Dark Mirrors

by Siobhain Bunni

  * * *

  When they left her back to the same spot outside the school she was quiet and numb. Leaving the keys in the ignition and the engine running, both men got out of the car and walked calmly towards the main street, leaving Esmée bewildered and drained in the back seat with her bag still weighed down by the money by her side. And in her head the tireless mélange of accusations and questions and fears and answers and conclusions all mixed dangerously together, threatening to detonate if she didn’t shut them down. She clutched each side of her head, hoping to stop the spinning, whimpering silently. How had she got here? This wasn’t what she had ever intended to happen. Had she started this? Was this of her making? The rhetorical questions served only to feed her self-pity. She knew it. Even in his absence he made her feel inadequate. She couldn’t let this happen, couldn’t let her world unravel like this. It had to stop. She had to make it stop. If this was of her making, then the undoing was hers to administer also.

  * * *

  They sat in a triangle of silence. Although the story was told, Fin’s mouth still hadn’t closed. Flabbergasted. Dumbfounded. Aghast. Terrified.

  “So go through that last bit one more time,” Tom directed, getting up to pace the room.

  “He said to tell him that Jim Brady has his number.” Esmée was now tired and her head hurt like hell.

  “That fucking bastard!”

  “Tom!” Esmée pleaded and not for the first time, pointing meaningfully to the kids in the next room.

  “Sorry, sis, but this is crazy shit,” he excused himself, turning on his heel to work the rest of the room. “That asshole! What the fuck? What the fuck was he playing at?”

  Esmée knew he was referring to Philip who had shifted in Tom’s opinion to the aggressor, no longer the victim.

  “Tom, I’m sorry but you’re hurting my head,” she pleaded.

  “For God’s sake, Tom!” said Fin. “Will you just sit down and stop shouting? It’s not helping and frankly it’s annoying!”

  Her put-down struck hurt across his newly infatuated face, the chemistry between them undeniable.

  Exhausted but focused, Esmée had hoped that between them Fin and Tom would help her make sense of the pieces she had been fed and deduce the bits she hadn’t. But now, staring at the agitated faces in front of her, she wondered if she had made the right choice and wished she had called Lizzie instead.

  “It was him? You’re sure?”

  “Oh Jesus Christ, Tom! Of course I’m sure. He told me his bloody name, for God’s sake!” Exasperated, she let her head fall into her clasped hands.

  “Maybe he’s confusing him with this ‘Bobby’ bloke, whoever he is?” said Tom.

  “I don’t know. I don’t bloody know!” She was reaching the end of her tether.

  “You have to go to Maloney,” said Fin.

  At last. The voice of reason. Fin had mostly remained quiet, listening calmly as Esmée recounted the events of the morning.

  “There’s something else,” Esmée admitted to her captive audience.

  “Oh God . . .” Fin’s head collapsed into her paint-covered hands.

  Esmée shifted round to reach for her shoulder bag and upturned it onto the centre of the table. “This,” she said, pointing to the notes covering her floral plastic tablecloth.

  “Holy shite!” Fin exclaimed, her hand moving involuntarily to cover her mouth. “What the fuck? Where did you get this?”

  Always so proper, foul language sounded odd coming from her best friend’s mouth and for a split manic moment Esmée almost laughed out loud. Controlling herself, she recounted the story instead.

  “Jesus Christ, Esmée, what on earth has Philip got himself into?”

  “Do you think it has anything to do with Dad?” she asked, looking at her now noticeably quiet brother.

  “It would want to be one hell of a coincidence if it didn’t,” he said. “Maybe it was meant for Brady – maybe this is why he grabbed you?”

  “I don’t think so,” Esmée reasoned, “otherwise he would have taken it, wouldn’t he?” Her mind was working overtime trying to understand what had just happened.

  “I don’t know, Es. It’s bloody peculiar, isn’t it?” Tom argued. “One day your husband disappears, then you find this heap of cash in a box and the next day you get nabbed by Ireland’s answer to Don Corleone who just happens to be the guy they jailed for our dad’s murder – seems like a bit of a no-brainer to me.”

  “I’m not getting you. Explain, Sherlock!” Fin challenged.

  “They have to be connected . . . Jesus, I don’t know . . . maybe Philip was trying to protect you. Maybe he was paying Brady to stay away, you know . . . Ah shit! I don’t know!” He shrugged as his train of thought derailed.

  Fin, still captivated by the money toyed with the bundles and asked, “How much do you think is in here?” Mirroring Esmée’s action of the day before, she lifted one to her nose, only to put it down quickly with a grimace.

  “There are one hundred five-hundred euro notes in each bundle,” said Esmée. “And fifteen bundles.”

  “Hmmm . . .” Always the man for the numbers, Tom took a moment to calculate. “That’s seven hundred and fifty grand.”

  Fin’s eyes almost burst from their sockets. “You’re kidding!”

  “So what do we do?” asked Esmée.

  Both women looked to Tom for an answer.

  “Fin’s right,” he said. “We have to take this to the station and let the police do their job.”

  “Now?” asked Fin.

  “Yes. Now.”

