Authors: Julie Parsons
And now all was silence in the house. He wandered from room to room, looking around him as if in a stranger’s home. Where had all this furniture come from? Who had picked the paintings on
the walls? Bought the rugs which lay like pools of brightness across the dark wooden floors? Chosen the flowered Victorian tiles that decorated the bathrooms? He remembered the pleasure that Rachel
had got from the work he did for her that summer as he had laid the simple terracotta floor, brushing the grout into place. And how they had sat and celebrated together and watched the moon rise
above the garden, and she had named the constellations that under her guidance formed themselves into shapes he could recognize. The Bull, the Plough, the Archer, the Hunter and the Hunter’s
Belt. The same shapes that they had watched together here, sitting out on the terrace, while the light from the full moon fell upon the sea like handfuls of silver, and the breeze in the branches
of the pine trees sounded like the exhaled breath of a large sleeping beast.
But now he took no pleasure from that same view. He felt as if a blind of some dense, opaque material had been lowered in front of it. So he could see it dimly, but as if in the far distance.
And when he wandered out through the French windows on to the terrace, where he had met Rachel for the first time just a few weeks ago, and walked across the grass to the top of the cliff, all he
could think about was the remains of the bonfire, sifted and analysed by the guards in their white overalls. The ash carried away in plastic bags to see what else they could find, apart from her
bag and her diary and her make-up and her money.
‘Why?’ he had said to them. ‘Why, if I was going to burn them, would I not have made sure that they burned completely? Why would I have left them partially intact? Why, if I
wanted to hide something, why would I leave any evidence around?’
But Donnelly had just shrugged and said, ‘You tell us, Dan. You tell us what happened.’
He thought back over those two days and nights when she had stayed there with him. He had had to go out for a while. Finish off some business. Would she come with him, he asked? But she had said
no, that it was so beautiful here in this garden on the clifftop that she would like to stay behind. If he didn’t mind, of course. She would cook him dinner. See if she could remember how to
do it after so long. And when he had returned the kitchen was full of the scent of olive oil and basil. She had made pesto, picked handfuls of the fresh herbs from the raised beds by the terrace
and crushed it in a pestle and mortar to make the sauce. That was all he could smell, even when they went to sit on the terrace after dinner, although he wondered if that was wood smoke he could
see hanging in the air and was anxious for a moment, in case there might be a fire down among the dry bracken near the cliff edge. But she carried out a tray with a jug of coffee and a bottle of
Calvados and a cigar in a metal tube.
‘I remember,’ she said, ‘how you liked them. So I bought this one specially for you. It’s from Havana.’
And he had felt almost disloyal, thinking how Ursula hated the smell and wouldn’t have them in the house. And then felt ridiculous that he was feeling guilty about that when he
didn’t feel guilty about anything else. Then he thought that had Rachel done what he wanted that night, it might then have been the most natural thing in the world for the two of them to be
here together on this beautiful summer’s evening. And they could have been talking about their daughter, and what she was or wasn’t doing. They could have been planning her future. They
could have seen their own future stretching out before them, secure and comfortable. Full of love and commitment and small triumphs. But of course, he thought as he poured Calvados into two small
Waterford crystal glasses and lifted the porcelain coffee cup to his lips, if Martin had lived all this would have been his. And where would he have been then? He lit the cigar and drew heavily on
it, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs, so for a moment his chest felt as if it would burst open, and the blood rushed through his veins, roaring in his ears, drowning out every other sound as
he thought of what might have been. A minion’s job, a minion’s life. Slave and lackey to his clever brother. Never able to cut his losses and go, for fear that he might miss out on some
treat or other. And it might not have mattered if she had said that she would be with him. But she hadn’t said that, that night, when he had stood at the door and seen through the
frosted-glass panel the shadows of Martin and Rachel as they waited for him.
Daniel had said to her, as he pushed her into the hall and watched Martin walk away down towards the kitchen, ‘Come with me, now. I want you. He doesn’t.’
And she had said, ‘Are you mad, are you crazy? I don’t want you. I don’t love you. Not the way I love him.’
‘So, what am I doing here? Why did you ask me to come?’
