by Lisa Alber
“Gemma!”
Alan had no trouble catching up with her, but once he did she squiggled and slid around in his embrace. His grip slipped. It was like trying to hoist an eel.
Sounds rasped against unused vocal cords, piercing and incoherent. Alan cringed against Gemma’s high-pitched shrill. She had to be ripping out her vocal cords she was trying so hard.
Her chest heaved on a long inhale. After a pause, a lifetime of a pause it seemed to Alan, her scream shattered the night quiet.
FIFTY-FIVE
DANNY BIT INTO THE ladyfinger he held. “For the last few months Ellen has been writing in her journal more than usual.”
Malcolm used a spoon to transfer another one of the sponge biscuits from the box to a small plate. “I’ve cultivated a skill. Transformation I call it, and I can’t help admitting that I could write a book. I’d call it Transform Your Thoughts, Transform Your Life.” He settled back in his chair with a dreamy smile. “It’s about moving on. And you, good Danny, need to move on.”
Danny squeezed his knees again. Remain calm. Just for a little longer. Don’t think about moving on, about the real truth—that he’d moved on a little too fast, that in the past year he’d been happy in his own quiet space away from Ellen’s turmoil, happy to play daddy every night and weekend.
“Transformation,” Danny said. “That’s quite a word right there. It makes me wonder how you’d transform yourself into a good lover. I have it straight from the source, dated some time last month, that Ellen was less than enthusiastic about your—shall we say—abilities.”
Malcolm’s ever-pleased smile remained, but Danny heard the beginning of a crack when he said, “Nonsense. She was mad for it even on that last night.”
“I can understand your embarrassment. I’ve had to face the fact that I couldn’t satisfy her, and I’ll admit I’m relieved that I’m not the only man—”
“I told you—”
“And then Siobhan McNamara’s earrings—the ones Toby was wearing—your parting gift, I take it? Frankly, I don’t know how you could be such an utter bollocks. Alibi or not, you’re pointing right at yourself for Toby Grealy’s murder. Because how else could you get your hands on them unless you’d ripped them off him yourself?”
Malcolm cut a piece of ladyfinger and forked it into this mouth. “Poor Ellen. That was my last night with her, the final breakup after the breakup. Sometimes it takes women a few rejections to realize the truth.”
“How did you get the earrings?”
“If you must know the truth—and I do hate to say this because he’s my friend—Seamus gave them to me.”
Danny swallowed hard against a wad of ladyfinger. Seamus again.
“Does this mean he killed that poor boy?” Malcolm continued. “That’s not for me to say. I don’t judge. All I know is that Seamus thought I might like them, which of course I did. He was forever trying to—what’s that saying?—‘grease the wheels’ with me for Brendan’s sake.”
“Oh, really?”
“Well, yes, how else could I get the earrings since I was meeting Ellen that night? I can’t be in two places at once. I did not kill Toby Grealy.”
“So Seamus—who you’re not accusing of killing Toby—somehow gets his hands on the earrings and gives them to you, then later that evening you turn around and give them to Ellen.”
“Quite right. As you said, a parting gift. A nice one, I might add.”
As interesting as this thread was, Malcolm’s “transformation” shite had distracted Danny. He’d felt his phone vibrate with O’Neil’s reply text message, so now it was time to cut through Malcolm’s greasy distraction tactics. The man was oddly convincing.
“The reason I bring up the earrings is that Ellen couldn’t pawn them off on Gemma fast enough. In her journal, she had quite a lot to say about your vanity in addition to your lack of prowess in the sack.”
Malcolm’s smile dipped toward tepid and the telltale flush started its creep. Danny was rather fond of Malcolm’s colorful skin. It was a convenient barometer.
Danny bit and let crumbs fly out of his mouth as he spoke.
“But wait, that’s not the best part. The best part is when she wrote that she was relieved that she didn’t have to pretend to like your hairless hide anymore, said it gave her the willies.” He paused as Malcolm’s skin darkened to almost purple. “She always thought that no hair around the little laddie would cause it to appear bigger. I guess not, if she’s to be believed.”
