“There are no bad places on the Other Side, Dorrie dear. Your mama is simply concerned for your welfare and that’s why she’s troubled. She says she wants to see you settled and happy. She wants nothing more than that you find peace here on the earthly plane.”
Dorrie took a hanky from her handbag, unable to stop the tears. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I must be such a disappointment to her.”
“Your mama loves you, Dorrie. She was never disappointed in you. And don’t feel ashamed of crying. Crying is not a sign of weakness. It’s a sign that you’ve been strong for too long. It’s time to let go.”
“It’s . . . it’s just that I . . . I miss her so much. And I blame myself because if I . . . ”
“I know. She’s sorry she had to leave you so soon. But she says you must stop blaming yourself for what happened. It was not your fault. Everyone passes from this earthly plane at precisely the right moment. The length of time we get to spend here is preordained by God. We humans have no say in the matter. So you see, dear, you cannot take the blame for your mother’s death. No one is to blame.”
Dorrie mopped her tears, feeling a little better as she listened to the wise words and gentle voice of Mrs LeVeck.
“Tell me about her, dear. You were talking to her when we met, weren’t you?”
Dorrie felt her cheeks grow hot.
“Oh, don’t feel guilty. It’s good to talk to those who’ve passed over. I talk to my late husband all the time.”
“You do?”
“Yes, but I make sure I don’t do it in public. People might think I was losing my mind, which mightn’t be so surprising at my age.”
She laughed and Dorrie laughed too. Edith offered the plate of cakes.
“Here, take one. I sense you haven’t talked about your mama for a long time. Now might be the time to start.”
Mrs LeVeck was right about that. Dorrie couldn’t remember mentioning her mother to anyone throughout her whole adult life.
“You think it is?” she asked selecting another cake, uncertain. “It’s just that . . . just that I’m afraid if I talk about her something terrible will befall me.”
Edith shook her head. “No harm will come to you. Believe me. You must keep her memory alive. It strengthens the bond between you.”
That sounded reasonable. She knew she could trust this woman, despite sitting in such weird surroundings with the skeleton Catrina looking on. If Mama could be in this room with the two of them it meant that she, Dorrie, was safe and in good hands too.
“I could never talk about Mama because I was too afraid,” she began, not really wanting to touch on those memories she’d locked away for so long.
“And why was that, dear?”
“When . . . when I was little I was warned never to mention her or he’d . . . ”
“It’s all right, Dorrie. He’s not here now. You’re safe.”
“Or he’d . . . he’d beat me. And lock me in a dark room.” Dorrie broke down again. “After she died I’d call out for Mama, thinking she’d come back. I . . . I didn’t understand death you see. Oh dear, I cried so very much. She was always there to protect me from him but then it was only him and me. One time I screamed out for Mama so much in the night I thought I’d die . . . a-and . . . h-he beat me so badly I never . . . never said the word ‘Mama’ again.”
“Was there no one else to take care of you but him?”
Dorrie shook her head. “No . . . no one. His sister would come to clean the house, but sh-she was no better than him.”
“You poor, poor thing,” Edith said. “You suffered as a child, Dorrie, but you don’t have to suffer now. You’re an adult now. The past is over.”
“That’s so easy to say, Edith, but the past is never over. It haunts me everywhere I go. I . . . I try to get away from it but . . . but it follows me.”
“Tell me about the good times . . . when it was just you and your mama?”
Dorrie brightened a little.
“Oh, she was so, so beautiful, Mama. She had hair like silk and skin like roses and cream. I loved it when it was just the two of us. She used to read me stories and tuck me in at night and play games with me. Best times we had were at the seaside. I loved looking at the waves, but I was too afraid to go in. Mama was never afraid. She loved swimming . . . was a very good swimmer. That’s why, when . . . ”
“Yes, when?” Edith coaxed.
