Sleep Sister: A page-turning novel of psychological suspense (25 page)

C
hristmas week was hectic
. Most of the time Eva was out on the road making deliveries while Muriel shifted poinsettia and chrysanthemums, holly wreaths and Christmas cherries. When the last customer left on Christmas Eve, they locked the gates of the centre and drank a toast. They were exhausted and giddy, unable to wind down now that the rush was over. The centre resembled a scene from the Blitz but the cash register had keyed in profits. Her business partner would be pleased. Earlier, he had stopped by to say goodbye; he was driving to the country to stay with relatives.

‘I wanted you to have this.’ He’d handed her a parcel wrapped in gold foil paper. When she’d opened it she found a painting of Murtagh’s River. A strange abstract image, as if the river flowed through a shrouded landscape where nothing had a recognisable shape, sound and movement suspended. Their first meeting place.

‘It’s beautiful.’ She’d been immediately embarrassed at not having a gift to give him in return.

He’d brushed aside her apology. ‘It’s the first thing I’ve painted in years that gave me pleasure. I wanted to share it with you.’

She’d walked with him towards his car.

‘I’ll see you in the New Year,’ he’d said and leaned forward to kiss her cheek. The sudden image of their mouths opening in a deep, searing kiss had shocked her equally as much as the jolting excitement that shivered through her. He too had seemed infused with the same desire and when she’d pulled away she’d been aware of an almost physical wrench separating them. Inside the car she’d seen the glowering face of Lindsey McKeever and an elderly woman who’d smiled back at Eva as he’d driven them away to celebrate a family Christmas.

It was late on Christmas Eve when she reached her parents’ house. At midnight Mass she dozed off, unmoved by the singing and the wafting clouds of incense drifting over the congregation. Yet when she went to bed, she was unable to sleep. Peter Wallace intruded on her thoughts too often. His direct gaze, always watching her. When he’d first come to her caravan and by the river, even when she’d sat mourning Faye, he had watched her. She remembered the close, almost claustrophobic feeling when they’d walked through the copse at the back of Havenstone, his strong grasp on her waist when she’d slipped. What was happening to her? Was it a reaction to Greg’s decision to remain in New York? He made excuses, repeated apologies. His words had a hollow echo and the imagined face of Ellen Lloyd was vibrant, young – as sensuous as the dawn on a Portuguese mountain.

H
er relations came
to Wind Fall on Christmas morning, the Frawleys and the Loughreys, hearty voices noisily greeting each other, hugging Eva too tightly. Maria arrived, radiant, accompanied by the first two-legged love of her life. Desmond Thorpe was a rugged man with good shoulders and a strong pair of hands for handling high-spirited fillies.

‘Magnificent in jodhpurs,’ Maria confided to her cousin, her eyes glowing joyously.

‘Spare me the lurid details,’ Eva warned. ‘And run as fast as you can in the opposite direction.’

Her friend placed two fingers in her ears and said, ‘I’m joyously deaf. Shut up.’ She skirted around the subject of Greg’s absence before asking outright if their marriage was over.

‘Was it ever on?’ Eva replied. ‘We had nothing in common. Nothing. When it came to making choices between his career and his marriage there was no competition. Do we have to talk about him today? I’d much rather hear about Desmond. Tell me everything. I mean everything.’

Maria moaned happily. ‘Where do I begin?’

Dinner was boisterous. They wore party hats and read silly riddles from Christmas crackers. It was their first Christmas without Brigid Loughrey and everyone was determined to be merry. This time last year Faye had been a bundle of love passed from one set of arms to the next. They toasted absent friends and Liz cried quietly into a paper tissue printed with holly.

Greg rang from New York. He was sharing a meal with some Irish friends. When his call ended Eva told her mother she was returning to the cottage.

Liz protested, shocked at her decision. ‘I have to go.’ Eva had no excuse to offer her. The words became a mantra. ‘I have to go.’

Liz followed her to the bedroom. ‘What about your marriage?’ she demanded. ‘You hit the first wall and that’s it, is it? Is that all your husband means to you?’ She fired questions, her face flushed, sternly challenging. Did Eva think her marriage to Steve was easy in those early years? Their dreams falling apart month after month. ‘It’s not that easy to cope with a failed IVF procedure, no matter what you might think,’ she cried.

Eva winced back from her anger. She sank to the edge of the bed and placed her hands over her face, shamed. ‘I’ll never forgive myself for that remark, Liz. All I can do is ask you to forgive me.’

