I stand up and, pouting, I place my hands firmly on my hips. I stare at my reflection in one side of the damaged glass. I am sophisticated. Elegant. An achiever.
I shift my weight on to the opposite foot, my reflection following. My image switches to the other side of the hairline fracture in the glass. On this side is an exhausted, broken woman. Slouching, and sad and real.
I snort and look away, hating to be reminded of the two halves of me that still don’t make me whole. I pick up the hairbrush and drag it through my hair. It’s knotty and dry, exhausted from having its natural limpness constantly manipulated into curls.
The house is painfully silent. I actually miss the sound of Darcy’s movements. Luke has stopped making noise too and I haven’t bothered to check on him in a while. I wonder if Darcy will see the irony when she realises she’s been searching under the wrong floorboards all this time. If only she’d popped the heavy old boards in the sitting room, she’d have discovered her darling husband.
Inspired by Darcy’s obsession with her bedroom floor I decided to do a little digging of my own. It’s rather fortuitous that Darcy and Luke spent a fortune on insulation and underfloor heating to warm up their old house. When you dig it all out there’s quite a bit of space down there. Admittedly it’s a little snug for a grown man, but I still managed to make it work. I had to tie Luke’s hands by his sides rather than behind his back, and he’s turned slightly on his side because I just couldn’t stuff him in any other way. It’s not exactly the photo I wanted for my scrapbook – Luke bloodied and bruised with thick black masking tape across his beautiful lips and fear in his eyes. But it will do. He was heavy too, but that didn’t surprise me. I worked up quite a sweat managing to get him in, in a race against the clock. I only had enough Xanax to knock Darcy out for a couple of hours. I wasn’t even sure if she was going to drink the damn orange juice. And the pills are long out of date. I’ve had them for years. I tried getting more but the GP wouldn’t prescribe them. He wanted me to see a counsellor and talk about my issues instead. As if that was going to help. Useless idiot. I get annoyed now just thinking about it.
I turn the radio on. Low in the background, a white noise to drown out the overbearing noise in my head. Unsurprisingly, they’re talking about that missing cop. Lindsay’s interview seems to have set off a tsunami of interest from every presenter and DJ in the country. Rose’s face is everywhere. TV and newspapers. I can’t even look at my phone without her face staring back at me online. She’s dominating all channels as if she’s more special than all the other missing people. She’s pictured in her uniform. With her kids. On holiday with her husband. How can the media expect people to feel sorry for her when she’s led such a damn charmed life? It’s not fair.
Lindsay St Claire has appointed herself chair of this story. It’s hers now. And all the other presenters and DJs seem to concede that. It’s strange how that happens. How one person, with a burning confidence, can dominate and command, and others accept and follow like sheep. I used to think it was behaviour confined within the walls of an exclusive school, but I’ve since learned it follows into adult life. There’s no real way to ever escape it other than to take charge for yourself. That’s what I’m doing. It’s what I’ve always done. Albeit in my own, unique way.
I scrape my hair into a neat ponytail, pop on some fancy clothes that I take from Darcy’s wardrobe, and relish the fact that they’re a little too big and oh so expensive, before I make my way into the kitchen. I pour granola into two bowls. Equal portions, of course. I wash strawberries, raspberries and blueberries and add them on top. I’m making my way towards the shed when I turn back and detour by the sitting room. I set the bowls down on the coffee table and laugh as I pick up the chisel I found on Darcy’s dresser. It’s almost as if she wanted to make this too easy for me. I pop the floorboard and Luke’s eyes are closed and he doesn’t seem to be breathing. I crouch, hovering over him. I hold my breath so I can listen for his. He’s still breathing. Although just about. I snap off the masking tape and he screams.
‘Darcy get out. Get out now.’
I roll my eyes and wait for him to realise he’s wasting his breath.
‘Two things,’ I say tilting my head and raising a couple of fingers. ‘One. It’s rude to shout. Especially indoors. And two. She’s not here. Not any more.’
‘Darcy! Darcy!’ he shouts.
‘Now. Now. What did we talk about?’ I say. ‘If you’re going to kick up a fuss I’m going to stop visiting.’