“When he came along . . . he ruined everything.” Dorrie wrung her hands in despair, face hardening with pain. “I hate him for what he did to Mama and me. Really hate him.” She got up suddenly. “I can’t talk any more. I’m sorry. I really need to go now.”
“So soon?”
She looked at her watch. “Yes. It’s coming lunch-hour at the guesthouse and I don’t like being late.”
Edith got up too. “As you wish, my dear.”
She led her back down the dim hallway and unbolted the front door. “Perhaps you’ll come again, now you know where I live.”
“Y-Yes.”
Dorrie stepped out into the cold daylight, taking in a welcome gulp of the fresh sea air.
“Yes, perhaps I will,” she lied. “Thank you for the tea, Mrs LeVeck . . . I mean Edith.”
Edith made no reply. Simply smiled her placid, enigmatic smile.
“Mind how you go, dear,” she said, resting a hand on Dorrie’s wrist again. “Be like the tree in winter, Dorrie. It sheds its leaves . . . lets go of the past. Be like the tree. Let go . . . make way for the new . . . make way for love. It’s not as difficult as you suppose. You’ll never experience the beauty of life until you let go of the hate you carry for your abuser. Don’t let him win. He’s taken enough away from you. Forgive him and set yourself free. God bless you now.” With that she shut the door.
Dorrie practically ran from the house, more anxious than ever. She desperately needed to escape the panic building inside her.
She dashed down the promenade, looking wildly about her for the means to end this nightmare.
Then, at last, she saw it. A sign that read THE SAILOR’S ARMS.
Soon her troubles would be over. Soon she could forget everything.
She hurried towards the sign and the door of the public house. Once inside those walls she’d find the means of her release.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Samaritan Centre, Killoran
Rita-Mae drew her car to a halt outside the Centre for her afternoon shift, wound-up and anxious. The sleeping pills from Dr Sweeney had given her the “death sleep” she’d craved, keeping the black thoughts well outside the pen. But come morning, when she opened her eyes, they were back, like a swarm of bats battering their black wings against her, berating, admonishing, chiding her relentlessly, making her heart thump more loudly and the blood drain from her face.
The notion that Bram Hilditch had been in the house while she was out was uppermost.
The electrician’s date she’d forgotten. How had that happened? How could she have been so careless? When the notice arrived she’d pinned it in plain sight on the fridge door, so she wouldn’t forget.
You needed the medication and you needed to see the doctor that morning, the little voice of reason called out to her, striving to be heard. But that voice was fading, disappearing like sand down an hourglass, leaving only the empty, clamorous noise of rebuke.
The oversight with the meter reading had opened another door, and through it she could see that Bram Hilditch had not simply admitted the electrician, written her the note and left. No, he’d climbed the stairs – for whatever reason – and entered the box-room.
Why?
This question, now flashing like a danger signal, demanded an answer.
The sound of a far-off siren brought her back to reality and, of a sudden, she was conscious of the fact that she was sitting outside the Samaritan Centre with her car engine still running. She switched it off, checked the time, saw that she still had a quarter of an hour to go, and went back to her thoughts.
On her ret
urn from the doctor she’d found a clue.
A glaring, unmistakable clue.
At the top of the stairs on the first tread: a piece of potpourri, a bright pink petal simply lying there.
The intruder had dumped the bowl of dried petals on the box-room floor.
I did not go into that room after the police left because I was too afraid, she told herself, therefore I did not track it out.
The cops did not track it out either because I would have seen it after they left.
I would have seen it because it was of such a bright colour.
And had I seen it, I’d have lifted it and disposed of it right away.
I know I’d have done that, because I like things to be clean and in order.
Therefore, Bram Hilditch was in that room.
He was in that room.
What must he be thinking now?
What must he be thinking of me now?
He must think I’m mad . . . that I wrecked the room in a fit of rage. That I’m not the person he thought I was.
But he can’t ask me why outright because I would know he’d trespassed and then he’d lose face.
Oh God, what am I going to do?
