Another bang follows. Louder this time, and I cover my lips with my hand to stop myself from screaming. I could swear the sound I hear next is a human tone.
I want to run. I want to run out of this goddamn house. But Gillian is all over the kitchen. I hear her beneath me, loud and present. So present. She’d hear me come down the stairs and would see me open the front door. I’m so weak I couldn’t put up much resistance. And even if I managed to get away from her, if I could leave, where would I go? And why? Maybe I’m going crazy. What’s that expression? Cabin fever?
I hear voices. The sound of a person, or people, trying to keep quiet but just not managing it. The oddest sound follows. It’s distinctive and shrill and intermittent and someone is trying to hold it in, but every so often a cry escapes.
I need air. Oh my God I need air. I fling open the bedroom window and stick my head through the gap. Inhaling sharply, I glance all around my back garden.
‘Oh Jinx,’ I whisper as I see the mound on the grass. Then I cast my eyes all the way to the end of the garden and the shed.
It’s still and silent outside and not so much as a summer breeze rustles leaves on the trees. Looking over the hedge I can see Mr Robinson, my elderly neighbour, bent over his vegetable garden. I can just about make out the green leafy tops of carrots protruding above freshly watered soil. I realise he’s singing as a sweet sound carries in the air. He stands up and stretches as he notices me at the upstairs window. Tilting his cap away from his eyes, he shouts up, ‘Veg love music, Darcy. It helps them grow!’
‘They look lovely!’ I shout back.
Mr Robinson cups his ear and shouts, ‘What was that?’
‘They’re lovely,’ I shout a little louder, remembering that he’s hard of hearing.
‘Ballads for the carrots, a little jazz for the spuds. I know all the tricks,’ he says, proudly.
I smile. Mr Robinson always makes me smile.
‘It’s good to see you up and about,’ he says. ‘Luke told us how poorly you are. My Mary was on bed rest with all of ours. Will be worth it in the end. You’ll see.’
Mr and Mrs Robinson have seven grown-up children and many, many grandchildren. But as much as I envy their large family, I can’t possibly imagine doing this more than once.
‘Have you heard anything strange recently?’ I ask.
He smiles up at me. ‘Stranger than an old man singing to his spuds, you mean?’
I nod. ‘Banging? Have you heard anything unusual? It’s not too loud, like a ringing that hangs in the walls.’
Mr Robinson shakes his head. ‘Can’t say I have, Darcy love.’
‘Have you heard crying at all?’ I add, becoming light-headed, my voice scratchy from shouting so he can hear me.
‘There’ll be plenty of crying soon enough,’ he says.
‘Paddy. Tea’s ready, love,’ I hear Mrs Robinson call without coming into view.
Mr Robinson stands his spade in the soil and shouts, ‘Coming, love’, as he waves goodbye to me.
‘Wait! Wait, please?’ I say, but his back is turned and I know he can’t hear me as he walks away.
I close the window. My eyelids are heavy but I’m too afraid to sleep. I lower myself on to the bed and reach for the remote control to unmute the TV. I’m about to turn the television off when I’m jolted awake by a familiar name. It’s Good Morning, Ireland. It’s Lindsay St Claire talking.
‘Rose Callahan is missing,’ she says.
Within a second I’m on my feet and alert, every muscle in my body burning and objecting to the sudden change of position, but I ignore the pain and concentrate on the screen. Lindsay St Claire’s voice fills the room as a photo of Rose in her Gardaí uniform burns into the screen.
‘Rose Callahan is thirty-six and she has been missing for two days,’ Lindsay says. ‘Rose is five-foot seven with blue eyes and dark-brown, shoulder-length hair. Rose is currently on maternity leave from her position as Sergeant at Cherryway Garda station. She is heavily pregnant and her husband is deeply concerned for her wellbeing. Anyone with information is being asked to contact Cherryway Garda station on 01 7857363. Rose was last seen in the local Cherryway corner shop wearing leggings and a sports top. I am joined on the line now by Rose’s Pilates instructor and one of the last people to see her before her disappearance. Kimberly Kowalski. Hello Kimberly . . .’
