Eager to Please

by Julie Parsons

  He was nervous, she knew that. He wasn’t sure. He wanted to keep her close. He asked her to the house to stay for a night or two. Ursula had gone away for a couple of weeks. Taken the kids to the States for a holiday.

  ‘What about my trip in the boat, Daniel? You promised, remember?’

  They agreed to meet, down at the harbour. Sunday afternoon. Three o’clock.

  ‘I’ll bring food, something to drink. How about that?’

  ‘Sounds like a great idea.’

  ‘And where will we go, which direction, north or south?’

  ‘We’ll wait and see. We’ll go with the wind.’

  She met him at the slipway. She had everything she needed for the trip. A change of clothes in case she got wet. A heavy sweater in case it got cold. Food for the journey. He had all the rest. Wet gear, leggings and life jackets, stored in a canvas bag in the back of his van. It smelt musty as she pulled the bag open.

  ‘I always keep this stuff here,’ he said, ‘just in case I get the chance for a sail. It’s handy.’

  There were oars too, to be fitted to the dinghy, leaning up against the sea wall.

  ‘Here, give us a hand,’ he called, and together they lifted it down the granite slip. She watched him load up, carefully distributing the weight fore and aft.

  ‘That’s a heavy one,’ he said, hefting her bag. ‘What have you got in it, all your worldly goods?’

  She smiled. ‘Just a few things for the trip. You know how it is, be prepared.’

  He guided her into the bow of the small boat and took his seat opposite. He lifted the oars. His movements were quick and precise. She trailed one hand through the cold, clear water. It was deep and dark green, almost opaque like blocks of agate or greenstone. She leaned over and saw her face look back at her. She smiled. And watched the smile come back to her. She looked over towards him.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘you’ve no idea what this means to me.’

  His boat was wooden, thirty feet long, with a two-berth cabin.

  ‘What’s it to be, Rachel? Sail or steam?’

  ‘What do you think? What would you do with this lovely wind?’

  It was force four, so the weather forecast said. Visibility was good. Pressure was high. Together they hoisted the sails, the jib and the main. She stood with her feet wide apart, balancing as the boat began to buck beneath her.

  ‘Are you ready?’ Daniel shouted. She turned to him and nodded. She squatted down and lifted the mooring rope free. The boat swung around crazily, then straightened as Daniel took the tiller and hauled on the main sheet, turning its nose at an angle to the wind. She picked her way carefully back to the cockpit and took her place beside him. She took hold of the jib sheet, pulling it as tight as she could, feeling the rope cut into the soft skin on the palms of her hands.

  ‘Tie it up,’ he shouted to her, and she wound it quickly in a figure of eight around the brass cleat. She leaned back and looked up, shading her eyes against the sun. The huge white sail was stretched into a tight swelling curve, filled now with wind. Beneath the hull she could hear the rush and swirl of water as they gathered speed. She laughed out loud as pleasure filled her. She turned towards him, and reached out to touch his cheek.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said again. ‘Thank you for this.’

  They were heading north across the bay. The boat heeled steeply beneath them and water sluiced down the deck from the bow, pouring into the cockpit, soaking their legs and feet. She watched Daniel, the way he grasped the tiller confidently, checking the sail, its angle to the wind, making small, precise adjustments to his course. He knew what he was doing. She could see that. He must have sailed a lot since that summer when she first taught him. Sailed out here, wind in his hair, salt spray on his lips, while she lay with her face turned to the wall of her cell. She looked away then, at the points of sunlight which sparked from the shining surface of the sea. She looked back behind her and watched the grey granite harbour walls of Dun Laoghaire getting smaller and smaller. Up ahead was the hill of Howth and the Bailey lighthouse. And all around the gentle blue and green of the mountains, the smear of darkness where the city spread out and pressed up against their rolling foothills. She wanted to cry out with pleasure, sing with delight. She stared towards the mouth of the river that led up into the heart of the city. The river that flowed past the Four Courts, where her life had ended. The waters of the canal flowed into it too. The canal that lay, sludge green and putrid, outside the walls of the prison where she had spent all those years. All those years of wasted life.

