by Karen Clarke
Understanding relaxed Morag’s face. ‘Ana.’
‘I tried calling her when you were in the supermarket,’ I said. ‘I left a message, asking her to ring me back.’
‘You could phone from home,’ she said, so naturally it was as if I’d been living under her roof for years. ‘Now it’s been fixed.’ She wiggled her eyebrows at Ifan – such an unusually flirtatious gesture I had to look at her glass and check it really was orange juice and not vodka.
‘I’d like to call her back now, if that’s OK.’ I pulled the phone out as it started ringing again. No one had called me on it before. Morag was right: it sounded like a distressed bird.
‘Take it outside. Go on,’ she said when I paused and looked at Lily. ‘She’s fine.’
‘She’s gorgeous,’ said the woman sitting opposite, lipstick gathered in the wrinkles around her mouth. ‘Looks just like you.’ She leant forward, peering at me myopically. ‘Is that a bruise on your cheek, dear?’
‘You think it was the same lot who attacked Jan at the farm?’ I heard the old woman’s companion saying as I hurried away, bursting through the door into the car park with the phone pressed to my ear. When it carried on ringing, I checked the screen and pressed the green handset button. ‘Ana?’
‘Grace, thank Christ! I’ve been calling for ages. I was starting to worry.’
It was so good to hear her voice, I felt like bursting into tears. As my two lives collided, everything that had felt normal moments ago receded. It was seven o’clock here, which must mean it was 2 p.m. in New York. I heard traffic sounds in the background, imagined Ana crossing the busy road to the ugly building that housed the health company where she worked, a cup of something healthy in her hand from the juice bar on the corner. Sometimes, she’d buy me one and bring it to the restaurant, but I could never manage more than a couple of sips. ‘I didn’t have my phone with me,’ I said, walking to the van. The door was unlocked and I clambered in out of the biting wind. ‘How are you, Ana? I’ve been desperate to talk to you, but the phone at my aunt’s wasn’t working and—’
‘You didn’t go to your mum’s?’
‘No, I … I couldn’t go back there, Ana, you know we don’t get on and I thought it would be safer at Morag’s. She lives practically in the middle of nowhere so—’
‘What the hell happened, Grace?’ Ana couldn’t let me finish a sentence, the questions she must have had banked up all spilling out. ‘I don’t get why you had to go so suddenly that you couldn’t even tell me. I could have driven you to the airport. Hell, I could have come with you. I’m owed some time off.’
‘Oh, Ana, if you decide to come and visit your parents sometime it would be brilliant to see you.’ The image of her walking towards me was so vivid a smile broke over my face. ‘We could meet up. I’d love that. I want you to see Lily. She’s been amazing, Ana.’
An ominous silence was broken by the wail of a siren. ‘He let you go then?’
‘Only just,’ I said. ‘I had to … I threatened him,’ I admitted. ‘I said I’d tell people everything.’ Elise, at the foot of the stairs, eyes wide but empty, staring at nothing. I hated that I couldn’t share the whole truth with my friend, but I couldn’t risk it. As much as Ana loved me, she might insist I go to the police. ‘I didn’t want him coming after us. I thought it was best to say as little as possible to anyone, to not leave a trace. That’s why I got a new phone and didn’t make contact straight away in case – oh, I don’t know, in case … he has contacts, probably knows about tracking, that sort of thing.’
A great sigh gusted down the phone. ‘Everyone misses you, Grace.’ A tear spilled down my face at Ana’s words. ‘I wish you’d come to stay with us, or Julio. You could have gone back to work at the restaurant.’
‘I’m not sure your uncle would have wanted me back after the way I left, and what with the baby situation.’
Ana made a scoffing noise. ‘My uncle still says he’ll never find anyone as good as you to run his bloody restaurant. He’d have come round to it, everyone would. You’d have loads of support. Everyone would love Lily. Julio would have treated her like his own grandchild.’
My heart felt bent out of shape. ‘I can’t come back, Ana. Probably not ever.’
‘I get it,’ she said after a heavy pause. ‘I just wish so much that I hadn’t told him you were pregnant. I’ll never forgive myself for that.’
