What she needed now, though, was a place to stay.
The woman behind the bar had a plump, shiny face that had evidently never been troubled by moisturiser or make-up. Her elbows were up on the counter, her head was down and she was forensically examining the newspaper that was spread out in front of her, an index finger tracing her progress on the page. She was reading the death notices, Audrey saw when she got close.
‘What can I do for you, love?’ The woman hadn’t taken her eyes off the paper.
‘I was, ah, I was told there might be a room here?’
Only now did she look up, then look Audrey up and down. ‘You the one who was up at the cottages? Down from Dublin?’
‘Yep.’ Audrey smiled. ‘That’s me.’
‘I’m Peggy.’ She bent down to get something and then dropped it on to the counter with a clatter. ‘That’s the key.’ She pointed to her right where there was a narrow door marked PRIVATE. ‘That’s the way. The room’s up the stairs, door number one. The key to the bathroom is on there too. The only way in is through here so you’ll have to be back by last orders. I’ll do a bit of breakfast for you tomorrow if you like. It’s twenty-five a night. We can settle up in the morning.’
Audrey was still stuck on the phrase the key to the bathroom.
‘Thanks,’ she said, taking the keys. They were both long and old-looking and attached to a ring with no tag. ‘If I needed to stay tomorrow night too, would you have availability?’
Someone to Audrey’s right snorted. The only possible source was the elderly man sitting on the last stool, the one nearest the fire. He had the dregs of a pint in front of him and his arms crossed, staring into space.
‘Availability?’ Peggy repeated, sounding out each syllable. ‘God, now I don’t know about that. I’d have to check the computer.’ She pronounced it com-pute-err, which Audrey couldn’t help but feel was an act. ‘We’re packed to the bloody rafters here every night of the week, but you might be lucky. Isn’t that right, Paddy? Aren’t we chock-a-block here every night of the week?’
‘Not a room to be had,’ Paddy – the man on the stool – said wryly.
They were making fun of her, Audrey realised.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘Thanks. I’ll let you know in the morning.’
‘You do that, love.’ Peggy’s eyes were already back on the death notices, her finger searching for the name of the poor unfortunate where she’d left off.
The door marked PRIVATE led into a narrow, windowless passageway that offered three more doors and a set of bare, uneven stairs. Each step was a different height and, halfway up, they turned sharply before spitting Audrey out on to a narrow landing. Here, the light was dim and the air smelled of stale beer.
The door marked WC had a huge pane of frosted glass in it and even now, with only what she assumed was daylight on the other side, Audrey could make out the blurry shapes of a sink and a toilet through it. Turn on a light in there at night and you’d have yourself a right little peep show.
She stuck the marginally shinier key in the bedroom lock, turned it and pushed the door open.
The bed inside was a small double, visibly sagging in the middle. The headboard was upholstered in dark brown velour, and sheets and the pillowcases were from the When Paisley Attacks range, circa 1970. There was no duvet, just a hairy, orange blanket that Audrey instantly decided was going absolutely nowhere near her, no matter how cold it got. Laced-edged net curtains under heavy brown curtains. A brown, knobbly carpet, threadbare in places and even ripped in one by the door. And hanging above the bed, the pièce de résistance: a foot-tall crucifix from which a particularly lifelike and bloodied Jesus hung.
Audrey dumped her bag on the bed, double-checked her laptop cable was in the other bag hanging over her shoulder and walked straight back out again.
She’d save the horror of the bathroom for later.
‘Everything all right?’ Peggy asked when Audrey re-entered the pub.
‘Yep,’ she said breezily. ‘Is there wifi here, by any chance?’
‘Only our own, in the house. I can get the password off my young fella for you, if you need it. It’s about as long as the alphabet, so …’ Peggy gave a little wave of her hand as if to say, I can’t be arsed with all that.
Audrey couldn’t be arsed with it either. She told Peggy it was fine, not to worry, and that she’d be back later. Then she hurried across the road to the car park, got into her car and moved it a few spaces until it was as close as it could be to The Kiln’s door. She got out her phone and checked for available wireless networks.
Bingo. The Kiln’s network was there, it was strong and it didn’t need a password.
She really needed to call Joel. She couldn’t put it off any longer.
There was only one bar of reception showing on the screen of her phone and, based on her limited time in Shanamore, it might disappear at any second. She sent Joel a text message saying as much and asking him to call her via WhatsApp. Ten seconds later, her phone screen lit up with his name.
‘Joel,’ she said when she answered.
‘Audrey.’
‘How much trouble am I in?’
‘Were you really at the doctor this morning?’
‘Well …’ She decided she’d go with the truth from here on in. ‘To be honest, Joel, I wasn’t really sick.’
A long, deep sigh drifted down the line.
‘Where are you?’
‘Shanamore,’ she said. ‘It’s in East—’
‘I know where it is. It’s all over the news.’
‘Online or TV?’
‘Online so far. TV tonight, I’d expect.’
‘Because of Natalie O’Connor?’
‘Because of her husband,’ Joel said. ‘Didn’t you see it?’
‘I haven’t been online. The reception down here is awful.’
