Every time Jessie closed her eyes, she relived the night’s events. She felt physically ill, sickness roiling inside her belly, and breathless, unable to calm her fears.
Her bedroom was huge – bigger than most people’s front rooms. It was very beautiful and she had always loved it. The walls were covered with a pale pink silk which had cost a fortune but from the moment her mum had shown it to her she had wanted it. Her double bed had been brought over from France – hand-carved, it would not look out of place in a palace. The curtains on her windows were a deeper pink than the walls, the floor was white oak, and every piece of furniture, from her bedside cabinets to the dressing table, was hand-picked and very expensive. Until today, she had never thought about the cost – suddenly it seemed to be important to her. She looked around her, saw the bookcase with her favourite books, the pictures of her life exquisitely framed, showing her smiling so happily – and completely unaware of the real world that she was living in. Unaware that, one day, that safe, happy world would explode in her face.
She closed her eyes, wanting desperately to blot it out. Her lovely bedroom that was the envy of her friends, which she once had loved so very much, where she had felt safe and secure, was where she now felt trapped.
The door opened and her mother came into the room quietly. She had a tray in her hands with a glass of milk and a plate of cookies. Jessie waited for her mother to come to her and, as she sat on the bed, Jessie saw the sorrow in her eyes, and felt the deep sadness that enveloped her mother.
‘Try and eat something, Jessie. For me.’
Jessie sat up abruptly, knowing that her mother would have to move away from her.
Josephine stood up awkwardly and, when her daughter had finally settled, she placed the tray across her lap. ‘Drink the milk at least, Jessie.’
Jessie picked up the glass, and obediently took a few mouthfuls of the milk.
‘There’s a good girl. You’ll feel better now.’
Josephine was so worried about her daughter. It had only been a day, but she hated that her child had been traumatised by the events of the night before.
Jessie pushed the glass roughly into her mother’s hand. ‘I’ll feel better now, will I?’
Josephine placed the glass on the floor carefully. Then, sitting down on the bed, she looked at her lovely daughter for long moments before saying angrily, ‘No, Jessie. You won’t really feel better, darling. I know that, and you know that. Last night was a fucking nightmare, darling, and I would give anything to change it. But I can’t. We can’t phone the police like normal people. We can’t talk about it to anyone ever. We have to make sure that no one knows what happened. It’s not ideal, but it’s how things are for people like us. I’m telling you, from personal experience, Jessie, you just have to find a way to deal with it.’
Jessie knew that her mum didn’t realise she had seen as much as she had. Her mother really did believe that she had locked herself in her bedroom, and that was something Jessie needed her to believe. Her mother could never know what she had actually witnessed, and neither could her father. She actually didn’t want them to know. The less they thought she knew about it, the better for all concerned.
Chapter Eighty-Four
Michael Flynn was bone weary. He looked tired and gaunt, he needed a shave and a shower – his usual good looks had deserted him.
Declan Costello stood quietly before him, a broken and shamed man. He was also in need of a bath and a shave; his clothes, like Michael’s, were soiled and wrinkled.
Declan opened his arms wide in a gesture of supplication, as he said sorrowfully, ‘What the fuck can I say, Michael? I naused it up from the start. I don’t know what I was thinking. The Barkers were trying to do me a favour. If I’d had any fucking sense, I should have told them to deal with it. Instead, I honestly thought you would want to sort it yourself.’
Michael was so angry at Declan’s explanation that he was frightened to say anything to him until he had harnessed his anger.
Declan could see that Michael was fighting to control himself. ‘I’ll get us both a drink, Michael.’ Once behind the bar, he poured them both large whiskies.