‘White paint gets very dirty,’ murmured Edie, who still regretted the eggshell colour they’d gone for with their porch when they first moved in.
Robin tilted her head. ‘It looks like a seagull shat it out.’
Standing on the gravel in front of the sign – a spot where Daniel had left their car on several occasions – was Shay Morrissey. He was dressed in jeans, a greying wife-beater and construction goggles pulled firmly over his eyes. A pair of ear mufflers were slung around his neck and a look of determination consumed his face as he straddled a massive jackhammer.
‘I’d say he’s freezing.’
Edie was wondering how he’d managed to reach the top letters. Their own ladder wasn’t high enough to get to the eaves of the house. They’d never cleaned out the gutters. Not once since they moved in. She must remember to ask Daniel to sort that out. If they were still married.
Daniel and Edie had gone to bed not talking and woken up the same way. It had happened again. First day of this ovulation cycle and he’d started up with the doubts. She could tell he was in a mood the second she arrived at the pub. And within an hour, he’d gone back to the money excuse. They owned their own house, for God’s sake! And then, to make matters worse, Robin and her new man had caught them arguing on the street like a pair of fishwives.
Daniel had headed off at the crack of dawn this morning without a word to her, as if he were the one with a reason to be cross. She had a sinking suspicion that things weren’t going well at the garage again. But even if they weren’t, she couldn’t let spreadsheets dictate her family planning.
When Daniel came home and saw the mural that now marked the entrance to Pine Road, Shay Morrissey would do well to not be standing in the vicinity of a veritable weapon.
‘Shay Morrissey, put that down right this minute!’
Carmel, who had disappeared and reappeared in a high-vis jacket, was walking straight up to him, waggling her right index finger in his goggled face.
Shay, who was still gripping both handles and had the jackhammer pointed towards the tarmac, looked from Carmel to the two younger women behind her. Edie gave him a wave. She felt bad about how often Daniel got into fights with the man.
‘No!’ he shouted back, although there was an edge of uncertainty to his defiance.
‘He looks like a suicide bomber,’ whispered Robin, pulling another cracker from the packet.
‘Which makes your mother the peace negotiator.’
Robin guffawed. ‘We’re all in trouble so.’
Carmel resumed jabbing her finger in the air in front of Shay’s face. ‘What in the name of all that is sane do you think you’re doing?’
‘I . . .’ Shay glanced behind Carmel. Edie smiled at him. ‘It’s none of your business!’
‘It is so my business, Shay Morrissey! I live on this street and I’m not going to let you drill holes in it wherever you please. What would Muriel say, God rest her soul, if she could see you out here defacing the side of her beloved home and making an absolute spectacle of yourself? For God’s sake! Would you not even put on a feckin’ shirt?’
‘Don’t you bring Muriel into this!’ Shay’s grip on the drill tightened.
‘For the love of Jesus, will you—’
‘This is my land! Mine! I have the right to use for nine—’
‘Nine feet out from your property. Yes, yes, we all know. And so what?’ Carmel rolled up her sleeves and Edie watched her transfixed; she wasn’t quite like the negotiators talking suicidal people down off ledges, too aggressive, but she could be a terrorist interrogator. ‘You’re going to blow a big hole in the ground here? Is that it? Rather it was a crater than allow other people to park on it?’
‘No!’ retorted Shay, sounding more confident now. ‘I’m putting in retractable bollards.’
‘Retractable what?’
‘Bollards. Like you see in the city centre. I can secure them into the ground and when I need to park I can lower them. And then when I don’t, I can raise them up.’
Carmel only faltered for a moment but it was all the permission Shay needed. Suddenly Edie was stumbling backwards and the ground around them started to shake.
‘Jesus!’
The sound of the machine pummelling into the concrete reverberated all around and Edie brought her hands to her ears. She could just about make out fragments of what Carmel was screaming.
‘. . .have you committed . . . turning in her grave . . . right now . . . hope you catch your death . . .’ Carmel’s arms were by her side as she leaned forward and roared into the deafening clamour. She was still screaming when the noise came to a sudden halt. ‘. . . not enough mourners to carry your coffin!’
