Lynda reached over and took his hand. ‘I’ll tell you what’s going on. It’s Danny, Danny is what’s going on. I don’t know how, but the two of them have to be linked, in some way. Jon and Danny. This . . . this spiral has all started to happen since Jon moved in in January. Three months ago. Think about it.’
Robert looked disbelieving. ‘Now, steady on,’ he said. ‘I can accept that Danny is behind the garden stuff but—’
‘Listen to me!’ Lynda’s voice was urgent. ‘I know it sounds bizarre, but I haven’t lost my mind. Trust me. Remember the letters?’
Robert nodded. ‘Of course.’
‘Go get them. Let’s go through them again. With a fine-tooth comb. You said they were “off the wall” and I agreed with you when I read them. But we weren’t reading them right. Danny was warning us. Those letters are full of clues, they have to be.’
He still looked doubtful. ‘I’ll go and get them,’ he said, but she knew by his tone that he was humouring her.
When he left the kitchen, Lynda rummaged in her handbag. She pulled out her mobile phone and scrolled down to Ciarán’s name. She pressed the call button and prayed.
Robert reappeared at the kitchen door as Lynda waited for Ciarán to answer. She held up a hand, making sure Robert wouldn’t speak, as the phone clicked on to Ciarán’s message minder. She kept her voice light.
‘Hi, Ciarán, Mum here. Sorry I missed you. Can you give me a call when you pick this up? I’ve a nice little windfall for you here. Talk soon.’ She snapped closed the cover of her phone. She looked up. Robert hadn’t moved. He was still standing there, just looking at her.
‘What?’ she said. Her mind was buzzing, all her senses on high alert. So many things were beginning to make sense.
‘The letters,’ he said. ‘Danny’s letters. They’re gone.’
They sat, trying to piece together everything that had happened since January. Slowly, like river mist beginning to clear, markers began to stand out. Now Lynda was suspicious about everything.
‘Just think about it for a minute,’ she said. ‘The sensor light not working on the morning of the flat tyres? Jon had stayed over the night before. Remember how I couldn’t understand the way the light worked afterwards? He’d switched it off to let Danny – or whoever – do what they needed to do in the dark. He had to have.
‘And it was exactly the same in the back garden each time something happened. I kept trying to figure out why the light didn’t wake me – thought I must be going mad.’ She stopped, remembering something. ‘And – the morning the garden was destroyed, Jon was the one to come out onto the deck and find me. He was awake because he was the one switching on the lights again.’
She couldn’t slow down. Her mind was making connections, finding links between the improbable and the impossible, illuminating everything.
Robert still looked sceptical.
‘I know I’m right,’ insisted Lynda. She took his hand. ‘And my ring. How else could my ring have disappeared and then suddenly turn up again? You and I don’t lock our bedroom door, Robert. We never did and we lost the key for the door almost as soon as we moved in. We’re trusting people. We believed in Jon.’ She stopped and drew breath. ‘I know that there are pieces of the jigsaw still missing but we’ll find them. In the meantime, Jon is bad news. I don’t know how Danny is pulling his strings, but he is. I’m going to find out. This family is not going to go under.’
Lynda felt filled with a rage she couldn’t describe. It was as though she was suddenly made of steel.
And relieved, at the same time. She wasn’t over-reacting, or over-sensitive. Or over-forgetful. This was a real and tangible threat, and one that existed under her roof.
‘I’m going up to search Jon’s room,’ Lynda said. ‘Maybe there’ll be some clue as to where he comes from, who he is.’ She stopped, and looked at Robert. ‘I don’t even know his surname, do you know that?’
Robert frowned. ‘Didn’t he mention it? I know I asked him.’
‘Can you remember?’
Robert shook his head. ‘It was something ordinary and Irish, like Murphy. Or maybe Power, or Phelan. Something like that, I think. I probably wasn’t paying much attention. I’ll come upstairs with you. God alone knows what you might find.’
Upstairs, Robert tried the handle of Jon’s room. ‘It’s locked,’ he said. ‘We don’t have a key, do we?’
‘Yes, we do now,’ she said. ‘Hang on.’
Lynda went into her bedroom and rummaged for the key in the drawer of her bedside table. It was time to tell Robert. No more secrets. He was looking at her, his expression curious.
