Eager to Please

by Julie Parsons

  ‘Hey, boss, wake up.’ Sweeney prodded him in the ribs. ‘There’s someone at the door who wants to see “whoever’s in charge”. I suppose that would have to be you, wouldn’t it?’

  This time he recognized her immediately. The middle-aged woman with the good haircut and the bad figure. She was waiting outside on the front path.

  ‘I was wondering what’s happened. What all this is for.’ She gestured to the ambulance and the three Garda cars parked underneath the plane trees. ‘Is there something wrong? I’m not just being nosy. Mark Hill is a very good friend.’

  He thought she was going to faint when he told her. Her face flushed, then the colour faded from it. She staggered and he put out his arm to support her.

  ‘Here, I’ll take you home.’

  Jennifer Bradley, that was her name. He remembered the house. Next door up on the left. And the flowers that Judith had given her for her birthday.

  ‘Shall I come in with you, will you be all right?’

  She nodded, struggling to control her voice. ‘Thank you, but my husband’s here. He’ll be as shocked as I am by all this. We’ve known the Hills for years and years. We both moved into these houses at the same time.’

  ‘You were friendly with Elizabeth Hill, weren’t you?’ He tried to keep his tone as neutral as possible.

  She looked at him and smiled coldly. ‘I was. I’m sure you know all the details.’

  He nodded. ‘Not all,’ he said. ‘Just the important ones. I’m just curious, if you don’t mind. You and your husband worked it all out. You stayed with him. And you and Dr Hill were also on good terms, is that right?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her voice was even colder. ‘I made a mistake. I realized that. I allowed a certain,’ she paused, ‘a certain emotion to take over my life. But I could see that it had no future. My future was here with my family.’

  ‘But Elizabeth didn’t feel like that?’

  ‘Elizabeth Hill was always a rebel. That was one of the things that made her very attractive. But I wasn’t. And Mark knew the difference between us. And he didn’t hold it against me. I tried to help him with the children as much as I could. Judith and Stephen were always in and out of my house. They used to come to me and my husband when Mark was busy. And Judith used to babysit for my younger children. She was almost like their older sister. We all loved her very much. We are all so diminished by her loss. And now this. It’s so unfair.’ She began to cry, her face crumpling. She took out her keys and opened the front door.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Jack held out his hand to her. ‘I didn’t mean to add to your pain, but sometimes these questions have to be asked.’

  Someone would have to tell Elizabeth. He supposed it would have to be him. His sense of well-being vanished. Better get it over with. He walked slowly back towards the Hills’ house. He would do it out here in the street where it was quiet. He took out his phone and his notebook. He found her number. He began to punch it in. And then he felt a blow on his back, followed by another and another. He turned around. Stephen Hill was behind him, an expression of fury on his small white face.

  ‘You bastard, you fucking bastard. Look what you’ve done to my family. You’ve destroyed it. You’ve destroyed my father.’ He began to flail at him again, his fists jabbing into his stomach, his solar plexus, his lower abdomen. Nervous laughter burst out of Jack’s mouth as he put up his own fists to defend himself. And felt excruciating pain as Stephen lifted one foot and kicked him hard and accurately in the testicles. He bent double, gasping for breath, agony flooding though his body, vomit rushing up into his mouth. He heard rather than saw Sweeney dragging Stephen Hill off him, hustling him back into the house, as he slumped against the railings waiting for the pain to subside.

  It was much later when he finally got around to making the phone call. He waited until Johnny Harris had been in touch. He confirmed that Dr Hill’s death was suicide.

  ‘I’m surprised,’ he said, ‘about one thing. Hill had access to all kinds of drugs. Just a quick look at his surgery and I could see he had plenty of morphine there. Enough to die painlessly. Yet he chose to die by strangulation. And there’s no doubt about it, it hurts. But then that’s the pattern. Women take pills, men choose a more active, aggressive form of death.’