She clasped her head, trying to stop the sludge of dark thoughts from pulling her under.
She tried not to weep. But the tears came anyway – the tears Harry hated so much to see. She couldn’t afford to break down. Not now. Not here. Not when she needed to remain strong for all the dear souls who’d presently be calling her via the Samaritan helpline.
Desperately, she rummaged in her handbag for a pill to calm her nerves, found one and swallowed it down.
Thought briefly about just driving off. Not doing her duty at all. Perhaps no one would phone in, and her absence wouldn’t be noticed. She could simply sign the register and leave. Nobody would be the wiser.
But she couldn’t do that, no matter how much she wanted to. Her volunteer work was the only thing that made her feel useful in this frightening world.
And, even if she were to drive away, where would she go?
There was a little wood she’d noticed on the outskirts of the town. Maybe she’d go there and sit with the squirrels and the bird-song, forget all the terrible thoughts multiplying in her head like wort weed.
But inevitably she’d have to return to the house she’d thought was a haven. Back to the house that was tainted now, whether by young Ryan Glacken or the stalker.
Back to a house she no longer felt safe in.
The less time she spent there, the better.
She saw Vivian-Bernadette’s letter in the drawer of the kitchen table. She saw the photographs the stalker had taken of her: the one that showed her combing her long tresses by the window of the box-room.
She wished now she’d never found that letter.
She wished she’d never opened it.
Curiosity killed the cat . . . but . . . but satisfaction brought it back.
She saw herself gather the pages together and shove them back in the drawer at the sound of Maud Gilhooley bobbing up her garden path that day.
Before . . . before . . . Maud was robbed and her budgie killed and her jewellery stolen . . . and . . . and before the awful Glackens had entered her life.
Oh, why did I have to go over there when I heard the sound of that football?
Why?
If . . . if I’d just ignored it and gone back into the house, none of this would have happened and I wouldn’t be in this terrible mess now.
All at once, through the snarl of recrimination, the sound of a door opening.
She peeped through her fingers and saw Blossom Magee emerging from the Samaritan Centre in her hat and coat.
I don’t want her to see me. Not now. She’ll see I’ve been crying and I’ll have to explain myself.
She tried to duck further behind the steering wheel.
She mopped her eyes and pretended to be fetching something from under the passenger seat.
Then: heels on paving, a tapping on the window and she was forced to look up.
There was Blossom’s pleasant face, bright as a flower, at the glass.
She wound down the window.
“Hello, Rita! I thought it was you.” A pause. “Are you all right, dear? You look upset.”
“Er . . . erm . . . Blossom . . . no, j-just a touch of a cold. Makes my eyes water.”
“I’m sorry. Maybe it’s best you go inside then. I’ve set out the tea things for you and some more of those cupcakes you like.”
“Y-Yes . . . maybe. Thanks, Blossom.”
She got out of the car, thinking Mrs Magee would take the hint and leave her to it, but . . .
“I’m so glad I caught you, Rita,” she said, dipping into her handbag. “Now, I brought this, like I promised. The Life of Saint Catherine of Siena.”
She passed her a booklet. On the cover was the image of a dolorous woman clutching a crucifix and a lily.
“That’s very kind of you, Blossom! Thank you. I look forward to reading it.”
“Oh, she was a wonderful woman, Saint Catherine. She spent her life giving to the poor and fasting.” Blossom gazed up at the sky. “I do not want food. There is a table laid for me in heaven with my real family.”
“Sorry?”
“Oh, not me, dear . . . that’s what Saint Catherine used to say.”
A few minutes later Rita-Mae was glad to be inside the Centre, having made her excuses to Blossom. The poor lady was under the impression that everyone believed in God as resolutely as she did. How could she know about the years of abuse that she, the Good Samaritan, had endured? A suffering so relentless that it had all but destroyed her faith in the Almighty.
She slipped the booklet into her pocket and hung up her coat, trying to focus on the work ahead.