‘I got this from a locksmith,’ she said. ‘Seeing as how Ciarán always kept his door locked. And it fits all the internal doors.’
Robert looked at her in surprise. ‘When?’
‘When I searched our son’s room, last summer. I was trying to find out why he was so angry.’
‘I see.’ Robert was taken aback. ‘And did you find anything?’
‘No,’ said Lynda. ‘Though I did find out that I didn’t like myself very much.’ She fitted the key into the lock and turned the handle.
All around the room, Katie’s dolls and teddies had been replaced, as though they had always been there. Robert opened the wardrobe door. It was empty.
As if in a final, mocking farewell, the bed had been stripped. The sheets and pillowcases were folded neatly, the duvet doubled over.
It was as though Jon had never been.
Tonight’s the night, Wide Boy tells the watcher.
What’s more he has insisted that they meet early. Moving things up a gear now, he says. The tyres and the garden rubbish worked out well; the tortoise turned out to be inspired. But now it’s time for the real showdown. This is what we’ve been leading up to, he says, lighting his cigarette behind his cupped hands.
He’s a dirty smoker, the watcher thinks. Clouds of smoke hover around him; his clothes are always speckled with ash. He notes, too, that Wide Boy’s index and middle finger are almost black with nicotine stains. His hair looks greasy tonight and he smells as if he hasn’t washed in a few days.
The watcher recoils slightly as Wide Boy moves closer. Even the cold air outside the pub isn’t enough to dampen down the smells of unpleasantness that seem to halo around him. His breath, his clothes, his hands – it’s as though something dark clings to him. Amy would say that he stinks, frankly.
And it’s yet another pub. Wide Boy will not meet in the same place twice. The watcher hopes that this will be the second to last meeting. Tonight, to plan. Then, next time, to review and pick up his money. And then he’s outta there. Your man has really started to give him the creeps. A fishing boat on Lough Conn and some fresh air have never seemed more appealing than they do tonight.
Right, Wide Boy says, back inside the pub again. He settles himself at the table, pint of Guinness in front of him. Here’s what’s next. The watcher doesn’t like what he’s hearing. Breaking and entering was never his style. Doin’ damage to a garden is one thing, but actually stepping inside a house? Even when Wide Boy explains that it’s only technically breaking and entering, he’s not convinced. Of course he’s not. He knows the law. If he’s caught, it doesn’t matter that he hasn’t stolen anything: he’s still technically a burglar. No can do, the watcher tells him. Absolutely not. At the same time, he is aware of a creeping, uncomfortable sensation, as though he is being dragged slowly towards a precipice. First the top of the garden wall was the deal; then the garden itself; and now the inside of the house? He feels as though he is being sucked into something, that control has somehow been stolen from him while he wasn’t watching.
Then Wide Boy goes all steely on him. Oh really? he says. Then I’ll have to turn over your recordings to the cops; particularly the one that has you giving the thumbs-up to the camera. Remember? The one where you’re vandalizing a back garden? He shrugs. It’s my civic duty.
The watcher could kick himself for that one bit
of stupid vanity. What had he been thinking? He can feel his mouth go dry. There’s no danger of you being caught, Wide Boy goes on, taking a good slug of Guinness. You’ve logged the movements yourself. Mrs L is never at home on a Friday morning. A smile flickers. She teaches gardening, remember? House is empty until lunchtime. All you have to do is make a bit of a mess. Here he smiles broadly. ‘Show that the citadel has been stormed. Know what I mean?’
The watcher feels a wave of nausea that stops close to where he swallows. Should he just cut and run? Take the risk that Wide Boy would never want to explain where he got those images from? He’s been paid two grand already. But Wide Boy seems to read his mind. He leans closer. ‘There’s another five hundred in it, on top of the three grand I already owe you. And the job’s risk free. Safe as houses.’ And he laughs at his own joke.
The watcher is tempted. Take Amy abroad on a holiday as well. They haven’t been away to the sun together in donkeys’. And Wide Boy has delivered on all the other stuff he promised: a good hiding place, no unpleasant surprises, even the sensor light disabled. Maybe it would be all right.
And so he agrees. Reluctantly, but nevertheless. Wide Boy nods and closes his eyes briefly. It’s an expression that says he never had any doubt.
