The Secret Wound

by Deirdre Quiery

  Laura stared straight into Gurtha’s eyes.

  “You’ve forgotten that people are intelligent. They make connections. She’s a stranger, in a district where most people know one another. She is acting rather oddly. If the Police were asking questions about whether anyone had seen anything or anyone strange - which they were, of course – Michael Donovan would have come forward to share what he knew about Cornelia. He would have done that if he had recognised her at Mass - if she hadn’t put on that hat for disguise.”

  Gurtha’s hands began to tremble. He felt a dull ache at the base of his spine. His head felt thick with a shooting pain moving across his forehead.

  “He could have come forward and told the Police what he saw and what he thought. He didn’t need to see her in the Church to tell the Police that there was a stranger acting oddly in the area.”

  Laura placed the polishing cloth gently on the glass counter and looked directly at Gurtha.

  “Say that Michael saw her in the Church, sitting in the row of mourners beside you, powdering her nose, her hair covered by a beret and her face by a veil, he wouldn’t make a connection would he? Do you not see that? It happened to me. I saw Cornelia walk past the shop but it was only when I saw her with you in Pizza Express that the penny dropped.”

  Gurtha clenched his fists and looked at the floor.

  “God. What do I do now?”

  Laura took his hands in hers.

  “Do you not need to tell the Police?”

  “But I need to talk to her first. There might be an explanation.”

  “But why would she not have told you that on the day Nuala was murdered she was in the house? You’re not going to cover up for her are you?”

  Laura placed her hands over her mouth.

  “When you talked about her, in the past I used to think that maybe you were having an affair. Even if that were true, it wouldn’t mean that you would let Nuala’s murderer go free, would you?”

  Gurtha held onto the counter and steadied himself. His legs felt wobbly and he struggled to breathe.

  “Laura, I can imagine that it might have looked as if Cornelia and I were having an affair but it was never like that. We had an unusual friendship. We shared our deepest secrets with another. When you do that – something is released. You are liberated. Something opens up between you which is more than an affair could ever be. You glimpse into someone’s soul and they see yours. Everything in the relationship is transparent and shining. You’ve fallen into something Divine in them and they have fallen into the Divine in you. It used to be like that with Cornelia, but that isn’t how it is now.”

  “What has changed?”

  Gurtha pressed the bag of buns to his chest.

  “She changed in the months before Henry died.”

  Laura rubbed her eyes.

  “How?”

  “It’s hard to explain. You know that film about the ‘Stepford Wives’ where the women were robots. It began to feel like that with Cornelia – that someone had programmed her – or maybe she had programmed herself. She was distant from herself, from Henry and from me. She was playing an act – pretending to be someone who wasn’t real. Or that she had decided to be someone else.”

  Laura sighed.

  “That is what I am saying to you. She has lied to you. She is still lying.”

  Gurtha shook his head vigorously.

  “I can’t believe that she would murder Nuala. On Monday she told me that she loved Nuala.”

  Laura listened carefully before responding.

  “What did Nuala think of Cornelia? That would be revealing.”

  “She had concerns about her. I know that she didn’t like the way she treated Henry.”

  Gurtha held his head in his hands.

  “OK. Let’s take it one step at a time. I’ll see Paddy tomorrow and the day after I’ll fly to Mallorca and have a conversation with Cornelia as soon as I possibly can. If there is not a satisfactory explanation from her, I’ll let the Police know and they can investigate.”

  Laura looked at Gurtha in a way that reminded him of Nuala – fearless, honest and compassionate.

  “You need to do that. It’s important for Nuala and for me. I feel uncomfortable about not going immediately to the Police.”

  DAY 22

  SUNDAY 1ST SEPTEMBER 2013

  GURTHA FOLLOWED Maggie’s wobbling hips along the corridor until they reached Room 11. Paddy’s photograph had been placed on the door. He stared at Gurtha, as if from his passport. Maggie opened the door slowly.

  “Morning Paddy. Gurtha to see you. Remember, lunch will be ready for you shortly.”

