by Laura Elliot
* * *
Billy is on his knees weeding the borders of his lawn. The helmet and dark glasses gives Elena a degree of anonymity but she still increases her speed in case he recognises her.
She stops a short distance beyond the boundary wall surrounding Woodbine. A small gate leading into a field is almost hidden by an overhanging hedgerow. Cautiously, checking her surroundings, she opens the gate and wheels the bike along a narrow trail by the side of the field. It curves around the back of Woodbine and the broken boundary wire has been trampled underfoot by those who investigated the scene of her crime.
The ice house is still standing. A police cordon, broken in places, sags from supporting poles. Elena pushes the door open and shines her torch into the interior. Nicholas’s blood forms a black, grotesque map on the floor. Even when it is cleaned away, that residue of violence will have permeated the old stone. She reaches into the shelf where the folder had been hidden and feels only dust, grit, cobwebs. Henry probably took the folder away on Nicholas’s instructions. It must now be in his possession. She checks the shelves and hollowed spaces. There must be something here that will help her to fight for custody of her children. Otherwise, why the compulsion to come here?
Eventually, she is forced to accept that she has had a wasted journey. A gust of wind whips the door open. She recoils from the dust that it stirs and coughs at a dry tickle in her throat. A flicker of white catches her eye. A mouse scurrying to safety, she thinks, but quickly realises it is a piece of paper. An envelope. She picks it up and brings her torch closer to it. The handwriting is instantly recognisable; she remembers dropping this envelope when Nicholas entered the ice house. It must have lodged in one of the crevices before the wind could blow it free. Her hand trembles as she studies the address. This is the reason she is here. She can feel Amelia’s presence around her. Amelia’s breath on her face, her hand gently pushing her from the ice house, where it could be dangerous to linger any longer.
She blinks as she emerges into daylight and makes her way through the trees. Woodbine is visible from this vantage point. Nicholas is at work, and the old house is empty. She had always felt like a stranger there, but now, forbidden to go near it, she wants to touch its walls, walk its floors, as she did so often with Grace or Joel in her arms. Nicholas had broken her so easily and she had blamed Woodbine for her own self-loathing and the obliteration of her identity. Finding herself again, shattered in heart but whole in person, is restoring her confidence but fear can still force her to a sudden standstill. She continues on without stopping until she reaches the end of the field, then wheels the bike onto Kilfarran Lane.
As she cycles past Billy’s house she glances across to see if he is still in his garden. Startled, she pulls on the brakes, unsure whether she has imagined his crumpled figure on the ground. She abandons the bike outside the gate and runs towards him. As she approaches, he tries to rise, then collapses again. His pallor reminds her of putty. Beads of sweat stand out on his forehead.
‘What’s wrong?’ She is unsure whether he can hear her. ‘Do you need an ambulance? Where’s your phone, I’ll call emergency.’ Despite this crisis, Elena’s self-survival reflex has kicked in. Even if Billy won’t recognise her in the helmet and dark glasses, she can’t risk a phone call being traced back to her. The ambulance driver might ask her name and how she came upon the scene. If she is caught breaking her barring order, she will have lost all hope of visiting her children.
‘No need,’ Billy gasps. ‘Too much exertion.’
‘I don’t think so.’ She helps him to sit up. ‘Whatever is wrong with you, it needs to be checked out.’
His legs wobble when he tries to stand. He leans heavily on her as she leads him to the stump of a nearby tree. He removes his mobile from his pocket and hands it to her. She dials emergency and explains his symptoms: dizziness, shortness of breath, excessive sweating.
‘I need another stent,’ Billy says when she finishes the call. She has to bend close to hear him. He sounds resigned, unsurprised.
‘Don’t worry,’ she reassures him. ‘An ambulance will be here shortly and the paramedics will have everything they need to look after you.’
He sways and closes his eyes. If he collapses she will have to resuscitate him. She learned how to do the procedure in Australia. She and Zac took classes together with a view to training as lifeguards. How long ago that seems. Another world entirely. To her relief, she hears the ambulance siren in the distance.