Today’s Tuesday. They agree on this Friday, three days’ time. No point in waiting for another week, although WB tries to push him on it. A little more air between the tortoise Event and this one might have been better, he says. Particularly as he has other things in the mix as well, ramping up the volume. The watcher doesn’t rise to this bit of bait and he is adamant about pressing ahead. He wants to get it over with.
He leaves the pub before Wide Boy. His head is buzzing. If he could find a way out of this, he would. He doesn’t like all this breaking and entering crap.
Doesn’t like it at all . . .
9
‘I’VE JUST HAD a text!’ Robert called. ‘It’s from Ciarán!’ He raced downstairs and into the kitchen, his face alight with relief. ‘He’s okay. Says he’ll be home tonight.’
Lynda locked the patio doors behind her. Everything in the garden had stayed the same. There were no calling cards this morning. There was some comfort in that. ‘Ring him, quickly,’ she said, ‘maybe the phone is still on.’
‘I’ve tried,’ said Robert. ‘It’s off. But at least we know he’s safe.’
Lynda looked at him. ‘How?’ she said. ‘How do we know that? He’s been gone nearly twenty-four hours. Jon could be using his phone. We don’t know what’s happening.’
Robert dragged one hand through his hair. ‘Let’s not assume the worst, okay? If he doesn’t come home by this evening, then I’ll go to the Guards. Nobody would take it seriously if we reported anything now. A teenager, missing for one night? Particularly after what happened,’ he added. ‘I’d rather not have to go into that. How would we ever prove that it wasn’t Ciarán?’
Larissa. ‘Jesus,’ said Lynda. ‘Not even two days ago. I’m going to call Katie again,’ she said, suddenly. ‘I want her home, here. Safe with us. She’ll be back from Toulouse today and Jon knows her address.’ She looked at Robert, could feel fear begin to gather. ‘Now I’m being paranoid, and I know it. But I want her where we can see her.’
Robert nodded. ‘I agree. Let’s take no chances. Call her. I can go and collect her. One of us should stay here, though.’
‘Robert, I couldn’t stay here on my own,’ Lynda said. ‘Just the thought of it terrifies me.’ She shivered. ‘Let me go to Galway – the drive will give me something to do, something practical. Do you mind?’
Robert shook his head. ‘Not at all. I’m happy to stay. I’d welcome a visit from that little fucker.’ He paused. ‘Though somehow, I think we’ve seen the last of Jon. He’s done his damage. But are you sure you’re up to the drive? It’s a good three hours.’
Lynda nodded. ‘Yeah. It’ll make me focus.’ She called Katie’s mobile. It went straight to message minder. ‘Katie, it’s Mum. When you get back to your flat from the airport, stay put. I’m coming to get you. Your dad and I both want you home. Love you and talk later.’
Lynda snapped her mobile shut and took her handbag off the chair.
‘I’ll tell her about Jon, face to face. I want to get on the road straight away. But let me know the minute you hear anything from Ciarán. Or from Jon.’ She was about to say, ‘Or from Danny,’ but changed her mind. ‘My mobile will be on the whole time.’
Robert kissed her. ‘You drive carefully.’
‘I will. And you take care: don’t assume, by the way, that we’ve seen the last of Jon – or Danny. I’ll be back sometime tonight.’
As Lynda pulled out of the driveway, she was assaulted by the realization that her whole life had been transformed, turned inside out in less than forty-eight hours. Nothing was stable any more. Or safe. Or predictable.
Only one thing was sure.
She would do whatever it took to save her family.
Just as she pulled up outside Katie’s flat, Lynda’s mobile rang. ‘Robert,’ she said. ‘Any news?’
‘He’s here,’ said Robert. ‘Safe.’
Lynda rested her head on the steering wheel. ‘Oh, thank God. Thank God for that. Is he okay?’
‘In a manner of speaking,’ said Robert. ‘He’s angry, aggressive and, I would say, coked up to the eyeballs. But he’s here. Up in his room. I’m keeping my distance. Oh, and he refuses to talk about Jon.’
‘Don’t let him out of your sight. I mean, don’t let him go out, Robert. Keep him there.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Robert’s voice was grim. ‘He’s staying right where he is.’
‘How did he look?’
