It took a while for her to register the quiet hum in the distance, augmenting swiftly to a loud din, eventually blasting her from behind. Instinctively she ducked as the rescue helicopter flew frighteningly close over her head and back out to sea, the heavy chop of its propellers drowning out all other sounds as it tilted on its side to follow the curve of the cliffs.
They were looking for him.
She watched as it disappeared around the coastline followed shortly after by the signature orange and blue of the lifeboat crashing rhythmically on the waves, its crew scanning for a human form. Three times the helicopter flew by, each time a little further away than the last, but it didn’t slow down, didn’t circle or slow to hang over a spot twice. It just kept on flying back and forth, back and forth, weaving its way farther and farther out to sea.
Esmée watched its progress, willing it to slow down, to get closer to the waves, to signal a find to the cruising boats that had gathered and were now motoring around and around in coordinated formation. Today there were no sails up, no excited urgent shouts for the crew to tack left or right: this was neither a leisurely tour nor a playful challenge to the wind and waves. This was a search party made up of volunteers for whom seeking out lost souls was a vocation. And as she watched them, mesmerised by the trail they carved through the now choppy swell, she thought about the man they were searching for. She wondered if they would look harder if they didn’t know he was a possible suicide, if they believed his presence in the distended waters to be a tragic accident? Would they be happy about selflessly risking their lives for someone who didn’t respect his own? Accepting that he might have taken his own life was the hard part but it was harder still to ignore the tiny voice blabbering away in her head, the one that kept telling her no, how could he? Watching the rhythmic movement of the sea below, the niggling doubts continued to present themselves, each one seeming more reasonable than the last. Her heart was crying out to him, for him. The thought of his desperation tore at her conscience, the need to end his own life, his silence. Her pity and sorrow. But how was it possible for her to feel like this? Yesterday she hated him, the day before that she despised him, a week ago she had left him and before that had contemplated and hankered after the simpler life without him. Had she tempted fate with her ridiculous wanderings? And if he really was dead, what then? Was she responsible, had she killed him?
Shrouded in confusion, she tried to put some order on her destructive thoughts but the rough weather was really moving in now, making it hard to stay sitting and even harder to concentrate with the stinging wind bringing tears to her eyes. She couldn’t watch any more and stood to let the lower cliff path lead her away from the focus of the search party. Leaving the activity behind, she thought about what he might have been thinking, she thought about the note. What exactly did he mean by “I did it for us”? What exactly had he done for them? Why? Maybe it wasn’t a suicide note at all? A farewell note, perhaps, but not a terminal goodbye? Was it that he meant her to believe he was dead? It was possible. But if that were the case, then where was he? And if this was the fashion of her thoughts, then were the police investigating the possibility too? Would they start calling people? Start asking questions and begin looking for him alive and elsewhere? Anxious now, feeling like she was missing something, she deviated off the main track onto a lesser known uphill trail to make her way back to the car park.
For once her cliff-side memories from childhood took second place to thoughts of her husband. It used to drive Philip nuts every time they came this way, how she always, without fail, recounted the hide and seek games played amongst these ferns, as if he had never heard the stories before. Eventually the habit became a jest to get him going. Not today though. Today she was alone.
The dynamic combination of fear and adrenaline pumped through her veins as she manoeuvred her car back to the main road.
Driving back the way she came, Esmée considered the protocol of what to do next. There was no one to call really. He was an only child whose parents had passed away long before they met. She and the kids were the only family he had left.
There was work. She would have to tell them, she supposed, though presumably the police would get around to questioning them about Philip. But what should she tell them: Philip is dead? Gone? Missing?
Somewhere in the back of her mind she harboured the notion that perhaps, just maybe, this was nothing more than Philip’s idea of cruel punishment: punishment for her subordinate defiance. Without a body he could be alive. And well. In her quest for answers where none existed, this seemed quite plausible. The more she thought about it, the more she could imagine him seeking out secret comfort in the arms of one of his many female conquests. She could hear him whine about his nasty wife and how she had left him, how she had taken his children when all he was trying to do was make a good home for his family. And as the seeds of her creative ramblings bore fictitious fruit, the image of him potentially in the embrace of another woman incensed her.
So strong was the emotion that by the time she got back to the house her sadness had been replaced once again by loathing.
The hum of the busy house was disconcerting after the solitude of her morning’s ambling. The tempting smell of fresh coffee lured her into the kitchen and into the morning’s circus that was breakfast time with the clan gathered tight around the small kitchen table.
“You okay?” Tom asked, handing her a steaming mug of milky coffee. “We were a bit worried when we found you gone.”
“I’m good,” she replied, returning his smile. “I walked around the cliffs.”
There was a pause as they digested this information.
“Busy out there?” Lizzie asked then.
“You could say that,” Esmée replied dryly. “Looks like every boat in the bay is out looking.”
“Looking for what, Mummy?” Amy asked, licking the jam off her toast.
“Sharks!” Fin answered playfully, grabbing her niece by the waist from behind, provoking a thrilled shriek in response.
