by Jackie Walsh
‘Jesus, Conor. What are you doing with this?’
Shay cries his way back into my attention. I quickly shove the photo in my pocket, replace the book and push the buggy back into the kitchen.
‘Don’t jump to conclusions, Laura,’ I tell myself, holding Shay who sucks on the bottle. Shay looks content now, arms hanging by his side, every piece of attention dedicated to getting the formula into his belly. There are no worries in Shay’s head, no paranoia and fear distracting him. God, I wish I could be like that. Unable to worry, unable to imagine things, things that are so far-fetched. I think I might be losing my mind. Could Conor be involved in this murder? Or is there a simple explanation for that photo being here? Shay looks up at me, lips still wrapped around the bottle. He’s staring, like he’s sussing me out.
‘Hey little boy, I’m your mama.’ A lunatic maybe, but definitely your mama.
Through the window, I see a mesh of clouds hanging above the town. The game will be well underway by now.
I turn on the television but the photo of Vicky Murphy still crowds my mind. I wonder when it was taken? How long was left of her doomed life? What the hell was Conor doing with it? Did he have some sort of dealings with her? Something to do with the brewery? If so why didn’t he mention it when she was killed. Unless he can’t tell me. Is he hiding something? The big shot. Was he having an affair with Vicky? No. Don’t go there Laura. He’s never given you any reason to suspect that.
It doesn’t look good. I bet if I told Detective Fintan Ryan about the card and this photo, he’d begin to look at Conor as a suspect. But he was here with me. Sleeping in the bed beside me. How could I forget? My waters broke at six the following morning. Conor jumped out of the bed in a panic, grabbing keys and bags and phones and almost forgetting me. We laughed. It was the last laugh I had that day.
I spend the next few hours switching through the channels convincing myself nothing is going on then convincing myself something is going on. Conor is hiding something from me. But he doesn’t even lock his phone. So why has he a photo of Vicky Murphy hidden in a book.? I consider calling Amanda to tell her what I’ve found. But I’m afraid she will tell me to wait, not alert Conor to my discovery until I find out some more. And I don’t want to do that. I want to confront him today as soon as he comes in the door. Whatever happened, I want to know about it.
Outside the window, Pat walks past the house. His head is bent as always, his step slow. He wears a cap no matter what the weather. His feet are shuffling along in heavy boots, a brown suit jacket over a hairy jumper and worn baggy jeans. He has a face full of worry, even though he can’t have much to worry about. No family to provide for, no mortgage to meet. No one to tell him what he should or should not be doing.
I watch him disappear down the side of the house, probably on his way to Hedigan’s Pub. It’s the only time he leaves the land, except for Sunday Mass when he has his weekly wash. He has a different set of clothes for that occasion: suit, shirt and tie. His shoes are always polished to a high shine and he holds his head a little higher as he strolls through the village. When Mass is over, he visits Seamus’s grave. Then on to Hedigan’s for two pints before lunch. By two in the afternoon, he’s back in his regular clothes.
‘Shay,’ I say in a soft tone, holding the bottle so he can see it’s on its way. ‘Look what Mammy has.’ Putting the bottle under my arm, I lift him out of the crib and take him to the sofa. I notice it’s getting darker, so I check the time by pressing the TV remote which is lying on the sofa beside me. Six thirty p.m. Where is Conor? The game would have ended over two or three hours ago.
Within the space of five minutes my question is answered by the clicking of the front door lock. Straightening my body in the chair, I brace myself for what I have to do.
The smell of beer arrives in the kitchen before he does.
‘Hope you don’t mind. I went into the clubhouse just for the one but the lads all bought me a drink to congratulate me.’ He’s looking down at the little bundle.
‘No, I don’t mind, I’m glad, did you enjoy yourself?’
Conor walks over and opens the fridge door.
‘Yes, it was a good crack. Are we ordering a takeaway?’ he says, grabbing a slice of cheese and shoving it in his mouth. I wish I was hungry, but my stomach is twisted with stress. I still have the photo in my back pocket.
‘If you want.’
