by Laura Elliot
‘He hated me because I knew his friend was a fucking paedophile. He’d do anything to slander me so you’d better start talking. What did he say?’
Tears run from her eyes but she is afraid to cry out in case he attacks her again. A trembling suspicion has turned into conviction. Billy alone in his house, answering a knock on the door late at night. Questions asked and a blow to the head when he refused to answer them.
Her arm has been twisted so violently behind her back she fears it has been dislocated from its socket. How long can she withstand the pain before she breaks? And if she breaks and reveals what Billy told her, what then? Death? She knows now that he has killed twice. Why not a third time? She will never hold her children again, hear their voices, wipe their tears, share their laughter. She whispers their names: Grace… Joel… Grace… Joel… if these are the last words she utters, she will repeat them until she has no breath left to do so. He releases her arm and encircles her neck. Gloves, soft leather, flexible, untraceable. Grace… Joel… Grace… Joel…
‘Do you want me to strangle you, Elena?’ He has still not raised his voice. Anyone passing above them would think they were a couple embracing in the shadows. ‘You always liked a bit of rough and this will be as rough as it gets unless you tell me everything. The police didn’t believe a word from your lying mouth when you tried to kill me. I’ll make sure you―’
Suddenly, the locked security shutter springs upwards with a loud clatter. The office window cracks outwards, as if blown apart by an internal explosion. Startled, Nicholas reels back and releases his grip on her. Elena collapses to the ground as shards of glass shatter around them. She hears a sigh, as if a beast imprisoned for too long has been released. Unable to tell if Nicholas is injured but knowing she only has seconds to escape, she staggers to her feet and runs, sobbing hysterically as she mounts the steps. Nicholas, too, has risen. He grabs her ankle but his grip is weak and he overbalances when she kicks back hard with her other foot. He curses as he slides back down the wrought-iron steps. She reaches the footpath. The bike is locked to the railings. She leaves it there and runs onto the road, searching for a taxi. Her right arm hangs limply by her side. Blood is still streaming from her forehead.
Nicholas has reached the pavement, his tall frame forming an elongated silhouette under the streetlamp. ‘That was only a taster tonight, Elena.’ His voice, now rough with fury, reaches her. ‘Just remember that you were the last person to see Billy Tobin alive. One mention of tonight and the police will be knocking on your door so fast you won’t have time to blink before you’re in handcuffs.’ She hears him walking away, his footsteps fading.
A taxi draws up beside her. ‘Good God, lady! What happened to you?’ the driver asks when she collapses into the back seat. He rummages in the glove compartment and hands her a wad of tissues. ‘You need an ambulance, not a taxi. I’ll call one for you.’
‘It’s superficial. I’ll be okay.’ She scans the road but Nicholas has merged into the night. ‘I was cut by flying glass.’ Perhaps that’s true. There could be splinters of glass embedded in her skin, along with grit from the wall. ‘There was a gas explosion in my office,’ she continues. ‘I need to ring Bord Gáis and report it.’
‘I’ll do that for you, lady. Then we go to the hospital.’ The driver is Nigerian, broad-cheeked, his dark eyes filled with concern. A medal of St Christopher hangs from his rear-view mirror. His deep voice with its rhythmic intonations helps to calm her down. She speaks to an official from the gas board and gives him the address of the office, as well as Rosemary’s phone number.
The driver, having escorted her to the emergency department of the Mater Hospital, refuses her offer of payment. ‘You are alive to tell the tale,’ he says. ‘It is a miracle to survive a gas explosion. Someone in heaven was watching over you.’
Forty-Four
Elena arrives at the community centre early. Sophie makes coffee and polite conversation. It’s Yvonne’s bridge morning, so Henry will bring the children today. Usually, their grandmother takes them as far as the entrance and hands them over to Sophie but today, Henry comes straight into the room where Elena is waiting. He is carrying Joel but Grace has already let his hand go and is running towards Elena’s open arms. When she sees her mother’s face she falters and begins to cry. The bruises are livid, a palette of violence, and scabs have formed on her skin where it was torn by the brickwork.
