Dark Mirrors

by Siobhain Bunni

  “Well, that’s just great. What am I supposed to do?” Feeling each injury one by one, she looked up at Penny and desperately declared, “I can’t let the kids see me like this.”

  Panic rose in her voice along with the realisation that any attempt at a superficial cover-up was pointless. She felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck and the cold spill of trepidation chase its way down her spine all the way to the extremities of her fingers and toes. Unable to stop herself, she began to shiver, casting the mirror on to the bed.

  “What the hell have I done?” she asked herself aloud. “And what am I supposed to do now?”

  Bringing her legs up towards her under the duvet and clasping her hands about her knees, she sank her head onto them.

  “You haven’t done anything wrong,” Penny insisted, moving forward to console her, knowing that the words sounded flat and clichéd but she didn’t know what else to say right then. There was plenty she wanted to say, but wisely accepted that this was not the right moment.

  Esmée felt utterly sorry for herself as well as foolish, not to mention ridiculous, but there were no tears. Just shame and a deep foreboding that whatever change she had instigated last night had reached a level far beyond her original expectations.

  “I need a shower,” she said finally into the duvet.

  She was determined not to be the little bird with the broken wing and, ignoring the discomfort of her movements, unrolled and extracted herself from the tempting refuge beneath the covers. When she stood, her head felt like it might float off without the rest of her body, which weighed an approximate ton. Penny steadied her, holding on until the head-rush passed.

  “Do you need some help in there?” Penny asked.

  “No, I’ll be fine, I think.”

  “Sure?”

  “Yeah, I’ll yell if I need you.”

  “Okay . . . ehhh . . .”

  Esmée faltered at the door, casting an uncertain bruised eye back at her sister, who seemed very uneasy, without apparent reason, and extremely reluctant to leave.

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing.”

  “No, seriously, what?”

  “Okay. Look, the Guards are downstairs – they want to try and talk to you again.”

  “You’re kidding me! Right?” Esmée cried out painfully, throwing an incredulous accusing stare at her sister.

  “I didn’t call them!” Penny defended herself, holding her hands up and shaking her head. “Lizzie did it last night but you weren’t in a fit state to talk, so they’ve come back today to speak to you, that’s all.” The words rushed forth, a weak attempt to exonerate herself and allocate the blame elsewhere.

  “Are you crazy? Why on earth would I speak to them?”

  “Esmée!” Penny implored, a little bit shocked by her sister’s attitude.

  “No way, Penny, I’m sorry. I know you all mean really well, but no way!”

  Using the wall as support before her trembling knees yielded to the pressure of her body, she steadied herself and felt her way into the bathroom.

  Then Penny heard the bang of the door and click of the lock. Running her hands through her hair, she followed in her sister’s tracks in disbelief. Standing at the door, she knocked gently, waiting hands on hips for a reply from the far side. When none was forthcoming she spoke firmly but quietly through its timber, conscious of the two officers sitting only feet from the bottom of the stairs.

  “Esmée! You have to talk to them. You can’t let Philip get away with this. It’s not right.”

  The door opened with a sharp yank and Esmée motioned frantically for her to enter. Closing it after Penny, she whispered doggedly, “My God, Penny, what do you want me to say to them?” Her finger pointed through the floor to the room below. “Yes, Officer,” she said sarcastically, folding her arms in front of her, wagging her head as she spoke, “I’m the thick housewife with the madcap plan of the century for the great escape – it didn’t go quite as planned and now I’m screwed!”

  “How about telling them what happened?” Penny persisted. “Tell them how you got those!” She was getting cross now and speared her index finger towards the cuts on Esmée’s face. Her frequent exposure to women just like this allowed her to see immediately that she was getting nowhere so, shifting approach and keeping her tone sympathetic but firm, she tried to penetrate the classic blank wall of resistance that her sister was fast constructing. “Esmée, for God’s sake, I see this every bloody day in work: women whose husbands go too far but who never do anything about it.” Pausing, she hoped that the weight of her professional knowledge and experience would sink in. “They don’t want to say anything either but most of them end up right back in casualty in a worse state than the last time. This can’t be you, Esmée. You have to tell them. I can’t see you like this again.”

  “Penny. Let’s be clear about this.” Esmée was doing all she could to keep her cool. “There is a huge difference, because I’m not going back. Am I?”

  But Penny stood firm, unconvinced, eyeballing her sister and shaking her head in incredulity.

  “Look,” Esmée pleaded, exasperated by her persistence, “this is between Philip and me.” Sitting down on the edge of the bath, hoping not to faint, she tried to explain her point of view. “What he did was wrong. It was scary and, yes, it was vicious. Yes, I feel like shit and I have no intention of letting him get away with it.” Gripping the white sides of the bath to steady herself, she wished Penny would understand and just back off. “But I’ll deal with this in my own time and in my own way.” She held on and focused into a stubborn stare. “I told him I was leaving him, taking his kids away for heaven’s sake. Is it any wonder he went berserk?”

  Casting professionalism aside, Penny snapped back. “That’s no bloody excuse, Esmée Myers, and you know it! But if that’s what you really think, well, you tell that to them because I don’t buy it.” And, throwing one last stinging glare, she swung the door open and slammed it after her.

