Ruthless - [8]

Now, Orla approached the farm. She paused outside to gaze around her. It was exactly as she remembered. Dad had been so proud of the place when he’d bought it, giving out about the thirty acres of land that came with it, and how old the place was.

Orla let her eyes drift over the stonework. It looked tired in places. But the house was still a fine big place, with panoramic views across open country towards the great grey sprawl of the river.

This was home, and she did have a few good memories of it. But oh, everything had happened here. For every good memory, there were ten bad ones.

She went to the big oak brass-studded door and pulled the bell chain. Far away in the house, she heard the thing echo and jangle.

She waited. And waited. Finally she rang the bell again.

At last, there was the sound of movement, and then her mother was standing in front of her, white hair awry, a blue-sprigged cream pinafore tied around her dumpy waist, a querying expression in her eyes and a vague smile on her lips. When she saw her daughter standing there, the smile dropped away in shock.

‘Orla! God in heaven, what are you doing here?’

‘Ma!’ said Orla, overcome with a mixture of relief at seeing her mother standing there, so familiar, and the realization that nothing would ever be the same again. She had survived the tempest, but she had come through it alone. Every moment since had been a living hell, trying to hold it together, focusing on getting home. Now she was finally here, she lost all control.

‘Oh, Ma,’ she sobbed. ‘He’s gone. I’ve lost Redmond.’

8

London, 1980

‘I am here to tell you that this. Just. Won’t. Fucking. Do,’ said a stern female voice.

Annie pulled the covers further over her head, trying to block out the world. She recognized the voice. And right now, she hated the damned voice too.

‘Go away,’ she moaned. ‘Leave me the hell alone.’

‘No can do,’ said Dolly.

‘Yes, you bloody can do,’ snapped Annie, her head emerging from the covers.

Through gritty eyes she could see Dolly, turned out in her usual sharp-fitting skirt suit – powder blue this time – standing by the windows in the dimness of the master suite. Dolly threw back the curtains and Annie winced as light flooded in.

‘Jesus,’ she complained.

‘It’s eleven thirty, nearly lunchtime. You intending to just lie there in your ruddy pit all day?’

‘That’s the plan,’ said Annie.

Dolly came over to the bed and looked down in disgust at her old mate.

‘That ain’t a plan,’ she pointed out. ‘That’s a waste of a day.’

‘So fucking well shoot me,’ said Annie, sitting up irritably and tucking the bedclothes more firmly around her.

‘Look at the state of you,’ marvelled Dolly.

Annie didn’t want to do that. But her eyes were irresistibly drawn to the dressing table mirror, where she could see a pale, frowning woman sitting up in bed, hair all mussed up and eyes red-raw from crying.

It was her.

And she never cried, right?

Ah, not true. This past few months since he’d left, it felt as though she’d done nothing but cry.

‘What have I got to get up for?’ Annie groaned, rubbing her eyes.

‘Layla’s away, I take it?’ Dolly was watching her, hands planted on hips.

‘Yes, she’s away. In Barbados. With him.’

‘And how’s that going? The Layla thing?’

‘She hates me.’

‘She don’t hate you. She blames you. There’s a difference. Now shift your arse.’

Annie clutched the bedclothes tighter. ‘Why did Rosa let you in?’ she complained. ‘I told her I didn’t want to see anybody.’

‘I’m not anybody, you berk, I’m your best mate,’ said Dolly more gently. ‘Come on. Out of that bed and get yourself smartened up, you look like an effing bag lady. I’m taking you out to lunch, then we’re going to hit the shops.’

Annie put her head in her hands. The very idea of it exhausted her.

‘Do I have to?’ she whined.

‘Yeah, if you don’t want my boot up your crotch.’

Annie gave in. She threw back the covers.

‘Shit,’ she complained as the sunlight from the window hit her eyes. It felt like a scalpel, cutting into her aching brain.

‘It’s a beautiful day,’ trilled Dolly, holding Annie’s dressing gown at the ready.

‘Oh, shut the fuck up,’ said Annie, snatching it from her and heading for the bathroom.

9

Ireland, 1970

Orla told her mother about the crash.

‘Ah, God,’ the older woman said over and over, weeping. ‘My poor boy, poor Redmond, oh dear God.’

The house was neglected inside, every surface covered in dust. The curtains hung uncleaned, the nets were grey, there was a slew of dirty crockery on the draining board. Orla knew that taking care of Pa must be hard, and it was clear that housework was at the bottom of her mother’s to-do list. She supposed she should have kept in touch more, done more, as the only daughter, and the guilt of it added to her woes.

All she hoped was that the old couple who lived by the sea would just let the matter lie, and someone would reunite Donny with his bike which she’d left up against the post office wall in the village. He would probably mention it in the pub, tell the regulars about the girl at the door saying she’d been in a dinghy that foundered, and her brother was lost. Perhaps he would search the shoreline for a few weeks, maybe even report it to the Garda; but the only name Donny and Cissie had for her was a false one she had concocted.