Mr. Flood's Last Resort(93)

“Yes.”

“She led me by the hand; she held me under.”

I look at Maggie’s portrait; she smiles back at me, undaunted, shameless, unrepentant.

“Will you tell, Maud?”

“No.” My eyes meet his. “I won’t.”

He smiles and nods. “I told Stephen you wouldn’t. I’ll come down with you, see you out.”

I lead the way. When my fingers are on the door handle, he says it.

“I’m so sorry, Maud. For everything.”





CHAPTER 45


Mammy treaded the grass like a sick dog, spiraling downwards to rock on her haunches, crying into her cigarette. Granny made tea. I put biscuits on a plate nicely. The lady guard spoke into her radio and the man guard looked out at the road that led to the bungalow.

*

THREE THINGS happened the day after Deirdre disappeared. Old Noel crawled from his cottage where he had lain for Lord knows how long. Someone had broken his nose, three ribs, and his collarbone for him and cleared out his savings. The fella kept his face covered and drove in and out of the yard like the devil himself was chasing him. Old Noel, destroyed, never opened his kiosk again.

The seabirds returned to Pearl Strand. At least I’m sure I heard them fly over, screaming and cursing, in that direction.

Down in the caves the guards found treasure, right at the back of the mermaid’s larder. A bag: heart-shaped red leather, pink silk inside, gold stoppered, its strap a fine slim ribbon of a thing.





CHAPTER 46




I am on my back breathing bubbles; something collects at the back of my throat, something is pooling there.

And all the time the acrid smell of bonfires.

And a rushing sound, somewhere in the foundations of the house, like the sea is rolling in, flooding Bridlemere from the basement up.

And then I realize: Bridlemere is burning.

Get up, Drennan.

says a ringside voice, the no-shit-and-nonsense voice of a trainer. My eyes open. Then I’m up on my knees like a prizefighter, spitting iron. The crowd grimaces. Why won’t she give in? Why won’t she lie still for the count?

It’s a hard thing to see, a woman dragging herself along, smashed up, half her hair gone by the roots, bubbles of blood and snot. He’s nearly taken the top of her head off—see, another crack just appeared. No light in there, such as you’d find in the mind of a saint, just a bad walnut splitting open with a dull wet sound and then dark—

God blast you. Get up, Drennan.

See the smears of blood and hair along the skirting board, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. They tell a very violent story. In your own time, Maud, in your own words.

This is how it went:

First he grabbed me with his fingers knotted in my hair and pulled me towards him, as if he was going to kiss me, he was that close. Instead he banged my head against the wall, then again, then again.

And his face—what about his expression? Let’s get to the nub of it, Maud. Didn’t that hurt most? Seeing the look in his eyes, the indifference and the rage? Maybe even hatred? Surely he’d have to hate you a little bit to want to knock the head off you then throw you down a well? It was the betrayal really, wasn’t it? Didn’t that hurt the most? After being with him. And this the man you—

No: the assault hurt more.

Jesus, Drennan, will you ever get up?

*

MY BAG has been kicked under Maggie’s portrait, contents spilled. I take the chisel and the keys and crawl towards the door, breathing shallow against the pain. I sit for a while with my head lifting, pounding. When I can think again I check the door with the palm of my hand: it’s cool. I try the handle: it’s unlocked. When I am ready I will take off my shirt and tie it around my face as tightly as I can bear.

The lights go out.

*

I AM born into carbon darkness, half slithering, half falling down the stairs onto the next landing. Coughing despite the pain, retching despite the pain, eyes streaming. I have Cathal’s keys in one fist and the chisel in the other.

The house sighs.

Hot ash rises and falls in lethal drifts. Sparks spitting up the center of the staircase. Burning scraps rising, landing, pathfinders that will start new fires. Shotgun cracks and the fizzle of squibs and the crash of rubbish collapsing and then the flare of new firestorms of vivid flecks.

They mark a pathway, petals of blazing red and ash white, a trail of blood and snowflakes. I close my eyes and look for her in my mind and find her. She’s up ahead, walking along the hallway, with burning hair and soot-blackened heels. She glances back at me, her face pale and her eyes beautiful and terrible—for damage lies at their shining core.

And all at once I know where Mary Flood is leading me and why.

*

I REST my forehead against a locked door. Behind this door is a room of white with a window. Beyond that window is a balcony. I try the keys one after the other, fingers stiffening, clumsy. I count, one key, two keys. If this fails, I have the chisel. Three keys, four keys. The heat off the staircase is fierce now, turning the smoke orange. Five keys. I feel it on my face and my hands. My skin peels. My hair crackles and melts. The key turns in the lock. I’m in. Shut the door, quickly, quickly.

Block the gap, Drennan.

My hands find the silky stuff of the bedspread. I pull it, hanging on to the edge, until it gives way and falls with a slither on top of me. I push it with my feet against the bottom of the door.