‘I’ll have to evict Kirby.’ Boyd smiled wryly.
‘It’s high time he found his own place anyway, and if my half-brother Leo comes through with the money on Farranstown House, we can buy somewhere together and Grace can live with us.’
She thought of the wrangling back and forth with solicitors over legal documents, none of which she understood. She just wanted to sign and get the money, but things were never that simple. Leo Belfield had appeared in her life following a difficult case in which her true family heritage had been revealed. She was still trying to come to terms with it.
Boyd eyed her over the rim of his pint glass. ‘You’d do that for me?’
‘You know I’d do anything for you.’
‘You sound like something out of a romance novel.’
‘You read them, do you?’
‘Smart arse,’ he said with a smile, the first time she’d seen that glint of devilment in his eye in a long time.
He put down the glass and wrapped his hand around hers. She felt the warmth of his touch seep through her skin and into her bloodstream. She gazed out across the sparkling water in the bay to the lush green vegetation on the sides of the mountains that guarded the inlet.
‘I know you’re ill, Boyd, but you make me so very happy.’
A crash and the tinkle of breaking glass reached them from inside the pub. A second of stunned silence paused the mumble of chatter before a scream pierced the air.
‘That’s Grace,’ said Boyd as he got up from the chair, but Lottie was already through the door, where she was greeted by pandemonium.
A semicircle of sweaty bodies had formed in one corner of the sweltering pub. She elbowed her way through the three-deep ensemble. Curled up on the bench, knees clutched to her chest, Grace Boyd cried and sobbed, her hair wild and her arms scratched.
‘All of you, stay away from me,’ she snarled through gritted teeth.
‘Hey, Grace, why don’t you come outside with me?’ Lottie said as she reached the distraught and dishevelled young woman.
‘I only asked her where she’d live,’ one man said. ‘She lost the plot when I—’
‘Give her a break,’ another interrupted.
Lottie had heard enough. She needed to calmly extricate Grace from the melee.
‘Stand back. Give her some air. Fetch a glass of water.’ She stared at the crowd. ‘Now.’
At last the gathering dispersed and someone thrust a pint glass of water into her hand. She slid onto the bench next to Grace.
‘Sip this. It will help cool you down.’
She was surprised when the other woman took the glass and gulped a mouthful, without raising her eyes.
‘Don’t mind what any of them are saying. What do men know about grief, eh?’
Grace began to hiccup.
‘Slowly. Just sips. Come on.’
‘I’m not a child.’ Anger flashed in her eyes.
‘Do you want to come outside? Mark’s out there. Maybe you can tell him what’s wrong.’
‘He doesn’t get me, Lottie. No one does. Not even you.’ Grace wiped her nose with the back of her hand, childlike.
‘I have a fair bit of experience with my own gang; why don’t you try me?’
Grace shook her head and handed back the glass. ‘I want to go home. Can you bring me?’
‘Sure I can.’ Lottie handed her a napkin from the table. ‘Dry your eyes and let’s get out of here.’
Grace stood and wiped her face. She scrunched the napkin and stuffed it into her handbag. ‘I like you, Lottie, and I’m glad you’re sticking with my brother.’
‘That’s sweet of you, but listen to me. I’m here for you too.’
‘But my mam … I’m going to miss her so much. Can you understand that?’
‘I lost my husband, so yes, I understand it better than you can ever know. Now let’s get the hell out of here.’
‘I’d love a plate of bacon and cabbage. Do you think you could cook that?’
Lottie groaned inwardly. Culinary expertise was not on her talent list. Grace was craving something her mother had cooked. Something to keep her alive in her mind.
‘Where was your mother’s favourite place to visit?’
‘The Twelve Pins.’
‘Well then, that’s where we’re going.’
‘You’re so good, Lottie.’ Grace sniffed. ‘Thank you.’
The lump in Lottie’s throat bulged. She found it difficult to be this sympathetic with her own kids, so how was it she could mother this thirty-something-year-old woman? Unable to find the answer, she walked over to Boyd, who was standing by the door.