‘Sweet Jesus, what happened to you?’ Henry stops, shocked by her appearance and obviously unable to hide his apprehension in case she screams Your son did this to me.
‘I fell on the steps coming out of work.’ If she repeats this lie often enough she might begin to believe it herself. Billy Tobin is the spectre that keeps her silent. So far, she has heard nothing from the police. That can mean only one thing: Nicholas has not reported her visit to Billy. Instead of relief, she feels a growing agitation that eases only when it is announced on the evening news that a young man has been taken in for questioning. Perhaps she was wrong about Nicholas and he is simply trying to torment her. But her relief is short-lived: the suspect is released without charge the following day. A garda statement claims the police are following a definite line of enquiry. Every time the phone rings or someone knocks on Rosemary’s door, she trembles. As always, Nicholas has her where he wants her, helpless and at his mercy.
‘I’ll collect the children in an hour.’ Henry averts his eyes from her face. ‘Joel may be difficult.’ He speaks directly to the social worker. ‘He’s cutting another tooth.’
Joel crawls to the box of toys and flings them to the floor. She has applied to the courts for longer hours and is waiting on a date for a new hearing. She longs for those visits, yet when they are over she feels no sense of fulfilment and is conscious only of relief. A relief that used to overcome her when she had undergone a difficult test and passed it. The hour she spends with them twice a week is too short. Grace and Joel have only just begun to relax when their visit is over. She is running out of things to say to them. This frightens her. Is it so easy to break the maternal bond or are words hard to find in such an unnatural environment? She must depend on touch to break down the barriers that keep her and her children apart. She holds Grace to her, strokes her hair, kisses her face. She hunkers beside Joel, who has pulled himself upright and is clinging to the side of the toybox. As she reaches towards him, he lets go and takes a step, then another. A beatific smile spreads across his face as he manages another one before falling into her arms.
‘Those were his first steps.’ Henry’s delight is evident when he comes back at the end of visiting time and hears the news from Sophie.
‘I’m so pleased he took them when he was with you,’ he says to Elena and walks away before she can reply.
* * *
The pain in Elena’s arm awakens her at two o’clock in the morning. When she switches on the light she is confronted as usual by the life-sized poster of a rugby player. This bedroom belongs to Rosemary’s son, who used to be play for his local football club before he moved to Brussels. The bedroom is crammed with medals and trophies, triumphant photographs, and framed jerseys scrawled with signatures. She feels as if she is sleeping in a stadium but is reluctant to change anything. Staying with Rosemary is a stopgap until she gains custody of her children and life can begin again. Illusion and hopelessness dominate the small hours when reality lies down and plays dead.
The venom in Nicholas’s voice when he called John Pierce a paedophile was unmistakable. What secrets had Amelia carried with her into the depths? Would Elena ever be able to decipher them when all she had was a grubby envelope with a faded postmark?
She goes downstairs in search of ice and painkillers. Sally, Rosemary’s cat, winds around her legs and laps gratefully at the milk Elena pours into her bowl, an unexpected treat. She mews to go outside. Elena stands in the open doorway. A full moon hangs heavy in the black sky. She imagines craters and soundless depths, an abiding calm. If only she could instil some of
that quietude in her mind and stop it racing from one catastrophic scenario to another. Had Billy confronted Nicholas without realising the fury he would unleash? Or had he decided it was preferable to name the truth rather than carry it to his grave?
A rustle in the bushes startles her. It’s probably a hedgehog or some other nocturnal creature foraging, yet she feels the darting fear that she so often experiences these days and nights. She calls the cat in and locks the back door behind them.
The ice pack hurts her skin but the painkillers are taking effect. She is sleepy yet returning to bed is a useless exercise.
* * *
‘I thought I heard you moving about.’ Rosemary enters the kitchen in her dressing gown and sits down beside her. ‘Is the pain keeping you awake?’
‘It woke me up and I couldn’t settle again.’ Elena adjusts the ice pack.
