He half smiled at the memory, but quickly swiped it off his face. There was no reason to smile at the horrors that invaded his brain. Not now. He shook his head slowly. All bad. Very bad. Too bad, he thought, shaking his head so vigorously that flecks of dandruff fluttered around him like falling snow.
At the sink, he filled a basin with cold water. He had no running hot water and couldn’t be bothered boiling the kettle, as he’d have to light the gas and he wasn’t sure where he’d put the matches.
He splashed his face with the icy water before fetching the nail brush and a bar of carbolic soap from the shelf. He scrubbed his nails. Clean nails were so important. Didn’t matter about the rest of his body, but nails were an extension of the self, and if they were clean, his soul was clean. He shivered at that particular memory but couldn’t remember who’d said it originally.
When he was satisfied he’d washed away all the dirt, he dried his hands and face on the threadbare tea towel and searched for clean socks, knowing he didn’t have any. He unrolled a pair he’d worn two days ago and pulled them on over the ones he’d worn yesterday, then stuck his feet into his old boots. Memories were flitting behind his eyes, blinding him to the present. What was wrong with him today?
Isabel. That was what.
He flattened his hair with fingers he’d dipped into the cold water, and tugged his beanie hat onto his head. He tapped his pocket to make sure he had the little box in case he needed it. Of course he would need it. And that thought filled him with nothing but anxiety. He hyperventilated before he brought his breathing under control. Calm. He had to be calm.
He left the cottage, slowly closing the door behind him. Though he had failed, he was still the Watcher.
Sunlight was peeking through a slit in the blinds when Dervla Byrne roused herself from a disturbed sleep.
After a warm shower, she felt life return to her skin if not her bones. She dressed in her comfort clothes of grey sweatshirt and pants. She slipped her feet into her grubby runners and debated what she was about to do.
As she swept the longer side of her hair into a knot on the nape of her neck, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the wardrobe mirror. Her face looked as if it had depressed in on itself while she’d struggled to sleep. Hollows indented below her cheekbones and her eyes were like pits of darkness. She looked so much older than her thirty-five years, and that made her sad. She knew she didn’t look like her foster parents – how could she? And she had no idea what her real parents looked like. She’d been unable to trace them. Doors refused to open and filing cabinets remained locked to her search. She tried to dislodge the resurfacing memories with a shake of her head, but the darkness was all-encompassing. Her hair fell from its loose knot and she set about tying it up again.
Down in the kitchen, she switched on the television and flicked the kettle switch to make herself a strong cup of tea. She noticed the hardened bread on the table and the open butter tub. Her eyes were drawn to the refrigerator, and an icicle of trepidation began its slow descent from the nape of her neck.
As the kettle hummed softly, she sat at the table and gazed at the television and its happy-clappy presenter with her perfect face of make-up warbling about some new lipstick or the must-have dress for summer.
She stood to turn off the offending show and stalled, hand in the air, as the screen changed to a photograph of a young woman, followed by another of a couple. The images dissolved as the camera returned to the doll-like presenter, who turned her body slightly, her tanned legs still delicately crossed at the ankles, to introduce her guest. The camera panned to the well-dressed man sitting there, his mouth a grim line and his eyes dark wells reflecting the studio lights.
Dervla was unable to move. The kettle whistled loudly until it switched itself off, but she could not drag her eyes away from the television. The sound was too low to hear what was being said, but when the woman’s photograph came up on screen again, along with a garda hotline number scrolling beneath, she dropped to her knees.
‘Isabel?’
Then she recognised the man on the couch.
She thought of all Kevin had told her, and knew she had to go back to the hill.
30
A shot of wind blasted through a crack in the tiny window high up on the wall. The muted light cast eerie shadows in front of her. A skein of cobwebs hung from the damp brickwork. Water tinkled in an old iron radiator, brown liquid staining the stone floor beneath it.
Lottie moved further into the basement cellar towards a shelf with empty paint cans lined up higgledy-piggledy. It’d take Ironman to open the lids, she thought as she ran her hand along the wall searching for the fuse box.
