by Laura Elliot
What is he talking about? Karma and bikers and his dead wife – where is this conversation going? Elena wants to hear about Nicholas and how she can get her children and her inheritance back; but there is something about Billy’s posture that stops her restless movements.
‘Me and Red, well, we got to taking about bikes,’ he continues. ‘He showed me photos of his Harley. A fine-looking bike, if ever I saw one. He told me the man who sold it to him was one of those slick financial sorts. Gave him some investment tips. Red made a packet as a result. I don’t know what made me ask when he bought it but I did.’ Billy pauses, frowns, as if unsure whether or not he should continue.
‘Go on,’ Elena prompts him. She has no idea what is coming next. It will be bad, though, of this she is certain. Anxiety has become her bowstring, finely tuned to premonitions.
‘It was two days after John’s death,’ Billy continues. ‘Red remembered the date because it was his birthday. But he couldn’t bring the name of the seller to mind.’
‘What are you trying to tell me, Billy?’
‘It rained hard on the night of John’s accident.’ He sucks in his breath, as if he too can’t believe what he is going to say next. ‘The road was very slippery. The police always assumed that a car driver skidded on the wet surface and then drove off after the accident. By the time we found John, there were no tracks to prove otherwise. But I saw a bike on Kilfarran Lane that night. I’d walked to the gate to call the dog in. John wouldn’t have reached Woodbine by that stage. I knew it was a Harley going by. It’s got a distinctive sound because there’re two pistons and only one pin in the crankshaft.’ He stops, shakes his head. ‘Never mind the technicalities. What I’m trying to say is that I heard that sound and also recognised the bike by the headlights. I reported what I’d seen to the gardai but the following morning they found one of those metal Mondeo logos near the scene. They were convinced it had fallen off the car that hit John.’
She stares into the fire. Nicholas is the father of her children. The heat stings her eyes, flames her cheeks. How can her heart continue beating so fast, so violently, without collapsing into stillness?
‘You’re not suggesting it was Nicholas who sold his bike to Red?’
‘I’m not suggesting it. I’m telling you he did. Red rang me a few days ago. He’d found the chequebook he used when he bought the Harley. Nicholas’s name is on the stub. So is the date.’
‘That can’t be true.’ Billy has no reason to lie to her, but what she has heard is too horrifying to accept. ‘All that proves is that Nicholas sold his bike around the time Amelia’s father died. It has to be a coincidence. Nicholas is violent but to call him a murderer… it’s ridiculous. I won’t listen to this. I won’t—’
‘Sit down, Elena. Please.’ The colour has drained from Billy’s face. Aware that his heart is also in turmoil, she does as he asks.
He opens his wallet and shows her the cheque stub. ‘I got that in the post from Red. Like you say, it could be a coincidence.’
‘It has to be a coincidence.’ She doesn’t want to think about the photograph in Yvonne’s album but it flashes before her like a danger signal. Nicholas, relaxed in leather, leaning against his Harley, and Yvonne’s admission that he’d kept it in her garage long after he had stopped using it.
Billy hands the cheque stub to her. ‘Take this. I’ve photocopied it. I’ve no idea what you can do with it but someday maybe…’ His body sags in the armchair. Elena is conscious of his fragility. She finds his tablets and he slips one under his tongue.
‘Stress busters.’ His smile is strained; his concave chest rises and falls fast. ‘No matter how you do it, I hope you can bring him to justice, Elena.’
When they part, she is still in a state of disbelief. She will visit him again, she promises.
His house is close to a bend on Kilfarran Lane and she is edging the car cautiously out of the entrance when she notices Nicholas’s BMW. Two wheels are up on the narrow pavement and the car slants, half on and half off the road. Nicholas must have returned early from the gym and parked opposite Billy’s house. The driver’s seat is empty and her children are not in the back. Elena is wearing sunglasses, her hair covered by a hood, yet she feels as exposed as she always did in that instant before he struck her. From the corner of her eye, she sees him emerge from the trees that shadow the pavement. She only catches a fleeting glimpse of him as she bends her head over the steering wheel. Her foot shakes when she presses it against the accelerator. The rage that seized her when she attacked him had been an impulse, scalding and visceral, passing through her and fading as quickly as it had come. But the deliberate taking of a life, the methodical planning and ruthless execution… how could she have been so deceived in love?