There is never any disagreement about what takeaway to order because there’s no choice. The only place that delivers is the Chinese takeaway beside Hedigan’s Pub. There is a fish and chip shop further down near Georgina’s place but they don’t deliver.
‘Can we wait for a while? I’m not that hungry yet.’
‘Sure, but not too long, I’m starving.’
Shay is back in the crib, fed and changed. Conor is following the soccer results on the TV. I’m building up courage.
Maybe I should wait until he’s sober – cornering him when he’s not in his full capacity might be a bit unfair. Not to mention that it might influence his reaction. Or maybe it’s the right time. The bolt on his box of secrets will be loose.
‘Conor.’
‘Yes.’
He’s not watching me. His eyes are still firmly focused on the results coming up on the screen. My hand is on the photo in my pocket. Take it out, Laura. Vicky Murphy is now on view.
‘Why do you have a picture of Vicky Murphy, Conor?’
‘What?’ He takes one last glance at the screen before looking at me. ‘What?’
I’m standing right in front of him now, holding my discovery up to his face.
‘This photograph, what are you doing with it in our house?’ Our house; it’s the first time I’ve called it that. It feels weird but also empowering.
‘Where did you get that?’ he says, standing and taking it out of my hand. I watch him closely as he stares at the photo, a look of sadness on his face. ‘God, I feel so guilty now.’
My heart is in my mouth. Why does he feel guilty?
‘What?’
‘Yes, she gave it to me a few months ago, I was supposed to give it to this guy I knew in Dublin.’
‘What are you talking about, Conor?’
‘Vicky, she was looking to do some freelance work for a guy she knew I knew. She gave it to me to pass it on but I didn’t. I was a bit fed up at the time with people asking me to do them favours. The whole town thinks I’ve a magic wand.’
Conor shakes his head as he looks at the photo before handing it back to me. He sits down on the sofa and lifts the remote.
‘But… why was it hidden in a book?’
‘Was it?’ he says, jumping in the seat when a football result appears on the TV screen. Conor punches the air. ‘Go on ya good thing.’
‘Yes Conor, it was hidden in a book.’
‘Well I guess I must have put it there out of the way… Was there a CV with it? It was attached to a CV I think. Laura, I’m going to have to order soon, I’m starving.’
Not knowing what to think, I turn my back to Conor and walk to the kitchen presses. Conor is not at all bothered that I found the photo. He didn’t flinch at all. He has a perfectly reasonable explanation as to what it was doing in the book. So why am I doubting him? Pulling open the drawer, I shove Vicky Murphy’s photo inside and take out the menu.
Chapter Fifteen
‘What kind of work was Vicky looking for?’
The grease from the spring roll drips down my chin, so I pull a serviette from the bunch in the bag and wipe it. Conor lifts his head from the plate. He doesn’t normally shovel food in at that rate. He really must have been starving.
‘Journalism,’ he mumbles through his overflowing mouth before lowering his head to the plate again.
‘I didn’t know she was a journalist.’
Hurrying his swallow, he takes a slug of water from the glass by his side then looks at me. ‘Yeah, she was in college up in Dublin.’
‘Really… and did she commute?’
‘No, as far as I know she stayed in Dublin during the week.’ Conor puts his fork down and looks me straight in the eye. ‘Laura, I don’t know much about her, she just gave me that photo in the bar one night and asked if I could put a word in for her with a guy I know from the Herald.’
I get the feeling he doesn’t want to talk about Vicky anymore. I don’t blame him. She asked him to do something, he didn’t do it and now she’s dead. I’d better change the subject.
‘Would you like to sleep in a spare room tonight Conor, so Shay won’t disturb you? I’ll do the feed.’
Conor stretches his back out and yawns.
‘I don’t think he has much chance of disturbing me tonight, not with all that food in me on top of the pints.’
Smiling, I reach over and grab one of his chips. I never order them, just rob his.
‘Hey, I thought you said you weren’t hungry,’ he says.
