Holding

by Graham Norton

  PJ wasn’t sure how to respond. He found himself agreeing with Brid but felt that it would be somehow disloyal to Evelyn to say so. He decided on another question.

  ‘Excuse me for asking this, but were you sleeping with Tommy Burke?’

  A little snort. ‘No. No I was not.’

  ‘And do you think that he and Evelyn Ross were having some sort of affair?’

  ‘Are you serious?’ Brid’s voice was raised. ‘That woman screams virgin! I doubt she’s even been kissed, never mind anything else.’

  PJ shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘All right.’ He decided to end that line of questioning.

  Brid raised an eyebrow and gave him a sideways glance as she recalled the two of them stood together outside the chapel. Maybe … No. No, that wasn’t possible.

  ‘Have you ever heard from Tommy again?’

  ‘I haven’t.’

  ‘Heard of anyone seeing him?’

  ‘No. Well, my mother heard people had seen him getting on the bus to Cork. Quite a few people had that story.’

  ‘Who told your mother?’

  ‘As far as I remember, she had it from Cormac Byrne in the pub.’ PJ made a note.

  ‘Weren’t people surprised that he just disappeared?’

  ‘Not that I remember. Sure, I suppose people could understand him making himself scarce after the fight in the street.’

  PJ decided to feign ignorance. He wondered how Brid’s version of events would differ from Evelyn’s.

  ‘What fight?’

  Brid groaned inwardly. He didn’t know about the fight. She was so embarrassed to recount what had happened that morning outside O’Driscoll’s.

  There was an electronic ringing sound, and PJ started slapping his various pockets trying to locate his phone. Brid silently gave thanks for the interruption.

  ‘Hello.’ PJ’s face was scrunched in concentration as he listened to the voice at the other end of the line. ‘Yes.’

  There was a long silence, with PJ just holding the phone to his ear. His face relaxed and his mouth formed a small pink circle. Eventually he spoke.

  ‘Right. Well thank you for letting me know. Of course. Of course. Yes, I will. Thanks again. Goodbye.’

  He hit the small red button to hang up and stared down at the steering wheel. Brid sat in silence, looking at him expectantly. After a moment or two PJ turned to her.

  ‘Well that was the results of the DNA. Whoever was buried up there, it wasn’t Tommy Burke.’

  Outside, a lone seagull was battling against the wind, suspended in the moment.

  Part Two

  1

  Four months had passed. Four long, dark months, but now finally some tight green buds had appeared and a few clumps of daffodils hinted at the bright yellow blankets that were to follow. Some days the clouds would part and tease the good people of Duneen with a patch of blue. The children returning from school stayed out after the bus dropped them off, and their thin, high voices could be heard until it was dark. Cormac Byrne spent one whole Sunday sanding and oiling the picnic tables before taking them out of the shed and placing them in a neat row along the front of the pub. It was hardly café society, but it gave the smokers an air of respectability rather than standing huddled against the wall like some very unappetising prostitutes.

  Time never went quickly for the residents of the village, but after the news broke about Tommy Burke it seemed to stop completely. Everyone had enjoyed putting forward their theories about what had happened to Big Tom’s son, but when it came to light that the discovery was really just some bones in a field that would probably never be identified, it was harder to get involved. The people of Duneen felt they had been cheated. The wind had been taken out of their sails, their lives robbed of excitement.

  Susan Hickey had distracted herself by deciding that what the village needed more than anything else was a ride-on lawn mower for the cemetery. So far she had raised less than two hundred euros. She understood. Her heart wasn’t really in it either.

  Over at the shop and post office, business was ticking over as usual. All the faces were once again familiar. There were no more journalists sniffing around or gardaí from Cork standing by their unmarked cars trying to look important. Mrs O’Driscoll had recently noticed some of the builders coming back into the shop looking for cigarettes or cartons of milk. Work must have resumed up at the site. Life truly had returned to normal.