  ‘I know why you’re ringing.’ Elizabeth’s voice sounded subdued, distant. ‘Stephen has already phoned me. He’s distraught. I’m coming over this evening. I’ll take care of the funeral. He told me how he went for you. He’s sorry now. He knows it wasn’t your fault.’

  But was it? He sat on the balcony with Alison beside him, watching the sky darken over the harbour. There were boats tied up along the harbour wall, visitors from England, Germany, France. They could see their lamps and navigation lights glowing, and hear their chatter and music from their radios. Alison took his hand and kissed it.

  ‘It isn’t your fault, Jack,’ she said. ‘All you’ve done is your job. Who knows why he killed himself. A lot of suicides are not spontaneous. A lot of them have been planned in some way, conscious or unconscious, for years. He hadn’t done his grieving for his daughter particularly well, had he?’

  ‘How could he, if he had killed her? How could he have grieved for her at all?’

  ‘But that’s the dilemma, isn’t it?’ She poured more wine into both their glasses. ‘Just imagine the combination of grief and guilt that man was carrying. I saw it in Rachel Beckett yesterday when she came to meet Amy. You can see the toll it’s taken on her. It hurts looking at her. It doesn’t bear thinking about.’

  But he couldn’t stop thinking about it. And that night, as he lay with Alison’s head on his chest, every time he closed his eyes he saw Mark Hill’s face. His tongue protruding from his mouth, his purple swollen cheeks and his bare feet, white and soft, traces of talcum powder still clinging between his toes.

  Grief and guilt. He felt them both himself. And there was no way of leaving either of them behind. Not now. Not ever.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  RACHEL HAD BEEN watching the next-door neighbour’s cat all afternoon. Her attention had been attracted first by the sudden darts of movement across the paved terrace, towards the little oval pool, then the rush and leap up into the solitary old apple tree, which even now at the height of summer was still without all its leaves.

  She had watched the way the cat’s black tail thrashed from side to side as it crouched by the rockery, something small and dark between its front paws. She had noticed the way it pulled back just for a moment, as if its attention had been distracted, and then as the small dark something tried to move away, it moved too, once again alert, aware, its shiny black ears pricked upright.

  She had opened her window as high as it would go and leaned out as far as possible, trying to see what it was that was keeping the cat so amused. She could hear, above the noise of the traffic, the yowls and low cries that came from its mouth as it circled its prey. And then when she could bear the suspense no longer she had gone down the three flights of stairs to the door which led out into the yard, crammed with piles of wood and discarded broken pieces of furniture. Junk that her landlord had abandoned, but which provided a useful ladder so she could pull herself up on to the top of the wall and look down into the ordered beauty of her neighbour’s small garden. The square of concrete paving, the pool with its water lilies and fish, the patch of lawn surrounded on three sides by a narrow bed crammed with summer flowers and vegetables. And on its own, the apple tree, its trunk splitting into a fork, like two fingers held upright. Where the cat now sat, opening and closing its yellow eyes against the brightness of the sunshine. While at the foot of the tree, spreadeagled on the close-cropped grass, lay a frog.

  She watched it. It appeared as if it were dead. She pulled herself on to the top of the wall, then dropped the few feet on to the ground. The cat turned its face towards her and crouched down into the black ruff of fur around its thick neck. She looked towards the house, but there was no sign of activity behind its gleaming wi
ndows. She moved quietly across the grass to the foot of the apple tree. She crouched down and examined the frog. It was about four inches long. Its legs, mottled with green and brown markings, were splayed out behind. They looked almost human, she thought. Elegant. The princeling wearing the cross-gartered stockings. She picked up a piece of twig and gently touched its back. It made no move. She pushed at it, but its body did not seem to register the pressure. Above her head she heard a rustle and the sound of claws on bark as the cat began to slither down the trunk towards her. She put one hand in the pocket of her jeans and pulled out a bundle of paper tissues. Carefully she picked up the frog, holding it gingerly, and half ran to the pond. As she bent down over the water suddenly the frog squirmed and pulled away, leaping out, its legs already making swimming movements as it disappeared with a small, musical splash. Down, down, beneath the lily pads, into the darkness. She looked up at the cat, who had followed behind. He stared fixedly into the murk, then crouched again on his haunches, his tail thrashing from side to side, and a sound of disappointment coming from his throat.

