The Living (13 page)

It was at this point that George came into the office.

Blood pounded in my head, and my knees felt weak. I looked down at my hand, which had shot out and gripped Matthew's wrist like a manacle.

George had apparently made his entrance intending to address me at my desk. ‘There are some idiots in this town who need to realize we're not living in the dark ages!' he announced. The conviction in his voice dropped off sharply as he noticed that I was not where he expected me to be. He fell silent altogether when he saw Matthew.

‘Hi, George,' I croaked, and feigned a coughing fit, hoping it would explain my red face and crooked stance. Matthew, either playing along or believing my charade, patted me firmly on the back.

George came all the way into the middle of the room. ‘I see we have company?' His tone was none too friendly. I sensed his embarrassment at having fluffed his entry in front of a stranger.

Matthew stopped patting me and extended a hand. ‘Hi, I'm Matthew Taylor, I'm a friend of Cate's. She was just showing me the office before we go out to lunch.' His attempt at soothing cut no ice with George, who shook his hand briefly, with ill grace.

‘Charmed, I'm sure,' George muttered. He regarded Matthew
through half-closed eyes. ‘You've an awful familiar look about you,' he said, and it sounded as though he was exaggerating the rural flavour to his accent in deliberate contrast with Matthew's trim English. ‘Have I seen you around somewhere recently?'

Matthew said mildly, ‘I'm afraid I don't know.'

George fixed him with a gimlet stare, then seemed to concede and turned instead to me. ‘Don't be too late back from lunch, now. I'll want those minutes from this morning before the end of the day.'

‘No problem.'

George stumped into his office and shut the door.

Matthew treated me to lunch at a restaurant in Rathmines, and when I got back George was waiting for me.

‘Where's your friend from?' he asked.

I didn't think it was any of his business, but I said, ‘He's English.'

‘Well, I gathered
that
. What's he doing here?'

‘He's studying with Professor Lawless, actually.' I didn't like George's tone.

‘Is that what he told you? I think I've seen him snooping around here before, you know.'

‘That's … not very likely,' I said, keeping my temper with difficulty. ‘Why would he snoop around?'

‘Did he say anything about Eddie's book?'

‘No, he didn't!' I exclaimed, without thinking. So that was my story now. I'd need to make sure Matthew didn't tell Lawless anything that would incriminate me. Tangled web is right.

George growled and retreated to his office. I was cross with him, his knee-jerk suspicion, his old-school distrust of an Englishman. I wished I could explain to him how out of touch he was.

T
HERE WAS SOMETHING
wrong in Ardee. It was partly that it was Sunday dinner, rather than lunch, but that wasn't all. I arrived well after six, expecting to be in the doghouse for turning up late, but Mum bustled out into the hall as I came in, uttering bland, perfumed greetings and offering a cheek before retreating to the kitchen. Uncle Fintan was in the sitting room, sitting apologetically in Mum's armchair, dabbing at a streaming nose as I made muffled conversation with Dad and Mícheál.

I bore it for a few minutes, then went to help Mum get the meal ready. The habitual dance of preparation – serving dishes, cutlery, table mats, wineglasses, salt shakers and butter curls – was calming, at least. As the two of us moved deftly through the routine I put my finger on what was different.

‘Where's Auntie Rosemary?' I asked.

‘What, love?' Mum straightened from the oven, holding a laden tray of roast potatoes in two ancient, scorched mitts. A lock of hair hung lank over her glistening forehead.

I repeated myself.

‘Oh. She's not well,' Mum said.

‘Did Uncle Fintan come on his own?' That was uncharacteristic, to say the least.

Mum turned to me, her face stony, and took a breath to speak.
There was a silence. ‘Here, can you take the soup through, and I'll get this lot sorted out.' She nodded lopsidedly at the counter, where the bowls of soup stood ready.

Dinner was tomato soup and chicken casserole with potatoes and vegetables; Viennetta for dessert. Mild bickering between Dad and Mícheál. Mum dutifully reining in the conversation, bringing everyone's attention back to the food on our plates. Uncle Fintan receiving with studied humility a generous second helping of casserole, the last few potatoes.

