Faithful Place (Dublin Murder Squad, #3)(148)

Olivia said, coming back in, “Fast asleep.”

“Good.”

“She looks peaceful. I’ll talk to her in the morning.” She dropped into her chair and pushed her hair out of her face. “Are you all right, Frank? I didn’t even think to ask, but my God, tonight must have been—”

I said, “I’m fine. I should be heading, though. Thanks for the coffee. I needed that.”

Liv didn’t push it. She asked, “Are you awake enough to drive home?”

“Not a problem. I’ll see you on Friday.”

“Ring Holly tomorrow. Even if you don’t think you should talk to her about . . . all of this. Ring her anyway.”

“Course. I was going to.” I tossed back the last of my coffee and stood up. “Just so I know,” I said. “I assume that date is out of the question now.”

Olivia watched my face for a long time. She said, “We’d have to be very careful not to get Holly’s hopes up.”

“We can do that.”

“Because I can’t see much chance that it would go anywhere. Not after . . . God. Everything.”

“I know. I’d just like to try.”

Olivia moved in her chair. The moonlight shifted on her face, so that her eyes vanished into shadow and all I could see was the proud delicate curves of her lips. She said, “So that you’ll know you’ve made every possible effort. Better late than never, I suppose.”

“No,” I said. “Because I’d really, really like to go on a date with you.”

I could feel her still watching me, out of the shadows. Finally she said, “I’d like that too. Thank you for asking me.”

There was a tumbling split second when I almost moved towards her, almost reached out to do I don’t know what: grab her, crush her against me, go on my knees on the marble tiles and bury my face in her soft lap. I stopped myself by clenching my teeth so hard, I almost snapped my jaw. When I could move again, I took the tray out to the kitchen and left.

Olivia didn’t move. I let myself out; maybe I said good night, I don’t remember. All the way out to the car I could feel her behind me, the heat of her, like a clear white light burning steadily in the dark conservatory. It was the only thing that got me home.





23

I left my family alone while Stephen put together his case, and while he charged Shay with two counts of murder, and while the High Court turned Shay down for bail. George, God bless his cotton socks, let me come back to work without saying a word; he even threw me a new and insanely complicated operation, involving Lithuania and AK-47s and several interesting guys named Vytautas, on which I could easily work hundred-hour weeks if I felt the urge, which I did. Squad rumor claimed that Scorcher had filed an outraged complaint about my general lack of protocol, and that George had surfaced from his usual semicoma long enough to hit him with several years’ worth of nitpicky paperwork requesting further information in triplicate.

When I figured my family’s emotional pitch might have dropped a notch or two, I picked an evening and got home from work early, around ten o’clock. I put whatever was in the fridge between two slices of bread and ate it. Then I took a smoke and a glass of Jameson’s finest out onto the balcony, and phoned Jackie.

“Jaysus,” she said. She was at home, with the telly going in the background. Her voice was blank with surprise; I couldn’t tell what else was under there. To Gavin: “It’s Francis.”

An unintelligible mutter from Gav, and then the TV noise fading as Jackie moved away. She said, “Jaysus. I didn’t think . . . How’re you getting on, anyway?”

“Hanging in there. How about you?”

“Ah, sure. You know yourself.”

I said, “How’s Ma doing?”

A sigh. “Ah, she’s not great, Francis.”

“What way?”

“She’s looking a bit peaky, and she’s awful quiet—and you know yourself, that’s not like her. I’d be happier if she was giving out right and left.”

“I was afraid she’d have a heart attack on us.” I tried to make it sound like I was joking. “I should’ve known she wouldn’t give us the satisfaction.”

Jackie didn’t laugh. She said, “Carmel was telling me she was over there last night, herself and Darren, and Darren knocked over that porcelain yoke—you know the one of the little young fella with the flowers, on the shelf in the front room? Smashed it to bits. He was afraid for his life, but Mammy didn’t say a word, just swept it up and threw it in the bin.”

I said, “She’ll be all right in the long run. Ma’s tough. It’d take more than this to break her.”

“She is, yeah. Still, but.”

“I know. Still.”

I heard a door shutting, and wind catching at the phone: Jackie had taken this conversation outside, for privacy. She said, “The thing is, Da’s not the best either. He hasn’t got out of the bed, ever since . . .”

“Fuck him. Leave him there to rot.”

“I know, yeah, but that’s not the point. Mammy can’t manage on her own, not with him like that. I don’t know what they’re going to do. I do be over there as much as I can, and so does Carmel, but she’s got the kiddies and Trevor, and I’ve to work. Even when we’re over, sure, we’re not strong enough to lift him without hurting him; and anyway he doesn’t want us girls helping him out of the bath and all. Shay . . .”