* * *
I was wrong when I said Conor didn’t snore after a few pints. He’s like a lion choking on the carcass of his prey in the bed beside me. Shay doesn’t seem to mind. There isn’t a murmur from his corner of the room but I’m completely awake, staring at the sky. Twisting and turning, I eventually accept I’m not getting any sleep tonight. The next time Conor drinks too much he can sleep elsewhere.
My toes wriggle into the comfort of the plush white carpet when I get out of the bed. Over at the crib, I check Shay is okay before leaving the room.
On the landing, silence surrounds me. I make my way down the sweeping staircase and walk into the kitchen. There is an extra hum in the air now, buzzing from the fridge, the dishwasher, the bottle cooler. But it’s still eerie and empty.
Sometimes I miss the noise of the city keeping me company at night. Those long nights, sitting by the window, staring out at the world ticking by, wondering would I ever sleep again. There were times when I never went to bed at all. I sat and stared, waiting for the sun to rise. Waiting for the streets to fill with bustling commuters, noise, smells. Life. Here we go again.
A noise from out back disturbs me, sending my nerves into overdrive. Footsteps. I can hear someone walking slowly outside the window. Creeping over, I peep out the window and see the unmistakable shape of Pat shuffling below the moonlight. He disappears into the trees. It’s four fifteen a.m. according to the oven clock. He really is a weirdo. What is he doing out at this hour? Maybe he got a lock-in at Hedigan’s, but that’s unlikely, with Vicky’s funeral tomorrow. I expect they would have closed on time tonight. They’ll be extra busy tomorrow. At first, I wasn’t planning on attending the funeral but when Amanda heard about it, she said I had to go. I had to find out what I could about Vicky and mingle with the rumours. She even offered to come here and sit with Shay for me. I wasn’t buying into it until she mentioned the fact that my absence could be frowned upon by the locals. So, I agreed to go to the church part of the service only. I don’t want to leave Shay any longer.
Conor once told me Pat doesn’t have a body clock. He sleeps and wakes whenever he does. Conor often found him doing chores in the middle of the night. I can’t say it to Conor but I wish he wasn’t living in the forest at the end of our garden. Knowing he could arrive at the door or look in the window at any time is unsettling. It takes away from our privacy. Maybe Conor could get rid of him, set him up in one of those little apartments above the shops. He could say it was for his own good, that he’d be closer to everything as he got older, including the pub.
‘Laura, are you there?’ Conor’s voice echoes down the stairs. Rushing to the hallway, I look up and see his sleepy head hanging over the bannisters.
‘What are you doing up?’ he says. ‘Shay is awake.’
I rush up the stairs. ‘I couldn’t sleep so I got up. Has he been crying long?’
‘Don’t think so.” Conor’s head is hovering over the crib, his hand gently resting on Shay’s belly. ‘Mammy’s coming, baby, we’ll feed you now,’ he whispers, through the smell of stale beer and curry.
Holding Shay in my arms, his manic sucking breaking the silence, I watch Conor fall back asleep. There is no sign of the choking lion this time. It’s strange, I’ve only just discovered he snores. I hope I’m not in for any more surprises.
Chapter Sixteen
‘I know… I have it.’ Amanda is holding Shay in her arms, rocking him from side to side, trying to stop him screaming. I’ve written everything down for her. When to feed him, when to change him, to check on him every ten minutes while he sleeps. I’ve shown her where all his clothes are, just in case, and left a basket of toys – which he has no interest in yet – beside the crib.
‘You’re only going to be gone for two hours, Laura. I’ll be fine. Shay will be fine,’ she says, picking something from the shoulder of my black dress. Amanda stills for a moment, looks into my eyes before turning her gaze away. It’s as if she’s about to comment on how the dress looks on me but stops herself. Does she feel it too? Is she remembering the last time I wore this dress?
‘Do you think he knows we’re leaving him?’ I say, rubbing my finger across his forehead.
Conor laughs. ‘Yes, Laura, he knows we’re leaving him.’
Amanda joins in the laughter, continuing to rock Shay, more dramatically now, sweeping him up in the air and back down again. I don’t want her to do that but if I say something she might get offended. She does it again.
‘He’ll throw up on you, Amanda.’
