Sleep Sister: A page-turning novel of psychological suspense (21 page)

W
hen Eva’s
grandmother’s will was read it turned out that she had more than bits and pieces. With the stocks and shares, the properties and insurance policies, it came to a mighty sum, even when divided amongst her loved ones. Eva no longer needed to grovel to bank managers who waved her from their offices with regretful smiles. Thanks to Brigid’s inheritance she had become a woman of means.

The Grahamstown site was still on the estate agent’s books. She drove to Oldport and met Carrie Davern, who still spoke enthusiastically about the site’s potential. Carrie would enthuse over an empty snail shell, Eva thought, as she left the office. In her haste, she almost knocked over a young girl who was passing, then narrowly escaped being run over. Shaken, she refused Judith Hansen’s invitation into Woodstock and drove away, her decision made.

That evening she informed Greg she wouldn’t be accompanying him to New York.

At first, he refused to believe her. ‘This is your way of punishing me,’ he said. ‘How can I make amends? Tell me and I’ll do it – and do it again and again.’

Eva imagined him and Carol Wynne lying together in the white dawn of the Serra do Caramulo and felt nothing. It was unnatural. Even though she didn’t want to experience again the scalding hurt that had followed his confession, some emotion was essential.

‘My decision has nothing to do with your infidelities,’ she said. ‘You made a decision to offload your guilt. You’ve no right to blame me for refusing to accept it.’

‘Eva, you’re breaking my heart. We can’t destroy our marriage over one mistake.’ His voice came to her from a great distance. Nothing could be resolved by running away, she told him. There was no ghost-free environment. The past was always present.

Two years of marriage. Such a short time, said Liz, awash with tears when they told her. It was too soon to give up. They mustn’t make decisions when grief and guilt and loss were confused in their minds. Love, Liz believed, was elastic, expanding to the demands that were placed upon it. Eva reminded her that elastic also contracted. It shrivelled, sagged and no longer bound securely.

E
va drove
him to the airport. The early-morning traffic moved forward in a monotonous crawl. The departure hall was crowded with early-morning commuters on tight schedules. The holidaymakers in their colourful parkas moved at a more leisurely pace. Eva saw everything and absorbed nothing. Beside her, not touching, not speaking, Greg loaded his luggage onto a trolley and they headed towards the check-in desk.

At the departure gate they faced each other. He pushed her hair back from her forehead, as if he needed to see her face unadorned before he said goodbye. He promised to ring when he arrived in New York. She wondered if he remembered Faye’s grip on his finger the last time they’d stood together in the same place, a family huddle, embracing. Was he picturing her startled eyes, her tiny mouth puckered as the sudden announcement of an impending flight boomed around them? Eva shuddered away from the memory and from his tense embrace.

‘I’ll always love you.’ His voice was bleak. ‘No matter what we decide to do, that will never change.’

‘I love you too,’ she replied. Her voice trembled. ‘What a pity it isn’t enough.’

In the crush of passengers passing through the departure gate, he turned to stare back at her, unable to believe there were no words they could utter, no gesture that would bring them back together. In that waiting instant it would have been so easy to wish time away, to forfeit even the brief, unforgettable joy Faye had brought into their lives, so they could dally in the past. Her nose began to sting, a certain prelude to tears. She blinked them firmly away. Decisions had been made and enough tears had been shed in their making. She accepted that her feelings were not dead. They had simply been replaced by more demanding preoccupations. She would reserve her grief for Faye and build a new life on her own.

‘
W
hy won’t
you let us take care of you?’ Liz demanded when Eva announced that Greg’s apartment had been rented out for a year and she was moving to Grahamstown. She would live on site in a caravan while work on the garden centre and the cottage was underway. The caravan in the garden of Wind Fall was used occasionally by her parents when the guest house overflowed. Liz was horrified. It was too dangerous for Eva to live alone at the side of a remote country road. What protection would she have if she was attacked?

‘Stay with us while the work is underway,’ she pleaded, inventing horror scenarios of murder and mayhem.

‘I can’t.’ Eva was adamant. ‘I have so much to do and I don’t want to waste time travelling.’

Steve helped her move the caravan on site, his disapproval obvious by his silence, but he hugged Eva tightly before he left and said she was to ring him at any time of the day or night if she had a problem.

G
reg rang regularly
from New York. He sounded purposeful and excited. He had moved into an apartment in Greenwich Village. A ghost-free zone. He told her he missed her. His voice stammered, as if he was ashamed that his emotions could only be expressed through such inane words. She wondered how he had time for such lost emotions. He was part of the new Irish wave of immigrants who drank in trendy bars and attended poetry readings. On
Stateside Review
he had a certain novelty appeal. Viewers were impressed by his opinions. A new slant, an objective eye. He was a thorn in the side of right-wing Republicans. A fly in the ointment of liberalism. How happy he must be, Eva thought, pleasing no one.

