When they were sure that all traces were eradicated they turned their attention to Philip, sleeping soundly now, on a plastic sheet in the centre of the living-room floor, naked except for his Armani boxer shorts. He was picked up and thrown over a shoulder and carried towards the back of the house, through the kitchen out to the rear yard, and placed carefully into the tall black-plastic waste bin. One of the intruders pushed the heavy container towards the side passage and down toward the service gate where he positioned it and then waited, deadly still but listening.
Inside the house the collected items were bundled into black rucksacks and positioned comfortably on the backs of the remaining ninja sweepers, leaving hands free, just in case. Then they walked to the service gate where they too waited.
They felt the truck first though their feet, then heard its trundle as it rode slowly over the uneven surface of the road, pausing every few minutes to pick up its next load. As the decibels increased and the vibrations intensified, one moved forwards and silently unlatched the gate, as another pushed the bin forward, then retreated around the corner and again, waited.
The refuse truck coasted slowly past the surveillance van, coming to a stop at each villa gate to collect the bin. The occupants of the van did not heed the faces of the grimy council workers as they lugged the heavy vessels to the truck, hooked them to the mechanical arms and watched as they were hoisted and tumbled in mid-air, meeting the ground again with a heavy thud. Nor did they heed the bin that was lifted but never returned, nor the bins beyond Villa Mena that were never collected.
The shadowy figures left the way they had come, moving gracefully despite their heavy loads along the perimeter hedge, blending into the shrubbery and down the cliff face into the valley and the awaiting Land Rover.
Chapter 26
Not for the first time the security guard ran the kids off the land. These abandoned sites had become their playgrounds through the recession. Between them and the scavengers hunting for valuable trash, he had his work cut out for him. At one time there was money in these wastelands with long-since-forgotten machinery and equipment fetching hundreds, sometimes the odd thousand, euro. But these were nothing but material graveyards now, their wealth long since plundered. There was nothing left but relinquished dreams and unfinished grey and seamed concrete skeletons.
Wandering aimlessly, doing his rounds in the blistering heat, he lamented the good old days when opportunities were plentiful and dreams actually came true. In the far right corner, a wet patch, like an oasis in the desert, caught his eye. He couldn’t explain to the authorities later what made him investigate – maybe it was his naturally curious spirit that instinctively told him something wasn’t quite right – but whatever it was that lured him to it, he soon found himself digging away wet clay and loose rubble that filled a deep perimeter trench. The sun beat down on his sweating back as he cleared the hole to find, at its bottom, what looked like an old white chest, face down, its edge piercing an old water main. The trench had obviously started its life as a small hole, made bigger over time as the water seeping slowly out gradually eroded the disintegrating cast-iron pipe. The chest was heavy, but not so much that he couldn’t move it, and heaving it slowly about he realised it was an old fridge. He let it drop back onto its proper base then stepped back for a breather. The force of its drop as it hit the ground and bounced a little broke the seal to let the old door open to a crack. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he put his foot to the door, fitting the steel toe of his boot between the door and the frame, pushing its rusted hinge with little difficulty. The stench that followed pressed hard into his chest, stealing his breath. Falling back, putting his hand against the dirt trench walls to steady himself, he couldn’t have been less prepared for the contents that spilled out in lumps over his feet. The heat, combined with the moisture, obviously had been a pure breeding ground for the array of insects that poured like lava from the sarcophagus that had remained shut for months. His screams carried well in the still shimmering heat of the afternoon air, all the way to the village. Heads turned briefly in the direction of the echoing hills only to turn back again, disinterested, to the activity at hand.
The dismembered body tumbled from the box as he clambered from the hole, shrieking like a banshee. He had never experienced anything like it, not in his forty-five years, nor was he likely to see anything like it again. The image would haunt him: the sight of the decomposed body parts, putrid and decaying, and among them a band of rotting elastic bearing the name of Armani.
Chapter 27
One year later
Matthew stood like an angel on the altar of the church. His hands were held in prayer and his eyes were closed in semblance of deep concentration as he waited for his name to be called in the roll call of First Holy Communicants. He opened one eye, just a bit, to see if his mum was watching and seeing that she was smiled a big grin down at her. As his name was called he snapped shut the peeping eye and promised God to be a good boy. He looked so grown-up standing up there in his navy pinstripe suit – his choice, wanting to look just like James Bond – with his hair perfectly brushed and white rosette gleaming on his lapel. He was so handsome and such a great kid. Esmée felt so proud she could have burst. He had coped so well these last few months and had, through school and his First Holy Communion classes, appeared to have found solace in God, which, given his age and her own feelings on the Catholic Church, she found difficult to deal with. She supposed it was because through his innocent faith he still felt a connection to his father who was now, apparently, an angel in heaven, or so Matthew insisted. If only he knew. Matthew prayed to his angel father each night before bed and each morning as he rose. It repulsed Esmée to listen to his gentle mumbling but, despite her disquiet, she couldn’t and didn’t discourage this one comfort he had found.
