Buried Angels

by Patricia Gibney

  Lisa felt her life was going to shit.

  Forty-Four

  Tamara had sent Gavin to the butcher’s shop to get mince for dinner half an hour ago. It was only ten minutes there and back. What was keeping him?

  She flicked her eyelashes, noticed the glue was visible and sat down at her mirror to sort them out. When they were fixed, she pulled off her bathrobe and had a look in the mirror to see how her tan was coming along. She didn’t want to be orange, but she knew what television lights were like, so she had been a little heavy-handed.

  She checked the time on her phone. Where the hell had he got to? She thought of all she still had to do. Early tomorrow morning she was going to the television studios in Dublin for an in-depth interview about Gavin’s find on the railway tracks. This could attract a lot more followers to her Insta stories. More freebies. She paused, picking up the mitt to touch up her tan. She was going to kill him.

  She tried his number again. No answer. She texted him, because she knew what he was like. He never answered his damn phone. Maybe he had called round to Jack’s. She should phone there to check, but she didn’t want the Sheridans cashing in on her limelight.

  She went downstairs. In her stash room, she looked out of the window at the beautiful calm evening. The sun slanting down behind the apartments across the way, a pink hue lighting up the roofs. The calm before the storm? She hoped not. She hated driving on the motorway in wind and rain. Tapping her phone, she brought up the weather app. Clouds tomorrow. No rain. Good. If she did her hair tonight, it should be fine for tomorrow.

  A loud rap on the door made her jump and clutch her chest. She hadn’t seen anyone come up the steps; then again, she’d been looking out across the roofs at the sun. Gavin must have forgotten his key.

  Opening the door, she found herself flung against the wall as the door was pushed inwards.

  It wasn’t Gavin.

  ‘Tamara, I need to talk to you.’

  She wasn’t sure if it was anger or fear causing her to tremble as she followed her visitor into the apartment.

  Gavin slapped the small plastic bag against his thigh as he walked. He hated mince. When his mother took it out of the bag, the kitchen always smelled like the butcher’s shop. No amount of her floral diffusers or sweet candles could take away the lingering smell.

  He nodded at the guard standing on the railway bridge. He wanted to go over and have a look, but he’d been close to it all the day before. That was enough for him.

  He turned left into the winding avenue that led to the apartment. As he passed the boarded-up derelict house, he noticed the lock on the hoarding hanging open. He’d once heard adults saying that the developer should have demolished it when he was building the apartments, but someone else said it was tied up in pro … probate or something. Gavin couldn’t remember and didn’t really care.

  He walked past the house regularly and no longer noticed it. No one noticed it. But now the lock was hanging open. Why?

  Standing at the broken-down barrier encircling the house, he could see how easy it was to get inside. Just then he thought he heard a cry. Like a bird screeching high in the trees. He looked up but could see nothing. Had the sound come from inside the house? Maybe he should have a look. Maybe he should run, as fast as he could. But still he stood there. Listening. Staring.

  He heard it again. It was definitely coming from the house. He pushed aside the two pieces of timber that acted as a gate and eased inside. Standing on the dried-up brown grass, he gaped up at the house with half its roof caved in. Now that he thought of it, it might be a good idea if Jack could fly his drone in through one of the smashed windows and then they could see for themselves what was inside. Yeah, that would be cool.

  But it looked a whole lot scarier once he was on this side of the hoarding. The front door was damaged, like it had been kicked in, but someone had put a makeshift lock on it, which appeared to be open. He walked up what had once been a path, now cracked and stubbled with moss, still slapping the bag of meat against his leg.

  At the door, he paused and glanced up at the sky. It was getting darker and he really should wait until Jack was with him. He could text him, but Jack’s dad was being a grade A prick, keeping tabs on him like the devil himself was out to kill him. Another sound from inside made him shudder, and he let the bag fall from his hand. A root sticking up from the cracked concrete path punctured the plastic.

