by Claire Allan
He smiled. Seemed content with my answer. ‘And when I do, I promise I’ll make all this up to you. You’ll never have to work another day in your life. I’ll take care of you. Give you everything you’ve ever wanted.’
‘I already have what I’ve always wanted,’ I told him, kissing his forehead. ‘You, my job, my friends, my family, this ring on my finger. That’s all that matters to me.’
I meant every word. Those were our happiest days, strange as it sounds. When we were struggling a little bit. When our world was small – contained. When I still thought he was a good and decent person.
Chapter Thirteen
Emily
We were on egg shells the rest of that day, and by the look on Donna’s face it was she who was smashing the eggs. I wanted to take her aside and talk to her, see how she really was, but I was afraid to ask. We had been getting on well, Donna and I. I had a lot of time for her. There was no doubt she had a lot going on in her life. She’d told me she used to look at her work as a break from the stress at home – I suppose it was only natural she was uptight that her calm place was anything but.
I felt sorry for her, which was quite remarkable. It took a lot for me to feel sorry for anyone given the shit show my own life had become. But at that time, knowing my Ben worries had been unfounded, I felt a little freer to feel sorry for others. When I went home in the evening I had no one to worry about or pick up after other than myself. She had three teenage boys, all seemingly at that horrid stage where they treated their mother like their personal slave. Donna did try to make her stories about home sound like some sort of family banter but I knew that behind her too bright smile, she was miserable with her lot. I vowed to give her a bit of space that day, and then maybe over the weekend text and see if she wanted to meet for lunch, or a drink, or just a chat, and I would just listen and nod and not say her boys were ungrateful shites because even though they were, she was the only person allowed to say that.
I was never so glad as when the shutters came down on Scott’s and we left the surgery behind, muted calls of ‘Have a nice evening’ echoing as everyone quickly went in their own directions, no one looking back. Everyone had had enough – of work, of tension, of thinking about Rose and how she died and trying to figure out how we were meant to feel about Kevin McDaid’s death.
I made myself pasta and a quick tomato sauce for dinner and sat in front of my laptop, took a deep breath and clicked on the Facebook logo, logging into my account. Liz McDaid’s post was still doing the rounds, shared hundreds of times. People suddenly describing him as a decent sort, just a bit of a lad. People saying he should have been given a second chance. He was so young. It was all just an awful waste.
I found myself thinking back to that evening. To the moment his car slammed into her. I tried to think of the sights and sounds and smells. Her face. Did I see his? I don’t think so – but I know he barely slowed. He must have seen her. It was a busy street. That alone should have slowed him down. I closed my eyes, could hear the sound of her singing. The swoosh of the lift door as it opened. The noise from the street. The traffic. The chatter. The beeping of a pedestrian crossing letting people know it was safe to walk. Someone was shouting down their mobile phone – they would be late and whoever was on the other end could make their own damn dinner. The sound of feet on the footpath. The clicking of heels. A baby – possibly Jack babbling. The roar. The screech. The thump.
Yes, the roar. Acceleration. There was definitely acceleration. It couldn’t have been an accident. Could it? Could his foot have slipped? No. The roar. Loud enough to block out a scream of ‘Jesus Christ’ – my scream. My scream as I stood and watched and knew I could do nothing.
No. Kevin McDaid was not an innocent man. He wasn’t to be sainted just because he was dead.
I clicked onto Rose’s page – friends, of course, were posting that they had been thinking about her all day, that they hoped McDaid was now rotting in hell where he belonged. Cian had said nothing and all that I could think was that he must be so completely thrown by it all that he just didn’t know what to say. A wordsmith without words. There was nothing sadder. My heart ached for him, and I stared at his picture imagining what it would be like if I could only comfort him. Hold him. Kiss the top of his head, run my fingers through his tousled hair, tell him everything was going to get easier. I wondered who was comforting him. He seemed so alone at Rose’s funeral. Her family seemed to hold each other up, leaving him to wander on his own, looking so hopeless and devastated behind his wife’s coffin. Who did he talk to now? Did he have people to call round, bringing him home-cooked meals and making sure he was looking after himself? Were there women waiting in the wings – waiting for an appropriate amount of time to have passed before they made their move? They would never understand what he had been through though. Not like I could.
