by J. M. Hewitt
Chapter 26
April 14th 1981
Bronwyn has stopped going to bed at night because when she sleeps, she has to endure the horror of waking and she hates that first, bleary eyed moment of sanctuary before the events of the last few weeks crash down on her. With the help of coffee and some pills she swiped from Alia’s bathroom cabinet, she’s trying not to sleep at all.
It still hits her at inopportune moments of every day and night. Rose is gone. Dead. Hanged.
Hanged.
That’s the part she just can’t envisage, that she – anybody – would do that. An overdose, yes, like going into a forever sleep. But that, it’s beyond any comprehension.
Then there’s the thing that happened on the night of Rose’s death. Again, it comes to her often, like a punch in the stomach or a slap around the face. It physically winds her, so whatever she is doing she has to stop while she doubles over, face flushed with shame.
*
Two weeks earlier:
When the snow melted away to patchy grey sludge Bronwyn decided that Emma’s memorial stones needed cleaning. Carefully she gathered them and bought them into the house where she stood at the sink, washing and wiping them one by one. With each stone that she completed she allowed herself a mouthful of wine and the evening was passing almost pleasantly, and for the first time in ages she felt almost relaxed.
“Bronwyn?”
The sound of her name being called through the letterbox startled her and the last of Emma’s pebbles slipped from her fingers, landing with a splash in the sink.
She swore, softly, wiping her hands, and made her way down the hall to the front door. Opening it, she found Connor on the step.
“Oh, hello,” she smiled. Her heart did a funny little dance as she put her hand on her chest as if to stifle it. “Is Rose with you?”
He shook his head and she moved aside to let him in. She watched as he limped past her, down the hall and into the kitchen. Something snagged at her insides and she caught herself, forced her gaze away from him. There was danger here, tonight, she’d thought for some reason, which had been ridiculous. All he had said was her name. It was enough though. Her name, when he spoke it, wasn’t innocent, it was deadly.
At the kitchen table they took the same seats that they had last time he was here. She poured them both a drink and as they regarded each other, almost warily, neither of them spoke.
She thought how to begin, to ask him if something was wrong, to enquire about Rose, who she hadn’t seen since their dismal meeting of a couple of weeks ago. She calculated mentally and realised it was February when she last saw her best friend. The month of March had passed and in her lifetime she could never recall not seeing Rose for a whole calendar month before. Yet each time she had taken a breath to speak, her eyes landed on Connor’s face and she forgot what she had intended to say. That face, it was exquisite, and his body being in such close proximity to her bought something inside her to the forefront which she could only describe as primal.
He must have seen it on her face, which was funny because she’s normally so good at closing herself off, not letting anyone know what she’s thinking. But he saw it, subconsciously she had opened herself to him, and she doesn’t know who reached for whom first, but she flew from her chair and covered the short distance between them, ending up on his lap. His hands planted on her lower back, he broke away from her, his voice a low murmur.
“God, I wanted-”
She pressed her lips to his, not wanting him to talk because if he spoke the spell might be broken.
He seemed to understand, and there were no more attempts at talking. Not only speech was abandoned, but thoughts too. Bronwyn threw aside everything except feeling. That, she clung onto.
After she climbed off his lap, she adjusted her clothes and sat back in her chair. Her face was hot and fear pinpricked her. He hadn’t pulled out, she hadn’t given him the chance. He buttoned up his jeans, caught her watching him, and winked. She’d smiled cautiously, stood up, felt him sticky and damp on her thighs, and had drawn him into the living room. They had sat in front of the fire that wasn’t switched on, settled into the sheepskin rug, close together, side by side, but not touching.
“Wish I’d have found you first,” he said, without looking at her.
She had resented this; the accusation that she was somehow better than Rose. Or maybe she resented the mention of her friend.
“I’d have still been married,” she replied, mildly.
“Imagine if you weren’t.”
That fact would have made no difference and she told him so. “You’re a Prod,” she said, knowing her words were hurtful and she backtracked a little. “Besides, it’s always good at the beginning.” It had been good with Dan, all those years ago.
“We should just enjoy the beginning then,” he had said, reaching for her again.
The second time the sense of urgency had gone. She let him peel every item of clothing away from her and she made no move to cover herself. Her body had changed with all the running and for the first time in years she was almost proud of the way she looked. She took his clothes off too, scrutinised his form. He wasn’t as tall as Danny or as muscled, but his body was lean, naturally skinny. She touched the dressing on his leg and registered how odd it was that she was with this man who had been so horribly injured at the hands of her husband. A chill came over the room and she got up to plug the fire in, leaving him on the rug, head propped up on one hand as he watched her.
Bang-bang-bang-BANG.
The thump of fists on the window broke her stride and she spun around, screamed at the sight of a face pressed up to the glass. In the darkness she saw a finger point to the front door and then the face withdrew.
She pulled on her jeans and braless, she wrapped her shirt around her. Connor dressed more slowly, only appearing at her shoulder as she opened the door to come face to face with a police officer.