‘How's work going this weather, Cate?' Dad asked.

I hesitated, hearing Mum breathe in. ‘Grand, yeah,' I said. ‘Not much going on.'

‘Are you working on that book Dad was talking about?' Mícheál asked – but Mum was ready for him.

‘Get the ice-cream out, Mícheál,' she said. ‘It'll be rock-hard.' She glanced at Uncle Fintan. There was to be no talk about Eddie MacDevitt's book.

Mícheál kicked at the door jamb as he went out to the chest freezer in the pantry.

The grown-ups put away two bottles of wine between them. I stuck to orange juice, feeling a grudging solidarity with Mícheál, who was scowling his way through his meal. I knew how he felt. Being in this house knocked years off me.

The sense of solidarity turned out not to be mutual. ‘Hey, do you still have that Brit boyfriend?' Mícheál asked me as we passed round the dessert plates.

‘What?'

‘Cattle has a Brit boyfriend,' he said again, just to make sure everyone heard.

‘Shut
up
,' I gritted, incurring a look from Mum.

Uncle Fintan looked up. ‘And how do you know that, Mícheál?'

Mícheál was leering at me now, enjoying my downfall. ‘I met him the day I went to the match with PJ. He talked like a Brit.'

‘How long ago was that?' What was Uncle Fintan playing at, cross-examining Mícheál like this?

‘Ah, a few weeks ago,' said Mícheál. He winked at me. ‘Sure, maybe you've broken up by now, have you?'

‘Well, and how's your love-life?' I challenged him. ‘Are you still trailing around after PJ's big sister like a flatulent bullock?'

‘Don't be rude to your brother, Caitlín,' said Dad, with a warning edge.

Mum changed the subject.

Later, as we were filling the dishwasher, Mum said, with exaggerated nonchalance, ‘So, what about this young man, then?'

I closed my eyes and let out a breath. ‘Nothing much to tell, really.'

‘Well, are you seeing him?' Her consonants were just a little fuzzy around the edges.

‘I am, yeah,' I said, turning away to scrape off a plate into the compost bin.

‘And where's he from, exactly?' Mum might have thought she was making casual conversation, but I knew better.

I let out a short sigh. ‘He's from Bristol, Mum.'

‘Oh,' she said. ‘Very nice.'

I left early, unwilling to navigate the complexities any longer. Mum walked out into the porch with me.

‘Will you be all right, now, driving back up on your own?'

‘Mum, they gave me a licence. It wasn't a clerical error, like.'

She put an arm round my shoulders and leaned in, sharing her wine-breath. ‘Caitlín,' she said, ‘be careful. You know what I'm saying? Be careful.'

I hugged her perfunctorily and almost ran out the gate. Her warning had not been about driving home. I couldn't decide whether she'd meant ‘use contraception' or ‘don't go with a Brit'. I couldn't decide which possibility was more obnoxious.

I
ROLLED INTO MY
street to find my usual parking spot under the ash tree waiting for me. I was distracted, tired – I felt as if I had drunk wine with my dinner after all. It was odd, wasn't it, how Uncle Fintan had drunk as much as Mum and Dad. Far too much to drive. He must be staying the night in Ardee. Which meant that Auntie Rosemary was not so much sick as hostile. I recalled her fury the day Dad had read out the article about Eddie's book – Uncle Fintan spilling his water to avert a discussion that must have taken place later on.

I locked the car and thought further back, to the day Uncle Fintan gave me Eddie's manuscript for George. ‘Tell him I was asking for him,' he'd said, with a little puff of glee like a child
getting away with mischief. It had seemed ordinary – a delivery by one old friend to another. I hadn't realized what a transgression it was.

It wasn't comfortable, this insight into the compromises of my uncle's marriage. Squirming a little, I opened the front door, groped for the timer switch on the landing light and trudged upstairs to my flat. I hung up my coat in the dark and walked into the sitting room, which was dimly lit by the streetlight. On the table the Bell Books laptop sat open like a shell, displaying its screensaver image, a shifting shape of brightly coloured lines, flowing unfussily within the confines of the small screen.