  Esmée understood that Penny was upset, almost on the verge of tears. She’d be the same, worse even, if she were in Penny’s shoes – but she didn’t think she could face the humiliation of talking about what had happened. In a mere few hours she had been robbed of her dignity, her pride had been crushed and she felt disgraced and mortified. And now, dealing with all that, she was expected to stand in front of strangers and expose herself? And for what? What was the goal? More humiliation? Public acknowledgement that she had failed her husband, herself, her marriage, her family, her children? Penny must be delusional.

  Throwing off her pyjamas she stepped into the shower and turned the dial to maximum. Facing the hot spray she let the hard drops rain down on her. It really did sting like hell but she didn’t care. She stood there for an age, not caring about her two unwanted visitors waiting below, and let the water spill over her, breathing in the steam, feeling it tighten in her chest. Despite her long sedated sleep she was emotionally weary and physically drained. She tried to halt the relentless whys that continued to rush through her head.

  Why did it spin out of control like that? Why didn’t she listen to her mother?

  Why did she have to challenge him like that? Maybe if she’d approached it differently it wouldn’t have ended the way it did. Why did he have to hit her? She knew he’d be pissed off, but why this?

  Why? Was it love that drove him to it? Or was it that he cared nothing for her at all, that he wasn’t remotely concerned about the certain repercussions. Turning, she let the spray pelt her tense shoulders, dropping her head till her chin touched her chest.

  He had never been aggressive to either her or the children before, so why now?

  What had changed?

  Was it always there? Hidden deep beneath the charming façade in some veiled abyss of his soul?

  Was she responsible for unleashing it?

  Or perhaps it was something else?

  If so – what?

  And what of her two visitors downstairs, n
o doubt waiting impatiently, Penny probably reluctant to let them leave despite any protestations? Maybe they were occupying themselves by deviously probing her over-eager little sister, their casual questions cloaked in innocence in an attempt to get as much out of her as possible.

  What the hell was she supposed to do next? There was too much noise in her head and she just couldn’t think, couldn’t hear for all the static. It had to stop. She could feel her pulse increase and temperature rise. Immediately the lightness of her head intensified. With no way out of this ridiculous situation she was trapped, lost in a vast bleak corridor of locked doors with a useless fist of keys and a choice: one chance – pick the right one, or else. Confused, angry and caged in this beautiful waterproof cell, the once therapeutic vapours now suffocating her, she needed to get out. Fumbling, she felt for the shower controls and flung open the doors to gasp violently at the cold air outside. Dropping to the wet floor, she breathed deep and allowed her beating heart to settle back to an even pace. She had no idea how long she lay there. She was sure her delay would be seen as avoidance by her visitors. But she didn’t care. Picking herself up and wrapping the towel around her, she knew she was cornered. Armed with nothing more than a rolling mental sequence of questions she had no option but to get dressed, go downstairs and face the music.

  Chapter 8

  Composed and dressed simply in dark-blue fitted jeans, loose white shirt and mixed blue scarf tied protectively around her neck Esmée descended the stairs quietly. She paused for a minute on the last step to see if she could decipher the whispers coming from Penny and the two plainclothes police officers, a man and a woman, who sat waiting for her to appear.

  As she rounded the newel post of the stairs all three stood to immediate attention, like schoolchildren greeting the headmistress, mugs in hand, feet firmly together.

  Penny, wearing that same guilty expression that always gave her away when they were kids, made the polite introductions: “Detective Sergeant Maloney. Garda Burke.”

  Esmée nodded as she took each invited hand firmly in her grasp, recognising Detective Sergeant Maloney as the Garda who had turned up the previous night. The mental mist was beginning to clear.

  “How are you this morning, Mrs Myers?” The detective sergeant’s query seemed genuine enough.

  “Esmée, please,” she insisted before sitting on the edge of the sofa opposite them. “I’m fine, thank you.”

  Penny took up a position on the sofa arm beside her and laid a protective hand on her shoulder.

  God, he’s ugly, Esmée thought maliciously, but he probably thinks he’s gorgeous. He’s the kind of geek that kisses his own reflection and prances around naked, admiring himself in the mirror – just like in those really cheesy movies. A Mel Gibson wannabe, but not the cute, modern Mel Gibson, but Mel as he was in the days of the first Lethal Weapon. He was utterly naff, with his highlighted blond hair and that aged brown-leather bomber jacket with the rolled-up sleeves and, oh my God, were they cowboy boots under the legs of those jeans? Ughhhh!

  “We’ve met before,” she realised as she sized him up. “Before last night, that is.”

  “You’re right,” he affirmed with a knowing smile, apparently fully aware that she was giving him the once-over. “I called to your house a couple of weeks ago. You thought you’d had a break-in.”

  “Ahh, that’s right!” Esmée recalled, raising her head slightly, recollecting their previous, fairly nondescript, encounter. How hadn’t she noticed those boots back then?

  “I met your husband that night too, although he didn’t seem too happy to see me and my partner.”