Feeling her fingers stick to the dampness, she pulled back her hand and shivered. The walls appeared to be bleeding with her dead biological mother’s screams, anxiety-laden mortar holding the walls upright. Her mind was awash with memories that she knew she could not possibly possess. A stolen lifetime to which she’d never been allowed entry. She found the box, flicked the switch and a burst of light flooded the cellar.
‘Lottie, what are you doing down there?’
She turned quickly, her breath catching in her throat before she relaxed. ‘I was looking for the fuse box. I’ll be up in a minute.’
‘I’ve just put the kettle back on.’ Boyd stood in the doorway on the top step, a worried crease in his brow, before he moved back into the kitchen.
‘Coming,’ she said.
Though she’d been exhausted and grumpy last night, she had to admit she’d enjoyed his company. She loved the heat of his body close to hers and was surprised to find it was the most natural feeling. It filled her with a giddy kind of warmth.
Mounting the stairs, careful not to fall through the old steps, she entered the kitchen, blinking at the brightness.
‘You put in the new light bulbs.’
‘I did. Cursed things to get into the old fittings.’
‘You continue to surprise me, Boyd.’
He laughed and handed her a mug of tea.
‘Thanks,’ she muttered as his fingers brushed her grimy knuckles. A fizz sprang up, before nestling in the pit of her stomach. This was all so right.
‘You really need to have this place rewired before you get electrocuted,’ he said, letting his hand linger on hers before picking up his own mug.
‘I need money in the bank to do that.’ She kicked off her slippers and sat at the table. When he sat beside her, she rested one ankle on his knee.
‘I don’t like you going down to that basement. Too many bad memories there.’
‘It’s not the memories from the time I was held captive down there. It’s just … I wonder sometimes. About her. About my real mother.’
‘Rose Fitzpatrick is your mother. She raised you, loved you, cared for you. You’re tormenting yourself with this fantasy about a woman you never met. A woman who is long dead. You have to stop beating yourself up about it.’
‘Okay.’
Boyd grinned. ‘Such an insincere agreement, Lottie Parker.’
‘Did I tell you it means a lot to me having you here?’ she said. ‘But you don’t have to stay every night.’ Why did she say that?
The smile slipped from his lips. ‘You make me sound like a lodger.’
He leaned back in his chair, and for a moment she thought he was going to lift her foot from his lap and drop it to the floor. ‘I’m still figuring you out,’ he said.
That makes two of us, she thought as she sipped her tea. He’d brewed it just the way she liked, the way Adam used to. What would it have been like to live here, in Farranstown House, with Adam? He’d probably have taken a few months off work to get stuck in. Adam had been like that. An all-or-nothing man. Boyd was a bit like that too, though his energy levels were depleted since he’d overcome a mild form of leukaemia, plus their last case had left him off work for a month, recovering from an incident at the quarry.
‘What?’ she said, when she drew herself up from the fu
g of her thoughts.
‘Are you thinking about Adam? Wondering what it would have been like living here with him?’
She couldn’t help the blood rushing up her cheeks. ‘I should have remembered you can read my mind. Adam is … dead. You’re here. I want you here.’
‘So you say.’ This time he did drop her foot.
She pretended not to notice and crossed her legs. ‘I can’t change the past, but I have learned to live with it. And I do love you.’
‘The lady doth protest too much.’
Placing the mug on the table, she leaned in close to him, raised his chin with her fingertip and kissed him.
The door opened and Katie burst in with Louis by the hand. ‘Can you two do that somewhere else? And what am I supposed to do today?’
‘What do you mean?’ Lottie said, drawing away from Boyd.
‘Bubbles is closed. Sinéad phoned to tell me. God, Mam, I hope you find Evan soon. How am I supposed to work with no one to mind Louis?’
‘Ask Chloe.’
‘I did, but the witch said she was working late last night and needs to sleep. Some sister she is. I should have stayed in America.’