Billy must be zonked on medication. Dementia setting in. The fear of death disturbing his mind. But the cheque stub lies on the seat beside her. It flutters, as if disturbed by the jerking speed of the car as she turns and drives from Kilfarran Lane. She glances sideways at the wing mirror. Nicholas is standing in the middle of the road and, as if aware that she is looking back, he lifts his hand and waves.
* * *
Billy Tobin’s death makes the morning headlines.
The elderly man was pronounced dead at the scene and his body removed from his home on Kilfarran Lane. Time of death has yet to be ascertained but it is believed he had been dead in his living room for four days before his presence was missed and the gardai were called. Foul play is suspected and gardai are appealing to anyone who was in the vicinity of Kilfarran Lane on Saturday and noticed anything unusual to contact them at Kilfarran Garda Station.
Hands over her mouth to stifle a scream, Elena leaves the breakfast table and climbs the stairs to her room. Four days since Billy died. She imagines his body stretched in front of the fire that had crackled and sparkled as he revealed a terrible truth to her. She would understand what had happened if his heart had given way after the stress of their conversation? That would make sense but what she had just heard on the radio ruled that out. Foul play is suspected…what does that mean? How soon after she left had the attack taken place? Did Nicholas recognise her as she drove away? No, that would not have been possible, not with the sunglasses and the hoodie. But he had waved, a deliberate gesture of acknowledgement, a mocking salute of recognition.
She needs to compose herself before leaving for another day at the office. Rosemary, who shouts from the hall that she is ready to leave, must not suspect anything is wrong. Elena splashes cold water on her face and runs downstairs.
More details emerge in the evening papers. The alarm had been raised by the owner of the Kilfarran Inn, who noticed the absence of his regular customer. When the guards broke in, they found Billy in a pool of blood, his skull cracked. A burglary that went wrong, they believe. Thugs targeting the elderly, especially those who live in quiet places. Jewellery that once belonged to Jodie has been stolen, also Billy’s wallet.
Forty-Two
In St Malachy’s Church, Elena recognises faces from Kilfarran Village. Sideways glances, unbridled interest; she senses the unease caused by her arrival. On the way to Billy’s funeral she almost changed her mind on two occasions and, now, as she finds a seat among the mourners, she imagines the whispered comments. That’s her? The Ice Pick Stabber. A real nut job, she is. Better not get on the wrong side of her.
The tension rises a notch when, towards the end of the funeral mass, Nicholas stands at the altar and pays tribute to his neighbour. Unaware previously that he was in the church, Elena is stunned to see him, without notes, eulogising Billy’s life. If she leaves now, everyone will know why she is fleeing. She listens to the familiar cadences that once seduced her and is assailed by images that have haunted her since the news of Billy’s death broke. Nicholas returns to his seat on an appreciative round of applause.
In the cemetery, the crowd are sombre, still shocked that a local man could die in such circumstances. No one speaks to Elena or shows that they re
cognise her. Once again, she is facing Nicholas across the width of an open grave. As always, he stands out from those surrounding him. His flawless skin is lightly tanned from a recent holiday with the children in Spain. His forehead is smooth, a high plane without furrows, guiltless. His eyes compel attention, engender trust, beget love.
She notices a stranger standing behind him. He is losing his hair and has shaved off what remains. Square-rimmed glasses and a neatly trimmed goatee beard add to his air of gravity. She has no memory of having seen him before, yet there is something about his face that tugs at her memory. He lifts his head and, as if aware that he is under scrutiny, he looks across at Elena and smiles. She looks down quickly. Smiling at strangers in cemeteries has consequences.
