Holding

by Graham Norton

  The detective’s brain collated what he knew and what he wanted to find out. It was a young man who was murdered, over twenty years ago. Good. He paused. Unless they could establish who the man was, there was no way they could move forward. They had to ascertain if the body was Tommy Burke or not. Much as it pained him, he realised he was going to have to apply for an exhumation order for the parents. Linus wasn’t squeamish about blood, or even finding a limb, like that leg they’d come across up by the lough last spring, but there was something about disturbing remains that he found deeply unsettling. Still, it had to be done. He would alert Sergeant Sumo so that he could let the locals know why it was necessary.

  He reached forward to turn out his lamp and glanced at the wooden-framed photograph to the right of his computer. A small, thin woman with dark hair that hung limply down the sides of her face stood holding a baby whose face was hidden in a lemon blanket. Linus thought back to the day he’d taken the picture, just a few hours after they had come back from the hospital. He pressed with his thumb and plunged the cubicle into darkness. He sat still for a moment, and then, as he got to his feet, decided he might just swing by the pub for one before he went home.

  10

  Brid hated herself. Why had she been so stupid? What had possessed her to drive over to Ard Carraig? How could that have ever been a good idea?

  She blamed her tiredness. Somehow she lacked the energy to fight her impulses. There had been a thousand times since that day all those years before when she had wanted to attack Evelyn Ross. So smug and perfect. Walking through the village in that coat that hung so well, with her fucking wicker basket. Every step she took a declaration to the world that her love for Tommy had been pure and she was waiting for him to return. Not like Brid, with her blouses straining around her breasts, too large on the shoulders. Brid with her noisy children; Brid, who had given herself with extraordinary haste to that boring Riordan fella.

  Evelyn didn’t understand. Brid’s mother had left her with no choice, telling her in no uncertain terms that she had ruined her life. A virgin with a farm was one thing, but trailing a broken engagement behind you like a soiled sheet was something else entirely. When Anthony had come sniffing around for the unclaimed farm, her mother had virtually locked them in the front room together until some talk of marriage had occurred. Brid had known all along it wasn’t right, but, she reasoned, it was better than the alternative. The wedding had been a welcome distraction and Anthony to begin with had been pleasantly attentive in ways that Tommy had never been. He liked to kiss her, he ran his hands over her breasts; he did all the right things, but he was the wrong man. He wasn’t Tommy.

  She thought she could forget Tommy and move on with her life, but how could she, because there was Evelyn fucking Ross. Calm, cool Evelyn, walking through the village at an even pace. Never sweat patches under her arms, never a thick clump of hair that refused to lie flat even when you’d slapped it down with cold water. It didn’t matter what Evelyn was doing – buying a paper, browsing the stalls at the summer fete, trotting down the steps after mass; what she was really doing was judging Brid Riordan. Ugly, fat, sweaty Brid Riordan.

  With Tommy on her mind, Brid had sat in the car before nipping into O’Driscoll’s for a sliced loaf. She had glanced in the direction of Ard Carraig and suddenly no time had passed. It was all so real. The light was the same, the heavy clouds moving across the sky, the shadows racing around the street as if the whole village doubted itself. It had been about this time, half nine in the morning, and she had just left the shop with a box of eggs. Her mother wanted to make meringues to give people who came up to see the wedding presents before the big day. She heard her before she saw her. Evelyn’s feet clattering down the road. At first she wasn’t sure who it was; all she could see was a skirt swinging wildly from side to side above bouncing knees. She remembered how Evelyn’s hair had swung in the opposite direction, and then there she was, standing in front of her breathing heavily. Brid thought of the cows snuffling from behind the wooden door of the milking parlour.

  ‘Why?’ The voice was so loud that immediately bodies had gathered at the door of the shop.

  Brid tried to remain calm. ‘Why what?’

  Evelyn brandished a piece of silky material.

  ‘Why would you go after somebody when they’re in love with someone else?’ Her voice had now become a scream.