Shay looked down at his machine and frowned. ‘The arsing wattage.’ He dropped the drill and followed its cord around the corner and back into his house.
Edie lowered her hands from her ears.
‘Are you all right, Mam?’ called Robin.
Carmel was inspecting the jackhammer in Shay’s absence. She gave the thing a few kicks, then started to tug at the wire.
‘Mind, Mam. Jesus.’ Robin walked over to her and Edie looked around to see that the drilling had brought several neighbours out. She waved up the street at Ruby, who was standing at her gate, eating a bowl of something. Martha was making her way down to the bottom of the road from the opposite side. Edie walked over to her.
‘I heard the noise.’ Martha was dressed all in black with a chunky silver necklace. She looked a little worn out but still great. What was bags under the eyes on Edie was heroin chic on Martha. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Shay Morrissey,’ said Edie, nodding over to his house.
‘The planks of wood fellow?’
‘Yep,’ nodded Edie. ‘He’s taken it up a notch and is now installing parking bollards.’
‘Is he allowed do that?’ Martha asked, only sounding half-interested.
‘I just hope he either gives up or has it done before Daniel gets home. If Daniel sees—Robin!’ Across the road, Carmel was heading back into her house and her daughter was following. Robin glanced over at Edie and Martha but kept going. Edie waved her over, but her target friend hesitated. ‘Robin!’ she shouted again. Eventually – reluctantly, Edie thought – she crossed the road.
‘Hello, Robin,’ said Martha, stifling a yawn. ‘Excuse me.’
Edie gave her a sympathetic smile. It couldn’t be easy at the moment, with Sinead and everything.
Robin was still looking across the road, even though there was nothing to see but a discarded drill. ‘Hi.’
‘Has Carmel given up?’ asked Edie.
‘I doubt it.’
‘Oh, Martha!’ said Edie, suddenly remembering. ‘Do you know who I ran into last night?’
‘Who?’
‘Robin,’ she beamed. ‘With her man.’
‘My what?’ snapped Robin.
‘Your new man.’ Edie frowned. ‘Cormac.’
‘Oh, right.’
Martha smiled, but Robin went back to squinting across the road.
‘He seemed nice,’ said Edie. ‘Very handsome up close, which is good.’ Still, Robin continued to look away. She was being quite rude. ‘How was the rest of your night, Martha? Did you have chicken for dinner in the end?’
‘Hmm?’
‘Last night,’ repeated Edie. ‘Did you have the chicken? You were saying you were going to make it for dinner?’
‘Robert made dinner. It was . . .’ She trailed off.
Edie could be relied on to keep a conversation going – she hated for anyone to feel awkward and she was rather good at filling dead air – but it did help to get a little feedback.
‘Is everything okay, Martha?’ she pushed, since Robin clearly wasn’t going to ask.
‘I saw him,’ she said quickly. ‘Again. Last night. I saw the man from the robbery.’
Edie gasped. ‘You saw him? Where? Here?’
Martha nodded. Edie looked to Robin who at least had the manners to
look shocked. ‘What was he doing?’
‘He was . . .’ Martha shivered. ‘He was standing out on the road.’
‘On Pine Road?’ Edie exclaimed, looking with dumbfounded shock from one woman to the other. They were equally pale. ‘Are you sure?’
‘I was standing in our bedroom, about to close the curtains, and he was just . . . he was right there.’ She pointed to the middle of the road, the space between her house and Robin’s. ‘Robert knew there was something up but I couldn’t tell him. I’d have to admit that I saw him the first time.’ She paused, the lines around her eyes pronounced. No wonder she was tired. ‘Should I tell the guards?’
‘Of course you should tell the guards!’ exclaimed Edie.
‘I don’t know . . .’ said Robin at the same time.
‘What are you talking about? Of course she should tell them.’ Edie turned back to Martha. ‘Do you think he tracked you down?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Was he . . .?’ Edie lowered his voice. ‘Was he looking at you?’