  ‘Go away,’ she hissed at him, nudging his ribs with her bare foot. He moved quickly to the other side of the terrace. But already as she dragged herself back across the wall she could see that he was inching slowly and deliberately towards the pool. And by the time she had reached her room at the top of the house she could see that once again he had something between his front paws as he crouched by the side of the rockery.

  She had to admire his persistence, that big black cat that lived on the other side of the wall. Or was it persistence? She supposed not, in an animal. It must be an instinct, she thought, something from which he cannot escape. And then she thought of other cats she had known. Who had been more than happy to lie in a warm spot for most of the day, purring and preening and rolling over to have their soft stomachs rubbed and patted. Beautiful creatures, they were, she remembered. Secure in their bodies and sure of their place in the world.

  Like the people whom she saw now at Ursula and Daniel Beckett’s anniversary party as she stood beneath the pine trees at the edge of the garden, watching the groups of twos and threes, glasses in their hands, who moved behind the picture windows. She could hear through the open door the hum and burble of their voices rising above the music, which came from the group of musicians seated on a small raised platform on the lawn. She watched Ursula move among her guests. She knew the kinds of words she would be using. Welcoming, supporting, confiding, flattering. She watched the children, dressed in their best, running in and out of the house, fetching and carrying. She drew back for a moment into the trees and turned to look out to sea. It was still very bright. The water below the cliffs gleamed in the evening sunshine. Dark green close to the shore, dark blue further out, and a line of light along the horizon. And the beginnings of the sunset touching the clouds with a fine feathering of pale pink and grey. She took a powder compact from her bag and opened it. She looked at herself, critically moving the small mirror from feature to feature. She smoothed down her eyebrows with her fingertip and pulled out her comb to settle her hair. Then she turned back to the house. She took a deep breath. She lifted her head and gazed towards the lighted windows. Now was the time. Now she was ready.

  It was easy to slide in through the wide open door. No one noticed her. No one was watching. Except the white-coated waiter, who immediately spotted a guest without a glass and held out his tray in her direction.

  ‘Drink, madam? Wine, mineral water or perhaps some champagne?’

  She hesitated, her hand hovering, looking down at the colours. The dark red, light yellow, pale lemon fizziness. She picked up a glass of white wine. She held it to her nose and breathed in its essence before she drank as her eyes scanned the room, looking for the man with the thick dark hair and the equally dark beard, whose face she remembered from the time before. Whose photograph she had seen in the articles he had cut from the pages of the glossy magazines. She moved forward, carefully easing herself through the throng, picking up snatches of conversations as she passed.

  She could see Ursula’s blonde head and hear her voice, her accent rising above the hum of the room. Rachel walked slowly towards the doors to the garden. She sat down at a table on the terrace and looked out to the sea, watching the line of clouds along the horizon.

  She finished her glass of wine and signalled to the waiter for another. She drank some more. The alcohol was changing her demeanour. She felt bright and alive, confident, capable of anything. She stood up and moved away from the house again, towards the marquee that had been put up on the lawn. It was empty still. A group of musicians were setting up in the corner. She could smell damp canvas and crushed grass. It reminded her of holidays when she was a kid. Camping in Wexford. Rain on the roof of the tent and the smell of the Primus stove. She walked into the centre of the wooden floor and leaned against the pole. The band had begun to tune their instruments. Guitars, a mandolin, a violin, and a huge concertina. She watched them, then leaned back against the wooden support and closed her eyes. They began to play. Their music sounded like gypsy tunes. Rhythmic, romantic, nostalgic. She swayed from side to side, humming along with the familiar sounds, then felt something tugging at her skirt. She opened her eyes and looked down. Laura stood beside her. Rachel bent and kissed her cheek, resting her lips against the child’s face.