One of Malcolm’s eyelids twitched. He shot out an arm toward the pastry box and shoved a ladyfinger in his mouth. Powdered sugar drifted onto Malcolm’s five-million-count, Christ-only-knew-what-kind-of-imported-cotton dress shirt. While chewing, he glanced at his heavy gold watch.
“You wouldn’t be waiting for a phone call, would you?”
“I don’t know how many times I’ve seen it in my life,” Malcolm said. “Unreliable people. And Seamus most of all. I don’t mind telling you that sometimes the weight is high indeed, especially when you have a so-called friend foisting his idiot son on you. Fecking waste, like father, like son.” He shoved another ladyfinger into his mouth and chewed. “Tit for tat, one less grub.”
“What tit for what tat?”
“Haven’t you been listening?” Spittle flew out of Malcolm’s mouth. “This wasn’t supposed to happen, not to me. It’s jealousy and ineptitude—a lethal pair, when it comes to a man like me—with people out to ruin my livelihood and my good name. And what do you do about it? Nothing. I still haven’t heard anything back about the graffiti or assault charges against that Nathan Tate.”
“Who’s out to ruin your livelihood and good name?”
“Everyone!” Malcolm swiped the pink bakery box off the table.
“As far as I can tell, you, Malcolm Lynch, don’t have a good name. All you’ve got is an oily smile and expensive suits. You’re nothing.”
With a sudden lunge, Malcolm’s inner pit bull came to life. He launched himself over the little bistro table, knocking over the table and spilling Danny backward off his chair. The back of Danny’s head bounced off the floor, but he managed to right himself enough to kick out with both his feet. His feet landed squarely on Malcolm’s oh-so-flat stomach. Malcolm doubled over on a noisy exhalation just as the door to the stairwell opened.
O’Neil hopped into the room on nimble feet. Like a fecking caeli dancer, Danny thought.
“In the nick, that you are,” he said.
“Waiting for the perfect timing,” O’Neil said with his grin in place.
Danny rubbed at a scratch Malcolm had managed to leave on his cheek. “There’s a consolation.”
“Malcolm Lynch, you dapper son-of-a-something,” O’Neil said, “seems like you assaulted an officer. That’s all we need to keep you for a while.”
O’Neil pushed Malcolm toward the door, but the man insisted on retreating for his tie and jacket. By the time he was suited up again, his coloring was back to normal and his smile back in place.
“I’ll be home soon enough. I’m sure your superiors would like to know that Danny broke into my flat.”
Despite his smug tone, he couldn’t hide muscle spasms that played tag along his jawline.
Thursday
When the sparrow sings its final
refrain, the hush is felt nowhere more
deeply than in the heart of man.
Don Williams, Jr.
FIFTY-SIX
DAWN ARRIVED UNDER A grey cloud cover that matched Danny’s mood. He hadn’t slept between helping O’Neil escort Malcolm to the Garda station and returning to Blackie’s Pasture once again. Mist lurked around the edges of the field. If not for the faint sheen of village lights, he could have been standing deep in the countryside.
But he wasn’t. He was back where he’d started. Toby’s death still hovered over him, trying to tell him something. But bloody hell if he knew what.
“You there, Ahern,” Clarkson said. “Off to the side with you.”
“I’m no longer on compassionate leave. I hereby reinstate myself.”
“You’re getting on my last nerve, you know that? You need to step away, step down, desist—phrase it how you bloody well like. You’ve already caused enough problems. You’re in a world of bad when all this dies down.”
He meant Malcolm, who’d arrived at the station talking about sanctions against Danny and how he was nothing but civic-minded, but he’d been stretched beyond his limits, and if they all wouldn’t mind he’d keep his mouth shut until his solicitor arrived to escort him home, because, of course, he’d done nothing wrong.
It had taken Malcolm a while to close his yammering maw, and by then they’d gotten the call from Milo of Milo’s Silos that had led them back to Blackie’s Pasture.
Meanwhile, Seamus was also waiting for them back at the station. The sublime chaos continued, and Danny wanted to be a part of it.
