Three squad cars from Glenmoore Garda Station have arrived and are parked under the trees. Lar brakes behind them and grabs Amanda’s hand as they run towards the orchard. They are drenched within seconds. Rotting fruit squelches under her feet. Her stomach heaves at the sound. A guard in a hi-vis jacket approaches and holds out her hands to prevent them moving nearer.
Amanda remembers her face but not her name. She was part of the team who stood on that same patch of ground on the day Constance’s body was discovered. The scene behind her is terrifyingly similar. The digger and the mound of earth. Young guards in boiler suits plying the lid off the water tank.
‘You can’t be here.’ The woman speaks with implacable authority. ‘You must let us do our work.’
‘No!’ Amanda could move a mountain with her fist – with the force of her anxiety. She remembers the policewoman’s name: Detective Garda Newton, Hunter’s partner. When Amanda tries to shove her aside, the detective holds her in a surprisingly powerful grip and turns her away from the yawning chasm.
The police look down, their solid backs blocking Amanda’s view. An early darkness has followed the rain and the natural light is fading from the orchard. Somewhere among the dripping branches a crow caws, an ugly, discordant refrain. She hears the grunt of a guard descending into the tank. A voice calls for the searchlight to be brought closer. Lar’s face is wet with rain, or it could be tears that drip from his chin. They hold on to each other as the detective, with a stern warning not to move any closer, joins the team of diggers.
‘Be brave,’ Lar whispers. He shakes as if a palsy has settled on him.
Amanda can see the lid lying on its side, the crowbar alongside it. A ladder has been inserted into the tank. The mound of earth has turned to sludge and is already oozing back into the opening. Lightning streaks across the sky. Sullen clouds roll out their thunder. It seems as if the elements are echoing her howl of loss as the guard lifts her son’s small body from the tank and lays him gently on the ground.
Her father beat her once. Amanda couldn’t remember it happening. Rebecca said she watched from behind the sofa as Amanda lay unconscious on the floor. Amanda’s only recollection was stars spinning and then turning into a black, bottomless hole… and it is that same sensation again, only this time Lar is holding her upright until the blackness clears from her eyes.
Marcus has been buried in a hoodie – no, not a hoodie, a sleek, illuminated wetsuit. A mask covers his face. This is beyond horror. Beyond wailing, beyond gnashing of teeth. The man who lifted him free from the water tank utters a curse, four letters shattering the dumbed hush. He roughly turns her son over on to his stomach. He is treating Marcus like a piece of jetsam that he has fetched from the deep. How dare he show such irreverence for his small, broken body?
Amanda covers her eyes when she hears the glide of a zip being pulled downwards. She wants to be blinded forever so that she doesn’t have to witness what follows. Voices mutter, exclaim, shout. Lar utters a startled expletive, then orders her to listen to him and stop wailing. This is not their son. Nor is this flaccid object human at all – or animal.
She is allowed to draw nearer. When she dares to look, the back of the wetsuit is open, only it’s not a wetsuit, as she’d thought. It is supple and rippling, a woven, tufted fabric with a velvety pile, like the coat of a sleek, upright creature – like a plink. Inside, it is stuffed with what looks like coarse horsehair that could have come from inside an old mattress and there are newspapers shoved underneath. Detective Newton deftly transfers a copy of Capital Eye into a plastic bag but not before Amanda sees the headline, her bold byline and the profile picture that the editor had always used for her features. The detective continues removing newspapers. Seven days of headlines that destroyed Karl Lawson. More recent Capital Eye editions follow, as well as the Daily Orb and the other newspapers that have charted the days of Marcus’s disappearance. Features that have destroyed Amanda’s marriage and lost her her son – for Marcus is surely dead by now. Murdered by Karl Lawson, who has finally exacted his revenge.
A second guard climbs back up the ladder. He carries a transparent plastic bag filled with what looks like a collection of small dead animals, squirrels or rabbits, perhaps. Detective Garda Newton holds out the bag for Amanda’s inspection. In the beam of the searchlight, she realises these are not dead animals. They are Marcus’s favourite toys. At home, in his silent bedroom, similar toys line the bottom of his bed, awaiting his return. Even his favourite toys… Karl Lawson knows everything about her son.
‘Plinks.’ The name is dry on her lips.
‘What did you say?’ the detective asks.
‘Marcus loves the plinks.’
The guard who’d fetched the plinks from the deep, who is probably a father, nods, as if he understands how children would find these fantasy creatures so captivating. He removes a second transparent bag from the tank. This one contains a copy of Business Font. Lar’s face is on the cover, his gaze arresting, triumphant. A man at the zenith of a successful business deal. Amanda is standing beside him, equally assured. Inside, on the centre page, will be the double-spread feature outlining the deal they’d signed with Ben Carroll. The glowing references to their business acumen mask the fact that this had been a shady transaction. They had pulled the wool over Ben’s inexperienced eyes and deprived him of the potential to make a fortune from his fantasy creation. Amanda had felt uneasy when she read that feature. Such deals were done all the time. She had convinced herself that entrepreneurs took risks and needed recompense for their investments. Ben had been a pavement artist, who would have remained on the fringes of street life if she hadn’t lifted him up off his knees.
The lid is being replaced on the water tank. The digger growls as the claws sink once again into the mound of mud. Soon, all will be as it was when the police arrived. Her feet sink into the sodden terrain. The grotesque creation that she’d believed to be her son’s body has been deflated. A guard is preparing to bag it. A forensic photographer is at work; but this is not a crime scene. It is a tease, a torment. A new puzzle that they must piece together.
The magazine is being bagged and, now that she’s seen it in these surreal surroundings, Amanda’s agitation increases. Something is eluding her, something she needs to understand… and when she realises the truth – when she finally allows it space to grow – it strikes her with the force of a thunderbolt.
Scarface, that’s what the homeless boy on the boardwalk called him. Scarface, like in the film. But… Karl Lawson’s face is not scarred. When she saw him at Elizabeth’s funeral, he still had those long, bony cheeks and arrogant mouth.