The House of Ashes

by Stuart Neville

  Then she looked down and saw the scarlet ribbons flaring from her belly, the water blurring red, pieces of her dress floating. Pieces of her.

  Cold now. So cold. Her arms and legs are stone. Ice. She can’t feel the rocks and silt on the bottom. Only the cold. It is everything.

  She floats, sees the dimming sky, the great white streaks of high cloud.

  Water laps at her neck, the sound of it filling her ears, touching her cheeks.

  She sees Mary, looking down at her.

  Mary’s hand still in hers.

  Hold on.

  Hold—

  24: Mary

  I felt the bullet hit her. Go into her and out of her again. I felt it through her hand. I mind she stood for a moment, terrible still, and then she leaned back in the water like she wanted to swim there. And she floated, the river pulling her away from me. But I helt onto her. I don’t know for why, but I knew I had to keep a holt of her. Even when the water lifted me off my feet, I couldn’t let her go.

  My toes hardly touched the bottom, but I pushed agin the stones, pushed and pushed until I could stand. I pulled on Esther’s hand, brought her close to me, and I could see her eyes. And she was looking back at me. She was still there. And I felt a happiness in me like I never felt before. I thought, they can save her. They have bandages and medicines for the cattle, they can use them on her, and they can save her. So I pulled her towards the bank, but it was awful hard, the river trying to pull agin me, pulling her away.

  Daddy Tam came to the edge of the bank, his feet splashing in the water, and he hunkered down and reached out for me.

  Says he, Bring her to me.

  I tried hard as I could but every time I took a step closer, the water pushed me further away. I reached and I reached, my arm and my fingers stretching as hard as I could, so hard it hurt, but I couldn’t do it. Daddy Tam lifted the rifle and helt it by the thick end. He reached it out to me so I could grab the thin end, where the bullet come from. It was hard in my hand, and hot. I mind there was still a lick of smoke coming from it.

  He pulled me in until I could stand and walk, still dragging Esther behind me. He took her hand from mine and pushed me onto the bank, then he gave a big pull and she came up onto the grass beside me. I stayed down on my knees, coughing and shivering. Esther stared up at the sky, not blinking at all. I put my hand on her cheek and I looked down into her eyes and knew then she couldn’t see me. She couldn’t see anything at all. And I saw the hole in her belly, and I saw the inside of her, and I realised there was no saving her. No bandage nor medicine would fix her.

  I let an awful howl out of me for now I was out of the water I felt the cold biting into me, eating my fingers and my toes. And for her, I howled and cried for Esther, for she was my sister, even though I’d only known her a lock of days. She was my sister, the only one I ever had, and now she was gone. All because of him.

  Jesus, says Daddy Tam, Jesus Christ.

  I looked up at him and he had water in his eyes. He must have seen the hate in me. It was so big and so hot there couldn’t be any hiding it. Not from anyone.

  He guldered at me, It was her own fault! No one made her run away. Both of you did it. It’s your fault as much as hers. No one made you do it.

  I nearly shouted back at him, telt him to shut his stupid, dirty auld mouth, but before I could, he lifted the rifle to his shoulder and aimed it at me.

  Says he, I should’ve done this long ago.

  I mind he was awful still and calm all of a sudden. I know rightly he was going to do it. It wasn’t something he’d just took a notion of. He’d had it in his head to do it already.

  There was times before that when I might’ve thought it’d be all right to die. I’d be away from that place, at least. But now the rifle was pointing at my head and I’d seen what it did to Esther, I didn’t want that. I wanted to live.

  He worked a lever or a bolt on the side of the rifle, back and down, up and forwards. I ducked my head down, put my hands over it as if they could stop the bullet. The grass was wet agin my face and it went in my mouth as I begged him, No, no, no, please don’t.

  I begged and I waited for the bullet.

  But it didn’t come. Daddy George came. I heard him shout from up the bank, Don’t!

