Guilty

by Siobhan MacDonald

  It was clear to Luke that Sebastian had chosen Nina to get close to Alison. To use that access to highlight his aversion to bloodsports. Guys like Sebastian needed a cause to define them. They were nothing without a cause. Of course, there was always the possibility that it had been a team effort. That Sebastian had been his mother’s willing pawn.

  ‘You want to talk about issues, Doctor Forde?’ Sebastian grinned. ‘Well, maybe you should look a little closer to home.’ He craned his neck to blow a smoke ring. ‘I don’t think your little girl digs her parents or her home life. And she sure has issues with that bitch mother of hers. You know what? It wouldn’t surprise me if Nina had sent this—’

  ‘You little prick!’ Luke took a step towards him.

  ‘Stop!’ Lucy stepped between Luke and her son.

  ‘You’re really pathetic, you know that?’ Luke called out over her shoulder, ‘That crap you wrote on our boathouse – fucking childish.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re on, man, but I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’

  Luke suddenly felt strange. He knew what was happening to him. He recognised the symptoms. He started to perspire, his heart began to race, and his mouth went dry. He was finding it hard to focus. He sucked in a lungful of air, waited for the rush to subside, and tried to crush the growing swell of anxiety. Terence had helped him to cope with such episodes. What the hell was he thinking anyhow? Squaring off to this stoner in his ramshackle dwelling on the side of the road?

  ‘I think I can settle this,’ said Lucy.

  ‘Yeah?’ said Luke, taking a step away.

  ‘How and when did you get this … this thing?’ Lucy jabbed a finger towards the casket.

  ‘I received a note during the week to collect it at the parcel depot in the city. I collected it earlier on today. Why?’

  ‘OK. So that means whoever posted it, must have posted it earlier on this week.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Well then, there’s your answer,’ Lucy said. ‘It couldn’t have been Sebastian. He only got home last night.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Sebastian’s been in prison these past two months. No need to pretend you didn’t know.’

  Prison?

  It was the first Luke had heard of this.

  Mafia

  The inside of the mobile home was surprisingly comfortable. Tidy even. Luke didn’t know what he’d been expecting but the organised space was not unlike Alison’s constituency office. A mound of neatly stacked papers sat on the table next to an open laptop. A reel of postage stamps sat on top of a pile of envelopes next to a pot of recently brewed coffee. The open space smelled of warm bread. Underwear dried on an electric radiator. He felt himself redden as Lucy caught him looking.

  ‘Want some?’ She pointed to the coffee pot. ‘I expect it’s still hot.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He’d seen no way of figuring out what had happened other than accepting the offer to enter her mobile home.

  ‘Milk?’

  ‘Please.’

  She poured from a china jug. ‘You accept my son couldn’t have done this?’ She handed him the mug. ‘And you’re not going to make any more trouble for us?’

  ‘Lucy, all I want to do is put an end to whatever this is. I have no interest in making trouble for anyone. I have a busy job. Your son being in prison, that’s nothing to do with me.’

  ‘Doctor Forde, please don’t take me for a fool.’

  ‘It’s Luke, please. And what do you mean by that?’

  ‘All right then, Luke. Pretending you don’t know – at the very least that’s insulting.’

  Seeing his confusion, she explained, ‘OK, then. Maybe it’s nothing to do with you directly. But there’s your wife.’

  The coffee scalded the back of his throat.

  ‘Your wife had Sebastian put away on a drugs conviction. Look around you … does it look like we’re growing on an industrial scale? Does it? Well, what do you think?’

  She pointed to a tiny corrugated outhouse at the rear of the mobile home. It was hidden from view of the main road. Luke spotted a white cable running from Sebastian’s caravan into the shed through a gap under the corrugated roof.

  ‘Someone neither of us ever heard of gave a statement to Joe Hegarty in the town,’ said Lucy. ‘Joseph Hegarty, the policeman.’

  Luke said nothing.

