Close My Eyes (17 page)

I sink into a chair at the kitchen table and carefully pore over the story again, looking for more clues about what might have happened. Is Lucy’s death a coincidence? Could it have
something to do with what she told me? I feel sick, my mind running over the sequence of events. Lucy turned up on my doorstep on Wednesday morning. I told Art about her soon after. The newspaper
says she died on Thursday afternoon, the very next day – and just a few hours before I tried to call her that night.

No, surely I’m being ridiculous to think there’s any connection between what Lucy told me, my telling Art, and her death. Disconnected thoughts clutch wildly at my mind. I go
upstairs and I crawl into bed and all my limbs feel heavy and I’m exhausted but my brain is whirring and won’t be still and I lie there and everything I’ve been told is crowding
in on me.

Art paid MDO money just after Beth’s stillbirth. But Beth was alive.

Dr Rodriguez stole Beth.

Art knew.

Somehow these accusations are all mixed up with each other. But I don’t know how – or if – any them are true. It’s like an itch I can’t scratch. It’s driving
me mad. I force myself to focus. Other people were involved – not just Dr Rodriguez and Lucy’s sister, Mary. What about the funeral home that buried my baby? If Beth wasn’t really
dead then who
did
they bury? I get up and fetch the letter from Tapps Funeral Services.

I make the call with trembling fingers. But I’m too late. It’s gone six and all I access is the answerphone. I leave a message for Mr Tapps to call me on my mobile as soon as he
can.

Art arrives home just after eight, from some long, out-of-office meeting. I’m waiting in the kitchen. He looks exhausted and I know the last thing he needs is an interrogation from me. But
I have to talk to him. Not about Lucy O’Donnell dying in a hit-and-run. I’ve agonized over that and I’m not going to mention it. Art will just see how upset I am and say I’m
being neurotic. He’ll say it’s a sad accident bearing no relation to the lies she told me. Instead I’m going to push him on MDO. If Art is somehow involved in all this then that
money, paid so soon after Beth was born and hidden away in a mysterious file, is surely significant. Anyway, it’s the only concrete lead I have to follow.

I pour him a beer, then sit down beside him at the table and take a deep breath. ‘Did you find out about that loan?’ I ask, trying to sound as offhand as possible. ‘The one to
MDO from L B Plus from years back?’

‘No, I told you.’ Art sighs. ‘I don’t remember. It was just some business thing.’

‘Come on, Art.’ I say, still trying to make my voice light. ‘You never forget your business deals.’

‘Well, I’ve forgotten this one.’ He looks directly at me. ‘I asked Dan. He said he’d have to check but it was probably a client payment.’

‘But why would
you
be paying a client?’ I persist.

Art rubs his eyes. ‘No, I mean it was probably client money we were passing through another company . . . this MDO of yours. Dan offered to check it all out for me, but I told him not to
bother. We’re really busy at the moment, Gen. I don’t want him tied up looking into ancient transactions on a whim.’

‘It’s not a whim.’

Art’s head shoots up. ‘So what
is
it, Gen?’ His voice is sharp. ‘What the hell is all this about, because all I can see is you over-reacting and getting
obsessed—’ He stops with the word ‘again’ on his lips, but not quite out of his mouth.

‘I don’t think it’s unreasonable to ask,’ I say, hating the injured tone of my voice. ‘It’s a lot of money.’

Art rolls his eyes. ‘Loads of money goes through our books every day.’

‘But the timing . . . it just looks . . . weird. I mean, so much cash, just after Beth . . .’ I tail off, floored by Art’s stony glare.

‘It’s a coincidence, Gen.’ Art sits back in his chair, pushing his glass of beer across the table.

A dull weight settles in my chest. I know from years of living with him that he has withdrawn. Pushing him further will get me nowhere.

And yet I can’t stop.

‘Please, Art,’ I persist. ‘You’re making me feel like I’m totally overreacting but—’

‘You
are
totally overreacting,’ he says coldly. ‘It’s horrible not being trusted.’

‘I do trust you,’ I insist.

‘Right.’ Art gets up and walks out.

