“What, what is it? Do you know where he is?”
“No. Sorry. It’s not that, but I may have a clue as to why he . . . well, why he went away.”
“Go on,” she encouraged cautiously.
“Well, I’ve had a look at everything – his files, his customers, the deals that were processed – just to see what he was working on before, before he . . .”
“It’s okay, Jack, I know what you mean,” she helped him along.
“Well, it appears that things aren’t quite what they seem.”
“No shit,” she muttered quietly.
“There’s a team here about to launch a full-blown investigation. I can’t stall it any more. I wanted to be sure before I called. It’s money, Esmée. We think he . . .” again a hesitant pause, “well, he may have lost some money.”
“Do you mean stole?”
“God no, Esmée, I didn’t mean that.” Jack rushed on, mortified at being so transparent, ignorant of the litany of accusations facing the absent Philip. “There is probably a reasonable explanation – Philip wouldn’t do anything like that.”
“Yes, you did mean it and, yes, he would,” Esmée stated apathetically.
“I’m so sorry, Esmée,” he apologised, his words oozing pity.
“Thanks for letting me know.”
“Look, if there is anything I can do . . .”
Conversation over, she cast the phone aside. “Christ, I need a drink!”
“What is it? What’s happened?” Lizzie broached warily.
“Do you know what, it doesn’t fucking matter. I don’t have the energy to care any more.” She dropped her heavy head into her hands and expelled a huge sigh.
Mentally she racked up each of the indictments and accusations, then reminded herself that he was gone. And for a moment she was glad. He had buggered off and left her, so she, in good faith, must act accordingly.
“Right!” she declared, jumping up, shocking Lizzie out of her chair. “That’s it. If he wants to go, then let him. Come on! No time like the present.”
And striding to the sink, she reached in under it and grabbed a roll of black refuse bags. Throwing on her coat, she grabbed her keys and marched toward the front door.
“Well?” she threw back to her sister. “What are you waiting for? Are you coming or not?”
Grabbing her things Lizzie, with no other option presented, submitted and tripped after her, if only out of curiosity to see what the hell was going on.
“Where are we going?”
“Back to the house.”
“Why, what are we doing there?”
“What I should have done weeks ago,” she replied, locking the front door behind her.
She had been avoiding this task, fearing latent feelings of regret that could distract her. But she was angry. There were no emotions of regret or shame or guilt or sadness, only biting rage that she needed to express. If he was around she would have barked savagely at him, probably swiped and whipped him hard. But he wasn’t. The only part of him she could reach was his belongings.
“I’m not waiting for the bastard to turn up. He’s gone. So let’s get rid of him,” she asserted, driving fast and steady through the streets.
“Jesus, Esmée, is it not a bit soon? He’s only gone . . .” Lizzie questioned, keeping one eye on the parked cars they whizzed past and the other on the stony face of her sister.
“I know. But hey, this was his call. No time like the present. And once we’re done, I’m getting drunk. Very drunk. If you’ll take care of the children!”
They pulled up outside the house, the dust on the cobblelocked drive throwing up a plume as she pulled on the brake.
The air in the house was stale. A pile of mail jammed the door. Shoving it hard and pushing aside the paper mountain, she marched in. A quick rummage through the mail revealed that it was almost entirely junk mail. She shoved the few items of importance into her bag and checked her watch. She had a couple of hours before the kids needed collecting. With the decision already made that this was no longer their home, she had to deal with the problem presented by the house’s vacancy. The subject bothered her: she hadn’t the emotional fire to deal with it – until now. Now it was really clear and her prior reluctance slightly innocuous. The house couldn’t be sold so it had to be rented. Simple. How difficult was that?
She walked the rooms, assessing the best place to start, focused and ready. The memories in this house were nebulous, with no basis in reality, all her happy days demoted to mere fiction. She had been an unwitting player in Philip’s game and now it was over she was the one who had lost.
* * *
“Are you okay?” Lizzie asked as they tied up another bag, setting it aside in the hall.