  Brid and Anthony existed in an artificial calm. There were no raised voices and she made an effort to go up to bed at more or less the same time as he did. She often lay there beside him, awake and sober, going over things. Sometimes she thought about Tommy; on other nights she saw herself sprawled on the stairs with PJ, and occasionally she imagined herself smartly dressed in an office somewhere, with friends to see after work and a broad, unforced smile on her face.

  Brid had decided that not rocking the boat was the best course of action at the moment, but she hadn’t given up. With sobriety came more time for thinking and coming up with ideas, ones she could remember the next day. There would be a time once the kids were older when she would step off the leaking boat of her life and walk alone into the unknown. The thought of it scared her but also kept her going through each monotonous sober day.

  She had deliberately not thrown any of her wine away. The bottles still stood in the fridge, and she took pleasure in staring back at their glossy labels. Every time she closed the fridge without finding a glass in her hand made her feel like somebody who had been granted supernatural strength.

  Things had changed at Ard Carraig in the last four months too. One night, about a week after it had been revealed that Tommy Burke was still missing, Abigail came into the kitchen carrying a shallow cardboard box with crudely drawn tomatoes printed on the side. Evelyn was at the sink peeling the paper off some tin cans to get them ready for the recycling. She turned to look over her shoulder at her sister.

  ‘What have you got there?’

  Abigail stepped back from the table.

  ‘It’s for you. Well, all of us, but especially you.’ She gave a little flourish towards the box.

  Evelyn wiped her hands on a tea towel and crossed the room to the table. Looking into the box, she found an old towel, which she pulled back tentatively.

  ‘Oh Abigail!’ she gasped. ‘I don’t believe it.’

  Lying on the bottom of the box fast asleep was a plump blonde puppy. Its eyes were squeezed shut, a hint of pink tongue at the mouth, and the rest of the body seemed made up of a silky belly softly moving up and down with steady careless breaths.

  Evelyn reached her hand into the box and touched the warm softness, and with that the eyes opened and the puppy struggled to its feet like an old drunk that had fallen asleep at the bus stop.

  ‘It’s a little boy,’ said Abigail. ‘What will you call him?’

  Of course the first name that leapt into Evelyn’s head was Tommy, but she instantly dismissed it.

  ‘What about … what about Bobby? He looks like a little Bobby.’

  Abigail said nothing.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, it’s just that’s what Mammy used to call our father.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Isn’t that a bit, I don’t know, strange?’

  ‘Would it bother you? I think it would be nice.’

  ‘I suppose it would.’ Abigail smiled. ‘Bobby it is.’

  ‘Will Florence mind, do you think?’

  ‘It’s a puppy! She wouldn’t care if you called it Adolf. She’s going to adore him!’

  The two women laughed and Evelyn picked up little Bobby.

  ‘Let’s give you a bowl of water.’

  Bobby twisted his head from side to side, seeming to be surprised to find he had ears.

  It was strange the effect something so small could have on a household. A little creature predisposed to happiness, with no sense of what had come before, Bobby transformed the sad old house. Even the piss stains on the threadbare
hall carpet seemed a cheerful sign. Life where there had been none.

  As the months passed, he grew bigger and more confident. Abigail had acquired him from some of her gardening friends just outside Bandon on the way to Cork. His mother was a pedigree retriever, while the father was an overly friendly collie neighbour. It was clear from his wide paws that he was going to be a large dog, and sure enough after four months he had outgrown two dog beds and was already on his third collar. Most of the time he just ran wild in the garden or in the field that sloped down to the river, but a couple of times a week Evelyn would attach a lead to him and walk him into the village. Cars slowed down to peer at the curious sight of poised, collected Evelyn Ross wrestling with a very wilful dog along the side of the road. No cowboy breaking in a bucking bronco had struggled harder than Evelyn, as she found herself either being pulled towards her destination at a breakneck speed or dragging a surprisingly heavy recalcitrant dog straining against the direction she had intended.