There was something she’d forgotten to do at the end of her last shift: fill out a comment sheet for Viola – the thirteen-year-old who’d complained about being hit by her mother’s new boyfriend. The suicide of Kevin and the shock of the stalker calling her a second time that evening had overshadowed everything.
At the end of each shift members were required to record details of conversations they’d had with clients, so that other volunteers could cross-check their situation.
She went to the filing cabinet and pulled out the drawer to its fullest extent, going right to the back section. The folders in that part were thin, due to the rarity of first names beginning with the final letters of the alphabet.
In the folder marked V there were only a few entries. The first was marked VALERIE, the second one VINCENT. No sign of Viola. It must have been her first call. She’d have to start a new report.
But just as she was about to shut the folder she saw there was another set of notes inside a plastic pocket.
She drew them out.
It took her a while to appreciate what she was staring at. What was making her feel so faint she wanted to drop the papers, get in her car and go.
Across the top, a date written in green ink: 12 July 1985, and underneath it, a name weighted with so much portent it made her shudder.
Vivian-B.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Bram was heartened to see the lounge of the Royal Hotel deserted. At that hour, just after two, with the luncheon guests seen off and a lull before afternoon tea, it was the perfect time to be alone with his thoughts.
He made his way to a club chair by the window, having ordered an uncharacteristic Coffee Royale. Felt he needed that shot of brandy, given what he’d discovered in the box-room.
The view through the ceiling-high windows was a sight to behold – soft swathes of green outspread like velvet, flowing and eddying into rockeries of brightly coloured blooms. He always liked to sit in that chair and contemplate whenever his mind was troubled. Since the discovery of Maud’s jewellery box in Miss Ruttle’s possession – not to mention the issue of his mother’s health – his mind was very troubled indeed.
He noted a slight breeze tea
sing clumps of cat’s foot in the nearest rockery bed. They resembled invisible fingers sifting amongst the shrubbery, in search of something.
The image of Rita Ruttle searching through her next-door neighbour’s china cabinet, finding the jewellery box and stealing it was something he found very hard to accept – so hard in fact that it had kept him awake for most of the night. He’d have to confront her with the evidence. He dreaded having to do that. But there really was no other way around the matter.
The waitress interrupted and set down the coffee.
“Always nice to see you, Mr Hilditch!” she said.
“Thank you, Millie. This is not a leisure break, alas.” He tapped his camera bag, which sat on the adjacent chair, to quell her curiosity. “It’s work related, you understand.”
“Of course.” She smiled. “Your mother won’t be joining you then?”
“No, not today.”
He knew his single status and financial standing in the community put him in the category marked “eligible bachelor” and so made him an object of interest. But Millie was half his age, with a rather pushy mother who couldn’t wait to get her married off. At least with Her Grace in tow the waitress would never have had the nerve to be so forward.
He picked up his newspaper to give her a hint.
“Well, if you need anything else just say, Mr Hilditch.”
“I will indeed, Millie.”
The front page of the paper was dominated by a shocking photograph. It showed a dead man lying by the roadside, hands tied behind his back, head covered by a black binbag. Above it ran the headline: IRA CLAIM RESPONSIBILITY FOR “INFORMER’S” MURDER.
Bram sighed heavily. The Irish Republican Army. Would the horrors wreaked by that terrorist organization ever end? Fortunately, Killoran had been spared much of the bombing and shooting that had been engulfing the province since the early seventies. But there was a family – the Glackens – living not far from Willow Close, who had IRA affiliations. He’d never had dealings with them and hoped things would remain that way.
When he knew the waitress was out of sight he cast the paper aside, not wanting to be further depressed, and checked his watch.
Blossom Magee would now be seeing to Octavia. He was apprehensive about what lay in store for that kind lady and equally what was in store for him when he got home. But he’d no plans for returning just yet. Blossom said she’d be there for at least a couple of hours.
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