by Julie Corbin
18
I check in to a hotel in Galway City but before I go up to my room, I ask the receptionist whether there’s somewhere I can access the Internet. She points me in the direction of what she calls ‘the business centre’ – a small alcove, where a couple of desktop computers are switched on and waiting for action. I feel unhappy about the way I left things with O’Reilly but don’t feel up to talking to him. Instead, I call the police station to find out his email address then I log on to my email and begin a message to him, typing and deleting for almost ten minutes before I hit upon the right tone. Firstly, I thank him for all he’s done, and then I apologise for not always being upfront with him. I finish by telling him where I’m staying and that, come tomorrow, I’ll be heading off to visit my brother, ‘somewhere to lick my wounds and stay out of trouble’.
I hesitate over a postscript – ‘I hope we’ll bump into each other sometime in the future’; change it to ‘perhaps we could catch up over a drink one evening?’, change it again to ‘please stop in if ever you’re passing my way’. That doesn’t sound right either, but I leave it at that and press send.
I wake around six, my cheekbone throbbing from where I’ve been lying on it, have a quick energising shower and get dressed before making myself a cup of tea and sitting by the window to watch the river run past the back of the hotel and down into the bay. Only a week ago, Robbie, Lauren and I stayed in a hotel in Edinburgh and I had my first inkling that Robbie had had his drink spiked because of me. Now, here I am, giving in to an eighteen-year-old girl who managed to find my weak spot. I can only hope that the newspaper coverage is enough to get Kirsty off my back and away from my family for good.
Hungry for breakfast, I pack my few toiletries and pyjamas into my suitcase then phone Declan. He’s surprised to hear I’m close by and offers to come straight over to collect me, but I tell him that I want to potter around the city and will hire a car and drop in to see them late afternoon. ‘You know Mam’s op isn’t for another couple of weeks, don’t you?’ he says.
‘Yes. I haven’t forgotten about that. This is an extra visit. I need to talk to you.’
‘Nothing else has happened to Robbie, has it?’
‘No. I’ll tell you all about it later.’
Declan knows about my reliance on cannabis and, before that, my part in Sandy Stewart’s death, but I’ve yet to tell him about the graffiti on the wall and the unravelling of my life thereafter. It’s going to take an hour or so of explaining and I hope he thinks I’ve done the right thing cooperating with Kirsty.
I leave my suitcase with the receptionist and walk out into the street. The weather forecast is fair to middling and I grab a quick coffee and bacon buttie then spend the morning shopping for presents for my nieces and nephews. It’s rare for me to have time on my hands and at first I feel self-conscious. I was brought up an hour’s drive away from Galway City and have been gone so long now that I’m unlikely to see anyone I know, but the place is still familiar to me and I expect, at any moment, to bump into Gabe or Sister Mary-Agnes. I don’t, of course, and gradually I begin to relax and value the breathing space. I carry on shopping until I have a present for each of Declan’s children, then hire myself a car and drive back to the hotel to collect my suitcase.
In front of reception there is a large foyer and my eyes are drawn to two groups of tourists talking loudly as they plan their holiday. And then my gaze passes over a lone man, seated and facing the front door, engrossed in a newspaper.
I stop breathing, momentarily stunned.
It’s O’Reilly.
‘Oh, my God. Has something happened?’ I stumble towards him. ‘Please tell me nothing’s happened.’
‘No. No. Nothing like that.’ He stands up and reaches across to lay a hand on my arm. ‘I’m sorry to give you a fright.’
I step back and look him up and down. He’s wearing off-duty, heavy cotton trousers and an open-necked short-sleeved shirt. ‘So why are you here then?’
‘I got your email last night and . . .’ He shrugs. ‘I worked the last couple of weekends and I’m due some time off. It’s a while since I’d been to Ireland so I thought I’d join you.’
‘All the way from Edinburgh?’