“Really?” Matthew asked with wide eyes.
“No, pet,” Esmée replied, stroking his head. “Auntie Fin is only kidding.”
“Well, we’re off to town, aren’t we?” Tom told her while seeking confirmation from the kids.
“Uncle Tom says we can feed the ducks in the park. Can we, Mummy?” said Matthew.
“Of course you can,” Esmée agreed happily, the smiles on their faces warming up her chilled heart. “There’s bread in the cupboard you can take.”
“Fin's coming with us. Do you wanna come?” Tom asked.
“Do you mind if I don’t? I need to think.”
A tiny part of Esmèe took note of the glance Tom and Fin exchanged. Tom and Finn as a couple? Why not? Those two had always hit it off.
“Want some company?” Penny offered from across the table.
“Not really. I’d rather be on my own, just for bit.”
“If you’re sure you’ll be all right?”
“I’ll be fine, really.”
“Well, I’ll grab a lift with you then, Lizzie, if that’s okay?” said Penny.
“Fine by me, but,” she glanced at her watch, “I’m heading in five.”
The house buzzed with activity until the plates were cleared, dishwasher filled, teeth brushed, coats, hats, scarves and shoes put on. Two sets of goodbyes later and the house was quiet again. Finally.
In the comfort of the silence Esmée made herself a fresh coffee, then sat back down at the table. A wave of guilt passed over her as she realised how little time she had spent with the kids over the last few days, having had to pass them off on their, albeit very willing, aunties and uncle. The novelty of the continuous stream of guests was bound to wear off soon and when that happened, no doubt, there would be the inevitable barrage of questions. Where was their dad? When were they going to see him? When was he coming back? As sure as the sun would rise again tomorrow, they were bound to ask after him, wonder about his absence and be
curious about his return. She may have left him, may have wanted him out of her intimate life, but she never, ever, would have wished for his complete nonexistence. The day she discovered she was pregnant with Matthew was the day they had become inextricably unified. Children were the constant, not the love that they had promised would bind them together “till death do us part”. How naïve! Love, in her case, appeared to be transient, the catalyst but not the glue.
With no family, few friends and only a small number of work colleagues, the number of calls she had to make wasn’t huge. If he wasn’t alive they needed to be told. And if he was? What then? Mortification? Humiliation? There was no one to ask, no one to check and see.
She leafed through her phone, scanning her contact list, not really knowing who it was she was looking for, hoping for inspiration in the names. He had cut himself off completely from their few mutual friends. How sad was that? He had no golf buddy or tennis partner, he didn’t sail, didn’t play pool and his football days were long behind him. Really it was just them. It had kind of always been that way.
The first person she called was Jack Ryan. Jack and Philip had worked together for the past few years managing the small team that was the Dublin office of Alliance Vie. They had, she supposed, become firm friends and nurtured a strong team bond. They were as close as work colleagues ever really become and together ran the business with integrity, or so Philip said. She and Philip had been invited to dinner with Jack and his wife, Grace, a few times and had returned the gesture at least twice. And while Jack might not necessarily have been her cup of tea, Grace was a delight. Loquacious and vivacious with a wicked sense of humour, a sharp tongue and a thick Dublin accent, she made their evenings out thoroughly enjoyable, demonstrating that opposites really do attract. Searching out the number, Esmée could visualise their house: the colour of the walls, the pretty pictures of their three young girls set out neatly atop the lacquered upright piano and the dog that apparently wet the floor every time their doorbell rang.
His voice, when he answered, was suddenly familiar.
“Hi, Jack, it’s Esmée, Esmée Myers.”
“God, Esmée, how are you?”
“I’m good. And you?”
“Great, thank God, enjoying the fine weather. What can I do for you?”
With the pleasantries over, she paused only briefly to take a deep breath then got straight to the point.
“Jack, I’m ringing to see if Philip is with you?”
“With me? No, I thought you guys were heading off for a few days?”
“Where?”
“Where what?”
“Where were we supposed to be going?” Esmée replied curtly.
His nervous laugh was a sure indication that he wasn’t quite sure where the conversation was heading.
“I don’t know, Esmée. He never said.”
When she didn’t answer he filled the silence.
“I take it you guys didn’t go away then?”
“Nope. When were we to come back?” She tried not to sound pissed off – it wasn’t his fault – but it was easier said than done.
“I don’t know exactly –”
“When did he leave?” she cut across him.
“Well, we had a pint last Wednesday – that was the last I saw of him.” His tone suggested he wasn’t going to remain this nice if she was going to keep going down this route.
“So the last time you spoke was last Wednesday?”
“Yes, Esmée! That’s what I said. Look, what’s going on?”
She couldn’t bring herself to say the words. The phone began to shake in her hand. Beads of sweat bloomed under her arms as the nausea began to build.
“Esmée, is everything all right? Are you okay?”
“Well, no, not really. We can’t find Philip.”
“What do mean ‘can’t find’ him?”
