Mikey’s two blue eyes had filled up and he burst into tears, running over to his mother and asking her if the same thing was going to happen to him.
Martha had grabbed him and hugged him, burying his face in her shoulder before shooting a vicious look at her husband.
‘Why did you have to go upsetting the child?’
I didn’t mean to, he wanted to say. I didn’t mean to upset anyone. But I wanted the kids to listen to me, to really take it in, and I wanted you to realise that really awful things happen every day, really dreadful things and every day people wake up to these desperate things, desperate lives and we don’t have any problems like that, not really, not real ones. We’re great. We have a grand life. And I know you’re down and I know you’re tired, but just think of what that family is going through. We have it easy. We have a wonderful family. I love you and everything is fine.
But he hadn’t said anything like that in the end.
It was still raining. That was the first thing she noticed, after she opened her eyes and the dashboard came back into focus. The second was that her hands were not tied. Her feet were loose. She could run, if she wanted to. But did she want to?
It had taken them almost an hour to drive here, plenty of time for him to outline his plan, and for her to experience, for the first time, absolute despair.
‘You’re not as clever as you think you are, are you, Farmers-Wife? Didn’t your mammy tell you not to get into the car with strangers?’
‘You’re right.’
She had seen a programme about kidnapping once, on the Discovery Channel. The trick, the presenter said was to engage them in conversation. Remind them that you are human. It makes you harder to kill. So she tried questions, and even flattery. But as he outlined why he was there, she soon realised the advice had been useless.
‘Is the baby keeping you up much?’
The question had been like a slap. They were still driving at this stage and she hadn’t answered him, but an image of her youngest child had shimmered up from the hard shoulder. She could almost feel him, nestled into her shoulder, his fuzzy head fitting perfectly under her chin. Gentle sighs escaping from him as he fell asleep in the place where he felt most secure.
She knew she should put him down in the cot after every feed, it was a bad habit, letting him fall asleep on her like that. But sometimes, in the dark, she’d cuddle him for longer than was necessary. With his two demanding older brothers finally asleep, it was their only time alone, and despite the exhaustion she relished it.
‘And the eldest fella, how is the speech therapy going? Long waiting list where ye live …’
She had jammed on the brakes then, heard the beep from the car behind her, allowed it to drive past without acknowledging the flashing lights and angry wave. Blocked everything out except the facts about her family he was flinging in her face.
He knew everything about them. And it was her own fault, because she had told him. Written them all down, on that cursed website. Sealed their fate. And hers.
He directed her off the main road, down a country lane she didn’t recognise. Waited as she parked the car in a small clearing behind some trees.
‘You’ll wait here now, while I get things ready.’
She gave up on the Discovery Channel, decided to try belligerence.
‘And what if I don’t?’
‘If you don’t? Well then, FarmersWife – the words were elongated, emphasised – then I’ll come after your children. One by one. And I will hurt them. I know where to find them. You’ve given me quite enough information for that. How are the swimming lessons coming on, by the way? Every Wednesday, isn’t it? After the eldest is finished in school? Not many swimming pools around here. I’d find them easy enough. Or maybe I’ll wait till the little fella goes back for his six-week check-up …’
She cried then, and he waited almost patiently till she was finished. He didn’t seem to enjoy the tears. Just sat and watched, and waited.
Then laughed when she asked the obvious question.
‘Why are you doing this to me?’
The music jumped forward a decade. The Chilli Peppers. Now you’re talking.
Jim pressed down on the accelerator again. He’d checked on the herd in the upper meadow and made sure the cows down below had enough shelter from the heavy rain that was forecast. Now it was five o’clock and he was heading home. A half day. Martha had gone into town to do some shopping, her first day out since AJ had been born. His mother was minding the children. With any luck, he’d be home before her, get the dinner on. Cheer her up and then tell her his news.
