by Laura Elliot
‘I can help you with money but, first, you have to tell me what happened. Did my husband go from Jack Bale’s house on to your apartment?’
‘That pig cop phoned Jonathan to tell him Kev Spencer was coming for his money. Gave him the reg of the car so when your husband got out—’ She stopped, obviously aware of the impact her words were having on Rachel.
‘Go on.’ She saw it all unfolding in slow motion. Kev Spencer, dangerous in the deadly sense of being a hit man, highly rated for his accuracy. Grad must have been convinced his night of reckoning would be upon him if he did not fire the first shot. She imagined Bob, distraught and furious after confronting Jack Bale. Perhaps he had threatened to reveal all − Rachel could only hope that was true − then driving onwards to confront Grad, who had dared to terrorise his daughter.
Blood pounded in her forehead. The moon seemed just as engorged, its serried peaks and valleys mapping pale-blue capillaries across its face. This time it was Haylee who offered her a steadying hand and coaxed her away from the water’s edge. Was she aware, as Rachel was, of the strangeness of their encounter? At any other time, they would have passed each other on the street without a glance, yet now there they were, bonded in loss. Haylee’s nervousness was evident as she glanced over her shoulder. There was no one else in sight, no furtive footsteps approaching, no threatening shadows, yet she was trembling until they left the river behind them.
‘He promised Jonathan he’d get him released on bail if he kept his mouth shut.’ Now that she had opened up to Rachel, she seemed unable to stop. ‘We’d everything arranged to escape but then I get a call from his mother to tell me he’d gone and killed himself. She wouldn’t listen when I said that was ridiculous. Even if he was going down for life, Jonathan loved himself too much to take a rope to his neck.’
She entered Rachel’s house warily. She was defiant and suspicious but, for now, hunger took over as she snatched at the leftover lasagne Rachel heated. To cook for two was still an ingrained habit and there was plenty to spare.
‘No way.’ Her reply was emphatic when Rachel asked her to talk to Detective Sergeant Magee.
‘The Gardai can organise protection for you.’ She tried to assuage her suspicions but she could see the fear pooling Haylee’s eyes. ‘Jack Bale needs to be brought down and you have the information to make it happen—’
‘Do you seriously think they’d listen to me?’ Her hand shook as she scooped lasagne from the dish to her plate. ‘They’d have me behind bars as soon as I opened my mouth.’
‘I’ll be with you every step of―’
‘What part of “no” do you not understand? You said you’d give me money, not some lecture about ratting to the pigs. I want what you promised or I’ll… I’ll…’
‘You’ll what, Haylee. Attack me again? Keep trying to outrun Jack Bale?’
‘Shut up and give me that money.’
‘Please listen to me―’
Haylee was on her feet, this time moving too fast for Rachel to avoid what was coming. The headbutt, vicious and accurate, forced her backwards to the floor. She was too dazed to react when Haylee lifted her foot and aimed it at her stomach. She was kneeling, her hands clasped protectively over this fragile life she carried, when she heard the front door slam.
She saw the blood when she was finally able to make her way to the bathroom. Not much, a smear, but how garish it looked against the white cotton. No… no… no… She kept talking to her baby as she made her way to the front door. Her car was missing. Haylee must have taken the keys from the hook in the hall. She groped for her phone. Only one person would truly appreciate her terror.
‘Stay with me… stay with me,’ she pleaded as she waited for Adele to arrive.
At the hospital, she shuddered as the sonographer applied gel over her stomach. How flat it looked, so deflated, as if this delicate life was already departing. Adele held tightly to her hand as the probe moved, sending out ultrasound waves that would deliver a terrible message. Rachel turned her face away as the calm voice of the stenographer encouraged her to look at the screen.
‘Oh my God, Rachel, look,’ Adele whispered. ‘Look… oh, look!’
Holding tightly to each other, they saw an image, as delicate as the flap of butterfly wings but which was, the sonographer assured them, the steady beat of her baby’s heart.
