“For God’s sake, Esmée, you never listen, do you? I told you I’d be home as quick as I could. What did you call the police for? They’ll only make shite of the place!”
He also recalled the embarrassed blush on her pale cheeks and the quick but apologetic look his partner Dougie gave her. Which was unusual in itself because Dougie “The Bulldog” Masterson usually didn’t give a crap.
Philip had shown no concern for their kids or for the potential danger they could have faced had the intruder still been in the house when they arrived home, nor would he allow Greg and his team in to investigate further or take any prints. Now what could a man like Philip Myers have to hide?
At the time her reaction to his bizarre behaviour was blasé: she was obviously used to it. So to see her now, out of the house, was satisfying.
He liked her. A lot. But she was sharp, had an edge to be reckoned with and sharp wasn’t his type, although that didn’t stop him fantasising about how she might look in his arms, how she might taste, might feel or the methods she might use to keep him on his toes. Hmmmm . . . He usually went for a more submissive type, the smaller delicate flowers, the kind that needed protecting which, of course, he was good at, and at that his reputation preceded him.
In his heyday he was dark and dangerous: dark, drunk and dangerous. Back then, against regulations, he supplemented his meagre wages by part-time work as a bouncer in a not-so-salubrious pub on the other side of the city, far enough away for him not to be recognised. He’d stand tall, proud and powerful at the door and depending on the mood he was in he might, or might not, let you in. His boss turned a blind eye to the nixer and the hangover – everyone was at it until they got caught and he was caught rapid. The pub was raided on his last Saturday night there, for class A drugs. He had to think on his feet but he didn’t run. To his credit he never knew what was going on, being too distracted by the varying degrees of ‘skirt’ that flirted and offered him endless delectable pleasures.
But his boss liked him, knew his father, was there the day he was shot by a rogue bullet fired by one of his own. A sad day.
“Clean up your act, boy,” was the advice. “Your father would turn in his grave.”
And he did clean it up. The episode had scared him shitless. He ditched the job, the booze and the coke, but kept the girls; they were his only vice, to which he still felt entitled.
And despite her edge, he was curious about Esmée. There was something vulnerable about her, something fragile that he felt he should preserve. Yep. He’d keep his eye on this one, he thought. As for the husband . . . at the time of the break-in he’d made a mental note to do a few follow-up checks: there was something not quite right. But he never did, obviously distracted by something else that came along. Now, however, he was going to make it his business to find out what was up.
Chapter 9
“Ponce!” Esmée hissed venomously at the door as it slammed after them.
“Who the hell does he think he is, coming in here with that stupid haircut and those ridiculous boots?”
Forgetting herself she sank forcibly into the couch, grimacing with the pain that juddered through her head like a chainsaw as she landed.
Penny, still seated on the sofa’s edge with her mouth agape, appalled by her sister’s behaviour, shook her head in disgust and then stood to look down on her with obvious disdain.
“You must be nuts! They wanted to help you and you behaved – well, words fail me!”
“You sound just like Mum!” Esmée retorted defiantly. “And just so you know it, I don’t want their help.”
Choosing to ignore her sister’s childish response, Penny closed her eyes to mentally push the words, firmly rejected, over her head and stood with her hands on her hips, looking as well as sounding like her mother.
“And what happens if Philip turns up at the door to have another go at you? What then, smart-ass? Didn’t think of that, did you?”
Furiously taking the last word, she turned and marched out of the room.
Esmée remained on the couch, rebellious, defiant and unfazed.
“He doesn’t know where we live now, does he?” she whispered churlishly, leaning forward to pick up her mobile from the table. It appeared to have escaped its ordeal unscathed. Pressing the power button at its base, she waited for the screen to light up. She keyed in her PIN and listened to the familiar tone as it connected to her network. Returning it to the coffee table, without taking her eyes from it, she leaned back into the couch and waited, silently counting: one, two, three . . . By the time she’d reached fifty and it still hadn’t vibrated she knew there were no messages. He hadn’t called. Maybe he had but just didn’t leave a message? Had it been damaged in the fall? Standing up she picked up her phone, walked to the telephone by the window, dialled her number and then waited patiently for the long seconds to pass before it rang in her hand.
In an instant Penny rushed from the kitchen, panic in her face, looking around to see where her sister had got too, anxious about the potential caller.
“Relax! It’s only me,” Esmée said, slightly amused, replacing the phone into its cradle. “I just wanted to see if it was still working.”
“No message then?”
“Nope,” she replied, trying hard to conceal the disappointment in her voice, embarrassed at being caught checking her own messages.
Penny retreated to the kitchen and this time Esmée followed. This was ridiculous. She sat down at the table and watched as Penny filled a glass with water from the tap and placed it in front of her, along with two painkillers.
“You should take these now,” she instructed, the compassion displayed earlier missing from her tone.
“Jesus, Penny, don’t be cross,” Esmée pleaded, looking up at her.
Words threatened in Penny’s returning stare: there were so many words she wanted to say but couldn’t. Irresponsible. Stubborn. Rude. Childish. But, she realised, they would have been valuable words wasted. So instead she let them be and responded instead with a disapproving sigh and a simple “I just don’t understand you.”
