by Andrea Mara
The fallout from the book was exactly as I anticipated. Locals read it, and whispers went back to Alan. He came banging on my door two days later, and I told him Ray was gone. Alan was almost foaming at the mouth and I couldn’t blame him. Even the sight of my horribly bruised and swollen face didn’t quell his anger. Rumours had already started around the village. There’s no smoke without a fire, someone said. You never know what’s going on behind closed doors, someone else chimed in.
Jamie did his best – kept his head held high, dispelling rumours whenever he could. But of course nobody said anything to him directly, it was always behind his back. Alan didn’t help himself – upset, he ranted and raved and argued over anything and everything, drinking more and more, giving people the excuse to nod knowingly. I always knew there was something not quite right with him, they said to one another.
Time passed and memories faded, but the stench of suspicion never quite left Alan. And he never stopped ranting about Ray. Or what he’d do if he ever saw him again.
CHAPTER 64
2018
And now, ten years later, an email from Ray. Just like that.
Hey Marianne,
It’s been a while!
I wanted to tell you I’ll be in town tomorrow evening, to do a talk in your local library. Maybe we could catch a drink after?
Or if you’re in Dublin when you get this, look me up – I’m staying at The M Hotel on Leeson Street.
Best,
Ray
I stared. No apology, no excuse, no defence, no reference at all to what he did. Just “hey” as though we were simply old friends who hadn’t been in touch for some time.
In a flash, my fingers were flying over the keys, lashing out the reply that had been running through my head for a decade. All the ‘how dare you’s’ and ‘what were you thinking’s’ and a promise that I’d press charges if he came back, though I had no idea if I could actually do that, so many years later.
But, in the end, I deleted it. What was the point? The Ray I remembered would never see it any way but his own – I was wasting my time.
Distracted and unfocused, I clicked back into Facebook. There were two messages waiting for me, the first was from Barry.
Hiya, are you ok with the snow? I know you’re deep in the countryside, hope you have supplies. Let me know if I can do anything?
I wondered what would happen if I said, “Yes, please, could you call out with a pizza?” then felt mean – he was only trying to be nice.
The second message was from Judith.
Marianne, I noticed you were quiet online the last while – is everything alright?
For a second, I thought about telling her all of it – Hanne’s death, what Dina did – but I couldn’t. It was too much, and I wasn’t ready to go through all the details so soon.
I’m fine, thanks for asking, I typed instead, just anxious cos there’s more snow here and am thinking about those bloody footprints again.
You poor thing, she replied,but if the weather is going to be really bad, I suppose even your footprint-maker will stay away.
Exactly, I thought, getting up to look out the window. The snow was about three inches deep – not a lot by international standards, but enough to hamper travel around here. I thought about Jamie, half a mile away – his house just as remote, but at least he had company. I thought about Ray in his hotel room on Leeson Street, too close for comfort. And I thought about footprints and faceless monsters and Nøkken. And then I closed the curtains.
CHAPTER 65
The knock made Ray jump, even though he’d ordered room service. Maybe it was because the hotel was so quiet tonight, or perhaps it was the eerie atmosphere outside, the snow casting a strange pink-grey light on the empty street below.
He rolled off the bed, searching for the remote control to lower the TV volume, but it had disappeared somewhere under the covers. Giving in, he opened the door and at first he didn’t register that the man wasn’t wearing the hotel uniform, only that he had a baseball cap pulled low over his face and didn’t appear to have any food with him.
“Is there something wrong with my order?” Ray asked, raising his voice above the noise of the TV.
“Nothing wrong with it at all,” the man said, coming into the room.
He closed the door behind him, and that’s when Ray began to feel alarmed.
“What’s going on?” he asked, taking a step back.
“Let’s just say I’m here to fix things.”
Ray took another step back and folded his arms.
“I don’t know what’s going on,” he said. “Maybe you’re mixing me up with someone else, but you need to leave.”
