by Eoghan Egan
A cut to a live camera feed. For a heartbeat, he didn’t recognise the road leading to his house entrance.
Madeline’s jeep.
A scoop of trench-coated reporters, intent on committing acts of journalism, waited at the automatic gates.
Drive through them, you stupid bitch. Mow them down.
The gates inched open; reporters and camera crews swarmed around. A scribbler opened the driver’s door. ‘Can you comment on the revelations concerning your husband?’ Flashguns hosed Madeline’s face. Her frozen expression resembled a rabbit caught in headlights. A recorder got shoved under her nose and snappers focused camera lens.
‘How’ll you cope, now he’s charged with murder?’ A woman pushed forward, persistent in her pursuit of a quote. ‘Can you enlighten our readers—?’
Other voices chimed in:
‘Were you shocked?’
‘Have you any words for the victim’s families?’
‘Did you attend Miss McGuire’s funeral?’
‘Have you spoken to Charlie McGuire? What did you—?’
Adam Styne strained to make out the obscured shape on the passenger side.
‘Will you visit your husband? What’ll you say?’
‘Did you have any suspicions?’
‘Is it true you’re planning to take over the Hattinger business?’
‘You’re trespassing on private property.’ Madeline forced the jeep door closed. The gates were taking forever to open.
Run my business? She couldn’t run a … And no declaration of innocence. No ‘Adam is innocent’. She’ll return to Paris and bury her head. Should’ve set up an alibi and had her killed there years ago. Soon as I get away from these chumps, I’ll do it. But first, Fallon and the Waters woman. I bet Madeline will attempt to sell the farm. Let her try. The locals will think they’re in for a land grab. No chance there either. Let them believe the town hero has become a lunatic.
Ideas swarmed through Styne’s mind; lines of legal argument already forming.
The jeep nudged by the hollering horde, and a reporter grabbed the passenger door handle. A camera zoomed in.
Styne frowned.
Why’s that northern battle-axe in my jeep? Going into my house?
‘Mrs Ridgeway, will Hattinger’s still be in charge of your auction? Do you have a date set?’ The journalist thrust a microphone under Dorothy’s nose.
Dorothy kept her eyes on the windscreen, hands joined in her lap. The jeep disappeared up the winding driveway.
Adam Styne gaped at the television screen.
I bet that cow is putting ideas into Madeline’s head. I have to stop those bitches ruining my business. Maybe the barrister is right. We’ll delay and defer, squeeze out a trade. If that doesn’t work, I’ll plead insanity; declare myself unstable, unfit to stand trial, too mad to assist in my own defence. It’ll be up to psychiatrists to decide a suitable rehabilitation. I’ll help them reach the correct decision. Easy to fool them: plead to a multiple personality disorder. Psychiatrists love that shit. Worst-case scenario? Three to five years. I’ll win. Then there’ll be retribution. Revenge and retribution. They’ll all learn I can do anything to anyone, anywhere, anytime. And good luck trying to accumulate and piece together the evidence I’ve scattered across ten counties.
He thought about how far he’d come, from where he’d started, and vowed this glitch wouldn’t see everything he’d worked for go up in smoke.
In three years, I’ll buy Hattinger’s outright.
‘You shouldn’t be watching that.’ A nurse rushed in and turned off the television.
He ripped Madeline’s letter into strips and tore the pieces into shreds. More ideas stacked up in his brain. He stored a few, rejected others and remembered he’d used the iPhone to find Sharona Waters’ address.
Premeditated abduction. Something else to consider and find an explanation for.
Evening
Ferdia found a space in Brown Thomas’s multi-storey car park.
His third trip to Dublin city centre in as many days. He pulled on a wool hat and strolled into Grafton Street. A saxophone honk echoed from an alleyway. Two women studied their reflections in the Marks and Spencer winter window, and applied mascara. Piles of frozen slush, heaped against walls, were melting. Ferdia sauntered through the Hibernian Way arch, eyes scanning as he dodged and ducked, camouflaged by crowds of shoppers.
No Tiny.
He hung a right onto Dawson Street.