They had spent the time in the house in near silence, with Esmée trapped in her thoughts.
“Not really, but I’ll live,” she smiled back at her sister.
“Wanna share?”
“Not really. I’ll only cry if I do.”
“Okay.”
And so the silence resumed as, bag after bag, they packed up Philip till nothing but his smell remained.
* * *
They toasted her loss in Zac and Barney’s bar in town, miles away from the sympathetic eyes of the village. She was glad of the anonymity. Fin took over as Lizzie and Penny left.
“So you’ve been sent to mind me?” Esmée asked bitterly.
“Don’t be such a bitch,” her friend replied gently. “They’re so worried about you, and don’t forget that they’re all wrapped up in this too.”
“I know, I know. And I should be grateful. I think they’ve had enough of me anyway.” She emptied her glass.
“Need another?” Fin offered.
“You betcha.”
Fin nodded to the barman, indicating a refill for her melancholy friend and a pint for herself.
“So how’re you doing?” she asked. They hadn’t seen each other in days with Fin occupied by her impending exhibition.
“Please, please, don’t be nice to me,” Esmée pleaded. “Can we talk about something else? How’s your exhibition going?”
“Jesus! Frying pan and fire stuff there, honey!” Fin threw her eyes up to heaven. “It’s a bloody disaster . . .”
The night wore on and the music got louder. Despite herself Esmée was enjoying herself, happy to be out and distracted by someone else’s issues, Fin’s hilarious tales an effective tonic that brought the absent smile back to her face.
“It’s good to see you laugh again,” said Fin.
“It’s certainly been a while,” Esmée said, feeling almost human.
“Seriously, though, are you okay?”
“Yeah, I think so. It’s tough though.”
Fin nodded. “But you’re strong, Es. You’ll come out the other side.”
“I know. It just seems a long way off. You know, I’m actually beginning to think I’ve had a bit of a lucky escape.”
“New beginnings!” Fin toasted, raising her glass and with it once again the mood. There was plenty of time for post-mortems, she thought, anxious to see her friend laugh some more before sending her back to reality.
Suddenly Fin’s face dropped.
“What? What is it?” Esmée asked, alarmed.
“It’s Lara.”
“Lara who?”
“Lara Wilson.”
“College Lara Wilson?”
Fin nodded.
“Where?” Esmée asked, turning on the spot.
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
“What? Oh that!” Esmée responded as reality bit. “Feck it, Fin. I can’t hide for ever, and we don’t have to tell her anything we don’t want to . . . unless she already knows . . . ?”
“Not from me, she doesn’t!”
“Well, then,” she enthused, her prudence dulled by the alcohol consumed so far, “what the hell?” She shrugged. “Lara!” she called over the heads queuing at the bar.
Lara looked around, then seeing her old friend
bounded towards her in amazement.
“Bloody hell, Esmée Gill, how the hell are you? If it weren’t for Fin we would have thought you’d been abducted by aliens.” She hugged her hard. “Wagon! You haven’t changed one bit, you’re still as gorgeous as ever.”
“Neither have you!” Esmée choked in between shrieks and hugs.
“Yeah, right, have you seen the size of my ass? That’s changed!” she laughed, slapping her behind playfully.
Yep. Whatever about her backside, some things really hadn’t changed: Lara was still the gregarious whirlwind she always was, whipping up a storm wherever she went.
“So what happened to you?” Lara asked above the din.
“I got distracted,” Esmée replied dismissively.
“Well, I’m glad you’re back. Now come and dance with me.”
And her vivacity was infectious. Esmée hadn’t danced in years, she wasn’t even sure she’d remember how, but it didn’t take long for her to get her mojo back and she was soon strutting rhythmically across the dance floor with her dance partner of old and loving every minute of it.
It was like history repeating itself. Lara and herself on the dance floor with Fin holding court at the bar.
Fin realised it too and smiled smugly, acutely aware of Lara’s two escorts standing on either side of her.