Her first thought was of Danny and her breath shuddered through her as she thought of what she had been doing with Connor while her husband had been dying.
“You’ll need to come with us,” the Officer said, not even glancing at her exposed skin or her undone jeans. “There’s been a fatality.”
A second scream hovered near the surface until she realised that the policeman wasn’t talking or even looking at her. He was speaking to Connor.
*
She’s not seen him since that night. She’s not surprised, fucking another woman while his girlfriend was committing suicide. She doesn’t feel that she can face him either. Although at the funeral she will have to, as Alia keeps reminding her.
She confessed to her mother what they had done and the tears had spilt afresh at the thought that once she would have whispered a secret like that to Rose. Not that secret, obviously, but a similar man, had it been a different man. And the thing that made her cringe; Alia already knew. Apparently Officer Patsy McCreesh had enjoyed telling all of his colleagues and pals what he had witnessed between the Catholic mole who had shopped her husband and the Protestant man who had been the victim on the end of the husband’s gun. Perhaps that’s what the original kneecapping was all about, were the whispers going around Newry.
She’s not been out since that night. Not to work or even jogging. Alia has been bringing her food, patiently cooking and then practically spoon feeding Bronwyn. She has been in hiding, but the funeral is now only days away and she has to go. Alia will flank her, but it’s not the thought of the hatred from the community that she fears. It’s seeing Connor again.
Chapter 27
April 14th 1981
I’m aware that I’ve got a visitor. They come as they please now I’m in the hospital. It’s hard work to drag myself up to the surface and focus my eyes and when I finally manage it, I almost wish I had stayed asleep.
It’s Mary Dean, perched on the edge of a chair by my bed. Her hands are curled into fists and she’s clutching at my blanket. Her eyes are wild and even before sh
e speaks I can tell that she’s angry. Using my elbows, which are sore, I push myself half upright and wait for her to tell me why she’s there.
“What did you do?” she hisses the words through clenched teeth.
I search my memory which is hazy and I recall my man, Kieran, who I’d sent to roust Rose out of the Dean’s family home. I’ve not seen Kieran, I assume it went to plan though it was a long time ago, I think, but my hours blend into weeks here so I may be wrong. However, this is the only connection that Mrs Dean and I have had, apart from me shooting her son, that is.
“Are you talking about Rose James?”
“You stupid… fuck!”
She releases the bedding from her claw and grips my arm. I jerk away, study the indentations made in my skin by her nails. “What… I don’t know what’s happened.”
She catches a hold of herself, looks over her shoulder before putting her face close to mine. “Your man killed the girl, he fecking well hung her.”
I think I might be still asleep and dreaming, but then I look at the little half-moon marks she made on my arms and I know I’m not. How odd that Kieran would do that. I mean, I know the tricks that are used to frighten people into leaving and the threat of execution, by whatever means, is common, but to actually do it… I turn my head on my pillow and look at her.
“Does it make a difference?” I ask. “She’s gone, which is what you wanted.”
I think she might hit me but she scrapes her chair backwards, leans into it and crosses her arms, all the while still glaring.
“You’re a cold, unfeeling bastard.” Her words, when they come, are controlled and her voice is now smooth as silk. “I bet I could tell you something that would give that heart of yours a good kick, though.” She rushes on, not waiting for me to reply or even tell her if I’m interested in whatever else she has to say. Although I am, of course I am.
“It was all for nothing anyway, she might be gone, but now he’s got a new tail to chase.”
Mary lets her words hang in the air between us. She looks almost triumphant now, and I know she is waiting for me to put the pieces of her puzzling words together. And I do, surprisingly quickly for the state I am in. But I don’t believe her words. For some reason she just wants to hurt me, I don’t know why considering I done what she asked of me, and I tell her as much.
“Patsy McCreesh, he’s the officer who saw them at it with his very eyes,” she barks, voice control gone now as she plucks her handbag off the back of her chair and stands up. “I’m sure some of these wardens know the story, everyone else seems to!”
She stalks away, out of sight, and I hear doors banging all the way down the corridor. I lever myself up to a sitting position and with a lot of effort I swing my legs over the side of the bed.
She can’t tell me this and then leave. I need to know the truth, although I’m certain I already know in my heart.
“Screws!” I shout, although not as loudly as I would have liked. “Get me a guard in here. NOW!”
My wife wouldn’t do that to me.
However reports must be confirmed.
Bron wouldn’t do that to me.
But I must double check.
But I know.
I know.
Chapter 28
April 22nd 1981
The funeral of Rose James is to be held at The Church of the Sacred Heart and Saint Catherine. Thank God it’s not Saint Mary’s, the same one that Billy is buried in, thinks Mary, what a hateful thought it would be to have the girl laid to rest in the same sacred ground as him.
Mary doesn’t think they should go. Connor says that since Rose was living with them, and died in their home, they have to go.