I wished that too. I wished Ana hadn’t found me in the toilets that day and put two and two together; wished I hadn’t told her Patrick was the father. ‘You thought you were doing the right thing.’
‘It was totally messed up.’ She sounded angry. ‘I didn’t know it was going to end like it did or I’d never have—’
‘Ana, don’t,’ I cut in. ‘It’s fine, really. I like being here, more than I thought I would.’ In spite of everything.
‘I saw the news, Grace. I know from what you told me …’ There was a loaded silence. I knew what was coming. ‘Do you think he had something to do with his wife’s death?’ The background was quieter now. I guessed she was inside the Public Health building, with its over-conditioned air and the faint antiseptic smell that had reminded me of a hospital when I once went to meet her after work.
‘No.’ I made myself sound just a little bit outraged. ‘I don’t think that, Ana, I promise.’ The lasagne I’d eaten earlier lay like concrete in my stomach. I didn’t want to talk about it, to have the past rush back. ‘He’s not a killer – that’s crazy.’
‘It’s just, with everything being so complicated and his wife being an alcoholic …’
Elise, I wanted to say. Her name was Elise. My chest burned with guilt and fear. ‘The point is, Ana, I got away and I don’t ever want to see or hear from him again.’
‘What if he decides he wants to see Lily?’
‘He knows he can’t do that.’ Can he?
‘But—’
‘He didn’t even like her, Ana.’
There was another pause. I heard a sniff and guessed she was crying. ‘I miss you.’
‘I miss you too.’ Tears rose again. ‘Please tell me you’re coming over.’
‘Definitely. In the summer.’
‘Oh, Ana, that would be great. You should see Lily. She’s keeps trying to lift her head up already. I’ll send you a picture, but my phone camera’s awful. And I think you’ll like my aunt. You never met her, did you?’ I could see Morag through the pub window. The sight of her was like an anchor, holding me to the present. ‘I’m so glad you called.’
‘Me too.’ She sounded anguished. ‘Oh, Grace, did I ruin everything for you?’
‘Don’t make it sound like I didn’t have a choice, Ana.’ Tears scalded my cheeks. ‘What happened made me change direction, but it’s for the best. I like it here and I have Lily. That’s all that matters.’ I couldn’t tell her what had been happening. She would only worry and blame herself even more than she already did.
‘I wouldn’t trust Patrick an inch.’ Her voice grew faint for a second as she greeted someone in a lighter tone. ‘Men like him don’t like to lose,’ she said.
Fear gripped my chest. ‘He’d have more to lose by finding me.’ In the pause that followed, a shiver ran down my back. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s just … my uncle mentioned yesterday that someone had asked after you at the restaurant the day you left.’ Ana’s words came a rush. ‘A man.’
‘What do you mean?’ I realised how cold it was in the van. I couldn’t feel my feet in their cheap trainers. The tip of my nose was numb.
‘Julio was helping out. He said a man came in and asked whether the tenant still lived upstairs.’
‘What?’ A couple passed the van, their laughter ringing in the air. I felt displaced, pain circling my temples. ‘Did he say why he was asking?’
‘No. He just asked if you were OK. Said he needed to talk to you.’
Patrick? ‘Did Julio tell you what he looked like?’
‘I asked, obviously.’ Ana’s
voice dipped again. ‘I thought it might be Patrick but Julio said he was tall, white, maybe mid-to-late thirties with a beard.’
Not Patrick. Which didn’t mean he hadn’t sent someone to check I’d really gone. Still lived there. Not worked. Patrick knew I’d lived above the restaurant. ‘What did Julio say?’
‘He said the guy seemed worried. He told him you’d gone back to the UK with the baby. I know, I know,’ she said when I swore. ‘I told him he shouldn’t have said anything, but remember my uncle didn’t see any reason to be suspicious. He said, “What’s the harm? She’s gone.”’ He clearly hadn’t forgiven me for deserting the kitchen he’d left in my hands, despite what Ana had said. ‘He told him you wouldn’t be back, were probably at the airport.’ I closed my eyes. Julio might as well have given whoever it was my aunt’s address. ‘I’m so sorry, Grace.’