‘Let me talk to her,’ he begs, tears in the corners of his sleepy eyes.
‘I already let you talk to her,’ I remind him as I lean over his almost-lifeless body. ‘On the phone, remember? And you told her to run.’ I take a deep breath and sigh. ‘I don’t think we can let that happen again, do you?’
‘What have you done?’ There’s terror sticking to his words and there’s even more fear in his eyes now than when I tied him to a chair in the shed and we had a little fun with his tool box. He’s afraid I’ve buried her, shoved her underground. Next to that yappy little dog of hers, perhaps.
‘Where is she?’ he begs.
‘She’s fine, but you should see your face.’ Luke’s relief is short-lived when I say, ‘She’s in the shed.’
‘The shed?’ he gasps as his eyes roll, and I wonder if he’s going to pass out on me.
This is no fun.
‘Yeah.’ I make a face. ‘Big metal structure. End of the garden. You know the one?’
‘The baby?’ he asks, opening his eyes again.
‘The babies,’ I correct. ‘Rose is pregnant too.’
Luke doesn’t reply. His eyes are closed again and his bloody lips have stopped quivering.
‘Ugh,’ I groan, wondering where I’ll get rid of his body later. He’s so much heavier than Andrew.
I pick up the bowls and walk away, making my way to the end of the stupidly large garden.
I shove my hand into my pocket and fish out the key. My fingers tremble and my hand shakes as I try to guide the key into the lock as if I’m opening a secret diary. It’s rusty and weather-beaten and it always takes some patience to prise it open. Finally, it clicks and I unravel the chunky metal chains from the door, enjoying their clanging melody.
As always Rose scampers back as soon as the light slices into the confined space. I’m not sure if it’s because she’s a cop and she’s always on guard or because she’s watched one too many thrillers at the cinema. Maybe she’s just genuinely terrified of me. She gave up trying to engage in psychobabble cop talk after the first night, when I knocked her sideways across the shed. She didn’t wake up again until the next morning. Darcy, on the other hand, doesn’t move. She’s curled in a ball to one side, her hands covering her face, and if it wasn’t for the noisy rattle when I open the door, I could believe she’s asleep. I wait for her to look up but she doesn’t. I’m dying for her to ask about Luke.
‘Did you bring some food?’ Rose asks, desperate.
I smile and I wait for her eyes to adjust to the light so she can see the bowls. Soon she notices and creeps forwards, on all fours like an animal.
I raise my leg to kick her away. She scurries back before I make contact.
‘Are you hungry too, Darcy?’ I ask, taking a single step forward but keeping the door right behind me.
There’s no reply.
‘Are you?’ I raise my voice.
‘Who are you?’ Darcy asks, finally lifting her head.
I don’t bother to reply to that redundant question.
‘Where’s Luke?’ she asks, her tear-smeared eyes glistening in the moonlight.
I laugh, stepping closer still.
‘Where is he?’ Darcy raises her voice, and her body rises too, albeit exhausted and not very intimidating. ‘If you’ve hurt him, so help me God . . .’
‘You’ll do what, Darcy? Get your solicitor to send me a strongly worded letter?’ I snort. ‘You’re pathetic. All the money in the world can’t b
uy you a backbone. Any guts and you’d have kicked me out of your house before my feet got too comfortable on your coffee table.’
‘I’m going to kill you.’ Darcy lunges forward with a burst of energy I didn’t see coming. With a fervent slap I swat her away as if she’s an irritating fly. She hits the ground with a loud thud.
‘Careful!’ Rose shouts, and my temper flashes for a moment before I realise she’s warning Darcy and not me. ‘Don’t antagonise her,’ Rose adds.
I like Rose. She’s sensible.
‘Now. Now. Now,’ I say. ‘Who said anything about killing anyone . . . yet.’
There’s silence. Except for deep breathing, of course. Amplified by the stillness of the night. I reach my hand outside the door and fetch the shovel I’ve left leaning against the outside wall. It took me ages to clear out the tools. I really don’t think Darcy appreciates my efforts. The shed has never been so tidy.