  After a couple of months she decided that Bobby was a good excuse to visit PJ, so one Friday morning she and the dog had arrived at the door of the Garda barracks, Evelyn covered in sweat and Bobby bouncing with excitement at the idea of going inside another house. As it happened, the sergeant was out, but Mrs Meany took the message to say they had called. As they headed back down the short drive, at more of a jog than a walk, Evelyn wondered why the housekeeper hadn’t even remarked on Bobby. You mightn’t want him yourself, but he was a beautiful big pup that nearly everyone they met took the time to admire. Mind you, Evelyn thought, the woman didn’t look well. Not well at all.

  If Ard Carraig had found new life, then the Garda barracks had surely lost it. Mrs Meany still cleaned and chronically overcatered meals for one, but she did so in near silence. Where once her monologues of chatter and gossip played like department store muzak constantly in the background, now there was just the hum of a hoover or the hollow clang of lids being put on pots.

  PJ sat at his desk staring at a computer screen, wishing life was different. He wished they had never found the human remains. A crime that couldn’t be solved was worse than no crime at all. He wished that Brid and Evelyn had never shone their light on him. The brief flurry and excitement of his love triangle had soon flatlined. He felt more alone than ever. For the first time in twenty-five years he wondered about leaving the police force. When word got out that the body wasn’t Tommy Burke and it became clear that the murder hunt had hit a dead end, he had felt the way people looked at him. For a few weeks there he had sensed respect and interest, but now it was closer to pity. Walking down the main street in his uniform, he knew eyes were at windows thinking to themselves, ‘Would you look at that big fool, all dressed up with nowhere to go.’

  If he had seen her through the window of the shop he would never have gone into O’Driscoll’s, but by the time he noticed Evelyn squeezing the loaves of bread with her long, cool fingers it was too late.

  ‘Sergeant Collins!’

  He could feel himself blushing and in that moment loathed himself completely. A woman was saying hello to him in a shop. Why did he always have to feel so awkward? He managed to look her in the eye. Her face held no secrets, just the happy smile of a woman who seemed genuinely pleased to see him. He relaxed a little. ‘Hello.’ Evelyn stepped towards him and then the two of them were trapped in the narrow aisle. PJ felt uncomfortable again. This was far too close for comfort.

  ‘I thought you might have come up to see us.’

  PJ squinted at her, puzzled.

  ‘Did Mrs Meany not tell you I called around with Bobby the pup?’

  ‘Oh yes. Yes, she did,’ PJ lied. Mrs Meany had never mentioned any such visit.

  ‘He is such a dote. Do you like dogs, Sergeant?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Well you must come up and see him. What are you doing now?’

  PJ’s mouth hinged open and shut like a fish.

  ‘Nothing.’ There it was. He had said it.

  ‘Great.’ Evelyn smiled. ‘Come up now,’ she said. ‘And selfishly, you can give me a lift!’ A little laugh.

  PJ nodded his agreement, but in his head he was wondering what had happened to the awkward, distant Evelyn he had met just a few months earlier. He thought she might be on some sort of medication. Surely just being high on puppy love couldn’t have this strong an effect?

  Out on the street it was still light and a few cars were going through the village on various stages of the school run. PJ walked around to open the passenger door for Evelyn. She tucked her coat beneath her and slipped into the seat as if she were getting into a limo outside a five-star hotel, then put her basket on her lap. PJ eased himself in behind the wheel and shut the door. He had just started the engine when there was a tap on his window. Slightly annoyed, he glanced to his right. There was no mistaking that it was one of the builders from the site.

  Window down, he poked his head towards the pavement.

  ‘What is it?’ He tried to sound busy, but he felt it was probably obvious that he was just a bored guard who was literally going to see a woman about a dog.

  The builder cleared his throat and glanced at Evelyn. PJ looked at her too. She was sat very still staring straight ahead with both hands on the top of her basket.

  ‘You’re all right. Spit it out.’

  ‘Well it’s just that … well, we think we’re after finding some more bones up above.’ He paused. ‘Little bones.’