‘Because I’m scared. And you’re the only person I can tell. I can’t tell anyone else, because I’m so ashamed. Ashamed of what I’ve done. Ashamed of how
I’ve betrayed him, betrayed the vow I made to him when I married him.’
So she was ashamed, that was it. But not ashamed that she was now betraying me, Daniel had thought, not ashamed that she has been prepared to deny my child her birthright. None of that bothers
her. She was holding the gun all the time that they were arguing. He had watched its barrel, the way it swung around as she moved. And he had wondered. Which of them should I shoot? And then it
happened, so suddenly even he was taken by surprise. Martin’s insults had shocked him with their ferocity, Martin’s temper had been frightening to behold. But so was hers. She had
turned the gun towards them both, then moved it quickly downwards. The noise had been terrifying, and the smell and the colour of Martin’s blood pumping out of his leg. And then she had
turned to him, her face stricken, and said, ‘What have I done?’
As Martin screamed out in pain, clutching at his shattered thigh. And it all clicked into place. All those years of insults and hurt and pain and rejection. And then she handed him the gun. He
remembered the feel of the wooden stock in his hands. His hands in their gloves, the gloves he had worn that night because it was so cold. And he took aim himself and fired. And said to her as the
sound of the shot died away, ‘Now, now you won’t have to be ashamed any more.’
It was getting cold now. There was a wind coming in from the sea, an easterly with just the faintest touch of winter. It rattled the long sash windows and sent a shiver rippling through the
heavy curtains. He walked from room to room switching on all the lights. He sat down at the desk in his study and stared at the row of photographs, picking each up in turn. The one of Martin had
gone. Ursula had ripped it from its frame and torn it to pieces, pausing only long enough to comment on the way Rachel had looked then.
He stood and walked to the front door. He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out his car keys. He closed the front door behind him and got into the car. He drove slowly up the drive and out
on to the road. He looked in the rear-view mirror. Behind him was the usual pair of headlights, keeping the same distance away from him, as always. He drove slowly up the hill to the village, then
down towards Dun Laoghaire. It was Saturday night. The main street was busy. He stopped at the newsagent’s and pushed his way in through the late-night shoppers. He picked up a pile of the
Sunday papers. He scanned the headlines.
‘Missing Woman’s Daughter’s Disappearance.’
‘First Mother, Now Daughter, Gone.’
And in huge black type: ‘
Who is This Man?
’ And a photograph of him taken at the gate. And a whole page about his house, his wife and children, his involvement with Rachel.
He paid for the papers and walked out into the street again. He looked to the left and to the right and saw the unmarked car parked just behind his own. He walked towards it, bending down and
knocking on the closed window. He waited as the glass pane slid open.
‘Listen, lads,’ he said. ‘Just to let you know. I’m going for a pint. In Walter’s. OK? I’ll be about an hour, I’d say. But maybe,’ he paused,
‘maybe I’ll be longer than that. I could do with a few tonight. But don’t worry. I won’t drive if I go over the limit. I’ll get a lift home from you two. How about
that?’ And he sniggered as he walked away, turning back once to wave at the two guards slumped down in their seats.
He pushed open the swing doors into the bar and found himself somewhere to sit. He ordered a drink. He read. He ordered another drink. He read some more. The newspapers had given the story the
full treatment. Rehashed all the details of the murder, dredged up their old photographs of Rachel, showed the outside of the house where Amy lived with her foster-family. Even got hold of pictures
of Amy as a child. He scanned through them all quickly to see if his name was mentioned. There were references to a man who had been arrested and questioned in connection with the disappearance of
Rachel Beckett, but nothing else. He put down the paper and finished his drink, then pushed his way up to the bar and ordered another. It was busy in here tonight. And noisy. Loud music pumping
from the speakers, the crash and clatter of bottles and glasses on the cold shiny marble of the bar, the banging of chairs and feet on the hard wooden floors. Everything was glossy and shiny. New.
And everyone was young.