  ‘A statement intended to show intent of sale and supply,’ Lucy continued. ‘I don’t use myself. Doesn’t agree with me. And Sebastian has never sold anyone drugs in his life.

  Luke’s mind was stuck back on that name, Joseph Hegarty. He’d heard the name before. He couldn’t swear but he was pretty sure that Joseph was a brother of Sly Hegarty, the foreman of the scrapyard at Crow Hall.

  ‘Do you know how many MS sufferers live around the lough?’

  Luke shook his head. He rarely engaged in local gossip.

  ‘Sebastian has supplied cannabis to MS sufferers from time to time, but I assure you that no money ever changed hands. That’s not what we’re about.’ Lucy once again looked aggrieved. ‘You can tell your wife, Sebastian won’t be anywhere near your precious daughter again. Neither of you need to worry about that.’ She was showing signs of mounting anger. ‘You know, I’d heard rumours about the Crow Hall mafia out here at the lough. And stupid me, I laughed it off. Don’t be ridiculous, I told myself. Well, I can tell you something now, I won’t laugh again.’

  Luke pulled his collar closer round his neck. The Crow Hall mafia. An expression he’d once scoffed at too.

  ‘A bit heavy-handed, don’t you think?’ Lucy looked at him coolly now, her anger passing. ‘A quiet word would have done it. But no. Your wife wanted her pound of flesh. Seven weeks in that place, Sebastian got. And a criminal record to boot. A somewhat unbalanced response. Disproportionate, I’d say.’

  To have a charge of ‘unbalanced’ levelled at anyone from the mother of Sebastian Considine was quite something. If the arrogant prick got more than he’d bargained for, he might consider his actions a little more. It would cool his jets.

  Lucy continued. ‘I’ve no idea who’s responsible for that exhibit out there in your car,’ she said. ‘I’d say there’s no end to the list of enemies the Thompsons could have. I’m sure you won’t have to look too far to find your perpetrator. But don’t go bringing this to our door. This has nothing to do with me or Sebastian.’

  Luke felt he was taking up a lot of room in the confined space. He felt as if the walls of the caravan were starting to close in. Outside, the rain was drumming fiercely on the roof and his head began to throb.

  ‘Thanks for the coffee.’ He stood to leave.

  ‘Don’t worry, Doctor Forde. Sebastian won’t go anywhere near your daughter again.’ Lucy held open the rusting door.

  Luke stepped out onto the squelching mud.

  ‘Just one more thing,’ said Lucy. ‘You can tell your wife and her friends that I won’t be dropping my objections to the wind turbines. After what she’s done, I’m more determined than ever to stop it. Mafia or no mafia, I will stand up to this.’

  Back in the car, Luke felt dejected. The adrenaline that had fuelled his journey to this side of the lough was spent. He’d been falsely buoyed, thinking himself about to solve the happenings of the last couple of weeks. He was furious with Alison. Why had she suggested it was Sebastian who was behind the stunt with the casket and the death notice in the paper? She would have known that Sebastian was in prison. And it was most unlikely he’d orchestrated all of this from prison. He punched the touchscreen for Alison’s number.

  ‘Luke,’ she answered promptly.

  ‘What are you playing at, Alison?’

  ‘What’s the matter? I don’t understand …’

  ‘Like hell you don’t. You just allowed me to tear off half-cocked to the Considines’ place and bawl them out for this sick stunt, when you knew all along that it wasn’t true because you had that stoner, Sebastian, thrown in jail on some drugs
charge. He got out last night.’

  ‘Well, I’m not quite sure how I was supposed to know—’

  ‘Stop. Stop this bullshit now. I confronted them and accused them of sending the coffin and the doll thing. As you can guess, Lucy Considine didn’t take that too well. So, if you hoped to warn them off, your little plan backfired. Lucy Considine is more determined than ever to object to the extension of the wind turbines. And I don’t imagine your furry friend, Gilligan, will be too pleased with that.’

  Luke hung up. The hammering in his head grew louder. He was more confused than ever. The explanations he’d been looking for had been whipped away. Someone was toying with him. Someone was playing this game with him. If it wasn’t the Considines, who was it?

