by Ed McBain
His eyes were dark, wide with horror at what she had said, and the leap to denial.
“It’s true,” she said with as much firmness as she could put into her trembling voice. “One of us has to escape and get to the village.”
“But, Mum …” he began.
“It has to be you,” she cut across him. “There”s no time to argue. Roisin can’t do it, your father won’t. I can’t outrun them, but you might. I’m going to try and make Dermot think both Paddy and your father are escaping, in opposite directions, which should occupy Sean as well. When you see the chance, run for it. Don’t go straight to the village, it’s what they would expect. Go round the shore, and bring help back, as soon as you can. Do you understand?”
He stood silently, absorbing what she had said.
“Do you understand?” she repeated, her ears straining to catch the sound of Sean or Dermot in the passage outside. “There’s no time to think of anything better.”
“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice was tight, high pitched with fear.
“Yes. He can’t let us go. Your father will hunt him down for ever. You know that!”
“Yes. Okay. When?”
“In a few minutes.” She gulped. “If I can make Paddy and your father go in opposite directions—or I can make Dermot and Sean think they have.”
“Does Dad know?”
“No. If I tell anyone else it’ll raise their suspicions. Now go back and behave just the same. Go on.”
He hesitated only a second, started to say something, then swallowed it back and went out. She followed a moment later.
In the kitchen everything was exactly as they had left it, Sean standing by the door, Dermot by the window behind the table, Roisin at the stove and Connor sitting on the hard-backed chair nearest to the back door. Bridget went back to the sink and ran the tap until it was hot, replaced the water over the potatoes, put in salt, and set them on the stove.
She must do it now, before thinking about it sapped away her courage. She had nothing to lose. She must keep that in mind all the time. If Dermot realized, and acted before she did, they would all be dead.
She started to speak, but her mouth was too dry. She licked her lips and started again. “This is going to be very bland. I need something with a bit of flavour to add to it.” She turned to Connor. “There are some wild onions growing up the hillside, about a hundred yards or so. Can you go and dig them up?”
He looked surprised.
“Please?” She must not make it too urgent, or Dermot would suspect. Surely worrying about food would sound so normal, so sure of tomorrow and the next day?
“Send Liam,” Connor replied, without moving from his seat.
Dermot straightened up. “You’re neither of you going! Do you think I’m stupid? A hundred yards up the hill, and I’d never see you again. How do I know there even are onions up there?”
Liam raised his head. “There are,” he replied, without looking at Bridget.
“Then Paddy can get them,” Dermot said. He looked at Paddy. “Do you know an onion when you see it?”
“Probably not,” Paddy said with a half smile. “But I can smell one, or taste it.” He turned to Bridget. “Do you want them dug up, or pulled, or what?”
“Dig up two or three,” she told him.
“There’s a small garden fork just outside the back door. Thank you.” She could not meet his eyes for more than a moment, but by then he was gone anyway, closing the door after him. ,
Now she had to get Connor to go in the other direction, or at the worst to make Dermot think he had. She glanced at Dermot. The slight sneer was still on his face. Could she trick him into doing what she wanted? Had she understood him?
She turned back to Connor. “Will you help me get the sheets in, please? It’s a lot easier to fold them with two. Roisin, watch the potatoes.”
“Liam can do it,” Connor replied, remaining where he was.
Bridget let her annoyance show in her face. “Why can’t you do something for once?” she answered back.
Liam’s head turned from Bridget to Connor and back again. He was very pale.
“Liam, do as you’re told,” Connor said abruptly. “Help your mother with the laundry.”
Uncertainly Liam started to climb to his feet.
“Sit down!” Dermot snapped. “O’Malley, she’s right. You go and do something for a change. Help her fold the sheets! Move!”
Sean was smiling, leaning against the door to the passage, his gun also raised.
Slowly Connor rose to his feet, his face red, his lips in a tight, thin line. He opened the back door and Bridget followed him out. He walked ahead, without looking at her, and went straight to the line.
She hesitated. Now that the moment had come she found it desperately hard to do, almost too hard.
“Don’t,” she said as he unpegged the first end.
“What the hell’s the matter now?” he snapped.