Her mother’s shoulders slumped, weary suddenly from the intensity of emotion in the room. ‘Go if you must,’ she said. ‘But remember this, Eva – grief is a lonely journey if you insist on walking it alone.’

T
his was
Connie’s first visit to Anaskeagh. Until then, she had resisted all of Beth’s invitations. Anaskeagh was Barry’s life before they’d met and she had always displayed a quiet deference towards his wife’s wish that their paths never cross. She only agreed to come when she heard that Marjory was once again spending Christmas in New York.

Peter escorted her into the house, carrying her suitcase and leaving Lindsey to trail behind. Trouble was brewing, Beth observed; it was obvious from his grim silence and Lindsey’s sullen glare, which changed to a delighted shriek when she greeted Stewart. Soon afterwards they left together for a long walk, something they always did whenever Lindsey visited Anaskeagh. Beth had no idea what they spoke about during their time together, and they didn’t confide in her. She felt no resentment at being on the sidelines of the close-knit relationship they had always shared. It would be Stewart, not she or Peter, who would bring their child through this crisis.

‘She was arguing with Peter the whole way down,’ said Connie when Beth showed her into the spare bedroom. ‘She’s a bold brat when she makes up her mind to torment a body.’ She gazed out the window over the darkening headland. ‘Barry talked so much about Anaskeagh. I’m glad I’ve had a chance to see it at last.’ She smiled and hugged her daughter-in-law. ‘You’re looking well, pet. Don’t worry about Lindsey. She’s a prickly little madam but her heart’s in the right place. I’d be lost without her these days.’

The spirit of Christmas did not improve Lindsey’s mood. She deliberately stepped out of Peter’s way every time he walked past. His gift to her remained unopened under the tree. He had chosen his gifts with care this year: a book on traditional music for Robert, a magician’s set for Paul, and Gail’s present – a toy dolphin that could swim and leap in the bath – created such excitement that she insisted on Peter filling the kitchen sink and showing her how it worked.

He pretended not to notice Lindsey’s unopened present. Nor did he react when she refused to sit near him during Christmas dinner. He even remained calm when she contradicted him every time he spoke. Connie ordered her to behave, using a tone of voice that would have invoked instant rebellion if Beth had tried it. Lindsey subsided for a short while but her resentment cast a pall over the festivities. Stewart was the lash she used. Never had her love for him been displayed so openly, and she seemed elated by the tension she created.

‘Have you any idea how much you’re upsetting everyone, especially your father?’ Beth asked when she found her wrapped in her anorak in the back garden, swaying listlessly on Gail’s swing.

‘Which one are you talking about?’ Lindsey snapped back. ‘The one with my heart or my DNA? What did you ever see in him? You must have been stoned out of your mind.’

From the mouths of aggressive teenagers, thought Beth as she retreated indoors, a truth could sometimes shine.

Nuala O’Neill drove to the bungalow the following afternoon and announced that she had sold three of Lindsey’s paintings before Christmas. This innocent remark proved to be the spark that struck the tinderbox. Afterwards, Beth could only wonder how the row hadn’t erupted sooner.

‘I’d love to see your work, Lindsey.’ Peter was unable to hide his pleasure as Nuala discussed the sold paintings. Beth watched the storm clouds gather as he asked Lindsey about her techniques and the materials she used.

Lindsey, tired of her monosyllabic replies, jumped to her feet. ‘Mind your own business and stop poking your nose into mine,’ she yelled. ‘This has nothing to do with you and never will – understand?’ She turned to Stewart and smiled brilliantly. ‘I need fresh air, Dad. How about a walk? I’ll get my jacket.’ She stalked from the room, leaving a stunned silence behind.

Nuala looked bewildered. ‘Was it something I said? I’ve never seen Lindsey behave that way before.’

‘Count yourself lucky,’ sighed Stewart, rising to accompany his wayward child on a walk over the blustery headland.

Nuala left shortly afterwards. Connie retired for a nap. She was pale, her eyes red-rimmed, looking old and vulnerable in a way that worried Beth. But Connie insisted she was simply tired – too much rich food. She closed her eyes and waved Beth from the bedroom. Robert went off to join his friends on Turnabout Bridge, a meeting place for teenagers. He was creating a new musical wave, he told Peter. Celtic rock rage was a protest against manufactured boy bands and would soon take the country by storm.