‘I was hoping you could show me around. My folks were from Cork. I’ve never been to Galway.’ He throws his newspaper on to the seat behind him. ‘And I was rude to you the other day. I’d like to take you out to lunch to make up for it, if you’ll let me?’
He leaves a few seconds for my reply, but I’m too busy working out what this could mean – him reading my email, dropping everything and catching the early flight out here.
‘But I can . . .’ He shifts his feet. ‘Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea.’
With each word uttered he’s growing more unsure of himself and I know it’s because I’m frowning when, if I’m honest, I’m ridiculously pleased to see him and all I want to do is smile. So I do. I ignore the pain in my cheek and smile, and like magic his uncertainty evaporates. He smiles back and I feel a blush creep up from my neck to my cheeks. ‘I’m due at my brother’s later but . . . Yes! It’s a while since I’ve had breakfast.’
‘Good.’ He nods, staring at me with an expression of calculation and kindness and it makes my heart beat faster. He’s come all this way to see me and it can’t be as a policeman so it must be because he likes me, mustn’t it?
The thought makes me smile even wider and then the receptionist calls me over to collect my suitcase. I take it from her and O’Reilly comes outside with me to lock my case and carrier bag of presents into the boot of the hire car. ‘I know a place close by where we can eat,’ I say, and we fall into step beside each other as we cross one of the stone bridges that straddle the river.
‘Were you brought up in the city?’ O’Reilly says.
‘No. We lived on a farm further up the coast.’ I point towards an area beyond his head. ‘Over to the west you have Connemara, with its granite and turf bogs, famous for sturdy ponies, and still a place where people speak Irish. And then, to the east of the river you have porous limestone. It’s not so boggy and it’s less mountainous . . .’ I stop. He’s staring at me with an amused expression. ‘Am I sounding too much like a travel guide?’
‘No! It’s great. I can see you love it here.’
‘It’s perfect for holidays but I’m not sure I’d want to live here again. It’s an artistic, bohemian sort of a place. Nationally, four per cent of the population go to the theatre and in Galway it’s fifteen per cent. This is a city for creative people who play instruments by the fire and are good with their hands. I never really fitted in here.’ As if to prove my point we round the corner and pass the market stalls, weighed down with arts and crafts, and a couple of buskers playing a musical accompaniment, the melodic sound of traditional Irish music perforating the air.
I wait until we’ve walked further on before I speak again. ‘Sure I love the wide open space, and the weather doesn’t bother me, but really all I ever wanted was to get out of here.’ I push open the door into a modern café/bar. ‘This is one of the famous eating places. A bit overpriced but worth it for the view.’
O’Reilly stops to stare through the enormous window that overlooks the bay just at the point where the Corrib empties into the Atlantic Ocean, churning salt and river water into an impatient cocktail. Brightly painted boats are anchored in the bay, dotting the sea with blocks of colour. ‘It’s fabulous,’ he says. ‘Makes me wish I was a fisherman.’ He follows me to a table and the waitress comes for our order. O’Reilly chooses a crock of mussels and I choose a salmon salad and we spend the first ten minutes talking about the history of Galway and the direction it’s moving in now, as recession bites harder and the construction that dominated areas of the city has ground to a halt.
‘And does your brother farm?’ O’Reilly says, settling his elbows on the table.
‘Very successfully.’ I tell him about my father’s farm and how – no matter how hard he work
ed – he could barely make ends meet. ‘My brother Declan, on the other hand, has turned the same acreage into a thriving business. He made the transition to organic farming before it was even fashionable and he has a top spot in the market. They’ve created something really wonderful there, the two of them.’
‘You sound proud of him.’
‘I am.’ I stare beyond O’Reilly and out of the window to where a photographer has set up his tripod and is taking photos of the harbour. ‘Phil often teased me for idolising Declan, and I do idolise him, because he was so important to me when I was growing up and he still is the person I most look up to.’
‘Are you going to tell him about everything that’s been going on?’
