Nothing happened.
‘You’re Martha, aren’t you?’ the pregnancy-test woman said now, peering into Martha’s face. ‘Martha Wilder?’
‘Eh, yes.’ Martha looked urgently at Mathilde but the Frenchwoman had her back to her, while the receipt for her purchase inched out of the machine.
‘Oh, yes, I recognise you from when you used to be on the news.’ She extended her hand. ‘I’m Stella, by the way. Stella Bennett.’
She did not add that she was Cillian’s girlfriend. She seemed to know that that particular detail was unnecessary. Martha couldn’t believe how small and soft and dark she was, like a chocolate truffle. Nobody had ever likened Martha to confectionery. Nor would they. She knew that for a fact.
Martha’s hand was pumped up and down with great enthusiasm. Stella nodded towards the box in her hand. ‘I suppose Cillian mentioned our news when you went for coffee the other day?’
‘Eh, he ...’ Martha hadn’t thought Cillian would have told Stella about being at the Wooden Spoon the other day. But then again, why wouldn’t he? Nothing had happened. Of course not. And yet ... Martha had the feeling that something had happened. Nothing she could put her finger on. Just a vague sensation of something shared. Something good.
‘Och, he’s not saying much but he’s excited all the same. Sure, you know Cillian – cards close to his chest, that fella, but soft as butter on the inside.’ Stella touched the bridge of her nose with the tip of a small, squat finger. ‘Anyway, it’s not official yet.’ She nodded again towards the pregnancy testing kit. ‘But I’m pretty sure what this yoke is going to confirm. You just know, don’t you?’
‘I am ready,’ said Mathilde then and Martha felt almost hysterical with relief and with something else. Something sharp and sore, like an abscess on your tooth you keep probing with your tongue even though it just makes it hurt more.
‘Right,’ said Martha, and then, ‘Lovely to meet you, Stella,’ and she gripped Mathilde’s skinny little arm and walked out of the shop and out of the centre and kept going until Mathilde finally said, ‘You are hurting my arm,’ and then she stopped and said, ‘Sorry, sorry, I ... sorry, Mathilde, I just need some fresh air, the shop was ... I’ll take you to my flat now.’
‘There will be no further discussion about my plans for tomorrow, Martha. I cannot be persuaded. Yes?’
Martha nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I understand.’
Mathilde seemed surprised by Martha’s quiet acceptance of her vivid declaration but did not comment further.
Martha sped all the way to her apartment, daring some copper to pull her over. It would have been for the best, she knew, if one had.
Mathilde did not appear to notice the speeding. She drank her Rescue Remedy and closed her eyes, jerking left and right as Martha scorched around corners.
She skidded to a stop outside her building. ‘Here’s the key of my flat. I’ll be back soon.’ She tore the key off her keyring, thrust it at Mathilde.
‘But ... where are you going?’
‘I have to attend to some business.’
A question flitted across Mathilde’s face but she did not ask it. Perhaps the Rescue Remedy had some use after all?
Mathilde nodded, got out of the car. When she closed the door, Martha pulled off, driving now in the direction of Swords village.
She felt relieved. That this battle she was about to lose would soon be over. She was tired of it. The relentless everyday-ness of it. Becoming an alcoholic had taken time. Years. A slow trickle of addiction that you don’t notice until your entire house is flooded with it. Sobriety was a more sudden, savage affair. Like hacking off a gangrenous limb.
It wasn’t great company, sobriety. Especially when you came to it late. Too late to fix things. To put things back where they were. It felt like everyone was leaving her, all over again: Tara, her father.
And Cillian. The recent realisation that she missed him. Every day. She was tired of missing him. It was like something physical. Like walking up an endless flight of stairs. Over and over. Hauling yourself up.
She was tired.
She parked – illegally – right outside the pub.
The Pound pub.
The door was closed but Martha knew it was only a matter of putting her two hands on it. Pushing lightly.
It would swing open, as it always had, and she would walk in the way she had always walked in, feel at home.
Already, she could hear the low rumble of conversation inside, the snatches of laughter.