Esmée grimaced in response and Penny instinctively bent to her sister and wrapped her tightly in her arms. The anger was soon gone, replaced then with love and empathy for her elder, in year’s only, sibling.
“How do you feel?” Penny asked, finally letting go.
“Battered!”
“Be serious, Esmée!”
“Fine really. My head is throbbing a little and I do feel bruised but I’m fine.”
“Then these will do the trick. Take them.” She gestured towards the pills.
Taking them in her hand, Esmée threw them back one by one with swift gulps of water.
Rubbing her sister’s back, Penny joined her at the table.
“You want to talk?”
“Not really. I wouldn’t know where to start,” she shrugged.
Penny waited a while before asking, “What are you going to do?” There was a vulnerable tenderness in her voice.
“I haven’t a clue, I’ve never done this before, you know.” Esmée was unable to contain the sarcasm.
“You never told us how all this came about,” Penny prompted gently.
“I thought Mum would have.”
“Only a little – she wasn’t very clear on the detail.”
Given everything that had happened in the last twelve hours it made sense to recount the tale, to put it in context, and Esmée, knowing that her sister wasn’t going to let it go, told her story in broad strokes. Its delivery was, this time, different. She no longer had to justify her thoughts and feelings and, in fact, telling it this time round seemed to release some of her guilt. Philip, through his actions, had justified hers, had proven himself to be a complete shit and she was the resultant casualty. She felt oddly detached, like it had happened to someone else, a third party, anyone else, just not her.
“Has he ever hit you before?”
“Isn’t that weird? Mum asked me the same question y
esterday. She asked if that was why I was leaving.” A natural question, she supposed. “But no. He never lifted a finger to me, to any of us. That’s what’s so odd about all this. He just isn’t like that. It doesn’t make sense, does it?”
“Do you think he’s on drugs?” Penny asked seriously.
Esmée had just gulped some more water and now it spurted out, together with a hysterical burst of laughter.
“I’m serious, sis,” said Penny. “His behaviour is really odd and maybe, well, there’s every chance that he could be taking something.”
But Esmée couldn’t hear her through her giggles.
“Well, if it’s not drugs then it’s something else,” Penny continued, a little hurt by the reaction to her perfectly plausible explanation, “because this is not rational behaviour. Something else has happened to him. How is his job? Everything okay there?”
“Yes, yes, it’s fine,” Esmée replied, doing her best to hold back the laughter so as not to offend Penny any more and wiping the tears from her eyes. “He’s got his new car, he’s making more money than ever and they’re putting him forward for promotion, or so he says.”
“Then maybe it’s too much pressure? He’s travelling a good bit – maybe he can’t cope?”
“Cope, my arse. He’s just a dickhead. What are you doing excusing him anyway?”
“I’m not, really I’m not. It’s just, well, it’s not making sense.”
“Tell me about it.”
Silence passed between them, the throb in Esmée’s head refusing to shift.
The shrill ring of the doorbell sliced through the sanctuary of the afternoon like a hot knife through butter. Both women jumped, looking from one to the other as they cautiously pushed back their seats and tiptoed through the living room towards the door. The fear was infectious. Esmée’s heart thumped in her ears as she peeped through the safety of timber blinds. But it was relief that swept through her as she spied Fin on the far side accompanied by Matthew and Amy. Was it that late already?
“It’s only Fin and the kids!” she announced to her sister and pulled open the door to greet them.
“Hey there, guys!”
Her welcome was reciprocated by Amy who ran at her to hug her legs and then, throwing her bag to the corner, continued her flight to gleefully embrace her aunt.
“Auntie Penny, you’re still here!” she cried happily.
Matthew followed after and Esmée, forgetting her injuries, bent down to kiss him, stopping only as she saw his horrified reaction to her face.
“Mummy, what happened to your face?” he cried, reaching out his hand to gently touch the bandage and plasters.
“I fell when I was out jogging.” Where that came from she’d never know, but it was the first thing to enter her head.
“But you don’t go jogging, Mummy,” he responded, confused and unconvinced.
“Now you know why!” she replied stupidly, kissing him on the crown and turning abruptly away.
Following her round, refusing to let it go, he fought to get a closer look and recognising defeat she knelt in front of him and invited him to look closer.
“I shouldn’t have been running so fast, eh?” She laughed as he inspected the bruising inquisitively.
“Can I touch it? Is it sore?” he enquired ever so gently, concerned for his mum, but itching to feel the swollen and blotchy skin as only a six-year-old can be.
“Go ahead,” she said, and followed with the lie, “It’s not sore.”
Slowly he reached out and tentatively touched her face, his own wincing in sympathy.
“Wow, Mum!” he exclaimed, distracted by the oddity before him. “You really shouldn’t go jogging again!”
Laughing at her son’s innocence, she stood up to face Fin who with sorrow in her eyes took in the bandage, bruises and scratches just as Matthew had. Esmée stood self-conscious and awkward, allowing herself be scrutinised like an animal at auction.
“Oh God, Esmée,” Fin whispered as she hugged her, “are you okay?” She held on to Esmée’s shoulders while leaning back to examine her further.