  Evelyn let out a squeak like a puppy dreaming of rabbits.

  2

  PJ couldn’t believe it. He didn’t consider himself to be a religious man, but this did seem like the answer to prayers he didn’t remember saying. After the DNA results from the old bones, he had desperately tried to keep interest in the case alive. They could continue the search for Tommy Burke, and besides, whoever the body might turn out to be, there was still a murderer to find. When the DNA failed to match any names on the system, though, Cork lost interest, and the lads in Ballytorne treated him the way he himself dealt with old Miss Baxter, who every summer was convinced that someone was stealing the blackberries from the hedgerow outside her bungalow. Finally he took the hint and let it drop, but now everyone was going to have to listen. New remains!

  The village was soon filled once more with Garda cars and press. A second body meant this story had legs. It might be a serial killer, or some bizarre suicide pact. Long fluttering ribbons of police tape flapped in the breeze and the white overalls of the technical team picked their way carefully across the muddy crime scene. It also meant the return of Detective Superintendent Linus Dunne.

  The last four months had brought great change to the detective’s life. One evening (it had been a Thursday, he knew, because he had met some of the uniforms who played five-a-side in the pub for a pint or two after their practice), he had got home, not late, ten at the latest, to find the house in darkness. He remembered he had breathed a sigh of relief: how lovely to walk into a quiet house, no baby screaming, no wife with greasy hair who seemed to live in sweat pants haranguing him to do things. The note had just said, At mum’s. Call me.

  He had assumed the baby was sick so he made himself a cheese sandwich and watched the news before ringing. With any luck his wife might have gone to bed. Sure enough his mother-in-law answered the phone. She sounded even more hostile than usual. Linus began to suspect something was seriously wrong. The voice on the other end of the line told him that his wife was too upset to come to the phone. She’d had enough of being a single mother, so she and the baby had moved out. If Linus wanted to see them, he could call round in the morning.

  When he hung up the phone, he was shocked, of course. He’d had no idea that June was so unhappy. For some reason, because the situation had been making him miserable, he had assumed she was happy. If they both hated this new life with a baby, why were they bothering?

  As he sat on the sofa with the flickering light from the TV throwing shadows against the curtains, he asked himself if he wa
s some sort of monster. His wife and child had left him, and if he was being totally honest, he didn’t really care.

  Life with June had been great to start with. He’d put on a fresh shirt after work and meet her somewhere for cocktails or dinner, often both. He had enjoyed having her on his arm. She was beautiful and flirty, and once they finally had sex, things had been very close to perfect for him. That was the life he wanted back. A girlfriend when he wanted one. Getting married had been a mistake, and what on earth had he been thinking when he had agreed to the baby idea? He supposed he had imagined a child would distract June and keep her occupied so that he could reclaim some of his own life. Of course it hadn’t worked out like that, but now the solution to everything had simply fallen into his lap. There was nobody moving around upstairs; the hallway wasn’t blocked with a buggy the size of a small car. He was alone in his own house and he liked it. If that made him a bad person, then so be it.

  When Sergeant Sumo’s name had come up on his phone a couple of months later, Linus had been tempted to ignore it. Since the bones in Duneen had proved impossible to identify, he just wanted to get on with other cases, but Sumo wouldn’t let it go. Linus understood. Duneen was hardly a crime hotspot, and he could sense the sergeant’s loneliness, but neither of those things was his problem.

  He had been busy dealing with an awful abduction case that hadn’t ended well. A French chef from a restaurant in Cork had taken a custody battle into his own hands and got on the ferry to Roscoff with his seven-month-old son in the boot of his car. Linus was the one who had to park outside the house of the baby’s grandparents. Inside, the mother was sat on a sofa still in her waitress’s uniform. She was just a child herself, he had thought as he sat opposite her and explained that the French police had stopped the car somewhere on the road from Morlaix to Rennes. Her hope was so great, she couldn’t read his expression or the tone of his voice. ‘Did they find Killian? Have they got my baby?’