  ‘Shit,’ Gavin said, his voice echoing off the walls. He bent to pick up the bag and the smell of the meat made him gag. He peered through a crack in the door where the timber had split. He could see where the evening light shone down from the caved-in roof, lighting up a section in the centre of the hallway. Was someone really in there? It looked empty. He listened for the sound again. Must be birds, he thought.

  Something skittered around his ankles and the bag of mince lurched as a black rat with a long tail dragged at the meat. Gavin jumped backwards. ‘Fucking hell!’

  He heard the sound from inside the house again. It stopped the beat of his rapidly thumping heart and he held his breath. Dragging his eyes away from the scratching at his feet, he looked through the crack in the door again. He really should turn and run.

  A shadow skirted past an open doorway behind the light.

  He blinked and looked again. Someone was in there.

  From deep inside the house came a low, guttural scream. It kick-started Gavin’s heart again and he heard the noise in his ears like a train gaining speed as it left the station.

  Fuck this, he thought. He was getting out of here. He turned, and felt a hand grab the back of his neck. As he opened his mouth to scream, another hand clamped around his mouth.

  Powerless, he felt himself being dragged against the rough clothes of an adult – someone bigger than him anyway. Shit, shit, shit. He was lifted bodily from the ground, his feet dangling, as the door was elbowed inwards.

  He tried to cry out, but the sound was blocked by the hand across his mouth. He started to cry, and snot ran out of his nose over the hand.

  He had to do something.

  That thought spurred him to action. He struggled, twisting and turning furiously, but it was fruitless. He was held fast. He kicked back again and again and felt his foot strike bone. A yelp escaped his captor, but the grip did not loosen.

  As he was carried into the body of the house, he cried silently. He wanted to shout for his mother, but he couldn’t utter a word.

  Inside, it was dark despite the gaping hole where the roof had once been. Rafters hung precariously and strings of electrical cable dangled dangerously close to his head. His captor seemed to have no fear of this. They reached what Gavin thought had once been a kitchen. Three chest freezers lined one wall. His breath stuck in his throat and he thought he might choke. He kicked out again, more from terror than a need to damage his captor, then felt the warmth along his leg as he peed uncontrollably into his pants.

  A chair was kicked across the floor and he was dumped onto it. He tried to calm his breathing in readiness to make a run for it, but he was crying too hard and his nose was so blocked he could hardly breathe.

  When his captor released him, he felt too terrified to move, so he just sat there, slumped like a wet jacket flung on the back of a couch. Stars jumped haphazardly in front of his eyes and he thought he was going to faint. The slap across his jaw startled him, and he stopped crying.

  His captor stood in front of him now, a knife dangling loosely from one hand as if they were deciding how to use it.

  Gavin eyed the freezers along the wall. Small green lights flickered on them and he saw that the electricity was wired up.

  He thought of the body on the tracks and in the canal.

  Terror ripped through his bones and he trembled all over, deep, dark shudders. He squeezed his eyes shut and prayed for someone to come quick.

  A cloud passed over the open roof, and in the rafters a bird fluttered its wings. Sitting on the chair, Gavin Robinson cried and cried until
he was engulfed in midnight black.

  Forty-Five

  Sean threw down the controller. The game was shite. He had lost and now he had no interest in getting back in. He lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling. The flicker of light from his PlayStation bothered him, but he was too lazy to get up and switch it off. His phone beeped.

  He yawned and checked it. Ruby was online.

  What’s up? he typed.

  I’m going to kill my dad, Ruby replied.

  My mam might have to arrest you. He added smiley faces. Ruby’s mam, Marianne, was a bit wacky, and he hadn’t much time for Kevin. He typed, At least you have a dad.

  I’m serious, Sean. He nearly broke my arm. Then he stormed out of the house. I wanted to pick up a knife and stick him.

  You need to talk to your mother about this.

  I can’t. She’s a wreck. He’s a prick. Thinks he owns the insurance business. Like fuck. He only answers the calls.

  Have a smoke. It might calm you down.

  I’m in my room, smoking out the window. .

  Sean paused before he typed. He’d known Ruby a long time. She was quiet. She was a nerd. She never got angry. Not like this.