57 Adele
Once again, it was Daniel who provided Adele with the necessary information on how to contact Rory Breen. This time the telephone number had an Italian prefix. Braced against disappointment as she rang the number, she was tempted to hang up. This phone call would either lift her into the clouds or plunge her back to earth, all hope gone. She had visited Italy once with Daniel. A romantic weekend in Florence. She had been amazed by the accessibility of the historical sights, all only a fingertip away from the immediacy of the present. She felt that same shock of recognition when the phone was answered and a voice said, ‘Rory Breen here.’ He had the rolling lilt of a Cork accent, his voice gravelly with age. ‘Who is this, please?’
She struggled to speak, her mouth suddenly dry, her well-prepared words deserting her.
‘Hello… hello. Can I help you?’ He must be used to people ringing to report disasters but his tone suggested he was not immune to their distress.
‘My name is Adele Foyle,’ she said. ‘You don’t know me but I’m hoping you can help me with some information.’
‘If I can, I will certainly oblige.’
‘I’m looking for information on Marianne Mooney.’ She reached for the wall to steady herself. ‘I’ve reason to believe you knew her.’
Now he was the one to remain silent. She heard the catch of his breath and when he spoke again, he sounded cautious, strained. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.’
‘Adele Foyle. If you know anything about Marianne Mooney—’
‘Can I ask in what context?’
‘I want to know if she’s alive.’
‘May I ask why you would expect me to provide you with that information?’
‘I need to know…’ She hesitated, terrified that the bubble containing such a miraculous possibility was about to burst with a splatter of hopelessness. ‘Is she still alive…?’
‘Miss Foyle, I’ve no idea who you are. Or what motive you have for ringing me. This number is private and only used in emergencies. I ask you again, how did you get it?’
‘Please tell me—’
‘I’m not prepared to continue this conversation on the phone. Give me your address and I’ll contact you in my own time.’
Afterwards, she sank to the floor and gathered her knees into her chest. She rocked backwards and forwards, as she used to do when she was a child and the world seemed too big to handle. It had always soothed her but tonight she found no relief in the rhythmical movements. She Skyped Daniel, who talked her up the stairs and into bed.
‘Just be patient,’ he said. ‘If Shane said he’s one of the good guys then believe him. Good guys don’t change. He’ll be in touch, I’m sure of it.’
Rory Breen arrived at Brooklime the following day, a rugged-looking man with steely features. She knew who he was as soon as she answered the door. He reminded her of Shane but older and leaner, a weathered face, his sparse, grey hair shaved close to his scalp. What was it about men who ran towards danger that gave them such a focused gaze, she wondered as she invited him in?
‘You’re Marianne’s daughter.’ He nodded decisively, as if the sight of her had answered his question. ‘I had to be sure. A phone call like that coming out of the blue, well, it could be anyone.’
‘You mean someone connected to Jack Bale?’
‘Ah, you’re acquainted with him then?’
‘Very much so. But I didn’t intend to scare you when I rang. You’re the only lead I have. Please, can you tell me if she is alive?’
All the waiting and wondering, the hope and despair, all compressed into her chest as she waited for his reply.
; ‘Yes, Adele,’ he said. ‘She is alive.’ A simple answer that was powerful enough to split the atom.
‘Oh… oh…’ She was unaware that she was crying until she clasped her hands to her face. ‘When can I see her—?’
‘Adele, please listen to me. Marianne had reasons for going into hiding. Reasons you will find difficult to understand.’
‘I do understand them.’
‘How could you?’
‘Read this.’ She handed Malachi’s letter to him. His expression remained inscrutable as he read it. Easy to do when he spent his time controlling chaos.
He passed the letter back to her. His hands were broad and capable. They had lifted her mother from danger and carried her into exile.
‘How long have you been searching for her?’ he asked.
‘Not long. I never thought… my grandmother told me she was dead. I never believed otherwise until Shane came.’
‘Shane Reagan?’
‘He recognised her from a photograph…’ So much to tell each other. It would take all night and the next day. Maybe there would never be enough hours to learn what her life could have been like had fate not intervened.