She moved closer to him, making him back behind the billowing sheet and he grabbed at it with his left hand.
“Connor, they won’t let us go,” she said levelly “Dermot can’t. And as soon as he realizes you aren’t going to give in, which will be any moment, he’ll shoot us. He has no choice. He’ll go back over the border into Southern Ireland, and at least he’ll have a head start before anybody even knows what’s happened to us.”
“They’ll hunt him down like a rat,” Connor said contemptuously.
“How? Who’ll be alive to say it was him?”
The full horror of it dawned on him. She saw it in the void of his eyes.
There was a shout from the house. She could not tell from where, because the sheets were in the way, but it was Sean’s voice. There was no time to hesitate.
“We’ve got to go! Now, while there’s time,” she urged. Was Sean coming after them already? What about Paddy up the hill? If he’d kept on looking for the onions, which didn’t exist, he should be over the slight rise and out of sight. Why wasn’t one of them looking for him? Surely after their betrayal of him they couldn’t trust him, could they? Not enough to let him out of their sight, this side of the border?
Then she heard Sean’s voice again, calling Paddy’s name, sharp and angry.
“Is this what you intend to do?” Connor demanded. “Turn and run, and leave Liam and Rosie to take Dermot’s rage when he finds we’ve escaped? And you were the one who said you understood Rosie putting her baby before the cause, sacrificing her morality to save her child! You disgust me, Bridget. I thought I knew you, and you were better than that. You’ve betrayed not only me, but everything you said you believed in, everything you are.”
“Don’t stand there preaching!” She heard her voice rising out of control. “Run! While there’s time! For the cause, if not for yourself!”
There was a shout of rage from up the hill, and then another. They both turned towards the sound, but they could see nothing. Then there was a scream, a shot, and then silence again.
The back door slammed open and for an instant she saw Dermot’s head and shoulders outlined against the house, his arm raised.
“Run!” she yelled at Connor. Then in case Dermot had not heard her, she did it again.
This time Connor obeyed. At least they were drawing one of them away from the house, and there had been no shots inside. She caught up and grasped his hand, leaping over the sea grass and running down onto the beach, towards the low rise of the sandhills twenty yards away, where at least there was a little shelter.
They were racing over the beach near the tide line where it was hard and firm when the shot rang out. Connor stumbled and pitched forward, his hand going to the scarlet stain spreading across his chest and shoulder. He rolled over and over, carried by the impetus of his speed, then lay still.
Bridget stopped abruptly, and turned back. Dermot was standing on the soft sand just in front of the sea grass, the gun still held out stiffly in front of him. He could pull the trigger again any moment,
all he had to do was tighten his grip.
She waited. Oddly, she did not feel a terrible loss. As long as Liam had got away, something was saved. Perhaps Rosie had even gone with him, at least far enough to be out of sight of the house. If they were alive, that was enough. This was a clean way to go, here on the wind-scoured sand, one shot, and then oblivion. It was a bad time, but a good place to die.
Dermot lowered the gun, not right down, he still held it in his hand. He started walking towards her, slowly, evenly.
She did not know if Connor was dead or not. A chest wound might be fatal, but it looked to be closer to the shoulder. Just in case he was still alive, she moved away from him, and began to walk up towards Dermot. If he came down for her, he might shoot Connor again, to make sure. She increased her speed. Strange how she could walk so easily even where the wet sand changed to dry, slithering under her feet. She stopped a couple of yards from Dermot. He was smiling. “You don’t care that I shot him, do you!” he said, his eyes wide, his face pale, with two spots of colour high on his cheeks.
“You have no idea what I care about,” she answered coldly.
“You’d rather have Paddy, wouldn’t you!” he said, his lip curling in disgust. “He’d use you, and throw you away.”
“It really doesn’t matter what you think,” she said wearily, surprised that now it was almost over, that was the exact truth. All she needed was time for Liam to get away, and Rosie if possible.
He jerked the gun towards the house. “Well, let’s see, shall we? Is the Reverend O’Malley’s wife as cold as she looks? Or his daughter, the pretty turncoat, Roisin?”
