‘He said he’d drop it if you left Mrs Garrick alone,’ Purdy said. ‘I told him that would be your choice to make.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Flanagan said. ‘Thank you.’
‘It’s all right,’ Purdy said. ‘Listen, there’s not a thing in the world Jim Allison can do to stop me drawing my pension in a week. He tries to give me grief in my last few days here, I’ll happily tie his bollocks in a knot and whistle as I head out the door. But Flanagan . . . Serena . . . you need to think hard about your future. I don’t know if Allison really has the clout to damage your career, but if you push him, I have no doubt he’ll try.’
Flanagan leaned her shoulder against the wall. ‘I won’t let that stop me any more than you would, sir.’
She heard a small laugh in her ear.
‘I’d be a liar if I said I wasn’t glad to hear that,’ Purdy said. ‘But tread carefully. Promise me that.’
The tiled wall cooled her forehead. ‘I don’t keep promises,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘Nothing, sir. I’ll try to keep out of trouble.’
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Take care.’
The phone silent in her hand, Flanagan remained against the wall for a minute, fighting the desire to weep for herself. She sniffed, straightened, and left the corridor. Back in the restaurant, the place had quietened, patrons finishing their meals, wait staff clearing the tables after the lunchtime rush.
Flanagan felt sure Alistair and the kids had been at the last booth on the far wall, but wondered if she was mistaken as she approached and found it deserted. Then she saw the empty coffee cup, the glass dishes scraped clean of ice cream, her own plate still two thirds full.
Anger bloomed in her, the urge to cry once again. Then a wash of relief as she saw her husband and children over by the till, coats on, waiting for her. Alistair took his debit card from the machine, placed a ten-pound note on the counter. The waitress thanked him.
As they walked towards the exit together, Flanagan took Ruth’s hand in hers. Ruth resisted at first, but Flanagan tightened her fingers. Outside, Ruth said, ‘I’m too big to hold hands.’
‘But I’m not,’ Flanagan said. ‘Do you want to come home in my car? Girls’ club. Let Eli and Daddy go together. They can be the boys’ club.’
Ruth worked her hand free. ‘No. I want to go with Daddy.’
Flanagan nodded, said, ‘All right. See you at home.’
She held the tears back until she was in her car, the doors locked against the world.
34
McKay spent the rest of the day driving: motorways, country roads, through villages and towns. At some point he realised he had gone as far as the north coast and he pulled into a lay-by to get his bearings. Beyond the rolling countryside, a sliver of grey sea. He checked the map on his phone, saw he was between Ballycastle and Cushendun.
Cushendun, where he and his parents – long gone now – spent summer weekends in a caravan. As a child, he had loved it. The beach there, the thunder of the water. On a clear day, you could see Scotland, sometimes even the white specks of dwellings on the Mull of Kintyre. By the time he was a teenager, he hated it. Weekends of rainy boredom cooped up with his mother and father. By the time he was an adult, of course, he found he loved the place again. Or at least the memory of it. His parents were too elderly and infirm by that time to spend a night in a caravan.
McKay had brought Maggie there not long after they married. They had kissed in the grassy dunes, neither of them brave enough to take it further. Only the once. They never came back, though they talked about it often before she died.
‘I miss you,’ he said aloud.
What would she make of him now? Damned murderer, a monstrous distortion of the man he had been before she fell dying to their kitchen floor.
Only a few miles to Cushendun. He pulled out of the lay-by, turned the car, and headed east.
Twenty minutes and a wrong turn brought him to the small car park on the bay, the mouth of the river on one side, the long golden stretch of sand on the other. He got out of the car, didn’t bother to lock it, and walked along the path to the knots of grass and the beach beyond.
The wind came in hard off the water, grey out there, sea and sky meeting at their darkest points. Spray prickled his skin and he tasted salt on his lips. Last time he’d been here, it had been quiet. Now a scattering of tourists wandered from the caves beyond the river along the length of the bay. All brought here by the location being used in a television fantasy programme he’d never seen.