‘They’ll be with you in a moment.’ She needs to leave now. ‘Everything is going to be all right.’
‘Thank you, Elena,’ he says.
His eyes are open, his dulled gaze focused on her. She pulls off her dark glasses, hunkers before him. ‘Are you going to tell Nicholas I was here?’
‘I wouldn’t tell that weasel the time of day. You go on, now. I’m a tough nut to crack.’ He forces a smile and gestures towards the gate.
Head down, feet pumping, she cycles in the opposite direction to the ambulance.
* * *
Later, alone in her room, she tries to decipher the postmark on the envelope. It is smudged and dusty but with the help of a magnifying glass, she eventually makes out the name Rannavale. Google Maps shows its location. A small town in West Kerry. She holidayed in Dingle once with her mother. A dolphin jumping, mountain peaks hidden in cloud, magnificent scenery, vast, wild and expansive. Picturesque villages, cattle meandering along rutted lanes, scattered farms; finding the sender in that huge area would be like searching for a needle in a haystack. Her earlier elation fades. That is how she is these days, either feverish or apathetic. She holds the envelope up to the light as if there was a name in invisible ink that will be revealed to her. She is no wiser when she slips it into a drawer and goes downstairs to prepare an evening meal for Rosemary.
Later, as she is about to fall asleep, she remembers where she has seen the handwriting. A scrawl on the back of a photograph, that was it. The woman with the shaggy white-blonde hair and the cool, appraising, green stare. Her life in New York chronicled. Somehow those flourishes suit her.
Thirty-Seven
Four days later, Billy is out of bed and sitting in an armchair when Elena visits him in hospital.
‘Two new stents,’ he says. ‘That makes four altogether. Piece of cake.’ He sounds proud enough to brandish a ‘heart recovery’ trophy at her. ‘I’m to be discharged tomorrow.’
‘I was very worried about you.’ Elena perches on the edge of his bed. ‘You look a lot better than the last time I saw you.’
‘You saved my life.’
‘I doubt it. Like you said, you’re a tough nut to crack.’
‘Enough about me. How are you?’ He lowers his voice, as if asking such a question might upset her.
‘I’ve been better, as you can imagine.’
He nods, his expression grim. ‘I don’t know you well, Elena. But this much I do know. There was a reason for whatever happened in that ice house. You’re a kind young woman and Nicholas is a hard man. I never liked him, and that’s a fact.’
‘You must be the exception to the rule, Billy. Most people find him utterly charming, including the police.’
‘John didn’t.’
‘John?’
‘Amelia’s father.’
‘Ah… the flowers.’
He nods. ‘Amelia used to leave them there all the time. After she died, it seemed right to carry on the custom.’
‘Why did Nicholas always remove them?’
‘He could never forgive John for trying to break up his relationship with Amelia.’ Billy scratches the nape of his neck. ‘Nicholas doesn’t forgive easily, even if the person who crossed him is dead. I always hoped you’d drop in for tea with the young ones.’
‘I’m sorry, Billy.’
‘No need to apologise. It wasn’t difficult to see that he was changing you.’
‘How could you tell?’
‘You reminded me of Amelia before she died. Y
our demeanour, the way you dressed. And the way you walked, like there was lead in your shoes, yet I’ll hazard a guess you were a vibrant lassie before you met him.’
‘Was Amelia?’
‘She was a terrified little girl after the accident that took her poor mother. Wouldn’t go near water for love nor money. Jodie, my wife, used to look after her. For months afterwards, she’d just sponge Amelia down and the poor child would be trembling like a leaf. Terrible it was, for a while, but between the two of us we brought her through it – and John too.’
Elena imagines Amelia as a child. A skinny little girl, trembling at the sound of running water. She blinks, her eyes glistening, but tears are only a distraction.
‘She grew out of it, eventually,’ says Billy. ‘She was a lively kid growing up. Me and Jodie never had children so we used to call her our “almost daughter”.’
