‘You’re stretching that description a little,’ Rose said. She was sitting on a chair by the stove. ‘Do you know what time it is?’
‘I do, and I’ve been busy.’
‘You’re always busy.’ Rose sniffed. ‘Hope it’s not that spicy stuff again.’
‘Mince and pasta, sorry. I’ve been helping Katie to pack.’
‘Why didn’t you ask me to help?’
‘You haven’t been well.’ Lottie put the plate on the table and removed the tea towel. The food looked pretty miserable. She knew criticism would follow. She began making tea.
‘I’m not dead. Yet.’ Rose shuffled over to the table. ‘I could have given my granddaughter a hand if any of you had bothered to ask. And when is she getting that child baptised? He’s still in a state of sin until that is done, and it’s dangerous to be flying off with sin on your soul.’
The last three and a half months had turned Rose from a raging matriarch into a bitter tyrant. At times, it felt like four years since she had confessed to a lifetime of lies.
Lottie made a cup of tea, battling to keep her temper under control and her tongue silent. No matter what she said, it wouldn’t be the right thing.
‘Put in three sugars. I think my levels are low.’
‘Too much sugar will keep you awake at night.’
‘That’s my problem, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, it is.’ She put the mug on the table.
‘You should have used a teapot. It stews better that way. In my day, we didn’t have tea bags.’
‘Are you going to eat that or offer it up?’ Lottie stood with her back to the stove.
‘Hard to do it with an audience, even if it was edible.’ Rose put down her knife and fork and sipped the tea. ‘You only put in one sugar.’
‘That’s enough for you.’
Rose turned in her chair, facing Lottie. ‘Don’t tell me what’s enough for me in my own house. I live here, not you.’ She pushed the plate into the centre of the table and folded her arms.
Lottie placed her hands on the table and leaned down towards her mother. She could have sworn she heard something physically snap in her brain.
‘And I’m glad I don’t live here, because you know what? My life was a misery when I did, and I hope I never have to live here ever again.’
She picked up her jacket and ran from the house. Definitely the wrong thing to say. But now that it was said, she couldn’t take it back.
Forty-Four
Finn O’Donnell could smell the whiskey on her breath from where she sat eyeing him over the rim of the glass. He was too close, but the room was so small he had nowhere else to go.
‘Good day at work, was it?’ she said.
‘It was fine.’ He shook out the newspaper and raised it to his face to keep her out of his line of vision. She was nattering on about someone or other. Doing his head in. He folded the paper and stood up.
‘I’m going out.’
‘Where?’
‘I think I’ll pop over to Dad’s. See how he’s doing.’
‘You haven’t visited him in ages. Not since the day of your mother’s funeral, in fact.’
‘All the more reason to go now, isn’t it?’
‘Do you know what time it is? I don’t see why you can’t—’
Did he heck know what time it was. Every fifteen minutes she reminded him. He didn’t wait for the end of her stupid lecture. He was out the door, down the steps and walking.
* * *
Cillian looked up as his wife announced that dinner was ready.
‘Saoirse, put your toys away,’ he said, and closed the cover on his iPad.
‘In a minute, Daddy.’ The little girl dug into the page with her red crayon.
‘I told you to put that stuff away,’ he snapped. He didn’t enjoy it when he was like this with his daughter. But he couldn’t help himself this evening.
‘Hey, that’s enough. She’s okay for a minute or two.’ Keelan stood in the doorway. ‘Why don’t you help me set the table?’
‘Oh, that’s priceless, so it is.’ He flung the iPad to the coffee table. It teetered on the edge, slipped to the ground with a crash. ‘Now see what you made me do!’
He jumped up and snatched the tablet from the floor, ran his finger over the crack on the screen and slammed it back down. He reached the kitchen in two strides.
Keelan backed up against the counter. ‘That … that was your own fault. Don’t go blaming me.’
‘Oh, so everything is my fault now.’ He took a plate from the stack on the counter and threw it on the ground. ‘I can tell you, that was my fault. And this.’ He threw down another one. Waited for effect and flung another.
‘Cillian. Stop. You’re scaring Saoirse.’
The red mist that had descended lifted as he noticed his daughter poking her head around the doorway.
‘Why did you do that, Daddy?’
She sounded just like Keelan. Accusing. Without a thought for what he was doing, he swept the remaining crockery off the counter, then marched through the splinters and grabbed his jacket. He’d leave before he created any real damage. Mortal damage. No, he wouldn’t be the cause of that ever again.
* * *
Paddy couldn’t console her. No matter what he did, she shivered and cried.
‘Bridie, you need to get stitches. The wound is still bleeding.’ He sat beside her on their white couch. ‘Here, let me hold Tommy. You go on to bed. I’ll feed him and put him down.’
She clutched the boy tighter to her chest, her tears dampening his hair. ‘No. You can fuck off. You snuck out in the night and left us here all alone. Some arsehole comes in and beats the shite out of me, and what do you do? Nothing. That’s all you’re good for, Paddy McWard. Nothing. So fuck off.’
He stood up. What was a man to do? He couldn’t bear to see her crying.
‘Keep the door locked. I have my key,’ he said, and left Bridie alone again in their tiny, immaculate house.
Forty-Five
Cafferty’s Bar was lively for a Thursday night. Beer taps with frosted lights teased the punters. Multiple television sets were showing the dying minutes of a football match.
Kirby ordered a pint and a glass of wine. Gilly sat in the nook furthest from the football activity.
‘Bit loud, isn’t it?’ she said.
‘Adds to the atmosphere,’ he said.
‘Depends on what atmosphere you’re expecting.’
The barman arrived with the drinks and Kirby handed over a tenner. ‘Keep the change.’
‘Play was good. Thanks for bringing me,’ Gilly said. ‘I thought you might be working tonight.’
‘New super called it all off. Tend to agree with him, too. We were getting nowhere. I prefer working on the murder investigation.’
‘Boyd was asking me about that this evening. You know I go running at weekends out at Rochfort Gardens? Elizabeth Byrne did too. He asked if I knew her or saw anyone acting suspiciously.’
‘And did you?’
‘No. The only ones acting suspiciously are the old farts sucking in their bellies trying to look thirty years younger.’ She blushed, hoping Kirby didn’t think she meant him. ‘That’s where I first met Mollie.’
Kirby stalled his pint halfway to his mouth. ‘The same Mollie you think has disappeared off the face of the earth?’
‘One and the same.’
‘That’s interesting.’
‘At last.’
‘I’m only saying it’s interesting. I’m not making a drama out of it.’
‘But she always lets me know if she has to cancel a run or anything. It’s a bit out of character, that’s all.’
‘Give her another ring.’
‘I’ve tried countless times. Her phone’s dead now.’
‘Did you check if her passport is in her apartment?’
‘No, but I think it’s unlikely she went off on a holiday. Then again, her father lives in London.’
‘There you are. Mystery solved.’
‘I’ll chase it up tomorrow.’
‘Great. Now, let’s chill and talk about the play.’
‘Maybe we should tell Boyd.’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘What about now?’
‘You’re not going to relax, are you?’
‘Nope.’
Kirby lifted his pint. ‘Drink up so.’
* * *
Boyd returned to his apartment, tired from the hurling training and still wondering why Father Joe was ringing Lottie. He was heading for the shower when he remembered Grace. She was sitting on the couch watching television.