On the corner of Stephen’s Green, a Chinese busker sat on the steps of the old Anglo-Irish Bank premises, and played ‘In the Hall of the Mountain King’ on a homemade washtub one-string bass. Ferdia kept going, hunched and ponderous, looking at nothing, seeing everything. There was little to see, except pedestrians coming and going. He crossed the street, dawdled beside a Range Rover that took up two disabled driver parking spaces, and didn’t have a permit displayed. He searched through pockets, forgetting he hadn’t smoked since Wednesday night.
Now what.
He considered options, wondered if Dolan had scouts nearby. Spotters. He jammed the mobile to his ear, pretended to take a call. Should’ve squeezed Tommy Mellon for more information, he thought. Telling him to warn Dolan away from McGuire’s was stupid. The message needed to be stronger. Personal. And taken seriously. Malcolm didn’t need a vulture like Dolan adding to his woes. If Dolan approached McGuire’s again, he’d retaliate. He walked along the Stephen’s Green railings, to the Shelbourne Hotel and back again. Still nothing. He meandered to Stephen’s Green Centre, turned down Grafton Street and pressed Niamh’s speed dial number.
‘Glad you called,’ she said. ‘I was wondering how you are?’
‘Rough day.’
‘Can’t begin to imagine.’
‘Yeah. And before you ask, no cigarettes, although my hands have searched pockets a hundred times. Once today’s over, I reckon I’ve broken the habit.’
‘And David?’
‘Mentioned you before Mass.’
‘Aww. Poor boy. My heart’s breaking for him. You stopping by?’
‘Aye. I’ve to see a few people first.’
‘I’ll cook dinner.’
‘Keep feeding me, and I’ll be like the stray cat you can’t get rid of.’
‘Hah. If you want, stay over, I’ll take you to Saint Vincent’s on Monday.’
‘Thanks, but Hugh’s volunteered. Hugh Fallon. He wants to meet up next time you’re in Ganestown. I’ll collect David tomorrow from Chas and drop him off at school Monday morning. No point having you drive to Ganestown, then turn around and go back again.’
‘I’ve taken a few days off,’ Niamh said, ‘so I’ll go to Ganestown Monday afternoon, and have a fire lit and the house warm when you get home. Maybe I’ll meet Hugh then.’
‘Grand. Mightn’t be the best company after doc spends the day poking and prodding me.’
‘Doesn’t matter. I’ll talk to the dog. Say hello to David for me.’
‘Will do.’
‘Keep next weekend free, Ferdia. I’ve booked us—’
‘Aww, you shouldn’t have.’
‘It’s your birthday.’
‘I know, but still. Where are we going?’
‘It’s a surprise. See you later.’
Plan B, Ferdia decided, thoughts gathering pace with his quickening steps. Have a gander around Whispers nightclub. At some stage, Dolan will appear, and I’ll warn him off, personally. I’ll get Hugh to do a reconnaissance mission on Tiny. Another lead, back to Dolan. Hugh’ll blend better, be less noticeable. ‘Guerrilla tactics,’ Ferdia muttered. ‘I stand out too much to blend in. Attack and retreat. Between us, we’ll feckin’ smoke him out.’
Night
Hugh reduced the oven temperature.
He didn’t want to burn their first meal together. Then he changed his mind and turned the heat up again. Worse if he undercooked it.
The doorbell rang.
Ruth’s nose peeped out from beneath a cream Park
a jacket with a faux fur-trimmed hood.
‘Welcome,’ Hugh said.
Ruth melted into his arms. Wine bottles clinked. ‘Food smells delicious.’
‘So do you.’ Hugh twisted his head. ‘Hear that?’
‘What.’
‘The ice. It’s cracking. The Arctic spell’s over.’
Arm-in-arm they went inside, leaving nature to itself. What had been solid ice for the last month, was now trickles of water. The thaw had finally begun.
Acknowledgements
This novel got written in three phases, and I’ve been fortunate to receive help from 1st draft to the final edit.
During these stages, I amassed dozens of rejections, (deep despair) got expressions of interest, (high hopes), and had meetings with agents, publishers and editors that provided opportunities to learn about this industry.