‘I’ve told you.’ He sounded puzzled.
‘No, I mean, how was he dressed?’ Lynda suddenly, urgently, needed to find out.
‘Like a Harlem thug, if you must know. Those awful baggy jeans, displaying half his arse. Shoelaces undone. And a back-to-front baseball cap, with some sort of obscene message on it. Can’t remember exactly. Why? What does it matter?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Lynda. ‘When I work it out, I’ll let you know. But you’ve got to make sure he doesn’t leave the house.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Robert again. ‘When he calms down, he has a lot of explaining to do. The other night, for starters.’
‘No, wait until I get back,’ said Lynda. ‘I don’t want him stamping off in one of his rages. If he does, we’ll never get to the truth.’
‘We’ll be waiting. Have you reached Katie’s yet?’
‘I’ve just pulled up outside this minute. We’ll be back on the road in half an hour.’
‘Okay. Take it easy on the way home. Neither of us has had much sleep.’
‘I will. See you later.’
Katie was waiting. Lynda saw the airline tags still attached to the suitcase and felt sorry for her daughter. What a homecoming. As soon as she saw her mother, Katie started to cry. ‘What’s going on, Mum? I don’t understand. What’s happened to Ciarán?’
Lynda hugged her. ‘It’s okay. Your dad’s just called. Ciarán’s home, safe. There’s a whole lot we don’t understand, either. Let me tell you what I do know.’ And Lynda heard herself tell a story that sounded somehow unreal, even to her own ears. It felt insubstantial, full of coincidence and guesswork. But Katie was angry.
‘I can’t believe you let him have my room,’ she said. ‘I can’t believe you did that.’
Lynda was shocked. ‘But he spoke to you, and you said it was okay. I spoke to you, and you said it was okay.’
Katie’s eyes lit up with fury. ‘Okay that he moved in. Why would I care about that? I was going to be away, anyway. It didn’t matter to me.’
‘But they told me you were fine with it – they just had to put away the “girly stuff” and keep it safe?’
Katie was indignant. ‘That’s Ciarán talking. When would I ever call my things “girly stuff”? They told me Jon was staying in Dad’s office, where uncle D
anny stayed, that time he was ill. Or when we thought he was ill.’
Something Katie said triggered a memory. ‘They didn’t come here, did they? Just before you went away? After a football match?’
‘No,’ said Katie. ‘I’ve never met Jon. And I only spoke to him on the phone that one time. Why?’
Lynda shook her head. ‘All these lies. I can’t keep up with all of them. God knows what the two of them got up to that night.’ Katie was looking at her, puzzled. ‘Look, don’t mind my ramblings – lots of things have started to fall into place. I’m sorry about your room, Katie, so sorry.’ Lynda sat on the lumpy sofa and accepted the cup of coffee Katie handed her. ‘This guy Jon is bad news. I wish I’d never set eyes on him.’ She sipped, grateful to avoid her daughter’s eyes. ‘He arrived out of nowhere. We don’t even know his last name, for God’s sake.’
‘What?’ said Katie. ‘You gave somebody a home and you didn’t even know his name? What are you like?’ Her face was incredulous. Lynda could feel embarrassment prickle along the back of her neck. How easy she had been to take in; how easy they both had been. Had Danny taught them nothing?
‘I know who he is,’ Katie was saying. ‘He told me, that night on the phone.’
Lynda looked at her. ‘Are you serious?’ Something like hope began to nudge.
‘Yeah,’ said Katie, slowly. ‘In fact, now that I think of it, he made a point of it. Said he was the sweetest man I’d ever know. We laughed about it.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Lynda, puzzled. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Sweetman,’ she said. ‘His name is Sweetman. Told me he came from Waterford.’
He wants to be found, Lynda thought suddenly. He wants us to know who he is, where he came from. And the trail, she knew, would lead them straight back to Danny.
Where it all started, over a quarter of a century ago.
Quickly, she called Robert.
‘You be careful,’ he said. ‘I don’t like this.’
‘I’ll keep in touch,’ said Lynda. ‘I can’t not follow this up. Don’t you see? This is all part of the game. He wants us to see how clever he’s been.’ She pulled the map towards her. ‘We’re going to Waterford, as soon as I have a sandwich and a shower.’
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