Sand dragged at his shoes as he trudged out towards the water, moving further away from the car park and the river mouth. Still wearing his black shirt and white collar, he wrapped his jacket tight around himself, but it did little to keep out the wind’s bite. Passers-by gave him sideways looks, most of them more appropriately dressed in anoraks and outdoor shoes.
He stopped at the water’s edge, the foaming lip of the sea a matter of inches from his feet.
I could just keep walking, he thought. Keep walking until the cold stops the blood in my legs, until the salt water fills my lungs. He thought of the case he’d read about last year, two brothers drowning themselves in the sea further down the eastern coast. How would it feel, to die like that? He closed his eyes and imagined.
Cold swallowed his feet, and he looked down to see a murky wash lap at his shoes. He should have stepped back, moved clear, but instead he watched the water draw back towards the sea again. Still as the sweeping hills around him, he waited for it to return.
As it did, a large brown dog galloped past, splashing water up as it went. McKay felt it chill his thighs, his belly. He followed the dog – a Weimaraner? – with his gaze as it looped around, back across the sand to its owner, a woman in a red and black coat, the kind they sell in outdoor sports shops alongside camping gear and hiking boots. She patted the back of the dog’s neck, and it bounded in circles around her.
McKay realised she was staring back at him. He looked out to sea again, feeling a ridiculous blush on his cheeks.
‘You’re getting your feet wet,’ the woman called as she approached.
McKay looked down, feigned surprise, and stepped back.
Close now, she asked, ‘Are you all right?’
He reached for something to say, but could only look around as if searching for a lost companion.
‘Do you need help?’ she asked. Closer still, she put her hand on his arm.
Tell her something. ‘I’m just . . . out for a walk.’
She reached for the zip at the neck of her anorak and pulled it down, revealing a grey shirt and a white collar.
‘I work for the Big Man too,’ she said, a smile wide on her mouth. The first real smile McKay had seen in so long he couldn’t remember. ‘Come on, I’ll get you a cup of tea.’
* * *
They sat opposite each other at a picnic table on the grass above the beach. Young men played Gaelic football on a pitch behind them, shouting to each other, the referee’s whistle chirping. The dog lay on the ground beside McKay’s shoes and socks. Deborah had insisted he take them off.
Reverend Deborah Sansom, rector of three churches in the locality. The scant Protestant population in the area meant her work was spread over the countryside, she explained, as she poured steaming tea from a thermos into a plastic cup.
‘Forgive me for saying, but you didn’t look like a man at ease with the world when I saw you there.’
‘I suppose not,’ McKay said.
‘Talk if you feel like talking,’ she said. ‘Or just drink your tea.’
He reached for the cup and took a mouthful. Sweet and hot enough to leave his tongue tingling. It stung his lower lip.
‘Tea it is then,’ she said.
Deborah Sansom had brown hair streaked with grey, round cheeks reddened by the wind, sparks in her eyes as she smiled.
‘I did a terrible thing,’ McKay said.
‘Oh?’ The smile dimmed. ‘Do you want to tell me?’
McKay shook his head.
‘Can you put it right?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Never.’
She raised a finger skyward. ‘Did the Big Man have anything to say about it when you asked him?’
He shook his head again. ‘I didn’t pray.’
‘No?’
He took another swig of hot sweet tea and said, ‘I don’t believe any more.’
‘My goodness,’ she said. ‘No wonder you looked like you wanted to throw yourself in. Have you spoken to anyone else about this? Your bishop, maybe?’
‘No one.’
‘When did you lose your faith?’
‘A few months ago,’ he said. He looked up from the cup and into her eyes. ‘No, not then. Not really. It was ten years ago. When my wife died. It just took all that time to admit it to myself.’
‘How did she die?’
He told her. The headache, the short walk, the return to find her rigid on the floor.
Deborah reached across the table and took his hand. ‘I’m sorry. That would make anyone question things, no matter how strong their faith.’