I decided in that moment that I would message Cian too. Let him know I was okay if he wanted to cancel our plans. Let him know I understood that it must have been a messy, tough, horrible day for him. Let him know I was willing to reschedule whenever he could. Maybe even suggest an alternate date? How long was appropriate to wait? A few days? A week? There wasn’t exactly an etiquette for these things.
I was shocked when he replied back, almost instantly.
There’s no need to change our plans. Let’s meet as arranged x
I tried not to read anything into the ‘x’.
*
The following morning I dressed for work, took a little extra time to straighten my hair, fix my make-up, even put on a little eye liner. Not too much. Not enough that I looked overdone. Just that I looked a little more composed. I spritzed on some of my favourite perfume, Chanel No. 5; it always gave me a little push of confidence when I needed it. I had to bide my time, keep doing what I was doing and it would all work out.
But then I wasn’t counting on the latest, gut-wrenching twist in the tale. By the time I had arrived in work, news had broken that police were now looking into the death of Kevin McDaid after an autopsy showed signs of injuries inconsistent with a jump or fall from the bridge.
‘New information has come to light that gives us cause to look further into the circumstances surrounding Kevin McDaid’s death,’ a police spokesperson had said, and of course Facebook users were already jumping to their own conclusions. Had someone taken out a hit on Rose Grahame’s killer? Had he annoyed the wrong people this time?
Liz McDaid had posted again, railing against the world. Telling everyone the truth would out. She wouldn’t rest until she knew what had happened to her son. Until she had justice. Kevin McDaid’s picture was everywhere. As was Rose Grahame’s. Not just locally – the story was attracting national attention now.
I wondered what the injuries were that were inconsistent with his jumping from the bridge? I tried to think of what that must be like – taking that step, plummeting, jumping – was it a bit like flying? Did you feel a sense of freedom? It wasn’t something I had considered, even at my most desperate. Too public. Too scary. Murky water. Dirty water. Being washed away by the speeding tide – away from any chance of being saved, or being found. But he had been found quickly. ‘On the glarr’, someone said, referring to the sticky, tar-like mud of the riverbank. It could suck people in if you couldn’t move. If you had broken your bones with the impact of the fall. The bridge was high enough that even hitting the water could shatter a bone or two. The fall not always predictable. People who had second thoughts and tried to swim to safety could find themselves giving in to exhaustion and the cold as they sank into the bank’s thick edges.
I shuddered as an image of him, trying to get to safety, scared, cold, came into my mind. At least Rose had just seconds, if even that long, to contemplate her impending fate. It was merciful really. But Kevin McDaid? Who knew what he had been through. Maybe drowning wasn’t that peaceful after all? Dirty water. Mud. Choking. Grabbing for a hold that wasn’t there. Sinking into oblivion. Darkness all around. Not knowing which way w
as up. Which way was down. Trying to find a pocket of air. The white of his eyes stark against the black, the brown and the deep, deep blue.
I tried to shake the image from my head. Tried to find some calm. Reminded myself I was not trapped in this moment. There was air around me. Air I was free to pull into my lungs. I could feel my body shudder as I tried to suck in what air I could. My hands shaking as they fished in my bag. I needed a cigarette. A drink. A breath of air. I could feel the skin dampen on the back of my neck, my skin prickle and my perfectly applied make-up start to slide on my face – now slick with perspiration.
I stood shaking in the staff kitchen as the buzz of my colleagues talking about the news seemed to reach a crescendo. Where was Donna to tell them all to be professional? Where was she to shout the odds, to tell them all to stop talking? To stop gossiping? The noise too much, my stomach turning, I went through to the locker room and out to the back door where I pushed open the fire exit and gulped down what air I could.
I was not expecting to find Donna sitting outside, on one of the patio chairs reserved for the smokers – or the e-cig crowd. She had her coat pulled tight around her, her arms crossed tightly at her stomach and she was staring into space, her phone sat on the small table beside her. Despite the noise, the violence of my bursting out into her space, she stayed still. Her eyes didn’t meet mine. Her face looked so pale. So stricken. The pain etched across all her features jolted me into some sort of action. I swallowed my own fears.
