by Julia Kelly
‘I’m all right. I’ll have a smoke in a few minutes. I just keep thinking what was it he felt? What was in his head to make him do such a thing? I suppose I’ll never understand. You know he was very loving, very funny when he was a kid. I remember summers down in Kerry, up to his neck in sand. He was a very generous, kind child. And he was so protective of me when Derek and I split and then even more so with my illness. My only child. My funny, unique little boy.’
She broke down. I hugged her. She couldn’t speak for several minutes.
‘Three detectives called to the door on Christmas morning. You know the way everyone says they just knew? Well, I didn’t. I mean they’ve been here so often to do with Billy. I know them all by name, for fuck’s sake. Garrett, Donal, the little blondie one. Anyway, so I just thought it was the usual messing. Thought they’d give him a warning. He’d been very agitated that day, couldn’t stay in one place. He was so jittery. He couldn’t sit still. He went upstairs and had a rest and then was down again a minute later. I was so stupid! I thought he was hungry. I brought him out for lunch.’
Neither one of us had the courage to say what we had both suspected – that Billy had come to our flat on Christmas Eve to see me, to hurt me or perhaps even to hurt Addie. He knew that I knew the truth about what had happened on the night of Addie’s birthday. He had never been a hero before in anyone’s eyes. He had been loving it and so had his mother and I could have ruined all of that.
We moved outside, I rooted in my bag for the card from Mum. I don’t know what it said but her words or the sentiment made Belinda weep. ‘Much appreciated. Will you tell her thanks?’
I promised I would. I hugged her again and got ready to go.
‘It’s just so awful seeing him in there, Eve. He’s so fractious with me. There’s nothing we can talk about. I can’t talk about the sea, the mountains around here, nature, any of that – all the things he loved about home, about Bray. I can’t talk about the outside world at all, it would just be too mean, too cruel when he can’t see it for himself. And we don’t want to talk about the case. So what does that leave us with? Not much. Nothing really. Not a thing.’
Chapter Twenty-six
Five forty-five a.m. I couldn’t sleep. I got up, sat in the sitting room, logged onto Facebook. Sophie had changed her relationship status from married to single. Everyone had responded with question marks or concerned comments or kisses. I looked across the square at her house in the darkness, wondering if Mark were still there, if Sophie were OK, or if she were sitting awake, staring out the window, as I was. There was a rattle of wheels on the street below; a lone figure was striding along the middle of the road, pulling a suitcase behind him, on his way to the catch the Aircoach. And walking in the opposite direction, Sumita, head down, runners on, rucksack on her back, coming home from a late night of babysitting. I knew from Belinda that she had made her decision, that she had sent her little girl back to India, so that she could give her a better future.
Teddy bears, Bray Wanderers scarves and Bauhaus T-shirts were still tied to the park railings alongside cards with smudged messages and dead flowers in rain-spattered plastic. Someone had lodged a single child’s glove on one of the spikes. A leaflet had been dropped through the letterbox yesterday, suggesting that the playground be renamed Dylan’s Park.
I sat on the edge of my bed. When she saw that I’d been crying earlier, Addie had taken me by the hand and had led me to her bedroom, like a little adult. She’d said we should make a card for Dylan. A green one. ‘That’s why because green was his favourite colour,’ she’d said, and she’d drawn him as she remembered him: a head with spiky ‘up’ hair, no body but long, long legs and huge, outstretched hands. One of his feet was turned in and she did a straight line for his mouth, instead of the smiles she normally gave her stick figures on birthday cards. She’d drawn so many flowers on the inside that there’d been no room left for words. ‘When you look at this card it will make you happy every day, OK?’ she’d explained, using little hand gestures as she’d placed it on my bedside table.
I stripped the bed, pulled on jeans and a sweater, grabbed the holdall from the top of the wardrobe, shaking off its layer of dust. I emptied the drawers, stuffed everything in, put the card for Dylan in my back pocket and closed the bedroom door behind me.
Then on to the kitchen. Mum had already done the washing up, as she always did when she babysat. The scent of her perfume still lingered in the air.
I stood on the kitchen table, yanked down the Happy Birthday banner that had hung there since Addie’s birthday, since the night of the accident.
I took the origami swans Addie had made with Joy from the mantelpiece in the sitting room, and filled my pockets with all those tiny things that there is never a particular place for: a hairclip, a box of matches, a Sylvanian mole in a waistcoat.