And she could see the tumbler of Scotch. How the light would filter through the amber liquid when she held it up, steered it towards her mouth.
She put her hand on the door, felt the grain of the wood against her skin.
She went inside.
She sat on a tall stool, hung the strap of her bag on one of the hooks below the counter.
‘Where’s Fergal?’ she asked a man behind the bar. Fergal had been her barman. Had said, ‘The usual?’ when she walked in. Had known her. Known what she liked to drink. What pace she was in the mood for. When she wanted to talk. And when she didn’t.
‘He left a year ago,’ the man behind the bar said. Martha looked at him. There was something familiar about his long face, the shine of his pate, the determined set of his mouth.
‘What are you havin’?’ he asked, his hand resting on a beer tap.
‘I know you from somewhere,’ she blurted. Which was strange because she hadn’t even had a drink yet and she wasn’t a blurter, in the main, and she couldn’t care less if she recognised this man or where she might have seen him before.
She just wanted a drink.
He looked at her, nodded. ‘AA,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen you there too. Sitting outside, reading your notebook. I’ve often wondered when you’re going to come inside.’ He grinned.
Martha flushed.
‘Sorry,’ said the barman then. ‘I didn’t mean to embarrass you.’
‘I have my reasons written in that notebook,’ Martha said, without realising she was going to say anything at all. ‘Six reasons.’
The barman nodded. ‘It’s good to have them written down. I keep meaning to do that but I’m not much of a writer. More of a talker.’ His smile was apologetic.
‘Five reasons actually,’ Martha went on. She couldn’t believe how much she was going on. ‘Two of them are the same reason.’
The barman propped his elbows onto the counter, tucked his hand under the awning of his chin. ‘Some reasons are like that.’ When he spoke it was almost like he was talking to himself. He looked at her. ‘Is it a someone? The two reasons?’
Martha nodded. ‘He’s with someone else now. They might be having a baby.’
‘That’s hard.’
‘It was my own fault.’
‘That’s even harder.’
‘Is it not difficult for you? Working in a pub?’
‘It’s a deterrent, bein’ honest.’ He nodded towards the end of the counter where an ancient man with a red face and a few wisps of white hair floating around his head slumped on a stool, watching the froth inside his pint glass slide down the edge.
‘I’m Seamus, by the way,’ he said then, extending his hand towards her. She shook it, said, ‘Martha.’
‘How long?’ she asked him then.
‘Four years, nine months, three weeks and a day.’
‘Don’t you ever stop counting the days?’
He shook his head. Smiled. ‘Every day is an achievement.’
A customer approached the counter, a crisp twenty euro note folded between his fingers. He glanced towards Seamus, cleared his throat.
‘I’ll be right back to you,’ the barman told Martha. ‘You sit there and decide what you want.’
Twenty Seven
It was a murder case now. Manslaughter if Roman was lucky.
Cillian sat in his car up the road from Jimmy’s house. He’d been keeping tabs on him since they’d taken the drawing from Lenny’s place. He mig
ht try to run if he thought the guards were on to him. Also, Cillian was worried about Rosa.
He checked his phone again. He was expecting two calls today. The lab should have results for him on the drawing.
And Stella. She had been in bed, asleep, when he got home late last night. In a box, in the middle of the kitchen table, was a pregnancy test, unopened. He lifted it, surprised at how light it was.
He undressed in the dark and got into bed, careful not to wake Stella. He had found it difficult to sleep.
Stella was still asleep this morning when he was leaving the house. He put his hand on her arm. Shook her gently. ‘Stella?’ She moaned and turned over. ‘Stella,’ he said again, louder this time.
‘What?’
‘Why didn’t you do the test last night?’
‘What?’ She opened her eyes, struggled into a sitting position.
‘The test. You didn’t use it.’
She rubbed her eyes. ‘I wanted to wait till you got home.’
‘But you knew I’d be late. And I have to leave now. I just ... I need you to do this, OK? Will you ring me later? Afterwards?’
