‘Not quite. Not quite the last.’ McLoughlin stared at her. ‘Not the last at all.’
Her face was suddenly very pale. Even her lips were bloodless. ‘What do you mean? What are you saying?’
He didn’t reply.
‘Michael, please, tell me what you mean.’ A tremor ran through her body. She made as if to stand, but he put out his hand and pushed her back into her seat.
‘I’m saying that I saw Fitzsimons after you left. I watched you and Patrick Holland leave. Then I broke into the shed. Fitzsimons misjudged me too. He thought I was going to save him. But I didn’t. I did, however, save you. I cleaned your fingerprints off the tape. And I, unlike you, couldn’t bear to leave those photographs of Mary in Fitzsimons’s tomb. So I picked them up and took them home. I’ve kept them ever since. They’re in a safe place. So you see, Margaret, you don’t need to explain anything to me. I know already what you did.’ He took her hand. ‘I’ve thought of you every day. I’ve dreamed about you. I’ve talked to you. There’s a poem I came across recently. Its first lines are “Stay near to me and I’ll stay near to you, As near as you are dear to me will do.” That’s how I feel about you, Margaret. I have been near to you for the last ten years. As near to you as I am now.’ He lifted her hand and kissed it. Then he held it close to his cheek. ‘The one thing I don’t understand,’ he said, ‘is why you are here. It’s not safe, you know. It wouldn’t take much to put you at the scene that night.’
She opened her hand against his cheek and stroked it. ‘That doesn’t worry me any longer. At the time I thought I did the right thing. All I wanted was revenge, punishment, to destroy him as he destroyed Mary. But it didn’t stop there. I have been destroyed by it too. Every time I eat I think of how he died. Every time I drink I think of how he died. Every time I stretch out at night to sleep I think of the cold of that concrete floor. I know what he suffered.’
She stopped. The air was perfumed with jasmine. She thought of the Latin. Per fumare. By means of smoke, incense, to take away the smell of the dead.
‘It was my decision to kill Jimmy Fitzsimons. Mine and mine alone. I don’t want anyone else to suffer. I had to wait until it was safe for Patrick. He’s dead now. None of this can touch him. But can it touch you? I don’t want you to be damaged by what I did. It wasn’t your crime. It was mine.’ She slid her hand down his face, down his chest, on to his thigh. Then she reached for the bottle of wine. She filled his glass. She filled hers. She lifted it to her mouth. She drank. He watched her throat. He wanted to kiss it. ‘I’ve made a decision, Michael. It’s taken me a long time. I’ve been putting it off for years. Sometimes when I was feeling brave I’d think I could do it. Then the bravery would slip away and I’d turn my back on it. But I can’t any longer. I can’t go on hiding. In Australia, here, anywhere. I want to be free of Jimmy Fitzsimons. I’m trapped by him. It’s as if I, too, rotted away in that house near Blessington. It’s as if I, too, was stretched on the rack of his suffering.’
He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. He took her wrist. He could feel her pulse beating against his fingers.
‘Don’t.’ His voice came out as a whisper. ‘Please don’t.’
‘I want to ask you if you’ll come with me. I’m going to hand myself in to the police. I’m going to plead guilty to murder. I will accept the sentence of the court. I will accept whatever form of justice is administered. And that will be that.’
‘No!’ he shouted. ‘No!’ He put his arms around her. ‘Don’t do this. Not now. You’ve no idea what prison’s like. It’ll destroy you. It’s not some kind of a holiday camp, no matter what people say. Look, Margaret,’ he grasped her shoulders, ‘go back to Australia. No one knows you’re here. Leave tomorrow. I’ll come with you.’ He could see it. The two of them. Sitting together in the evening. Talking about their day. He could get some kind of job. Security, maybe. Anyway, he’d have his pension. They’d be fine. It would be a new start for both of them. They could leave all this behind. All the darkness, the sadness, the misery. ‘It’s over. It was a long time ago.’ His voice was pleading. Begging.