  “God, Tom, I’m not sure I can cope,” Esmée sighed. The thought of going back to the egg-yolk interview room made her feel instantly nauseous. “This day has been . . .” But she couldn’t finish her sentence. She had no words left.

  “Don’t be so ridiculous, Esmée,” he said. “You really don’t have a choice. This isn’t some small-time anonymous petty thief. This is Jim Brady we’re talking about and Philip. Look at us, like eejits trying to work out what happened. They need to see this and we need to let them do their job. Anyway, this isn’t about coping, this is about doing what’s right – and, besides, I’ll be there all the way, so don’t panic, okay?”

  His words were weak assurance, but enough to get her going.

  * * *

  Maloney listened intently to the story as she told it. Esmée thought it odd that he didn’t take notes or call anyone else in to listen.

  He waited till she was finished then sat back in his seat, taking a moment to observe the two siblings before him: Esmée tense and exhausted, Tom enraged but outwardly calm. He could tell she’d had enough. Her eyes were cheerless and her shoulders slightly hunched. If it wasn’t entirely inappropriate, he would love to take her hand, he thought, watching Tom’s mouth move but without hearing his words. He wished she’d stop fiddling with her hair – it was too distracting watching her twist and curl the thick brown lock around her fingers.

  Focus, Gregory, he told himself in a silent voice that in his head sounded remarkably like his father’s.

  Brady hadn’t wasted much time in tracking her down. He needed to think carefully about the next steps, knowing that the potential for the situation to spiral out of control was considerable. But she had a right to know, he felt, they both did, although others didn’t quite agree. Would this change their minds, he wondered as he sat forwards, bringing his hands to the table.

  “Okay. Look, I need some time on this one,” he said.

  “You should have informed us that Brady was released,” Tom accused him firmly.

  “Yes, yes, we should have,” Maloney agreed, “but we don’t always get things right and this is one of those times.” He took a deep breath, feeling a little cornered. “I can’t explain right now what’s going on but –”

  “So you have something?” Tom cut across him.

  There was no point in him denying it, but he could delay it.

  “Yes, I have some information but I c
an’t share it with you just yet.”

  “We have a right to know!” Esmée interjected. “I need to know!”

  “I agree you do, but there is some sensitive information involved here and we need to make sure we have all the facts first.”

  “You’ll need to do a little better than that, officer!” she snapped, her words meant to patronise, hoping to insult him, her patience exhausted.

  “James Brady was released three days ago,” he stated.

  “I thought he got fifteen years!” said Tom.

  Maloney shrugged nonchalantly. “Slightly early release, yes. He behaved.”

  “He behaved?” Esmée’s words were woven with laughter. “He shot my dad!”

  “Hold on there, Esmée, that’s not the case. He wasn’t the one who shot your father.”

  “But he knows who did.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. And if he knows he’s not telling us, but that’s not the point.”

  “You’re defending him now?”

  “No. For God’s sake, no. But you have to remember the facts here. You’re treading very sticky ground here so you need to be careful.”

  “And what about the money? And the things he was saying about Philip?” she demanded. “Was he right? Is that what was going on?”

  Maloney shook his head, more out of frustration than ignorance.

  “Well?” she growled. “Is there anyone here who knows what the hell is going on? I am completely in the dark, I’ve no idea what’s going on and to be honest I’m not sure you guys are any wiser than me.” She caught Maloney’s glance and held it, mustering as much authority into her returning stare as was possible. “Do you have any idea what happened to me today? Are you actually putting all this together? The man who was in one way or another responsible for our father’s death as good as kidnapped me today. I was threatened and – and – molested by this filthy disgusting creature, and you sit there telling me to be careful, to remember the facts?” She rose as her temper flared along with her voice. “You need to do better than this!” His silence was infuriating. Her fist slammed hard on the table. “How dare you sit there and tell me to be careful! You need to tell me what the bloody hell is going on or I’ll find someone else who will!”

  Both men watched, a little stunned, mute and powerless to intervene, as her temper boiled over and she did a circle of the small cubicle before coming back to the table to reclaim her seat, emotional and slightly embarrassed by her outburst. But she didn’t apologise. She fixed her chair, pulled herself up to the edge of the table, took a breath and asked him calmly, if a little breathlessly, “So. What are you going to do?”

  Tom put a reassuring hand on his sister’s arm while Maloney shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

  She was right and he was stuck. His hands temporarily tied. Raising his hands in acceptance, hoping to disarm her, he watched as her breath steadied and her composure returned.

  “Esmée – Tom.” He looked purposefully at each. “Let me assure you, I, we, are doing everything we can. But we can’t share information with you until we know for sure that it is factually correct. And you’re right –” he looked at Esmée, “it’s unfair, but it’s the right thing to do. You have to be patient just for a little longer.”

  “So what you’re telling us,” Esmée asserted, “is that you, contrary to what we see, are fully in control of this – you do know what this is all about but you’re just not telling us?”

  “That’s about right.”

  “So, when do you think you will be able to tell us?” she asked.

  “As soon as I can ascertain that the information I have is factually correct.”