  Esmée nodded in reply, remembering the inexplicable uproar Philip had caused having found the police in the house when he’d got home that evening.

  “Would you like to tell us what happened last night?” he went on. “You didn’t seem up to talking when we called.” He looked to his partner for silent confirmation.

  Esmée’s response was polite, practised and above all cautious. “My husband and I are having some difficulties.”

  It felt strange to use the word husband in the context of this obviously guarded conversation in which she was participating only to appease her sisters, reluctant to explain to these strangers the mess she had created.

  “My sisters shouldn’t have bothered you,” she apologised, casting a reproachful glance at Penny. “Really, it’s nothing. It got out of hand. We argued. That’s all.” She felt Penny’s grip shift and tighten on her shoulder.

  “It doesn’t look like nothing to me,” Maloney responded, eyeing the fresh dressing on her forehead.

  Aware of his stare, she raised her hand instinctively to her head, unable to control the red hue that seeped into her cheeks. “I realise it must look awful but I just tripped on my way to the car, that’s all. I stormed out, you see.” It seemed a plausible answer.

  “Really? And your neck?” he questioned, his sceptical tone telling her he wasn’t convinced.

  Her eyes jerked up to meet his. Either she was being completely paranoid or he was actually mocking her. Who the hell did he think he was?

  “I saw it last night, Esmée. Looked pretty sore to me.”

  Shifting uncomfortably on the edge of the sofa, unconsciously rubbing the base of her neck, she felt the tender ridge beneath the soft fabric of her shirt.

  “We called to your house after we left here last night,” he continued, not waiting for her to answer. “We found these outside.” He extracted from his pocket her mobile phone and purse. “You must have dropped them when you, eh, fell.”

  She leant forward to retrieve them – she hadn’t even noticed them missing. Well, why would she? He gripped them moments longer than was necessary, catching her eyes as he did so, willing her to be aware that he knew she wasn’t being honest.

  “You must have been in quite a hurry?”

  She really didn’t like him and she found herself getting angry at his accusatory tone. Time to take control.

  “Like I’ve already told you I stormed out – an angry wife’s prerogative, Detective Sergeant,” she retorted defiantly, noticing his left hand’s naked ring finger. “Now, really, you’re wasting your time. This is a personal, private issue between Philip and me. An issue which we will deal with, together, as a married couple. Now, if you please . . .” She stood up, indicating their exit path with her hand. “I have things to do. My children need collecting and I have shopping to get in.”

  Maloney shrugged and got to his feet, the other detective taking the lead from him.

  Esmée followed them to the front door.

  Probably used to always getting in the last word, Maloney turned before releasing the latch.

  “In case you’re wondering, we didn’t get to speak to him – your husband that is. He wasn’t home. Or . . .” he stopped and turned to look at her before continuing, “if he was he wasn’t answering.”

  Garda Burke, who up until now had remained silent through all of this, exited the house behind Maloney but, before moving further towards their thankfully unmarked car, she turned and handed Esmée a plain white printed card.

  “My number’s on that,” she said gently. “Call me if you change your mind.”

  Esmée stood at the door and watched them go.

  * * *

  Detective Sergeant Gregory Maloney heard the hard slam of her front door over the din of the idle engine. It had been a long shift and he was looking forward to getting home. He should have gone home that morning but this was one he wanted to follow up. He hadn’t liked Philip Myers the first time he met him and he liked him even less now.

  “What do you make of it?” Garda Sarah Burke asked as she got in.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “She’s an awful eejit, sticking up for him like that. Some women are nuts.”

  He looked at her. “Do you think? Have you not considered that maybe she’s more embarrassed than anything?”

  “Snotty, more like. I just don’t understan
d women like her. I’d want to lynch him, not make out it was all my fault.”

  “You’ll learn,” he predicted.

  Back at the station, he felt truly exhausted. Hopefully he'd be able to sleep when he got home. Greg hated the night shift. He could never sleep during the day, his dreams were too vivid. He thought about her while he drove home and was still thinking about her when he sat drained in front of the television, his boots strewn on the floor beside him. She was hot and wasted on that gobshite. He didn’t think she was stupid – misguided perhaps, but not stupid. High maintenance definitely, the feisty ones always were. That’s why he’d stayed single. Didn’t have the patience for it.

  He was curious about what had gone on there, not only last night but before then. Her sister, the previous night, had given him a short debrief, describing what sounded like a good reason for a scrap – but for him to slap her round like that? That wasn’t on.

  He recalled their last encounter. It was only some weeks back. He was on lates that evening too and she had returned home thinking the house had been burgled. Burglaries weren’t normally his thing but there had been very little action that night so he had no problem answering the call.

  Something had definitely gone down in that house, of that he was sure, not only because of the suggested physical evidence at the scene but mainly because when the husband turned into the driveway he went ballistic with both her and them. The first memorable thing Philip did was to charge straight into the house and up the stairs and when he came down he was calmer, like the panic was over. He had something to worry about and, whatever it was, it appeared to be still safe. Greg remembered Philip’s defensive but almost cocky reaction when he tried to get further into the house and the disparaging arrogant reprimand he gave his wife for calling them in the first place.