She wondered how he would react if she told him the real story was here. The big exclusive, insider knowledge. She imagined him in action, lifting stones, letting the worms free. He would take her story from her and give it back to the world. Twenty-six years on, the Anaskeagh Baby searches for her roots.

Her real roots had been set deep in Ashton, a gentle place that nurtured her childhood, as if making recompense for the hard, unyielding landscape into which she had been cast. But now Ashton seemed caught in the time frame of a nostalgic postcard and those roots were loosening, their tentacles twining in new directions, linking her to a family of strangers: bound to them by blood and tears, by an ancestral history, and a secret that belonged to the foreboding headland she had last seen looming over the small town of Anaskeagh.

B
eth made
her way down the rocks to the small cove where she swam every morning. The sky, already streaked with crimson, promised a glorious day. Occasionally, she met Conor Grant jogging along the cliff path but this morning he’d climbed over the rocks and was watching her when she emerged from the water.

‘Morning, Beth.’ He touched his forehead in a mock salute. ‘It’s fit and well you’re looking these days.’ The sweat band across his forehead emphasised his large face and dark moustache. She’d heard he was a formidable solicitor and had no reason to doubt it. ‘I presume you’ve heard the good news.’

‘Yes,’ she replied, towelling her hair in fast, furious strokes. ‘A seat at the Cabinet table. Albert must be very pleased with himself.’

‘Humbled, Beth. And honoured. Keep Saturday night free. We’re organising a party in Cherry Vale to celebrate.’

‘We’re not free―’

‘No excuses.’ He wagged his finger warningly at her. ‘We’ve seen little enough of you and your family since you arrived. Everyone who’s anyone is Anaskeagh will be there. How would it look if those closest to my father stayed away.’ His heavy thighs juddered as he prepared to finish his run. ‘It’s going to be a great night, Beth. We’ll expect you and Stewart at eight.’

The Cabinet reshuffle had been the subject of speculation for weeks but the media clamoured with disappointment when the news broke. Apart from Albert Grant’s appointment to a newly established ministry, it was the same old faces, same old rhetoric, same old promises.

S
hortly after her
arrival in Anaskeagh Beth had called to see him. His old furniture showrooms in the centre of town had been unrecognisable. Conor’s law firm was located on the ground floor and the spacious upper storey where bedroom furniture was once displayed had been converted into his apartment and constituency clinic. The showrooms had seemed so large when Beth was a child. Fancy glass doors, the smell of leather and wood, the hum of fluorescent lights beating mercilessly down on the cheap furniture her aunt sold on credit to the women of Anaskeagh.

She’d tried to compose herself as the elevator moved smoothly upwards but once she’d stepped into the corridor she’d been swamped by long-forgotten sensations. The squeak of bedsprings, his hoarse, whispering threats, the dead weight of his mouth silencing her. She’d turned, ready to run, as she had never been able to run during those dark times. But now she had a family to protect and a debt to settle.

Her uncle had risen from behind his desk when she’d entered his office.

‘Beth, my dear girl.’ He’d moved towards her, his hand outstretched. ‘Home to your own at last.’

‘Yes, Albert, back at last – for better or worse.’

‘A wise move, my dear. Your husband was a lost man without you. A stressful time starting up a new company but when domestic problems are added it makes everything so much more difficult. Don’t you agree?’

‘I do indeed.’ Beth had ignored his hand and he, seemingly oblivious to her revulsion, had waved her into a chair. ‘However it was necessary to be sure that this was the right move for my family to make.’

He’d sat down and smiled at her over his glasses. ‘I’m glad you’re settling into your new home. If you’ve any difficulties with schools please don’t hesitate—’

‘Everything is under control, thank you,’ she’d interjected smoothly. ‘Lindsey is staying with her grandmother in Oldport but she’ll visit us on a regular basis.’

‘The dear child. How is she? Recovered, I hope?’

‘I think it’s important that we understand each other.’ She’d held his gaze, forcing him to glance down at his hands. ‘Lindsey has told me everything. I repeat – everything. I’ve come here for only one reason. If you go within breathing distance of any of my children I’ll have no hesitation in destroying you. Do I need to elaborate any further?’

‘Dear Beth, you never change,’ he’d said. ‘Always the cruel word. I’ll never understand how your mind works.’ His arrogance, his instant control of the situation had been as forceful as ever. He remained immune from threats, holding power through indebtedness, and she’d been acutely aware that he’d smoothed the way for Stewart. Red tape cut, strings pulled, the first tranche of funding already spent, the second tranche delayed.

