A little over an hour later, she was still sat in the same chair, still wearing her coat, but she now had a wine glass in her hand and on the table in front of her stood a bottle, two thirds of its contents gone. She wasn’t going to finish it. After the first glass Brid had remembered that she still hadn’t eaten anything. She had stood in front of the open fridge, but everything seemed so complicated; even the idea of heating a bowl of soup was beyond her. In the end she had eaten the end of a wedge of Cheddar cheese.
Staring at the wall, she pondered how many nights she had spent sitting alone in this room. It must be in the thousands, yet tonight felt so different. The house almost seemed to sense it was empty. A single heartbeat wasn’t enough to fill it, and Brid felt as if it were shutting down around her. A glance at the clock told her it was only twenty past seven. Still early, but yet far too late. The thought of the big empty bed waiting just for her was the first glimmer of comfort she had encountered all day. Heading upstairs didn’t hold such dread without the thought of his sighs and grunts; the wall of back that always met her as she slipped beneath the duvet.
It took a moment for the shrill electrical interruption to register. The doorbell! Brid jumped to her feet and rushed to the kitchen door, but even before she reached it, hopelessness had overcome her. Of course it wouldn’t be the children or their father. They had keys. Wondering who would be calling on the house at this hour, she went into the hall and turned on the porch light. Behind the frosted glass was a large dark shadow too big to be just one person. She noticed a slight tremor in her hand as she reached for the lock and, holding her breath, slowly pulled open the door. Their eyes met and then she simply hung her head and stepped back. Sergeant Collins made his way into the hall.
11
It wasn’t the first time PJ had called at the Riordans’ house that day. After Brid’s car had fled Ard Carraig, he had wanted to follow her immediately but instead found himself putting on the kettle to make tea for Evelyn and her sister Florence, who was comforting her at the kitchen table. Evelyn’s screams had brought Florence to the front door, and then PJ felt he could hardly leave the two of them alone. He stepped into the role of responsible adult and ushered the two women back towards the kitchen.
Evelyn had recovered herself quite quickly and told PJ the full story of the love rivalry that had gone on between herself and Brid. She told him about the scarf and the awful fight in the village. As she gave him all the details she had omitted earlier, PJ thought to himself that it was little wonder people in the village believed Tommy had simply run away. Any man would have done the same.
Florence kept her hands wrapped around her mug of tea and stared at the grain of the wooden table. She felt awful. Of course she had known some of what had gone on, but not this detail. She remembered the whole incident as Evelyn having a teenage crush. When had it become this tale of long-lost love, and why hadn’t she known? Because she had never asked. Never asked her own sister; it was easier not to. Even now, she knew she should just reach her hand out to Evelyn, but she couldn’t. It wasn’t like that between them, between any of the sisters. Life had taught them well. Feelings were to be feared, pain was to be avoided at all cost, and if that meant not experiencing joy, then so be it.
Evelyn stopped speaking. Florence looked up and found her sister looking into her face with an expectant expression. ‘I’m so sorry, Evelyn. I had never … well, never fully realised.’
A weak smile. ‘Don’t be silly. It was a long, long time ago.’ But all three people sitting around the table knew that was a lie.
PJ stood up. ‘Well, if you don’t mind, I suppose I should go and talk to Mrs Riordan now. Will you be all right?’
‘Yes, yes, I’m fine,’ Evelyn replied as she too got to her feet.
‘Thank you for being so open and, well, honest.’
They exchanged smiles, and as PJ drove away, leaving her at the door with her right arm raised in farewell, he felt changed. He glanced in the rear-view mirror at her elegant frame disappearing into the house, and when he stopped at the gate he found that he was smiling for no discernible reason.
Up at the Riordans’ place, he had found no car and nobody at home. He pushed an official-looking postcard through the letter box with his contact details on it and drove back into the village. He was going to start asking around for the names of Tommy Burke’s friends and who had seen him leave or been in contact since, but by the time he reached the main street he found that all the tea he had drunk at Ard Carraig was very keen to come back out. Looking at his watch, he decided to use the toilet back at barracks and then have a bit of lunch.