‘Is the poltergeist on your mind?’ Rosemary’s smile is grim. The inspector from the gas board was unable to find any trace of a gas leak and the explosion in the office remains a mystery. Unaware that her sarcasm could carry a grain of truth, Rosemary suggested that the damage must have been caused by a ghost.
‘What do you mean?’ Elena asks.
‘Don’t take me for a fool.’ Rosemary wraps a fresh ice pack in a towel and applies it to Elena’s arm. ‘I don’t believe you fell on those steps. If you are in danger, I need to know.’
‘I told you―’
‘Nicholas attacked you, that’s what I believe. What I don’t understand is why you feel the need to protect him. You must tell me what’s going on.’
The strain of setting up her own law firm and combatting insistent rumours about her sudden departure from KHM is etched deeply on Rosemary’s face. The whispering campaign she endured took place shortly after she’d held a meeting with Nicholas and questioned him about his dealings with an Asian bank. The same bank that left Elena penniless and dependent on Rosemary’s generosity.
‘You know what happened.’ The lie lodges in her throat. The longing to confide in her friend is a constant struggle but blurting out the truth will bring no relief. Rosemary, her reputation as a law-abiding solicitor at stake, will insist on going directly to the police. Elena is under no illusions as to how they will react, especially if she accuses Nicholas of murder.
Rosemary, clearly unconvinced, rises stiffly from the chair and returns to her bedroom. Elena follows her up the stairs and lies sleepless until morning.
Forty-Five
On Mag’s Head, the knock on the cottage door startles her. As always when an unexpected caller arrives, she tenses and, in doing so, her features tauten into a chilling rigidity. She checks the front window. Beyond the gate, an orange Citroën is parked close by the side of the road. She doesn’t know anyone with such a distinctive car but tourists sometimes call looking for directions. When the caller knocks a second time, a prolonged rat-a-tat that sets her teeth on edge, she checks through the peephole. Elena Langdon. How long will it take before she gives up and drives away? After the fourth knock, she pulls the door open, furious yet frightened by the woman’s determination.
‘I had to come back.’ Elena stands square in front of her, her face bruised, stitches in her forehead. ‘You must tell me the truth about Amelia Madison.’
‘I told you I don’t―’
‘You lied.’ Elena’s eyes are fixed on the butterfly pendant at her neck. ‘Amelia made that for you. I recognise her design. I’ve seen them often enough in her back garden.’
‘No, she did not.’ Such a tiny clue. The one mistake that could change everything. ‘How many times do you need to be convinced I’m not the person you’re searching for?’
‘Annie, please listen to me. You must have been close to Amelia. She would have confided in you. You knew something about Nicholas’s cruelty to her but it went further than that. Much further. Please let me in. You have to hear me out.’
She pulls the front door closed behind her and confronts Elena. ‘Before you say anything further, I want to show you something that will end your suspicion once and for all.’ She leads Elena along a flagstone path at the side of the cottage. The windbreak trees provide shelter, yet the wind is still strong enough to stream her hair like a pennant behind her.
The studio fronts onto the ocean and has two wide picture windows on either side of the door. Annie Ross Glass Design Studio is written on a sign that clearly once hung from a pole but now lies on the ground. Below the studio, a cliff stretches down to the ocean. The flaking paint on the windowsills, and the residue of spume on the glass, give the small studio an air of neglect. She unlocks the door and stands aside for Elena to enter.
Some half-finished stained-glass pieces rest on a table, glass-cutting and soldering tools beside them. A stack of business cards with Annie Ross Stained Glass Artist embossed on them sit on a table by the door. A kaleidoscope of colours glitter in a showcase filled with butterflies, owls, birds in flight, roosters and peacocks, fish and dolphins.
‘This is my studio,’ she says. ‘I made that medallion for myself. It’s part of a collection I designed and sold some years ago. Now, please, leave me in peace. I hope you find this person you’re searching for. But I can’t help you. I never knew anyone called Amelia Madison.’
Elena picks up a piece of glass, uncompleted but clearly intended to take the form of a dolphin. Her mouth stretches in a rictus of disappointment. A crack on her lip opens and begins to bleed. The sight of it is unsettling, as are the bruises and scabs on her face.
