by Laura Elliot
Elena tries to think of something to say but polite conversation seems like an impossible ask after the confession she has just made.
‘Do you get lonely here?’ She is curious about this woman who lives this hermitic existence with only her daughter for company.
Annie shakes her head. ‘I don’t have time for loneliness.’ She offers no further information. They reach the foot of the headland and drive past Lily Howe’s Grocery Provisions. The shop is closed, the light off.
‘Lily has the coffee you ordered,’ Elena says.
‘Thanks. I’ll call tomorrow and pick it up.’
‘Does anyone else shop there except you?’
‘Enough to keep her open. Appearances can be deceptive.’
‘You’re the second person to say that to me today.’
‘Then it must be true.’ Annie smiles and drives onwards.
When they reach Rannavale, Annie supports her into the clinic’s waiting room. Kayla tags behind, the doll in her arms. Elena will be seen shortly by the triage nurse.
‘Goodbye.’ Annie shakes her hand, then bends to scoop Kayla into her arms. ‘They’re very efficient here. You’ll be discharged in time to catch the bus back to Dublin.’
‘Bye bye, Elena.’ Kayla holds on to her doll as she reaches out to kiss Elena. In doing so, she pulls the top of her mother’s jumper out of alignment. A medallion at Annie’s neck is briefly visible before she pulls her jumper back into position. A stained-glass butterfly, wings raised in flight. Then she’s gone, her child in her arms, leaving unanswered questions trailing in her wake.
Her demeanour had given nothing away when Elena blurted out her confession. No curiosity, no flicker of sympathy or understanding, no fear, even when she laid a knife on the table as a warning. Annie Ross. Leanne Rossiter. On the bus travelling back to Dublin, Elena visualises the medallion. Branded on her retinas, it has the glistening vibrancy of an oil painting that has yet to dry.
Such butterfly jewellery is common, she thinks as she travels through the night. Forged in silver and gold, gilded and burnished – or, sometimes, those iridescent hues are stained in glass. Her mind darts at that same fluttering speed back to Woodbine. Nicholas’s foot on her neck, pressing hard as he demanded to know why she’d dared to remove one of the butterflies from the apple tree.
* * *
‘Why didn’t you take my call or return it?’ Rosemary is waiting for her when she finally arrives back. Her stern expression warns Elena not to lie. Blurting out the reasons that had drawn her to the headland, she tries to make Rosemary understand why a few sentences on a crumpled piece of paper had convinced her that a stranger called Leanne Rossiter would have known about Nicholas’s violence.
‘So, did you find out anything?’ Rosemary demands. ‘Apart from the fact that you met someone called Annie Ross, who insisted you’d made a mistake?’
Elena shakes her head, knowing it would be useless to tell her about the medallion.
‘What if you’d been unable to get back in time for your group therapy tomorrow?’ Rosemary asks. ‘You are my responsibility until you go to trial. Break any of your bail conditions and you’ll put my professional reputation at risk. It’s suffered enough already. I don’t need Nicholas to spread any more rumours about my incompetence.’
‘I’m sorry, Rosemary.’
She is unmoved by Elena’s contrition. ‘Without evidence, you’ll simply come across to the judge as petty and vindictive if word of this gets out.’
‘Is that how you see me?’
‘No. But my opinion isn’t important. The judge is the one you need to impress.’
Forty
Two cyclists and a lone trekker are sitting on beer barrels outside Lily Howe’s Grocery Provisions, enjoying coffee and Lily’s home-made scones.
‘Well, Annie, did your visitor find you?’ Lily asks when she enters the small shop.
‘She did. But I wasn’t able to help her.’
‘Poor girl. She came a long way to find that out,’ Lily says. ‘I was afraid she’d get lost when the mist came down.’
‘Then you won’t be surprised to hear she fell and sprained her ankle.’
‘She’s not the first and she won’t be the last.’ Lily sighs, unsurprised. ‘Was she okay?’
‘She stayed with me until the mist lifted. Then I dropped her into the medical centre.’
‘That’s your good deed for the week done. How’s the work going?’
