by Laura Elliot
He followed her into the living room and sat down beside the coffee table. She whisked the dishes past his troubled gaze and out to the kitchen. He too had found the spirit of Christmas too tedious to endure and had headed back early. He refused her offer of a drink and they sat in uneasy silence before the fire. Sparks spluttered when she added a log, conscious that he was watching her every movement. He looked out of place in her small room, his long legs stretched too close to the flames, his shoulders too broad for chintzy armchairs. Impossible to imagine him in a factory or an office. Her mind was set with him beside a riverbank. She would hang his painting on the wall when he left. It would always remind her of Faye.
‘You should be with your husband tonight.’ His words startled her. ‘You should be in his arms, talking of love. Why are you sitting here alone? I want to understand… How can he love you and let you go?’
‘What do you know about love?’ she demanded. His questions were so attuned to her own thoughts that she wanted to lash out at him. ‘How can you talk to me about my marriage when you banish mementoes of your wife from the rooms you once shared?’ She rose to her feet. ‘I think you’d better leave now before we say things we’ll regret later.’
He too stood up, facing her, standing too close. ‘I came here to talk to you – to tell you things you need to know.’ He paused, his gaze sinking into hers, as they held each other captive in a tense, unwavering stare.
‘Why do you keep staring at me?’ she cried. ‘You watch me constantly… I feel your eyes on me all the time.’
‘All the time.’ He echoed her words. ‘Always…’
In that instant there was a shift in desire, so sudden that when she swayed towards him she knew before she reached him how it was going to end. She didn’t resist when he kissed her, their lips pulsing as she drew him in deeper, the tingling shock of their tongues touching, probing, their mouths crushed in that first, wounding kiss. The jacket slipped from her shoulders and she heard him moan as he pulled away, almost forcing her from him, and when she gasped, shocked by his abrupt withdrawal, she saw such passion in his gaze that she closed her eyes and cried out his name, her arms urgently pulling him close again. Her hands were on him and his on her, touching her breasts, sliding the nightdress upwards, the fine silk shimmering as he slid it smoothly over her hips, his fingers on her bare flesh, opening her to his touch as she too sought and held him, unable to believe she was seeking such relief; sunk in shame and pleasure and escape.
He loosened her hair from its clasp until it hung to her shoulders, showering over them. The savage intensity of their passion amazed her – so demanding, infinite, free. She didn’t want to move from this place, or to slow the intensity of their lovemaking, knowing that anything else, a movement towards her bedroom, delicate foreplay, teasing words of anticipation, would bring her back to her senses. She was lifted in his arms. Her legs encircled him. The power of his desire moulded her into him. She felt the thrusting strength of him entering her, heard their breath shuddering as they moved together.
She didn’t reason why she was in his arms. She only knew that her body had taken control, battering her through the numbness that had overwhelmed her for so long, and when they came together, it was an aching release, as if they’d spent a lifetime knowing each other’s desire. She cried into his shoulder, clinging to the pleasure of the moment, wanting to surge forever on its crest, his voice calling her name – Eva… Eva… Eva…
It was over as suddenly as it had started. His arms supported her when she collapsed against his chest. He sank back onto the sofa, pulling her with him, breathing fast, their clothes still tangled around them, half on, half off, and they huddled together, unable to talk, to understand, to make sense of the wildness that had consumed them.
For a while she slept. He was watching her when she awoke. This time their lovemaking was slower, more deliberate. She stared down into his eyes as she sank into him, their bodies unable to rest until they had driven each other to the edge of oblivion – and even then, she suspected, they would never be satisfied.
He left in the morning. She ached with exhaustion, still feeling his touch on her skin, suffused with the heat he’d left behind. In the shower she switched on the cold water and gasped as it spilled over her breasts. He had touched them with reverence, his lips gently arousing the area where Faye has once suckled so voraciously, as if he was trying to imprint another memory on them. Gradually, she calmed down but she was unable to think beyond him.