  ‘Would you like to dance with me, sweetheart?’ she asked. The child nodded and held out her hands. Rachel took hold of them and together they swayed around the wooden dance floor. The band began to play more quickly. Around and around they twirled. Laura was laughing. She was pulling back against Rachel’s grasp. Rachel could feel dizziness beginning to push her off balance. She slowed down and lifted the child up, holding her on her hip as she moved in waltz time, her feet sliding across the wooden floor of the huge tent. Laura was laughing out loud, leaning out to counterbalance Rachel’s movements as they spun around and around and around.

  And then stopped as Ursula suddenly was beside them, pulling the child from Rachel’s arms, shouting at her, demanding to know what she thought she was doing, why was she here, how dare she invade their privacy in this way.

  Rachel pushed her hair back off her face. She was breathless. She gulped in air, then she picked up her glass of wine and drank some more.

  ‘But you invited me,’ she said. ‘That day when we were out in the nursery, you told me to come. And you told me again that night when I stayed here with you. You gave me an invitation. Don’t you remember?’

  She watched the expression on Ursula’s face change. Doubt replaced anger.

  Rachel moved towards her. ‘Yes, you said to me how much you’d enjoy having me here, inviting me to meet all your friends, how much you wanted me to meet your husband too. You do remember that, don’t you?’

  The band had stopped playing. People had begun to drift into the marquee to see what was happening. They stood in a curious semicircle around the two women.

  ‘Yes,’ Rachel continued, ‘you told me there would be music and we could dance together, the way we danced that night, Ursula. Don’t you remember? You had such a great time of it that night, you said we’d do it again. Why don’t we, why don’t we now? I’m sure everyone here would like to see it, the way we danced that night.’

  She reached out and took her hand. And then she saw him, standing slightly apart from the rest of the guests. Those bright, shiny people, with their extravagant gestures and their confident movements. Their jewellery, their make-up, their glittery surfaces. Who faded away to nothing now as she saw Daniel watching her. And she looked at him. Saw the streaks of grey in his dark hair, the extra flesh on his body and face. Remembered how she had created him, called him up from the depths of her memory as she lay in her cell, night after night. Thinking of the way he had looked and felt. As her legs weakened beneath her and her mouth dried up so she did not know if she would be able to speak. For a moment there was silence. Then Laura ran forward, towards him. She clung to his knee
s, then stretched her arms up his thighs, pulling at his belt.

  ‘Daddy, Daddy, pick me up, give me a cuddle.’ He leant down and put his hands under her armpits. He swung her high, up on to his shoulder. The child laughed and shouted out, ‘Look, peaches lady, look. I’m the king of the castle.’

  Daniel moved slowly towards her. He held out his right hand.

  ‘Rachel, I do believe it’s you. After so many years.’ She heard the voices then, the comments, the hum of recognition.

  ‘How nice to see you. How interesting. I’m glad you’ve been enjoying yourself here. Enjoying our hospitality.’

  He lifted Laura from his shoulders and put her down carefully. He stepped forward and took hold of Rachel’s wrist. His grip was tight, uncomfortable. ‘But now,’ he said, ‘it’s time you were leaving.’ He tugged at her arm and she stumbled forward. The remnants of her glass splashed down her dress, staining it darkly. He tugged her again, and again she stumbled. The crowd moved aside. She could see out through the open flap of the tent. Two men were standing, waiting. They were wearing dark blue uniforms, shirts with a logo written in white on the front. Daniel nodded towards them, and they moved forward quickly. He let her go. The men stood, one on either side of her. Together, in step, they walked out of the tent, across the lawn, around the side of the house, up the drive to the gate. Their footsteps sounded loudly on the gravel. And then as they reached the road Rachel heard the sound of the band starting up again. A dance tune, another waltz. She heard the guitars, the mandolin, the violin, the concertina all playing together. She began to hum. The security guards opened the gate. They stood aside.