‘He did an appeal on social media. A terrible one. Someone needs to get that man a media trainer. Or a solicitor, the way things are going.’
‘And what way is that?’ Audrey switched to speakerphone, set the device on the dash and started tugging her laptop out of her bag. ‘What’s happening?’
‘All we know,’ Joel said, ‘is she went to Shanamore and they don’t think she left. We don’t know why they think that, that’s the problem. And may I say how reassuring it is to know that you’ve gone all the way there but I know more than you about what’s going on.’
‘I know something,’ Audrey said. ‘I’ve talked to the lead detective.’ She had no idea if O’Reilly was actually that, or if there was such a thing on a Garda investigation, but it sounded good.
‘What did they say?’
‘That they’ve traced her to Shanamore.’
‘But how?’
Audrey had the laptop open now. She pressed its power button, sending its hard drive whirring to life.
‘You didn’t answer my question, Joel. How much trouble am I in? Do I still have a job?’
‘Of course you still have a job,’ he said. ‘But it’s on the Ents desk.’
‘But I’m here, on this.’
‘It’s Sandra who’s on this.’
‘Who’s S—’
‘The Paper’s actual crime reporter.’
‘But she’s not here, is she?’
‘She will be soon. She’s on her way.’
Audrey cursed silently. That wasn’t good news.
‘But the story yesterday,’ she said. ‘The reaction. Don’t you want more of that? Don’t the spreadsheet guys want another hit? Because that’s what I’m trying to deliver here, Joel.’
‘Audrey.’ He sighed again and she could see him in her mind’s eye, rubbing at his temples, his elbows on his desk. ‘You have a job. It has parameters. If you don’t like them, go freelance.’
Freelance.
The word alone made her stomach swim. ThePaper.ie paid a pittance, but at least it paid the same pittance at the same time every two weeks. She could count on it. And she was going to hav
e to pay rent soon.
And yet …
‘She definitely came here, Joel. Natalie did. I was just in the house where she stayed, and I have pictures, so… But you know what? I think you’re right. Maybe I should go freelance. Starting now, with this.’
‘Wait, what—’
Audrey tapped the phone’s screen, ending the call.
Then she said every swear word she could think of because she was ninety, ninety-five per cent sure she had just made a massive mistake. She didn’t want to go freelance. She couldn’t afford to. But she couldn’t just drive home and go back to writing stories about cellulite and nip-slips again.
She’d write this story and send it to Joel, along with her pictures from inside the cottage. There’s no way he could turn that down. He wouldn’t. She’d be able to name her price.
And her price was a desk one floor up and maybe a slightly larger pittance than they were paying her now. Plus expenses. A refund on the money she’d spent getting here and staying here. What was that saying? Better to ask for forgiveness than permission? Dee would know.
But for now, Audrey needed to get that story done before Sandra Somebody arrived in Shanamore. She needed to get organised. Make a list of what she had. Make a list of who she needed to talk to. Andrew was number one. Where was he right now? Probably talking to the Gardaí. What had he told them about Natalie? She needed to know that. Would her new friend O’Reilly tell her? She had Orla already. Maybe she should talk to her father too, about the phone. Who was the local Garda again? Sergeant Seanie? Maybe he’d be a bit more chatty than the detective down from Dublin had been. She had planned on contacting Natalie’s friends – what was the BFF called again? Carla? – but now the story felt like it was here, in Shanamore. And she needed to watch Mike’s appeal. She’d never even looked at the photos she’d surreptitiously snapped in his house yesterday, Audrey realised. She should start with them.
The camera on her phone wasn’t half-bad, it turned out. She could read the text on the larger pieces of crap stuck to the noticeboard. AIB Bank on the letterhead of what looked like a VISA bill with something on it circled in red. Let the notions be-gin on a greeting card. Free garlic bread when you spend €25! on a glossy takeaway menu.
Thrilling stuff altogether.
She swiped on to the next shot. It showed the poetry book lying splayed, facedown, on the seat of one of the dining chairs. The next one was of the sticker and inscription just inside its front cover.
The one after that was of their fridge magnets.
Not exactly the Nixon Tapes, this lot.
She switched to her laptop and opened her email.
Downloading 1 of 378 messages.
She’d have a quick check through those, save the good ones to the hard drive, go back to Murphy’s, find a flat surface, some caffeine and hot food, and put in an hour tying together what she had. Then she’d knuckle down and write it up, and get it to Joel by the end of the day.
Audrey saw now that he had sent her several emails. Because he favoured one-word communications, she could read them in their entirety just from the headers.
8:50am: Sick??
11:05am: ???
12:04pm: Call
12:30pm: ASAP
12:43pm: NOW!!!
Audrey selected all five and clicked DELETE. Then she started wading through the rest.
The first message wasn’t about Natalie at all, but a pervert’s appreciation of Audrey’s professional headshot. Ugh. Delete. The second was from a secondary school student asking Audrey if she’d answer some questions about working as a journalist for a project she was doing at school. She moved that one into a folder she’d labelled LATER. The third was from a woman who was convinced she’d sat next to Natalie on a flight to Amsterdam that had left Dublin Airport last Monday, but that Natalie had had an Australian accent now. Nope.
