The Color of Blood (39 page)

“We’ve got to get out of here,” I said, my words a death rattle against the flames. Shane’s smile seemed garish but disembodied, as if it were the only part of him left alive.

“A father who killed her mother?” he said. “I’m no use to Emily now. I’m better off with my sister. I always was.”

I reached out to grab him, but he pushed me toward the window and plunged back into the flames. As I let myself down onto the path, the remaining portraits of John Howard were melting off the walls.

I clambered up onto the lawn. When I turned back, Rowan House was burning like a tinderbox; there were flames spouting from the roof and smoke billowed from windows above and below. On the main lawn through the smoke, I thought I saw a murder of crows assembled, thought I could hear the beating of wings; when I got closer, I saw that it was a bunch of uniformed Guards spilling over the grass. Marked and unmarked Garda cars rolled up the drive. Martha O’Connor stood by the granite-edged pool with a digital camera on her shoulder. I found out later that Emily had summoned her. Fiona Reed and Martha were in close conversation. They seemed to have a lot to talk about. DS Forde grabbed my arm and tried to have me arrested. Dave Donnelly intervened, and if he didn’t quite tell Forde to go fuck himself, he got him off my back. I told Dave I thought Jonathan O’Connor was still in the house, and I told him about Shane Howard’s confession. He directed Forde to lead a squad around to see if the front entrance was still accessible.

And then I saw Emily Howard pounding across the lawn, with Jerry Dalton following. They were coughing, faces blackened by smoke, red eyes streaming; I guess I looked like that too. Emily was carrying the dollhouse that had been in her bedroom, the one with the roof that didn’t open. Except it was open now, the edge frayed and splintered from where it had been forced. She looked around, saw Martha O’Connor, and beckoned to her, pointing at the camera. She put the dollhouse into Jerry’s arms, and then she opened the roof. There were no dolls fucking this time, no
I should be ashamed of myself
, just a folded sheet of notepaper tied in red and green ribbon. The paper was covered with a girlish scrawl that Emily read aloud in an unsteady voice:

Cold. When she slept, she slept for a thousand years, and nobody thought or spoke or breathed, so who was in charge of her kingdom then? Not her pathetic father and mother, the king and queen of nothing. Cold as ice, cold as the spell that froze the world. Because they want to give him away. But they will not be permitted. She can see what was wrong now: everything. The wrong people, chiefly Father who is a coward and a wriggling sticky worm when she told her mother what Father did Mother couldn’t make up her mind who she was angrier at maybe herself the shriveled-up old bag no one comes to visit me or talk to me as if it is All My Fault and I will be sent away to some school in fucking Galway where everyone is a fucking nun even the girls are nuns or want to be well the sky will burn the world down before that happens even if I should be ashamed of myself I am going to take the little man down to where no one can find us where we can disappear and they can wait a thousand years and even then if some prince comes and kisses her she’ll slit his lips and let them run bloodred all over scatter the rowan fruit in a ring that will keep the evil away that will keep them all away she has her little prince now and she and he will be invisible dark and wet and cold and safe for a thousand years

Below the writing there was a circle drawn in ink; in the top left-hand corner, someone had drawn a red and green cross. Emily pointed to the model of the pond, with its perimeter wall of pebbles glued together; she reached finger and thumb down into the top left-hand corner, dislodged a loose pebble and extracted a small length of red and green tartan cloth, rolled in a small tube. She held it up, and then placed it on the surface of the model pool.

Then she kicked off her motorcycle boots and jumped into the actual pool. Martha followed her with the camera as she waded toward the spot marked on the map. Then she vanished beneath the water. Dave Donnelly looked at me, and I nodded, as if to say, it’s okay. I didn’t know whether it was okay or not. The flames from the blazing house burned dark gold and blood orange; the dawn washed the sky a darker, deeper pink. Emily came up for air, and nodded to me, and almost smiled, and went beneath the dark water again.

“What’s she looking for, Ed?” Dave said.

“A child,” I said. “A dead child. A son.”

The metal cross atop the round tower stood black and indifferent against the inferno. Jonathan had told his family to go to hell, but that’s where they had been living all along. He had just lit the flames. I thought of Sandra, and I felt shame at how I had used her to get to the truth, and sorrow for what might have been, and anger that she didn’t trust me sooner, or at all. But it was too late for her, had been too late from the day her father touched her. I wondered in the long years she lived in Rowan House if she had sometimes envied her sister’s death. I thought of Mary Howard, with her message to her granddaughter from beyond the grave. I thought of Marian Howard’s child, and the dead children left in barns and church doorways and buried in fields and in gardens all across Ireland, all for the same reason, for shame, for shame. And I thought of the message last night from my ex-wife, the mother of my dead child, telling me she had given birth to a son.

When Emily came up for breath a second time, she wasn’t smiling. She wiped dirt and dead leaves from her face, then reached back down into the water and lifted out a tiny sodden red and green bundle. As she walked toward us, the water dripping from the bloodstone around her neck, she unfolded the bundle. It was a small child’s school pinafore that had been rolled into swaddling. She carefully reached a hand inside. I could see the red flames of the house burning through the trees, hear the crackle of the fire like the beating of wings. I could see the tears rolling down Emily Howard’s cheeks. As she brought her hand up and threw away the pinafore and held the tiny bones of Marian Howard’s baby in her outstretched hands, her rings skimmed the water and the dawn flushed deep red as the sky all over Dublin turned the color of blood.

DECLAN HUGHES
has worked for more than twenty years in the theater in Dublin as director and playwright. In 1984, he co-founded Rough Magic, Ireland’s leading independent theater company. He has been writer in association with the Abbey Theatre and remains an artistic associate of Rough Magic. His third Ed Loy thriller,
The Price of Blood,
is now available in hardcover from William Morrow. He lives in Dublin, Ireland.

T
HE
C
OLOR OF
B
LOOD

T
HE
W
RONG
K
IND OF
B
LOOD

And in Hardcover

T
HE
P
RICE
OF B
LOOD