“I’ll observe while I’m here,” he said, “but I want a chance to interview Seamus later. The investigation is so off it’s spoiled.”
“And you think talking to Seamus will help?” Clarkson said.
“I have some thoughts, yes.”
“We’ll see. Get on with your so-called observing then.”
Clarkson retreated to a tractor and flat bed that sat near the silage bundles. One of the three bundles sat on the flat bed and a swarm of scenes of crime officers buzzed around the other two.
O’Neil was already talking to Milo and the taciturn field owner. Danny arrived at O’Neil’s side in time to hear the owner grunt in response to something Milo had said.
“It’s not my fault a killer is on the loose on your land,” Milo said.
The owner’s voice turned out to be smooth as silk. “If you’d hauled them to my other property when I requested it, we wouldn’t be standing here at all.”
Milo turned to Danny. “Is it my fault the dead boy had no other place to doss down? There was enough space right enough, but who would expect that?”
“So you loaded the first bundle, and then—?” O’Neil prompted.
“I couldn’t help but see the sleeping bag, now could I? And my first thought was that boy I’d found, so I had a closer look to satisfy my wits that I had found a clue.”
The field owner mumbled something that sounded like, “Witless more like.”
Danny excused himself and headed toward the crime scene activity. The two remaining mounds of fodder stood next to each other but with a space between them. The third had sat in front of them to form a loose three-leaf clover. Danny could see how there would have been a cavelike space in the center of the clover for Toby to shelter for the night.
Plastic flags marked various items lying within the perimeter of the shelter. A large pack that a hiker might use. A blanket. The boy had come prepared to rough it.
“What now, Ahern?” Clarkson called.
“That.” Danny pointed beyond the hiker’s pack. “I need a closer look.”
“You better not be winding me up.” Clarkson escorted him around the techs. “Well?”
They stood beside a marble Celtic cross mounted on a pedestal, common to many a tourist shop. It lay on its side—dropped, it looked to Danny. One of its arms was half buried in the dirt, the other pointing at the sky. It could be that the faint smudge on one corner of the arm was blood. Could be. Probably was. In other words, the probable murder weapon.
“I think it’s time for me to talk to Seamus.” Danny pulled out his mobile and snapped a picture. “Do I have your permission, Sir?”
“Oh, now with the respect, is it. Mind how you go. I want two of my team monitoring the interview. And I’d best not hear that you came within a fart’s whiff of Malcolm.” He raised his voice as Danny turned away. “Is that clear, Ahern?”
“Yes, Sir.”
Fine. For now Malcolm was off the hook.
A whoosh of feathers passed overhead. Danny stopped to track the bird. He caught sight of a sparrow with a droopy wing hopping on one of the silage bundles, the one that announced come home.
“I see you,” Danny said.
Across the field, an officer called, “You, get back!”
One look, and Danny changed directions, aware of the ever-present hovering at his back. None other than Merrit Chase had ventured into the pasture. She wore flannel pajamas under a raincoat with slip-on gardening clogs, and her hair gathered up into a crazy sleep knot. She didn’t seem to care, though, her impeccable posture as impeccable as ever.
She launched in without a greeting. “I walked over from the station when I heard that you—the guards—were back here again. Can you escort me in for a closer look at the ‘come home’ graffiti?” She met Danny’s gaze, squinted at him, and looked away. “I want to compare it to what’s on my car. Malcolm washed off his message before I could see it for myself.”
“It’s the same person. We’ve no doubts about that.”
“Still. There’s something that doesn’t make sense to me.”
“And what is that?”
She started ahead of him along the footpath that locals had pressed into the ground. They headed away from the plaza and toward O’Leary’s Pub on the other side, with the bundles on their left. She paused to take in the police activity. “That’s where they died—that’s so sad.”
She continued until she was abreast of the bundles and then slightly past them. From this vantage point, they could see come home scrawled across the bundle that stood closer to the O’Leary’s side of the pasture.
Merrit sounded deflated as she said, “Oh.”