“I wouldn’t worry, sis – it’s just a phase – he’ll grow out of it,” Penny had remarked when Esmée mentioned it to the girls. “It could be a boy thing too, you know – girls tend to be more open and talk about their feelings.”
“I’m not worried, really, it’s just an . . . observation more than anything else.”
“Would you two ever leave the boy be?” her mother scolded, listening to them chatter. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with him – he just misses his dad who, you two need to remember, in his own little world was perfect.”
Looking at him now beaming down at her, she agreed with her mum: she didn’t need to worry. He was doing just fine. Thankfully Amy was just that little bit younger and more interested in her Barbie than what was going on around her.
She felt awkward sitting in the pew. The last time she sat in a church had been for Matthew’s First Confession. How ironic, she thought to herself: confession! She felt uncomfortable then and even more so now. She could almost feel the crucifix vibrate overhead. But the shameful thing was that she felt no guilt. She wasn’t sorry at all. Defiant in the face of her spiritual accuser, she was more than happy to justify her actions. Sitting there watching her son and seeing how like his father he was, both in looks and mannerisms, she thought about Philip. It used to be that she thought about him several times each and every day, mostly in anger. But that had passed and he had only recently stopped being her most frequent thought of the day. After her encounter with Brady she knew he’d turn up, one way or the other, but she didn’t think it would take as long as it did. For three long months she had waited for news. Every knock on the door, every ring of her phone set her nerves on end. When word eventually came it was a relief.
* * *
As soon as she opened the door to him, she knew why he was there. Even though Maloney had become a regular visitor to the house, finding one excuse after another to call on her, this time his body language gave it away. Everything screamed ‘sorry’ from the get-go: from the stiff upright crane of his neck to the submissive lowering of his eyes. Before he’d even opened his mouth she could tell his first words were going to be “I’m sorry” and he didn
’t let her down.
“I’m sorry, Esmée, but it’s not good news. Can I come in?”
Then it was over. Philip was dead. For real this time. Like she knew he would be. She didn’t ask how but she knew why.
He mistook her tears as those of grief rather than relief, and instinctively went to wrap her in his arms, but her impulse was to jump and pull back. Maloney wasn’t subtle, his intentions were becoming more than a little obvious . . . but she couldn’t go blundering into any relationship just now . . . she needed time to find her bearings, to heal.
Humbled by her rebuff, Maloney faltered and offered only a brief description as to where they had found him, thinking she didn’t need to know the gruesome details, but when she did eventually ask weeks later he told her what he knew. She felt nauseated at how he had ended up and disturbed by how little remorse she actually felt. She was responsible. But, she justified, Brady would have found him regardless sooner or later – she had just cut short the wait. Was she really that kind of person, the kind who could commit hideous acts but still sleep at night without feeling culpable in any way? If she was, then really she was no better than Brady, although her motives were far more noble, and she had two: Matthew and Amy. They were the antidotes to her remorse; she just needed to remind herself of that as often as she could.
“Does Julie know?” she had asked Maloney that evening as they waited for Tom and the girls to arrive to “comfort’” her.
“Dougie is on his way there now,” he replied, still feeling foolish from her earlier rejection.
* * *
The day after receiving the news that Philip had been found dead she had gone to see Julie, who’d opened the door with a weak smile.
“I was thinking about you this morning,” she greeted her. “I’m glad you’re here.”
They shared a brief hug, a small gesture to their token grief, which neither really felt but both were obliged to pretend.
“There isn’t anyone else I can talk to about Robert,” Julie said after they had settled down in the living room with coffee. “Do they know how it happened or who did it?”
“No,” Esmée replied, afraid to look up. “But they think Brady may have had a hand in it.”
Had Philip been a good man, an upstanding citizen, a pillar of the community there would have been outrage over his death. An Irish man murdered in the South of Spain and in such hideous circumstances? How could this have happened? But Philip wasn’t any of those things. He had defined his path, so people weren’t surprised it had come to a bad end.
And now, with his death, real this time, both Esmée and Julie had some bizarre decisions to make.
“I can’t bury him twice,” Julie told her with an apologetic but resolute expression. “As far as I’m concerned he died years ago and I’m happy with that. I’m happy now. What he did to us. What he did to you, your children . . . I’m glad the bastard is dead.”
But Esmée wasn’t ready to let him go that easily.
* * *
It was an unusually cold day, but then it wouldn’t be Ireland if it wasn’t unusual. Only Esmée stood in the chapel of the crematorium, looking tall and elegant in a black shift dress, heels and her black mac, the same one she wore the day she met him in Spain. She wore a cerise pink scarf around her neck, a splash of colour, a gesture to represent life after his death. She held her arms crossed in front of her with her hand resting clenched against her mouth.
The priest stood embarrassed before her. He’d never done this before: presided over a funeral with only a single mourner. He had to insist on even this small ceremony. “The dead deserve to be forgiven,” he had told her, a final act of humanity before sending them on their journey to the next life. He coughed politely, ill at ease but determined to do his duty whatever this man’s sins.