  Do you want me to call over?

  No. If he comes back, he’ll probably kill you too.

  Drama queen.

  I’m serious. He’s never laid a hand on me before. It was scary.

  Sean sat up on the bed. I’ll be over there in five.

  No. I’m just venting. He’s a prick.

  If you want me, just ask.

  Ruby sent sad emojis and went offline.

  Sean’s door opened. His mother stood there. She looked tired and sad.

  ‘What’s up, Mam?’

  ‘Everything. All okay with you?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine, but …’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘It’s just Ruby. She says her dad is a prick.’

  He moved across the bed as Lottie sat beside him. She looked like she wanted to lie down and sleep for a very long time.

  ‘I was talking to Kevin this evening,’ she said.

  ‘Really? Can you arrest him?’

  ‘Can’t arrest a man for being a prick, though I’ve often wanted to.’ She laughed, but it sounded drained and forced.

  ‘Are you okay, Mam?’

  ‘Just tired. I’m heading over to Boyd’s for an hour.’

  ‘Okay.’

  She stood and stretched. ‘What has Kevin done to upset Ruby?’

  ‘He hurt her arm. I’ve never known her to be so upset.’

  ‘Want me to have a word?’

  ‘No, no way. You’ll only make it worse.’

  ‘Ah Sean, I’m not that bad.’

  ‘You’re a tyrant.’ If he was typing this conversation, he knew he’d add laughing emojis.

  ‘It might be better if you stay away from the O’Keeffes for a while. No point in getting caught in family rows, plus Kevin is involved in my investigation, though I’m not yet sure how.’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Make sure you are. I’ll see you later. Don’t be on that PlayStation half the night.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  She closed the door softly, and suddenly Sean felt totally alone.

  ‘Have you made your will?’ Grace said, picking a strawberry from her plate and dipping it into a blob of cream on the side.

  Boyd watched her eat. ‘I’m not dying,’ he said.

  ‘We’re all dying, Mark. Every day a little bit of us dies away. So, you need to be prepared. You saw how quickly Mam died. Not a word of warning.’

  ‘What’s brought this on?’

  Grace stuffed a fat strawberry into her mouth. Chewing it slowly, she closed her eyes, enjoying the sweetness. When she’d finished it, she leaned her head to one side, appraising him.

  ‘You’re too thin. You drink too much. You smoke even though you’ve been told to stop. You have cancer. Do you want me to go on?’

  ‘You’re not much of a tonic.’

  ‘What do you mean by that? How could I be a tonic? I’m a human being.’

  Boyd laughed wearily. ‘You should go to bed.’

  ‘Mark. Mam is dead. You are not my mother. Do not tell me what to do.’

  ‘Okay. I’m going to lie down and rest my head.’ He sighed at the thought of his long limbs hanging over the arm of the couch for another sleepless night. There was no talking to Grace. She was on a different wavelength to everyone else.

  ‘I’m not stupid, so don’t treat me like I am.’ She immersed another strawberry in the cream. ‘I want to go home.’

  ‘Grace, we have to discuss it. Not tonight, though. I’m too tired.’

  ‘I’m not tired.’

  ‘We’ll talk about it tomorrow,’ he said, moving to the couch to fix up the bedclothes. ‘That’s if we’re all alive tomorrow after your doomsday talk.’

  ‘I’ll be alive. Not so sure about you. You look very yellow.’ She stomped into the bedroom and closed the door.

  Boyd plumped up the spare pillow. He had to smile. He could count on his sister to bring a dose of reality into his life. As long as he had his life, that was.

  The doorbell chimed. So much for rest. He hoped Grace would go to open it, but she didn’t. He sighed and went himself.

  Lottie stood there, her face white, her hair in need of a wash, her clothes also in need of a turn in the washing machine, but to him she was beautiful. He wrapped his arms around her and held her. They stood like that on the doorstep for a few moments before she extricated herself and placed a soft kiss on his cheek.

  ‘Can I come in? Or if you like, I’ll sit on the step and you can bring me out a cup of tea.’

