I Saw You (27 page)

Sally stirred in her chair and refilled her glass. ‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘it was you, wasn’t it?’

‘Me? What do you mean?’ Margaret looked at her.

‘It was you Patrick had the affair with. James told me about it. Everyone, all his friends, knew there was someone, but no one was sure who it was.’ She smiled. ‘I can see it
in your face when you mention his name. You must have loved him a lot.’

Margaret picked up the bottle and topped up her own glass. ‘It was a long time ago. I was young. I didn’t know what I was getting into. I didn’t think about the consequences.
For me or for anyone else.’ She drank some wine. It was very dry and very cold.

‘And what were the consequences?’

Margaret didn’t reply immediately. ‘It was a long time ago,’ she repeated quietly. Consequences unimagined. And what was to come next? She felt a clutch of fear in her stomach.
It had seemed so straightforward when she was in her house in Eumundi. Mary was dead. Jimmy Fitzsimons was dead. Patrick was dead. There was no one left who could be hurt. She had to face what she
had done. She had to atone for her sin. She had to come back and face the consequences. But now? She pushed the fear back down into the darkness. She closed her eyes and turned her face to the sun.
She felt its soothing warmth on her face. She lifted her glass. She drank.

The afternoon passed slowly. They ate bread and cheese, small, juicy tomatoes and fat black olives. The dog woke and scratched, snapped at flies, then lapsed back into his dream-filled
sleep.

‘Thanks for this,’ Sally said.

‘For what?’

‘For letting me sit here with you. For not expecting anything from me. For allowing me to grieve without making any demands.’

It was almost midnight by the time Sally left. Margaret walked with her past the Martello tower and up the steep hill to the main road. The dog snuffled in the ditches.

‘Thank you again,’ Sally said.

‘It’s my pleasure. It’s been a long time since I had some friendship in my life.’ Margaret smiled.

Sally looked across the road towards the tall terrace of houses. ‘I hope Vanessa’s home. Of course, I feel neglectful of her now.’

‘Don’t. I think it’s about time Vanessa got back to teenage pursuits, don’t you?’ Margaret crossed her arms. She shivered. Tonight there was a chill in the air.

‘You’re probably right.’ Sally began to cross the road. Then she turned back. ‘Just one thing I wanted to ask you. You know the man who killed your daughter?’

Margaret nodded, her throat suddenly tight.

‘Well, I was wondering, what happened to him? They found his body, didn’t they, out near Blessington? But they never said how he died. Not really.’

Margaret swallowed. Her mouth was dry. ‘He died of hunger and thirst. The most basic and simple way to die.’

‘But how?’ Sally’s expression was full of curiosity. ‘How did that happen?’

‘Someone locked him up. Someone made it impossible for him to eat or drink ever again.’

‘But who did it? Who would do such a thing? Who would want him to die like that?’

Their eyes met. Then Margaret looked away. ‘Goodnight, Sally.’ She turned to walk home.

‘Wait. Wait a minute,’ Sally moved towards her. She kissed her on both cheeks, then took her head in her hands and kissed her forehead. ‘Goodnight, Margaret, goodnight.’
Her voice was gentle.

Margaret nodded. No words would come.

The phone was ringing, shrill and insistent. McLoughlin buried his face in the pillow. He put his hands over his ears. Silence. He drifted back into sleep. Then the phone rang
again. He turned on to his front and reached down beside the bed. His fingers scrabbled for the hard plastic. He dragged it up and peered blearily at the screen. But there was no vibration, no
lights, nothing. He lifted his head from the pillow. He peered at the clock on the bedside table. It was bright outside, the sun edging around the curtains. It was late, nearly one o’clock.
He yawned loudly, and heard the phone again. The sound was coming from the sitting room. He got up quickly, stumbling as he hurried from the bedroom along the corridor. Just as he went through the
door the ringing stopped.

‘Shit, fuck it,’ he muttered, as he bumped into the coffee-table and cracked his knee on the corner. And then the phone beeped. Twice, loudly. And he saw it, on the desk beside the
computer, its lights shining, then dimming. Marina’s phone. Where he had left it after he had rung the number and heard Dominic de Paor’s voice. He limped across the room and picked it
up. There were three missed calls registered and the symbol for a message, the tiny closed envelope in the top left-hand corner of the screen. He carried it with him into the kitchen and put it
down on the table as he filled the kettle with water. He plugged it in and switched it on, then picked up the phone, slid back the glass doors and stepped out on to the terrace. He slumped on to
the bench. His mouth was dry and foul and he felt disoriented and weak. He pressed the numbers to get the message. He held the phone to his ear. He heard the voice.