Rose looks at me, her neck long and curious. I place my finger over my lips and curl my fingers a fraction tighter around the handle. She nods with understanding, her body shaking as she takes in the cruel, sharp edges of a garden spade – she knows from past experience the damage it can do. Darcy might be thinking about running but Rose knows they won’t get far with cool metal to the back of the head.
I reach my other hand into my pocket and pull out my phone. Silent and still, Rose watches.
‘Hello. Hello. The Gardaí please?’ I say. I am quite the actress, and a slight quiver appears in my voice that wasn’t there before. ‘I want to report a missing person.’
‘Help us!’ Darcy bellows, but Rose charges forward shoving her hand over Darcy’s mouth. Rose understands. Rose knows the consequences.
Tears trickle down Darcy’s cheeks and over Rose’s fingers.
‘She’s pregnant,’ I say, choking back impressive fake tears. ‘She’s very poorly. I’m so worried something has happened to her. I think . . .’ I pause and sob. ‘I think she might be dead.’
Darcy shakes her head, and finally I sense it – her fear. It grips her tighter than my fingers around the spade. Realisation is painful, I know from experience.
‘Please don’t kill us,’ Darcy says, cowering away from me.
I snort as I slide my phone back into my pocket. ‘Don’t be so dramatic, Darcy. I told you. Nobody is killing anybody.’
‘Then why are we here?’ she whimpers, crying so hard she can barely draw her breath.
‘Because you have something I want.’
‘You can have Darcy’s Dishes,’ she says. ‘It won’t cost a penny. I can just sign it over to you. And I won’t tell anyone about this. If you let us go. I promise I won’t.’
‘That’s a lie and you know it.’ I scowl. ‘Rose, will you tell her? She’s making this harder by upsetting me with nasty lies.’
‘Darcy,’ Rose whispers and places her finger on her lips.
‘Anyway,’ I continue. ‘I don’t want your stupid Darcy’s Dishes. Vegans save the planet crap. All I ever wanted was Luke, but you just couldn’t let me have him. You’re so bloody selfish. You brought this on yourself, you know.’ I shrug as if I’m over it. ‘But it doesn’t matter because now I have something even better.’
Darcy stares at me blankly and I take some deep breaths to restrain myself from kicking her in her petrified face.
I point towards her round belly and say, ‘Luke’s baby, silly. I’m going to be a great mam.’
Chapter Fifty-One
DARCY
Tuesday 23 July 2019
Rain pelts the roof of the shed. The pitter-patter of large drops that I usually love to listen to from the comfort of my warm bed are loud and hostile, refusing to allow us to sleep. Time is losing all meaning and I can’t tell if it’s morning, evening or some time in between. The rain has dragged with it a cooler temperature, unseasonably low for July.
‘Leave it, Darcy,’ Rose says, as I rummage around for something to help get us the hell out of here. ‘I’ve tried everything. There’s no escaping. There are chains on the door and it’s reinforced steel. Two pregnant women can’t knock it down from this side.’
I rummage more and my wedding ring clinks against something glass. I slide my hands around its unusual shape and I recognise it instantly. It’s my Businesswoman of the Year crystal award. Luke wanted to display it on the mantel but the idea made me uncomfortable. My parents always taught me to be modest. They said humility is our greatest gift. And so my awards over the years have ended up in the shed.
‘Darcy, please?’ Rose says. ‘We need to be smart. And conserve energy. Sit down. You’re exhausted.’
Rose is right. Deep down I know that trying to get out is futile. I just about have enough energy to lift my arms. And I can’t even see what I’m searching for. I don’t stand a chance of breaking the door down.
Defeated, I follow Rose’s voice to the back of the shed and find her somewhere between the lawnmower and what I think are old tins of paint. I set the trophy down on the lid of a tin and sink on to the floor. We cling to each other. The hunger makes the cold in our bones even harder to bear. A wind whistles outside, trying desperately to shake the sturdy shed, but failing miserably.
Rose and I huddle at the back of the shed, waiting for the night to end.
‘Who the hell is she?’ Rose asks as we sit in the blackness.
‘Honestly?’ I pause for thought, wondering how I could have been so stupid. ‘I’m not sure. All I know now is who she isn’t.’
‘How do you know her?’ Rose asks. ‘It’s not from Pilates, that’s for sure.’