  It needs doing, says Daddy Tam.

  You shoot that child, says Daddy George, I’ll shoot you.

  Will you, now?

  Aye, I will.

  I lifted my head and looked up.

  Daddy Tam still pointed the rifle at me, and up at the top of the bank, there was Daddy George. He had the policeman’s gun in his hand and he aimed it at Daddy Tam. I near telt him to shoot, to blow that auld bastard’s brains all over the water, but I helt my whisht.

  Says Daddy Tam, I shoot this child, you shoot me, then our da kills you.

  Not if I do him first, says Daddy George.

  He pulled something on the policeman’s gun with his thumb, something that went click. It’s called the hammer. I know that now. That seemed to rattle Daddy Tam, for the rifle quivered in his hands.

  You haven’t the balls, says Daddy Tam.

  Says Daddy George, Is that what you think?

  That’s what I know, says Daddy Tam. You were always a weakling. Da should’ve done you like he done the others, done you like a runt.

  There was a crack, then, and the pistol jumped in Daddy George’s hand. Daddy Tam ducked and said a bad word as the bullet cut the water.

  Daddy George aimed again. Says he, That was a warning. I won’t give you another.

  Daddy Tam said more bad words, then he lowered the rifle. Says he to me, Get up to that road before I split your head open.

  I got to my feet and I near fell back down for my legs was quivering. I got myself steady, and I looked down at Esther, and she looked up at the sky, darker now, still seeing nothing. Except heaven, maybe. I hoped so.

  Go on, says Daddy Tam.

  I climbed up the bank and Daddy George took my hand, pulled me up the last of the way. Straight back to the house, says he, heading down the bank to Daddy Tam. Don’t make us come after you.

  I walked past the car, me dripping water and shivering and my teeth chattering, and back along the lane. I heard them both behind me huffing and puffing, and I knew what they were doing. They were carrying Esther, what was left of her, up the bank. I heard Daddy Tam cursing and Daddy George telling him to settle himself. I looked back once and I saw them put her in the boot of the car like she was nothing but a sack of auld rags. I didn’t look again, even when the car’s engine started up and it turned and came along the lane. Daddy Tam didn’t look at me as he drove past and through the gateway. I heard Daddy George’s footsteps behind me and I kept walking till I reached the house.

  Daddy George came through the door after me, his big hand on my shoulder, guiding me inside. In the kitchen, Daddy Tam stood at one side and Daddy Ivan at the other. The bathtub full of water still stood there between the sink and the stove as if someone had a use for it. Daddy Ivan had a face on him, and I knew Daddy Tam had telt him what happened. The policeman lay in the corner, his uniform half pulled off him, blood on his face. His hands tied together with twine. He looked at me, and I could tell by his eyes, he knew what was coming.

  Daddy Tam pointed at him and, says he, Your fault. All of this is your fault.

  The policeman shook his head and tried to say something. But Daddy Tam lit into him then, more anger on him than I’d ever seen before, and Daddy Tam was an angry man. They were all angry men, all three of them. But this was different. This came from deep inside him somewhere, all of his hatred roaring out of him like floodwater.

  Daddy George pushed me to the cellar door, saying, Go, go, go.

  He opened it, pushed me through, and I near cowped down the stairs. Mummy Joy came up and took a holt of me, brought me down to her bed, and pu
lled me under the blankets, even though I was soaking them through. She wrapped her arms around my head, covering my ears and my eyes, but I could still hear.

  I heard all of it. The screaming. Those wet sounds like meat being butchered. They went on and on long after the screaming was just whimpering and on and on still until we heard him gurgling when they drownt him in the bathtub.

  We helt each other in the dark and heard it all.

  25: Sara

  Forty-five minutes after leaving the care home, Sara walked onto the lane that led to the house. It felt good to be out, to walk so far, giving her heart something to do other than worry. Her thighs and lower back buzzed with the exertion, and she relished the sensation.