‘Donna?’ I said. ‘Are you okay? I heard the news – it’s upsetting isn’t it? It’s okay to be upset by it.’ If I focused on making her feel okay, maybe it would help me feel okay too.
Slowly she moved to look at me, her eyes dazed. ‘What?’ she said, shaking her head as if trying to jolt herself back to some form of consciousness.
‘The news?’ I said, still feeling my own pulse racing a little too fast. ‘You look upset. I assumed the news – the update on the McDaid investigation. You were so out of sorts …’ I was rambling, I knew that. Donna just blinked at me, her brow furrowed as if I had gone quite mad. Maybe I had?
Slowly, as if it took every ounce of effort she had, she shook her head. ‘No. No. It’s … the boys. Stuff at home. A school thing that has blown up and I have to deal with it …’ She raised her hand to her forehead as if checking her own temperature and then she pinched the bridge of her nose and continued to shake her head. ‘I’ll have to go and deal with it. It’s not like there’s anyone else to sort it out.’
She looked tired. Not her usual groomed self.
‘You’ll have to deal with whatever gossiping you all want to do without me.’ Her tone was sharp. I wanted to shout that I hadn’t been gossiping. I wasn’t a gossip. But she had already stood up, started to slip her phone in her pocket. ‘I need to talk to Owen. Explain.’
‘I don’t think he’s in yet,’ I said.
‘Oh for fuck’s sake,’ she said, and I was taken aback because I’d never heard her swear before.
‘I could tell him for you,’ I offered. ‘I’m sure he’ll understand, Donna. Why don’t you head on?’
She stared at me, as if trying to suss me out. Her look made me feel odd.
‘Yes,’ she said, nodding. ‘Yes.’ She walked past me, back into the surgery, and I stood and tried to find my balance again. I’d find Owen. Tell him. Show him I could be good in a crisis. I could hold it together for the team. I just had to control my breathing first.
*
Owen had simply nodded when I told him Donna had gone home. He seemed distracted – perhaps he was struggling with the latest development as much as the rest of us were? I told him I would help cover her duties and he thanked me, then went back to staring at his computer screen, but as I made to leave he called my name.
I turned back to him, realising how tired he looked too.
‘Emily,’ he repeated, ‘Tell me this. What do you think of it all? What McDaid’s family are saying?’
‘I wouldn’t really know …’
‘But it’s all everyone’s talking about. You must have an opinion? Do you think there’s more to it? Do you think it’s about Rose?’
‘I think we should wait and see what the police have to say. But I’m sorry for you all – all of you who knew Rose – that there is more upset. Things are hard enough. I can see that.’
He nodded slowly, sadly. ‘It’s making it all so sordid.’
‘Sordid?’ I asked.
‘Her death. Seeing her picture everywhere again this morning. People talking about her like she’s a minor character in a soap opera now. People writing about Cian. People writing about McDaid. Saying he was a decent sort. Have you seen the hash tag? #JusticeforKevin? It’s disgusting. It’s cheap and nasty – just like him.’
I didn’t know what to say, so I just tried to put a sufficiently sombre expression on my face.
‘Isn’t it bad enough that we, all of us, her friends and family, have to deal with her not being here any more without him becoming the victim in all this?’
‘I wish I had something to say that would make it easier for everyone,’ I said.
‘You don’t think of him as a victim, do you? You don’t think anyone who could do what he did could be a victim?’
He was looking directly at me, his eyes focused on mine so that I had no space to hide whatever was going through my mind. I tried to assemble my thoughts quickly – tried to think how to say what I was thinking without aggravating the situation. I took a deep breath.
‘In his case? No. I don’t think he was a victim in what happened to Rose, but good people can make mistakes – get caught up in something, I suppose. Who knows what he was mixed up in?’
‘Whatever it was, I don’t think I’ll find it in my heart to feel sorry for him,’ Owen said. ‘I’d just love all this to go away. We all just want to try and come to terms with everything, but how can we? And even here, people come in, ask questions. You know I’ve already taken calls from the press this morning looking for comment, or insider info, or pictures of Rose they can use? Jesus, it’s disgusting.’
‘Do you want me to deal with all the calls today? I’ll make sure no press get through. You’ll be in surgery.’