‘But it isn’t over, Michael. Not for me. My life is meaningless like this.’ She put her hands on his shoulders and pushed at him. ‘I ran away years ago when I was pregnant with Mary. It was a mistake. I should have stayed and faced the consequences.’ She caught his face between her hands. ‘And I know what prisons are like. I worked in them for years. And believe me when I tell you life in prison is a cake walk in comparison to my life now. I’m doing the right thing. Will you come with me?’
He couldn’t see her now. Tears smeared his sight. He tried to speak but the words caught in his throat. He wanted to hold on to the dream of their shared future. A little house in a garden filled with lush greenery. A beach stretching towards the horizon. Gleaming white sand, sea of a blue that denied description. And warmth, not from the sun that burned above them but from their closeness, their intimacy, their friendship. He couldn’t bear to think she would take that away.
‘Please, Michael. I need you. There’s no one else. I have no one else. Please. Do this for me.’ She put her face against his. Then she held him tightly as he sobbed.
They sat together in the garden. The light faded. They lay back in the old deckchairs. No words passed between them. He took her hand. I saw you, he thought. I saw you that night. I have never stopped seeing you. Ever since then I have seen you every day, every night. He stared up at the stars. He listened to the sound of her breath. Soon she was asleep. Her head lolled to one side. He took off his jacket and laid it over her. He covered her hand with his. Then he, too, slept.
Praise for Julie Parsons
Mary, Mary
An admirable, beautifully conceived work of a dark, compelling and original new voice’
Sunday Independent
‘Takes the psychological thriller to places it rarely dares to go . . . a first novel of astonishing emotional impact’
New York Times
A great thriller-writing talent’
Daily Mirror
‘Parsons is a writer to watch’
FRANCES FYFIELD
The Courtship Gift
A mesmeric portrait of obsession and evil’
Sunday Telegraph
‘A skilful, high-quality suspense thriller in the Ruth Rendell mode’
The Times
‘Haunting, evocative, compelling!’
JEFFERY DEAVER
Eager to Please
‘Brilliant. A star in the making’
MINETTE WALTERS
‘A clever, disturbing novel and, while comparisons with Rendell and Walters seem inevitable, Julie Parsons has her own distinctive voice’
Sunday Telegraph
‘Parsons refreshes the palate with her elegant, imaginative style’
The Times
The Guilty Heart
‘It is a remarkable book, quite outside the usual run and ambitions of crime fiction’
Independent on Sunday
The Hourglass
‘Another great accomplishment, even more deftly written . . . it has a gripping underlying menace that makes it a spell-binding read’
Irish Independent
I Saw You
JULIE PARSONS was born in New Zealand and has lived most of her adult life in Ireland. She has had a varied career – artist’s model, typesetter, freelance journalist, radio and television producer – before returning to write fiction.
Mary, Mary, her stunning debut novel, launched Julie onto the literary scene in 1999. She is also the author of The Courtship Gift, Eager to Please, The Guilty Heart and The Hourglass. I Saw You is a sequel to Mary, Mary.
Julie lives outside Dublin, by the sea, with her family.
Also by Julie Parsons
Mary, Mary
The Courtship Gift
Eager to Please
The Guilty Heart
The Hourglass
MY THANKS TO
Det.
Sgt Kevin Morrisey and Det. Sgt Martin Donohue, An Garda Síochána, Garech Onorch a Brun, Paul Bowler, Rory O’Riordan, Partners at Law, Dr Edward Rabinowitz and Jessica Johnson for their generous help with aspects of the story.
Alison Dye for her unfailing support and first reading of the manuscript.
Joan O’Neill, Phil MacCarthy, Sheila Barrett, Renate Ahrens Kramer, Cecilia McGovern and Cathy Leonard for their helpful criticism and the tea, biscuits and sympathy.
Julie Crisp for her keen eye for a coincidence and her rigorous editorial sensibility.
And Emily Moriarty for making me laugh.
First published 2007 by Macmillan
This edition published 2008 by Pan Books
This electronic edition published 2012 by Pan Books
an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited
Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR
Basingstoke and Oxford
Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com
ISBN 978-0-330-53926-5 EPUB
Copyright © Julie Parsons 2007
The right of Julie Parsons to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
The extract from ‘Hinterhof’ is quoted by kind permission of the author.
You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
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