‘Ugh.’ Amanda stops rocking and sits on the sofa. Shay is beginning to quieten but I really am nervous leaving him with neither Conor nor myself here. Maggie said she’d skip the funeral to mind Shay when she heard I was going but I had already arranged for Amanda to mind Shay. Maggie wasn’t too impressed, said it was very early to leave him with a sitter.
‘I’m his grandmother, there’s a difference,’ she said.
‘And Amanda is his aunty.’ That was the end of it. I’m so glad it was Conor who answered that call.
The truth is, I don’t have to go. I barely knew Vicky. Skipping her funeral would have been my choice. I’m sorry I let Amanda convince me to go because now I’m walking out of my house and leaving my baby behind. If I could I’d run back in, I would, but they’ll all think I’m going mad.
Deep breaths, count; that’s what I learned during those first months, afterwards, when the fear and anxiety was at its worst. Deep breaths. It didn’t help then and it’s not helping now. Noticing my discomfort, Conor turns to look at me. Putting his hand on my leg and squeezing it, he says, ‘We have to do it sometime, Laura, at least we’re not going to be far away.’
I smile at him. ‘I know, I’ll be fine, sorry for being such a wuss.’
‘You’re just being a mammy.’ He turns the engine on, and the car crunches down the gravelled driveway. My head is tilted, looking back, eyes on the house. Amanda is standing in the doorway holding Shay’s tiny hand up, mimicking a wave. Tears are gathering in my eyes, so I take a tissue and dab the corners, careful not to smudge my mascara.
I had to go through the whole ordeal this morning; prepping, putting on my best exterior. The whole town will be here and I’m the new wife of their hero. All eyes will be on me. I know it. All eyes, including those of the person who sent that card through my letterbox.
When we arrive at the village, the traffic is at a standstill. People have come from everywhere. Vicky Murphy has served a lot of pints and it looks like all the recipients have come to say goodbye.
‘I haven’t seen the village this busy since the senior footballers were in a play-off for the championship final. I think we’re just going to have to ditch the car here and walk.’ Conor pulls over to the right and stops the car.
‘Are you leaving it here?’
‘No choice.’
Looking down at my shiny Louboutins, one of the many surprises Conor showered me with during my pregnancy, I realise I did not come prepared for this. The church aisle was the only exercise I thought I’d be getting today. Now I have
to take these heels down the broken paths and cobblestone steps of Ballycall village. I hope I’m not too overdressed. Flashing my expensive clothes may not be the best way to start friendships. But I am the wife of the town hero. It’s expected of me. Even though I feel like a fake.
Opening the car door, I step out, pleading with God to hold out on any punishment he thinks I deserve.
The street is full of dark suits matching the grey October day. I walk with as much confidence as I can feign amongst the crowd of mourners quietly chatting as they head up the steep incline of the church grounds. In front of me, an old man links arms with a younger man. Conor is like the mayor, nodding and shaking hands. There are embraces, handshakes, kisses being dished out all over the place.
On the far side of the church grounds, Olive stands. A few dark jackets to her left, Georgina is holding court in a bright yellow coat.
Olive has caught my eye but before I have a chance to wave, she quickly looks away without acknowledging me. Another time that might ring alarm bells, but Olive was a friend of Vicky’s. She must be heartbroken to be standing here in the cold air, waiting on Vicky’s coffin to arrive.
Noel and Abbie arrive behind us, Abbie in a long blue pleated skirt and a light grey coat which looks a million dollars on her. It probably was a million dollars. Apparently, Abbie is loaded, heiress to a small fortune. Noel was lucky to get her to move down to this small village when she was used to living amongst the rich and famous in the wealthiest and most respected part of Dublin. She must really love him.
‘So sad,’ Abbie says, pushing herself closer to me. I nod. I feel sad but I only met the girl once or twice, so I’m not filled with the same grief that most people here are struggling with. I’m a bit nervous, though. Nervous at the thought that someone watching me, someone who will talk in a friendly voice to me during the next couple of hours, is the same person who put that card through my letterbox.