Feeling weary, I sit for a while, listening to Art move around upstairs. He sounds like he’s in the spare room, just down the corridor from our bedroom. The last time I can remember him
spending the night in there was two years ago, after we’d had a massive row over a holiday he couldn’t go on at the last minute because of work. It’s not fair for him to be so
angry now. Just as it wasn’t fair of Hen to be irritated with me before. I know I’m being mistrustful, but why can’t either of them understand just how devastating it is to be
told my baby might be alive?

I switch on the TV and attempt to distract myself with the news. There’s an item about the Irish economy. For a second the commentator’s accent makes me think of Lorcan, then
I’m back to wondering about Art and that MDO payment. It’s the uncertainty that’s killing me. Is Art really hurt because he thinks I don’t trust him? Or is he hiding
something?

After twenty minutes or so, I follow him upstairs. As I thought, he’s in the spare room. I creep past the door. He’s on his side on the bed, fast asleep. Frustration fills me. And
irritation that he can sleep so easily when I am in such turmoil. I’m going round in circles wondering what to do. Getting nowhere. It’s time for action.

Without thinking about it any further I go up the stairs to Art’s office. If Art is hiding anything, it’s going to be inside the cupboard where he said he kept the paperwork on Beth.
The floorboards creak louder than usual in the evening silence. I march over to the cupboard. Just as before it’s locked, so I grab a pair of scissors from the nearest desk and insert the
slim blades between the doors. With a single fierce thrust I snap the lock. It gives more easily than I expect. The doors swing open. I see the red shoebox immediately, on the middle shelf,
surrounded by files labelled ‘Personal Tax’. Another look at its contents feels like a good place to start. I hesitate, listening out for any sounds from downstairs. Art will discover
what I’ve done in the morning of course, but right now I’m too angry to care. I take the shoebox and lift the lid.

The box is empty.

I stare into it, unbelieving. For a moment I think I’ve actually gone mad. I doubt everything: that this was the box Art showed me before; that it contained all the paperwork on
Beth’s stillbirth and funeral; that my eyes are working properly. Then the shock passes and the realization sinks through me. This
is
the box. But all the papers are gone. Where are
they?

I look around, scanning the other shelves and the nearby desk. A few slivers of coloured paper lie beside the shredder. I pick up a handful of red and blue. I’m sure these are the colours
of the Tapps Funeral Services logo. I recognize it from the letterhead.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’

I spin around. Art is standing in the doorway, bleary-eyed, his hair tousled. He’s looking at the open cupboard and the broken lock.

I hold out my hand, palm open, revealing the scraps of shredded paper.

‘Did you shred all Beth’s papers?’

Art walks across the office towards me. The floorboards creak loudly. His eyes are fixed on the splinters of wood that stick out from the cupboard door. ‘Why did you break this
open?’ He stares at me in horror. ‘Gen, what is the matter with you?’

‘Answer my question.’

Art reaches the door and touches the broken lock.

‘Art,’ I insist. ‘What did you do to everything in the box?’

His face is pale. ‘Gen, I’m seriously worried about you. If you wanted to look inside this cupboard, why didn’t you just ask me for the key? This isn’t normal
behaviour.’

Frustration surges inside me. ‘Neither is shredding a death certificate.’

‘I didn’t. The death certificate is in with all our other legal papers,’ Art says. ‘I only got rid of the brochures and the letters.’

‘But they were all we had of her.’

‘No they weren’t. They were
admin
. They were
nothing
to do with her. Anyway, until that bloody woman turned up on the doorstep you hadn’t looked at them for
years. You didn’t even know most of them existed.’ He reaches out to touch my face, his eyes desperate with tender concern, but I lean back, away from him.

‘Come on, Gen. I don’t want it to get like it did with that babygro.’

I catch my breath. Art never understood why I wanted to keep the little white babygro. He thought it was morbid.

‘I don’t think it’s healthy for you to be going over everything again,’ Art says sadly. ‘I’m
worried
about you, Gen. You’re becoming obsessed.
First that stupid payment, then all of the paperwork . . .’

‘I just want to know the truth,’ I insist.

Art shakes his head. He reaches for me again. I back up against the desk. I feel trapped, penned in. Art’s fingers stroke my cheek. ‘Gen, darling, I’ve been talking with Hen
and we both think you should go back to that therapist.’