  Gurtha filled the kettle in the room to make tea. Paddy sat in the chair beside the window – overlooking the car park. Gurtha sat on the bed and they smiled at one another. Now, more than ever, Gurtha wanted to look into Paddy’s face – to see who he was changing into. At times if felt as if he was there but wasn’t there – a shadow of himself – a ghost of himself. Gurtha gently asked,

  “Paddy do you remember the day that Nuala died. We now think that there was a visitor to the house. Do you remember what she looked like?”

  Paddy’s eyes faded a little as he attempted to retrieve something from a space far inside or outside. He remained silent, staring ahead for at least a minute. Gurtha didn’t interrupt. Eventually he spoke.

  “I don’t think Nuala died.”

  Gurtha leaned forward to offer a custard cream biscuit.

  “I know it is a little while ago, Paddy. It’s not so easy to remember. I find it hard to remember some things myself. I have to write them down.

  Paddy nodded.

  “Nuala wrote it down.”

  “What did she write down Paddy?”

  Paddy shook the crumbs from the biscuit off his corduroy trousers onto the floor.

  “Pass me my wallet and I’ll show you.”

  Gurtha got quickly to his feet.

  “Where’s your wallet Paddy? In your jacket?”

  Gurtha walked to the wardrobe and searched Paddy’s green tweed jacket pockets, pulling out a black wallet. He handed it over.

  Paddy looked at it with a bulb of brightness returning to his eyes.

  “It’s not that one.”

  Gurtha took it from him, opened it and looked through it. There was a photo of Nuala, forty pounds which Gurtha had placed there a few days ago, still untouched and a few pound coins in the purse section. Nothing else.

  “Which one Paddy, if it’s not this one?”

  Paddy shook his head.

  “The one where Nuala used to put a list of messages. She wrote down the times that I had to take my tablets.”

  Gurtha remembered a pink wallet with owls on it that Nuala used to give Paddy. She would joke, saying that he was turning into ‘a wise old owl’. Maybe Gurtha had thrown it, by mistake, into the skip. He started by checking the pockets of the three jackets hanging in the wardrobe. Nothing. Then he noticed the plastic bag containing items he had collected from Crumlin Road. He opened it. Inside were three of Paddy’s caps – each folded in three. Gurtha remembered finding them in a drawer in Paddy’s bedroom. He unfolded the first cap, a green tweed with a blue check, to find a roll of money bound with a plastic band. He counted it – three hundred pounds. He unfolded the second cap, grey and covered in cat hairs, to reveal a photo of Paddy and Nuala smiling into one another’s eyes many years before at a Christmas Party. They were wearing Christmas Cracker hats and blowing squeaky whistles like snakes into each other’s faces. He dropped the photo on the bed and breathlessly unfolded the third cap. Inside lay the pink wallet with the owl cover. His heart thumped as he walked back to Paddy.

  “Is this it?”

  Paddy looked at him, catching the excitement in Gurtha’s voice, shouting in a loud voice.

  “Yes. I told you it would be there.”

  Gurtha opened the wallet. There were two pieces of paper. One with a list of Paddy’s medications and the timings for him to take them. It was da
ted Wednesday 15th August 2012. There was a second piece of paper with Nuala’s writing.

  “Ask Laura to get help.”

  The paper had been crumpled several times and then opened, closed, folded into four and placed into the wallet.

  Gurtha fell back on the bed, the letter dropping onto the floor. His head spun. He felt as though he was on a twister ride in an amusement park. He closed his eyes. Stabbing pain, followed by deep rolling nausea, started in his back and rolled like a tsunami towards his throat and down into his legs. His heart trembled – sending shockwaves into other organs – pains around his liver, a tightness of air in his lungs. He coughed – a dry movement in his throat, as he struggled to breathe.

  Paddy struggled to his feet and stood over Gurtha – looking down at him.

  Gurtha opened his eyes as Paddy placed a hand on Gurtha’s shoulder.

  “It’s OK son. You found the wallet. I knew you would. It’s going to be OK now isn’t it?”

  Gurtha lifted the two pieces of paper from the floor and placed them in his wallet.