‘No. I don’t know. It was only a second and then I just . . .’ She mimed closing the curtains. ‘Maybe I was mistaken, but I don’t think so. Or maybe it was a coincidence. Except this is a cul-de-sac so where else could he be going?’
Edie thought of a true-crime podcast she’d listened to recently, about a man in Colorado who served fifteen years in prison only to get out and murder the witness who put him away. He didn’t even go to see his mother first, or stop for some lunch. It was literally the first thing he did. If Edie knew she was going straight back to prison, she’d at least have had a Cornetto.
She wasn’t about to worry Martha by telling her that, but it was a true crime; these things did happen.
‘You have to tell the police,’ she said decisively. ‘If nothing else, it might prompt them to give a bit more attention to the case.’
Beep!!!
A car horn caused them all to turn. Shay Morrissey was back on the road, lifting his drill. There was no sign of Carmel but a car had stopped at the bottom of the road.
‘Oh gosh,’ murmured Edie. It was Daniel’s car.
A teenage girl walked up the road past them. She was dressed in soccer shorts and a jersey and carrying muck-covered runners.
‘Sinead,’ called Martha and she turned to follow the girl without a word of goodbye.
Beep!!!
‘Oh gosh,’ repeated Edie. ‘Talk to you later.’ She left Robin standing alone and made her way over to Daniel, catching the driver’s door just as it flew open.
TWENTY-FOUR
Martha heard Sinead’s soccer boots and kit bag hit the floorboards – even though they had a coat stand and cubbyholes now – as she followed her into the house and watched her disappear upstairs.
‘I need to talk to you.’
‘Shower!’ her daughter called and kept walking into the bathroom.
Martha picked up the kit bag and carried it down to the kitchen. Placing it on the table and unzipping it, she heard the electric shower kicking in upstairs. The bag was full of soccer vests. It must be Sinead’s turn to wash them; meaning it was Martha’s turn. She opened the washer and tossed them in. Then she threw in a tab and set it to 60 degrees. The washing machine kicked in, vying with the shower above it for attention, and Martha walked over to the kitchen window.
Robert had cut back the weeds. When had he done that? When she was over at Ellis’s place or up at Edie’s? It must have taken a while. For the hundredth time in the past twelve hours, Martha wondered if she should tell Robert what she’d seen. What did the man want? Did he know she’d checked in with the police? Was he trying to scare her?
If she told Robert she’d seen the man’s face last night, she’d have to tell him she’d also seen it at the time. Robert could admonish her; he would be perfectly entitled to lay into her for withholding evidence and thwarting any chance of them getting justice. But he wouldn’t do that. At the peak of her rage last night, traces of lost compassion had returned. Just traces, but enough to see her husband as a human made up of more than one event. Robert didn’t hold grudges. He never blamed her for their children’s shortcomings. He was more forgiving than her.
The washing machine lulled and the shower came to an abrupt stop. Martha reached into the drawer by the sink and produced the printouts Robert had pulled from the printer the night before.
If she had said something about the man she saw at the time, might the culprits have been caught? She doubted it. She could recognise the man – or at least she now knew she could – but she couldn’t describe him in any meaningful way. ‘Soulful eyes’ was hardly going to make a Wanted poster.
The bathroom door opened and Martha listened as her eldest daughter banged around her bedroom. Robert and Orla had left early for a sprinting competition in Offaly. Robert had texted to say they’d be back by three.
The washing machine kicked back in and Martha gave a start. ‘Christ!’ she muttered.
Had she really seen him? Could she be 100 per cent sure?
‘Did you take my—’ Sinead came bustling into the room, dressed in what she’d informed Martha were called ‘Mom jeans’ and an oversized black net sweater. She peered into the kit bag. ‘Did you take the vests?’
Martha nodded to the washing machine. ‘You’re welcome.’
‘You really shouldn’t go through my things.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘I don’t go through your things, so I don’t think you should go through mine. Privacy is a basic right. It’s recognised in the United Nation’s Declaration of Human Rights.’ Sinead walked over to the washing machine and stared in to the rapidly turning drum. ‘Great,’ she muttered.