If she refused to move, she had no doubt he’d shoot her where she stood. Walking would gain a little more time, only minutes, but minutes might count. She obeyed slowly, passing him and walking ahead. She stepped carefully through the clumps of sea grass and onto the level stretch at the beginning of the lawn, or what passed for it. The sheets were still billowing. She had no idea where Paddy or Sean were. There was no sign of life from the house, and no sound.
She reached the sheets blowing towards her. The plastic laundry basket was just in front of her, empty. Why should she go into the house with him without a fight? It was ridiculous. Rosie might be in there. Even if she wasn’t, why should Bridget herself let it be easy?
She picked up the laundry basket and threw it at his feet just as he emerged between the sheets.
He had not had time to see it and dodge. It caught him below the knee, hard enough to cost him his balance. He stumbled forward, still clutching the gun. He was on his hands and knees, his face twisted with rage, already beginning to scramble up again.
She reached for the clothes prop, grasping it with both hands, yanking it out from the line and swinging it wide in a half circle, low and with all her weight behind it. The end of it caught him on the side of the head with a crack she felt all the way through her own body. He fell over sideways and lay motionless, the gun on the ground six inches away from his limp hand.
She scrambled over to him, her body shaking. She picked up the gun, then looked at him. The upper side of his head was bleeding, but not heavily. She knew from the angle of it that he had to be dead. His neck was broken.
She felt sick. But she still needed to face Sean and Paddy.
She walked shakily over to the back door and opened it. The kitchen was empty. “Roisin!” she called.
“Mum!”
The bedroom door crashed wide and Roisin came out, her eyes hollow with fear.
There was no time for hugging, for any kind of emotion. “Where’s Liam?” Bridget asked. “And Sean?”
“Liam’s gone, as you told him,” Roisin answered. “Sean went up the hill after Paddy. I heard him shout. I don’t think he came back. Where’s Dad?” The look in her face betrayed that she knew.
“On the beach,” Bridget replied. “Dermot’s dead. I don’t know how your father is, I hadn’t time to look. Take the tea towels and see what you can do.”
“What about you?”
“I’ve got the gun. I have to find Paddy and Sean.”
“But …”
“I’ll shoot them if I have to.” She meant it. She could, to save herself and Roisin. “Go.”
Roisin obeyed, and Bridget set off carefully up the slope, watching all the time, keeping both hands on the gun, ready to use it the moment she saw any kind of movement in the tussock and heather.
She had followed the track all the way to the ridge and beyond when she saw Paddy’s body lying in a clear patch of grass, his shirt a pale blur against the green, except for the wide, bright red stain of blood across his chest, right in the middle.
Where was Sean? There was no time to allow herself grief now, or any understanding of the waste. She had heard only one shot. Sean was alive somewhere, maybe waiting, watching her right now. Then why had he not shot her too?
She turned around slowly, searching for him, expecting the noise and the shattering weight of the bullet any moment. But all she could hear was the distant sound of the waves, and bees in the heather. She could see where it had been broken, trampled down around Paddy as if there had been a fight there. Stems were snapped off, the damp earth gouged. The trail led to the edge of a little gully.
Very carefully she walked over towards it, holding the gun in front of her, ready to squeeze the trigger. She looked from right to left, and back again. If Sean was still here, why did he do nothing?
She came to the edge and looked over. She saw him immediately, lying on his back, his body twisted, hips and legs crooked, right thigh bent half under him. His eyes were still open and the gun was in his hand.
He shot at her, but it went wide. The angle was wrong, and he could not move to correct it.
She thought of shooting him, but it was cold-blooded, unnecessary. She also thought of saying something, but that was unnecessary too. His pelvis was broken, and at least one leg. He was not going to get out of the gully until someone came and carried him.
She turned away and walked back down the path to the house, and into the kitchen. It was empty. The pan of potatoes, half cooked, stood in the sink. Roisin had thought to take them off before she went into the bedroom.
She should go down to the sand and see if Connor was alive, and if she could do anything for him. At least she could help Roisin. She picked up a couple of bath towels and went out of the back door and past Dermot’s body, over the edge of the sea grass and down the sand. Roisin was walking towards her, Connor lay beyond, where he had fallen, but she could not see clearly enough to know whether he was in exactly the same position or not.