‘Yes.’
‘All of it?’
‘He already knows about Sandy Stewart’s death.’
‘And the rest?’ His eyes are challenging.
I allow a second to pass before saying, ‘What rest?’
‘The arrangement you’ve made with Kirsty.’
My happy heart wilts with the realisation that O’Reilly might be here as a policeman after all. ‘You haven’t come all this way to get me to talk about Kirsty, have you?’
‘No. And if you don’t want to talk about her, you don’t have to.’ I look out of the window to indicate that the subject is closed, but he continues undaunted. ‘So she found out your secret, is that it?’
I stare back at him but I don’t speak.
‘She must have some leverage over you, otherwise you wouldn’t have taken her with you when you lunched with the journalist.’
Our food is ready and we both lean back so that the waitress can put the plates down in front of us. O’Reilly’s eyes stay on my face, daring me to respond to him. I lift my knife and fork to begin eating, then change my mind because my stomach has shrunk to nothing. O’Reilly doesn’t have any such problem. He takes a mouthful and says, ‘Edinburgh’s a small city. When I dropped off my youngest daughter last night, my ex-wife was having one of her soirees and I heard your name mentioned. Carys Blakemore was there, telling her companion that you’d given her a story.’ He sees my expression. ‘I’m a detective. I ask questions. I make no apologies for that.’ He leans in closer. ‘Was the would-be medical student Kirsty?’
‘You know, I thought you came here because . . .’ I stop, shake my head at my own foolishness. ‘When we met in the police station, I said all I needed to say and you informed me that I could well be prosecuted for wasting police time. I accept that. And I have nothing else to add.’
‘Not even off the record?’
‘Are you ever off the record?’
‘I can forget that I’m a policeman.’ He drops his fork to hold both his hands in the air. ‘I promise.’
Up close, his dark eyes have a seductive quality that threatens to break me open like a piñata and I draw back from the table.
‘My first name’s Sean.’
‘I know.’ Behind my ribcage, my heart gives a shiver of delight while my head warns me against him – He wants to arrest Kirsty. He’s not interested in you. Be careful! You’ll only end up getting hurt.
‘Sean, you know . . .’ My head and heart are neck and neck in the race to make me speak their words and I try to find a middle ground. ‘You have this whole empathetic male thing going on,’ I say quietly. ‘Don’t make me like you too much. Not if you don’t mean it.’
‘I do mean it,’ he says. ‘I wouldn’t come all this way just to ask you about Kirsty. I came all this way because I like you and I thought that if we were away from Edinburgh you might find it easier to talk to me.’
My heart blooms with colour, and my head is forced to admit defeat – God help me; I hope I can trust him not to hurt me. ‘Okay,’ I say slowly. ‘I’ll tell you. As a man, not a policeman, mind?’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Well . . . When I made the mistake with Sandy Stewart it shattered my faith in myself. I’d never had much self-esteem, and being a doctor made me feel worthwhile.’ I pause, not wanting to sound as if I feel sorry for myself. ‘I think that’s why I was attracted to Phil. In many ways he’s the opposite of me. He’s capable and confident and he believes a person can control what he thinks or feels or . . . fears.’ I move a forkful of salmon from one side of my plate to the other. ‘After Robbie was born I was struggling to cope. I tried to speak to Phil but either I didn’t explain myself well enough or he didn’t understand what I was going through. I felt ashamed and I felt lost. I loved my baby but I wasn’t in a good frame of mind and to make matters worse I suffered from painful sciatica. I coped by becoming addicted to cannabis. Phil found out and took a strong line.’
‘He wasn’t sympathetic?’
I laugh. ‘Phil doesn’t do sympathy. Don’t get me wrong – he’s not all bad; he’s a better father than he was a husband. He expected me to move on from Sandy’s death and take to motherhood easily, but I didn’t.’ I shrug. ‘Anyway, he’s trying to get shared custody of the kids. Robbie’s almost eighteen and in a few months custody won’t be an issue with him. But Lauren is still only eleven and Phil wants her to spend more time with him and Erika.’