‘Good. I finished the Charmeuse order. Manged to get it off on time, too.’
‘Beats me how you do it.’ Lily reaches under the counter and hands her a packet of coffee beans. ‘That online stuff is far too complicated for my old head. How you manage to run a business and you stuck up on that headland with only sheep for company is beyond me.’
‘The power of the internet, Lily. I keep telling you to get a computer.’
‘Ah, sure, why would I be bothered at this stage of my life? I’m done with newfangled notions. Are these the beans you want?’
‘They are indeed. Thanks for ordering them.’
‘Any time. Have a coffee on the house. What would you like? A cappuccino, americano, latte?’
‘You say you’re done with new newfangled notions yet you handle that machine like a qualified barista.’
‘A barrister? What are you on about now, Annie?’
‘Never mind.’ She laughs and sits on the high stool in front of the counter. ‘An americano would be lovely.’
One of the cyclists enters the shop with two empty coffee mugs.
‘Magnificent scenery,’ he says to her. ‘Do you live around here?’
‘Nearby.’ She nods, non-committally.
* * *
‘Are you an artist?’
‘No.’
‘Annie is more the techie type,’ says Lily. ‘But I paint.’ She points to a picture of Mag’s Head, which, for reasons known only to herself, she painted in lurid purple. ‘It’s for sale, if you’re interested.’
The cyclist rolls his eyes away from the painting. ‘A most interesting landscape,’ he says, smoothly. ‘However, my taste in art veers more towards the abstract. Can I buy a soda bread and four of those delicious scones?’
Lily stares out the window as he cycles off with his friend. ‘I could see his nuts in that Lycra. Disgraceful.’ She sounds appreciative rather than disgusted. ‘Did you notice how he was giving you the eye?’
‘No, he wasn’t.’ She sips her coffee. It’s too hot to drink quickly, really, but she is anxious to return to the cottage.
‘He certainly was,’ Lily insists. ‘And why wouldn’t he? He’s a red-blooded male and you’re an attractive woman, even though you live like a hermit up there.’
‘This hermit has work to do.’ She leaves the coffee unfinished and swings her handbag over her shoulder. ‘See you tomorrow.’
The trekker bids her goodbye in Italian.
‘Slán leat,’ she replies in Irish and beeps the horn as she drives off. She drives past the two cyclists straining up the slopes of Mag’s Head. Lily the matchmaker; she never stops seeking a suitable husband for her. Heads down, helmets thrust forward, they remind her of determined wasps. Their ride back down will be exhilarating, if they have any energy left to enjoy it.
The silence of the cottage bears down on her when she unlocks the hall door. Kayla’s doll lies on the floor, dropped and forgotten when she put on her schoolbag. It’s too early in the morning to hear back from Greg Ahearn, Charmeuse’s marketing executive in New York. She’s confident he’ll be pleased with the information she sent to him. She checks her emails. A potential new client in Canada is interested in hearing from her. She reads a report from a satisfied manufacturer in Portugal and a plea for help from a regular client.
Her mind feels dull, apathetic, occupied with thoughts of Elena Langdon. Did she make that last bus? Is she, right at this moment, participating in another group therapy session where she will try, once again, to analyse why she tried to kill her
partner? The Ice Pick Stabber. Her photograph had been on the front pages and on television. Not as thin then as she is now, she was laughing, with her children in her arms, Nicholas Madison, proud father, standing beside her.
Even with her hair cut close to her scalp, and her weight loss, Elena had been instantly recognisable. Those woebegone eyes, smoky-blue; they would once have been her most arresting feature, until brutality dimmed their luminance. The knuckled cheekbones, her mouth clenched in disappointment when she finally accepted that she had come to Mag’s Head on a wild goose chase.
Her mobile rings. ‘Ross Creative Designs,’ she says. ‘Annie Ross speaking.’
‘Hi Annie, Oscar Sayer here.’ The caller is male, his accent clipped, English, probably London posh. ‘I’m interested in your suggestion. I just need to clarify the numbers.’