  The hedgerow stood to her left, the steep bank beyond, and the river down below. She glanced through the gaps as she passed. The river churned murky brown and grey without the evening sun to cast gold on its surface. Sara looked for a girl, still and watchful in the water, but saw no one. Had seen no one. She was sure of that now.

  Checking her phone, she saw it had gone three. Damien wouldn’t be home till after five, she thought, so it would be her and Tony in the house. Antonio, to give him his real name. She thought it a beautiful name and if it were hers, she would use it always. Perhaps she would tell him so.

  Sara felt heat rise on her neck and cheeks. A foolish reaction to a foolish want. She was a married woman with no use for girlish fancies. But still, she hoped he would be there when she got back. She hoped he would have time for a cup of tea.

  “Stop it,” she whispered, words that had become too familiar over the last day or so.

  When Sara entered through the gateway to the house, onto the drive, she saw Tony’s van still parked in front. She felt a peal of joy, but she tamped it down. The air cooled as she walked beneath the thick and wandering branches of the ash trees. She remembered Mary’s words, the seeds planted here. Sara paused, unable to move forward.

  Walking on graves.

  She could not banish the image, not now. The house, the grounds, the outbuildings, old and demolished, rebuilt and new. Built on graves. Mary had said the children would find her. The idea crawled across her back, held her in place, refused to let her move.

  The front door opened, and Tony stepped out, his toolbox in hand. He walked towards the van, unaware of her presence, and opened the rear doors. Once he’d placed the toolbox inside, he turned and saw her in the shadow of the ashes. He stood still, watching her for a moment, as if she might be an illusion. Then he approached, concern on his face.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  Sara could not find a truthful answer.

  The crease in his brow deepened as he drew closer. “Sara? Are you okay?”

  What do I want from him? The question formed in her mind, and again, the answer glimmered beyond her reach.

  “Yes,” she said, finding her tongue. “I’m a bit out of breath, that’s all.”

  He nodded but looked unconvinced.

  “Come on in,” he said. “I’ll get you a cup of tea.”

  It occurred to her that she should have been the one inviting him in, but she had no real objection. She followed him along the driveway and into the house. As she stepped inside, crossing the threshold, she felt herself an intruder. These floors and walls and doors were not hers, no matter how much money had changed hands.

  Tony filled the kettle at the sink as Sara took a stool at the island. She placed her hands on the granite top, felt the cool creep between the bones of her fingers. Her life seemed to have drifted into an orbit around this structure, this gathering of wood and stone.

  “So, what happened?” Tony asked. “What did she say?”

  Sara turned her gaze to the floor, near the Aga, the dark red stains on the flagstones. She thought of children, lost in the dark. And of the movement she’d caught in the corner of her eye. She looked to the back hall, saw nothing there but shadows. A steaming mug appeared on the worktop, stirring her from the trance that had taken her. She turned her head, saw Tony standing close.

  “When they were renovating, did they find anything here?” she asked.

  Tony took the stool next to hers. “Like what?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Anything.”

  He shook his head, leaned his elbows on the worktop. “Not as far as I know. Not that they would tell the likes of me, anyway. I’m not part of Francie’s crew. They just bring me in to do the dirty work, really, but . . .”

  His eyes became distant.

  “But?” Sara asked.

  “There was one day,” he said. “I didn’t think anything of it at the time, I just did what I was told.”

  She turned to face him. “What?”

  “This one day, it would’ve been late in the job, but I was working down in the basement and all of a sudden, we were all told to go home. It happens sometimes, like if there’s a gas leak, or if someone breaks open a water main, everyone on-site is told to go home. I assumed it was something like that, but . . .”

  Tony shifted on his stool.

  “When I think about it, they were nervous. The site manager and his boys. They called Francie, he went in to take a look, and then we were all sent home. He looked rattled when he came out. It was a Thursday, I remember that. They paid us for the last couple of hours of the day, and the Friday, then we came back on the Monday and nothing more was said about it.”