For the third time that day Esmée replied, “I’m fine. Really!” and, tired with it, changed the focus. “Come on!” she called out to her children, summoning all the energy and good nature she could muster. “Let’s get some supper!”
Fin stopped her as she was about to move away.
“Nope, we’re going to Granny’s, aren’t we?” Looking at the kids, now jumping with excitement, she sought their affirmation.
“Yeah!” they yelled in unison. This was a real treat, going to Granny’s on a school night!
“She’s got Guinness stew, mashed potatoes and trifle for tea!” encouraged Fin, licking her lips and rubbing her hands theatrically like something on children’s TV.
Esmée couldn’t help smiling as she recognised her favourites. If her mum, as she suspected, was making a comfort meal for her eldest daughter it would without doubt include her homemade tomato soup and brown soda bread for starters. Esmée deduced from the menu that her mother knew about last evening’s adventure and wondered who had told her.
“We just came to get you,” Fin finished off.
Matthew took hold of his mother’s hand. “Are you coming?” he asked.
“Absolutely!”
“Come on then!”
Here goes, thought Esmée with enormous trepidation as she grabbed her coat, turned on the alarm and followed the others to the car, concerned about how her mother would react.
The short journey didn’t take long. Lizzie stood at the open door to welcome them. Ever discreet, she shooed the children to wash their hands before wrapping her arms around Esmée. Holding her tight, she didn’t need to utter a single word to communicate the intensity of her feelings and by the time the kids returned from the bathroom, it was business as usual with a cheery “Let’s go eat.”
In no time they were sitting around the table, napkins on their laps, eyes closed with hands joined in prayer for the grace before meals.
Esmée observed her family as they reverently listened to Matthew recite the words of the blessing with great accuracy and enormous concentration. Her heart filled with pride and, feeling her throat tighten with the onset of threatening tears, she pinched herself hard, focusing on the pain. No sooner had Matthew uttered the last Amen than a tearful Penny, manhandling him into a tight bear hug, planted a kiss on the top of his head.
“You’re the best, Matthew Myers, do you know that?” she cried as he tried to escape her grip.
Feeling eyes on her, Esmée instinctively looked around to find her mum staring at her, smiling weakly, her own eyes brimming.
“I’m okay,” she mouthed silently to her.
Appeased, but not convinced, her mother averted her assessing gaze, swiftly transforming her expression, with impeccable efficiency, to a beaming smile.
“Amen is right!” she sang out, splaying her palms towards her family, “Now! Let’s enjoy this!”
It was an instruction they all followed with great fervour.
“Smells great, Mum!” Lizzie announced as she caught the aroma of the creamy tomato soup before putting the spoonful to her lips.
They were entertained throughout the delicious meal by the eager tales from Matthew and Amy about their day at school. The innocence of volcanoes made out of mash, with the thick gravy oozing from the manmade hollow, helped to create a feeling of normality as its architect told his grandmother about his mother’s nasty accident.
Glances filled with a concoction of veiled amusement and unease darted from adult to adult as they listened and commented on his matter-of-fact delivery.
“Well,” his grandmother concluded, “we’re all going to make sure Mummy doesn’t fall again, aren’t we?” She looked at each of them, allowing her final gaze to rest on her eldest daughter, the undertone of her words apparent to the adults around the table: together they would make sure that Philip would not harm Esmée again. Reassurance for the young
boy and unequivocal support and love for his mother was communicated from the head of the table by the matriarch.
Conor arrived just in time for dessert.
“Sorry I’m late,” he apologised, nodding to Esmée.
She acknowledged his contact with a tight embarrassed smile before diverting her concentration to the trifle that sat before her which, if she wasn’t mistaken, had an extra layer of custard, just the way she liked it.
“Coffee anyone?”
“I’ll make it, Sylvia,” Fin offered. “You sit down, you’ve done enough. Come on, guys! Help me do the dishes.” Obediently the kids each took their plate to the sink and under Fin’s expert direction, piece by piece, cleared the table. Without the diversion of the children, a tense blanket of silence settled over the adults at the table. Esmée, knowing what was on their minds, chose to deal with it head on.
“You can all stop looking at me like that,” she appealed quietly. “I’m fine. I swear.”
Conor looked at her and asked about her wellbeing.
As he slipped into his efficient doctor mode, she could easily imagine him in his white coat and stethoscope, smiling down at his patients while on rounds. They’d love him, she was sure, who wouldn’t? He was tall, good-looking, nice tan, good teeth . . .
“No dizziness? Lightheadedness has passed? No nausea?”
No! She was fine.
“Has he been in touch, love?” asked her mum seriously.
“No,” Esmée said, unable to completely conceal the disappointment in her voice.
Sylvia didn’t offer a reply, just shook her head slowly and lowered her eyes. She was very fond of Philip and his behaviour had hurt her more than even Esmée could have imagined. Their in-law relationship had been a strong one, built up solidly over the years and now Sylvia, along with her daughter, felt a great loss. No matter what happened next it would never be the same again.
“Can we talk about something else, please?” begged Esmée.
Dark Mirrors Page 9