She punched her pillow, lowered herself back onto the bed and pulled the duvet around her shoulders.
‘Stella?’
‘Yes, yes, fine, I’ll ring you,’ she said, turning away from him.
It had been a funny few days. Strange. He tried not to think about Martha, not to attach importance to his name on her list. Twice. He had convinced himself that he was over her. And he was. It was just ... it had been a strange few days.
His phone rang and Cillian grabbed it, but it was only Tony ringing to see if he could come over to fix the leak in the shower on Saturday while Joan was at her Pilates class.
‘Would you not get a plumber?’
‘It’s just that Joan thinks I can fix it so ...’
‘OK, then, I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Thanks, Cillian, you’re a star. You’re also the reason my marriage has lasted this long. And the great thing is, Joan doesn’t suspect a thing.’
‘That is great.’
He said goodbye, hung up, looked at the house again. Jimmy Carty wasn’t what you might call house proud. The cobble-locked driveway was overgrown with weeds and three wheelie bins took up most of the sorry patch of grass. The curtains across the front-room window were drawn. They sagged towards the middle, not quite meeting.
Cillian looked at his watch. Rosa hadn’t left the house yet, which was strange. He was sure she’d have gone to the hospital by now. He looked for her in his contacts, called the number. Her phone rang out. When he rang the number again, it went straight to message as if it had been turned off.
Cillian got out of the car. Walked towards the house. At the front door, he paused, pressed his ear against the glass. He heard nothing.
He knew they were in there.
He rang the bell. A thud upstairs, like something falling. Cillian put his finger on the bell again, rang it over and over. He took a step backwards, looked up at the bedroom windows. The curtains were drawn there too. He saw one of the curtains move, as if someone had tugged it. He opened the letterbox, pushed his ear against it. From upstairs, he could hear raised voices. A man and a woman. Then, a sound, like something falling. Hitting the floor.
Cillian climbed over the gate, ran down the side passage. The back door was locked but a small window beside the door was ajar. He stood on the windowsill and reached inside, stretched his arm towards the door handle. The tips of his fingers closed around the key in the lock, managed to turn it. He moved silently through the kitchen, into the hall. At the bottom of the stairs, he hesitated, listened.
‘I said don’t touch me. Get out of my room.’ Rosa’s voice was an angry shout.
Jimmy laughed. ‘This is my room, remember. And you’re only here because I felt fucken sorry for you, remember?’ Cillian eased his way up the stairs.
‘You’re a murderer.’
Jimmy laughed, a short bark of a laugh.
‘That’s an ugly word for such a pretty lady.’
‘You shot Mr Hartmann.’
‘Yeah, I shot him. Does that turn you on?’
Cillian was at the top of the stairs now. The door to Rosa’s room was ajar and he could see Rosa, breathing hard, pinned against the wardrobe door by her arms, which Jimmy held above her head.
‘I will tell police,’ Rosa shouted as Jimmy rubbed himself against her.
‘Who the fuck is going to believe a scrubber like you?’ His breath came and went in short spurts.
Cillian kicked the door wide open. Ran inside.
Jimmy wheeled around. ‘What the fuck?’
Cillian grabbed the man, turned him around and slammed him against the wall. ‘You’re under arrest, Jimmy, for the murder of—’
‘You don’t have a warrant. And you’re trespassing. I’ll have your badge for this, Larkin.’
Cillian pulled handcuffs out of his pocket, put them around Jimmy’s wrists. He looked at Rosa. ‘You OK?’
She nodded, straightening her skirt, her blouse. She stepped towards Jimmy. He flinched. She looked at him. There was a calmness to her now as she raised her hand, slapped him. Hard. Across his face. Jimmy squealed like a pig.
‘Did you see that?’ Jimmy shouted at Cillian. ‘She’s after assaultin’ me.’
Cillian dragged Jimmy out of the room, down the stairs. He radioed for backup from his car after he pushed Jimmy into the back seat.