  ‘Will we stop?’ Daniel shouted to her as they rounded the Bailey and saw the little harbour of Howth snuggled in behind it. But she shook her head and shouted, no, she didn’t want to land, she just wanted to keep going, for as far as the eye could see. He laughed and slipped his hand up under her shirt, and cupped her breast and kissed her on the shoulder as the wind blew and the boat heeled and the mast creaked and the rigging rattled and banged. Brass and wire on wood.

  ‘Hey, Rachel, you promised me food, didn’t you? And something to drink. Come on, you have to take care of your skipper. Isn’t that the first rule of the sea?’

  She stood up, feeling the boat shift as she changed her weight. And then she was below deck, down in the small tidy cabin, two berths, a little galley with a table and a sink, a two-burner stove and a small fridge. She had brought bread and cold meat. Lettuce and tomatoes, cheese, slices of dark fruitcake. She opened cans of beer and passed one up to him, then laid the food out on the table.

  ‘Dan, do you have a knife? I forgot to bring one.’ She put her head out through the hatch, watching as he lifted the beer to his mouth and drank. Saw the dribbles of foam slip down his chin. Heard him say as he wiped his face with the back of his hand, ‘The tool box, on the floor. You’d better wash it first.’

  She pushed back the metal clasps, opened it, found the knife in the tray with the screwdrivers. She pulled it out. Its long blade was folded back, buried in its wooden handle. She eased it free. Pumped water into the sink, holding it underneath the intermittent flow, cleaning it carefully. Then rummaged around again in the tool box, looking for the whetstone. Taking a handkerchief from her pocket, wrapping it around the handle of the knife. Holding the blade at an angle to the stone, sliding it backwards and forwards, over and over again. Hearing the metallic rasp of metal on stone, making the hairs stand up on the back of her neck and her nipples tighten against her blouse. Then reaching into her bag, her fingers finding the smoothness of a small bottle. Taking it out. Unscrewing the top. Taking a long swallow of brandy. Looking up again towards the hatch. Seeing Daniel there, his thick dark hair blowing back from his face. Hearing his voice. He was singing, muttering the words of a song. She dropped back out of sight. Took hold of the bottle and drank again, then picked up the knife with the handkerchief again. Held it in her right hand. Spread the fingers of her left hand, looked at them, then brought it down hard so it sliced between her thumb and her first finger. Sliced through the skin, the flesh, the muscle, the blood vessels. Sliced hard and deep into them all. So the pain shot through her fingers, up her arm, rushed into her heart. So she cried out, screamed, in agony, in fear.

  ‘Daniel, Daniel, help me. I’m hurt!’

  Saw the blood gush from her hand. Held it out in front of her, watched the way it dripped everywhere. On to the floor, on to the pretty flowered covers of the bunks, on to her trousers, her shirt, and then, as Dan was there in front of her, on to his shirt, dripping all over his clothes as he tried to take hold of it, tried to help her, while she screamed and screamed, seeing large black shapes dance in front of her eyes, as the pain poured through every nerve in her body.

  ‘The knife, the knife, I didn’t realize it was so sharp. Where is it? Pick it up, don’t cut yourself on it. Put it somewhere safe.’

  Afterwards she wasn’t sure how he managed to bandage her. How eventually he managed to stop the flow of blood. Bring it under control so it no longer stained th
e gauze bandages he had found in the first-aid kit. Then calmed her down and held her, filled the little kettle with water, boiled it, made her tea, wrapped her in a blanket. Told her not to worry about the blood, which had stained everything. Said she was to rest, that he would clear it up. Said it didn’t matter. It was an accident. Anyone can have an accident. Held her tightly to him and soothed her. Until she said, ‘What’s happening up there, Dan? What’s that noise?’ They heard the sound of the wind, tearing at the sails, tearing at the rigging as the boat lurched violently and began to tilt over and over and over. He clambered out on to the deck, screaming back at her.

  ‘Get up here quick, put a plastic bag over your hand. I don’t know what’s happening, but we’re in trouble.’

  What was it the weather forecast said? Force four, increasing to force six or seven by early evening. Visibility good, but deteriorating. Pressure dropping. Gale-force warning in evidence from nineteen hundred hours. They were right. They were always right. She began to shout instructions at him, remembering what to do, how to do it.