  “Yes. Everything is going to be fine. Laura said that she will visit you every day until I get back.”

  Paddy sat on the bed beside Gurtha.

  “Why do you have to go son? Can you not stay here?”

  DAY 23

  MONDAY 2ND SEPTEMBER 2013

  “DANCE, WHEN YOU’RE BROKEN OPEN. DANCE, IF YOU’VE TORN THE BANDAGE OFF. DANCE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FIGHTING. DANCE IN YOUR BLOOD. DANCE WHEN YOU’RE PERFECTLY FREE.”

  J RUMI

  AS SOON as Gurtha landed at Palma airport there was a message on his mobile from Cornelia:

  “We need to talk. Get in touch as soon as you’re back.”

  Gurtha texted back:

  “Just landed. Yes urgent that we talk.”

  ♥

  Cornelia sighed as she read Gurtha’s reply. He hadn’t said when he would be calling around. She really needed to talk with him. It felt as if her life was spiralling once again out of control. She needed to stop it and Gurtha was her best chance to get it back on track before it was too late.

  Barry opened the door of the sitting room searching for his Nike trainers. He found them beside the TV. As he tied the laces, he looked up at Cornelia.

  “Are you sure that you don’t want to come too.”

  She shook her head.

  “It will be too hot. Anyway, you know that I have to open the Gallery as Angelina has the day off. When will you be back?”

  Barry ran his fingers through his hair. He had gelled his fringe to sit up on his forehead. Cornelia could smell his aftershave. It had a sweet flowery scent which she hadn’t noticed before.

  Barry hesitated before replying.

  “It will be around mid-day. I’ve got a key. I’ll come back to the house for a shower and then I’ll join you in the Gallery and we can have lunch in Soller – if you like?”

  “That sounds good.” Cornelia looked at his hairy neck above his t-shirt and flabby arms lying almost lifeless by his side. He seemed disgusting to her now. It was hard to believe that she had ever enjoyed kissing him. Yet when Henry was alive, she had. Henry would go out for one of his afternoon walks, Barry would knock on the front door and they would immediately deeply kiss one another in the hallway. He continued to kiss her as he carried her upstairs. They collapsed on top of the bed which Cornelia had previously sprayed with Coco Chanel. Barry undressed her. His hands moved roughly over her naked body before they had sex, as Cornelia kept an eye on the alarm clock on the bedside table, anticipating Henry’s return.

  In those months before Henry died, it had felt briefly as if Barry had opened up a world in which every love song had been written for them. When Cornelia closed her eyes, she didn’t feel Barry’s body beside her, but the music quivering within her body as Barry’s lips continued to press incessantly against hers. It was no longer as if he was kissing her but rather that she had dropped into the wave of the song. Norah Jones honeyed voice singing.

  “Sleepless nights aren’t so bad … I don’t want anything to change.”

  ♥

  She heard the door close as Barry left for his walk. She waited for a minute before opening it.

  It might be difficult not to be seen. She was lucky. A group of walkers were being guided up the road towards the Torre Picada, a small fort overlooking the sea. She tucked in behind them, wishing that she had remembered her hat. The September sun was still intense even though there was a gentle breeze from the sea. Carob pods hung like black witches fingers from the carob trees. Roses were wizened on the wire trellises as orange and red hibiscus flowers opened in the morning sun. Barry walked quickly ahead. She pushed her way toward the front of the walking group in order not to lose sight of him.

  When she saw him turn left onto Calle Belgica, she smiled to herself. She knew it. He shouldn’t be turning onto Calle Belgica if he was doing the walk that he said he had planned. He should instead be walking straight ahead. She felt a warm rush of energy and excitement flood her body. It would be easy now. She knew where he was going. He would walk along the Calle Belgica, drop down past the Jumeirah Hotel, down into the Santa Catalina district by the fishing Port. She could let him walk quite far ahead now. She only needed to make sure that when he got to the Santa Catalina district, she witnessed him turning right to climb the narrow street leading to Angelina’s apartment.