  Home Alone

  Luke arrived back from his altercation with the Considines all fired up. He had work to do. Where had he left the lump hammer? He knew he had it recently. Perhaps it was in the toolbox with the accessories for the cruiser. He headed for the boathouse.

  Opening the door at the end of the glass corridor, he was alarmed to see that there were now only three steps free of water. The others were submerged. Driving around the countryside earlier, he’d tuned in to local radio. Reports told that upriver, they were opening weirs to alleviate the flooding. The farmers around Lough Carberry had taken to the airwaves. They were incensed. They argued that the floodwaters were being pushed downstream towards them. Luke reckoned they were right.

  In the boathouse, he located the toolbox but couldn’t find the hammer. He racked his brains trying to think when he had last used it. Heaving the toolbox back onto its shelf, he headed back to the house. Opening the door to the kitchen, he had a brainwave. It was coming back to him now.

  His footsteps were brisk in the marble hallway as he headed for the basement. Fumbling with his keys, he unlocked the door and headed down. There it was … poking out from underneath the tattered cardboard box of videotapes he was in the middle of destroying. He’d get back to that at a later stage. For now, all he wanted was to destroy that casket in the car.

  He knew the casket was evidence, he knew he should keep it, he knew he should probably share it with the police. But he also knew he wasn’t going to do any of that. Lump hammer in hand, he went back up the basement stairs, and headed out the front door to where the car was parked. He opened the dog-run to let Duffy out first.

  The casket was surprisingly difficult to smash. Every time the hammer came down, splinters went flying. The dog threw back his hairy head and barked thinking it all a game. Worry tunnelled holes in Luke. This was a game for which he was ill-equipped, knowing neither the rules of engagement, nor his opponents. As soon as he finished, he disposed of the splintered box in the household wheelie bin and went inside. The dog followed.

  Luke opened a cupboard looking for dog food. ‘You know what, Duffy? I sent Nina off, thinking things would settle down. It’s beginning to look like I was wrong.’ The dog wagged his tail at the mention of Nina’s name. The animal was far more concerned, however, with the tin of food that Luke was opening. He set Duffy’s bowl down in the garden room and, returning to the kitchen, he opened a tin of soup for himself, not bothering to heat it up. He went back to the garden room and slumped onto the sofa. Tin in hand, he ate the cold tomato soup, looking out at the rain sliding down the windows.

  Melancholia took hold on him. He cast his eyes over the open-plan room, the steel columns, the glass roof, the double-height walls. The white of the walls was broken only by Alison’s show-jumping rosettes. The pared-back look had all the warmth of an industrial warehouse.

  When Nina had started school, she’d sticky-taped paintings to the kitchen walls. Luke later found them crumpled and discarded in the kitchen bin. They disturbed the cleanness of the walls, Alison said. Luke retrieved the tea-stained paintings, smoothed them out, and put them in a plastic folder. Fran had put them up in his consulting rooms.

  Over the dog’s wet odour Luke now noticed another smell. Furniture wax. The house had been cleaned in the last few days. There was only a light layer of dog hair around the house and the periodicals he brought home but rarely read were stacked neatly in the magazine rack.

  The cupboards were well stocked and there was a supply of luxury-brand ready meals in the fridge. Walking through the hall on his way in, he’d passed an assortment of suits, scarves and a raincoat, all wrapped in plastic sheeting from the dry-cleaner.

  Alison no longer lived with Luke, but she understood the benefits of looking like she did. Despite spending her time at Crow Hall, she continued to manage domestic affairs at the Glasshouse. She took care of the dry-cleaning and the grocery shopping. Not personally, of course. She’d arranged a cleaning lady to come twice a week to do the household chores and do the groceries. Luke couldn’t see a reason to complain. It made his life easier, and it all took place without any input from him. He departed the house in the morning, leaving behind the detritus of living, and came back to a clean but empty home.