She removed her hand, and they both sat quiet for a time, listening to the waves, watching the walkers on the beach.
Eventually, she said, ‘Look at it.’
McKay raised his head, looked out to sea.
‘All of it,’ she said, her free hand sweeping across the horizon, from the sloping hills in the north to the cliffs in the south. ‘Even today, when it’s grim like this, it’s still beautiful. I know it’s possible all this is an accident. Billions of years of dust aggregating in space until it makes this. Until it makes us. But my goodness, what a sad and lonely thought. That this is just chance. That there’s nothing deliberate about us. That we are chaos.’
‘Chaos,’ McKay echoed.
‘Chaos or faith,’ she said. ‘It’s one or the other. I know which I prefer.’
‘It’s not a matter of preference,’ McKay said, already regretting the hardness in his voice. ‘It’s a matter of reality. What’s real and what’s just a story to cling to.’
‘You were thinking about suicide when I came along,’ Deborah said. ‘Weren’t you?’
He couldn’t look at her.
‘Don’t worry, I didn’t read your mind. But a person doesn’t stand with his feet in the sea if he’s not thinking about drowning.’
‘I wouldn’t go through with it,’ he said.
‘Why not?’
‘Because I’m a coward.’
‘I don’t think that’s true. I think somewhere inside, buried deep, you still believe.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t.’
She pointed at the crashing water. ‘Then go on and do it. If all is chaos, then submit to the chaos. What difference will it make? If we’re just random clusters of cells clinging to a rock in space, if that’s what you really believe, then why live in pain? Just go and bloody do it. The universe will go on as if you’d never been here.’
McKay got to his feet, walked across the grass, feeling each blade beneath his bare soles, between his toes. Do it, he thought. She’s right. Nothing matters anyway.
He reached the edge of the grass, the sandy slope down to the beach another footstep away. Just a step. He went no further. After a while, he turned and went back to the table and sat.
‘Glad to have you back,’ Deborah said. ‘You didn’t get too far, mind you.’
He looked her in the eye, challenged her to contradict him. ‘I told you, I’m a coward.’
‘Bollocks,’ she said. ‘Then we’re all cowards.’
‘I should go,’ he said.
‘Home?’
‘I suppose. There’s nowhere else.’
‘Where’s home? Where’s your church?’
‘Morganstown.’
‘Ah, I know it. I went to a wedding there, oh, must have been twenty years ago. It’s a lovely little church. Do me a favour when you get there, will you?’
‘What’s that?’
‘Pray.’
‘I can’t.’
She smiled. ‘Course you can. It’s easy. You just go into your church, get down on your knees, close your eyes, and talk to God for a bit. Or if not God, then talk to yourself. Someone. Anyone. Just say it out loud, whatever it is that’s eating you up. Do it for me. I gave you that nice cup of tea. You owe me something in return. Make me feel like I did you some good.’
McKay stood and said, ‘I’ll think about it.’
He bent and picked up his shoes and socks, carried them towards the car park that lay two hundred yards along the beach. After a few paces, he stopped, turned back to her.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
She nodded and waved.
The dog followed him along the grass almost to the end of the beach, an escort, a guardian, until it missed its master. It gave him a nudge on the hand, and he gave it a scratch, then it turned and ran back to where she stood watching.
35
Flanagan sat at the kitchen table, a mostly empty bottle of Shiraz in front of her, a mostly full glass beside that. Her tongue felt gritty from the wine, a pleasing sway behind her eyes. She took another mouthful, swallowed.
Alistair was upstairs with the kids, putting them to bed. She could hear their voices, him ordering them to brush their teeth, them screeching as he tickled them instead of getting them into their pyjamas, the soft murmur as he read them stories. Ruth said she was too old for them now, she only played along for Eli’s benefit.
Flanagan smiled, but the smile faded from her mouth, unable to gain purchase there.
She had arrived home not long after them, and everyone had behaved as if nothing was wrong, only that they had entered a world of silence. Alistair had barely looked at her. The children had insisted their father do their bedtime, had given her begrudging kisses goodnight at Alistair’s instruction.
