‘Whoa, there,’ says Super and grabs him. ‘Be careful. I don’t want to fish out a wet plink.’
They eat spare ribs with their fingers in the Chow-Chow Room and Super says the adventure in Plinkertown Hall will soon be over. Mammy and Daddy will be home from a Big Apple. Feeling sad and happy together makes a funny feeling in Marcus’s tummy. He really wants to see them again but he won’t be able to do adventures any more in Plinkertown Hall, or play football and hide-and-seek with Super in the apple garden.
Super takes the dove from the freezer and lies him down in a little box. The dove is cold as ice and hard like the ornaments on Mammy’s mantelpiece. He takes a big spade from the garden shed and gives Marcus a little spade so he can help dig the grave. They march across the apple garden with their spades over their shoulders and Super sings the song about Ace, the pilot plink, who makes holes in clouds for dead doves to fly straight up to heaven.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Day Seven
The morning air is heavy with a charred, dangerous mist that blurs the ferries on the horizon, and the shriek of seagulls has a muffled harshness. Amanda reads through the morning online editions. Nothing. No scoops, exposés, front-page headlines with question marks. Her son has become yesterday’s news.
Eventually, the mist clears. The hours pass without any further information from the police. She accompanies Lar to Rockfield Town Hall. The volunteers accept her thanks and murmur quiet words of sympathy.
The reporters outside Shearwater have followed them to the town hall. Questions are shouted at her. Eric’s name, Hunter’s name; too many fists coming at her. Was that how it was for Karl Lawson as he felt his reality sliding from him? Coming here was a mistake. She nods to Lar, who follows her to his car. The journalists stay with them. She recognises Shane. He looks more ruffled than ever; heavier too. She has always thought of him as being on her side. But he was only ever on the side of the picture.
A text comes through to her phone as Lar drives away. Another journalist, another question – she will ignore it. A second text arrives, and then another, the repetitive bleeps demanding she pay attention. No name on the screen, just an unknown number. The same message in each text, and it touches the nadir of her fear.
For in six days the LORD made the heavens and the earth, the sea, and all that is in them, but he rested on the seventh day.
Seven days… seven days – finally she has the information she needs. Karl Lawson is resting today, his work done. She screams. Lar’s arm jerks at the wheel. The car swerves, then steadies, as he indicates and brakes at the side of the road.
‘What is it?’ he shouts. ‘Show me.’
His mouth stretches in a rictus as he reads the text. He orders her to stop screaming. ‘I can’t think… can’t think,’ he repeats.
‘Karl Lawson sent those texts.’ She needs to be understood, believed.
‘A biblical quote.’ Lar is dismissing her already.
‘It’s a warning. He’s killed Marcus. That’s why he’s resting.’
‘That’s a crazy assumption to make.’ His fury heaves towards her.
‘Don’t you understand?’ She will scream again if he doesn’t listen. ‘Constance Lawson was found on the seventh day. He’s punishing me— oh Jesus, I know where he’s buried Marcus. We have to go to Cronin’s orchard… search the water—’
‘‘You’re hysterical.’ He shakes her into silence, then pushes her away, distancing himself from information he can’t bear to hear. ‘You know nothing. In all probability this is just a stupid hoax…’
He is unable to continue. Perspiration beads his forehead as he calls Sergeant Moran on his Bluetooth. Their conversation is short and terse.
‘We have to bring your phone straight to the police station and let them handle it,’ he says when the call ends. ‘They want to trace the number.’
‘There’s nothing to trace. He’ll have destroyed his phone by now.’ Amanda imagines him bringing the heel of his boot down on the screen, crushing its memory, destroying evidence they so desperately need.
‘Even if he’s destroyed it, they have ways of tracing his call.’ Lar indicates and pulls out into the traffic. ‘We can’t handle this on our own.’
Cronin’s orchard… she must go there and tear at the earth with her bare hands. Then her boy, her darling boy, won’t be alone any longer. She opens the passenger door. The road blurs as she prepares to jump from the car. Lar yells and pulls her back with his free hand.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ he roars as the car skids to a halt.
‘Karl Lawson’s phone is probably at the bottom of a river. Why won’t you listen? Marcus is buried in that same water tank where Constance Lawson’s body was found.’
He slaps her face. She doesn’t care if he strikes her again and again. If he knocks her senseless into the middle of next week. Her father’s favourite remark when Imelda upset him. Amanda wants her now, her mother’s arms around her as they lift her child back into the light. Lar rubs his hands together, then strokes her reddening cheek.
‘We’ll go there now,’ he says. His eyes remind her of pebbles, washed by tides until they are lustreless.
Rain begins to fall as he drives along the M50. His car, as sturdy as an armoured tank, rocks in a sudden gust of wind. It will take at least forty minutes to reach Glenmoore. Amanda should be alarmed by the cars in front; water is aquaplaning from their wheels as the rain increases, yet Lar does not slow down.
Sergeant Moran contacts them again.
‘Amanda believes Marcus is—’ Lar’s voice cracks and he coughs, unable to continue.
‘Karl Lawson has buried him in the water tank where Constance Lawson was found,’ Amanda cries.
‘That’s a huge assumption to make, Mrs Richardson.’ The sergeant’s usually abrupt tone has softened and become speculative.
‘What else can it mean?’ Amanda slumps back in the passenger seat. Which is more horrifying? Being believed or not believed?
‘Go home.’ The sergeant barks the order at them. ‘We need your phone, Mrs Richardson. Let the gardaí do their work. We’ll notify the Glenmoore station of your suspicions and they—’
Lar cuts her off in mid-sentence and disables his phone without decreasing his speed.
The traffic is light as they veer off the M50 at the Glenmoore junction. Withered leaves, bedraggled and torn from the trees, rush past the window. By tomorrow the branches will be bare, the desolation of winter upon them.
As if anticipating their arrival, the gates of the old house are open. The front door has been replaced, the windows repaired. The blinds are closed.