Friday meant fried plaice and boiled potatoes. The new and unimproved Mrs Meany put the plate of food on the table with an air of distraction and shuffled back towards the kitchen. PJ almost missed the days when she would have stood at the table watching him eat while an endless stream of words tumbled out of her. Who had cancer. The problems with her outside tap. That awful business up the country. He knew he should probably ask her what was wrong, but the thought of having to listen to her reply exhausted him. He settled for silence.
Normally after lunch he would have done some paperwork or shown his face in the village, but today all he could think of was Ard Carraig and why he should go there again. He finally decided that reporting back on not interviewing Brid Riordan was enough of an excuse. He imagined himself sitting across from Evelyn saying something about putting her mind at rest, and the expression of gratitude that would spread across her pale, thin face. He knew he was being a fool and that nothing would come of this, but there was no harm in flirting.
He couldn’t remember when he had last felt like this. Had he ever felt like this? Of course he had found other women attractive, hundreds of them, all the time, but this seemed different. It was the way she looked at him – he knew that she could never find him attractive, but he felt as if she saw something more than his weight, looked beyond the tight, uncomfortable uniform, and when she spoke, she was speaking to a man. What did it matter anyway? He would never do anything as stupid as act on his feelings. That lesson had been learned very early on.
When he got to Ard Carraig, the doorbell went unanswered and the house appeared to be deserted. PJ stepped back and looked up at the dull shine of the windows, wondering which bedroom was Evelyn’s. He walked around the side of the house, enjoying the crunch of his shoes on the gravel. The despondent calls of a few crows seemed to add to the sense of silence. To the right of the house was a lawn that stepped down in a series of terraces towards a field. The grass was well kept and the various beds seemed to a non-gardener’s eye to be carefully planted and maintained. Suddenly from one of the lower beds a grey-haired head popped up. PJ let out an involuntary ‘Jesus Christ.’
‘May I help you?’ The head rose up, revealing a stocky woman wearing baggy jeans and an oversized cardigan. She looked as if she was neither expecting nor pleased to see visitors.
‘Sergeant Collins from the village.’ PJ stepped towards her but realised too late how steep the incline on the lawn was, and so found himself hurtling towards the woman with precarious haste. His hostess looked suitably alarmed, but he managed to stop and steady himself just before he had sent the two of them rolling towards the field.
‘Abigail Ross.’ She held her gloved muddy hands aloft to explain why she wasn’t offering to shake his. ‘Anything wrong?’
‘I was actually looking for Evelyn.’
‘Why?’ Abigail scowled at him. He wasn’t sure if it was because of the low winter sun in her eyes or if it was caused by the mere sight of him. If her sister made him feel like a man, Abigail made him feel like a little boy who had come over to ask if Evelyn could come out to play. He sensed the answer would be no.
‘I … we are investigating—’
‘I know,’ Abigail interrupted him. ‘Evelyn told me. She’s not here. May I pass on a message?’
‘Eh, no. That’s all right. I’ll try back another time. Nothing th
at can’t wait. I’ll leave you to it.’ With a half-hearted wave of his hand he turned to walk back up to where he had parked the car.
‘Oh Sergeant!’ Abigail called after him. He turned. ‘I’d prefer it if my sister were not needlessly upset. She can be rather sensitive and … well, whatever went on up on that farm had nothing to do with Evelyn. Of that I’m quite certain.’
She held his gaze, and unsure of what to say, he simply nodded and turned away once more.
‘Do you understand me, Sergeant?’
PJ froze. A line had been crossed. He slowly turned to face her and waited for as long as he dared till he spoke.
‘Yes. Yes, I understand.’
As he clambered up the incline, he thought to himself that he really hadn’t the slightest clue what Abigail was getting at.