‘You know the way?’
‘Yes, boss.’ He winked at Grace, whose face broke into a sad smile.
‘And then I have to head back to Ragmullin,’ Lottie said. Lowering her voice, she whispered in Boyd’s ear, ‘With or without you.’
Two
Monday
The three-bedroom 1950s detached house with a square patch of overgrown grass and a cracked path up to the front door was the second in a line of ten houses. Someone had constructed a ramp and a rail to the side of the two front steps. Jeff’s aunt, Patsy Cole, had only been sixty when she’d died in bed here two years ago, but that didn’t worry Faye. She didn’t believe in spirits or ghosts. She was happy. At last they had a place to call their own. Once they had it renovated and decorated, she would be able to escape from their tiny apartment. She rubbed her hand over her white cotton shirt and with a thrill of excitement felt the as yet invisible bump beneath it.
The key turned easily in the lock. She shoved open the door and stepped onto the grey linoleum with its discoloured lines down either side from Patsy’s wheelchair. That would have to go, she thought as she moved into the living room.
The fireplace was on the wall across from her. Tiger-striped tiles around the broken grate and smoke residue on the flowery wallpaper. Jeff had already taken a lot of the furniture to the recycling centre, and most of the rubbish had gone to the dump. There wasn’t even anything worthy of bringing to a charity shop. All that remained of the furniture in this room was an old armchair and the threadbare orange carpet.
Faye paused at the window. She touched her stomach again and smiled. Their very own place. She looked around and decided that the first thing to go would be the wallpaper. It was garish and faded, blackened and torn, and it made the room look smaller than it actually was. They planned to knock down the wall dividing the living room from the kitchen. She tried to envisage an open-plan area, but standing here with the three-bulb light fitting whispering over her hair, she wondered if that would even work. It really was very small.
From a miniature toolkit she extracted a paint scraper, then filled a plastic basin with yellow water from the kitchen tap and began to dampen the wallpaper in the corner by the window. At first she moved slowly, fearful of nicking the plaster beneath, but then she felt an adrenaline rush forcing her to rid every wall of the hideous paper, and within an hour she was over by the fireplace. Her feet were surrounded by scraps of damp, mouldy wallpaper, which stuck to her jeans and white Converse shoes. She didn’t care.
The paper to the left of the fireplace came away more easily than any other area. She used her fingers to pull and tug, and it ripped off in one long strip. With the paint scraper, she tapped the plaster. It sounded hollow. She knocked on the wall to the right of it. Solid.
She stepped back and regarded the wall. The plaster on the two sections appeared different. One was fresher than the other. She wondered why this was so. Then she remembered Jeff saying that there used to be a stove-like range in this room, but that his uncle had taken it out and installed a fireplace before he’d built on the back kitchen. She knew then that the extension had to go. The roof was flat and leaking.
She sighed at the amount of work they had to do. They’d agreed to carry out the upgrade themselves. It’ll be cheaper, Jeff had said, and we’re in no hurry. But she was. She wanted to move in before the ba
by arrived. That gave them less than six months. Maybe if they knocked out this piece here, she thought, they’d have a nice alcove. She could get IKEA shelving. It would go well with the woodchip burner she’d already picked out. A trickle of excitement built up in her chest.
In the kitchen, she found Jeff’s larger toolbox. She picked up the lump hammer and went back to the living room. Now or never, she thought, and swung the hammer at the centre of the plaster. Soon she was covered in grime. A weave of dust motes swam in front of her eyes. She should have put on the goggles. Taking a step back to admire her handiwork, she sighed. She’d only made a small hole, even though she felt like she’d been hammering for hours.
With her fingers, she tugged at the plasterboard, trying to draw it away from the wall. At last it came away in her hand. A bigger hole opened up beside the old tiled fireplace. Maybe Jeff’s uncle and aunt had left a time capsule inside, she thought. That would be exciting.
Suddenly the tiny hairs stood up on the back of her neck beneath her scrunched-up ponytail. Maybe this wall was never meant to come down.