‘Oh God. Oh God,’ I say, as tears stream down my face.
‘What? What is it?’ Gillian says, arriving into the room without tea or toast.
I didn’t hear her come up the stairs. ‘Do you know her?’ Gillian asks, cupping my elbow and guiding me to sit on the edge of the bed.
I nod. I’m about to explain how we met when I clamp my top teeth on to my bottom lip. I’ve said enough.
‘Gosh, look at her. She looks about ready to burst,’ Gillian says, pointing to the screen at a new photo of Rose that has just appeared. Her face is round and her cheeks are pink. Flushed. She’s wearing a bright cerise top and I know the photo has been taken just after a Pilates class. This week’s class maybe.
‘Your babies must be due around the same time,’ Gillian says.
I don’t say anything.
‘You’re as pale as a ghost,’ Gillian says. ‘Can I get you something? A cup of tea maybe.’
‘Weren’t you making tea and toast?’
Gillian glances at me blankly for a second before she says, ‘Of course. Tea and toast.’
It’s obvious I’ve jogged Gillian’s memory. Tea and toast were never on the horizon. What was all the noise in the kitchen, then?
Gillian helps me to lie back against a mound of pillows and says, ‘Shh. Shh. Shh.’
And I lie back and close my eyes, sleepily. Knowing I’ll open them again the moment she’s gone.
Chapter Forty-Four
TINA
Tuesday 16 July 2019
Rose’s picture is unsurprisingly on the front page of every newspaper in the country today and I can’t scroll through Facebook or Instagram without seeing an article about her, with that same unflattering photo of her in her work uniform before she was pregnant. Her husband must have given the cops more photos, because the papers are sharing shots of her with her children too. Rose is pictured with her arms around a floppy-haired toddler, or hugging a brood of ice-cream-licking children. Tugging on the heartstrings of the nation, I decide. It’s good journalism, if nothing else. But it won’t help them to find her.
I cut out some of my favourite headlines from the papers.
Pregnant Garda missing from Dublin
Mother. Garda. Missing
Gardaí ‘extremely concerned’ for missing colleague
The last one is my favourite. I enjoy the sense of camaraderie, something I long for so much in my life, and I dedicate an entire page of my scrapbook to this headline alone. As usual, I highlight my favourite passages in the article and add some photos. Although I don’t include any of Rose in her uniform. I don’t want to ruin my pretty collage with a stern cop outfit and an ugly hat.
Satisfied with my handiwork, I close my scrapbook and resist the temptation to flick back to previous pages to make fun comparisons. I tidy up and place everything into the top drawer of my dresser and potter into the kitchen to make something to eat. Collaging always makes me hungry.
I take a Darcy’s Dishes lemon cheesecake out of the fridge and open the packet. As always the little, round tray of pale-yellow curd on a biscuit base doesn’t look very appetising. I reach for some sugar and sprinkle a healthy helping on top. I dig a spoon into the side of the cake and I’m opening my mouth ready to gobble a heaped spoonful when my phone rings. Furious, I slam my hand down on it, rejecting the call. The television studio’s number quickly disappears from the screen. The studio has been relentlessly attempting to reach out. I even had Lindsay St Claire try to call personally. I’d feel special if it wasn’t so damn inconvenient.
My fingers tremble and the lump of cheesecake slides off the spoon and splashes on
to the floor at my feet. Another problem caused by Lindsay St Claire, I think. The woman just will not go away. I’m starting to think I’m going to have to do something about that. I decide to flick on the television and check out what nonsense she broadcast today. I flop on to the couch and point the remote control.
There’s a movie I’ve seen before on the first channel. Some ads on the next. And so many reality TV shows I lose track. I start flicking until I find a station showing a repeat of Lindsay’s show. A banner stretches across the bottom of the screen with text that moves from left to right, clearly warning viewers not to call now as lines are not live but they may still be charged.
The camera is focused on a panel of three guests. Lindsay doesn’t introduce them; I’ve obviously missed that part of the show. But I recognise the lady sitting in the middle from magazines and TV ads, a model-turned-businesswoman who has her own range of tanning products and make-up. And she is by far the most vocal on the otherwise reserved panel.