‘My father was Bob Molloy,’ she said. ‘He was one of the three. The other two were Keith Lewis—’
‘And Liam Thornton,’ Rory said. ‘Those two were inseparable. But Bob… I’d never have imagined…’ Unable to hide his shock, he sighed heavily and shook his head, his reaction so similar to Shane’s that she drew some comfort from it.
‘Where does my mother live?’ She thirsted for information, for details that would add substance to the pictures in her mind.
He described an inlet on the South Island of New Zealand. Cape Maclure, it sounded wild and inhospitable, yet he claimed it was a place Marianne had come to love.
‘So far away?’ Adele said.
‘As far as she could get from here,’ he admitted. ‘It was meant to be only for a short while. She trusted me to find you and your grandmother. God knows I searched high and low down for the sight of you but you had vanished like a fairy child.’
‘Into the mist and mountains,’ she said. ‘My grandmother was always hiding in plain sight.’
Unable to sit still, she walked to the window and stared out at the anglers. Jack Bale was not among them. He was never far from her thoughts. Her mother had written that hate was a seeping wound and that night in the hospital with Rachel, watching the tiny heart beating, Adele had been overwhelmed by a murderous urge to crush him under her heel. Rachel had advised her to be patient. She said it quietly, as if she was watching an internal play and she was the only one who knew how it was going to end.
Adele listened raptly as Rory spoke about his uncle, an artist who had once captured his landscape on canvas but was now slowly dying. Marianne’s husband, Adele’s stepfather, so much to absorb, so much more to learn.
‘How soon can I see my mother?’ she asked.
‘I need to talk to her, reassure her that you are genuine. She scares easily. Old scars that she never had a chance to heal. She’ll be frightened…’ Rory joined her at the window and put his arm around her shoulder.
‘Make it soon?’ she whispered. ‘She has nothing to fear.’
He was smiling the following morning when he joined her for breakfast. ‘You and I have a long journey ahead of us,’ he said. ‘You’d better start packing.’
Happiness also seeped, bleeding into her veins and shaking her heart to its core.
58 Adele
Adele was unable to tell if it was nervousness or the swell of the waves that made her ill as the ferry churned through Maclure Sound. Leaning over the side of the boat, eyes streaming, her hair streeling, she willed the journey to end. Rory, smiling as he gazed at the distant inlet rising out of the sea, ordered her to breathe… breathe…
Now that it was about to happen, she was unable to recapture the rush of exhilaration that had swept her across the world and into this ferry that was pitching her towards her mother. Mother… Mammy… Mama… Mum… Mam… She tried them all and each one sounded unfamiliar on her tongue.
One step at a time, Rory had said. He was right. She straightened and allowed the wind to buffet her. Like the back of a sloping beast, the headland was beginning to shape itself. How brown it looked, how bleak the cliffs, and yet she could see the shapes of trees, and birds whirling into the wind.
So much had happened so fast. It was too easy. After all the obstacles that had been put in her way, something had to go wrong. Why, Rory had asked. Don’t you think there was enough wrongness in twenty-four years of separation? As the ferry rounded the side of the headland, sheer columns of rock rose upwards like deadly arms inviting the ferry closer. Adele was relieved when the skipper rounded the bend and the softer lines of Maclure were visible. The ferry nosed its way into the harbour. Passengers gathered their belongings and the drivers returned to their cars. A cluster of people stood on the harbour. It was impossible to make them out from this distance. Was Marianne among them or had she, like Adele, been filled with the same nervousness, unable to face the daughter she believed she had lost forever?