  When he checked the postbox, he’d find post addressed to Alison. She was clever like that. She knew the value of having mail delivered here. She understood the value of providing the postman with a managed view of their lives. The postman saw letters from Inland Revenue, the bank, letters for health screening or from solicitors. There was a wealth of information to be gleaned from a sealed envelope.

  And when she called in person, Alison marked up the calendar with reminders for dental appointments and her heart check-ups with Raymond Grogan. She knew how to keep up appearances. Family values, or at least the pretence of family values, mattered to her constituents.

  Luke couldn’t picture how he figured in Alison’s long-term plans. He decided to bide his time and play along. But it was difficult to see how the Thompsons would let him leave their clutches. They were unlikely to set him free, knowing what he knew.

  He was as congenial as he could muster. He made himself amenable to Alison’s wishes. He texted convenient times for her to drop by to collect her post or dry-cleaning. The texts served another purpose. He could avoid any embarrassment should he have company in the Glasshouse.

  These past few months he’d made a lot of progress with Terence. Opening up and considering his next steps. The events of recent weeks, however, had put all that in jeopardy. With the scrawl on the boathouse wall, the death notice and now the doll in the casket, it was a lot to deal with. He felt he was on the verge of a setback.

  It was affecting his relationship with Sophie. He’d seen the look on her face when he’d shown her that horrible casket. He had sensed suspicion. He’d noticed her snatched sidelong glances wondering what he’d been up to. Wondering what he’d done to invite such darkness into his life. He didn’t want to scare her off. She’d been good for him these past few months. He was more settled and he was getting out more. They’d been to two shows in Dublin and The Book of Mormon in London. More than he’d ever done with Alison.

  Making love to Sophie was unpredictable and exhilarating. There were times he’d prefer she didn’t cover his face and eyes but it was a small price to pay. She liked it like that. She was easy company, and always took care to ask him his thoughts and how he was feeling. He thought back to how useless he’d been this morning when talking about her cat. Reaching for his mobile, he dialled and waited. He was about to hang up when she answered.

  ‘Yes?’

  She sounded throaty.

  ‘It’s me, Soph,’ he said. ‘I’m just ringing to see how the cat is … and to apologise for sharing all that weird stuff with you earlier. I shouldn’t be bothering you with any of this.’

  ‘Fidget’s dead.’

  ‘Oh no.’

  ‘He passed away not long after you left. So that’s it.’

  Her voice sounded flat. Hoarse. As if she’d been crying.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Sophie. Give me half an hour and I’ll be over.’

  Silence.

  ‘Sophie? Are you there?’

  He thought he
could hear a sob.

  ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, Luke. But I’d rather be on my own for now.’

  ‘Of course, I understand. I know this must be hard.’

  She tried to respond but her voice sounded strange and strangled.

  Luke didn’t know what more to say. He waited for her to say something.

  ‘I’ll call you when I’m ready,’ she said.

  The line went dead.

  In Memoriam

  ‘You must be looking forward to seeing Nina,’ said Fran, checking the razor pleats of her navy skirt. ‘I’m dying to hear all about her trip.’ She sat down at her desk.

  Weeks earlier, Fran had waved a postcard in front of Luke as if it were a prize. It was from Australia. She’d Sellotaped it to the filing cabinet. Nina and Fran were close. Fran had helped out with Nina’s homework when she was a kid and she took her to the optician or the dentist when he couldn’t. Alison was always busy campaigning for every child except her own.

  ‘It’ll be great to have Nina home,’ he said, ignoring the worry gnawing away at him. He was checking through emails, sitting at his desk.

  ‘Loads has happened since she left.’ Fran wore a sly expression on her face. ‘With that awful death notice for a start. It’s not the same home she left.’ She made a pretence of tackling the mail tray. Getting up, she placed a manila envelope marked ‘personal’ on his desk. ‘Yes indeed, I expect things will take a bit of getting used to.’

  ‘How so, Fran?’

  ‘Well, with your new lady friend and all – I do hope Nina won’t feel left out. But you’d never know, maybe they could go to kick-boxing together.’