Opening drafts stage.
Many thanks to Harry McGee, Deirdre O’Neill, Aoife and Roisin Killeen, Nora, Peter McCauley and Jack Keaton. Your suggestions and encouragement got me through these rough outlines and helped me find my writing voice.
The messy middle.
An acknowledgement to The Irish Writers’ Centre, for hosting the many courses I availed of and learned from, and the teachers and students who provided feedback. Likewise, the comments from beta readers John Joe Healy and the Athlone Book Club members were hugely beneficial.
To Dermot, Ed, Claire, Carol, Cormac, Sharon. Liz, Alan, Jody, Sue, Emer and Denise—the class at Maynooth University. Learning from talented writers inspired me; your weekly critiques were spot- on. It was a privilege to have John McKenna and Shauna Gilligan as tutors. Thank you both for allowing us the scope to be creative and giving me the faith and confidence to pursue my literary dreams. Sincere appreciation to Shauna and Dermot (O’Sullivan) whose comments on the full manuscript, proved invaluable.
Another well-deserved shout-out goes to a fellow writer, Martin Keating, who critiqued my manuscript.
I was also honoured to be part of the inaugural Curtis Brown Edit and Pitch Your Novel Course. A fantastic learning experience with gifted writers. Sincere thanks to Allie, Jane, Debbie, Joe, Liz, Lorraine, Rosemary, Diana, Eleanor, Shauna, Anthony, Chris, Richard, Catherine, Clare, Pip, Myra, Sue, Paul, Jeanette, Lenaye, Caroline, Jacqueline, Faye and Catherine for comments and advice. Your weekly critiques made these messy middle drafts much stronger, and the journey was made all the brighter by meeting you. Grateful appreciation to Anne Davis and her elite team at Curtis Brown Creative for their wise counsel throughout this course.
Thanks to editor and literary agent Brian Langan. His editorial comments were insightful and he proposed other ways to build on what I’d accomplished. Editor extraordinaire Richard Bradburn undertook the final proofread and his eagle eyes made an enormous difference. Also, grateful appreciation to designer Nick Castle, who, with the briefest of briefs, transformed my vision into a brilliant book cover.
Artist Sean Molloy provided an overall view of his art world and the various materials that artists use. Gallerist Ian Whyte took time to discuss fakes, frauds and forgeries, then listened to my art plotlines and offered excellent alternative propositions.
Final edits.
Niamh and Honoria from business support services, Araya, worked on social media along with Mark from Plunkett PR. Emily Rainsford came late to the party, but her eagle eyes made a huge impact on the final draft. Having her narrate the audio version of this book has been a huge bonus. Constrained by tight financial budgets, it was always going to be a challenge to achieve what I wanted, but this fearsome foursome truly excelled. The novel is as much their work as mine.
Special thanks to Ciara McGarry who dragged me kicking and screaming onto the Social Media platform and journalist Jenny McEntegart who pushed me into the deep end. The extraordinary multi-talented Joe Glennon built my website – the hub, the meeting place – for authors, bloggers podcasters and online support teams that have become ambassadors, spreading the word on my behalf. I’m genuinely humbled. Someday, I’ll meet you all and thank you individually.
Caroline, Sinéad, Kevin, Gary, Emma and Mary gave me the support, time and space to write. Sinéad read through several drafts, made valid suggestions and recommended even more ways to kill people and hide bodies!
Without author Mia Gallagher, this novel would never have got written. I think of Mia as a docking station, a place to refuel and recharge whenever replenishment is required. You challenged and encouraged, Mia, made me dig deep. Your faith never faltered, even when I didn’t believe in myself. I hope this final version of HIPS fulfils your expectations. No thanks can express my heartfelt gratitude for your mentoring skills and enduring patience.
Readers. Thank you for reading. It means everything to know you’ve spent precious time with my characters. You play the primary role in making this writing journey worthwhile.
Finally, to the memory of my parents, Sally and Eugene, who taught me how to read and write, and to my teacher, Brian Mullooly, who showed me why.