‘What about Sean? He’s on his Easter holidays.’
‘And have him feed Louis Pot Noodles all day? Don’t think so.’
‘Then you’ll have to ask Granny Rose.’
‘Okay, I’ll give her a call.’
‘She adores Louis.’
‘Yeah, for half an hour. She loves to be able to hand him back when she runs out of books to read him following the sixty-fifth episode of Peppa Pig.’
‘She’ll be delighted.’ Lottie lifted Louis up and smothered him with kisses. ‘Be a good boy for Granny Rose, won’t you?’
‘Stay with me, Nana Lottie.’
‘Not today, sweetie. Maybe Saturday.’ She put the boy down. ‘See you later, soldier.’
Katie took his hand. ‘He’ll be in bed by the time you get home. I know what you’re like when you have a big case.’ She stomped out of the kitchen.
Lottie sighed loudly. ‘Kids.’
‘They keep you young,’ Boyd said, and drew her into a hug. ‘I better go. Might grab a shower here before I leave, if you don’t mind?’
‘Not at all. I hope there’s enough hot water.’
Once she was alone in the kitchen, a feeling of loneliness hugged her body. She wanted to stay at home and mind her grandson. She didn’t want to think about work. She’d made a resolution when she began the move that this was to be her home and the job was to stay in the office. But a tremor shook her as she thought of Isabel Gallagher’s murder, and the missing child and his mother. Hopefully it was just a row between Joyce and Nathan. He’d seemed so edgy. Definitely something wrong there. She needed to get her game face on. These cases were going to take every ounce of energy and focus.
After rinsing the mugs, she opened the refrigerator to stow the carton of milk inside. Boyd’s bottles of Heineken lined the bottom shelf. She slammed the door shut. She was stronger than her temptation. But was she stronger than her addiction?
She tidied up the laundry and lifted his suit jacket from the back of the chair to leave it in the hall for him. As she moved it, she heard something crinkle in the pocket. Stop, Lottie. Do not snoop. But she had to.
She patted down the jacket. The tip of a white envelope peeked out from the inside pocket. Sealed. Boyd’s name and his address on the outside. If she wanted to be sexist, she’d have guessed the handwriting was distinctly feminine. Who was writing to Boyd, and why hadn’t he opened the letter? Who wrote letters any more?
Quickly she eased it back inside and hung the jacket on the chair the way it had been. She knew she’d be wondering about it all day. Then again, she’d be too busy to think about it at all.
She had a little boy to find.
She wasn’t dead. Joyce knew that much at least. It was obvious because she could open her eyes and breathe, albeit with difficulty. Her face was sticky with blood, and through a dim haze she recalled a looming figure, dressed all in white, standing over her before he rained blows down on her crouched body. She had no idea what she’d been struck with, but the pain had been so intense, she must have passed out.
Now she was awake.
Her body silently screamed with each tentative breath she took and with every slight move she made. Trying to feel the floor with her feet, she held in the screeches she so wanted to utter. The blades. The soles of her feet were cut and bleeding. She welcomed the pain. It meant she was alive. What else had he done to her? Her face? He’d sliced her skin with the blades.
Slumping back against the steel wall, she wondered why she was still alive. In a way she wished she were dead, but she had Evan to think about.
Oh sweet Jesus! Had he taken her little boy? No! She couldn’t handle that. She would gladly take whatever torture was meted out as long as a hair on her son’s head wasn’t touched. Surely he’d have been safe with Sinéad until Nathan arrived home from Europe? They’d know then that she was missing and the police would be searching for her. But would they find her in time? Before her abductor finished her off.
Recently Nathan had been tense and irritable, snapping at her and Evan for no good reason. Like having to wear the same shirt two days in a row because she hadn’t dried the laundry. Then there were the long periods of intolerable silence, so profound you could almost hear it. And here she was trapped in some sort of container with only silence for company.
She cried. Big ugly tears.