‘I mean, I just can’t help but feel this country is gone to the dogs. Y’know what I’m sayin’?’ she says, turning to her fellow panellists who are evidently thrown by her conviction. ‘A missing cop. That’s just crazy. As if someone is trying to give two fingers to the law.’
‘I think it’s important not to speculate,’ Lindsay says, pressing her finger to her ear. ‘Let’s try to remember that Rose Callahan is a missing mother with a desperately worried family.’
‘Yeah. Absolutely,’ the ex-model nods, and quickly adds, ‘but it isn’t long since the guards found a body in the mountains.’ She looks into the camera forlornly and melodramatically as she says, ‘Rich old men don’t usually end an evening in a body bag. Do they?’
I gasp – suddenly realising that Ms Vocal is the blonde woman irritatingly perched at the bar the night I met Andrew. She’s not pining for the state of the country’s moral compass, she’s bitter and dejected. Perhaps when Andrew died so too did her chance at climbing the social ladder.
Lindsay is adept at finding these people. The rich and the soon-to-be. An exclusive circle with near-impenetrable walls. The rest of us aren’t welcome. Never were. Never will be.
Another panellist, an older gentleman, agrees, reminding viewers of how tragic Andrew’s loss is. Not only for those who loved him but for his staff and everyone whose shoulder he brushed. A little dramatic, I think. But noble nonetheless.
‘Mr Buckley’s death is undeniably tragic, but surely we’re not drawing parallels?’ Lindsay asks.
The final panellist is happy to share what she’s obviously read in the papers or drummed up in an extensive internet search. ‘Didn’t his daughter go missing years ago and—’
I flick off the television and throw the remote across the room. It smacks against the wall and the back falls off, spitting out batteries. I watch them as they roll around, my head spinning.
‘Oh God. Oh God!’
Chapter Forty-Five
DARCY
Wednesday 17 July 2019
‘You can’t live on fresh air,’ Gillian complains.
I don’t bother with a reply as she stands at the end of my bed with another tray of bloody granola and orange juice.
I shake my head. ‘I’m not hungry.’
Uninvited, Gillian marches across my bedroom floor, leaves the tray next to my bed and says, ‘Eat your breakfast.’
I’m pissed off already, but when she adds ‘Or I’m telling Luke’, the flash of anger heats my whole body. I’ve tried calling Luke countless times since we last spoke. His phone is switched off and going straight to voicemail. Logically the person I should tell is Gillian. She could reach out to her people over in Ohio and check what’s going on. But my gut is warning me not to. I’ve always trusted my gut.
‘I have to go to work,’ Gillian announces as if it’s somehow unexpected.
‘Okay.’
Gillian stomps down the stairs and into the kitchen. I listen for a long time and I wait for the sound of her leaving the house so I can too. In the meantime, I stare past the open curtains at life on our street. Neighbours hurry to work. Teenagers ride their bikes. People walk their dog. Everyone is simply getting out and about. I don’t know them by name, but I recognise their faces, the same faces I used to see at the same time every morning as I went to work, and I wonder if anyone has noticed my face is missing.
Thirsty, I hate myself as I guzzle the glass of orange juice Gillian has left. I’m setting the empty glass down on the tray when I hear my phone ringing. The upbeat tones of ‘I Will Survive’ are cumbersome in the air. Luke changed my ringtone before he left. He thought it would be funny and cheer me up, and it did at first. Now the catchy lyrics mock me. The melody continues blaring loudly because I can’t find my phone. The noise is blistering in the otherwise painfully silent house, and I know the sound will drag a curious Gillian back upstairs. The slightest sound seems to pique her interest lately. And if it’s Luke calling, I need to speak to him in private. I dive on to the bed and tumble the sheets and pillows on to the floor. My back creaks from the weight of my bump but I’m near euphoric when I find my phone.
‘Hello,’ I say, snapping it to my ear.
‘Darcy?’ Mildred says, clipped and anxious.
My ears are on her voice. ‘Everything okay?’
‘So, you spoke to Luke?’ she says, and I know Mildred well enough to know when she’s pissed off about something.