I thumped our bags downstairs, loaded up the car, slammed the boot. Then back inside and up the stairs again. I was running on adrenalin now. I lifted Addie out of her bed and carried her, still asleep in my arms, my hands cradling her head, out to the car. She grizzled for a few moments when I struggled with the straps of her car seat, but she worked on her sucky blanket and settled back to sleep.
I went inside one last time to grab the Happy New Year’s card I’d written for Nathan, re-read its coded, flirtatious message, tore it up, stuffed the keys for the flat in its envelope along with a cheque for last month’s rent. Addie’s scooter was propped up against the wall, we couldn’t forget that. I made room for it in the boot.
Then I crossed the road to leave Addie’s card for Dylan on the railings of the park along with all the others. I saw his beautiful face, Billy up in the cherry tree, little Ben surrounded by flames, Belinda sitting in her armchair, broken.
I ran from there to Nathan’s, dropped the keys through the letterbox, heard them chime as they landed on the marble hall floor he’d fitted for his family, turned and left without looking back.
I got into the car. As I slipped the key into the ignition, a clang of bells rolled down the hill from the Protestant church. Addie stirred awake in her booster seat.
‘Where are we going?’ she said, still in half-sleep. ‘Are we meeting Sophie for a picnic?’
‘No, sweetheart,’ I said, as the square receded behind us. We passed quickly along the deserted high street.
‘Why don’t you like Sophie any more?’ she asked, coming round.
‘It’s not that I don’t like her any more, we’re just not going to be friends.’
She was quiet for a moment. ‘Like you and Dada, you mean?’ I glanced at her face in the overhead mirror.
‘A bit like that.’
She sat forward in her seat. ‘So you and me are the whole family now?’
‘Yes, we’re the whole family now. You, me and Alfie.’
‘But Alfie’s gone away.’
‘That’s where we’re going now. We’re going to get Alfie.’
‘Oh, Mama! I’m just going to hug him and hug him!’ she said, hugging herself and beaming.
‘And then where are we going with Alfie?’
‘We’re going on a big adventure.’
We turned onto the southbound dual carriageway, accelerated into the flow of traffic heading away from the city. I rolled down my window and the car filled with the rush of motorway air.
Acknowledgements
Sincere thanks to Marianne Gunn O’Connor, my agent and friend, who inspired and supported me through every stage of producing this novel. To Aine Hyland for her enormous generosity, encouragement and hospitality, to Nick Kelly for all his brilliant advice and the days he devoted to reading and re-reading drafts, never appearing bored. And to Judy Kelly for believing in and encouraging my scribbling since my earliest attempts.
I’m enormously grateful also to Annabelle Comyn, Niamh Hyland, Jeanne Moore, Cara Augustenborg and Alison Walsh, for reading through early drafts and for offering invaluable feedback and advice.
To everyo
ne at Quercus, for their patience and belief and for being so lovely to work with: Jon Riley, Charlotte Van Wijk, Jo Dickinson and in particular, Rose Tomaszewska, who helped me so skilfully over the final hurdles.
For their excellent research advice: Suzanne Kavanagh, Ballymun Job Centre, Glynis Peel, the Burns Unit at Crumlin Hospital, Aidan Kiernan and Kiernan Homes. Also Alison Tully, Zuzana Tilson and Alison O’Neil.
To Craig Brunker, Chris and all the exceptionally friendly staff at Mugs café Dalkey, for putting me up for all those months and for putting up with me. And to all the staff at the beautiful Greystones library for making me feel so welcome and at home.
For helping me in every way through the four rocky years it took to get this book written: Alexia Kelly, Carrie Nathan, Naomi Bates, Ray Beggan, Ciaran Fallon, Chiara Milzani, David Matthews, Caroline Osborne, Aisling Walsh, Gillian Comyn, Jennifer O’Reilly, Alex Diana, Reggie Manuel, Marc Coleman, Keith Parker, Amanda Brady, Sam Gibson, Sinead Corr, Nicky Flavin, Joey Limin Bai and my wonderful godmother, Rosemary Comyn.
And thanks especially to Charlie for his enduring company and love, to my beloved family for pretty much everything, and to my little lady, Ruby Mae, for being my endless source of joy.