‘And what does Lauren think?’
‘A week or so ago I would have said she’d be dead against it. But now she’s angry with me and she’s likely to go along with it and then I’ll lose her.’ My eyes fill up and I blink rapidly. ‘Phil’s very determined and he always gets what he wants.’ I explain about the solicitor’s letter and the terms of our agreement. ‘When Kirsty broke into my house, she stole some prescriptions from my case. I don’t know much about police work but I do know something about human nature and Kirsty isn’t your average girl. She’s intelligent and manipulative – exactly the type of girl that you’d never want your own daughter or son to go near because she’s destructive. She susses out people’s weaknesses and homes in on them. She’s done it with Tess Williamson and now she’s done it with me.’
‘So what’s she going to do with the prescriptions?’
‘She took time to learn how to write the drug name – morphine – and the dose accurately – harder than you might think – and then she forged my signature. The prescriptions were in Tess’s name and she was going to collect them then use the information against me.’
‘How?’
‘Tess would say that I had asked her to get the morphine. She’s in Kirsty’s pocket. She does what Kirsty tells her and I think she’ll continue to do so until Kirsty no longer has any use for her.’
‘And that’s why you’ve agreed to the story in the paper?’
‘Yes, because I couldn’t let Phil get wind of any illegal drug use. I know he would use it against me.’
‘No procurator fiscal could make a case out of what you’ve just told me.’
‘Not a criminal case, maybe. But a custody hearing? Most people believe there’s no smoke without fire. I have a past history. I work with rehabilitating drug addicts who have contacts in the illegal drug market. Not only that, but Kirsty has flatmates who she assured me would be happy to take pot shots at my character. I don’t want to be a part-time parent. Losing Lauren is the worst thing that could happen to me and so I can’t take the risk.’
‘I still don’t think you should give in to her,’ Sean says.
‘Well . . . You know what? A long time ago, I set this in motion. It was an honest-to-god mistake, but it cost a life and, like it or not, we are affected by everything we do. I thought I hadn’t let Sandy’s death define me but it just might have.’ With my confession out of the way, I feel my appetite returning and I shovel a couple of forkfuls of salmon into my mouth. ‘Why do I work at the centre when I could be at home with my kids? If I want to work extra hours, I could do locum work, because God knows I could do with the money, but I don’t because I’m always striving to be a better person.’
‘You don’t deserve to have your mistake made public. You mustn’t think that you do.’
‘And yet my success has been mad
e public?’
‘You didn’t ask for the award.’
‘No. And believe me, I never expected Sandy’s death to come back to haunt me. I haven’t gone around feeling guilty about it. The system supported me in putting it behind me and I did.’
‘But?’
‘But . . .’ I sigh. ‘I need to take responsibility for my mistake.’ Sean has finished his mussels and I take one last mouthful of salad then stand up. ‘Do you want to meet my brother?’
We set off in the tiny hire car, our shoulders knocking together. Sean is on the same flight as I am on Monday morning so, ‘We can stay a couple of nights with Declan and Aisling,’ I tell him.
‘Shouldn’t you call them? Tell them you have a friend with you?’
‘They won’t mind. They have plenty of space.’
On the journey, we talk about our upbringings, and I find out that he is the middle of three boys and his brothers are both living with their families in Glasgow. His mother and father died within a couple of years of one another, ‘back in the nineties when Tony Blair was promising us a whole new world,’ he says, bracing himself against the door as I negotiate a mile of corkscrew bends. ‘And your parents? Are they alive?’
‘My father died ten years ago. My mother’s still alive but I don’t talk to her if I can help it. Although, she’s having a hip operation soon and I’m coming back to look after her.’ I sigh. ‘It won’t be easy. We don’t get along.’
‘Aren’t there any community nurses around here?’