  He caught her hand and brought her inside.

  ‘I know what I’d like to do,’ he said, tracing his finger along the palm of her hand.

  ‘You’re such a cliché,’ she laughed. ‘Is Grace asleep?’

  ‘She’s in the bedroom,’ he said, lowering his voice and switching on the kettle. ‘I know she’s my sister, but she’s doing my head in.’

  He opened the cupboard for mugs and had to admire the way Grace had organised them by size. The two of them were so alike, his mam had always said. An intense sense of loss for his mother washed over him and he shuddered.

  Lottie’s arms eased around his waist and her head nestled between his shoulder blades.

  ‘I’m here, Boyd. Cry if you want to.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said, wondering how they were so in tune with each other’s emotions. ‘Bad day at the office?’

  ‘Don’t move. Don’t say anything. I want to stay like this for a minute, listening to the beat of your heart.’

  ‘Now who’s the cliché?’

  He paused with the mugs in his hand and Lottie leaning into him like a child clinging to a departing friend trying to stop them from leaving. And he wondered what would happen to her if he didn’t make it through the treatment. Maybe Grace was right. Maybe he should make a will. He put down the mugs and twisted around, putting a finger under her chin and kissing her softly on the lips. His body, which had recently been letting him down because of the chemo, reacted, and she arched into him.

  ‘God, Lottie, I wish we were in my bedroom right this minute.’ He knotted his fingers into her hair and resumed their sensual kiss.

  He did not resist when she pushed him against the counter, running her fingers around his waistband. Their lips still locked, she began to loosen his belt.

  ‘Who’s there, Mark?’ Grace sauntered into the living room, long nightdress flowing, buttoned to the neck as usual.

  Boyd gulped for air as Lottie backed away hurriedly.

  ‘Hiya, Grace. I just popped round for a chat and a cuppa.’

  ‘That’s nice. I’ll have one too.’ Grace went to sit on the couch. She folded Boyd’s blanket and placed it and his pillow carefully on the floor.

  Lottie swallowed a laugh and Boyd shook his head.

  ‘We need to get our ow
n place,’ he whispered, placing tea bags into three mugs.

  ‘That’s what I came over to talk about. Leo rang. He wants to pull out of the deal.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘He’s been speaking with Tom Rickard. He told Leo that Farranstown could never be developed, which I’d neglected to tell him. In truth, I’m relieved. I didn’t like the idea of deceiving him.’

  ‘You don’t owe him anything. It’s not like he’s been in your life for the last forty-five years.’ Boyd poured the boiling water. ‘What did he say?’

  Lottie fetched the milk from the refrigerator. ‘He knows he can’t develop the land and that it’s basically worthless. But he said he’ll sign the house over to me.’

  ‘That’s good.’ He placed the mugs on a tray, catching Lottie’s eye. God, he so wanted to be in bed with her. ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘A rambling old house like that? Come on, Boyd. It’ll cost me a fortune to pay the taxes, let alone figure out how to make it habitable.’

  ‘What about Tom Rickard?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He’s a property developer. Maybe he’d buy it off you.’

  ‘Are you joking me? Anyway, I haven’t had time to digest it. Let’s drink our tea and talk about it.’

  As he lifted the tray to go into the living area, he noticed that Grace had fallen asleep on the couch, her legs curled under her. He winked. ‘Or we could skip into the bedroom for ten minutes.’

  Lottie masked her emotional need and said, ‘Tea, Boyd. I need tea, and then I’m going home.’

  Forty-Six

  Kevin O’Keeffe had come back to the house at eleven to find Marianne wasn’t at home. He’d emptied the remains of the whiskey bottle into his belly while he’d waited, and he was drunk by the time he heard the front door open. A bleary-eyed glance at his phone told him it was ten after midnight.

  He heard the twang of hangers as she hung her coat in the closet under the stairs. The bottom step creaked. She was trying to sneak up to bed. Though he was inebriated, he had hit her and dragged her into the living room before she could scream or utter a word.