Is this really it? Is this how it ends?
Not with an explosive row, nor a discovered affair. No final betrayal to sever them. Just a slow decline of bitter reproaches and fake apologies until there was nothing left but a festering resentment between them all.
Flanagan buried her face in her hands, thought about the cool space of the church, the salve of prayer whether she believed in it or not. She kept her eyes closed, brought her hands together. Formed the words in her mind.
Not like this. Please, not like this. Help me save us. Please, God, I don’t want to lose my family. Please tell me what to do. Please show me—
She cried out, raised her head, as glass clinked against glass.
Alistair poured the last of the wine into a fresh glass. ‘Don’t mind, do you?’
Flanagan inhaled, steadied her breathing. ‘Course not.’
‘What were you doing?’ he asked, taking the seat opposite.
She considered lying, but said, ‘Praying.’
‘You?’ He smiled, a gentle smile, no mockery in it.
‘Yes, me. I’ve been doing it more often lately. It helps.’
‘My mother prayed a lot,’ he said.
‘I remember. She swore by it. Said it could cure anything.’
He took a sip of wine. ‘And can it?’
‘I don’t know what it does,’ she said. ‘Maybe nothing. Maybe something. Who knows?’
He gave her a coy look. ‘Were you praying for us?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘You think we need praying for?’
‘Christ, we need something,’ she said with a weak laugh.
He smiled then, and she wanted to kiss him.
Want?
Do it.
Flanagan stood, went around the table to him. As he watched, confusion in his eyes, she got down on her knees beside him, took his face in her hands. Brought her mouth to his. He remained still for a few seconds, then he wrapped his arms around her, brought her in close.
‘Listen,’ he said, ‘what you said earlier, about your work, about trying to do better for everyone. I think it got th
rough to Ruth.’
Flanagan sat back, arms still around his neck. ‘Oh?’
‘She asked me about it upstairs. If what you did really helped people. I told her yes, and she said, well, then that’s what Mummy needs to do. And maybe we shouldn’t expect to have you all to ourselves.’
‘And what did you say to that?’
Alistair sighed, rested his forehead against her cheek. ‘I told her she was a very smart and grown-up girl. That maybe Daddy’s been asking too much of Mummy. Maybe Daddy needs to get his head out of his arse and acknowledge the fact that he’s not the centre of the universe. Well, I didn’t put it like that, exactly, but you get the gist.’
‘I do.’ She kissed him once more. ‘Thank you.’
Then her phone vibrated on the table.
Alistair stiffened. She did not pull away. She kissed him harder, feeling his teeth through his lips. The phone vibrated again.
Now she let go, and so did he. She got to her feet, reached for the phone. A mobile number she did not recognise. Alistair started to get up from the chair, but she put a hand on his shoulder, pushed him back down.
‘Wait,’ she said. ‘Just wait.’
She thumbed the green button and brought the phone to her ear.
‘DCI Serena Flanagan,’ she said. ‘Who is this?’
A pause, then, ‘Peter McKay. I’m sorry to disturb you on a Saturday night.’
‘Yes,’ she said, not allowing him an acceptance of his apology.
‘I need to talk to you.’
She hesitated, looked down at Alistair. ‘I’m sorry, now’s not a good time.’
‘It’s important. Can you come to the church?’
His voice sounded thin and far away, as if a shadow of a man spoke in his place.
Alistair went to say something, but she put her fingertips on his lips.
‘No, I can’t, I’m sorry. I’ve had a glass of wine, so I can’t drive.’
‘I can’t do it over the phone,’ McKay said. ‘Can I come to you?’
‘No,’ Flanagan said. ‘I’m sorry, really, but not right now, not tonight. The morning. I can come to you first thing in the morning, before your service.’
Silence as he considered. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘The morning. Eight-thirty?’
So Say the Fallen (Dci Serena Flanagan 2) Page 17