For the fiftieth time that day, he reached into his breast pocket and felt the pointed edge of the envelope. It was going to be a mighty weekend. Two whole days and nights away. Dinner, a lie-in and a wander around the shops if she felt like it. And then the gig. Leonard Cohen, outdoors at the Royal Hospital. Martha was a big fan. He couldn’t see what all the fuss was about himself, but she loved him, had all his CDs, listened to them in the kitchen while she was clearing up. Gave out yards when she heard young ones singing Hallelujah, thinking it was just some ditty off The X Factor. Jim couldn’t tell one song from the other, but he’d be happy just going along and sipping a pint, seeing what the fuss was about. It was going to be a fantastic evening.
Jim knew how exhausted his wife was. He could see it in her every day, in the weary way she folded clothes, prepared dinners, wiped up spills and sank into the kitchen chair for forty minutes before getting up at dawn and doing the whole thing again. And since AJ had been born, it was like nothing he did was good enough for her. If he went shopping, he bought the wrong stuff. If he asked her what he should be buying, she accused him of leaving everything up to her. If he dressed the boys, he used the wrong clothes. Seriously, that was what one of their rows had been about, him using the black socks on AJ when she’d left out a carefully coupled pair of red. That one had escalated fairly quickly and ended with her flinging the socks at him and him accusing her of frightening the baby who was red-faced, roaring and barefoot in the bouncy chair on the floor.
But the weekend away would fix everything.
‘Why are you doing this to me?’
‘You don’t know?’
She shook her head, silently, as he lifted the gun, as if to show it to her, and laid it on his lap again.
‘You were too clever for your own good, sweetheart.’
He smiled, looked down at the gun, and then directly into her eyes.
‘You had me figured out. You’re a bright one, FarmersWife, I’ll give you that much. None of the others spotted it. But you did. It was just a little slip, DS instead of DD, but you picked me up on it. And then the thing about the ice cream … well. I can’t be expected to remember everything, can I? Every damn thing that gets written down. But you did. And I couldn’t risk you telling anyone else.’
Her brain whirring, she tried desperately to understand what he was talking about. There had been a typo, DD instead of DS, or maybe the other way around, something like that. MyBabba’s mistake maybe? She’d slagged someone about it anyway, and sent a PM. Hard to remember now, but there had been words, sent in the middle of the night when she was feeding the baby, exhausted beyond consciousness, her phone a glowing anchor tethering her to wakefulness and keeping him safe in her arms. She couldn’t remember exactly what she’d said. Something about ice cream? Nothing important anyway. Nothing worth remembering. And she couldn’t for the life of her understand what it had to do with this man.
Who he was, or why he was there. Someone had made a slip of the tongue, what of it? Sure, she did it herself the whole time. Mixed up words. Called the lads whichever name first came to her, whether it belonged to the baby, her eldest or Mikey, her darling middle child …
Mikey.
Her eyelids drooped and she allowed them to close. Mikey. She could still see him, the way he had looked that morning. Eyes red, nose running from the cold he’d picked up in playschool and had bee
n nursing miserably for three days. The virus had left him cranky and exhausted, his mood balanced on a knife-edge. He’d cried because she’d put the wrong socks on him, turned off the tap before he’d rinsed his teeth, poured cold milk instead of warm on his cereal. Mikey. She’d yelled at him in the end. Watched his small, snotty, feverish face crumble as she’d whipped the breakfast bowl away.
‘Don’t bloody eat it, then! Starve if you like, I don’t care.’
Oh, Mikey. Her little star. The softest one of them. The eldest adored his daddy, the baby was too young to think of her as anything other than food and warmth. But Mikey was all hers. Mothers didn’t have favourites. But Mikey was her special boy. And the last words she’d spoken to him had been angry ones. Oh, Mikey. You know I care …
Well, fight for them, then.