She doesn’t know what reaction they’ll get, but she can pretty much guarantee that Bronwyn will come off worse than anyone. The gathered crowds may look down on Connor, but not with the same distaste. He’s a man, a good looking man, sowing his seed is expected. Women are different; their legs should open for their husband and certainly not for the partner of their best friend. She tells Connor this, in case he is anxious about it, but he only stares at her with unconcealed dislike.
“Don’t talk about her like that,” he says.
Her heart sinks at his reply. Please God don’t let him be falling for her, she can’t do it all again, she can’t face all the work of getting rid of another woman.
The thought is still on her mind when they arrive for Rose’s funeral. They didn’t arrange it, her and Connor, she presumes it was left to the mother. And her assumptions would seem to be correct, notes Mary as she glances around at the handful of people gathered there. What a sorry state of affairs, to have less than a dozen people send you off. She’s seen the processions of the dead Provo’s, crowds of hundreds, no, thousands that are five or ten people deep, lining the streets. This, the service for a young woman, is pitiful.
At least there’s not likely to be any trouble, she thinks, with relief, as she settles back and watches the mourners.
The mother, Kathleen, is there. She’s heard reports of the woman and her vicious temper and foul tongue, but there is no evidence of that today. She looks meek and dazed, standing alone until Bronwyn’s mother moves over to stand beside her. Kathleen doesn’t acknowledge her, and hats off to Alia for even attempting to show her support. Mary comments on this to Connor, perversely almost enjoying the strange show now that it’s clear nobody is looking her at her.
He doesn’t answer. His eyes are on Bronwyn, standing on her own a little way behind her mother. She’s keeping to herself, eyes downcast, and to Mary she doesn’t look like her world has crashed down around her. Even though the woman has made little effort in her appearance she cuts a striking figure. Her thoughts turn unbidden to the pathetic corpse-like man in the prison hospital. What has become of him? Has he gone downhill since she last saw him? Is he shrinking into oblivion while his wife blooms? Her thoughts are interrupted by Connor moving away and she grabs his arm.
“Where are you going?” she asks, in a low voice.
He shakes her hand off and without answering his mother he makes his way over to where Bronwyn stands alone.
She narrows her eyes as she regards them. She’s slipped a pair of big, dark shades on, very Jackie O, think Mary with a sneer. Connor’s head is tilted as he speaks unheard words, his hand comes out, rests lightly upon the base of Bronwyn’s spine. Bronwyn doesn’t seem to reply, but Mary inhales sharply as she moves closer to him, her head resting on his shoulder.
Sensing that she is being watched herself, Mary averts her eyes. She meets the gaze of Alia and holds it. How does she feel, Mary wonders, about the whatever-it-is between her daughter and Connor? Could she be an ally to Mary?
Probably not, she would imagine that Bronwyn has her mother wrapped around her little finger. No, there’s only one person that can sort this new development out and though she is loath to go there again, Mary knows she will have to revisit Danny.
Chapter 29
April 28th 1981
Bronwyn sits in darkness in the living room. The fire is lit, the proper fire, the plug in three bar heater has been dispatched to the bedroom. It’s cosier in here now and she wonders why they ever let their wood collecting ritual slide.
She looks at her watch and sees that it is almost 8 a.m. She has to go out today, for the first time since the funeral. She doesn’t want to but there are things to be done that she can’t keep putting off. She’s not even dressed yet. But last night she bought her clothes downstairs so she could put them on and slip out unnoticed. Retrieving her clothes she spreads them out in front of the fire to warm as she slips out of her dressing gown. As she is pulling her jeans on she pauses as she hears a tell-tale creak from upstairs. With one leg in she waits, and sure enough, moments later, the door to the living room opens.
“Hello,” she says, hurriedly pushing her other foot through and pulling them up at the same time as reaching for her shirt.
“What are you doing that for?”
“Getting dressed,” he smiles and walks over to her. “That’s a stupid thing to do.”
“I have to go out, I won’t be long,” she protests as he slips her shirt back off and kicks it across the room.
“It can wait.” His voice is muffled as he presses his face into her neck and backs her to the sofa, pushing her down onto it.
Half-heartedly she pushes her hands at his chest, but he is stronger than her and she gives in and lies back as his body covers hers.
She fists her hands into his hair and pulls him to her breast as his name falls unbidden from her lips. “Connor, Connor...”
He hasn’t been back to Mary’s house since the funeral, and she can’t believe she had dreaded seeing him so much. He had been so kind, he hadn’t cared what anyone thought when he came to speak to her at the graveside.
“I’m so sorry this has happened to her,” he had said softly into her ear. “But I’ll never be sorry for what we done, Bronwyn.”
She weakened whenever he said her name. It sent thrills shooting through her and she had put her head on his shoulder as relief flowed through her. They had stayed like that and she had been dimly aware of the odd little group of mourners. Alia standing beside Kathleen, a silent support though Rose’s mother hadn’t even acknowledged her, hadn’t so much as glanced at any of them. And a little way away, Mary, standing stiffly, sour faced as she openly glared at her son and Bronwyn, and Bronwyn swore she could taste the venom that Mary was breathing their way. Eventually they had left and when they reached the gate Alia had turned around.