Adele stepped onto the gangplank and recognised her instantly. She would have picked her out in a multitude. Her slim frame and long, brown hair, the face that had stared at Adele from a strip of photographs. She had been laughing then, secure in Shane’s arms, whereas now, as she stared towards the disembarking passengers, she reminded Adele of the frightened child she had recognised in Lilian’s photograph. She stood perfectly still as Adele walked towards her. She was used to waiting, so many years imagining such a moment. What must she think of her daughter, sickly pale and wind-blown, red-rimmed eyes, leaning like an invalid on Rory’s arm as she tried to find her land legs? Marianne’s arms were outstretched and the distance Adele had to walk before she could be enfolded in her embrace seemed never-ending. It took only a few more steps before they were together, and it was everything Adele had imagined this moment to be. An explosion of happiness, an overwhelming joy. Afterwards, there would be time to talk far into the night but in that instant, as they clung to each other, it was the knowingness of touch that tore at Adele’s senses. Surely it would be impossible to remember the last time she was held this way by her mother – she was three days old – and yet it was there, stored but never forgotten in the angel-space of baby memories; the feeling that she was cocooned, cherished, safe. The evening sky flamed above them, tongues of fire searing the clouds as Marianne took her hand and brought her daughter home.
59 Davina
The Unstoppable March was fully booked. No problems there, all boxes ticked. The heatwave was becoming a distant memory but the weather forecast promised occasional blasts of sunshine between the showers. Davina greeted the guest speakers when they arrived and threw open the doors of the green room for refreshments. She checked that all was okay with the camera crews, photographers and journalists in the press room and returned to the foyer to watch the attendees streaming into the Loyvale Hotel conference room. The buzz of conversation and the heighted sense of anticipation was music to her ears. Keith mingled with the audience. As always, women gravitated towards him. Babs Shannon had sounded a little coy on the phone when she asked if he would like to introduce her. Even the staunchest of feminists, it seemed, were not immune to her husband’s charms.
Yet, Babs continued to worry her. What bothered Davina most was her inability to put her finger on the reason for those sudden darts of panic. They struck at unexpected times. The blurb, for instance, that Babs had written for insertion into the conference brochure had been vague enough to alarm Davina. Was the self-help author and ardent feminist suggesting that one of the obstacles to overcome in the fight for equality was the damage done to women by women? Davina had relaxed slightly after an anxious phone call to Babs, who insisted that her speech would take the audience by storm.
She flew into Dublin Airport on Friday evening and refused Davina’s offer to send a courier to pick her
up at the airport. She was spending the night with friends, which struck Davina as curious, since Babs had claimed during their London meeting to have had very little contact with anyone in Ireland since she left. On Saturday morning she arrived at the Loyvale as planned and spent the period before her speech signing her books.
In the conference room, the female politician spoke wittily and wisely about the status of women in government. The female economist was witty and factual. The female stand-up comedian was edgy and witty while the female historian believed there was nothing remotely witty about the subjugation of women throughout the centuries. A lively diverse mix of speakers, Davina began to relax as applause broke out at the end of each presentation, especially when she heard her chosen guests thank her warmly for inviting them to participate in this unstoppable march.
Babs did not join them for lunch. Davina was aware of her absence from the table, even as she entertained, sparkled and engaged the group in conversation.
After lunch, the atmosphere was warm and welcoming when Keith introduced the star speaker. The political poster boy, doing what he did best. Anger soured Davina’s mouth but she was adept at hiding her feelings. She sat in the front row beside Julie, who was still wearing her dark glasses. Another dart of alarm, a pitter patter heart beat to remind Davina that marriages with secrets were built on quicksand.
Babs Shannon had style. Her pale-blue dress swished provocatively around her knees as she walked towards the podium. She had good ankles and her high heels, clicking assertively, gave her extra inches. A close-up of her face was visible on the video screens on either side of the stage. Her embracing smile gathered the audience to her but Davina, watching keenly, noticed a touch of nervousness when she stood behind the podium and surveyed the crowded auditorium. Not that anyone else would notice it beneath her self-assured sheen but Davina was locked into a growing belief that she had made a dreadful mistake by inviting Babs Shannon to speak. She still had not read the author’s books. Too much canvassing to do, not to mention stiffening her husband’s spine every time he tried to talk about that night. That terrible night that seemed incapable of being pushed back into the dark since it saw the light of confession.