When the burial is over, a portly man pumps Nicholas’s hand and slaps his shoulder. Congratulating him on his speech, no doubt. Elena walks away. She has watched the reports on television, listened to a grave-faced detective inspector plead with the public for information from anyone who saw Billy in the lead-up to the time of his death. How long can she hide the truth? How long before the fragile house of cards she had built around herself collapses?
The man who had smiled at her is walking ahead. He slows until she is abreast of him.
‘I’m Mark Patterson,’ he says. ‘Amelia was one of my closest friends.’
Elena remembers him now. A photograph of teenagers, Amelia, Leanne and two boys lounging on grass with them. Mark’s features are unchanged but he had hair then, a pink Mohican.
‘Billy was always kind to us when we were kids,’ he continues. ‘His death was an obscenity.’
‘He was kind to me, too,’ she replies. ‘I hope they find whoever is responsible. They should throw away the key when they lock him up.’
‘I agree.’ When they reach the car park he reaches for her hand and squeezes it. ‘Have courage,’ he says.
Before she can respond, he walks swiftly ahead of her towards his own car. Such a fleeting encounter, almost imagined, yet she is aware of a quickening in her step, a lifting of her heart.
Nicholas is standing beside the orange Citroën. When he holds out his hand to shake hers, there is a perceptible pause from those who have still to drive away.
‘Get out of my way.’ Elena ignores his gesture and pulls the car keys from her handbag.
‘Why?’ He leans back against the door on the driver’s side, his tall frame relaxed, one foot crossed over the other. ‘Will you stick me with an ice pick if I don’t?’ Once, his laughter was contagious, . Now, when he laughs, it sounds in her ears like breaking glass.
‘You can do better than that with the insults, Nicholas. You’ve done so in the past, usually before you knocked me to the ground.’
No longer laughing, he ignores her comment and smacks his hand off the side of the car. ‘When did Rosemary give you this heap of junk?’
‘If you don’t leave me alone, I’m calling the police and reporting you for harassing me,’ she snaps.
‘By all means, call them.’ He speaks softly so that only she can hear him. ‘Then you can tell them what you were doing at Billy Tobin’s house on the day he died. Or have you informed them already that you were the last person to see him alive?’ He shakes his head and answers his own question. ‘No? How very remiss of you. I can accompany you to Kilfarran Garda Station, if you like. It must feel like a second home to you by now.’
‘I wasn’t―’
‘You weren’t there?’ His forehead furrows in mock-surprise. ‘I apologise if I’ve made a mistake. I could have sworn I saw you driving away from the scene of a murder. Practice makes perfect, don’t you agree? And this time you succeeded. The only reason I’m alive is that you failed to find my heart.’
‘That’s because you don’t have one.’
‘Answering back now, I see. Found you had a backbone after all. Congratulations.’
‘Don’t you dare threaten me.’ Some of the drivers are clearly delaying their departure to witness this encounter and she, like Nicholas, speaks softly. ‘I wasn’t with Billy and you can’t prove otherwise.’
‘I certainly can. I photographed this car outside Billy’s house, so don’t waste my time denying you were there. I also have a video of you driving away – very erratically, I should add.’ He removes his phone from his pocket and holds it towards her. ‘Would you like a preview?’
‘If you have the proof, why haven’t you already reported me?’ She averts her eyes from the phone. He will not see her tremble, though she feels as if she is gripped by a fever. ‘You’ve done your utmost to separate me from my children. This gives you the perfect excuse.’
‘I’m a protective father. Do you blame me for worrying about their safety?’
Before she can step aside, he takes her in his arms. She gasps as she is crushed against him, his grip iron-like, his fists digging into her back.
‘You’ve been talking to a lot of people lately,’ he murmurs into her ear. ‘First Billy and now that poofter at the cemetery.’
It takes an instant before she realises he is referring to Mark.
‘Let me go.’ She struggles to break free, aware that they are still being watched by the onlookers. A teenager standing nearby raises his phone. A video for Facebook or Instagram; it will be uploaded within minutes.