“So, can I buy you a drink?”
She looked round to find a dapper young man in a sharp pinstripe suit with a sparkle in his eye, beaming eagerly from ear to ear.
“Why not?” she replied.
“Justin,” he introduced, extending his hand, his perfect hair shining under the down-lighters above the bar.
“Fin,” she reciprocated with a smile. “So, are you Lara’s partner?”
“God, no. We’re just workmates, that’s all.” He laughed. “I’m young, free and single, if that’s what you’re after.”
Fin laughed. “I don’t think so,” she replied, trying to let him down gently, but liking his smile all the same. “I don’t think I’m quite your type.”
“I could be your Mr Grey,” he smiled, raising his eyebrows seductively.
“Grey’s not my colour, honeybunch,” she countered “I’m more sixty shades of crimson, myself.” She raised her glass to meet his.
“Touché!” he smiled, touching his glass to hers.
By the time Esmée and Lara got off the dance floor, puce and sweating, Fin and Justin were laughing raucously, a line of empty shot glasses decorating the bar in front of them.
“You’ve met Justin then?” Lara asked rhetorically, watching as the rambunctious pair slammed then dunked another shot.
“Me and Fionnuala, we’re pals!”
“Really?”
“Yesh,” he slurred. “She’s my Mrs Crimson an’ I’m her bit o’ rough,” he managed before sliding off the seat and passing out cold at her feet.
* * *
Esmée’s fumbled for her house keys, still sniggering childishly at the memory of Fin and her new-found suitor.
“Bit of rough!” she repeated aloud, prompting a thump from her equally intoxicated friend.
“Ahh, stop!” Fin pleaded. “He didn’t mean it like that!”
“Yes, he did and you know it! Christ, Fin, I’m not sure you quite know how good that felt!” Her face was still pulsing deep red. “I haven’t felt that alive in years. And, I can still dance!” She sashayed across the kitchen, finishing with a not-so-graceful spin, knocking over the milk with a graceless swing of her arm.
“Easy, tiger!” Fin warned, catching the carton before it reached the floor.
“No, seriously, thanks, Fin, I wouldn’t have done it without you.”
“No problem – what are friends for?”
“God, I’m starving,” Esmée declared with her head stuck in the fridge. “What do you fancy? There’s a bit of trifle left.”
“Just toast for me,” Fin announced, popping two slices in the toaster. “Want some tea?”
“Yeah, go on then,” Esmée replied, propping herself up against the kitchen counter, complete with spoon and trifle bowl. “Jesus, that Lara one hasn’t changed a bit, has she?” She giggled between mouthfuls. “She’s still great craic, isn’t she?”
“Yep. She’s off the wall,” Fin concurred. “And you know, whenever I see her she always asks after you.”
“She does?”
Fin nodded and smiled at her drunken pal, taking a seat at the table.
“Ahh, Fin,” Esmée sighed with a pensive smirk. “You know, it felt almost normal tonight.”
“Well, look at it as the way of the future,” Fin munched, taking a ravenous bite of her hot buttered toast.
* * *
Her head hurt like hell the next morning – the morning-after downside of her antics the night before. Esmée couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this rotten. Her head still resonated with the pounding beat of the nightclub and her patience was seriously depleted. The kids sensed her weakness and like predatory animals they pounced, demanding her attention. When they were settled with toast smothered in Nutella, anything for a quiet life, she slumped on the chair and nursed her throbbing head.
She felt rather than heard her phone vibrate in her bag beside her and dug in deep to retrieve it. A message from a number she didn’t recognise.
EI605 09:20 12/6/27 ref HJ7895A
At first glance it appeared to be nothing more than gibberish, but on further examination it was patently clear.
This was a flight reference and, after everything that had happened during the last few weeks, she instinctively knew who it was from and why.
She went immediately to wake Fin.
