When the woman walks in, I feel my breath stick in my throat and the words I wanted to yell smother down into my chest. Somewhere in the dark recesses of my brain I remember her. My mother? No, she is not my mother. She’s the one who brought us here that day. Signed the papers and walked away. Along with a man in uniform.
It’s all coming back in such a rush, my head hurts. He’s not here today but he was with her that day. Wasn’t he upset? I close my eyes and drag the memory to my conscious state. I was so young. He was yelling something about how the foster mother should have taken both. Now I remember. The presence of the woman before me has sparked those memories of when she was here with that man, and I feel another sensation taking root in my soul. The same one that caused me to count to six hundred and sixty-six as I stuffed the miserable little seeds down Johnny-Joe’s throat.
‘You’re sixteen.’ Her voice is high and cold. ‘You probably thought I’d forgotten about you. Well, I’ve come to let you know that you’re staying here until you’re twenty-one. I think that is the right age to let you out into the world again. If I don’t die in the meantime.’
She laughs in a shrill, high-pitched way that drills a hole into my head. And I want to drill a hole in hers.
‘Behave yourself in here and I’ll be back to sign you out. A few more years. That’s all.’
She hasn’t sat down. Standing. Holding a black leather handbag tight under her arm. The sun outside comes from behind a cloud and shines in through the stained glass at the top of the window, painting her in a myriad of colours.
She opens her bag, takes out a book. Holds it out to me. Should I take it or let her hold it until her arm weakens and she has to put it back in her bag?
I step towards her. She steps backwards.
I smile. I know I have a smile that can strike fear into others. Her mouth droops and I think she’s going to scream. She doesn’t. Her eyes seem blinded by the light coming from the window. I could jump on her and bite out her tongue and spit it against the sickly yellow walls. And no one would hear until it was too late.
I want to do that. I really do.
But I also want to get out of here.
And if that means waiting another five years for her to come back, then I will keep on smiling at her until she leaves.
I take the book from her hand, my fingers lightly brushing against her skin.
She shivers, as if I’ve stuck an icicle through her heart.
She turns to open the door, her mission complete.
‘Where is my twin?’ The only words I have spoken aloud to anyone in years. The sound of my voice frightens even me.
‘You don’t need to know.’
She opens the door and escapes to her world, condemning me to another five years in mine.
I am patient.
I can wait.
Day Six
Eighty
‘No let-up in the weather, then,’ Boyd said as Lottie bumped into him on the station steps.
She keyed in the code on the interior door and together they made their way up the stairs to the office.
‘The sandbags holding back the river are at breaking point,’ she said, hanging up her jacket. No sign of McMahon in her office.
‘I thought it burst its banks already?’
‘That was in the centre of town; up near my house, the water is above the banks and the council put down sandbags. No idea how long they’ll last.’
‘The weather!’ McMahon strode into the office shaking his coat, splashing drips over desks and paperwork. ‘I’m sick of listening to people moaning.’
‘Don’t listen then. Why don’t you—’
‘Lottie!’ Boyd said, his hazel eyes firing a warning at her across the office.
‘I was just going to say why don’t you get a warm mug of coffee.’ She attempted an eye roll, but when Boyd laughed, she was sure her efforts had resulted in something completely different.
‘Good idea,’ McMahon said. ‘Two sugars. I like it sweet.’
‘I wasn’t suggesting—’
‘I’ll get it,’ Boyd interjected.
Lottie followed him to the makeshift canteen.
‘I can’t believe we still have no sightings of either O’Dowd or Arthur Russell,’ Boyd said.
‘And I can’t believe Corrigan hasn’t called me in after McMahon complained yesterday,’ Lottie said.
‘I think our super is in your corner.’
‘I am. For now.’ Corrigan stuck his head into the confined space. ‘But if you don’t solve this and get rid of that shithead back to Dublin soon, I think I’ll throw in the feckin’ towel myself.’
Lottie looked at Boyd and they burst out laughing. She felt tension easing out of her shoulders as Corrigan stomped off down the corridor muttering to himself about getting a press release ready.
With mugs of coffee in hand, they went back to the office. Lottie had taken one sip when Kirby rushed in.
‘We’ve an emergency call out at Gaddstown,’ he panted. ‘I’ve sent a squad to follow the ambulance. A neighbour reported blood oozing out beneath the back door of a house.’
‘Whereabouts in Gaddstown?’ Lottie asked, half rising from her chair.
‘Number 2 Treetops. Why?’
The saliva in her throat dried up and she thought her legs would give way. She gripped the edge of her desk with one hand while scrabbling around the mound of paperwork with the other. Files tumbled to the floor.
‘What the hell!’ Boyd jumped up and began gathering the fallen reports. ‘What are you looking for?’
Lottie held up a page torn from a small notebook.
‘Number 2 Treetops,’ she whispered.
‘So?’ Boyd placed the files on her desk. ‘What about it?’
‘It’s where Cathal Moroney lives.’
Eighty-One
First responders had strewn crime-scene tape across the gateway pillars at the front of the house. An ambulance was parked up behind a Ford Focus. In front of that, a people carrier.
Lottie glanced into the seven-seater. Two child seats were strapped in the back.
‘Is Moroney married?’ she asked Boyd, realising how little she knew about the reporter.
‘I’m sure we’re about to find out.’
The uniformed officer standing outside the front door held up his hand. ‘We’re waiting for SOCOs, Inspector.’
‘I have to see for myself,’ Lottie said. Boyd went back to the car for protective clothing. ‘What’s it like in there?’
‘Bad. Very bad.’
‘Who broke down the door?’
‘My colleague.’ He pointed to a man leaning against a tree, his face greener than any leaf that might have once adorned the branches. ‘He was in and out before I got further than the kitchen. We called for reinforcements and forensics, secured the site and waited.’
Lottie hurriedly pulled on overalls, overshoes, gloves and mouth mask. The garda stood to one side and she entered through the damaged front door.
The familiar metallic scent of blood wafted towards her. To her right, a staircase leading to the first floor; to her left, an open door. She peered inside. A family room. Fireplace with ashes, a floral suite, cushions scattered higgledy-piggledy. In the corner, a plastic box overflowing with toys.
‘I’ve a bad feeling about this, Lottie,’ Boyd said.
She was shaking. ‘Me too.’
They backed out of the room and made their way down the hall to the kitchen. Modern, open-plan, with an island in the centre. It was laid for breakfast. Orange juice carton. Smooth, no bits. Cereal boxes. Coco Pops, muesli. Two ceramic mugs. Two plastic beakers. One blue. One pink. Two plastic bowls. One blue. One pink.
Lying against the cupboard beneath the sink was a woman with long black hair matted to her scalp. Blood had ceased pouring. It streaked the side of her face and neck and saturated her white cotton nightie. Her eyes were closed. She looked like a doll that had been dropped by a careless child. Her legs were spread out; hands by her sides, palms upwards. Her blood had flowed towards the back door. This must be what the neighbour had witnessed seeping out onto the step.
‘Where are the kids, Boyd? Where’s Moroney?’ Lottie asked, knowing that the answer to one or both of those questions lay beyond the breakfast bar.
She took a step on to the satin-finish cream floor tiles.
‘McGlynn will have your guts for garters,’ Boyd said.
She continued around the side of the island, holding her breath, almost closing her eyes.