Chapter 24
Susan
Saturday
On Saturday afternoon, as soon as Aoife is picked up, I tell Jon I’m heading out for a walk on my own.
There isn’t anywhere in particular I want to go, I just don’t want to be home alone with him.
My mind is in a constant whirl, trying to process what he’s done.
What he’s still doing, presumably, and until I decide on my response, I don’t want to blurt out anything I can’t unsay.
As I leave, he mentions something about a run later, but I pretend I don’t hear.
A run. There should be some satisfaction in knowing I’m keeping him from her, but there is only hollow space.
My walk takes me, perhaps intentionally, down past Bar Four and on to Coal Place and the row of cottages where Venetia and her husband live.
There’s a garda car outside their cottage and, as I watch, two uniformed gardaí emerge from the house and make their way back to the car.
Venetia is in the doorway. She’s about to pull the door closed when she sees me.
Her brow furrows—she’s trying to work out if she knows me, I think—and then she lifts a hand, almost on autopilot.
There must be a constant stream of people offering condolences, people she half knows, friends of her sister’s.
The garda car pulls into traffic, and Venetia is still standing in her doorway, holding the door open behind her, still looking at me.
She thinks I’m calling in to pay respects, I realize now.
Oh god. This is awkward. She waves for me to come in.
Shit. I give a small wave back and walk through the narrow gateway and up the front path to her house.
“Hi, Venetia, I’m so sorry for your loss. I…we met briefly at the Bar Four opening last month. I met your sister there too. I really am dreadfully sorry to hear the awful news.”
She nods, pulling her black dressing gown tightly around her. She looks dazed and glassy-eyed. Maybe she’s been given medication to cope. I know I’d need medication if anything happened to one of my sisters. She steps back into the hallway and gestures for me to follow.
I hesitate. But she’s already turned to lead the way, and walking off, leaving this grieving, dazed woman, feels wrong. I step inside.
The hall is dark and narrow, with two doors on either side and one at the end, all closed. Brown carpet and yellowy-cream paintwork give it a dated feel, and there are no pictures on the walls. Venetia pushes open a door to our left and leads the way into the living room.
Inside, a man—her husband, I guess—sits on a cracked black leather couch, staring into space.
He startles a little when he sees me, then gives a small smile.
He probably thinks I’m a friend of Venetia’s or Aimee’s.
I imagine there are all sorts of people they hardly know dropping by.
But then that’s something we do well in Ireland—condolences and sympathy and the rituals of death.
Venetia sits heavily on an old-fashioned mahogany dining-room chair and I hover by the doorway.
This room is similar to the hall—the same dark brown carpet, the same yellowish walls.
And again, it’s devoid of personal touches—even the mantelpiece is almost entirely bare, with just an old-style gold carriage clock at its center.
Venetia sighs, readying herself to speak, and her voice, when it comes, is slow and empty of emotion. She’s definitely on something. Good, I think: whatever it takes to inoculate her.
“This is Felipe, my husband,” she says, waving in his direction.
To him, dully, she adds: “She met us at Bar Four.” I can’t tell if she really remembers the encounter. I suspect not. Bartenders must meet hundreds of people a night.
Felipe, boyish-looking with deep brown eyes, dark tousled hair and a short beard, stands to shake my hand, a shy smile on his face. Compared to Venetia, he seems sweet and unassuming. I glance over at her again. Even in a dressing gown and medicated state, she’s somewhat intimidating.
I gesture toward the door. “I saw the garda car leaving—did the police have any information about what happened?”
Felipe shakes his head. “They’ve been twice now to ask us about Aimee and Rory, to ask if they had been worried about something. Any disputes with anyone.” He shakes his head.
“I suppose the guards are speaking to everyone who knew them.” And people like me, caught in the middle. “It’s nice that they came here rather than making you go to them.”
“We will go there tomorrow to give DNA and fingerprints,” Felipe says. “They have to do this for anyone who might have been in the house.” He spreads his hands. “I don’t know what to expect. Maybe it will be like TV or maybe not.” A soft half-smile, a small shrug.
“Yeah, who knows…” My face heats up.
“Did you know Aimee well?” he asks, and I get the sense he’s uttered the same words to dozens of visitors since Wednesday. He gestures for me to take a seat on the couch and I do. He moves toward the far end, more than polite space between us.
“I didn’t know her well, no. I just met her at the bar that one night.”
He looks a little confused now, wondering no doubt what I’m doing here. Venetia has glazed over; I don’t think she’s listening to what I’m saying. What am I doing here? It’s time to leave these people in peace.
“I didn’t mean to intrude, I just wanted to say I’m sorry. I’ll go now.” I stand.
“Of course. Thank you for coming.” Felipe stands too, shakes my hand. “It was good to meet you—I’m sorry, what was your name?”
“Oh, of course, I’m Susan.”
Venetia sits up straight, focused now.
She stares at me. “Susan.” The room is deathly quiet. My heart rate speeds up, my throat tightens. “What’s your surname?”
“You know, I really should go. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You’re Susan O’Donnell.”
Oh god, I should never have come here. I move toward the living-room door, my legs shaking.
“You sent the message about Aimee.”
I turn back to face her, it’s the least I can do. She stares at me, speechless now.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. “I never meant to hurt anyone’s feelings.”
Her mouth works as though she’s trying to find words.
“Feelings?” she says eventually, in a low voice. “You’re worried about her feelings? My sister is dead.”
Felipe walks over to her, hunkers down and pulls her into a half-hug, rubbing her back.
Over his shoulder, Venetia stares at me, eyes red-rimmed and disbelieving. Angry. Desperately sad.
“Get out of my house.” She says it so quietly, I almost don’t hear her.
Felipe stands to face me, one hand on Venetia’s shoulder.
“Venetia is having a very difficult time, she’s…”
He trails off and closes his eyes briefly, his face washed with pain and something else I can’t decode.
“Of course. I’ll go. I really am so sorry.” I let myself out.