‘You must have known her friends.’
‘She used to hang out with Jayden and Mark. Can’t remember their surnames now. The old memory, you know. Then, of course, there was Leanne. A right pair, they were, always up to some devilment. They used to put on concerts. They were great dancers but not so good at the singing. Not that that stopped them. I remember they loved the spicy girls.’
‘You mean the Spice Girls?’
‘Whatever.’ Billy shrugs. ‘Then there was that time when, I swear to God, the pair of them looked like Dracula’s brides. White faces and net stockings, that kind of thing. Then Leanne dropped out of art college and left for New York.’
‘Is that where she still lives?’ Elena’s spirits sink, but Billy is shaking his head.
‘Last I heard she’d come back and was living somewhere out West Kerry way.’
‘Rannavale?’
‘Could be, though that name doesn’t ring a bell. It was some headland or other. Named after a horse, far as I remember. Amelia was married to that weasel by then and I don’t think they were much in touch with each other. Nicholas made sure of that. How Amelia stood for it, I’ll never know.’
‘But she didn’t, Billy.’
‘True enough.’ His brow furrows. ‘Strange to think that mother and daughter went the same way, God rest their souls.’
‘Would you recognise this handwriting?’ Elena shows him the envelope. ‘Could it belong to Leanne?’
‘Could be,’ he says after studying the writing. ‘But I wouldn’t swear an oath on it.’
‘Do you have a surname for her?’
‘What is it now?’ He taps his forehead. ‘Like I said, my memory’s shot to hell these days. As soon as I try to remember names, they run away from me… ah, yeah, Ross – Rossiter, that’s it. Leanne Rossiter. Her father was a martyr to the drink. Took him in the end, it did.’ He pauses, wary of intruding. ‘Any word on when your case will go to trial?’
‘The arraignment will take place in three months.’
‘How are you pleading?’
‘I did it, Billy. There’s only one way to plead.’
‘Did you tell the police he was violent?’
‘They didn’t believe―’
She stops abruptly when the patient next to Billy curses loudly as he tries to leave his bed. His right leg is in plaster and his struggle with his crutches adds to his colourful vocabulary. For an instant, he looks as if he will topple over. On regaining his balance, he swings round on his crutches and says, ‘I’m going to the shop for a paper. Can I bring you back anything, Billy Boy?’
‘Nothing, thanks, Red. I can hardly close the door of the locker for the amount of biscuits and chocolates in there.’
Billy introduces her. Red is a biker, bearded and heavyset, his ponytail as grey as his fuzzy beard. He broke his leg when he took a tumble off his Harley.
‘Did Amelia confide in you?’ Elena asks when Red has left the ward.
Billy frowns, shakes his head. ‘I wish she had. I’d have taken him apart if I’d known for sure. Did you ever tell anyone how he treated you?’
‘I was so ashamed and frightened, also, of what he would do. I still am.’
‘Will you come and see me when I’m discharged?’
‘I’m not allowed near Kilfarran Lane. I took a chance the last time. I might not be so lucky the next time.’
‘Then we’ll meet somewhere neutral. I want to talk to you about something but this is not the place for it.’
He stops as a nurse wheeling a blood pressure monitor walks towards him.
‘I’ll have to ask you to leave,’ she says to Elena. ‘Visiting time is over.’ She briskly pulls the screens around the bed, her stern expression warning Elena not to linger.
Thirty-Eight
Rannavale is exactly as Elena imagined. Flower baskets above shop doorways, a pub with white wrought-iron furniture out front. A busy petrol forecourt with a convenience store attached. The post office is located in the centre of the main street, a nondescript, grey building, quiet at this time of day.
‘What can I do for you?’ The woman behind the grid has a protruding lower lip and a pale-blue stare that tries to place Elena in some recognisable context. Unable to do so, she waits for her to speak.
‘I’m searching for the sender of this.’ Elena slides the envelope under the grid. ‘It was posted from here by someone called Leanne Rossiter.’