The rest of the day had passed slowly. He checked emails and trawled through the various Garda alerts he got sent, and then, because Mrs Meany left early on a Friday afternoon, he treated himself to a bit of daytime telly.
He wasn’t sure how long he’d slept for. It was dark outside and the small former back bedroom he used as a sitting room was dimly lit by the flickering glow of a news programme. He turned on the lamp next to the chair and checked his watch. A quarter to seven. PJ sat up and decided to head back to the Riordan place to see if there was any sign of life.
As the headlights of the Garda car swept across the yard, he could see Brid’s car at the side of the house. The driver’s door was open and the interior light was on. There was no other sign of life. He walked up to the car, and after a cursory glance inside shut the door, leaving the yard in total darkness. Using his small torch he made his way carefully to the front door and rang the bell. Nothing. He was just about to press it again when the porch light came on with a violent glare and Brid, wearing a dark blue woollen coat, opened the door. Her mouth fell open when she saw the sergeant, and then she sank back against the wall, silently inviting him to come in. He stepped forward and she shut the door behind him before leading him down the corridor towards the kitchen, neither of them feeling the need to speak.
The scrape of a kitchen chair against the tiled floor seemed unnaturally loud as Brid gestured for PJ to sit.
‘I’ll stand if you don’t mind. This shouldn’t take too long,’ were his first words to her. She was leaning against the kitchen counter now, just staring straight ahead. He noticed the wine bottle and remembered the abandoned car in the yard.
‘Is everything all right, Mrs Riordan?’ he enquired, peering down into her face. She didn’t meet his gaze, but her breathing had begun to change. Long, slow breaths escaped her lips, each one a louder rasp than the last. It sounded as if she were steeling herself to lift something very heavy or run up a steep hill.
‘Mrs Riordan?’
Her large eyes swivelled towards his.
‘My children.’ Each word deliberate and measured, like an incantation. ‘He’s taken my children.’ And with that her shoulders collapsed, her head tilted back and she let out a long, deep moan.
Before PJ could react in any way, Brid had thrown herself against him. Her short arms reached around his belly and her head was buried into his chest. Her whole body rose and fell with each wave of sobbing. PJ considered pushing her away, but it seemed easier just to hold her. His hands felt wide and strong on her back. He lowered his head to whisper a soft ‘ssh’ in her ear, as he might have done to a crying baby left unexpectedly in his care. Brid gripped him tighter, and PJ could feel the weight and shape of her breasts resting on the top of his stomach.
The awkward embrace seemed to be lasting for a very long time, but the truth was, neither of them wanted it to end. It felt good to just hold the warmth of another human being and they both knew that once the spell was broken one of them would have to speak. With his eyes shut, PJ inhabited a dark, allconsuming world. The strands of her hair that were stuck to his cheek, her fingers digging into his deep flesh, the undeniable pressure of his now hard cock against her body …
Brid lifted her face from his chest and he knew what was going to happen next. Was it her, or had he … It didn’t matter who had initiated it, because now they were kissing. As their lips met and their tongues became a hot, wet knot, it was as if they were set free. Hands roamed, seeking out bare flesh; now they were on their knees, now rolling on the floor. A chair was knocked over. PJ knew he should stop, that he must stop, he was going to stop, but then she slid her hand along the inside of his thigh and all hope was lost.
12
The bedroom was filled with the murky half-light that spilled through the window, its curtains left undrawn. A soft rain was tapping on the glass. No birds sang. Brid had been awake for about an hour just watching the great bulk of a man lying next to her. The soft pink of his flesh, the wiry blackness of the hairs on his back, the slow, even rise and fall of his breathing. She felt remarkably calm. Gazing at the ceiling that hadn’t been painted since her mother died, she made an inventory of her feelings, but search as she might, she could find no guilt. Flashes of what had gone on the night before kept running through her mind. The buttons of her coat scattering across the floor, the weight of him on top of her, their sweat-soaked bodies writhing on the landing, the noises they had been making! Her face reddened and a small smile played across her lips. She leaned over and gently kissed PJ’s back. She had no idea what was going to happen next, but in this stolen moment between sleep and the rest of her life, she felt truly happy.