He had fallen silent now, the only noise in the car the muffled tap tap tap of the gun against his jeans. The drugs he had given her had been effective. She could feel her brain clouding over, her senses dulling. Her mouth was dry, her tongue thick. But Mikey. She kept her eyes shut for another moment. Focused on his face. And then jerked sidewards, pressing against the door with all her strength. She had bumped the car against the gatepost when she was nine months pregnant, clumsy and uncoordinated. Hadn’t told Jim about the accident, they couldn’t afford to get it fixed and she knew he’d fret if he thought she was driving around with a door that didn’t properly close. But sometimes things happen for a reason. Her shoulder hit rubber and kept on moving, she felt grass under her cheek and then she was up, stumbling then running, making the most of the second or two it had taken for him to realise she had gone. Branches brushed against her cheek and she narrowed her eyes, pushing them out of her way. She knew where she was now, the Reilly’s place was less than two hundred yards away. Declan would be in the top field, he always was at this hour of the morning, he’d hear her and he’d help her and she’d get away and she’d get back to them and …
The breath was knocked from her body as she fell heavily onto her stomach.
‘Very fuckin’ smart, aren’t you?’
A neat rugby tackle, he wasn’t even out of breath.
‘Bitch.’
He tugged on her hair and she felt her face lift from the ground.
‘Don’t want to leave a mark on you, now, do we?’
He put his mouth against her ear, and she flinched from the hot, wet snarl.
‘DO WE?’
She wasn’t a small woman. But he was able to pick her up with surprising ease and carry her back to the car again. Leaving only a clump of flattened grass to show how hard she’d tried.
*
Lost in thought, Jim realised he had missed his turning and was heading the wrong way, back in the direction of the town. He cursed, and slipped the tractor into reverse. There was a large ditch on one side of the road, it was a hoor of a place to have to do a three-point turn but he had no choice. If he kept going, he’d be all the way to Main Street before he’d get a chance to turn and the traffic would be animal at this time of the evening. And he needed to get home before his wife or there’d be no surprise.
He depressed the accelerator again. The engine revved and the wheels spun as they hit a patch of mud. Wedged now halfway across the road, he pumped the brake and hit the clutch again, easing away from the ditch in tiny delicate movements.
Just then he heard the noise of another car, carried on the breeze and fast approaching. Jesus. He was inches away from the bottom of a hill and would be almost invisible to the vehicle until it was right on top of him. All other worries forgotten, he turned on the engine again and began to inch the tractor forward and then back, forward and back, wheels skittering tightly across the narrow road
Within seconds, the car was beside him and ground to a halt just inches away. He let the engine cut out again when he saw who was driving. The sergeant. Oh, God. How many penalties points did you get for stalling a tractor in the middle of the road? Right at the brow of a hill. Jesus. He felt the sweat prickle under his armpits. Martha would kill him.
The guard approached him, hat on straight, eyes steady. Jim leaned out of the cab.
‘Howerya, Sergeant. I’m awful sorry …’
But there was something unfamiliar in the man’s eyes.
‘Shift the tractor in off the road, will ya, Jim? There’s a good man. I’ll talk to you then.’
A thud in his belly. What the hell? He deserved a bollocking, not this gentleness. Almost without thinking, he started the engine again and righted the tractor in three swift accurate moves. The guard had taken his hat off, was holding it in his hands by the time Jim quelled the engine.
‘Are you going to give me penalty points for that?’ But his voice was too high, trying too hard to be cheerful. The guard looked at him.
‘I was trying to get you on the mobile earlier.’
The phone was in the glove compartment. He took it out, five missed calls, three messages. Jesus. He hadn’t been able to hear it over the music.
‘Will you hop down from there a minute? You need to come with me now.’
He heard those words and then he heard accident, and car and body. But he didn’t want to hear them and he didn’t want to move. He wanted to sit where he was and turn the music up and let the voice and the guitar and the keyboards and the drums lift him far, far away, back to the days when his only worries were getting a few bob together to buy an album and a lift from his father as far as the town.
He didn’t want to be here, listening to a guard talking about Martha’s body. The words ‘taking her own life’ were used, but what sense was there in that? Martha never took anything for herself.
He wanted to turn the music up, up, up until it filled his head and his brain and took him away from here and the guard, and his talk of secluded areas, hosepipes and cars. But instead he turned the engine off. Pocketed the key. And jumped down from the cab, and into his new life, where everything that had ever been good had simply ceased to be.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
DOES ANYONE EVER FEEL LIKE ITS ALL TOO MUCH?