Roisin stopped as Bridget reached her. Her face was wet with tears.
“He won’t let me do anything,” her voice choked. “He won’t even listen to me.”
So he was alive! And conscious. For an instant Bridget did not even know if she was glad or not. It was as if walls had closed around her again.
“Mum?”
Yes, of course she must be pleased. He didn’t deserve to die. And she didn’t have to stay inside the walls. It was her choice. If she paid her ransom she could escape. She must never forget that again.
“He may change his mind,” she said gently, looking at Roisin. “But if he doesn’t, you’ll have to accept that. You made your choice, it’s your husband and your child. It doesn’t matter what I think, it’s what you think. But if you care, I believe it’s the right choice. And whether I like what you do or not, I shall always love you … as you will love your child.” She touched Roisin for a moment, just the tips of her fingers to her cheek, then she walked on down the sand to Connor.
He looked at her as she knelt beside him. He was very white and there was a lot of blood on his shirt, but he seemed quite conscious. The tea towels were on the sand. She picked them up, rolled them into pads, and placed them firmly on the wound.
He winced and cried out.
“You should have let Rosie do it,” she told him. “It would have cost you less blood.�
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“Never!” he said between clenched teeth, gasping as the pain washed through him in waves. “I don’t have a daughter.”
“That’s your choice, Connor.” She took one of the long towels to put it round him as well as she could to keep the pads in place. “I expect she’ll forgive you for your part in this. Whether you forgive her or not is up to you, but I can tell you now, if you don’t, you’ll lose more than she will. By the way, you might like to know that Sean killed Paddy, but his own pelvis is broken, and he’s lying up the hill in a gully. He’ll be there until someone carries him out.”
He stared at her as if he had never seen her before.
“And I killed Dermot.” She could hardly believe her own words, though they were terribly, irrevocably true.
He blinked.
“Liam’s gone for the police,” she added. “I expect they’ll be here soon. And a doctor.”
“I can’t feel my left arm,” he said.
She rolled up the other towel and eased it under his head. “I’ll go up to the house and get a blanket. You should be kept warm.”
“No!” He breathed in and out slowly. “Stay with me!”
“Oh, I probably will,” she replied. “But on my terms, Connor, not on yours. And I’m going to get the blanket. Shock can kill, if you get cold.” She rose to her feet, smiling very slightly to herself, and walked back up the sand.
JOYCE CAROL OATES
From the publication of her first book of short stories, By the North Gate, in 1963, Joyce Carol Oates has been the most prolific of major American writers, turning out novels, short stories, reviews, essays, and plays in an unceasing flow as remarkable for its quality as its volume. Writers who are extremely prolific often risk not being taken as seriously as they should—if one can write it that fast, how good can it be? Oates, however, has largely escaped that trap, and even her increasing identification with crime fiction, at a time when the field has attracted a number of other mainstream literary figures, has not lessened her reputation as a formidable author in the least. Many of Oates’s works contain at least some elements of crime and mystery, from the National Book Award winner them, through the Chappaquiddick fictionalization Black Water and the Jeffrey Dahmer-inspired serial-killer novel Zombie, to her controversial 738-page fictionalized biography of Marilyn Monroe, Blonde. The element of detection becomes explicit with the investigations of amateur sleuth Xavier Kilgarvan in the novel The Mysteries of Winterthurn, which, the author explains in an afterword to the 1985 paperback edition, “is the third in a quintet of experimental novels that deal, in genre form, with nineteenth- and early twentieth-century America.” Why would a literary writer like Oates choose to work in such “deliberately confining structures”? Because “the formal discipline of ‘genre’ … forces us inevitably to a radical re-visioning of the world and the craft of fiction.” Oates, who numbers among her honors in a related genre the Bram Stoker Award of the Horror Writers of America, did not establish an explicit crime-fiction identity until Lives of the Twins appeared under the pseudonym Rosamund Smith. Initially intended to be a secret, the identity of Smith was revealed almost immediately, and later novels were bylined Joyce Carol Oates (large print) writing as Rosamund Smith (smaller print). Her new pseudonym is Lauren Kelly, author most recently of Blood Mask. Other recent novels are The Falls, Missing Mom, and Rape: A Love Story.