‘Yes. But only briefly. I’m working on getting things under control. I’m planning to call into the bank today in person, actually.’
Mildred exhales and it’s loud and uncomfortable so close to my ear. ‘Well then, why the hell do I have your husband calling me, after work hours, I might add, bitching at me? Telling me I need to keep things under control?’
I take a deep breath and shake my head. ‘What? Luke said that? That’s so unlike him—’
‘He barely gave me time to say hello,’ Mildred cuts across me. I know it’s more hurt than anger that has her acting this way. ‘He told me to keep my shit together and not to contact you again. And then he hung up. He was crazy, Darcy. He scared me. He really, really scared me. What the hell is going on?’
‘Listen,’ I say, calmly, in spite of how short of breath I am. ‘Luke is just freaking out about finances. This isn’t him. You know that.’
‘I’ll quit, Darcy,’ she says. ‘I mean it. If he ever speaks to me like that again I’ll walk straight out that door.’
‘No. No, don’t do that. We’d never cope without you. I’ll speak to Luke,’ I say, feeling hypocritical. ‘I’ll make sure he apologises.’
‘I’ve had it, Darcy,’ Mildred says. ‘I’ve really, truly had it. I love you. You know I do. But I hardly see you any longer. The staff are all twitchy. And then your husband comes on the phone telling me I can’t be troubling you with business stuff any more.’
‘He shouldn’t have said that.’
Mildred is short of breath; I can hear her smoker’s wheeze down the line. ‘It’s a step too far, Darcy. Too far.’
‘Yes. It is. Luke knows how heavily I rely on you. I just don’t understand . . .’
I hear the click of a lighter as Mildred lights up a cigarette and takes a calming puff. ‘I just thought you’d want to know what’s going on. I know you’re not well, Darcy. I do. But it’s your company at the end of the day, isn’t it?’
‘I’m glad you said that, Mildred. Because it is my company, isn’t it? Listen Mildred, can you do me a favour?’
‘Yeah,’ she says.
‘Can you get me contact details for Luke in the Ohio office? I doubt he’ll have his own phone line so his email is preferable.’
‘He hasn’t given me them yet. Can’t you just use his personal email?’
I don’t tell Mildred that I’ve tried, and when I let silence hang in the air she reads me the way old friends often do and says, ‘I’ll get you an email, Darcy. Don’t worry.’
‘Hey. Hey,’ Gillian says, bursting in
to my bedroom without a knock. ‘Everything okay in here? Who are you talking to?’
Fortuitously kneeling on my hunkers, I say, ‘Myself. I’m practising hypno-breathing for the birth.’
‘Hmm,’ Gillian says in a tone that tells me she doesn’t believe me.
‘I was just watching some videos on YouTube,’ I say, sitting back on to crossed legs and waving my phone.
‘You’re not hungry,’ she says.
I glance at the granola and my stomach turns. ‘I got distracted online. I’ll probably have some in a little while.’
‘Hmm.’
We make eye contact for a few moments and finally Gillian falters and glances at my phone in my hand.
‘Luke called,’ she says.
‘Oh,’ I say, and it’s my turn to not believe her.
‘He’s so happy I’m taking care of you.’
‘Hm-hmm.’
‘He says it’s just like old times. The three of us together as best friends again.’
Gillian glances at the bedsheets and pillows tossed around the floor and before she says anything I say, ‘I was too hot.’
She puffs out and bends down to gather up the bedclothes.
‘Get into bed,’ she orders, standing up with the sheets balled up under one arm and the pillows stuffed under the other.
I lie down and Gillian tucks me in.
‘You’ll catch your death with no covers,’ she says, pulling them right up to my chin and wrapping them so tightly around me I’m worried she’s crushing the baby. ‘And we wouldn’t want that, would we?’
Chapter Forty-Six
DARCY
Thursday 18 July 2019
I call Luke. His phone rings out. I try again but it goes straight to voicemail. I try over and over, but all I hear is his familiar voice saying, ‘Hello. You’ve reached Luke Hogan, CEO of Darcy’s Dishes. I’m sorry I missed your call. Leave a message after the tone and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.’
Keep Your Friends Close Page 24