“What do you mean he’s sent you a message?” a very drowsy Fin asked, thick with the alcohol still very much evident in her body and none too pleased at being woken like this.
“Read it for yourself,” Esmée instructed, passing her the phone.
“I need my glasses . . .” Fin fumbled, feeling the bedside table for her specs. “This isn’t anything,” she complained when she read it. “Now go away and let me sleep.”
“Fin. Seriously!” But it was pointless: the girl was still drunk.
Returning to the kitchen she dialled directory enquires and got the number for the airline.
“I’d like to confirm a flight booking,” she said.
“Sure!” came the politely trained, if a little overly cheerful, male voice at the other end of the telephone. “Do you have your reference number handy?”
“Yes. Yes, I do,” she affirmed, fumbling with the mobile in her hand, and she called out the digits and letters as presented to her on the screen.
“And your name?”
“Esmée Myers,” she stated clearly, adding, “Mrs Esmée Myers – M. Y. E. R. S.” for good measure and could hear, somewhere in the background, his fingertips zealously banging on a keyboard.
She pictured the cold sterile call centre where this man probably sat, in his symmetrical partitioned cubicle with his little earpiece extending over his mouth and instruction manuals for every possible eventuality close to hand.
“Yes, Mrs Myers, I can confirm your booking, leaving Dublin at 9.20 a.m., this Wednesday, twenty-seventh of June, arriving Málaga 11.30 a.m., local time.”
“Is there a return journey with that?” she enquired quietly, trying to figure out what was going on, her Holmesian super-sleuth mind swinging into action.
“No, ma’am,” he replied, “it’s an open ticket. Would you like me to book a return journey for you now?”
“No. That’s fine, thanks.” And with that she hung up.
There was no doubt in her mind as to who had sent this text or, as the case might be, who had organised for it to be sent to her.
Spain! Bloody Hell! He had gone to Spain! What an unimaginative and clichéd place to hide out: there in the Spanish hills, with all the other fugitives that went before him, probably drinking sangria and eating paella. She could just see him fitting in with hi
s hair slicked back, manicured feet and over-bronzed complexion. What a nasty little picture!
By the time Tom arrived, Esmée was pacing the floor, her hangover long since forgotten.
“What’s up, sis?” he asked, throwing his coat over the back of a chair and sitting down.
“This,” she said, handing him the phone.
“A ticket?” he asked, looking baffled. “Are you going somewhere?”
“No, well, I didn’t plan to, but someone wants me to.”
“Someone wants you to? Sorry, Es, but I’m not getting it. Who is ‘someone’?” But she didn’t need to answer, seeing the lights of realisation switch on in his head before he’d even finished the sentence.
“No – way,” he whispered, shaking his head in disbelief at his own assumption. “You don’t think . . .”
“I do.”
“No way!” he repeated, staring back at the phone.
“Well, who else would anonymously book me on a flight to Spain? Of all places! It has to be him! Isn’t that where they all go, these criminal types?”
“But that doesn’t mean it’s him and you’re not getting on that plane to find out!”
“Of course I am, I have to,” she shrugged, matter of factly.
“No. No, you don’t,” he reasoned emphatically. “You hand this one over to the police, let them sort it and if it is a joke or a hoax or whatever, then great – and if not, well, then they’ve got him.”
“I can’t do that!” she interjected, horrified and appalled at his suggestion. “They’ll arrest him!”
“And? Isn’t that what you want? Justice and all that? I know it’s what I want.” He handed her back the offending phone.
“Yes! Of course it is. And I will tell them, but not yet. I want to see him on my own first. I want to know why. Why he’s done this to me.”
“Well, let the cops go get him and then you can ask him.”
“Oh for God’s sake, Tom! Get real. Do you really think he’ll tell me anything after I’ve got him arrested? No. I’ll go to him. And then we’ll see.”
Collapsing heavily into a chair, she threw her head back and stared blankly at the ceiling. And here she was, thinking she had reached some glimmer of normality!
Dark Mirrors Page 20