‘Let me bring up the details and I’ll go through them with you.’ She turns her attention to her laptop. When the call ends she begins to work again on the Canadian proposal but, unable to focus, she stands up and goes to her living room in the centre of the cottage. The fire is set with logs that will not be lit until Kayla comes home from school. She stops at the side of an open hearth. It’s raised on bricks above the floor and built within a granite fireplace. Logs and kindling are stacked beside it. She removes the logs one by one and lays them on the hearth until only a few remain in the stack. The switch on the wall that she reveals is barely visible; a slight protrusion that allows a panel to slide silently across when she presses it. A light turns on automatically when she steps inside a dark recess. This small room fills the space that once existed between the two cottages. It is rarely used and the cardboard box she opens is covered in dust. The letters inside it are arranged according to their dates, the most recent one on top. A chronology of violence at her fingertips. Help me, Leanne. What am I to do? He’ll kill me if I leave him. Each beating, arm-twist, kick, broken ribs and bloodletting listed. She trembles as she reads them. Time has not diminished their ferocity. The desperation she had seen on Elena Langdon’s face was a reflection of that terror. She sees it also in the photographs that accompanied these letters. She finishes reading the last one and closes the box. It’s time to collect Kayla from school but, first, she must shower the residue of dust and memory from her skin. She works late into the night to make up for lost time. The wind blows hard around the cottage. If there is an electrical outage it will affect her schedule. She has been lucky so far, with only short outages, but Lily has told her she once had to cope for four days before her electricity was restored. No wonder families fled this wild terrain with its orchestral gales and drumming waves. Kayla, born to these sounds, sleeps soundly in the next room and the light in the cottage window is the only glimmer in the enveloping darkness of Mag’s Head.
Forty-One
Finally, there has been a court ruling. Elena can see her children for an hour twice a week in the Kingsdale Community Centre, but always under the supervision of a social worker.
They meet in a room with bright yellow walls and toys to distract Grace and Joel should the reunion with their mother become difficult. The social worker’s name is Sophie. She looks far too young to be writing a report on this reunion and summing up emotions she will only experience if she is unlucky in love. But she sits at a discreet distance and Elena is grateful for that.
Grace runs into her arms but Joel cries when she takes him on her knees. He is sturdy and long-legged, almost unrecognisable as the baby she held to her breast while his father lay bleeding on the floor of the ice house. He wriggles too quickly from her arms, intent on playing with the toys.
Grace wants to know when she is going home with Elena. She pushes out her bottom lip in a once-familiar pout when she hears she must stay with her grandparents for a little while longer. Elena is conscious of Sophie’s eyes on her as she plays with her children. Her voice is pitched too high, the tone fake with forced jollity. Then they are gone, Grace in tears and Joel, who has finally relaxed into her embrace, clinging to her neck when she hands him over to Sophie.
She watches from the window as Yvonne and the social worker speak together in the car park. Yvonne, who appears to be arguing with Sophie, is probably insisting that this first visit is having a traumatic effect on her grandchildren. Elena is consumed by a savage desire to run out and silence her. Is this how Nicholas feels before he attacks? The uncontrollable anger that can only be appeased by brutality?
When Yvonne has driven off, Sophie pauses on her way back into the community centre to stare at the car Elena came in. Difficult to miss Rosemary’s flamboyant, orange-coloured Citroën. Last week, she replaced it with an Audi SQ5 and handed Elena the keys to this one.
‘You’ll need it for your visits,’ Rosemary had said, waving her thanks away.
Each time Elena sits inside it she thinks of a pumpkin, but she is grateful to have wheels under her again.
‘Ms Langdon, are you okay?’ Sophie has returned to the room.
Elena blows her nose and crumples the tissue in her fist. ‘Is Yvonne trying to stop me from seeing my children again?’
‘You have been granted visiting rights in a court of law.’ The social worker assumes the evasive mask of a professional. ‘Only a judge can reverse that decision. Would you like a cup of tea before you leave?’
‘No, but thank you. I’ve to go to work.’
