Sometimes, she believes she has the pieces in place. But the fit is never right. Had she found him on his knees on Grafton Street or had he found her? Had she and Lar manipulated him or had they walked heedlessly into his web?
A month after Marcus had been returned to them, children searching for crabs on Glenmoore Strand find a full-sized plink costume wedged in rocks. Ragged and discoloured, devoid of DNA and other incriminating evidence, it has held tight through the ebb and flow of the tides. Their parents call the police, who remove it for analysis. Amanda knows it will be deemed useless for furthering the investigation. She insists it is a red herring but Lar rages that Ben Carroll took his own life rather than face justice. This possibility maddens him. He wants his day in court, full retribution. Not only did he endure the terror of losing his son but the media have turned the plinks into a toxic brand. Parents have banished them from the playroom. Retailers have removed them from the toy shelves and all plink books have been pulped. Their investment has been lost and they own the merchandising rights to a monster. But Marcus can only fantasise about Super Plink. Mother and father and friend rolled into one.
‘You’re crazed,’ Lar repeats when Amanda insists that finding the plink costume among the rocks is another taunt, another stunt. Perhaps, if this was a less enlightened era, he would lock her away in an attic or confine her to an asylum for crazed wives who talk too much. But these are modern times and Amanda is free to roam the city streets searching for a phantom.
‘Scarface,’ she says to the homeless and the dazed. She shows them the two photographs she carries everywhere with her. ‘Scarface, Scarface, Scarface.’ The youth who used that moniker has vanished. Is he dead or saved? Everything matters now. The air she breathes is clammy, the ground beneath her feet constantly shifting – until the day she sees him leaning against the wall of the Liffey boardwalk.
‘Amanda,’ he says, straightening. ‘I believe you’re looking for me.’ His lush, arrogant mouth softens in a smile. His hair, the colour of wheat, is ruffled by the wind. That same wind chills her. She searches his face for a scar, but apart from some lines around his eyes, his tanned skin is smooth.
‘Coffee?’ he says and when she nods he purchases two cups from a nearby kiosk. The coffee is bitter. Amanda doesn’t add sugar. Nothing will sweeten this conversation.
‘How did you know I was searching for you?’ she asks.
He shrugs. ‘One hears things on the street.’
‘Like the fact that you kidnapped my son?’
‘I’d like to ignore the rumour mill.’ He sips the steaming coffee, his fingers circling the cup. ‘But your supposition interests me. Why on earth would I kidnap your son and damage him for life?’
‘You didn’t damage—’ She stops, knowing he is toying with her. The story she wove around him changed the pattern of his life and he, seeking vengeance, wove a spell around her son, bewitched him with an elaborate and enchanting subterfuge. He must be aware, as she is, that Marcus was enthralled rather than damaged by his experience.
‘I know you’re Ben Carroll. Don’t try to deny it.’ She meets his challenging eyes. No tinted lens to hide them now but his gaze is just as opaque.
‘The rogue author? What an extraordinary suggestion.’ His voice lilts with amusement. ‘I presume you’ve discussed your theory with the police?’
‘Marcus has told us enough to unmask you. It’s just a matter of time before you’re arrested. This time you’ll never be released.’
‘Amanda, it’s well established that you and the truth have a rocky relationship.’ He watches a boat glide by on the river. ‘Why on earth should anyone, particularly the police, believe what you tell them?’
‘Deny it, then. Look me in the face and tell me I’m lying.’
He returns his attention to her and says, ‘Why don’t you come with me to Glenmoore Garda Station and make your accusation there? I presented myself for questioning when I realised you were involving me in your son’s disappearance. I’m happy to return there for another interrogation. But they will turn me away, as they did last week, and the week before.’
‘You’re responsible—’
‘You make a lot of accusations about me. I suffered them once, but not for a second time. So, let me offer you some free advice. Beginning again when you have lost everything is painful. Mistakes are easy to make. I allowed my mistakes to drag me down into a very dark place. Don’t go there, Amanda. You have the grit to take—’
Furiously, she interrupts him. ‘You stole my son and you have the nerve to patronise me with advice.’
‘Amanda, Amanda, surely you’ve read the papers?’ He makes it sound like a question, not a taunt. ‘Ben Carroll took your son on an adventure. You should allow Marcus to live with his memories of Plinkertown Hall until time takes them from him.’ Before she can move, he presses his finger to her bottom lip, touching her as she once, impulsively, touched his scar. ‘Deprive him of those memories and he will never stop yearning to return to his fantasy world. If that is the case, who can tell what will happen? Maybe, one day, he’ll find it again.’
She jerks away from him but she has felt the pressure of his warning. An overpowering sense of the truth slipping through her fingers adds to her helplessness. The wall between them is invisible, yet she senses its width, its height, the solidness of its bricks. Banging her head against it will do no good when violence is only a tremble away.
I know it’s you… I’ll prove it’s you… She doesn’t say the words out loud but, in the silence that falls between them, he hears her threat.
‘Goodbye, Amanda,’ he says in the voice that once dismissed her from his office and now dismisses her as someone of little consequence. ‘It’s unlikely we’ll meet again. I’m flying to the States tomorrow. I don’t think I’ll be returning for some time. Just remember that appearances can be deceptive, as can the written word. And scars can hide a multitude of losses. Good luck with your search for Ben Carroll. No one is untraceable. If he’s out there, and not at the bottom of the sea, he will be found and brought to justice.’
He drains his coffee and crushes the cardboard cup in his hand. His shadow stretches before him, threatening and invincible. His shoulders are strong as he walks away from her. He is wrong, deliberately so. He knows, as Amanda knows, that the search for Ben Carroll will end in failure. He never existed. Just as Plinkertown Hall no longer exists, except in a small boy’s wondrous imagination.
If you enjoyed Guilty, you will also love Laura Elliot’s The Betrayal , available to buy now.
A Letter from Laura