He paid for his pint and pushed back to his seat. He looked at the girls all around him. Amy looked like one of them. Brash and confident, with her pierced ears and her bare stomach. He had gone
as usual to the café, ordered his coffee and pastry, joked and laughed with her. Smiled up at her, waited for her to smile back. Then when he was leaving he said he’d like to meet her,
take her out for a drink. And she had agreed instantly, pushing her small breasts out towards him and resting her hands on her hips. It was early evening when she finished work. He got out of his
van and walked towards her. She had put on more make-up, and he could smell her perfume. He handed her into the front seat and drove off towards town. She was nervous, excited. She lit a cigarette.
They stopped at a pub. She ordered vodka and coke. She fiddled with her earrings and waited for him to make a move. And then he told her who he really was. That he was her father. Watched her face.
Waited for the shock to die away. Waited for the questions.
‘How?’
‘Why?’
‘What happened?’
‘I loved my brother,’ he said. ‘I loved him very much.’
‘And did you love her?’ The pronoun spat out with vengeance.
What should he say? Which did she want hear?
‘I did at the time. At the time when you were conceived, I loved her very much. But she wanted to stay married to Martin. If I had known that you were mine I would have made her tell him.
But I didn’t know until that night when he found out.’
‘She said you killed him? Did you?’ A hard stare, a look that he could not escape. He stared back at her.
‘No, I didn’t. She killed him. She was frightened and she was ashamed.’
‘So she tried to blame you for it? Is that what happened?’
‘Yes, she tried to blame me. And now she’s trying to punish me. She’s done this, this disappearing act. It’s a game, that’s all. The police think I killed her. They
have all this evidence that she planted. But she set me up. Amy, I promise you. I didn’t hurt her at all. I wouldn’t hurt her. I’m not like that.’
‘So why are you telling me all this now? Why have you been coming to the café for the past few weeks? What’s going on?’
He took her hand. He turned it over and stroked the lines that criss-crossed the palm.
‘I suppose,’ he said, ‘that I tried to forget all about you. I put all thoughts of you away in a drawer and I turned the key on them. I came to see you when you were living
with your grandparents. But they didn’t want me around. They didn’t know what to make of me. They couldn’t decide whether to believe me or their daughter. And then when they
couldn’t look after you any longer, and you went to the foster-family, I decided that it was better if I stayed away. Let you get on with growing up without any of that stuff, that bad and
painful stuff from your past getting in the way. And then when I heard that Rachel had been released from prison, I thought of you again. And I knew I wanted to see you. So I found you. I
didn’t want to tell you all about it. I didn’t want to upset you or drag you into a relationship that you might not have wanted. But for me, I wanted to see you, to see what you were
like.’
She looked around her, then looked towards the mirror behind the bar. He followed her gaze.
‘We’re very alike, aren’t we? I can see that immediately. We’re much more alike to look at than she and I have ever been.’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘there’s no doubt about it. You’re my daughter. My firstborn. And now, Amy, I have to ask you something. I have to ask you to do something for
me.’
He was drinking too quickly but he didn’t care. He ordered another pint, waited until he had paid for it, then got up and walked around the bar towards the sign for the
toilets. He walked down the stairs and along the corridor. He passed the door with the sign for the ladies. He walked into the men’s toilet. He was alone. He stood at the urinal. He unzipped
his fly. He watched his urine spurt out in a golden arc. He rinsed his hands and walked out into the corridor again. It was empty. He turned towards the back of the building and went through the
door at the far end. Ahead was the emergency exit to the lane that ran behind the pub and beside it a payphone. He looked around once more. Then picked up the phone, feeling for change in his
pocket, and punching in a number. He spoke.
‘Yeah, it’s me. Are you all right? Have you eaten? Is the TV working OK? Can you get all the channels? Good, good. Don’t worry. It won’t be for long. You’re all
over the Sunday papers. She’ll come running, don’t you worry, and before you know you’ll be back home again. And you know, Amy, how much I appreciate this, don’t you? You
do, you do know? I really, really am grateful to you for helping me. And afterwards, when it’s all over, and I’ve the cops off my back, then we can start sorting ourselves out again.
I’ll never let you go now, you know that. You’re my daughter and I love you.’ He paused and listened, looking back over his shoulder. ‘OK, have a good sleep. I’ll talk
to you tomorrow. No, I don’t know what time it’ll be. I have to be careful. I can’t phone from home or use my mobile. You know that. OK, kid. I’ll say goodnight now.
Goodnight.’