Not much further, Elizabeth shouted, passing back a bottle of water and a cheese sandwich as they skirted around London on the M25. And she slept again, hearing through her dreams the rattle of the rigging and the sharp snap of the sails as they shook and filled with wind. Felt the speed of the van slacken as they turned off the main road, saw greenness all around her as they stopped and Elizabeth carried her out and into the house. Put her to bed. Peeled off the bandages, sticky and brown with dried blood. Swabbed the cut with disinfectant as Rachel cried out in pain. Told her that it was too late for stitches, that it would have to heal by itself. It would leave a scar. A big one.
‘I don’t care,’ Rachel said. ‘It was worth it. It’s only my hand, not my face.’
Cradling it with her other hand as Elizabeth told her that she would bathe it every day with a solution made from yarrow steeped in hot water. The way her mother had always treated cuts, when she was a child, Elizabeth said. Swore by it, said it was as good as any treatment the doctor could give you.
She nursed her through the next couple of weeks, watching the wound close from the inside out, a thick ridge of new skin growing over the cut. She sat by her bed and watched her sleep, and waited until she was ready to face the world again. Then told her what she had read in the Irish papers on the Internet. A woman called Rachel Beckett who had served a life sentence for murder was missing. There were fears for her safety. A man had been questioned by the guards. And a few days later more news that the woman’s daughter was also missing. Her foster-parents were distraught. They couldn’t understand where she might be.
Rachel knew then what Daniel had done. He had taken her trap and he had turned it back on her. Baited it with Amy. And she knew what she had to do.
Where would he keep her, Elizabeth asked. Rachel knew. He would bring her home. The same way he brought Rachel home. He felt safe there. He would be in control. He would be able to do whatever he wanted, in his house with the big garden that ran down to the cliff edge, and the high granite walls and wrought-iron gates. The house that Rachel knew inside out. The garden she had explored. She held out the bunch of keys. They jingled together, musically.
‘Look,’ she said to Elizabeth. ‘Look what I have.’
That night was special. The garden was even more beautiful than she had remembered. There was a half-moon, a silver slice of light in the sky. She could name off its seas. Mare Serenitatis, Mare Tranquillitatis, Mare Fecunditatis. Martin had shown her, Martin had told her. She sat with her back to the huge oak beneath the children’s tree house and watched it. She felt at peace. She stroked the ridged scar on her hand. It still felt tender, different from the rest of her palm. She held it up in the moonlight and looked at it. It was just what she needed.
She stood up and walked towards the house. The lights were on, the windows were open. She unlocked the glass door to the kitchen. She heard him upstairs, heard Amy’s cries for help, and Daniel’s shouted responses. She lifted the key from its hook and put it in her pocket. Then she walked outside again and locked the door. Everything was prepared, everything was ready. She had removed the boards from the inspection pit in the garage. She had planned her route through the garden, the places she would hide. The children had shown her. The children had been her allies. She waited in the shadows until she saw him in the kitchen, then she stepped forward into the light and held up her hand. She pressed it against the glass. It was cold on her skin, except for the place where the scar tissue touched it. There was no sensation there. No feeling at all. He moved towards her. They stood facing each other with only the glass between them. She took the cloth from her pocket. She wiped away the palm and fingerprints. She stepped back into the darkness. She heard him scream with rage. She heard the bang of his fists on the door.
Such pleasure to be had from the chase. She had played hide-and-seek with his children and blind man’s buff too, feeling her way through the garden with her eyes covered. He sounded so big and clumsy as he followed her. She could hear his breath, gasping for air as he ran. And his shriek of rage as he fell into the inspection pit, and his grunts of pain as he tried to get out. And then the final triumph as she led him back into the house. She called out to him.
‘Come and get me, I’m here, I’m waiting.’ She could hear Amy’s cries again. She wanted to unlock the door to the attic room and free her. But she knew she couldn’t. Only the guards who were outside the gate, watching, could do that. She knew he would call them. He thought he had her trapped. But he didn’t realize that she knew more than he did. He didn’t know that she had learned all about how to hold her nerve, how to wait, how to hang on right to the end. That she had learnt it all from him.
And when he left the house again, when he gave up and ran towards the gate to let the policemen in, she ran too. Back down the cliff path, across the beach to the car park at the DART station where Elizabeth was waiting.
Now she cried as she huddled again on her mattress. She thought of her daughter and how she had suffered. ‘Forgive me,’ she said out loud. ‘Please forgive me. I had to do it. It was the only way. And now I’ve let you go. To live your own life. Easier for you to think that I’ve gone too. So please, my beloved, remember me with love as you grow older, as you too make mistakes, as you realize how easy it is to slip and fall.’