‘All in good time, Elena.’ He is speaking faster now. ‘Billy Tobin was a demented old fool. I want to know why you were at his house.’
‘I wasn’t anywhere near his house.’
‘You’ve a big mouth on you, bitch,’ he whispers as he releases her. ‘Tell me the truth or I’m going straight to the police. You do know what that means? You’ll be placed on remand straight away but don’t think you’ll be cossetted in an asylum.’
‘This is the only truth you’ll get.’ To draw her hand back and slap his face is the wrong thing to do. Uncaring, Elena glories in the warm sting of satisfaction against her palm. She is aware of the effort it takes Nicolas not to retaliate. And something else, almost imagined, yet she sees it in the flicker of his eyelids. Why is he fearful when he has the upper hand, has always had it?
‘Showing your true colours, Elena.’ He holds his fingers to his cheek, then turns and walks away.
She gets into the car, her hands sweating as she holds on to the steering wheel. A video of an orange Citroën leaving the scene of a crime. This time, she will stand trial for murder. Why should anyone believe her innocence?
She returns to Rosemary’s house and showers that feel of him from her skin. Cycling to work, she takes deep breaths, inhaling, exhaling, determined to be composed when she sees Rosemary, whose questions about Elena’s free time have become more probing.
* * *
She has gone viral. The Ice Pick Stabber strikes again. Her face twisted with hatred as she smacks his face. Nicholas looks stricken, wounded, forgiving. Elena reads the comments on social media and is sickened by the vitriol. No sense searching for comfort in the world of virtual reality where there is only room for opinion.
Forty-Three
She works late to make up for the time she lost at Billy’s funeral. No interruptions from couriers, no coffee breaks, no phones ringing. Climbing the stairs to Rosemary’s office, she leaves a stack of documents on the solicitor’s desk to be signed next morning. This house was once a grand Georgian residence and then a slum. Children sleeping four or five to a bed, a communal toilet that left the stench of poverty on their skin. Now, it is a business premises and, in the quietness of the hour, she hears a sound drawn from the old stone and wonders if the ghosts of those who once walked those stairs are stirring.
Back at her own desk, she finishes an email to Tara and sends it off. Her friend has flown from London twice to see her and emails her every day, as does Steve. Killian and Susie have invited her to stay on their farm until the date of the trial but going away is impossible; still, it helps to know they are concerned for her. She checks the time on her phone and is surprised to discover it’s after t
en o’clock. She will turn off the computer and return to Rosemary’s house. Searching Facebook again is a destructive act but she is tormented by a voyeuristic curiosity about herself. The Ice Pick Stabber. The name will haunt her always. Decisively, she shuts down the computer and switches off the gas fire.
Her coat hangs from a hook on the door. As she puts it on she is startled by a movement outside the window. Her fingers freeze on the buttons until she realises it’s her reflection. She closes the blinds and turns off the lights.
The exterior light that automatically turns on when the basement door opens has broken. First thing in the morning she’ll call an electrician to fix it. The glow from a streetlamp filters through the wrought-iron railings above her and illuminates the passageway leading to the steps. Cracks on the surface have made it uneven in places and she must be careful of her ankle, which is still painful. She locks the door and pulls down the security shutter.
‘Elena.’ He speaks her name softly. Before she can move, he is behind her, his arms encircling her. He pushes her against the wall and forces her face into the rough stone.
‘One word from you and I’ll smash your head in.’ His breath is warm on the back of her neck, his tone an obscene caress. ‘Are you listening to me? Repeat every word that demented fool told you.’ His knee crashes into the back of her legs and her body jack-knifes in a spasm. ‘Speak to me, Elena. I’m waiting.’
‘I told you already,’ she gasps. ‘I wasn’t there.’
‘Don’t lie to me.’ He pulls her head back from the wall by her hair.
‘Why would I risk breaking bail―?’
‘I’m asking the questions, bitch.’
Once again, her forehead is smashed against the wall. Her mouth fills with the metallic taste of blood. It rolls slickly down her cheek.
