The dilapidation of his surroundings bore down on him. He walked through the rooms, noting the mould on the walls, the rotting floorboards and cracked ceiling. He emptied out his tent and washed out his sleeping bag, spread it over a bush to dry.
She came as darkness was falling. This time she knocked on the door, a visitor calling and waiting to be admitted. The door snagged as he pulled it open and he saw her properly for the first time. Pale skin, a splash of freckles on her cheeks, blonde hair drawn back from her forehead.
‘I’m glad to see you on your feet again,’ Sylvia Thornton said as she lowered another supermarket bag to the floor and sat down on one of the camping chairs, seemingly unconcerned by the squalor surrounding her. ‘You’ve been on quite a journey.’
‘I appreciate your help but I’m ashamed you had to witness…’ He paused, his face taut with embarrassment. He must have held her hand, gripped it tight in case he drowned. Had he raved at her, spilled out his self-loathing, his fury? Had she been repelled by him? The ugliness of what he remembered shamed him but, even worse and more painful, was what he couldn’t remember. ‘How did you know I was here?’
‘I followed you from the supermarket,’ she said. ‘I knew something was wrong but I was afraid to intrude. Next day in work I kept thinking about you. I became convinced you were going to harm yourself, or worse. You were in the middle of a delirium when I came here. I tried to help as best I could.’
‘I’m so ashamed you had to see—’
‘Whatever you feel, it should not be shame.’ She stood abruptly and walked to the boarded-up window. ‘Tomorrow morning, you must let some light in here.’
‘I intend to.’
‘You called me Constance,’ she said. ‘You asked her to keep dancing, and for her forgiveness. Why her forgiveness, Karl? Is that what all this is about?’ She gestured at the decaying room.
‘She’s dead because I didn’t allow her parents to take care of her… and that night she disappeared…’ He swallowed, his mouth dry. The need for a drink sickened him. He had known the urge would still be there but had forgotten its ferocity. ‘She would have told me what was bothering her but I was asleep when she came and that changed everything.’
‘Perhaps Constance is asking you to forgive yourself so that she can dance forever without being burdened by your guilt,’ Sylvia said.
The image she conjured was comforting. Constance in a swirl of green, dancing through eternity.
‘So many people were affected by her death.’ She spoke with her back to him. ‘My husband is Detective Garda Hunter.’
‘Ah.’ The name sent a shockwave through him.
‘Jon was doing his job,’ she continued. ‘But, sometimes, terrible mistakes happen.’
He was doing more than his job. Karl bit down on the words. What good would it do to vent his bitterness on her? Did she know the truth about her husband? His unholy alliance with Amanda Bowe? Impossible to tell from her tone. A woman who knew how to keep secrets. Otherwise, she would not be working so closely with Lar Richardson.
‘Is that why you’re here?’ he asked.
She shook her head and faced him again. ‘I’m here because I care what happens to you. Not as some kind of recompense for Jon’s decisions. You need to get out of here and bring some normality back to your life.’
‘How would you define normality?’
‘Not this.’ She picked up an empty whiskey bottle that had rolled under a camping chair. ‘Staying here is not the solution but you know that already. Otherwise, you would not be sober.’
She left soon afterwards, hurrying home to a fickle husband and children who would still be awake, waiting for her to hold them and say goodnight.
The air in the room was stuffy, the silence even more unbearable. He pushed open the back door and walked under the trees until he came to the clearing of rubble. Weeds and patchy grass marked the water tank. He collapsed to his knees beside it. He had no idea if he was praying. The words he uttered did not belong to any childhood prayer he had learned by rote but they had a rhythm that consoled him. And when Constance came to him, a fleeting vision that could have been the drift of moonlight or something more ethereal, he held on to the peace that followed. Maybe, in time, normality would come but, for now, he would stay in the shade of her passing.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Amanda seemed destined to live her life on a tightrope. No wobbles allowed. No safety net. Meeting Hunter with his wife was bound to happen sooner or later. She had braced herself for such an encounter – but when she saw him as she was about to enter The Amber Door for Sunday lunch, she stumbled on the steps of the restaurant and would have fallen except for Lar’s firm grip on her arm.
Hunter’s daughter was perched like a trophy on his shoulders. His two boys ran before him and Sylvia, cool in a white linen dress and a wide-brimmed sun hat, strolled at his side. They looked like an idealised family in an advertising campaign for happy living. Lar, recognising Sylvia, shouted her name and waved. He hugged her so enthusiastically he knocked her sunglasses sideways. She laughed as she adjusted them and called on the boys, who were flushed and dishevelled from playing in St Stephen’s Green, to wait.
Hunter’s neck looked broader than Amanda remembered. Soon, he would have jowls. Too much junk food and sitting in cars waiting for someone to make a wrong move.
‘My husband, Jonathan Hunter,’ Sylvia introduced him, then added that everyone called him Jon.
His dumbstruck expression reminded Amanda of a rabbit caught in headlights. When Lar heard they were on their way to McDonald’s, he insisted on inviting them to lunch in The Amber Door instead. He strode purposefully ahead into the restaurant and spoke to the ma?tre d’, who whisked away a reserved sign from a circular table with space for eight. Marcus’s cheeks flushed with excitement when he was seated next to the little girl. Ella, slight and fey, blonde hair flying each time she swung her head, was determined to bedazzle him.
The adults talked about holidays, weird and horrendous experiences they’d had in other countries. Amanda called him ‘Hunter’ once and slid her tongue over her teeth. No one seemed to notice except him, but his glacial stare warned her to be careful. The boys kicked their heels, bored with the slow service and food that came on plates instead of cardboard cartons labelled Happy Meal.
They spoke briefly when Lar and Sylvia brought the children to the dessert trolley to view the array of cakes and puddings on display.
‘How are you, Amanda?’ Hunter shifted in his seat, pulled himself into a more upright position.
‘As you can see, I’m very well.’
‘Nice kid, Marcus. Well-mannered, unlike my mob.’
‘Yes. He’s wonderful. Children keep a marriage together. I can understand why you never wanted to leave Mrs Dumpy.’
‘Stop it.’ He grabbed her wrist under the table, a vice-like grip, and she winced, wondering how this man had once moved her to passion. She wished he was someone’s else’s shame, someone else’s story.