He nodded slowly. Ran his hands through his hair and stood up. ‘I’m sorry for ranting,’ he said. ‘I’m not making a good impression.’
‘It’s okay, I understand. And at least it’s almost the weekend. You can escape from the public for a couple of days and hopefully this will all settle down a bit.’
‘I hope so,’ he said, as he made to leave for his surgery. ‘I really do.’
*
I changed out of my work uniform. Slipped on a black knee-length pencil skirt with a soft grey cashmere sweater and knee-high boots. I fixed my make-up, keeping it light and neutral, and pulled my hair into a soft chignon. Then I went online and checked the death notices in the local paper and found out just exactly where to go.
I pulled on my coat, sat in my car and smoked two cigarettes in a row, before driving the three and a half miles to Creggan, the council estate where Liz McDaid lived. It wasn’t hard to find her house. I parked and as I walked towards the house I saw a small crowd, maybe between ten and fifteen people, standing outside amid a fug of cigarette smoke. They stood, heads bowed, collars up to fend off the cold. Shuffling from foot to foot, the plumes of cigarette smoke mixing with the steam from their breath. The men either wore crisp white shirts, the starched lines from where they had been folded in the packaging peeping out from their good coats, or slightly off-white ones, washed too many times – probably old school uniforms. Black ties, thin, loosely tied, too formal for these men who looked too young to be grieving one of their peers. They spoke in hushed tones, dropping butts on the ground and grinding them out with the heel of their shoes. As I grew closer, I saw two women among their group sat on kitchen chairs in the small front garden, beside the front door, beside the floral wreath that heralded that this was a house of mournin
g. One, clearly pregnant, held her tummy with one hand, her cigarette with the other, puffing on it as if it were gas and air. The second was staring into the street, a china cup and saucer balanced precariously on her knee, still full. I nodded in their direction as I walked past; gave them a sympathetic half-smile, trying not to feel overwhelmed by awkwardness.
While the hum of whispered conversation hung in the air, the atmosphere was solemn. No press photographers. No TV cameras. No crowds just there for a nosy. Completely different to Rose Grahame’s last few days above the soil. More dignified, perhaps? Or maybe people were too scared to get too close to it all. As I stood, waiting my turn to walk into the narrow hallway, waiting to be directed to wherever Kevin McDaid was laid out in his coffin awaiting the procession of mourners paying their respects, I wondered was I mad? Would the other mourners know I didn’t know him? Would they know I was just there for a nosy? To see his face – this man who had sent my life into a tailspin?
The talk was muted. Lots of expressions of disbelief. Lots of ‘he was so young’. Lots of melancholy laughter at how he was always into mischief. Lots of chat about how ‘they’ should stay away. I shuffled forward until I was face-to-face with a young man, who could have been anything from seventeen to twenty-five, who was shaking the hands of the mourners, taking in all the I’m-sorry-for-your-troubles expressions and directing us up the stairs to the front bedroom. A brother, perhaps. There was a resemblance to the photo that had been doing the rounds of McDaid that day. I nodded, took his clammy hand in mine, accepted his weak handshake and told him I was sorry for his loss and then step by step I filed with the others up the stairs.
The room in which Kevin McDaid lay was small and cool. A stark bulb hung bare from the ceiling. A chest of drawers had been covered with a white cloth, on which sat two ornate candlesticks, a brass crucifix, a pair of rosary beads and a framed picture of Kevin, still in his school uniform. He couldn’t have been more than fourteen in it, his face not yet angular enough to be that of a grown man. No more than a hint of shadow above his top lip. I stared at it while I tried to avoid the eyes of the mourners sat around the room on chairs borrowed from the local community centre – and while I tried to avoid looking at Liz McDaid, sat beside her son’s coffin, keening over his body, one hand resting on his chest as she leant her head against the side of the coffin for support. But as much as I tried to resist, I was drawn to the noise of her distress, to the dark wooden edges of the coffin, the shiny satin of the lining. The body resplendent in best suit – the same one he had worn to court no doubt – hands joined. He looked peaceful, though the hint of bruising on his cheek and neck was evident if you looked closely enough. There was something so fake about how he looked – like a ventriloquist’s dummy, his face set in place by the undertaker at what looked like hard angles.