Trying to shrug off the weird feeling gripping her, she picked up the hammer again and thumped the wall with all her strength. The plaster cracked and tore and fell apart. Coughing and spluttering, she swatted her hands around, attempting to clear the air, praying the dust wouldn’t damage the baby growing in her womb.
When the last motes had shimmered away, she stepped forward and squinted into the dark space. A tsunami of dread shook her whole body, her teeth chattered, and bubbles of cold sweat trickled down her spine.
The hole wasn’t empty.
She gasped and leapt backwards as the thing in the wall came crashing out, landing at her feet. Two sightless eyes stared up at her.
Only then did she scream.
Three
Lottie awoke with her grandson fast asleep beside her. When she’d returned from Galway last night, he’d been crying in Katie’s arms.
‘He has me wrecked, Mam,’ Katie had said, her voice as frazzled as the little boy’s whimpers. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with him.’
‘He could be cutting his back teeth.’ Lottie dropped her overnight bag behind the couch and took Louis from her daughter. ‘What’s the matter, little man? Did you miss your nana?’
She was rewarded with another loud cry.
‘I gave him a spoon of Calpol half an hour ago,’ Katie said, ‘but it made no difference.’
‘You need to have patience with him.’ Lottie cradled the boy on her lap and soothed him with kisses in his soft hair. ‘Go on to bed. I’ll mind him.’
‘You’ve work in the morning. I don’t want you blaming me if he keeps you up half the night.’
‘I won’t blame you,’ Lottie said.
Now she was awake with a headache and she was going to be late for work. She eased out from under the warm duvet and took a quick shower. She pulled on her black jeans and a white long-sleeved T-shirt. It would save her having to apply sun lotion if her work took her outdoors today.
Louis stirred, turned over, and, with his thumb in his mouth, slept on soundly. She would have to wake Katie. Tiptoeing across the landing, she tapped on the door and looked in. Her daughter’s long black hair fanned out over the pillow, which moved with each breath she took.
‘Katie? Hun, you need to wake up.’ She brushed her fingers over the girl’s bare shoulder and shook her gently.
‘Ugh? What? What time is it?’
‘Early, but I’m late for work.’
‘Knew you’d blame me.’
‘I never said a word about you. Louis is asleep in my bed. Go and lie with him. He seems rested. I think he’s just teething.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ Katie threw back the duvet and stumped across to Lottie’s room.
At Sean’s door, she rapped more loudly. ‘Sean. School time.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ her sixteen-year-old son said, an imitation of Katie’s words a moment ago. ‘I’m awake.’
She hesitated at the third door. Eighteen-year-old Chloe had dropped out of school. No amount of cajoling, bribery or rows had worked, and what with having to deal with Boyd’s illness and Sean’s bad moods, Lottie had given in. Chloe worked full-time in Fallon’s pub and it seemed to suit her. But come September, Lottie was adamant her daughter was going to finish her education.
She moved away without knocking and went down the stairs to snatch a slice of toast to chew in the car.
She hoped it would be a quiet week.
Four
The drone was great fun. It whizzed along at such speed, the boys found it hard to keep up. Jack Sheridan was delighted with the images displayed on his phone attached to the controller. They were clearer than the Mediterranean Sea in high summer. He knew all about that because he’d been to Majorca last year on his holidays. His friend Gavin Robinson, on the other hand, had only gone to Connemara.
‘Does your mam really believe we’re using the drone for a school project?’ Gavin said.
‘Course she does. My mam believes everything I say. Doesn’t yours?’
‘Are you joking? I get grilled more than the rashers every single morning.’
Jack laughed. ‘As long as you don’t tell her where we go before school, we should be okay.’
‘Well, I’m twelve next month,’ Gavin said, ‘and I’m going to ask her for a drone for my present.’
From the bridge over the railway track, Jack glanced back at the town lying low in a dip behind him, the cathedral spires standing guard like they were protecting Ragmullin from evil monsters. Jack had heard his father talk about evil monsters and he’d had plenty of warnings about not talking to strangers. Did they think he was five years old or something? Monsters were only a figment of the imagination.