‘I know it wasn’t Marina who phoned me. So who are you? And what do you want? Whoever you are, back off. Leave me alone.’

He got up, went into the kitchen and made himself tea. He replayed the message. De Paor’s tone was angry and hostile. ‘Back off. Leave me alone,’ he said. But he had been
wondering. Who had Marina’s phone? And why had they called him? He probably figured it was a random thing, McLoughlin thought. Some kid had got hold of the phone and was flicking through the
numbers. Well, he was wrong. And perhaps it was about time McLoughlin went to see him. And told him. And told him a few other things too. Told him that he knew what had happened that night at the
party. Told him how he had seen what had been done to Mark Porter and Marina. Asked him what he knew about Marina’s death. Asked him about his school days.

He headed for the bathroom. He turned on the shower and stepped under the jet of water. He hadn’t got far with the weight loss. His body still made him cringe. And when he touched his skin
it was as if it was covered with a thick unresponsive cuticle. He tried to remember what it was like to be touched by someone who loved him. And when was the last time he had touched someone he
loved? Or thought he loved, perhaps. A long time ago. Shaking Margaret Mitchell’s hand when he said goodbye to her after the Jimmy Fitzsimons trial collapsed. Maybe that was it. That was the
last time he’d had physical contact with her. Of course he had seen her after then. Saw her that night out in Ballyknockan. Watched her as she got out of the car that Jimmy was driving.
Wanted to rush to help her. But stopped when he saw Patrick Holland. Realized he had no place in her life. And since then? She had come into his dreams at night, and filled his idle thoughts during
the day. He remembered the shine of her dark hair, the grace of her stance, the timbre of her voice. Remembered how she lay in the deckchair in the garden in Brighton Vale. Made up stories about
how they would meet again, what he would say, what she would say, what they would do.

He stepped out on to the bathmat and pulled a towel from the rail. He flailed at his body. There had been a couple of others, brief encounters, one-night stands. The sex had been all right, but
it had left him with a sense of guilt. Silly, really. He sat down on the toilet seat and dried between his toes. Margaret was gone. He would never see her again. And anyway, anyway, there could
never be anything between them. Not since that night in Ballyknockan.

‘I saw you,’ he said the words out loud. ‘I saw you and what you did.’

‘I saw you.’ The same words that had been sent to Marina. What had she done? What had she been seen to do? Who had seen her? And what was the secret that those words threatened to
reveal?

He hung the towel on the rail to dry. And heard the phone ring again. This time it was his own ringtone. He hurried back into the bedroom and reached for it. And saw the name
‘Harris’ on the screen. ‘Hey, Johnny, how goes it? How’s my man?’ His tone was distinctly transatlantic.

‘Thought you’d like to know. Mark Porter . . .’ Harris said.

‘Yes, go on?’ McLoughlin cradled the phone between his ear and his shoulder.

‘Doesn’t seem to be much doubt. It was suicide. By hanging.’ His tone was matter-of-fact.

‘Anything strange about it? Anything about the rope?’ He pulled open the chest of drawers and rummaged one-handed for a clean T-shirt and underpants.

‘Well, it’s good-quality natural fibre. And he made a proper hangman’s noose. The right kind of knot and everything. Would he have been a sailor, do you think?’

‘Probably not. More likely a Scout.’ McLoughlin remembered what Gwen had told him. About the abuse.

‘Ah, that explains it.’ Harris sighed. ‘A knot for every occasion. Anyway, it’s a sad business. Suicide leaves a nasty aftermath. I kind of know the family, the Porters.
Very stiff-upper-lip. Very private. They won’t like this one bit. Such a public death.’ He paused. ‘Do you fancy sailing tonight? I’m a bit short, crew-wise.’

‘I’m not sure. Johnny, I’ve a few things to do.’ He sat down on the bed, slipping his feet one at a time into his pants. ‘But listen, anything else about Rosie
Webb?’

‘Not really. Doesn’t seem as if her death is suspicious. No signs of violence or force or anything like that. Anyway,’ his tone was brisk, business-like, ‘got to go.
Things to do, people to see. Maybe we’ll catch up later.’

‘Sure thing, pal, sure thing.’ McLoughlin put the phone down and concentrated on dressing. Then he walked into the sitting room and sat at his computer. He checked his emails. There
was the usual rubbish, but among the suggestions for stock investments, online drugs, special offers from the local supermarket, he saw the name ‘Tom Spencer’. He opened the email.