MammyNo1
Just having a down day I guess. Was up all night with DS, I think he’s teething. Lil cheeks all red and he’s drooling like mad. Had to bring him downstairs at 3am in case he woke DH and DD. He finally fell asleep at 7 and then she woke up and she’s been bouncing around ever since *yawns*. I can’t keep my eyes open! Need to go shopping later but the thought of dragging the two of them with me is killing me. Ah just having a moan
TAKETHATFAN
WE ALL HAVE THOSE DAYS. I TRY TO GET TO MY MAMS WHEN IT GETS TO MUCH
Cerys
God yeah. Most days TBH. Especially since my youngest was born, it’s been manic. But you know … it gets better. Have a good cry. I did, earlier. It helps! And kick something that won’t hit back. I find DS1’s football very useful! Stay in touch x
LimerickLass
Actually I was talking to my doctor and he said that loads of women get PND even months after the birth? I was telling him how like tired I was and everything … he was brilliant, told me to get loads more rest and that maybe he’d even consider giving me tablets if I need them. At the moment I’m dropping LO over to my Mum’s most days so I can get a big dinner and a bit of rest! Everyone needs help.
MyBabba
That sounds like an awful night! Sorry to interfere but can DH do anything to help? He’s still off work isn’t he? I mean, each to their own but it sounds to me like you could do with a hand today
MammyNo1
Thanks girls. Don’t think that’s a runner I’m afraid. DH not in great form. Think dragging the two of them around LIDL would finish him off altogether! Ah I’ll just have another cup of coffee
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
‘’Scuse me, please. ’Scuse me.’
Arching her back to make her bump as prominent as possible, Claire wriggled her way past three buggies, four oblivious texters, an elderly woman with a massive shopping trolley a
nd a pair of lost tourists, staring hopelessly at a map.
‘’Scuse me!’
She made it off the Luas just before the tram doors slid shut and emerged, panting, onto the platform. It had started to rain. Again. Digging her hands into the pockets of her jacket she tried to remember why she’d neglected to bring her overcoat to the funeral. There were two things you could almost always depend on when it came to Irish funerals. It would always be wet and it would always be cold. The service of remembrance for Miriam Twohy hadn’t been an exception. The church had been packed, steam rising from the coats of the huddled mourners, the raindrops beginning again, spattering the crowd just as the body was removed from the church to begin its final journey.
Feeling her nose prickle, Claire raised a hand and pinched her nostrils, stifling a sneeze. She didn’t have a tissue in her handbag and the pockets of her grey suit, its once-baggy jacket straining over her middle, were empty of everything bar her frozen fingers. Oh, yeah, that was why she hadn’t worn an overcoat. She didn’t own one that fitted.
Christ, she was tired. Sniffing, she shoved her way past another buggy and then stopped short. Enough whingeing, girl. She rubbed her eyes and thought back to the frozen face of Fidelma Twohy as she walked slowly down the aisle of the church, her shoulders ironing-board stiff behind the coffin of her only daughter. Her husband had shuffled one pace behind her, tears streaming down his reddened face, a damp and dirty hanky balled up in his hand. Beside him Gary had pushed their grandchild in a cheap pink buggy, the little girl sucking on a lollipop, oblivious to the tears she was bringing to the eyes of everyone who saw her. Claire straightened her own shoulders and began to walk forward again. Get over yourself. There are bigger problems out there.
Taking her hands out of her pockets, she walked past Busáras and looked up at the pedestrian lights located right outside Dublin’s Central Bus Station. Paused for a moment, noted the red man and then plunged forward into the traffic, joining the rest of the city’s foot soldiers in their mad dash to dodge the slow-moving cars and get to the other side. Only parents of small children, or German tourists, waited for the lights to change and Claire didn’t, as yet, fall into either category. Her breath coming heavily now, she slowed her pace as she reached the other side. Fact of the matter was she had plenty of time before her next appointment. But she had been rushing since the alarm had gone off at seven o’clock that morning and her body had become accustomed to moving at speed.
Can Anybody Help Me? Page 12