  He did. She continued to follow him. She now had to make sure that he entered the apartment. Barry stopped to talk to three black cats near the apartment. Seagulls hovered overhead, swirling in an enormous cloud of several hundred, strangely quiet. Barry pushed open the door of Angelina’s apartment without ringing the bell. Cornelia did not need to go any further. She looked at her watch. It was nine-thirty. There was time to get the tram to Soller and open the Gallery.

  She sat on the tram, as it clicked its steady way along the sea front in the Port and looked out to sea. She felt a sense of relief knowing that Barry would predictably call into the Gallery and tell lies about what he had done. She felt vindicated for her own sins. She tasted the sweetness of righteousness which comes with anticipating revenge.

  She descended from the tram near the Plaza in Soller. Old men sat on benches leaning on walking sticks – the friendship of a lifetime soothing the passage of time – faces carved into grooves, imitating the olive trees. It was tempting to have a coffee but she was afraid that Gurtha might arrive and find the Gallery closed. She quickened her pace. It was already after ten.

  She opened the Gallery to find the light falling onto the floor as it always did. Today it looked even more wonderful. She searched for her playlist and connected her phone to her Bose speaker. The song reminded her of being a child in Cardiff, listening to the rain beating against the window, holding Amelia’s hand:

  The rain tapped on the window

  Calling from above

  A quiet insistent yearning

  That seemed to talk of love

  Then there was a moment

  When no one was alone

  A fleeting, empty presence

  Filled with all and none

  What can you say

  When words have gone?

  What can you say when all alone?

  What can you say

  When all you hear

  For sure

  Is a whisper within the silence of love?

  She made a cup of coffee and checked the fridge to make sure that there was a bottle of chilled champagne - in case Gurtha arrived. A bottle of Moet, which a client had bought after purchasing one of the paintings, would do the job perfectly.

  She checked her mobile – no messages from Gurtha. She pulled a wooden stool into a broad ray of sunlight and wondered how she could explain to Gurtha what had happened to Nuala. Would he believe her? There was one more problem which had to be resolved. She was happy to allow Angelina and Barry to squirm in one another’s arms. They deserved one another. However, she had heard Angelina flirt with Gurtha, quotin
g T S Eliot. What was worse was that Gurtha responded to her with apparent interest. How could he do that? It was Cornelia’s role in life to ask Gurtha questions that made him think. It was not Angelina’s. Then there was the change in Gurtha’s attitude towards her – his coldness. Was this intensified by his attraction for Angelina?

  She began to breathe quickly and shallowly. She felt beads of sweat running down her temples which she didn’t bother to wipe away. A scene played in her head of Angelina sitting cross legged on a tartan picnic rug. Beside her on the rug, a picnic basket had been opened. The white delph china plates inside removed and placed on the rug with an artesan whole grain loaf, a bottle of red wine, a circle of Cambazola cheese and a jar of olives. She opened the wine with four twists of her hand, removed two crystal glasses, filled them only half way up and passed a glass to Gurtha who held a six month old baby in his arms. They looked into one another’s eyes and he smiled. It was the smile that he should have kept for her.

  Cornelia brought her hands to her temples and squeezed them, shaking her head from side to side.

  ♥

  Gurtha drove through the tunnel into Soller. The valley opened up before him dropping into Soller with the Church of Saint Bartholomew spiking the sky and the mountains around protecting the valley and isolating it from the rest of the world. He twisted and turned the twenty seven bends to La Torretta. The dust rose in a cloud behind him as the car struggled over the pot holes and gullies carved out by the winter rains. He opened the windows to hear the cicadas sing their incessant song of life. The hot air from outside swarmed through the car stinging his face and arms.

  Once at ‘La Torretta’, he made a coffee and carried it out to the gazebo. The ghost of Paddy seemed to be sitting at the small table in the shade, overlooking Soller. He almost felt like making a second cup of coffee and leaving it there for him. He checked his mobile. There were no messages.

  He sipped on his coffee. He thought about what he would say to Cornelia. How would he start the conversation? What kind of person was Cornelia, really? He had known her for twenty seven years. Did he know her at all? Did he know himself at all?