“He’s gone. Missing. The police found his car on the cliffs yesterday but not him. Jack, they think he’s killed himself.”
“What? You’re joking. But that’s impossible – it’s just crazy – sure why would he do a thing like that . . .?” His voice trailed off as he tried to make sense of what she was telling him.
“He’s gone, Jack, and I have no idea where.”
“Suicide? I don’t think so.” His words trembled as he spoke, but he was definite in his denial of the possibility. “Did he leave a note? Did he mention anything to you beforehand, any clue?”
Jack sounded just like Maloney with all his questions. But his seemed to have more sincerity.
“There was a note, but I don’t really understand it. He said he did it for me.”
“Did what?”
“Killed himself maybe? I have no idea. I wish I knew.” She could feel the bile dangerously close to her mouth and bit her lip, focusing hard on diverting the possibility of tears. The last thing she wanted to do was break down on the phone to Philip’s workmate.
“What do the police say? Are they doing anything?”
“They’re searching for him now, at the cliffs.”
“Oh my God, Esmée, I don’t know what to say. It just doesn’t make any sense!”
“You’re all right, I wasn’t really expecting you to say anything.” The resignation in her tone was palpable. “But I have to ask, Jack, was there anything particular, anything at all going on at work that might make him . . .” Esmée didn’t know which verb to use, “well, that might make him do this?”
“Jesus, Esmée!” Jack retorted. “No. God, no.” He paused. “Things were hard, for sure, but nothing quite so bad as to make him . . .” Jack couldn’t bring himself to say it. “He’d done a few deals recently that seemed to bring in the numbers . . . I don’t know . . . God, Esmée, I’m sorry but I don’t think so. I’d know if there was.”
“But could you do me a favour?”
“Sure. Anything. What can I do?”
“Would you mind telling them at work?”
“Yes. Yes, of course I’ll tell them.”
“And, well, look, I’m not sure quite how to put this, but, well, things haven’t been the best between Philip and me for a while now.”
His swallow was just about audible.
He knew? She could feel it, could feel his mortification. Had she crossed the line? Too late to turn back now so she clenched her cheeks and continued. “The kids and I – we – we moved out last week.”
She paused, offering him a chance to respond.
“Jesus, Esmée, I’m sorry, really I am.”
“Don’t be. It’s been coming a while, you know that.”
He didn’t deny it. She kept going.
“Look, I know he was upset by it all, but to do this? I don’t think so. He didn’t love me enough to do this.” She surprised even herself with her pragmatism, but it wasn’t his sympathy she was after.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Esmée –”
“Thanks, Jack, I appreciate your words, but genuinely, he didn’t. But if you could just ask around, see if there was anything . . . anything else . . .” Esmée let the sentence finish itself. She had meant to say “anyone” but couldn’t bring the word to her lips.
“As I said, Esmée, I don’t think so, but of course I’ll check. Let me ask.”
“Thanks, Jack, I appreciate it.” She let the silence connect them for a short while longer then, reluctantly, said, “I’d better go. Someone might be trying to get through.”
“I’ll give you a call in the next few days . . . after I’ve asked around . . .” he promised.
“Thanks, Jack.”
“You might have news by then. He’ll turn up. You’ll see. Mind yourself, Esmée.”
She called John Andrews next, Roger Burke after. Mick, Simone and Gerry. They were all the same. All friends who, it transpired, hadn’t heard from Philip in months if not years. It fast turned into a futile exercise filled with empty promises to keep in touch.
Time tricked her. The mere moments she had thought wasted staring vacantly into
space had actually been close to an hour. An hour of trying to put some kind of logic into this bizarre affair. What had he done? What was he running from? Was it her? Again, pointless thoughts.
The enormity of her situation was fermenting fast. How could he do this? How bloody selfish! What about the kids, his children? How was she supposed to explain this to Matthew and Amy – would they even understand? What if he never turned up? No body to mourn, no ceremony at which to grieve, no hope for life after death, no finale – nothing. At that moment she had nothing more ahead of her than an existence of doubt and futile hope, not to mention an abundance of unanswered questions.
Whether or not she believed he was dead, she felt certain that Philip had no intention of coming back.
By the end of the day there was no news from the search, and no news was, as they kept reminding her, good news. She had no alternative but to sit it out and wait for the police to contact her. It would, they told her, continue for one more day, maybe two, and after that . . . well, they’d just have to wait and see. But she couldn’t just sit there. Waiting.
She needed distraction as much from her mental activity as from the anticipation of something, anything, happening. Like rows of spinning plates whirling furiously overhead her thoughts haunted her, each balanced precariously on needlepoint rods of reason. Mentally she raced from one to the other, constantly massaging, keeping them spinning in the air, spinning, spinning, avoiding any lull, any lapsed moment for her to falter and lose control. Missing one would be a break in the sequence that would have them come crashing down around her. And what then? Chaos! She wished for a pause button, a freeze frame where she could, just for a while, take herself away from the pressure of needing to think all the time and find the answer to why?
Dark Mirrors Page 13