I turned on the light. Why hadn't I mentioned the laptop at dinner? It would have earned me a heap of credit with Mum – a company laptop, practically the hallmark of a
real job
.

I was conscious of a dim unease as I prized my shoes off and went into the kitchen to put on the kettle. I needed to calm down. Perhaps there'd be a late film on – something mindless. But as I turned back to the sitting room, the sense of wrongness hit me like a rubber bullet.

The laptop.

The screensaver
.

Fuck.

What did that mean? Did it mean what I thought it meant?

The surge of adrenalin took me unawares, jolting me forward towards the table. As I reached it, the screensaver shut off, the laptop settling into its sleep mode with a satisfied little murmur. I
stopped short of touching it, and instead stood motionless, caught in the tangle of possibilities.

Slowly, I turned and scanned the room. My bedroom door was ajar by about six inches. I tried to remember how I had left it. Open, I thought, but I wasn't sure.

It was one thing to be followed in the street; it was quite another to imagine a stranger in my flat.

I walked quietly towards the bedroom, but halfway there, the shock of a black doorway at the edge of my vision made me jump. My stomach lurched, and I let out a little yelp. Oh. I'd forgotten to close the door to my flat. The timer on the hall light had expired. I breathed, then went to close the door. From the kitchen came the small sound of the kettle clicking off.

In the silence left by the ending of the kettle's hiss, I heard a sound so ordinary that for a few seconds I did not appreciate its implication: downstairs, barely audible, the reedy whine of the front door, the soft swish of the insulation as the latch clicked shut.

Fear rose like fire all around me. I felt short of breath. I could hear the rushing of blood, feel the thump of my heart.

Without pausing to think, I hurried to the sitting-room window, pressing my cheek to the wall and peering out. I could discern nobody clearly, but from the movements visible I constructed at least one stealthy figure picking its way through the shadows. I dragged the curtains shut, fingers shaking.

Leaden-footed, I stumbled back to the table. I didn't know where to begin. Again, I scanned the room. Nothing other than
the laptop appeared to have been disturbed. Some loose change in a saucer on the coffee table was still there. No drawers pulled out; no unexplained disarrangement.

I listened at my bedroom door for almost a minute before reaching in and turning on the light. Nothing. I eased the door open and went in.

Everything seemed normal. The urge to curl up in bed and sleep until this all blew over was almost irresistible. I steeled myself and turned back to the sitting room.

The door to the entrance hall of my flat was still open, a yawning breach in my ramparts. I went and shut it, quickly, decisively, as though to convince myself that the action would make me safe. The situation felt unreal, dreamlike. My knees were trembling; my hands and feet were very cold.

I forced myself to go back to the bedroom and check the cupboards and drawers, the bathroom and (feeling a little silly now – which brought a strange relief) under the bed.

Nobody there, of course. No apparent disturbance in this room at all. My silver and amethyst necklace and earrings, a twenty-first birthday present from Mum and Dad, were safe in their box at the back of my bedside drawer.

I could phone the Gardaí. I'd never done that before – had no idea what it would be like. Would I have to answer questions? Accompany them to the station? Would they be annoyed with me for bothering them when nothing had been taken? Probably. I had no reason, in fact, to suspect that anything at all had happened. A
mouse (ugh) had run across the laptop keyboard. The closing door I'd heard had been in another house. All I had was an ill-defined suspicion about people following me – people possibly still out in the street.

The Guards would think I was mad. They could do nothing anyway. Dust for fingerprints? Probably not even that. And what if it was the Special Branch who had broken in? How would that play out?

I could phone my parents. Dad would scoff; Mum would fret – and want to get landlord Uncle Fintan involved. And the Guards. Anyway, they'd all drunk far too much wine to be any use.

I wished Sheila and Aidan were downstairs. They weren't due back until next week.

I fished out my phone and dialled Matthew's number. Straight to voicemail – I let out a yell of frustration.
Bastard!
I paced the sitting room. I was trembling again. In shock, I supposed. I was starting to unravel, whip away into a mist of disorganized thoughts and unchecked emotions. I had to keep a grip.

Denise's phone went to voicemail too; her landline was engaged. I redialled over and over again, but there was no getting through.

Then I remembered phone tapping.