Chapter 73
They had to let him walk out of the Garda station, as he’d known they would.
There was no evidence that he’d done anything wrong, not recently anyhow, except be economical with the truth.
He was shocked by their questions, going back to Sadie Tormey.
Sadie was just one of the many people and things he’d consigned to a far corner of his brain, where they were filed away and forgotten.
He’d seen the inspector turning up her nose at him.
He sat into his jeep and knew that no matter how often he washed or what he sprayed on his body, the chicken shit was rooted in his very pores.
And he realised that Sadie was rooted there too, deep beneath his skin.
He had never succeeded in ridding himself of her memory, even though he’d packed it away along with everything else he wanted to forget.
Once he had the engine running and the jeep started to warm up, Dermot wondered if he should go back inside and tell the inspector the truth. He sat there for a long time before he put the vehicle in gear and drove home.
Christy Kearney could smell an odour in his house that even the most meticulous of cleaners would never be able to remove. He was sure it had leached into the wallpaper and paint, even seeping up through the floor.
It came from the old man’s room, and Christy wasn’t sure he had the will to empty the commode.
Each day it became more difficult to attend to the basic task of caring for his father.
But he needed the money. Though the carer’s allowance wasn’t a whole lot, it helped cushion the household expenses.
Especially as the winter season was a bleak time for his business.
The increase in storms in recent years had eaten into his autumn business too.
Who wanted bouncy castles in stormy weather? Not many.
He was reluctant to finalise his finances even with the annual tax deadline looming. He hadn’t the luxury of being able to afford an accountant to wade through the mess of invoices and the dwindling receipts. The prices those people charged were a crime.
Oh yes, he had met Cameron Healy before he’d found him dead in his house.
The mean bastard couldn’t have an iota of good luck because of the mad fees he charged to tot up a line of numbers and fill out a tax form.
Not that Cameron Healy would be banking any more money ever again.
That made Christy smile. It quickly died, because he still had to do his own accounts.
He was glad of the extra work he’d agreed to take on.
It was a risk, but the money would make a difference.
Not enough to rescue him from his father, though.
‘Christy, are you going to leave me sitting in this filth all day? Where are you, you bastard?’
‘Coming.’
He didn’t move. He sat at the kitchen table and stared at the gnarled knots in the wood.
They reminded him of hands that had wrapped themselves around his neck, threatening to choke the living daylights out of him.
He’d been younger then, nimbler on his feet, and he’d been able to squirm his way out of the hold.
His father had a mean streak. Now Christy’s past was back to haunt him.
‘You fucking bastard,’ the old man roared. ‘You better come and get me or I’ll throw it all around the room and you’ll be shovelling shit for a week.’
With a heavy sigh, Christy stood and made his way down the hall to tend to his dad when what he wanted to do was strangle him.
The sleeves of his sweater were damp from blood and the tears he’d cried on his folded arms. He had no clothes to change into, and those he was wearing were now sopping wet.
Liam Scanlan sat in the ditch beside the canal bank and sobbed in sorrow for himself.
None of it was his fault. Not one thing.
She had made him do it. It was all her. But no one would believe him.
Why would they when she could be so convincing.
But then again, wasn’t he to blame too? He had not said no.
Though he knew no one could say no to her.
Maybe he should talk to Thomas Clarke. Tell him the truth. But why should the man believe him? He didn’t know him.
He recalled the start of this misery. The day Caroline had walked into the office looking to speak to her husband when she knew right well Cameron was working from home. Was all this Caroline’s fault?
He shuddered.
He’d stabbed two innocent women, just because he was afraid. Frightened of what they might know, scared of what they might say about him. Terror had driven him. Shock had stopped him. Now the tremors were back and he was riddled with self-doubt.
Maybe he was imagining everything.
He looked down at his sleeves. The blood was real. What he had done was real.
What had he become?
Lily had cried like a baby for most of the day. At age twelve, she rarely cried. Stomped her feet, yelled, got her hair cut to annoy her father. All that, but not too many tears.
Sadie held her tight, soothing her with whispers. ‘I’m sorry, pet. It will be fine. Don’t cry.’
‘Why, Mam? Why all this? I want to see Dad.’
‘I know you do, but it’s too dangerous. Trust me. You need to be quiet or the bad people will kill us like they killed Freya and Caroline.’
‘And Freya’s dad too. Mam, you can’t forget him.’
‘Of course,’ Sadie said. ‘Listen, pet, you have to be good.’
Lily pulled out of her mother’s embrace. Her eyes bored into Sadie’s like hard pebbles. ‘I’m not a baby. I think you know something. You have to tell me what’s going on. Please. Maybe then I can trust you.’
Sadie felt like crying herself, but she’d exhausted her well of tears.
What could she tell her daughter that wouldn’t cause her more upset?
It had been torment from start to finish, but she had to do what she could, in order to survive.
She hoped she’d done the right thing, because if not… No, that didn’t bear thinking about.
The door opened and a smell entered before the man did. He set a tray of food and bottles of water on the small table and walked out again.
The odour that had whooshed into the room lingered for some time after he was gone.