  ‘Get those sails down. Put in two reefs. Here, Dan.’ She flung him a life jacket and a safety line. ‘Clip yourself on.’

  She began to laugh. It was perfect. It was just what she wanted. It was raining. She pulled on her waterproof jacket, zipping it up tightly. So tightly that the blood which was all over her clothes would not be touched by the water. She zipped him into his too. And thought of the knife, where she had put it, slipped down between the little cooker and the fridge, left there, safe and sound. She smiled at Dan as the rain ran down their faces, as gradually he took control of the boat once again. Turned her back towards home. Sailed her though the storm, until the wind began to drop as they saw the harbour lights ahead of them.

  It was late by the time they had moored the boat and Dan had rowed them back to the shore. They were both exhausted.

  ‘Quite a trip,’ she said. Her legs trembled as she tried to find her balance on solid ground again.

  ‘Not really what you had in mind, I’m sure, was it, Rachel? Not really your special day.’ He smiled ruefully as he put all his gear in the large canvas bag again, stowing it carefully in the van.

  ‘I don’t know, I think it was pretty near perfect,’ she replied, nursing her hand. ‘Just the way it always should be. Plenty of excitement and adventure, and then a happy ending.’

  ‘Here.’ He reached out and tried to take hold of her hand. She flinched away. ‘You need stitches in that. Let me take you to the hospital, get it seen to.’

  She shook her head. ‘No, really, you’ve done enough. It’s fine. I can manage.’

  He frowned. ‘Aren’t you coming back with me? I thought you were going to stay.’ He reached out to take hold of her arm, but she pulled away.

  ‘No, I’m fine. I’ll take care of it. You go. It’s late.’

  She waited until he started the engine. She could see the doubt, the anxiety on his face.

  ‘I’ll call you tomorrow. Really, I’m fine. Just go.’

  She watched the rear lights of his van getting smaller and smaller, then she picked up her bag. It was heavy. It had everything she needed. She walked through the boatyard and along the harbour road. She looked up at the apartments. The lights were off in Jack Donnelly’s sitting room. But she could see that his door was open. She could see that he was there. She looked away. She kept on walking.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  IT HAD BEGUN to rain every day now. The fine dry spell was over. The kids had gone back to their mother. He missed them. It wasn’t the same without them. He felt lonely and depressed. Useless, somehow. Even though he was spending most of his time with Alison in her beautiful house, with its glowing pine floors and bright jewel-like colours on the walls.

  ‘Move in with me, why don’t you?’ Alison had said.

  He had wondered and dithered, and thought about the disinterested peace of his white-walled flat overlooking the harbour. An inability to commit, that was his problem. He couldn’t even decide to paint the sitting room, let alone make any other decisions. Bloody pathetic, that’s what he was.

  He was depressed about the Judith Hill case too. He had rung her mother a couple of times, spoken to her, asked her how she was, how Stephen was coping. The news was not good.

  ‘I’m terribly worried about him. He’s acutely depressed. I’m trying to get him to come and stay with me but he’s very hostile to the idea. You know, I had gone some part of the way with Judith. We were beginning to get to know each other. But I don’t have anything much with Stephen, apart from the fact that I am his mother.’

  ‘Where is he living? He’s not at home, is he?’

  She sighed. ‘No. He isn’t. He’s been staying with the Bradleys. Which is another reason why it’s very awkward.’

  Jack could imagine. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘would you like me to go and see him?’

  There was silence. ‘Actually, Mr Donnelly, it’s kind of you to offer, but I don’t think that would be a good idea. Best leave him alone, let him get on with it. I’m going to come over myself, I’m not sure exactly when, but sometime in the next week or so. I’ll give you a ring then, maybe we might meet. But leave it for the time being.’

  He supposed he should do that. After all, it wasn’t as if he didn’t have enough new cases to keep him busy. There had been another spate of drug-related killings. More broken bodies like poor little Karl O’Hara. More distraught mothers and girlfriends, fatherless kids. There were two deaths in particular that he was sure were connected. He wanted to talk to Andy Bowen about them. He picked up the phone and punched in his number. He hadn’t seen him for a while. It was time for a pint and sandwich.