  ‘I’m … I’m engaged to be married.’ Brid was aware of how hot and red her face was becoming.

  Evelyn was sobbing now and almost howled out, ‘He gave me this scarf!’

  ‘Well,’ Brid’s voice was louder now, ‘he asked me to marry him!’ She tried to sound victorious, but as she looked at the soft pinks of the scarf and the slim young girl before her, somehow she knew the truth.

  They stared at each other, both crying now, their lips moving, looking for something to say, but suddenly there were no words.

  Then Brid felt a sharp, stinging pain in her left cheek. It took a moment before she fully comprehended that Evelyn Ross had slapped her. It was as if someone had fired a starting pistol. They flew at each other, like animals fighting over a half-eaten carcass. Brid struck hard and Evelyn was on the ground. The eggs went flying as Brid straddled her, but Evelyn was too quick to pin down. She grabbed Brid’s hair and pulled her head down to the pavement. She squirmed and punched and now she was on top. People had gathered in the street, and more were hurrying down the hill to witness the action. Brid felt a sharp pain in her ear. Evelyn had dug in with her nails! She raised her hand to slap her but instead managed to elbow her hard just below her right eye. Panting and grunting, they had rolled into the gutter and on to the street.

  The spectators, much as they were enjoying it all, felt they had let it go on long enough, so a few stepped forward and dragged them apart. Gasping for air, the two girls had glared at each other. Brid’s coat hung loose where several buttons had come off, and a delicate trail of blood was trickling down her neck. Evelyn’s blouse was torn and her flesh-coloured bra strap was there for all the world to see.

  Old Mrs Byrne, long since gone, was the one who urged them both to leave the scene. ‘He’s only a man, and sure aren’t there plenty of them. Go home!’

  Someone had helped Brid, shivering and crying, along the main street towards home until she had assured them she was fine. She had no idea what had happened to Evelyn. She walked home slowly, not knowing what to think. Should she tell her mother? She felt certain that somehow this would all become her fault. As she began to calm down from the fight, she was overcome with shame. The whole village had seen her acting like some tinker in the street at the end of market day in Ballytorne. Everyone knew Tommy Burke didn’t love her. But he was going to marry her. He would be hers. That skinny bitch could wave scarves in the street all day, because he hadn’t proposed to her. She wiped her streaming nose on her coat and began to feel a little better.

  Her mother didn’t know what to think either. One of the Ross girls? In broad daylight? She wasn’t sure she had the whole story, but here was her daughter crying and begging her not to make her go back down into the village to get more eggs. She let her go to bed for an hour and thought they’d get to the bottom of it all when Tommy came up that night for his tea. She had some smoked mackerel; with a bit of boiled egg and potato salad, that would do.

  The day dragged by for Brid up in her room. She couldn’t read. About four in the afternoon she ventured downstairs and had a cup of tea with her mother, who was being very nice for a change. When her mother told her not to worry, she did actually feel better. By seven, when there was no sign of Tommy, she didn’t feel so bright. Her mother had stopped speaking and wouldn’t look her in the eye. Eventually, at nine o’clock, Mam went out into the hall for her coat, buttoning it as she came back into the kitchen.

  ‘Brid, this is ridiculous. I’m going down to the village to look for him. I won’t be long.’

  Brid was astonished. Her mother had never been so nice to her.
The situation had to be serious.

  Less than an hour later, she heard the latch on the back door. Brid turned the volume down on the television she hadn’t been watching. ‘Mam?’

  The door opened and her mother walked in. Silently she took off her coat and sat down, draping it across her knees.

  ‘Well, I went into Flynn’s and the Long Bar, but they had nothing. Then I went into Byrne’s, and young Cormac had it that Tommy was seen in Ballytorne this afternoon. He had a bag and he was getting on the Cork bus. Cormac said there’s been no sign of life up at the farm all day.’

  Brid stared at her mother, waiting for more.

  ‘What does that mean, Mammy?’ She could feel her chin beginning to quiver.