The man laughed, but Ray’s attention was drawn away from his mouth – he watched, first with disbelief, then bone-deep terror, as the man calmly raised a gun. Not the kind of gun you see in a toy store, but a heavy, black, very real-looking gun. The man began to explain, but Ray couldn’t hear a word over the whirr of white noise and ice-cold fear.
“I said, on your knees,” the man instructed after what seemed like a long time but was probably only half a minute.
Ray tried to take it in but the buzzing noise in his head wouldn’t let him think straight.
“I won’t tell you a third time,” the man said, moving the gun closer to Ray’s head.
Ray dropped to his knees.
“Please,” he begged, as the man screwed something on to the end of the gun.
“Actions have consequences,” the man said, pointing the gun towards Ray’s forehead.
Ray put his head in his hands, covering his face.
“Please!” he said, louder now, panicked.
“Look up at me.”
Ray kept his head down.
“I said look up at me.”
Ray didn’t move. Couldn’t move.
“You have to understand. I’m not doing this until you look up at me.”
Still Ray didn’t move.
Neither did the man.
Ray stayed stock still, kneeling on the ground, his face in his hands. Silently begging the man to leave. He would not look up. He would not make this easy. He had only this small power left, and he would not give in.
The man stopped asking.
Time ticked by. Ray heard the blare of TV but nothing else. The political show came to an end, and a new show began. Still he stayed, face in hands. His knees cramping, his neck stiff, but he would not give in, he would not look up.
After what felt like forever, he heard the click of the hotel-room door. Opening. Then closing.
A breath, let out. It was over.
He lifted his face. He opened his eyes. To the barrel of the gun.
CHAPTER 66
The blare of my clock radio jolted me awake. My eyes snapped open, scanning the room. Senses heightened, on edge. The light was different. The snow was back.
The morning news confirmed it – the big freeze had set in. I stared across at my bedroom window as I slipped out of bed, but nothing could make me go over there and pull the curtain aside. What if he was back? What if he was standing there, looking in?
Instead, I padded through to the living-room window. Distance. At least a little. With one finger, I lifted the edge of the curtain and peered through the narrow gap.
Nothing.
I opened the curtains fully, squinting to look more closely. No footprints. Nobody. Just six inches of undisturbed snow.
Back in my bedroom, the news was still on – a report on a man who’d been shot in Dublin 2, and a story about the homeless crisis. I switched on the heating and looked up the forecast – no thaw due until tonight or tomorrow morning. Ray’s talk would surely be cancelled but, still, I felt uneasy.
A message from Jamie popped up on my phone.
Did you make it through the night without turning to ice?
A now familiar warm feeling fizzed up inside as I typed a reply.
Still in one piece, won’t be driving anywhere today though. All
ok at urs?
He replied to say they were fine, then a second message came through.
I could walk up later if you fancy some company? You’d be doing me a favour tbh to get away from yer man. The cabin fever is REAL.
Then a third message:
I can bring wine. This was followed by wine and beer emojis.
Let’s see how the weather is later,I replied.I don’t want you getting yourself frozen to death trying to escape Alan – it’s NEARLY but not quite worth it.
Then it was back to the world of work, and meetings with people in places where six inches of snow didn’t make news headlines.
By five o’clock, it was almost dark and, although it had stopped snowing, it was bitterly, bone-numbingly cold. The thaw wouldn’t be coming any time soon, I thought, standing at the window looking out. And Ray’s talk couldn’t possibly be going ahead, could it? I checked the website and found an announcement. Cancelled. So that was that. And yet, there was no relief.
I checked the doors and windows, and was heating up ravioli for dinner when my phone rang. The number came up on screen: Garda Station. I answered with one hand while tipping ravioli into a colander with the other.
It was Patrick.
“Something new on the footprints?” I asked, stepping back from rising steam.
“No, it’s something else, Marianne. Is there anyone you could call to be with you maybe?”