The fourth message was from someone called John Anonymous – subtle – and it said absolutely nothing at all.
But it did have a file attached. A massive one. Too big a file to send via email, in fact. What he’d actually sent was a Google Drive link. As Audrey moved the cursor over the attachment’s icon, it changed to a PLAY button.
It was a video, then.
But of what?
_________
Audrey drove to the Far Strand because she didn’t know where else to go. Daylight was fading fast, making the screen of her laptop a bright glow in the front seat. Anyone passing by would be able to see what was on screen. After just a glimpse of it, she knew she couldn’t let that happen.
The car park at the Far Strand was deserted. There was only one car parked there, in the space closest to the path that led down to the sand, and no sign of its occupant or anyone else. Audrey parked at the opposite end facing the entrance, giving her a view of the whole place. She’d know if anyone else arrived. She backed the car right up against the perimeter fence to ensure that no one could sneak up on her from behind either. She locked the doors.
She slid back her seat and put her laptop on her knees, waiting impatiently as its inners whirred to life. The video was still on screen, paused where she’d stopped watching it, ten seconds into its eighty-eight of them.
Audrey steeled herself, then pressed PLAY.
The video looked like it was in black and white but the quality was very high. The image was very clear. The scene looked oddly lit, sort of bleached, almost greyscale. It took Audrey a moment to work out that that was because this was night-vision of some sort, that the room which she could see on screen was, in reality, very dim or dark, more so to the right of the screen, as if there might be a window off-screen to the left.
It was a bedroom. Or maybe a hotel room. A room with a bed in it, anyway. The view was from the foot of the bed looking up towards the headboard, from a point a foot, maybe a foot and a half, higher than the bed itself and a couple of feet away.
Someone was asleep in the bed.
Long, dark hair splayed across the pillow. One bare arm outside the blankets, a wedding ring on the hand. The hand looked slim and delicate.
A woman.
Why would anyone record this?
Something moved on the left-hand side of the screen then and Audrey realised that the shadows in the corner weren’t shadows at all.
They were a person. A shadow-man.
He was standing next to the bed, looking down at the sleeping woman, and every single thing about him screamed that he wasn’t supposed to be there, that he didn’t belong in this scene, that something terrible and frightening and horrific was about to happen. He was dressed all in black, including the mask or balaclava covering his face and head, and the gloves on his hands. He was holding something down by his side, pressed against his thigh. It was reflective, glinting in what must be street- or moonlight.
A blade. A knife.
Slowly, the figure advanced towards the bed and then reached down to stroke the sleeping woman’s cheek tenderly.
She didn’t move.
He did something to the woman’s face – a short gesture, quick, over in the blink of an eye, like a tap or a flick.
She woke up.
Her eyes flew open and her body started to twist violently and jerk and kick.
The intruder pushed her back down into the bed with a gloved hand, covering her mouth with it, pressing on it.
Audrey could imagine the weight of that hand, considering the differential, position-wise, between the two: one lying on a soft bed, one standing on solid ground. It terrified her.
And that’s when the attack really began.
Audrey could only watch, unblinking. It didn’t look real. The intruder barely raised their hand before they plunged the knife into the woman’s midsection; the stabbing was done in small, quick jabs that reminded Audrey, of all things, of piercing the plastic film over a ready meal before it goes into the microwave. But of course, she’d never seen anything like this before that wasn’t actors, special effects and a film or TV set. Her re
ference points were sequences filmed in studios with syrup and stunt doubles and creative camera angles.
It didn’t look real because it was real.
Audrey was watching the end of someone’s life. In a video clip that someone had taken the time to send to her.
The violence went on for what felt like an hour but was, according to the information on screen, much less than a minute in reality.
The worse part was what came next.
The woman in the bed was all but destroyed, her flesh dotted with wounds and her clothes stained with blood. More stains were soaking into the bed, staining the sheets. There was a spray of droplets on the wall above the headboard. And yet she was still moving, turning slowly on to her right side, extending an arm as if to reach for something, or to appeal to her attacker for help or mercy – or maybe to try to get off the bed – but there wasn’t enough life left in her to do that and she stopped and fell back.
And that was it. The end of her.
The figure stood above her, stock-still, watching.
Seconds passed. So many that Audrey looked to the progress bar to check that the video was still playing, that it hadn’t paused or stopped.
Then the figure bent at the waist to lay the knife down carefully on the bedside table, straightened up again—
The image froze.
The video had ended.
Audrey’s chest burned and she felt mildly nauseous, as if she was suddenly car-sick. She rolled down the driver’s side window and gulped a few lungfuls of cold, salty sea air.
What the hell had she just seen? Why had someone wanted her to see it? Who wanted her to?
How had they got it?
Was it Natalie O’Connor in that bed?
Now she thought she might actually be sick. She reached across to open Dee’s glovebox and rooted around in there until her fingers found a plastic bottle with some weight in it. A near-empty bottle of water. She swallowed what was left; all she could taste was plastic.
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