  Andy didn’t look good. He looked thin and very pale.

  ‘I’m glad you phoned, Jack,’ he said. ‘Actually, I was just about to call you myself.’

  ‘Missing me, eh? Missing all the scintillating conversation, the little nuggets of wisdom that drop from my lips, is that it?’

  ‘Piss off.’ Andy smiled and lifted his glass to salute him. He drank. No whiskey today, Jack noticed. Or maybe he’d already had it before he arrived.

  ‘No, it’s something else. I’m not sure, it may be nothing. But I’m worried about Rachel Beckett. She hasn’t shown up for a couple of her appointments. And I got a phone call this morning from the woman who runs the dry-cleaner’s. She’s missed work. And her landlord’s been on to me, too, to say she hasn’t paid her rent.’

  ‘How long has it been since you’ve seen her?’

  ‘It must be ten days or so. You see,’ he paused and drank again, ‘I suppose I should tell you. I have this arrangement with her. It’s a bit unorthodox.’

  ‘Oh, yeah.’ Jack looked at him. ‘You sneaky bugger. Who’d have thought it? The black widow of all people.’ He smirked.

  ‘No, it’s nothing like that. Are you mad? No, I thought it would be good for her.’ And he told him about Clare.

  Jack looked at him and raised his eyebrows. ‘That’s a bit odd, isn’t it? Kind of a crazy thing to do, I would have thought. To put a convicted murderer in a position of trust with your own wife. Kind of mixing the professional with the personal, isn’t it? Not strictly according to the rule book, I would have thought.’

  Andy’s face reddened. He sat up straight.

  ‘And do you, any of you, always operate strictly according to the rule book? Come on, who are you kidding?’

  ‘That’s as may be, Andy, but I’ve never involved my family in anything I’ve done. That’s different. That’s dangerous.’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Jack, get off your high horse. Rachel Beckett isn’t violent or dangerous. You know that. What happened with her was a one-off. There was never any suggestion that she would reoffend. Not really. She shouldn’t have served that sentence, you know that as well as I do. In fact, if the truth be told, a conviction of manslaughter would have been more appropriate. She was extremely unlucky. These days she might not even have gone to prison. A
nd if she had she’d probably have been out in a couple of years. Anyway,’ he took a long swallow from his glass and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, ‘anyway, it’s worked out really well with Clare. They like each other. Rachel is very good to her. And it’s made things so much easier for me.’

  Easier for you to go out and get plastered all the time, Jack thought. And immediately felt sorry for him. He sighed. ‘OK, well, whatever.’ He pointed his finger in Andy’s direction. ‘I still think it’s dodgy. And I don’t think your superiors are going to be too impressed.’ Andy made as if to interrupt.

  Jack held up his hands, palms out. ‘Yeah, yeah, I get the picture. You want me to make a few discreet enquiries, see if she’s just taken off on a bit of a notion or something, fallen in love or whatever, discovered God, gone on a retreat. Don’t worry, I’ll do it. And I’ll keep my mouth shut. For the time being.’

  But there was more that Andy wanted him to know. What his wife had told him. ‘She said to me, when Rachel didn’t show up for the second time, that she was really worried about her. She said that Rachel had told her something, made her promise that she wouldn’t tell me. But now she wasn’t so sure. Apparently Daniel Beckett had found out that Rachel had left prison. He’d tracked her down, found out where she was staying. And he’d been to see her. Clare says that Rachel was in a bad state afterwards. She was terrified. She said that he had raped her. She had bruises all over. Bad ones.’

  ‘Why didn’t she tell you about it?’

  ‘Clare said she was terrified that this would upset her temporary release. That she would be sent back to prison. She said that she had told Dan that when she was more able to manage on her own she would move away. That she didn’t want to cause him any problems. But according to what Clare said, she was badly frightened.’

  ‘And do you believe her? What kind of mental state is Clare in these days?’

  ‘Ah, come on, Jack, she’s ill, very ill, but she’s not that bad. She’s not hallucinating or imagining things. Look, why don’t you come and talk to her yourself? Make up your own mind. I just think it’s odd, that’s all. But I don’t want to do anything about it officially until I’m sure what’s going on. I feel I owe it to her to give her a bit of a chance.’