw how you ran away, how terrified you were.’ She leaned closer, blotting out the other faces in the cafe. ‘I just need you to tell me where in my house.’ She stopped, and prayed.

  ‘Upstairs,’ Larissa said. Her voice was harsh. ‘Upstairs in your son’s bedroom. He take me there to smoke a joint.’ She paused. ‘I want to stay downstairs, but his friend, he was too drunk and too noisy. So, your son take me upstairs.’

  Lynda looked at her. One final, desperate hope. ‘Just answer me one more question, please.’

  Larissa nodded. ‘One more. Then I go.’

  ‘What colour was his hair, the boy who took you upstairs?’

  Larissa looked at her as though she was stupid. ‘What colour?’ she repeated.

  ‘Yes,’ said Lynda. ‘It’s very important. Please.’

  She shrugged at the obvious. ‘Golden boy. Blond hair. Like mine.’ She pointed to her head, as though afraid that Lynda might not understand. Lynda could see that she was puzzled. Stupid woman, she could almost hear the girl thinking.

  ‘Thank you,’ whispered Lynda. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Why you thank me?’ Her expression was bewildered.

  ‘For telling me the truth,’ said Lynda. She scribbled her mobile number on a piece of paper. ‘Take that. Please, keep in touch. This boy will be punished – and not by me. By the police.’

  Larissa’s alarm was palpable. She shot out of her chair. ‘No!’ she cried. ‘I tell police it never happen! Go away! Leave me alone!’ And she ran out of the cafe, knocking into tables and chairs as she fled. Lynda let her go. She knew where to find her – and right now, she had other, more urgent things to see to.

  Lynda drove fast. Up the hill, past the roundabout. For once, she didn’t care about speed limits, Guards, getting caught. That girl, Larissa, had been telling the truth, no doubt about it. She pulled into the driveway, tyres squealing against the still wet surface. To her relief, Robert’s Jeep was there. Thank God, he was home early. She stumbled out of the car and rummaged in her bag for house keys. She couldn’t find them. Her hands seemed to have stopped working, the fingers frozen and clumsy.

  In desperation, she upended her handbag onto the front step and spilled everything out, not caring. Then she had difficulty fitting the key into the lock. Too impatient to try again, she pressed the bell and kept her finger there. She could hear the ring echoing throughout downstairs. She swept everything back into her bag, jamming in the purse that refused to fit.

  Through the frosted glass she was able to see Robert make his way down the hallway. Robert and not Jon. Not Ciarán. Just Robert. She almost wept with relief. She pushed the door just as it was opening.

  ‘Hey!’ said Robert. ‘Steady on! You nearly knocked me over!’

  ‘Are you on your own? Have the boys come back?’ She was breathless.

  Robert looked at her in surprise. ‘No. They’re not here. I’m way earlier than I should be. Why? What’s wrong?’

  ‘The girl. I found her.’

  It took him a couple of second
s to get it. Lynda tried to breathe more evenly.

  ‘The girl from last night?’ he said. His voice was filled with alarm.

  ‘Yes. Her name is Larissa. She works in Superquinn. At the checkouts.’ Lynda stopped. ‘I spoke to her, found out what happened.’

  ‘Take your time,’ Robert said. ‘As it happens, we have all night. Ciarán has just phoned to say that himself and Jon wouldn’t be home tonight. He said they were going to a party, that we could always talk tomorrow. He was aggressive, Lynda. We had a row and he hung up on me. Now he’s not answering his phone.’

  Lynda slumped against the kitchen wall. ‘Jesus, Robert. Let’s sit down. You have to listen to me! Just stay with me while I try and work this out.’ She tried to still the hammering of her heart.

  ‘Take it easy,’ he said. ‘You’re shaking.’

  She took off her coat and draped it over one of the kitchen chairs, then she sat, leaning her elbows on the table. ‘The girl, her name is Larissa. She’s eastern European, I think – I didn’t ask. Just heard her accent. I showed her the shoe.’

  Robert placed a mug of tea in front of her. ‘And?’

  ‘She admitted it was hers. Seemed absolutely terrified. I told her she wasn’t in trouble, that Ciarán was the one to be punished.’ She stopped. Tears threatened.

  ‘Go on,’ said Robert, gently.

  ‘She didn’t believe me. Said my son was a “golden boy” and I’d protect him, not punish him.’

  Robert said nothing for a moment. Then, ‘A reasonable fear, in the circumstances.’

  ‘But she wasn’t talking about Ciarán.’

  Robert looked startled. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘It was Jon. Jon who took her upstairs. Jon who raped her. She called Ciarán “the friend downstairs”. The one who was so drunk and noisy that Jon brought her upstairs to get her away from him.’

  ‘How do you know?’ asked Robert slowly.

  ‘I asked her what colour his hair was. She said blond. Said that he called himself Golden Boy.’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ said Robert. He looked stricken. ‘What the fuck is going on here?’