She opened the garden centre, relieved that her sales assistant was still on her Christmas break. Business was brisk: last-minute gifts, bouquets and plants purchased on the way to parties and festive dinners. She had little memory of the day, the customers, the mundane chores that killed time until the night.
They hadn’t planned a further meeting and she decided to go to bed early. He phoned as she was about to lie down. He said he was sorry. He had abused her trust. He never intended it to happen. She clamped her lips together and held tightly to the phone.
‘I love you desperately,’ he said. ‘But we can’t see each other again, not like that… not like that.’ His voice shook, a raw gasp, as if he too was remembering the sounds of their passion.
‘Stop it!’ She groped blindly for the duvet and pulled it over her. ‘How can you patronise me after what we’ve just experienced?’
‘No, no! Listen to me, Eva. I don’t want to hurt you. But I know I will.’
She hung up on him and his faltering excuses. She tried to sleep. She heard his car outside. His footsteps on the gravel. She went to the door. Wordlessly, he took her in his arms and carried her to her bedroom. Sated with pleasure, they finally slept.
Eva was caught in the waiting stillness, wondering. How did it happen? What chemistry merged and melted them? She tried to understand this passion, to seek some relief from it. She drove too fast, turned corners too sharply. Once, when her van rocked on a bend, she pulled into the side of the road and tried to compose herself. Was this a nervous breakdown? Was she exhibiting symptoms of exhilaration? Did she love him? The answer no longer mattered. She loved Greg and he’d betrayed her. She loved Faye and she had died. Love had no substance. No root.
Chapter 50
The producer from Elucidate flew to New York to attend a conference on racism within the media.
‘A tricky subject at the best of times,’ said Sue Lovett when the speeches were over and she was relaxing with Greg in her hotel foyer. She informed him that his destiny in life was to be a big fish in a small pond. In New York he was a flounder, floundering out of his depth.
‘Come home,’ she said.
‘What’s at home?’ he asked.
Ireland was a time bomb, ticking with the excesses of the past. Politicians trying to shake off the touch of golden handshakes. Bankers thumping their breasts and shouting ‘Sorry… Sorry…’ for bringing the country to its knees. Developers scrutinising their tax returns and discreet off-shore accounts. Brutal, sacred secrets finally spoken aloud through the media confessional. Albert Grant’s name was mentioned, the hint of a land scandal. It came to nothing in the end, as all enquiries did when they concerned him.
‘Our source is his niece,’ said Sue. ‘Her name is Beth McKeever.’
Greg reminded her that Justin Boyd had dropped the story. No proof.
‘She went over Justin’s head and contacted me directly.’ Sue smiled, a hint of approval. ‘She’s a determined woman.’
‘Bad blood between them, obviously.’
Sue nodded. ‘Sounds like it. Her story could be worth a second look. Are you interested?’
‘Not particularly. In case you’ve forgotten, I have a job here.’
‘I’ve watched Stateside Review,’ Sue said. ‘Interesting stuff. Why aren’t you surrounded by dancers with sequins in their belly buttons?’
‘It’s not that bad.’
‘Yes, Greg, it is that bad. What’s happened to you?’
‘Nothing. Apart
from clearing out the “we-make-a difference” crap from my head. What difference did I ever make? Michael Hannon? His party forgave him as soon as he prayed for forgiveness. His wife is still holding his hand and his girlfriend has her own reality show.’
‘While your marriage has broken up – and your child is dead. Is that what you’re thinking?’
‘I’m not thinking at all, Sue. I’m surviving. That’s what you do in this city.’
‘Or disappear into a programme called Stateside Review.’
‘My friend Ellen calls it candyfloss. Her advertising revenue has never been higher.’
‘I believe you.’ Sue stood up and shook his hand. She’d arranged to have dinner with some friends and he was due back at the office. ‘You have a job waiting if you decide to come home.’
‘I thought Justin Boyd was more than adequately filling my shoes.’
‘Justin’s a boy scout, not a muckraker.’ She frowned. ‘I need you on the programme, Greg. But I’ve no intention of begging. Albert Grant’s niece said the story would never have died if you’d been handling it. Do you want her number?’