‘Sounds like Horslips on speed.’ Peter laughed. ‘How do you intend promoting this new wave?’

‘I’ve formed a band,’ replied Robert. ‘We’re called Hot Vomit. Packs a punch, don’t you think?’

‘Right in the gut,’ agreed his uncle. ‘I’d love to hear you sometime. Perhaps when I’m senile and totally deaf.’

Peter left soon afterwards. ‘I’m sorry to have been the cause of so much upset,’ he told Beth. ‘Coming here wasn’t a good idea.’

‘Lindsey’s rudeness is unforgivable,’ Beth replied. ‘I don’t know what to say…’ She faltered before his penetrating gaze. ‘She’s stressed over repeating her Leaving—’

‘Beth, stop pretending. We can’t keep up this charade any longer. You must tell me the truth about Lindsey. Sara knew. I convinced myself she was lying. That she’d found another way to torment me but, deep down, I realised it was true. I’ve lived with the knowledge since then but I need to hear you say it out loud.’

She bowed her head, weary of lies and prevarication. ‘Lindsey is your child. But she’s Stewart’s daughter. She loves Stewart too much to let go of any part of their relationship. You’ll lose her if you attempt to take that from her.’

‘What can I do?’ he asked bleakly. ‘How can I reach her, knowing she hates me so much?’

‘Stop trying so hard. Nothing about Lindsey is easy but if you give her the space she needs then maybe you’ll both be able to form a different bond in the future. For the moment the only room she needs is in here.’ She touched her head with her index finger.

He offered to come back at the end of the week to collect Connie. Beth told him she had an important meeting in Dublin early in the new year and would drive Connie home then. On his way out, they passed the open door of their daughter’s bedroom. Paint tubs and brushes were heaped untidily on the floor. His eyes rested hungrily on an easel holding a half-finished canvas. What would their lives have been like if they’d stayed together? Beth wondered. Reared their child and the others who followed? Useless speculations, filled with the reverberations of old passions. An abstract thought, fleeting. Once it had filled her world.

He was gone when Lindsey returned. She pretended not to notice.

E
va spent
time preparing an evening meal – fresh herbs and an expensive white wine poured generously into a sauce that bubbled gently when she added chicken and sun-dried tomatoes. She placed it on the coffee table and watched it congeal.

It was cold in her bedroom. She stood in front of the long cheval mirror and pulled a nightdress over her head, a sleek ivory robe she’d bought for her honeymoon. On those nights with Greg, it had enhanced her complexion. Now all it did was emphasise her pallor. She touched her face, cupped it with both hands, and stared into the mirror. Grief, like love, needed a companion.

She returned to the living room where the fire still burned brightly and the aroma of her untouched meal made her realise how little she’d eaten that day. She was about to pick up the phone to ring Greg when she heard the doorbell. Her body quivered with shock, her need for him so immediate that she believed he was standing outside. The thought died just as quickly and when the bell rang again, a prolonged, impetuous summons, she figured it was a motorist lost in the labyrinth of narrow country roads surrounding her cottage. She draped a jacket over her shoulders and opened the door.

Peter Wallace had started to walk away. He apologised for intruding so unexpectedly. He’d noticed the light when he was driving past. She could have reminded him that Grahamstown was now bypassed by a motorway but that would have added a personal element into their conversation.

He followed her into the living room and sat down beside the coffee table. She whisked the dishes past his troubled gaze and out to the kitchen. He too had found the spirit of Christmas too tedious to endure and had headed back early. He refused her offer of a drink and they sat in uneasy silence before the fire. Sparks spluttered when she added a log, conscious that he was watching her every movement. He looked out of place in her small room, his long legs stretched too close to the flames, his shoulders too broad for chintzy armchairs. Impossible to imagine him in a factory or an office. Her mind was set with him beside a riverbank. She would hang his painting on the wall when he left. It would always remind her of Faye.

‘You should be with your husband tonight.’ His words startled her. ‘You should be in his arms, talking of love. Why are you sitting here alone? I want to understand… How can he love you and let you go?’

‘What do you know about love?’ she demanded. His questions were so attuned to her own thoughts that she wanted to lash out at him. ‘How can you talk to me about my marriage when you banish mementoes of your wife from the rooms you once shared?’ She rose to her feet. ‘I think you’d better leave now before we say things we’ll regret later.’