‘Why did you close down your studio?’ she asks.
‘Logistics.’ Each time she is asked this question, she gives the same excuse. ‘My location made it too difficult to receive materials and deliver the finished product.’ She taps her index finger against a carousel of horses and sets them dancing.
‘I see.’ Elena raises her right arm to rub dust from the dolphin, and winces. ‘I’ve evidence that Nicholas Madison killed Amelia’s father.’ She makes this announcement flatly, without emotion. ‘The only person to know the truth was Billy Tobin. Now, he’s also dead. Battered to death by a thug, as yet unnamed.’
Elena Langdon has the tortured expression of a fanatic. The Ice Pick Stabber. It’s not surprising the tabloids had a field day with that one. Obsessed with his dead wife, they said. Jealous and vindictive – and here she is, trying to pull apart the serenity that pervades this studio. What is she talking about? Nothing she says makes sense. A biker called Red, who owns a Harley and has a ponytail. What biker doesn’t? Why on earth did she allow this crazy woman into the studio to spout gibberish that has nothing to do with her, nothing at all? Elena hands her a cheque stub. The name and date blur into a meaningless blob. Her head begins to spin. She holds onto the table for support, aware that Elena’s expression has changed to one of concern.
‘Annie… Annie, I’m sorry, I’ve upset you,’ she says. ‘Can I get you a glass of water?’
She is afraid to nod in case the dizziness returns but Elena is already walking towards the studio sink. So long since that tap was turned on. The water should taste of rust or decay, but it is as pure as she remembers.
‘Who gave you this?’ she asks after drinking the glass of water.
‘Billy Tobin,’ Elena replies. ‘He died that night. And I’ll be dead too if Nicholas finds out I came to you for help.’
The silence that fills the studio is thick with grief. She walks to the window and stares at the Atlantic, as she has done so often when the sky is clear. A walking trail runs from here to the summit of the cliff where a high, slanted rock leans like a watchful guardian over the turbulent waves below. Tourists write their names on that rock, draw love hearts and doodles. She believes it is likely that worshippers must once have gathered before it to honour the sun as it rose above its mighty incline. Witches too, she thinks, when it was silvered by the moon. Lightning struck it once. She saw it happen, a flash that dazzled her eyes and seemed to split it in two. But when she checked the following mor
ning, it was still rooted to the earth. A fishing boat rounds the headland and heads for the harbour at Rannavale. The beat of the ocean is familiar to her. Like the shriek of seagulls, it is a backdrop to her days, a lullaby at night.
‘How dare you come into my house with your ludicrous accusations.’ Suddenly, she is screaming, her shrill wail of denial bouncing off the glass. ‘Amelia’s father was knocked down by a car. A drunk driver, most likely, who drove off and left him to die in a ditch. Get out of my house this instant and leave me alone – leave me alone!’ Dead memories clutch at her throat. They snatch her breath away. Tears run from her eyes. A dark road. Rain falling. A voice calling. John… John… The cracking is inaudible, yet she feels the sundering of two identities separating.
Elena’s arms are around her. They look too brittle to support her, yet they are surprisingly strong as they hold her upright. Together, they leave the studio and enter the living room. She removes the logs and opens the hidden door. Elena kneels inside this small chamber and removes the letter at the top of the bundle. The bare light bulb hollows her face and illuminates her eyes as she skims over the written words. She stares at the photographs and sighs heavily, as if a long-held suspicion is finally being exposed to brightness.
* * *
Out on the headland there is room to breathe. The jeep windows are open and the smell of seaweed drifts on the spume. Lily waves from the doorway of her shop as she drives past. In the rooms above the padlocked pub, an artist, a potter and a writer reside in relative harmony. A commune of new age travellers took over the defunct community centre that closed down when the recession hit and the young people fled to London, New York, Sydney. Like the ebb and flow of the tide, others will come and more will leave this rugged enclave. Constant motion, destabilising secure foundations and piledriving new ones.