Martha wanted to ask what bad could possibly come from someone else doing your washing but that was a sure fire way to get sidetracked and, as much as she’d like to put it off, Martha had to talk to Sinead, today. Now.
‘Sinead.’
‘Martha.’
Martha pursed her lips. ‘Sit down,’ she said sharply. ‘And less of your lip.’
Sinead pulled out a chair and flopped her body down. She mimed zipping her mouth shut and put her hands on her knees, under the table.
Martha took a deep breath, picked the A4 pages up off the draining board and walked over to the table.
Please let me be wrong, my darling girl. Please just tell me I’m wrong and I’ll believe you.
She pulled out her own chair. ‘Your father was fixing the printer last night, because Orla needed to print something off for her homework . . .’
Still pretending to have her lips zipped, Sinead widened her eyes in mock fascination.
‘. . . and he found this.’ Martha opened one of the sheets, picture side up, and put it on the table in front of Sinead. ‘Three identical ones came out, actually.’
Sinead didn’t touch the page. She just stared at it.
‘I checked your phone.’
Sinead’s eyes shot up from the page to her mother. For a moment they burned with outrage, but that fell away too. Martha went to the larder press and took out her daughter’s mobile. She sat back at the table and powered it on.
‘I found photos of the list.’
She put the phone in front of Sinead, but she didn’t touch that either. Martha watched as she chewed the inside of her cheek.
‘Did you make the poster?’
Sinead nodded.
Martha’s body tensed.
‘Did you stick them up around the school?’
‘Mum, I—’ Her lips unzipped. ‘I did it for a reason. I did it to raise awareness.’
Martha closed her eyes. ‘Sinead, Trish – Mrs Walsh – has the police involved. This is serious. Why wouldn’t you just tell a teacher about it? Or me? Why would you make a big public campaign instead?’
Sinead watched her mother, pupils dilated, her jaw still worrying at her cheek. ‘Does Dad know?’
‘Of course,’ said Martha. ‘He found the printouts.’
Now it was Sinead’s turn to squeeze her eyes shut. ‘Are you going to call the police?’
‘On you? No. Of course not. The school might have something to say, and we should probably tell Mrs Walsh, but you haven’t broken the law. Sticking up posters isn’t a crime – even if it was an incredibly stupid thing to do.’ At least Martha didn’t think it was a crime. It could possibly be considered littering. But was that actually a crime? Or obstructing an investigation, if an investigation into the list was already under way? But Martha doubted a little postering was going to interest the boys in blue.
Sinead took her hands out from under the table and reached for her phone. She opened the gallery and lifted it up to her mother. It was the photo from the printout.
‘Yes, I know.’
Sinead flicked her finger across the screen so it shifted between the two identical images of the list written on the bathroom door.
‘I saw them last night, Sinead, and I can see it right now.’ She tapped the blown-up image lying on the table. ‘I really don’t need to be reminded.’
‘No, Mum. Look.’
Something in the tininess of her daughter’s voice made Martha’s body tense. She looked at her daughter, the worry undeniable. She grabbed the phone from Sinead and flicked between the two images. At first, she could see nothing different from the photo lying on the table in front of her.
‘What am I looking at? It’s just—’
And then she clocked it.
She paused on the second photo, then flicked back. She flicked forward again. They were not the same. The first image was of the same list, but it was not complete. The last name – Sinead’s name – had still to be added. The second image, and the one on the table, was the finished job.
‘No.’ She looked up from the phone to her daughter, who recoiled under her gaze. Martha’s body strained with tension. ‘Is this . . .? Did you write this, Sinead?’
Sinead opened her mouth to speak, then shut it. And resignedly, so faintly that her neck barely moved, she nodded her head.
TWENTY-FIVE
‘Mam! Stop! What do you think you’re doing?’
‘I’m putting a stop to this mad man’s reign of terror,’ said Carmel, wrestling the shears back off Robin, who was coming up their garden path just as her mother was exiting it. ‘This road has gone loopers. Rats, dogs, stolen tyres. It’s time for some sanity!’ Carmel chopped the air with the giant scissors and pulled the garden gate open.
Three Little Truths Page 19