“No, what’s happened?” I asked, slightly panicky, though there was no reason for it – the usual fears for parents, siblings, or children didn’t apply to me.
“Don’t worry, everything is fine, but either Geraldine or myself will call in to tell you in person. If we can’t get up tonight, it’ll be the morning. Don’t be reading the papers maybe.”
“What?”
“Look, just –” he paused, “we’ll tell you when we see you, try not to worry.”
Obviously, the first thing I did when he ended the call was go online to see what was in the headlines. Most of the stories were weather-related – cancelled weddings and empty supermarket shelves. There was a story about a car accident, and one about a shooting in a Dublin hotel. Other than that, it was stories from around the world, including one about the Blackwood Strangler – surely that’s not what Patrick meant? That would be ridiculous. I went back through the stories again, but nothing jumped out. I’d have to wait till Patrick or Geraldine told me in person.
I took my ravioli to the sitting room, opened my laptop, and switched on the TV for company. Would Jamie call in? The snow was deep in my garden though probably not as bad on the roads. He hadn’t texted but then again, he might not, he might just turn up. I looked down at the pasta sauce stain on my shirt and decided to change.
In my bedroom, I didn’t bother switching on the light. Unbuttoning my shirt, I threw it in the laundry and grabbed a jumper from the wardrobe. The light-blue one that someone once said matched my eyes. Oh, for goodness sake! He probably wouldn’t call anyway. I checked my bedroom window, and drew the curtains tighter.
Back at my laptop, Facebook was hopping with Armchair Detective notifications as the nightly Blackwood Strangler discussion took hold.
Neil was hanging on to his theory that the arrest was a mistake, but sounding less sure, now that all the major news outlets were reporting the same story about the wife and the souvenirs.
Anne and Cheryl were chatting about other cases – a missing woman from a small town in Wales, and a murder in Leeds.
Judith shared a link about a teen missing from her own housing estate, and wondered if we might take a look.
Barry pointed out that it might be just a runaway, and shouldn’t we stick to cases that were definitely crimes?
It seemed nobody was quite sure what direction to take now that the Blackwood Strangler was caught. He was the reason for our existence and we were rudderless without him.
I felt bad for Judith though, and slightly – admittedly unfairly – irritated by Barry.
I think we should take a look at Judith’s case – no harm in it, and it’s not like we have urgent plans. I’m snowed in here anyway.
Oh really, Marianne?Barry replied. It’s not bad here in Dun Laoghaire at all now, road outside my apartment is totally clear. Are you ok there?
A private message came through from Judith.
Thanks for jumping in to champion my missing person case. Everything alright this morning – no footprints or apples or newspapers? Though I think I’d quite like someone to leave me apples and newspapers!
All good here, I replied. Nothing outside my door this morning. And no worries re the missing person case – we may as well be doing that as anything else.
A beep from my phone interrupted me – a message from Jamie. Only it wasn’t to tell me he was calling in – it was to ask if I’d seen Alan.
He went out for a walk an hour ago, without the dog though, and I’m worried he’s slipped or something. He’d normally be 10 mins max having a sneaky fag. No sign of him up by you?
No, I haven’t seen him, I typed, standing to look out the window. The ground was a blanket of glistening white – the snow soft, almost welcoming, with a deceptive innocence. Pretty, with no hint of the havoc it could wreak.
Would he come tonight? The circle drawn on the newspaper must mean something. I picked it up from the coffee table and looked again.
Weather Alert Warns of Heaviest Snow in 10 Years.
Was it a warning that he’d be back with the snow? Or something else entirely?
Something flashed into my mind, then slipped away as I tried to catch it. Something about the headline? I shook my head and sat back down.
I’ll let you know if I see him, I typed to Jamie, but I can’t imagine him coming up this way on a night like this.