I push his hand away. So it
was
Art on the phone to Hen the other day. Or, if not then, another time. I feel sick. It’s not just the idea that Art’s been confiding in Hen
again. Therapy is the last thing I need right now. The counsellor I saw for a while after Beth died helped a little, but in the end I got sick of the sound of my own voice going over the same old
ground. The support group I tried was just as bad. All those mothers had other children already – or got pregnant again during the course of our meetings.

‘When did you destroy all the papers?’ I demand.

‘I don’t know.’ Art frowns. ‘Just after you looked at them last week.’

I remember how, that evening, I’d gone downstairs to call Lucy O’Donnell and heard the office floorboards creaking as I crossed the hall, and how Art had denied he’d been up
here.

‘You said you didn’t come up here again.’ My mind is careering around now. ‘What is this? Are you trying to make me think I’m going insane?’

Art shakes his head. There’s a terrible sadness in his eyes. ‘Oh, Gen,
listen
to yourself, will you? I don’t think I did come up straightaway. I think it was later, so
I
didn’t
lie. And I’m not suggesting you should go back to therapy because there’s anything properly wrong with you. It’s just because I care about you and
you’ve obviously not been coping since that stupid woman and her lies.’

‘Her name was Lucy O’Donnell and she’s
dead
, Art.’ Despite my earlier intentions, the words shoot out of me. ‘The woman who told me about Beth is
dead
. She died last week, the day after I saw her, in a hit-and-run accident.’ I gasp, a sob welling inside me. Because I don’t think it was an accident, but I know Art will be
as dismissive as he was earlier if I suggest Lucy was deliberately killed. I turn away from him, not wanting him to see my tears. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so alone in my life.

‘That’s terrible,’ Art says, his hand stroking my arm. ‘But it’s got nothing to do with this, and you have to admit breaking into my cupboard is irrational, Gen.
I’m only trying to help.
Please
.’

I turn around and look into his eyes. He seems genuinely worried for me. I falter, seeing myself from his perspective.

‘I understand that it seems extreme,’ I say, as calmly as I can, ‘but I’m not being obsessive. I’m just trying to find out what really happened to Beth.’

Art’s expression clouds, a terrible bitterness sweeping over his face. It’s in the hurt in his eyes and the curl of his lip, and in his voice as he speaks.

‘Beth
died
, Gen. You need to move on or—’ He stops, rubs his hand over his forehead.

‘Or what?’

‘Or it will kill us too.
Us
. Our relationship. Our marriage.
Us
.’ Art holds my gaze for a second. ‘Don’t you see what’s happening? Can you just
stop for one second and think about how
I
feel. Beth was my daughter too.’

I nod, suddenly ashamed of being selfish.

Art pulls me towards him but I’m not quite ready to surrender entirely. I hold up the shredded bits of brochure between us. ‘You still shouldn’t have destroyed all the
papers.’

‘Maybe so,’ Art acknowledges. ‘I’m sorry, Gen . . .’ His voice cracks. ‘I just don’t know how to help you any more.’

I let him hold me. I feel numb. I can see how I look – spun out of control because of one woman’s outrageous claims. And yet I didn’t imagine the look of sincerity in Lucy
O’Donnell’s eyes. And I haven’t imagined her death either.

‘Let’s go to bed.’

I let Art lead me down to our bedroom. He fetches his things from the spare room, waits while I brush my teeth and get into the long T-shirt I wear at night, then he spoons me into his arms and
holds me as he falls asleep.

I lie awake for a while, listening to Art’s steady breathing, feeling the dead weight of his arm on my ribs. I’m hyper-aware of the Tapps letter and Rodriguez’s business card
under the mattress below me. What would Art say if he knew I’d been calling both the funeral home and the Fair Angel private maternity hospital?

Thinking about that empty shoebox upstairs keeps me wide awake. Art shouldn’t have shredded its entire contents. He says I’m being obsessive but what he did was extreme too. As I lie
there, unsleeping, my anger builds. How dare Art make that decision to destroy everything? It was up to
both
of us to decide what to do.

I lift his arm up and wriggle out from under the duvet. I stand, watching him breathing for a moment.

If Art can act unilaterally, then so can I.

His phone is on the bedside table. Without thinking, I snatch it up and go into the bathroom at the end of the corridor. I sit cross-legged on the edge of the bath, the phone in my trembling
hand. I know the password. I also know that using it – and checking Art’s calls and emails – crosses a line I’ve never dreamed of crossing before, in all the years
I’ve known him.