  “And when do you think that might be?”

  Maloney smiled, beguiled by her unrelenting, dogged persistence.

  “Esmée, I promise that I will tell you everything I know as soon as I can. Is that okay?” he challenged, holding Esmée’s glare without so much as a wavering blink.

  She nodded her assent. There was nothing much else she could do but agree.

  Happy he had the situation back in his control, Maloney used the piled-up cash as a way to get back on track. “I’m going to check the numbers on these notes to see if we can identify where they came from.” And gathering up the piles, he got up and left the room.

  “What do you think?” Tom asked, breaking the hot silence.

  “It’s bullshit. If he doesn’t tell me what’s going on by the end of the week I’m going to demand to see his superior whoever the hell that might be. And if I don’t get answers then . . .” she paused to weigh up her options “well, then I’ll go to the papers.”

  Maloney came back into the interview room and, placing a form in front of Esmée, told her she would need to sign for delivery of the money.

  “One of my colleagues will be in shortly to count it with you. And as for your encounter with Brady, well, I need to speak to my Super but it doesn’t sound like you’re in any danger. If he wanted to do you harm he had ample chance this afternoon. That said, I’m going to arrange for a car to sit at the house to keep an eye out – and a visit to Brady is also in order, I think.”

  “No,” Esmée protested firmly. “I’m fine with the car, but please don’t go near him. I don’t want him to know I’ve talked to you. I don’t want him to come back.” The idea that Maloney would provoke Brady further terrified her.

  “Okay.” Maloney nodded. “Leave it with me.” He paused and added, not wanting to ignite the situation again, “Look, once you’re done here, go home. I’ll have a chat with my boss this afternoon and I’ll call round myself later to make sure you’re okay and give you whatever information I can.”

  By the time the money had been counted, three times, she was weary.

  Tom took her hand. “Come on, sis, let’s go.”

  And not a moment too soon.

  “That place!” she remarked as they turned out of the narrow entrance. “How can anyone work there? It just saps every bit of cheer out of you.”

  Maloney watched them leave from the upstairs office. He wasn’t happy about how this was turning out and wanted more than ever to mind this young woman, but for the moment all he could do was wait.

  “I need to get something from Mum’s,” Esmée announced as they pulled away from the Garda Station. “It’ll only take a sec,” she promised her reluctant brother who was anxious to get her back to the house and neutral territory.

  * * *

  Her old bedroom still had the same wallpaper she remembered from the long and late nights preparing for her finals, the twin beds a reminder of the good and the bad times she shared in this room with Lizzie. Beneath the window sat a chest of drawers with lots of chips and peels, its colour more cream than white now, a telling sign of its vintage. The top drawers were Lizzie’s while the bottom two were hers. She knelt down and pulled out the last drawer, almost empty apart from a faded purple manila folder. Taking it out, she pushed back the drawer and made her way back to the kitchen where she apologised to her mother again for her hasty visit.

  * * *

  Later, with Tom dropping Fin back to her studio and the children playing in the garden, Esmée set the folder on the kitchen table. She hadn’t looked at it in years. In the early days, just after it happened, she would spend hours reading through the various reports, each saying the same thing but using different words. They were an assurance that someone cared, an expression of a sort of condolence for her loss. The cuttings themselves had long since faded, with their wrinkled corners evidence of many hours of reading and re-reading, but the words were all still there. Philip hated seeing her read them, hated having the folder in the house, calling it morose, and insisted she move on and let the dead man rest. But try as she might she couldn’t discard his memory and, she thought rebelliously, if that wasn’t moving on then so be it. So the folder moved sideways, back to her old bedroom where she hadn’t touched it since. Until now.

  Tears slipped quietly down her cheeks as once again the story came
to life in her hands.

  He had been escorting a Cash in Transit van, making deliveries in the county. They were on their first drop of the day. He wasn’t supposed to be there, was only filling in for the day. That was her tragedy. If not Frank then it would have been someone else’s dad. Or brother. Or uncle. Or son. On a normal day the job was fairly routine, boring even. They drove behind the blue reinforced van as it made its journey. Their job was to watch for anything suspicious. Keep a lookout. Which they did. On this Wednesday morning he was the passenger, Maurice Mahon the driver. Maurice described him as a great friend and valiant officer. He would never forget him, he had said in his emotional eulogy. That morning Frank Gill noticed a silver Golf GTI parked immediately outside the bank with the engine running and the driver alert and agitated. All he did was get out to take a closer casual look. Their car was unmarked and they were out of uniform. It shouldn’t have caused alarm. He was also unarmed. They never found the weapon or established who pulled the trigger that fired the shot, but nevertheless Frank died only hours later from the bullet that punctured his body. The young manager’s family, held in what was initially thought to be a tiger kidnapping, were released unharmed and Jim Brady was named as the mastermind, but not the murderer. As the investigation unfolded the news that it was an inside job was eventually reported and the manager who everyone felt so sorry for was in on the plan all along. Turning, as all snakes eventually do, it was he, this young Robert Toner, who would ultimately provide the evidence to put Brady away: his reward, witness protection and a new life in a location unknown.