‘For what purpose?’
‘Oh, you know.’ She shrugged and opened her briefcase, briskly handing him a business card. ‘Just in case your producer decides to bring on the belly dancers.’
In his office he thought about Albert Grant and how, on Christmas night, he’d drunk malt whiskey and delivered a lusty rendering of ‘A Nation Once Again’. A true-blue armchair patriot who would take credit for the building of a dog kennel.
Justin had dismissed the woman’s evidence. Stories, rumours, pub gossip. Yet each had its own momentum. Greg had seen the rumour mill in action, the media frenzy once the hint of a scandal was floated and discovered to have substance. The hidden voices coming out of the woodwork when they knew there was someone who would listen. He felt an almost forgotten clench of excitement as he lifted his phone, tapped a number and asked to speak to Beth McKeever.
Greg had forgotten the moist wind, the hint of rain, the buffeting, restless clouds. He had forgotten the patchwork green that rose to meet him as the plane flew low over the Irish coast. But when he walked into the arrivals hall of Dublin Airport and saw Eva waiting, he felt as if the fist was closing around him once again. He looked into her eyes and knew that nothing had changed.
Back in the fold of Elucidate he found it difficult to believe he had ever been away. The sounds were the same: hothouse gossip, speculation, the excited buzz of facts confirmed and packaged for an evening’s viewing. He took back his apartment, which had been rented to a friend, a forty-year-old engineer with the hygiene habits of a student on the razz. By the time Greg finished sponging, mopping and bleaching, it was as organised as it had ever been in his pre-Eva days. The household plants gleamed. The exotic fish still swam with stately grace in their aquarium, friendly and darting – unlike the sullen killer shoal he had left behind in New York. He sat watching them at play, wondering if they had noticed his departure or grieved for his friendly hand to feed them. He knew the answer to that one. Why clutter your mind with incidental emotions when you only have to concentrate on swimming in a straight line? Sometimes even fish could be a source of envy.
Chapter 51
In the flesh Greg Enright was less intimidating than on television, with kinder eyes and an attentive manner that immediately reassured her.
‘I can’t be associated with this story,’ she warned him when they met in a small hotel on the outskirts of Dublin. ‘My husband’s future is tied up with the Anaskeagh industrial park. I’ll help behind the scenes in every way I can but I need to know I can rely utterly on your discretion.’
He listened carefully to everything she had to say. Under his careful questioning Derry Mulhall’s rambling story began to take shape. She told him about Kitty Grimes and her fear of exposure.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll handle her gently,’ he said and smiled wryly when she advised him that a rum and coke would be appreciated by Hatty Beckett. His gut instinct was to start the investigation with the industrial park. He would focus on its development and start digging the dirt from there.
‘I’ve checked the ACII records,’ he told her. ‘You’re right about Clasheen being the original location. That makes sense. Trucks would have had direct access to the main Dublin Road, unlike in Anaskeagh.’
Beth nodded. ‘I’ve spoken to a builder who was promised work on the Clasheen site. I think he’ll talk but you need to appreciate that these people are afraid. You’ll have to gain their confidence first.’
‘Why aren’t you afraid?’ he asked. ‘Your uncle is a very powerful man. Why are you so determined to bring him down?’
‘I want justice―’
‘Justice? Or revenge?’ Greg Enright had a narrow, watchful face. A gaze that sharpened, searching, Beth suspected, for a story behind the one she’d handed him.
‘My uncle controls Anaskeagh,’ she said. ‘He sees it as his own personal fiefdom. He’s your story. Mine is my own business. If we’re to work together you have to respect my right to privacy. You also have to trust me.’
‘Trust must be mutual,’ he said. ‘If I feel that you have an ulterior motive then the story is dead.’
They shook hands before they parted. Beth thought it was a pity he didn’t smile more often.