The sun was rising quickly in the sky and Jack knew today would be as warm as yesterday. He slipped off his jacket and balled it into his school bag before hefting the rucksack onto his back. Then he turned his attention to the tracks below.
‘Will we do the canal or the railway?’ he said.
Gavin was already climbing down the shallow steps at the side of the bridge. ‘We did the canal the other day. I thought we agreed we’d do the tracks today?’
‘Yeah, but I don’t want the poxy commuter train slamming into Jedi.’ He’d had a competition among their friends to name the drone. Now that he thought about it, he realised it wasn’t really a competition because there was no prize, and anyhow, he’d chosen the name himself.
‘The early train’s long gone,’ Gavin said, ‘and the next one’s not for an hour. Come on.’
Jack made his way down the steps after his friend. He had to admit that for eleven years old, Gavin talked like a grown-up at times. It got on Jack’s nerves and he often thought of finding a new best friend, but Gavin knew about things he didn’t, like the train timetable, so it was good to have him around.
He made sure the camera was working on the drone, checked the SD card was in place to record, steadied the controller, and set Jedi off down the tracks.
‘Don’t let it fly around that bend,’ Gavin roared. ‘Stop it now, dickhead. It’s going to disappear. We’ll never find it.’
‘I’m looking at it on the phone screen, dope.’ Jack ran ahead of his friend, keeping one eye on the screen and the other on Jedi as it skirted a blackberry bush and disappeared out of view.
When Gavin reached him, Jack slowed down and walked a few steps forward, making sure to leave a foot of space between himself and the tracks, just in case Gavin had got the timetable wrong. That wasn’t likely, but you’d never know what could happen. He didn’t want the Ragmullin to Dublin train ploughing into them, mashing them into mincemeat. Yuck.
‘What’s that?’ Gavin said, pointing at the screen.
‘What’s what?’
‘Back Jedi up. Make it go over that piece of track again.’
Jack eyed Gavin and noticed his friend’s eyes dancing frantically in his head.
‘I thought
I saw something between two sleepers,’ Gavin squealed. ‘Are you recording?’
‘Of course I am.’ Jack reversed the drone back over the route and studied the screen.
‘Hover it. Keep recording.’
‘I’m not stupid,’ he said. He stopped walking and stared.
‘Jack?’ Gavin’s voice trembled. ‘What is that on the tracks?’
Jack hadn’t a clue, but it reminded him of one of those monsters that was supposed to be a figment of your imagination.
‘It looks like a zombie. Like something Spiderman would tackle.’
Gavin said, ‘It looks like a headless body.’
Jack zoomed the drone in closer, hovering it over the thing on the railway track, and then watched in horror as Gavin vomited all down his school uniform.
Five
Eventually Faye calmed down enough to find her phone and call Jeff. Within fifteen minutes, he was by her side.
‘I thought you’d been murdered or something,’ he said as he sat her into his aunt’s smelly armchair.
‘Don’t make light of it, Jeff. I was terrified of that … that thing.’ She wiped her forehead with the tissue he’d thrust into her hand. ‘What is it? Tell me it’s not real.’
‘It’s probably fake. Some sort of prank.’
‘But it’s been plastered up behind that wall for God knows how long. Surely someone wouldn’t put a fake skull in there, would they?’
‘It looks to me like someone did.’ He sat on the floor next to her. ‘Why were you knocking down the wall anyway?’
‘I was pulling off the wallpaper and I noticed the difference in the plaster.’
‘What difference?’ His voice was measured, but Faye thought there was an unusual edge to it. She tried to keep calm by admiring the straight line of his jaw and the smoothness of his chin on his long face. His blue eyes dazzled her in the half-light. She wanted him to hold her tight so that she could nuzzle into the soft cotton of his shirt, but he sat monk-like on the floor, his long legs crossed at the ankles. He was twenty-nine to her twenty-five and she was hopelessly in love with him.
Buried Angels Page 2