‘Then I’ll see you at the same time on Friday. You did well today, Ms Langdon. The first visit is always the hardest.’
Elena drives into the city and circles Mountjoy Square searching for a parking spot. Usually, if she is unable to take a lift with Rosemary, she cycles to work and locks her bike to the railings of the building. Her basement office is accessible via an exterior set of wrought-iron steps. She is convinced her office must have been a broom cupboard in an era when these houses were grand residences. Moving around in such a cramped space will be good training for a prison or a psychiatric cell, she thinks in moments of black, bleak humour.
* * *
Billy rings that evening and asks her to visit him at his house. His invitation surprises her; he knows she must not go too close to Woodbine. Having finally gained access to her children, Elena is determined not to take any further risks.
‘I could be recognised going into your house,’ she says. ‘Can’t we meet somewhere else?’
‘I wish I could, Elena.’ His breathing is laboured and fast. ‘The news from the hospital is not good so I’m confined to barracks. There’s something I have to tell you. I won’t keep you long. Come on Friday―’
‘I’m seeing my children on Friday.’
‘Then Saturday.’
‘What if Nicholas…’ She pauses. Billy would not ask her to break bail without a good reason. Nicholas always goes to the gym on Saturday afternoons, as well as two evenings a week. Pumping his fury into iron. Why was that never enough to assuage it? An attempt on his life has hardly changed his self-discipline. Elena agrees to have lunch with Billy at one o’clock on Saturday.
* * *
She arrives on time. Billy has prepared a salad with cold chicken and ham. Their conversation flows easily throughout the meal. No sign that there is anything on his mind, yet she can tell he is troubled.
They take coffee beside an open fire in his living room. ‘The old ticker is not behaving as well as it should,’ he admits. ‘It’s progressive. Six months if I’m lucky, according to my cardiac specialist.’
She is shocked by his blunt statement, yet not surprised; Billy has deteriorated since she saw him in hospital. But he shows no sign of distress as he outlines the specialist’s verdict.
‘I’ve had a good innings and things haven’t been the same since Jodie died. And John, too. He’s the reason I asked you here.’
‘Amelia’s father?’
‘Yes. John was a gentle person but he was dead set against Amelia marrying Nicholas. I’d met Nicholas and liked him well enough at the beginning, so I found it hard to understand why Jo
hn was so opposed to him. He used to work for a credit control company and he had friends in far-flung places. He found out information on Nicholas that you or I would never uncover in a month of Sundays. I never heard the full details but I remember it had to do with an embezzlement scandal that was hushed up when Nicholas was working in Hong Kong―’
‘Nicholas was never in Hong Kong.’
‘He was, Elena. Two years there and a year in China before he joined Keogh & Harris, as it was known then. John was going to tell Amelia what he’d uncovered but when she decided to end things with Nicholas, he kept the information to himself. There was some trouble between him and Amelia at the time and that could have made things worse. But he confronted Nicholas and warned him he’d release the information if he attempted to persuade Amelia to change the decision she’d made not to marry him.’
‘I never knew Amelia broke it off with him. But, then, I never knew anything about him, anything truthful that is. It’s my own fault. I was so stupid – so stupid… I let him embezzle every penny I owned.’ Elena beats her fist against her knee. ‘I took everything he told me at face value and look where I am now.’
‘Everything passes, Elena. Karma has a way of balancing us out.’
‘That’s a nice thought, Billy. But I’m afraid it’s for the birds.’
‘Hear me out, girl. Knowing when you’re going to make your final exit has a way of concentrating the mind and there’s something I need to tell you. Remember that hairy lad in the next bed to mine when you were visiting me?’
‘Red? With the beard?’ She remembers his expressive language as he struggled to master his crutches.
‘That’s him. Red Boland.’ Billy laughs. ‘He was red before he went grey. Nicknames can be hard to shake. I told you he took a tumble off his Harley, out Glendalough way. Luckily, he wasn’t killed. I used to be a biker back in the day. Jodie, too. The bike kept me going after she died. I only gave it up when the old knees started giving me trouble.’