‘I want my fucken solicitor,’ Jimmy shouted. ‘This is garda harassment and I want my—’
‘Is that the solicitor who signed a statement saying you were in his office at the time of the robbery? You could be in luck – I’d say he’ll be at the station shortly,’ said Cillian. ‘Trying to defend himself against a charge of perverting the course of justice.’ He slammed the door, checked his phone. A missed call from the lab. He rang back.
‘Any developments on the drawing?’
‘Yeah, we got a bullseye.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Three sets of prints. Tobias Hartmann, Lenny Henderson and Jimmy Carty.’
Cillian smiled. ‘Anything else?’
‘A few fibres on the drawing that match the interior of the victim’s safe deposit box.’
Two squad cars arrived and Cillian handed Jimmy to them. ‘I’ll be back at the station soon,’ he told his colleagues. ‘Just want to check on Rosa, OK?’
Inside the house, Rosa had changed her top. She was in the kitchen, plaiting her hair.
‘Are you OK?’ Cillian asked.
She nodded. ‘I am going to visit Roman now.’
‘Did he hurt you? Do you need to see a doctor?’
‘No.’ She looked worried then. ‘I shouldn’t have hit him.’
Cillian feigned surprised. ‘Did you hit him?’
Rosa smiled a small smile. ‘Thank you, Cillian. For everything.’
‘Come on, I’ll drop you at the hospital. You can tell Roman the good news.’
As he drove away from the hospital, his phone rang. It was Stella. He jabbed at the screen with his finger. ‘Hello?’
‘Cillian?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Sorry the line’s not great.’
‘I can hear you just fine.’
‘What?’
‘I said ... never mind. How are you?’
‘I have some news,’ she said.
Twenty Eight
When Martha woke up the next morning, she was seized by the Fear. The Fear had been a regular visitor before. Waking up, trying to remember what you’d said, who you’d insulted, how you got that bruise on your knee, that rip in your dress. What time you got home. How you got home. Who you brought home.
Her mouth was sticky with dryness and her head ached like there was a war raging inside it. She sat up, slow and careful, looked around. The bedroom seemed ... not tidy, it was rarely tidy, but undisturbed. There was her handbag, her wallet sticking out of it. There were her b
oots, sitting neatly together at the door of her wardrobe. Her jacket was draped across the back of the chair where it was supposed to be. The blinds were down, the curtains closed. She was wearing – she lifted the duvet, peered down – a T-shirt and knickers. Her violin was in its case, her manuscript on top of her laptop on the bedside locker, her red pen on top, ready to do its worst.
Everything was where it should be.
The details of the night swam to the surface of her mind, like bubbles of air.
One year, four months, three weeks, five days.
Every day is an achievement.
The barman was right.
Mathilde was already in the kitchen, sitting on a chair. She was dressed, her coat folded across her arm. On the floor beside her, her overnight bag, packed. Her face was paler this morning and there was a pink puffiness around her eyes that her mascara and eyeshadow had failed to conceal.
‘I’ll be ready in five minutes, OK?’ said Martha, putting the kettle on. Mathilde looked unconvinced.
‘Do you want tea?’
‘No. I think we should—’
‘You saw how I drove last night. It’ll take me two minutes to get to the airport.’
‘Did you attend to your business?’ asked Mathilde, her tone chilly. ‘Last night, when you practically shoved me out of your car?’
‘I’m really sorry, Mathilde, that was so rude. But yes, I ... I attended to my business.’ Martha beamed.
‘You seem ... euphoric,’ Mathilde said.
‘Well, euphoric might be a little strong,’ Martha said, although she was not entirely sure that was the case. This morning, her sobriety felt like something precious, almost reverent. One year, four months, three weeks, five days.
She had not squandered it.
And no, it was true that sobriety couldn’t share her bed or read several drafts of the same article without complaint or take the stairs to her apartment three at a time, swinging a bag of Chinese food when Chinese food was exactly what she had been thinking about.
Or kiss her like that.
Nobody would ever kiss her like that again.
So no, definitely not euphoric. But still, something. Something good. She tried to put her finger on it. ‘Today is not a day for regret,’ she said, surprising herself by saying it out loud.
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