Chapter 38

THIRTY-EIGHT

Bernie Kelly waited and watched.

Leo Belfield was going round in circles, looking for her in all the wrong places. She kept tabs on him. Cat-and-mouse stuff, but she was so much cleverer than him. She should pity him, but she carried not a shred of sympathy in her heart. He had thought he was bribing her for information when she was stringing him up and down like a puppet.

Once she saw him re-entering the Joyce Hotel, she was free to roam. She had plans for him, but not just yet. Her half-sister Lottie Parker was going to pay dearly for incarcerating her with the lunatics who had pled insanity. Bernie wasn’t insane. She was just a very clever woman. She laughed, then realised that people were starting to look at her and tugged the cord on her hood, tightening it around her face. It was a dark evening and that suited her just fine.

She headed in the direction of Lottie’s house.

Rose knew that Katie was fed up with her hovering around, but she had to stay until Lottie got home. Sean and Chloe had been safely delivered from school in a taxi. None of her grandchildren had any idea why their mother had arranged it. But Rose was relieved.

‘Granny, why don’t you go on home? We’re fine,’ Katie said.

Glancing at a basket of laundry, Rose got out the iron and ironing board. ‘I’ll do this before I go.’

‘Mam doesn’t iron. The wrinkles fall out of most of our stuff once we put it on.’

‘In my day you wouldn’t go outside the door without a crease pressed into your trousers.’ She slid the iron up and down the arm of one of Sean’s school shirts.

‘That was like a million years ago,’ Katie laughed.

‘Less of your cheek, madam. I’m not that old.’ But I am, Rose thought. The return of Bernie Kelly had aged her. She felt like someone had turned her bones to sawdust. How was she going to tell Lottie?

‘Gran, I know you wouldn’t tell me earlier, but did Mam ask you to come over today?’

Rose hung the shirt on a hanger and picked up a creased T-shirt belonging to Lottie. How could she wear clothes unironed? ‘Why do you think that?’

‘It’s just … Well, she was acting really weird this morning.’

‘Isn’t your mother always a bit weird?’

Katie laughed. ‘You’re right there. But she’s been so much calmer and in better form since we moved. It’s great to see her something close to happy again. But she got spooked this morning and I don’t want her to go back to the way she used to be.’

‘Spooked by what?’ Rose held her breath, hoping that Bernie hadn’t already made her move.

‘I’m not sure. We were talking and then some sort of coin fell out of Louis’ jacket pocket and she kind of freaked.’

‘Don’t worry your head about it. I’ll have a chat with her when she gets home.’ Rose wondered just how that chat would turn out.

Tony nursed his pint. Sniffed at a cold that he felt was surely trying to take hold and found his thoughts returning to Conor. Mrs D was putting on an act. He was sure of it. He’d seen her a few weeks before Conor had been released, and no way was she that bad. Was she making him pay a second time for the disgrace he’d brought to their door? Conor had served his time, but Vera Dowling was a proud woman, and now that Tony thought about it, she could be a dangerous one also.

The creamy head of the Guinness was seeping down into the black liquid.

‘Here, Darren, put a head on this for me.’ He handed the pint to the barman.

If Tony hadn’t dirtied his bib, he’d still be married. He’d still have the house and not be living back in his old place. Just as well he hadn’t sold it. He missed his parents. One after the other they’d died, two years ago. A month between them. And only in their sixties.

‘Life’s a bitch.’

‘What’s that, Tony?’

‘Oh, nothing, Darren, just drowning my sorrows.’ He took the pint and swallowed half of it in one go.

‘Sad about those young women.’

‘The murders?’

‘Yes. The first two were in here Saturday night. Happy as anything. And now they’re gone.’

Tony felt his breath lodge in his throat. ‘It is sad.’

‘Wasn’t one of those found this morning the daughter of the builder fellow?’

‘Cyril Gill.’

‘That’s the man. He’s your boss, isn’t he?’

‘You know everything that goes on in this town, Darren.’

‘I know a good bit, to tell you the truth.’

Tony lowered his head. Too many people knew too much.

‘Saw your ex in here a while ago,’ Darren said.

‘I don’t care.’ But Tony felt the alcohol flip in his stomach.

‘With a detective. That Kirby fella. Lost his girlfriend a few months ago.’

‘Darren, I don’t want to know about her or anyone she cares to go out with.’ But he did care. Jesus Christ. A detective. That was all he needed.

He finished his pint and left the pub with more confusion than resolution.

When he had emptied the last basin of filthy water down the sink, Conor dressed his mother in clean clothes. He cringed every time his hand touched her skin. It wasn’t right. Sons were not supposed to have to do this. If he didn’t know it was impossible, he’d say she had developed her disability as a way of punishing him.

He shoved the dirty clothes into the washing machine and thought about that for a moment. She did have rheumatoid arthritis, didn’t she? He’d seen the knobbly bones protruding every which way on her hands and knees. When had it got so bad? Was it just before he returned home, or had she been like that for years? He didn’t want to bother the neighbours by asking them questions to which he, her son, should know the answers. They probably wouldn’t tell him anything anyway. He’d have to speak to Tony.

He switched on the washing machine and dried the dishes. When the tiny kitchen was reasonably tidy, he peeped into the sitting room. She was snoring loudly. The odour was a little milder now. He’d sprayed Febreze on every surface, including the floor and curtains.

Sneaking out the door, he felt like a fifteen-year-old escaping for an illicit cigarette. The thought gave him the urge for nicotine. He had Tony’s pack, but no lighter. Maybe he’d walk up to Tesco. The air was cold but fresh. The sky was dark. He didn’t mind. After years of artificial light in his cell, he welcomed the black sky above his head.

At the end of his road, a car approached with full headlights on. It swerved up onto the footpath. Conor tried to jump out of the way and fell into a neatly trimmed evergreen hedge. Thorns tore through his jeans and scratched his hands as he pulled himself upright.

‘What the …?’ he yelled. ‘What do you think you’re playing?—’

The words drowned in his throat as a fist smashed into his face. He felt one of his teeth crack, and blood poured from his mouth. As he attempted to stand, the second thump caught him on the side of the head, and he fell back into the hedge once again. He tried to see his assailant, but the car lights were blinding him. A kick to his stomach and a jab to his balls and he curled up with a scream. The black sky appeared to be full of twinkling stars where only a moment ago it had been boot-polish black. Then they began to disappear one by one. His eyelids drooped. He tried to focus, to see who had attacked him.

The last stars blinked out and the blackness melded into one long sheet of coal.

His eyes closed and his pain disappeared into unconsciousness.