“No great revelations?”
“I was hoping for a reprieve, I guess. The words on Malcolm’s shop and these words both appeared the night Brendan was killed, right?” She looked around as if imagining how it might have been that night. “It was super foggy, if I recall.”
She opened her mouth to say more, but closed it again. With head down, she turned around for the return walk to the Garda station. Danny gazed at the graffiti, trying and failing to grasp what Merrit had noticed. She’d latched on to something, though, because she wasn’t one to walk with eyes aimed at the ground.
The hopping sparrow tsip-tsip-tsip-ed as it flew away.
FIFTY-SEVEN
GEMMA SHIVERED AND CURLED closer to Bijou’s warmth and doggy smell. Dogs knew things, and they never lied. Bijou’s relaxed behavior told Gemma that she was as comfortable here as if they were in Alan’s pub. So that was good. Bijou felt safe, so Gemma could feel safe too, even though she lay on a couch in a room she didn’t recognize.
She’d woken up to reality without realizing that she’d been gone, and then the memories had flash flooded her. Every ghastly moment that had lurked inside her bottomless well had threatened to pull her under. She’d had to run. The notion of being stuck in this house, like she’d been stuck in the linen chest with its knothole when she was a child, had terrified her.
She remembered it all now. How, after McIlvoy came to live with them, she’d spent huge swaths of time inside the linen chest. The way the towel that her mam laid over the old lace scratched her skin. The scent of cedar. The smell of a roasted chicken that her mam had taken out of the oven for dinner. The way Gemma’s heart skittered around in her chest when McIlvoy’s voice rose, enraged, because her mam dared to stand up to him. “The shop must stay in my name,” she’d said. “It’s the kids’ inheritance.”
And then. What came after. Her mam’s gurgles as McIlvoy bashed her head against the counter before crashing out of the house. Gemma had managed to call 999. She’d known even then that she was closing down, that if she didn’t whisper out a few words of help for the baby still inside her mam, she never would. She had managed this and held her mam’s hand, willing her to stay alive but knowing that she was dying. Somehow she’d known that her baby brother could be saved. When the EMTs banged into the house, Gemma fled back to the linen chest.
And then. Toby’s violent birth—more violent than McIlvoy’s attack,
it had seemed to Gemma, who had witnessed the second assault on her mam’s body through a knothole in the chest. An emergency Caesarean that had looked like a massacre. A bloodbath.
And then. The squirming and squalling live thing that had come out of her precious mam’s stomach. Nothing but a monster whose first loud wail had drowned out the world.
And then. Gemma had disappeared for a while, a long while, until she’d woken up one day in a care facility, awake but not whole.
And now? She wasn’t sure she could live in the world with these memories. But then, this is what she’d wished for, hadn’t she? She’d insisted on begging a lift to Lisfenora when Dermot had left. She had pushed herself toward this outcome. And now that she had the outcome, she wanted nothing to do with it.
She’d never be whole. She understood that now. She would always be the quiet girl who didn’t handle people well. This was who she was. Her dreams of a miraculous recovery were nothing but a grand fiction.
“You’ve got some nasty cuts on your feet,” Alan said. “But no stitches required.”
Alan’s voice startled her from her reverie. She’d have to watch that, the way she lost track of the outside world. Her hand snaked up, gesticulating in its automatic fashion. Oh, that too. She had so much retraining ahead of her.
Gemma opened her eyes. She’d sunk so deep into Gemma World that she hadn’t realized they were closed. Alan sat next to her feet with a bowl of warm water on his lap. He submerged a wash rag and squeezed out the excess water. Rather than rubbing, he pressed the cloth up against the bottom of her left foot, then her right. He squinted and pressed harder near the ball of her foot. She twitched away from the pain.
He raised his hands, glancing at her, then away, then back at her and holding. “Oh. You’re here then.”
She nodded. Boy, was she.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d—”
Fallen back into herself again. Yes, she knew what he meant. That would forever be the fear for anyone who knew her. And for herself too, she supposed. The proclivity would always be there. She understood this now also.