I swallow hard. ‘We were at school together.’
Rose is quiet for a moment, then says, ‘Go on.’
‘I didn’t really know her. Not well, anyway. She was always kind of odd and no matter how nice I tried to be she just . . .’ I sigh, thinking back. ‘I dunno. Luke warned me never to get close to her.’
‘But you ignored him,’ Rose says.
‘No. No. I took his advice. I stayed away from her. Then we left school and grew up. I never really thought about her again. She could have passed me on the street and I wouldn’t have recognised her.’
‘I couldn’t name half the people I went to school with either,’ Rose says. Another pause follows before she asks: ‘Was she always a narcissist?’
‘Yeah,’ I say realising, possibly for the first time, that she was.
Time loses all meaning in the darkness, and when Rose goes into labour there’s no way of telling how long it’s been. But her breathing is gradually becoming heavier and she’s increasingly exhausted so I’m guessing it’s been at least a few hours. She’s trying so hard to be calm, dragging mostly controlled breaths in and out with the experience of someone who has given birth before. But every now and then it all becomes too much and a groan of pain will burst past her lips.
‘You’re doing great, Rose,’ I say, tearing the hem of my T-shirt to create a makeshift cloth to dab against her forehead.
Rose pants and shakes in distress.
‘They’ll come,’ I say, taking her hand and squeezing it gently. ‘Someone will find us.’ I try not to cry for Rose’s sake. ‘Help!’ I shout as loud as I can. ‘Help us please! Help us!’
Rose and I both know I’m wasting my breath. The shed walls are thick and insulated, and my nearest neighbours, the Robinsons, are elderly and hard of hearing. Everyone else in Cherryway is so concerned with privacy that their walls and hedges are high and their gardens large. My exhausted shouts can’t scale that far.
Rose clutches her stomach and grits her teeth. It’s terrifying to watch her in so much pain.
‘What can I do?’ I ask her. ‘Is there anything I can do?’
Rose ignores me and concentrates on breathing. I try to move some stuff around to give Rose space to lie down. Feeling my way in the dark I shove some boxes of old books out of the way. I shriek as something crawls over my hand. It’s just a spider, but a big one. I hate spiders but I don’t have time to gi
ve it a second thought.
When the pain stops and Rose is calmer, I help her move into a half-sitting, half-lying position. I’m not sure it will help, but we always sit like this in antenatal classes. Rose closes her eyes and concentrates on her breathing. In, out. In, out.
‘You’re doing great,’ I say, by way of encouragement.
Rose groans, suddenly gripping my hand, crushing my fingers as another contraction engulfs her. I want to help her get through the pain, so we breathe through it together – in, out. It helps us both. I’m less dizzy when I’m calm. The last thing I want to tell Rose is that I’m feeling faint. I can’t pass out on her, she’s scared enough already. I plead with myself to keep it together.
We fall into a pattern of Rose humming and rocking and managing her pain. I rock with her and hold her hand and I push my fear deep down. I try not to think about all the potential complications that I’d stupidly googled after my first antenatal class. I try not to think about the darkness and how I’m possibly supposed to help if I can’t see what I’m doing.
‘Rose,’ I whimper, breaking the silence. ‘Do you think Luke is dead?’
‘I don’t know.’ Rose gasps. ‘But it’s really important we stay positive and focused.’
My heart breaks, because I think Rose does know. Ever professional and ever a trained Garda, Rose knows.
Chapter Fifty-Two
DARCY
Tuesday 23 July 2019
Rose grunts. It’s sudden and animalistic and it scares me. I don’t know what to do. The pain is getting worse. She twists and turns as if somehow she can escape it. ‘It’s coming, Darcy,’ she puffs. ‘I can feel it!’
‘No. No. Not yet. It can’t.’ I’m trying so hard to hide my fear, but I’m not sure I can keep it up without Rose seeing through me or worse still, me scaring her even more. ‘Oh Rose please try to hold on.’
A key rattles and chains clank and finally the shed door opens and light dazzles us. I cover my eyes, as the sudden brightness burns. Gillian takes one look at Rose and shakes her head. ‘Now?’ she says. ‘You’re having the baby now?’
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