‘Don’t be silly, it’s not your fault.’ My limbs felt stiff and cold. In the light of the pub window a pair of moths fluttered in the light. I wanted to be in there, not having this conversation. ‘It’s not as if anyone knew where I was going,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry.’ I had to see Lily. I opened the van door and stepped out. Morag was craning her neck, looking for me. ‘Thanks for calling, for letting me know.’ I aimed for a normal tone that would reassure my friend. ‘How are things at work and with Tom?’
‘Fine and fine.’ She brushed the questions aside. ‘We’re moving in together next month, but Grace, I’m worried about you. I think you should—’
‘I’m fine, honestly.’ I hurried to the pub, one arm around my waist, imagining two strong hands on my back and the sensation of falling. Patrick might as well be here, shouting warnings in my ear. Maybe it would help to talk to him, clarify that I had no intention of telling anyone – ever – about that day as long as Lily and I were left alone. Find out what he’d told Elise’s parents and whether they were satisfied with his story. They loved their daughter and were far from gullible. They’d have insisted on details. Patrick was paid by the state to uphold the law. They’d be inclined to believe whatever he said – but as a mother myself now, I knew what lengths I’d go to for my daughter. If Elise’s mum was the same, if she had some intuition that things weren’t right, she might have decided to push further, get to the bottom of things. Could she be the one who’d set someone on my trail, employed a private investigator? Would there have been time between the inquest and me leaving New York? In her grief, would she have even been thinking along those lines?
Privacy to let the family grieve in peace, Patrick had said, implying things were settled and everyone just needed to be left alone. I’ll be taking some time out, but hope to be back serving my community very soon.
Taking some time out.
I stopped, as though I’d slammed into an invisible wall. Was Patrick here, in Fenbrith? Dread tightened my chest.
I had to find out.
Chapter 25
I pushed into the pub, elbowing my way through a noisy group to get to Lily.
Morag laid a restraining hand on my arm as I reached to unstrap her. ‘She’s asleep.’
‘She’s due a feed,’ I said. ‘I’ll do it in the toilets.’
‘It seems a shame to wake her.’
The couple opposite stared at me. I imagined how I must look with my bruised cheek and trembling hands, my hair tossed about by the wind. ‘You’re right. I should let her sleep.’ I tried to smile, tucking my hair behind my ears. ‘It’s really cold out there.’
Morag’s eyes narrowed. ‘Did you speak to your friend?’
‘Yes, it was good. She’s fine.’ I started backing away. Skip poked his head from under the table and woofed. ‘I won’t be a minute. I just have to …’ I nodded to the sign for the ladies’ room and hurried away, heart banging. After checking the toilet cubicles were empty, I whipped up my top, unfastened my bra and quickly squeezed some milk into the sink. The relief was instant and I felt a little calmer. Adjusting my clothes, I studied my reflection in the smoky mirror, seeking some sign of the woman Patrick had met. This version bore little resemblance. My eyes looked too large, my face thinner, pale apart from the bruise, which had deepened to a purplish stain. I didn’t even look like the woman who’d arrived at the pub a couple of hours ago, disguised with a coating of make-up and neatly brushed hair, determined to make a good impression.
After locking myself in the nearest stall, I pulled my phone from my jeans pocket and sat on the toilet seat as I logged onto the pub’s Wi-Fi. I didn’t have a number for Patrick, but I could call his office, at least find out whether he was in New York.
Bringing up his website – motto: Moving Justice Forward – I scrolled past the lists of signature projects and community partnerships, and a mission statement to remove guns from New York City streets – an average of a hundred people a day die of gun violence in America – until I found contact details. There was a number to call for general information. I brought up the keypad and pressed in the digits before I could change my mind.
‘Patrick Holden’s office, how may I help?’
My stomach lurched. ‘I’d like to speak to Mr Holden, please.’ The smell of lemon air freshener was overpowering and my mouth filled with saliva.
‘Mr Holden’s on compassionate leave until next Monday.’ The woman’s voice softened as she spoke his name. Veronica, Patrick had told me. He made of point of knowing everyone’s name. He’d literally stepped into my world but I’d never been to his office, or met anyone there. Our affair had been so brief, separate from reality, from work. In a parallel universe, where Patrick wasn’t already married, I’d have wanted to know more, know everything about him, but I hadn’t dared look ahead, staying focused on the moment.