This was hopeless. She was hopeless.
Then she stopped crying. She couldn’t lose hope. She had a son. No one was taking Evan away from her or her from him. She was stronger than this. She’d come through worse circumstances, hadn’t she? She had survived then, she could survive now.
She had to live for Evan.
She had to escape.
But how?
31
Sitting on the edge of the mattress, Larry Kirby coughed and coughed. Time to give up the damn cigars, he thought. He eyed the mess on the floor. Time for a deep clean, too.
When the coughing subsided, he yawned and waited. Running a hand under his nose, he wiped it on the sheets. They needed a good washing. He could tip into Primark and buy a new cheap set. Easier than washing and trying to dry them without a clothes line. He could always hang them on the radiators, but he was saving on oil and only put on the heat when it was absolutely necessary. Like when icicles dripped from his nose.
He found his trousers on the floor, with a handkerchief stuffed in the pocket. He blew his nose and tossed the snotty rag on top of the dirty laundry. Picking up his phone, he noticed he’d forgotten to charge it after coming home from the Foleys’ house. It was dead as a dodo.
Shit.
Plugging it in, he waited for the juice to reach the target so that he could check his messages. Since Boyd now had Lottie, the people he called friends were at the grand total of nil. But he had long since given up feeling sorry for himself, so he hauled his arse into the shower.
When he was washed and dressed, he stood in the untidy bedroom and peered through the grimy pane of glass, ignoring the empty whiskey bottle on the floor between the bed and the wall. The reason he’d forgotten to charge his phone, perhaps.
He had to sort himself out. Get a life and a wife, like McKeown had told him in the office yesterday. Martina Brennan was wasting her time on McKeown. But Kirby was not one to cast aspersions aloud, so he normally kept his gob shut. Until yesterday. Maybe he shouldn’t have said anything. Why had he? Perhaps he just liked Martina and didn’t want to see her hurt. Shit, McKeown would be gunning for him now.
With two per cent battery, he checked his phone. Oh no! He saw the number he’d last called and hazily remembered making a drunken call last night. Holy Mother of God, had he really done that? He gripped his head and tugged at his hair. Fuck.
He had to stop drinking alone. And he had to get into work before Lottie ate him for breakfast. H
e hoped his late-night phone call wouldn’t come back to haunt him.
The water was cold, but all the same, Boyd had a quick dip in and out, then ran his spare razor quickly over his chin before checking in the mirror and touching up the bits he’d missed. He paused. His skin was a pasty white, like dough left to prove, and the circles around his eyes were dark sacks. If his mother was still alive, she’d have him tucked up in bed with a glass of hot milk and a plate piled high with a sizzling fry and thick slices of brown bread. He smiled as he thought of the strong woman who’d raised him and his sister.
Maybe he and Lottie could head to the west to see how Grace was getting on. A weekend staring out at the wild Atlantic Ocean might help get some colour back in his cheeks. If they found the missing boy and Isabel Gallagher’s murderer, they could take a few days off. This thought brought a smile to his tired face as he dressed in yesterday’s clothes.
He tied his laces and tugged his trousers at the ankles, bemoaning the creases from Lottie having kicked his clothes from the bed to the floor. He’d have to stop by his own apartment and change his underwear and shirt. Damn. He’d stocked the fridge with lager, positioned his toothbrush and razor in the bathroom in a glass he’d brought with him, but he had no spare socks or boxers.
At the top of the splintered staircase, his eyes met Chloe’s as she came out of her room.
‘Morning, Boyd,’ she said, her voice sombre, her eyes circled with dark rings. She pulled the knot tight on her dressing gown emblazoned with a large image of Winnie-the-Pooh.
‘Hi, Chloe. Just on my way to work.’
‘In that shirt? You’re losing it, Boyd,’ she laughed. ‘My mother is having a bad effect on you.’
Was she sending him a message or just being jokey? He never would get kids. At least he and Sean got on.
Little Bones: A totally addictive crime thriller Page 14