They went back to England the way they had come. She could think no further into the future. Not now. She felt like Clare Bowen. Helpless and lost. She had seen Clare’s death notice in the paper. Peacefully, it said. Deeply regretted by her loving husband, Andrew. She was glad for Clare that it was all over. And grateful to her. She had told Clare too what she was doing. And Clare had promised. She would say what needed to be said, at the right time.
Now she lay beside Elizabeth every night and listened to her gentle breathing. From time to time she cried out in her sleep, the way her daughter, Judith, once had done. And Rachel turned to her and held her closely, and thought no longer of revenge and retribution but only of love and forgiveness. Perhaps one day Amy would speak of her kindly. Show her own children her photograph and say, ‘She was your grandmother. She is gone now. But I will never forget her. And neither must you.’
And she smiled as her eyes closed and sleep finally overcame her.
Praise for Julie Parsons’ previous novels
Mary, Mary
‘A great thriller writing talent.’ DAILY MIRROR
‘Parsons is a writer to watch.’ Frances Fyfield, DAILY EXPRESS
‘A psychological crime thriller which makes Patricia Cornwell read like Thomas the Tank Engine. Parsons writes beautifully, her style is fluid, the observations acute, the imagery at once real and poetic . . . This is an admirable, beautifully conceived work of a dark, compelling and original new voice.’ SUNDAY INDEPENDENT
‘Takes the psychological suspense thriller to places it rarely dares to go . . . a first novel of astonishing emotional impact.’ NEW YORK TIMES
‘Narrated with stunning confidence and sophistication . . . each scene is beautifully paced and plotted, even minor characters are deftly drawn and psychologically believable . . . Her story is full of genuine surprises and fresh plot twists.’ PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
The Courtship Gift
‘The Courtship Gift superbly reinforces what has become obvious about author Parsons’ talent: that she is one of those rare authors who can successfully combine psychological insight, literary style and heart-stopping suspense. Haunting, evocative, compelling.’ Jeffery Deaver
‘Parsons’ book is a skilful, high-quality suspense thriller in the Ruth Rendell mode, a follow-up to her debut, Mary, Mary, which made the author a bestseller in her native Ireland.’ THE TIMES
‘It’s great to read a well-written thriller set in Dublin’s city streets . . . this novel is gripping from start to finish. ****’ WOMAN’S WAY
‘This is one of the best psychological thrillers around.’ FAMILY CIRCLE
‘The kind of thriller which is difficult to put down and the fina
l scenes stay with you long after you have closed the pages. Parsons is a truly talented writer and this novel has real impact.’ IRISH NEWS
EAGER TO PLEASE
Julie Parsons was born in New Zealand and has lived most of her adult life in Ireland. She has had a varied career – artist’s model, typesetter, freelance journalist, radio and television producer – before turning to writing fiction.
She exploded on to the literary scene with her novels Mary, Mary (1998) and The Courtship Gift (1999) – both published to huge critical acclaim around the world.
She lives outside Dublin, by the sea, with her family.
By the same author
MARY, MARY
THE COURTSHIP GIFT
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My special thanks to:
John Lonergan, Governor of Mountjoy Prison; the prison officers, teachers and women I spoke to in the women’s prison; the psychologists and probation officers who shared their insights with me; Donald Taylor Black and Veronica O’Mara of Poolbeg Productions; Mavis Arnold; Bernard Condon BL and Dr Kevin Strong; Gillian Hackett and Alistair Rumbold of the Irish National Sailing School; Peter Harvey of the Liverpool Echo; Sue Colley and John Stafford, Forest Enterprise, Kent. Alison Dye for all her wisdom, compassion and sense of humour. Renate Ahrens-Kramer, Sheila Barrett, Catherine Phil McCarthy, Cecilia McGovern and Joan O’Neill for their constructive criticism, good sense and friendship. Treasa Coady, Suzanne Baboneau, Beverley Cousins, Alice Mayhew and Nina Salter for their knowledge, experience and generous support.
First published in the United Kingdom 2001 by Macmillan
This edition published 2001 by Pan Books
This electronic edition published 2012 by Pan Books
an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited
Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR
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Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com
ISBN 978-1-447-23145-5 EPUB
Copyright © Julie Parsons 2001
The right of Julie Parsons to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Lyrics from ‘I Will Survive’ (Perren/Fekaris) © 1978 by kind permission of Universal Music Publishing Ltd. Lyrics from ‘Goodnight Irene’ by Huddie Ledbetter and John Lomax © 1936 (renewed 1964) and 1950 Ludlow Music Inc., New York. Assigned to TRO Essex Music Ltd, London SW10. International copyright secured. All rights reserved. Used by permission.
You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
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