The woman’s lower lip drops fractionally as she studies the postmark. ‘That was posted years ago.’
‘This is all I have to go on. It’s important that I contact her. Does anyone by that name come in here regularly?’
‘Are you from the gardai?’ Her eyes narrow to a squint.
‘Absolutely not. But I need an address and I’m hoping you can help me.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t give out confidential information about our customers.’
‘Please, it’s vital―’
‘Let me stop you there.’ She shakes her head, apologetically. ‘Even if I knew anyone called Leanne, I wouldn’t be able to help you. But I can’t recall anyone by that name using this post office. We’re a small community and I know everyone. Perhaps the person who sent the letter was passing through. We get a lot of tourists here.’
Elena is not surprised. Rannavale has a postcard quality that seamlessly unifies the past with the present. Unable to tease any further information from the postmistress, she continues along the main street, stopping now and then to ask the same question of people passing by. No one is able to help her.
At the end of the main street, the sound of rushing water draws her towards a bridge. Down below, a river freewheels over stones. On the riverbank a heron, head erect, appears to be staring directly at her. A dog runs towards the bridge, yellow-coated and sturdy. A male dog, who plonks his front paws against the bridge wall and barks at the heron. Elena tries to guess the breed but there’s too much of a mix in him to decipher. His owner has shrunk into old age and walks slowly with the help of a stick.
‘Good day to you, Miss.’ He touches a cap pulled low over his brow and stops beside the dog. ‘I see you’ve met Custard.’
‘He’s a fine dog.’
‘He’s like his name, soft and yellow-bellied.’
‘He looks fierce.’ Elena stretches tentatively towards the dog and fondles his ears.
‘Just shows, doesn’t it?’ The man nods. ‘Appearances can be deceptive.’
‘I agree.’ Her mouth twists her smile away.
‘You’re a stranger to these parts.’ He states this as a fact, not a question, and makes no attempt to hide his curiosity. ‘A Dublin lass, from the sound of the accent. Are you visiting or staying?’
‘Visiting. I’m trying to find someone called Leanne Rossiter but I don’t have an address for her.’
‘Let me see now.’ He lights a pipe, his movements slow and certain, his fingers still nimble. The dog, clearly knowing he won’t be moving for a while, lies down on the bridge and closes his eyes. ‘Did you check with Kitty at the post office?’
‘Yes. She wasn’t able to help me.’
‘It’s on the postmark.’ She shows him the envelope. ‘A friend told me she’s living on a peninsula called after a horse. Is there anywhere like that around here?’
‘The nearest peninsula is Magdalen’s Head. Nothing horsy about that.’ He puffs vigorously on his pipe and observes her through a pall of smoke.
‘Is there a riding stable nearby?’ She can’t give up on Leanne Rossiter yet. ‘Could there be a farm or a pub with a horsy name?’
‘Not to my mind, there isn’t. But, wait a minute, now.’ He removes the pipe from his mouth and studies the bowl. ‘We call it Mag’s Head for short. Your friend wouldn’t have got it wrong and called it Nag’s Head, by any chance?’
‘I’ve no idea. How far away is it?’
‘About twenty miles out the road. It’s a lovely spot but lonely, I always think. Now that I remember, there’s a woman living there called Annie Ross, if that’s any help to you. The only reason I know her name is because she came to me once looking for a soldering iron. I used to run the hardware store here. Retired since then. It’s been turned into a Chinese, so it has. I didn’t have what she wanted and that was the only time I’d any contact with her.’
Leanne Rossiter… Anne… Annie Ross. It’s too vague to be taken seriously, yet Elena is filled with a tingling elation. That sense, again, that she is being guided by Amelia. ‘I’ll check her out. How can I get there?’
He checks his watch. ‘There’s a bus leaving here in about an hour. It runs by the foot of the headland. Most of the houses on Mag’s Head are deserted. Too much wind and too little to do for the young ones. You should have no bother finding her place. That’s if she’s still there.’ He lifts his cap to her and prepares to move on. ‘Good luck with your search.’