“Dearly Beloved,” he began, looking at her, the only member of the congregation, but she wasn’t listening.
Esmée couldn’t take her eyes off the simple, unadorned timber coffin. He was gone. She remained standing throughout the short service, the words and readings merging into one long murmur that made no sense at all. And when it was finally over the haunting guitar and flute combination of Gabriel Fauré’s Pavane accompanied the casket as it rolled slowly back and only when the two sumptuous scarlet curtains met did she take her seat. There were no tears and no prayers; she was numb. She let the evocative notes play out their elegant but humble finale then stood up and left the chapel. Outside in the cemetery in the half-hearted sunshine there was no ignoring the white outhouse adjacent to the main building, its chimney billowing a light grey smoke up to the skies. She sat on a bench intended for serene meditation and watched him burn.
Where had the Esmée of last year gone? When had she become so hard?
* * *
A firm squeeze from Fin on her leg yanked her back to reality where the Communion congregation was getting to their feet to celebrate in song. So happy. So optimistic, and thankfully infectious. The church burst into applause as the hymn came to an end and her handsome boy along with all the other children made their way back to their seats.
“You were fantastic,” she told him as she bent down to cuddle him and kiss the top of his head.
“Mom!” he protested indignantly.
Outside in the courtyard there were photographs and smiles. The entire family had turned out to celebrate, including Julie and Beth. Harry wasn’t quite ready to make that leap, but Beth was curious about her little half-brother and sister. And they were welcomed by Esmée’s family with open hearts, minds and deep curiosity. Sylvia hugged first and spoke after.
At Matthew’s request they were having “a barbeque feast” back at Granny’s. And it was just that, with Tom at the helm wearing an apron and a grin. Rarely in control in a kitchen, barbequed spare ribs and marinated prawns were his culinary saving grace. Sitting in the heart of the gorgeous garden, they ate the delicious food, drank chilled beers and homemade lemonade and laughed. Lots. Conversation flowed freely and banter rolled as Julie was welcomed into the fold through hilarious tales and intimate confessions of a family growing up. Esmée took pleasure in watching the barriers come down as between them. Her siblings cajoled and encouraged Julie until she could see her shoulders relax and her smile reach her eyes. At that moment she herself was more relaxed than she had been in months. There was real joy in her life and although Philip, despite his true passing, would always feature in some part in her conscience, she had closure.
* * *
That closure had come on a cold and windy Monday morning. She had driven to the cliffs, parked and made her way down the shale slope to the dirt track that wound its way like a belt around the cliff face. She, just like Philip, knew this trail like the back of her hand and she had mentally picked out the best spot, where the drop was most sheer. Was this, she wondered, how Philip had planned his disappearing act, working out the time, the day, the detail in advance? Only he never actually got this far down. She met no one as she made her way along the undulating path, envious of the seagulls as they effortlessly rode the air currents. The wind picked up spray from the waves, which crashed against the rock face below, and carried it up to pepper salt on her face. She could taste it on her lips when she stopped. This was the spot. This wasn’t a ritual, but she needed to take a moment to think. Admiring the wilds of nature around her, she committed Philip’s memory finally to the depths he had pretended to go to.
Glancing around to make sure she was alone, she took from her bag a small but deadly bundle. Unwrapping it from its cloth bandage, she drew back her arm as far as she could, then putting all her energy into her swing cast her arm forward, letting go of the black weapon with a jolt. She watched it fly and followed its trajectory, happy that she had given it enough thrust to see it well over the edge to be swallowed by the sea below.
It was gone and with it any chance of Philip being exposed as her father’s murderer. The enormity of what she had just done was patently clear to her, but if
there was a chance that she could spare her family more humiliation and pain then she would take it. She didn’t want her kids growing up with that stigma. For that she would do time herself. And if her brother or sisters were ever to find out what she had just done, not only would they not understand but they would never forgive her. But they would never find out. She would never tell and she trusted Harry would keep silent too, to protect his own family.
* * *
The ring of the doorbell interrupted the afternoon.
“I’ll get it!” Penny sighed when no one else moved.
Tom looked at Esmée with a raised eyebrow as a casually dressed Maloney followed the grinning Penny through the French doors and out into the garden.
“Don’t say a word!” she warned, handing Tom her plate, and went to greet her guest.
With a hand at her waist Maloney bent to kiss her on the cheek.
“Thanks for inviting me.”
“You’re welcome!” she responded with a smile.
“Where’s Matthew?” he asked, waving the obligatory sealed envelope in his hand.
“Money Bags is under there,” she replied, indicating the underside of the table where her son was quietly counting and re-counting his day’s earnings.
“A true banker in the making!” He smiled wryly.
“Maloney!” Matthew erupted from under the table, his eyes fixed on the tell-tale envelope.
Laughing, Maloney handed it over and Matthew, rewarding him with a big grin, dived under the table again.
Dark Mirrors Page 29