‘Do you have a number where I can get hold of him?’ I was aware of slipping into an American accent. The last thing I wanted was a message getting back to Patrick that a British woman had called and asked to speak to him. ‘It’s kind of important.’
‘You have seen the news, I take it?’
I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing out an image of Elise’s lifeless body. ‘I have, yes.’
‘Then you’ll know he’s attending his wife’s memorial service today.’
I ended the call and let out a long breath. Patrick was in New York. He wasn’t in Wales, waiting for the right moment to persuade me to hand Lily over. Had I really thought he could be? The idea of Patrick lurking in the woods, letting himself in the cottage, was absurd. Patrick, who had a fondness for cashmere and linen and hated the cold. He preferred swimming, being by the ocean on the rare breaks he took, his head too full of whichever case he was working on to think about anything much but winning and, lately, on stepping up his campaign to become District Attorney. Or, so I’d thought. Maybe he wasn’t willing to forget about Lily so easily, to let her go without a fight. But the cost of having her in his life was too great and he knew it. So why not leave us alone?
Sounds rushed in. A whoosh of taps, female voices talking about someone called Bronwyn who’d suffered an allergic reaction to wool and developed a rash. ‘I mean, who’s allergic to wool?’
I quickly clicked off the website, wrists shaking. Resisting the urge to look for more news, I clicked onto Ana’s Facebook page. She wasn’t an avid user, tending to only post updates when she’d had a few drinks. There she was with Tom in a post from two weeks ago, both in running gear, looking as if they’d crossed a finish line under blazing sunshine. Tom had a beard and glasses and a broad, white smile. Although he didn’t look it in the picture, he was a couple of inches shorter than Ana. They looked vital, happy, eyes crinkled with smiles, foreheads sheened with sweat. Ana’s hair was shorter, just above her shoulders. She’d had it cut and I hadn’t known. This was just the warm-up, she’d written underneath. She hadn’t posted anything since.
Scrolling back, I landed on a picture of her and me in a group on a night out. Julio’s sixtieth birthday, gathered around a long table in someone else’s restaurant. Seeing my carefree smile as I r
aised a glass of champagne to the camera – I’d barely sipped it – was like looking at someone related to me; the same shiny hair and dark eyes but confident, with an aura of self-belief; someone sure of her place in the world. A woman with a plan.
I’d met Patrick a few weeks later.
Some impulse prompted me to type Declan Walsh into the search bar. I didn’t hold out much hope of finding him – he hadn’t struck me as someone who’d bother with social media – but his image immediately leapt out from a long list of Declan Walshes. My heart skipped when I read Worked at: British Army. Lives: wherever the mood takes me, under a profile picture of him standing on a rock with a backpack, a vast blue sky behind, glancing over his shoulder at whoever had taken the shot. He had a full beard but his eyes pulled me in, recognisable even at a distance. His cover photo was a distant shot of a farmhouse set in emerald hills that could only be Ireland. He was exactly who he’d said he was.
His account was set to private, but he’d been tagged in a couple of photos, one by Shauna Cafferty. His sister, judging by her likeness to him in her profile photo, the same friendly smile. Beneath a faded shot of him as a gangly teen at the wheel of a tractor in a muddy farmyard, she’d written: Remember when you nearly ran Dad over in this?!
In the second, he was standing outside a bar, somewhere hot and dusty-looking, next to a deeply tanned man wearing khakis. One arm was slung around Declan’s shoulders, the pint of beer in his other hand raised in a toast. Good to see you, mate, stay in touch. The man, Todd Bridges, looked like an off-duty soldier. Someone from his army days? Declan looked relaxed, smiling, eyes screwed almost shut against the blinding sun. His arms were folded, roped with muscle beneath the sleeves of his T-shirt, his hair pushed back off his forehead. I couldn’t stop looking at him, scouring his features – slightly blurred as though the photographer had moved at the last moment – until a cough outside the door landed me back in the pub. Relief had made my legs feel stringy. Switching my phone off, I stumbled out of the cubicle, meeting the startled stare of a woman outside examining her nails. ‘Sorry,’ I said, holding the door open. She shook her head as if my appearance had alarmed her.