No reply. And no more talk of visits and wine. I changed the TV channel and picked up my book; a murder mystery set on a remote farmhouse in the Australian outback. Maybe not ideal reading material tonight. What I would have given for a light, frothy magazine right at that moment. The thought that had been hovering flashed closer. Something about the newspaper. I picked it up and looked again, paging through, searching for notes. Scanning each page, sure I’d find something, but no. Nothing. I sat back. What was it? I picked up my laptop to check the weather forecast, and spotted the message from Judith still open.
That’s when it hit me.
The newspaper. I’d told the group about the footprints and the chalk drawing and the apple. But not the newspaper. They were full of the Blackwood Strangler arrest, I was just back from Denmark, and I never got around to telling them.
So how did Judith know?
Hey, just curious – how did you know about the newspaper by the way? I typed.
I waited, watching for the notification that she’d read it. There it was. Still I waited. No reply. I refreshed the browser, and now the message disappeared completely.
What the hell was going on?
In my Facebook search bar, I typed her name. Nothing. Had she deleted her account?
I clicked into the Armchair Detective group – maybe Facebook was being glitchy. But Judith’s name was greyed out – she’d left.
Guys, did Judith just leave and delete her FB account??? I posted.
Moments later, a flurry of replies in a cloud of confusion.
No! Anne said. Judith can’t go – she’s the Mum of the group!
Maybe she clicked “leave group” by accident, I’ve done that before – I’ll go message her, Cheryl said
No, she’s gone from FB. Her whole account is gone, Neil said. I don’t get it – did someone upset her? Were there some private messages going on? An argument behind the scenes?
Sometimes when people left the group, it was for exactly that – an argument the rest of us weren’t privy to, followed by a dramatic flounce. But Judith and I hadn’t argued, had we? I just asked her how she knew about the newspaper.
Guys,I typed, you know the stuff I told you about, the footpr
ints and all that? Can you remember the details about what I said was left on my doorstep?
As they were answering, I searched and scrolled back through what I’d posted – footprints, doll, chalk letter R, apple. No newspaper. I checked their answers and they tallied – everyone remembered the details I’d shared, and nobody mentioned a newspaper. It wasn’t my imagination. The only way Judith could know about it is if she was in contact with the person who did it.
Ok, I typed. Here’s what happened. Judith messaged me earlier and mentioned the footprints and the apple but also mentioned a newspaper. Yesterday morning, there was a newspaper on my doorstep, with a circle around the forecast for snow. Only I hadn’t posted about it here or mentioned it to Judith. When I realised, I msgd her to ask how she knew and that’s when her account disappeared.
Silence. Then the flurry of responses. Surprise, shock, some doubt, but more than anything, a wave of excitement trickled through the group. Drama of the best kind. Just not so much for me, sitting at its epicentre.
Theories flowed in. Judith was feeding information to someone in the UK who had now come over here to Ireland. Judith was giving details to someone who already lived here in Ireland. Judith had come over here herself – that one generated laughter.
Maybe Judith has been here all along, Barry said.
More virtual laughter.
I love a good theory as much as the next person but I don’t think an elderly retired schoolteacher is tramping around Marianne’s garden at night, Barry! Anne said.
But how do we know she’s an elderly retired schoolteacher? Barry asked.
Silence again, no laughter this time.
Between us, we started to rake over it: searching, scrolling, trading thoughts. I’d met her on iSleuth three years ago, which is where we’d all met, and at that stage all any of us knew was her username, same as for everyone on the site. Judith didn’t have any convoluted Internet-age type username, she was simply Judith Hill and her avatar was a photo of a bicycle in the snow. Very few people had personal photos on iSleuth, everyone used fairly anonymous avatars. When we moved over to Facebook to set up our group, we all got to know one another better – now we could see what one another looked like. Profile pictures changed over time but Judith’s never did – it always showed her sitting on a chair in a garden, her white hair in a tidy bun, a smile on her face, and her baby granddaughter on her knee. Now that she’d left Facebook, the photo was gone too.