  “Where did Francie look?” Sara asked.

  “Where the extension is now,” Tony said. “It used to be a stable block, I think, or maybe an old milking shed. They were digging up the concrete floors. I thought at the time they’d maybe dug up some old archaeological stuff. You know, like old coins or pottery or something. Site managers hate that. If they find some old stuff from a thousand years ago, they’re supposed to down tools until a proper dig can happen. A lot of times, a project like this, they’ll find some old bits and pieces and not let on, just dig over it so the job doesn’t get held up. That’s what I thought it was at the time. Either way, Francie told everyone to get out, and you don’t argue with a man like him.”

  “A man like him?” she echoed.

  Tony opened his mouth, but he found no words, as if he knew he’d said too much. Sara could see him scrambling for an answer. Eventually, he took a swig of tea and set the mug back on the worktop.

  “I need to get on,” he said, standing.

  “Tell me,” Sara said.

  “Tell you what?”

  “What you mean by a man like him.”

  Tony held his hands out, a gesture of surrender. “Look, I’m sorry, I’ve no business saying anything about him. Just forget it, all right?”

  “I want to know.”

  “He’s your father-in-law. I’m not going to say anything against him.”

  “Please,” she said, reaching out to him, taking hold of his wrist. “I want to know.”

  Tony looked down at her hand. She pulled it away as if it burned. Heat crept across her cheeks once more, and her neck, down her chest. She reached for her tea, took a sip.

  “You know who he is,” he said. “You know what he’s been involved in.”

  “He did some time in prison,” Sara said, putting the mug down. “Damien told me. Possession of explosives or something like that. Damien says he was wrongly convicted, that he didn’t know the explosives were on his property.”

  Tony laughed, caught himself, cleared his throat. “If that’s what Damien told you, then I’m not going to contradict him. It’s none of my business.”

  “I want to know. I need to know.”

  “If Damien knew I said anything.” Tony shook his head and turned his gaze to the floor. “If Francie knew.”

  “I won’t tell them.”

  He looked up at her, and away, fighting himself.

  “Tell me,” Sara said. />
  He leaned his head to one side, exhaled, gave in.

  “Francie Keane wasn’t the boy who hid the explosives,” Tony said. “It was always some other poor bastard did that for him, whether they wanted to or not. It’s before I was born, but one time my father was told to hide guns under his floorboards. He wasn’t given any choice in it. It was Francie Keane knocked his door and took him for a drive around the estate so he could tell him what’s what. Either my da hid the guns or Francie would have his knees.”

  His words quickened as he spoke, anger driving them.

  “I don’t know how Francie got caught with explosives, my guess is he was about to hand them over to someone, but he wasn’t the boy hid them. He was the boy told someone else to hide them, or they’d be dealt with. He was the boy said whose car those explosives wound up under. A cop, or a part-time soldier, or some tradesman who did odd jobs around a police station because he needed the work. They drive off in the car some morning and meet an incline, that tilts the mercury, and bang!”

  He slapped the worktop, made Sara flinch.

  “Maybe they die or maybe they live the rest of their life with no legs. If they’re lucky, their children weren’t in the car with them when the bomb went off. Francie would never have planted a bomb himself, he was always too smart, but he told plenty of young fellas where to put them. Young fellas who wound up in jail, or died, or lost their arms when the bomb went off too soon, but Francie made sure he kept his distance. I don’t know if he ever shot anyone, but I know he said who got shot.”

  He placed his hands flat on the worktop, leaned on them.

  “Look, I wouldn’t have taken the job here only I needed the work. Francie Keane scares the shit out of me. You wanted to know what I think of him, who he is, well, that’s what I think of him, that’s who he is.”

  He glared at her while his anger burned like a Roman candle.

  “I’m sorry,” Sara said.

  Tony gave a brittle, crackling laugh, then the anger burned out, left him like a soul leaves a corpse.