‘I hate it but I love it at the same time.’
‘Bit like the way you feel about me then?’
‘You know what?’
‘You’re repeating yourself now.’
‘It’s impossible to have a normal conversation with you.’ When their sandwiches arrived, she pushed hers around on the plate until the filling squeezed out of it.
‘Right, this is my serious face,’ Boyd said. ‘I know what you’re saying, kind of. I haven’t lived here long, so it’s not the same for me. But I get it. Ragmullin gets under your skin. Some days you love it, and other days it’s just a bitch.’
‘Eloquent. As usual.’ Picking at the tuna that had spilled out onto the plate, she shoved some of it into her mouth and licked her fingers.
‘I’ll get you a fork, shall I, or maybe you prefer eating like a baby?’
‘Speaking of babies, I must have that conversation with Katie this evening.’
‘And what conversation would that be?’
‘About visiting Tom Rickard in New York.’ Rickard blamed Lottie for the death of his son, but she had never spoken to him about it.
Boyd said, ‘Let the girl go. Rickard is the baby’s grandfather and it’ll be good to have him in Louis’ life as he grows up.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘One, he’s bloody loaded, and two … he’s bloody loaded.’
‘It’s just … Oh, I don’t know.’
‘I think I do.’
‘Enlighten me.’
‘You’re scared of losing Katie and your grandson to Rickard. She didn’t travel in November because you were recuperating from that nasty stab wound. But now there’s nothing holding her back and you’re frightened he will introduce her to a world you can’t afford. You’re also fearful that she might not want to come home.’
‘She has to come home. She only has a holiday visa.’
‘Money talks in strange places, and as I said, Tom Rickard is—’
‘Bloody loaded. I know. Why do I carry such fear around with me? And before you say it,’ she held up her finger in warning, ‘don’t mention Adam. You’ve given me that lesson once too often.’
Boyd chewed on a piece of chicken before putting down his sandwich. She didn’t like it when he thought things through too seriously. He usually came out with a long-winded notion that ultimately proved correct.
‘You’re right, I used to think your fear of loss stemmed from Adam’s death. But now, with the revelations about your family history, I’m thinking this thing inside of you originates from your childhood.’
‘Yes, Sherlock. I lost my father to a suicide that was quite possibly murder, and my brother was murdered in a hellhole of an institution. Then my husband died of cancer and I recently discovered my mother isn’t in fact my biological mother. I may also have a half-sibling whom I know nothing about, and my biological mother was incarcerated … How could I be right in the head?’
‘About your biological mother—’
‘Shut up. You know that conversation is totally out of bounds. Just eat your sandwich like a good boy.’ She really didn’t want to go back there. Too many lies.
‘Oh Lottie, you wouldn’t like me when I’m a good boy.’
‘That’s enough.’ She smiled, despite herself.
Boyd picked up his sandwich and she looked at the mess she’d made of her own. She still felt hungry, but the food now looked so far removed from what she’d ordered, she couldn’t face eating it.
‘I promised Sean I’d bring him to his hurling training tomorrow evening,’ Boyd said with his mouth full. ‘Hopefully we’ll have this murder solved soon.’
‘It’s good to see him back at his hurling.’
‘And once the evenings get a bit brighter, he wants to join the cycling club with me.’
She looked at him then. Really looked at his thin, finely featured face and his brown eyes with their sparkling flecks of hazel. ‘You know more about my own son than I do.’
‘He talks to me.’
‘When? How?’
‘When I take him to his training sessions. Since you were injured. Since Christmas. You know that.’
‘I thought you were just giving him a lift, not interrogating him.’ She felt her chest tighten with jealousy. She knew she could never be a substitute for the boy’s father. But she didn’t want Boyd stepping in either. ‘What does he talk about?’
‘Not much. If he wants to chat, to go training or cycling with me, let him.’
She bit her lip, the silence hanging between them like an invisible sword. Eventually she said, ‘It’s hard. Damn hard.’
‘Nothing in this life is easy.’
‘You can say that again. How’s Grace getting on with you?’ she asked, deflecting the conversation away from her own family.
‘You should ask how am I getting on with her. My sister is a tough cookie. Wearing me down, in her own pleasant, unassuming way.’
‘When did she arrive?’
‘Sunday night. Offloaded by my mother. She’s doing a media course in Dublin for four weeks and staying with me during the week until it’s finished. She has to go home to Mam at weekends, but she thinks she can stay with me forever. Her word, not mine.’
‘How old is she again?’
Boyd hesitated before saying, ‘Twenty-nine, but she acts younger. She has a lot of anxiety issues.’
‘I can’t wait to meet her.’
‘Look, Lottie, Grace is different. You mightn’t like her.’
‘Let me be the judge of that. I know so little about you, yet in a perverse sort of way, I know so much. You’re a real conundrum, Boyd.’
After a few bites of his sandwich, he looked up at her. ‘I’d like to take you out to dinner.’
‘What?’ Lottie spluttered, drops of tea flying out of her mouth.
‘Dinner. You know, what normal people do? Go out at night. Sit in a restaurant and eat delicious food someone else has prepared. Would you like to?’
Gulping down her surprise, Lottie thought about it. It’d be nice for a change. Relieve some of her tension, especially with the murder investigation. No. It was a bad idea.
‘Like a date?’ she asked.
‘Yeah, like a date.’
‘I don’t think so. No, Boyd. Sorry.’
‘Think about it. Maybe tonight? I can pick you up around seven thirty.’
‘No … maybe some other time. Not tonight. It’s too soon.’
He’d been so good to her since all that heartache last October. A friend. And now Father Joe was back. What had made her think of him? She smiled.
‘Ah, that smile. It’s agreed so. Tonight. Seven thirty. Now, are you going to eat that mess you’ve made, before I do?’
She really should set him straight, but she hadn’t the energy, so she watched him finish the food instead. When it was time to leave, she felt like she could have sat there all afternoon in the silence. But they had a murderer to find. She needed to go back to the cemetery.
Seventeen
He bought a takeout coffee and a pastry and stood sipping and eating, looking up at the giant electronic timetable above his head. He knew that plain-clothes gardaí mingled with passengers on the concourse and armed detectives patrolled the main door. In plain sight.
Biting into the crumbling pastry, he turned and scanned the crowd. Watching. Waiting. He was impatient for her to arrive so that he could follow her and sit in the same carriage.
The digital clock clicked over. One minute closer to departure time in four minutes. He walked back to the café and dumped the coffee and paper bag into a flip-top bin inside the door. Licking his lips, he rubbed his hands together. She was late. She would miss the train. He moved towards the gate, careful not to stand under the lens of the camera.
He’d have to wait on the platform. He scanned his ticket and went to Platform 4. The train was waiting. Ready to go. There’d be no seats left. He’d have to stand. He hated standing. Come on, girl, hurry up.