He too stood up, facing her, standing too close. ‘I came here to talk to you – to tell you things you need to know.’ He paused, his gaze sinking into hers, as they held each other captive in a tense, unwavering stare.

‘Why do you keep staring at me?’ she cried. ‘You watch me constantly… I feel your eyes on me all the time.’

‘All the time.’ He echoed her words. ‘Always…’

In that instant there was a shift in desire, so sudden that when she swayed towards him she knew before she reached him how it was going to end. She didn’t resist when he kissed her, their lips pulsing as she drew him in deeper, the tingling shock of their tongues touching, probing, their mouths crushed in that first, wounding kiss. The jacket slipped from her shoulders and she heard him moan as he pulled away, almost forcing her from him, and when she gasped, shocked by his abrupt withdrawal, she saw such passion in his gaze that she closed her eyes and cried out his name, her arms urgently pulling him close again. Her hands were on him and his on her, touching her breasts, sliding the nightdress upwards, the fine silk shimmering as he slid it smoothly over her hips, his fingers on her bare flesh, opening her to his touch as she too sought and held him, unable to believe she was seeking such relief; sunk in shame and pleasure and escape.

He loosened her hair from its clasp until it hung to her shoulders, showering over them. The savage intensity of their passion amazed her – so demanding, infinite, free. She didn’t want to move from this place, or to slow the intensity of their lovemaking, knowing that anything else, a movement towards her bedroom, delicate foreplay, teasing words of anticipation, would bring her back to her senses. She was lifted in his arms. Her legs encircled him. The power of his desire moulded her into him. She felt the thrusting strength of him entering her, heard their breath shuddering as they moved together.

She didn’t reason why she was in his arms. She only knew that her body had taken control, battering her through the numbness that had overwhelmed her for so long, and when they came together, it was an aching release, as if they’d spent a lifetime knowing each other’s desire. She cried into his shoulder, clinging to the pleasure of the moment, wanting to surge forever on its crest, his voice calling her name – Eva… Eva… Eva…

It was over as suddenly as it had started. His arms supported her when she collapsed against his chest. He sank back onto the sofa, pulling her with him, breathing fast, their clothes still tangled around them, half on, half off, and they huddled together, unable to talk, to understand, to make sense of the wildness that had consumed them.

For a while she slept. He was watching her when she awoke. This time their lovemaking was slower, more deliberate. She stared down into his eyes as she sank into him, their bodies unable to rest until they had driven each other to the edge of oblivion – and even then, she suspected, they would never be satisfied.

He left in the morning. She ached with exhaustion, still feeling his touch on her skin, suffused with the heat he’d left behind. In the shower she switched on the cold water and gasped as it spilled over her breasts. He had touched them with reverence, his lips gently arousing the area where Faye has once suckled so voraciously, as if he was trying to imprint another memory on them. Gradually, she calmed down but she was unable to think beyond him.

She opened the garden centre, relieved that her sales assistant was still on her Christmas break. Business was brisk: last-minute gifts, bouquets and plants purchased on the way to parties and festive dinners. She had little memory of the day, the customers, the mundane chores that killed time until the night.

They hadn’t planned a further meeting and she decided to go to bed early. He phoned as she was about to lie down. He said he was sorry. He had abused her trust. He never intended it to happen. She clamped her lips together and held tightly to the phone.

‘I love you desperately,’ he said. ‘But we can’t see each other again, not like that… not like that.’ His voice shook, a raw gasp, as if he too was remembering the sounds of their passion.

‘Stop it!’ She groped blindly for the duvet and pulled it over her. ‘How can you patronise me after what we’ve just experienced?’

‘No, no! Listen to me, Eva. I don’t want to hurt you. But I know I will.’

She hung up on him and his faltering excuses. She tried to sleep. She heard his car outside. His footsteps on the gravel. She went to the door. Wordlessly, he took her in his arms and carried her to her bedroom. Sated with pleasure, they finally slept.

E
va was caught
in the waiting stillness, wondering. How did it happen? What chemistry merged and melted them? She tried to understand this passion, to seek some relief from it. She drove too fast, turned corners too sharply. Once, when her van rocked on a bend, she pulled into the side of the road and tried to compose herself. Was this a nervous breakdown? Was she exhibiting symptoms of exhilaration? Did she love him? The answer no longer mattered. She loved Greg and he’d betrayed her. She loved Faye and she had died. Love had no substance. No root.