‘Your daughter is a talented young lady but a mite unstable, wouldn’t you agree?’ He’d removed his glasses and dangled them from his index finger. ‘It seems highly irresponsible to leave her in the care of that old woman instead of overseeing a proper drug-rehabilitation programme for her. I’m aware that the Gardaí took a lenient view of that whole sorry affair. Just as well we have an understanding police force. A criminal record at her age would be most unfortunate.’

She’d risen to her feet, relieved to find the floor still steady beneath her. ‘I’ve nothing further to say to you, except to repeat my warning. You’ve a lot to lose, Albert
.
And I won’t hesitate to take you down.’

He’d called her name as she reached the door. When she’d turned he’d been behind her, his fury forcing her backwards against the wood. She’d resisted the urge to strike him. What a relief that would be, letting go and clawing out his eyes, ripping the skin from his face. But that would mean touching him and the memories had started to overwhelm her, to force her further against the wall, to break the courage that had brought her here.

‘Where is your gratitude, Beth? After all the help I’ve given your husband―’

‘Why should I thank you?’ she’d interrupted him curtly. ‘Everything Stewart achieved was done under his own steam.’

‘Then tell him not to be so impatient. He’s making a nuisance of himself, phoning the ACII and accusing them of delaying his grants package. The staff have more to do than listen to a constant flow of unwarranted complaints.’ His breath had blown faintly cold on her cheeks. He’d lowered his voice until the sound became an intimate whisper. ‘But we’re family, after all, Beth. Why do you think I invested in Della Designs―’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘How else do you think Peter expanded his factory and offered you and Stewart the chance to come home again?’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘I did it for Sara’s sake. I loved her dearly but she was so fragile. Such a tenuous grip on reality. She needed security to pursue her own career and I wasn’t going to see her wonderful talent wasted. Family, Beth, flesh and blood can’t be denied. I’ll do anything to protect my own.’ She’d heard him swallow. His mouth must have been dry, parched from lies. ‘Tell Stewart not to worry. The right word in the right ear is a marvellous lubricant when it comes to oiling the wheels of bureaucracy.’

He’d moved away from her. For such a heavily built man he was light on his feet. A dignified walk back to his desk, his features arranged in his poster smile, ready to greet his next constituent.

Moving back to Anaskeagh had been as tough as she’d expected, yet, under the revulsion she felt at living in such close proximity to her uncle, she was invigorated by the challenge of working with Stewart. Sometimes it seemed as if the intervening years had never happened and she was a young woman again, decisive, determined. At home and in the factory she was busier than ever, constantly on call to solve one problem after another. She had no title, insisting she didn’t want to be burdened with one. All aspects of TrendLines interested her. She needed to be accessible to everyone. It was an extension of motherhood, she thought on more than one occasion, laughing out loud at the absurdity and the truth of it.

Gail and Paul were up and dressed when she returned from the cove. No problem getting them out in the mornings. Sheila O’Donovan’s bungalow was close to the old farmhouse, where Catherine now lived alone, and the farm still held the same attractions that had once enchanted Beth. Robert moaned when she called him but he too came to the breakfast table on time, ready to begin his summer job at TrendLines.

Stewart was shaving when she entered their bedroom en suite.

‘I met Conor in the cove,’ she said. ‘He’s invited us to a party on Saturday. Big celebration.’

‘Do we have to go?’ Stewart finished shaving and slapped cologne on his cheeks.

‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘This is a small town. People will notice if we’re missing. The powers-that-be from the ACII will be there. Perhaps you can bang a few heads together and get some action on your funding.’

She leaned into his back to hug him before slipping off her tracksuit and turning on the shower. Sea salt had dried on her skin. She needed scalding water to cleanse her, yet, even if she scrubbed and scrubbed, she would never be able to wash him away. But she would endure, as Sara had been unable to do.

His sister had returned to Anaskeagh Head for the last time. Catherine O’Donovan had seen her standing outside the farmhouse. Her camera hung from her neck. She’d worn a long navy jumper, trousers and walking boots. But when Catherine had gone out to invite her into the house, Sara had disappeared.

‘Perhaps she was a ghost,’ Catherine had said. ‘She looked so insubstantial standing under the trees.’

No ghost. Beth believed it had been a time of confrontation. Perhaps, also, Sara had sought healing in the shadow of Aislin’s Roof. Whatever she sought she hadn’t found and Beth was here in this place of restitution, ready to avenge her memory.