  ‘Well, I don’t know. We can’t be sure and you mustn’t stop hoping yet, but I’d say there might be a … a delay with the wedding.’

  ‘A delay?’ She leaned forward.

  Her mother chewed her bottom lip while she examined her daughter’s face. She took no pleasure in it but the girl had to know the truth.

  ‘Oh Brid. I’m that sorry for you, pet, but I’d say that the wedding is probably off.’

  Brid’s hands covered her face and she gasped. On the far side of the room a table had the first few wedding presents arranged on it. A slow cooker still in its box, a set of salmon-pink table linen, a cut-glass bowl. Brid had imagined Tommy coming in from the cows and asking what smelled so delicious when she took the lid off the slow cooker; his smile of delight when she scooped him a big bit of trifle out of the bowl. She felt empty. There were no tears, no dreams; there was nothing. Her mother got up and went to hang her coat up in the hall, leaving her daughter more alone than anyone should ever feel.

  So that morning, as she had sat in the car reliving that awful day, she had suddenly known with a deep and violent certainty that she should go and confront Evelyn Ross. Brid was sure the woman knew what had happened to Tommy and had allowed her to suffer all these years. The police would take forever to do anything; she was going to sort it out for herself now. As she drove up the road, she muttered encouraging words to herself: ‘long enough’, ‘lying bitch’, ‘this is over’. It was only when she was suddenly confronted by the Garda car, with Sergeant Collins standing beside it, and Evelyn in the doorway that her scheme was revealed to be madness. She dreaded to think what those two must have thought she was doing. She had taken in their looks of astonishment, turned her own car around and fled.

  When she got back on the road, she decided she shouldn’t go home. Sergeant Collins was bound to follow her, and she wasn’t ready. She couldn’t speak to him yet. Not sure where she was going, she turned left and just drove.

  About an hour later, she found herself in Schull. She glanced at her watch: just after twelve. She parked her car up behind the supermarket and walked down into the main street. Thank God! The first pub she came to wasn’t empty. She never liked to be the only one in a bar. It looked terrible. She ordered a large glass of wine. The young barman (was he even old enough to drink?) told her they didn’t do wine by the glass. They just had small bottles like those they sometimes handed out on a plane.

  ‘A white one of those then, please.’

  ‘We have two types.’ He pointed at the display of tiny bottles on the shelf behind him.

  Brid peered at the unfamiliar labels. ‘Whichever one is nicer.’

  The barman smiled sheepishly. ‘Well one of them has a green label, the other one is yellow. I’m not a big wine drinker, to be honest.’

  ‘Yellow then,’ she barked, impatient for her drink, followed by a softer, ‘please’.

  After two more of the little bottles, which held more than you thought in actual fact, on top of an empty stomach, she didn’t feel that well. She was finding it hard to focus. Deciding that she’d better eat something, she made her way to the supermarket to get a sandwich. She had great difficulty finding what she wanted, and a number of sandwiches ended up falling on the floor. They were very badly displayed. Eventually she selected a cheese and ham one and approached the bored girl on the till.

  ‘Two sixty, please.’

  Brid looked down. Jesus, hadn’t she left her handbag in the pub. She tried to explain to the girl what had happened, but it was complicated. Abandoning the sandwich, she went back to the pub. The barman smiled when he saw her and held up her bag.

  ‘Thank Christ!’

  The young man then offered to walk her down the street. He seemed bizarrely interested in whether she had a car or not. Brid didn’t like it, so she told him nothing and escaped back into the supermarket, but the thought of trying to get a sandwich suddenly seemed like a herculean task, so she just went straight through to the back of the shop and up into the car park.

  So many red hatchbacks. Like an inept witch casting useless spells, she jabbed her car keys into the air. Finally the familiar beep and she was back in the driving seat. As soon as she sat down and before she had even closed the door, she had fallen asleep.