Before returning to Anaskeagh she drove to Havenstone. Swans would never again swim on Estuary Road. The narrow potholed lane had disappeared, replaced by a slip road banked by flyovers and roundabouts. Peter looked younger, as if years had fallen away from him. His skin was fresh, no angry blotches, his eyes alive. She recognised the old restlessness from his student days, the same contagious energy. She walked with him to the back of Havenstone and entered the garden, standing still for an instant to absorb the transformation. Within this walled enclosure, onions burgeoned like fists from the soil and the ridged rows of vegetables captured the spirit of the market garden that was still such an important feature of the old village.
Later, when she called to Connie’s house and met Lindsey, she understood the reason for Peter’s enthusiasm.
‘Her name is Eva,’ Lindsey announced. ‘And he’s absolutely crazy about her. Imagine falling in love at his age?’
‘He’s not due for the old folks’ home yet.’ Beth laughed. ‘Falling in love isn’t solely the prerogative of the young, you know. Is the feeling reciprocated?’
‘I’m not sure.’ Lindsey shook her head, as if puzzled by the complexities of human emotions. ‘She spends a lot of time at Havenstone and he cooks her fabulous meals, so she’s either in love with him or she’s a compulsive overeater.’
‘What’s she like?’ Beth asked.
Lindsey frowned, a puzzled expression on her face.
‘I like Eva a lot – but I don’t know if it’s because she reminds me of Sara.’
‘Sara?’
‘It’s kind of weird. Sometimes I think it’s my imagination and then she moves her head a certain way or smiles and it’s as if I’m looking at Sara. I thought she was a ghost when I first saw her. I hope Peter’s in love with her for the right reasons.’
Beth was startled by her daughter’s comment but before she could reply Connie arrived home from the village. She was carrying grocery bags and seemed frailer than she’d been at Christmas but cheerful as she fussed over Beth and enquired about her grandchildren.
‘You have to visit us again,’ Beth said. ‘No more excuses.’
‘Maybe I’ll come for Easter,’ said Connie when Beth was leaving. ‘If you’re sure it won’t be upsetting for your mother.’
‘Don’t worry about Marjory.’ Beth was unable to keep her bitterness at bay. ‘She hasn’t visited us once since we moved. I call to see her every few days and do her shopping. It makes no difference. She can’t forgive me for marrying Stewart.’ She hugged her mother-in-law. ‘Your grandchildren miss you. And so do I. That’s all that matters.’
Twilight was settling on Anaskeagh
Head when Beth reached the town. She parked her car on the old pier and walked along the stony, uneven surface. The tide was in, lapping dark against the wall. A white cruiser came to a stop some distance from the shore. She watched a group of men on board busily anchoring and securing the vessel. Seagulls screeched and swirled above them, anxious to partake in the results of a successful fishing trip. Four men climbed down the ladder and into a small dinghy. It cut swiftly through the waves and, as they mounted the stone steps at the side of the pier, she saw her uncle. Ruddy and relaxed from his day’s fishing, he was flanked by two friends and his son.
‘Well, if it isn’t Beth McKeever.’ Her uncle’s handshake was hard and purposeful. She tried not to flinch. ‘You remember my favourite niece.’ She recognised his two companions, Ben Layden and Harry Moore. They nodded politely, anxious to be on their way.
When their cars disappeared from view she returned to her own car and watched the sun sink beyond the headland. Greg Enright’s hair was dark with a smattering of grey. Too young to be going grey but there was nothing youthful about him. He would take her uncle apart and Beth would finally breathe freely again.
Chapter 52
Spring brought the garden centre to life. In the mornings it was mostly older men and women who wandered among the plants and shrubs. At weekends young couples arrived, baby slings and strollers, planning gardens, buying trees and shrubs that would grow with their children. In the evenings, while she waited for her lover to arrive, Eva walked by the lake, where bluebells, cowslips and forget-me-nots fluttered in green shady hollows.
Her husband was back in the interrogator’s chair. A class act to watch, and Eva did watch him. She was still fascinated by this unflinching man who had wept with joy when their child was born and wept so bitterly into her shoulder when her brief life had ended.