The mound of flesh next to her stirred. PJ raised himself on one arm and turned awkwardly to look at Brid.
‘I must go to the toilet,’ he whispered.
‘Right. Well off you go.’ Brid smiled and PJ smiled back. Sensing his embarrassment, she looked away to allow him to get out of bed. She felt the great weight being lifted off the mattress and heard him picking through some of the clothes on the floor. She glanced over and saw him struggling to get his thigh through the leg hole of a pair of underpants. Her hand shot up to cover her mouth.
‘I think those are Anthony’s.’ He turned to look at her and froze for a second, before the two of them began to laugh. He let go of the underpants and sat back down on the bed.
‘That’s terrible.’
‘I think yours are on the stairs somewhere.’
Another wave of laughter washed over them.
PJ caught sight of the red numbers glowing on the digital clock.
‘Shit, it’s nearly a quarter past eight. I’ve got to get back.’
He stood up again and started looking for any items of clothing that belonged to him.
‘Go pee. I’ll gather up your things,’ Brid said and stroked his shoulder.
PJ was almost back at the barracks when he remembered that it was Saturday and there would be no Mrs Meany. He needn’t have worried. No awkward questions. Driving out from the Riordans’ yard he had felt confused. He’d had a good time and Brid seemed like a lovely woman, but she was married and he was the sergeant. It couldn’t happen again. But that didn’t stop a stirring in his trousers just thinking about it.
This was not the first time PJ had had sex. When he was much younger he had gone to Dublin and visited a prostitute: a tall, thin woman who had called herself Anna. She had spoken with some sort of accent, east European perhaps, but all he could really remember was how pale her skin had been and the way her neck was stained pink from her red hair dye. He had seen her three times over two years, but each time was less exciting than the last. Her counting the notes before taking off her bra and panties; the way she handled his body without even the pretence of desire. She was at work, with a job to be done, and after the last visit he vowed never to return.
It turned out that it wasn’t sex he’d been looking for. What he was trying to find was someone who wanted him, and that was what had been so amazing about last night. Brid had desired him completely. There had been no moment when she flinched. Even this morning when they had said goodbye she had planted her warm, damp lips on
his without hesitation and stroked his stomach with both her hands. He smiled and thought to himself that he must stop thinking about her or he’d crash the car.
‘Sweet Jesus, not the prick!’
PJ had arrived back at the Garda station to find a silver Mercedes parked on the driveway, and leaning against it, cigarette in hand, Detective Superintendent Linus Dunne. He turned off the engine. Even before he got out of the car he could see the smirk on the detective’s face.
‘Good morning, Sergeant! You’re out very early for a Saturday.’
PJ suppressed the violent feelings welling up inside him.
‘I just popped out to get the papers.’
‘Did you now?’ The detective almost laughed and gestured at PJ’s empty hands.
PJ brazened it out.
‘You’re out early yourself, Detective.’
‘Yes. Sorry to just show up, but I was trying to call the station.’ He paused and smiled. ‘There was no reply.’
The sergeant toyed with the idea of trying to explain the unanswered phone, but thought better of it.
‘Will you come in? I’ll put the kettle on.’
‘Right. I was wondering how you got on yesterday, and I needed to check a few files you have here.’
Minutes later, the men were sitting opposite each other at the kitchen table with their tea between them. PJ was starving and longing to fry up some breakfast, but he had no intention of cooking anything for the prick. Linus revealed what he had found out in Dublin and explained why there would have to be an exhumation order. PJ nodded and chewed on his thumbnail. He knew that putting a mechanical digger up in the cemetery would upset a lot of people. As if reading his mind, Linus continued, ‘I don’t like it either, but it’s the only way we can get a positive ID on the body. We know it’s not just some John Doe – this guy was murdered, and that means someone killed him. What vibe did you get off the women?’
Holding Page 8