  When she woke, she had that familiar feeling she got when she found herself coming to at the kitchen counter or on the couch, where she felt more exhausted than before she had slept. Her mouth was thick with wine and she had a dull ache behind her forehead. She glanced at her watch. That couldn’t be right. She looked again, but it was still a quarter to four. She sat bolt upright, properly awake now.

  ‘The kids! Shit, shit, shit.’ She was sometimes – well, quite often – a little late, but this was going to be bad. She shoved her hand into her bag to get the car keys, but rummaged in vain. There was no sign of them. ‘Fuck!’ She glanced frantically around the car. Nothing. Then … ‘Thank you, Jesus!’ There was the familiar fob sticking out of the plastic cup holder.

  She started the engine and edged her way out of the car park. She had driven cars in this state quite often. Her reactions muffled by the wine, but sober enough to know she had to be extra careful. She wondered if she should phone the school, but decided not to. It would just waste time, and surely, she thought, if they got really worried, they’d call her.

  It was almost half past five when her red hatchback pulled up outside the school gates. The journey had taken longer than she had expected. She had got stuck behind a lorry from the Co-op, and then just before she got to Duneen, some fucker had been moving a herd of cows back down for milking. She stared at the railings, but there was no sign of anyone. Knowing she couldn’t park here, she stuck on her hazard lights and got out of the car to have a better look. Back to the right of the main school she could see that the teachers’ car park was empty and the bike racks stood in rows abandoned. The only sign of life was a limp crisp packet being slapped by the wind against the bars of the gate. Brid tried to swallow, but her mouth was very dry. Too dry.

  On the drive from Schull, she had managed to stop herself from panicking too much, but now she felt it building up inside her. She leaned her hand on the bonnet and tried to catch her breath, becoming aware of just how eerily quiet it was. Not a car on the road, nobody walking by. A random thought popped into her head: how long was I asleep for in that car? Has something happened?

  Back in the car, she checked herself in the rear-view mirror. She didn’t look too bad. Well, not crazy, at least. Taking long, slow breaths, she started the engine. A neighbour would have dropped Carmel and Cathal back home. Maybe one of the teachers had taken pity on them and given them a lift. They knew where the spare key was. It’d be fine. She’d get home and they would be stuck in their rooms, as usual, tapping away at the keyboards on their computers as if they were working on things of international importance. Brid managed a smile and did quite a respectable three-point turn before heading back to the farm.

  No lights. This wasn’t good. The wheels of the car came to a crunching halt, the engine was switched off, and then all that remained was silence. A grey stillness engulfed the house and yard. As Brid hurried towards the back door, she could hear a funny high-pitched juddering sound and for a moment wondered what it was, th
en realised that she had begun to whimper like a frightened pup. She began to pray to a re-found God, ‘Please let them be here. Please. I’ll go back to mass. Let them be here. No more drink.’ The door was locked. Brid put her hands on either side of the wooden frame and leaned forward with her head bowed. She was defeated. Where were her children, and why had she been such a fucking irresponsible moron?

  The back door opened directly into the large kitchen, and the moment she switched on the light she saw it. The back of an old ESB envelope covered in blue writing. The biro lay across it.

  Standing perfectly still, Brid considered the scene. She knew that this note could contain no good news, and yet she would have to read it. Even from across the room she could recognise Anthony’s neat, even handwriting. She took a deep breath.

  Brid,

  I have taken the kids to my mother’s for a few days. I know you are upset at the moment but it’s not fair on the children.

  The school rang me. We are all fine.

  I’ll be in touch.

  Anthony x

  Reasonable, sensible Anthony. Why wasn’t he here? She wanted him to be standing on the other side of the table, screaming at her, berating her for being the worst mother that ever lived so that she could fall to her knees and sob her apologies and beg her little family to forgive her. What was to be gained from this? The three of them sat in their granny’s bungalow eating their tea in silence, her sat here in her coat with nothing but the ticking of the clock above the cooker for company. How could this solve anything? She glanced at the fridge. No. No, the last thing she needed now was a drink.