to have any friends. His profile picture was another view, a mountain this time – and I knew it was Benbulbin in Sligo. The cover picture was of a building that reminded me of a workhouse, and it had a sign outside that read ‘Glastons Insurance. Dublin’.
I scrolled down his timeline. Just one status update:
Ronan, Ronan is no good
Chop him up for firewood
But this time I noticed he’d sent me a message.
September 1999
Incessant rain hammers against the window – a clap of thunder rings out. It doesn’t wake him.
One strike to his head, so he doesn’t fight back – but now he wakes, dazed – tries to speak – no words come out.
I plunge the knife deep into his flesh – once, twice, three times. The blood sprays and spurts like a bright red fountain, covering me – metallic on my lips.
He’s holding on to life – too young to die – refusing to let go, reaching up to me, eyes pleading. He thinks I’ll stop. Poor Ronan.
I lurch forward. The knife goes in one final time – deeper, and I twist, hearing his ribs crack.
They’ll know it’s me this time, but I don’t care.
Ronan Murphy deserves to die.
March 1987
Kneeling in front of the loo, Laura buried her head in her hands, waiting for another wave of nausea to hit. It would soon pass, once the digestive biscuit she’d eaten on waking took effect.
She rose, padded to the sink, and splashed her face with cold water. This would be so much easier if Jude was with her – but he hadn’t replied to her calls. And she’d already stayed at her parents’ house longer than she’d envisaged, unable to find the strength to put it on the market and move on. For now the woods and lake felt different to when she was a lonely child. She liked the solitude. The isolation.
She’d received a couple of letters from acquaintances at university, asking if she was OK, was there anything they could do, but she hadn’t replied. Paralysed by the twin poles of grief – the loss of the parents who never loved her, and Jude not changing his mind – she found she couldn’t reach out them.
She headed down the stairs, tightening her robe, knowing her face was the colour of dough. She needed to shower, to clean her teeth, but first, some coffee.
Despite liking the quiet of the area, the house still felt far too big. Sometimes it was as though she was on display – an exhibit in a glass case. Why had her parents loved this house so much? Her father had said the window gave them a splendid view of the lake, and she supposed it did, but what about feeling vulnerable on the other side of the glass?
She drifted into the kitchen and put the kettle on. Should she try to get hold of Jude again? Was she beginning to act like a stalker? Never giving up when she knew, deep down, it was over.
She’d tried the number of his digs so many times, but either it went to answer machine, or his roommate answered and promised to pass on a message. But Jude had never got back to her. She’d even tried his parents’ house, but his father had picked up and told her with a bark to stop calling.
She made herself a mug of coffee – she’d gone off tea – and stood at the kitchen window sipping it. The kitchen looked out onto a lonely country road. It was a rarity to see a car pass by – it was too quiet at times, just as it had been when she was a child. She’d had no friends nearby back then, and travelled a fair distance to school by bus.
A postman appeared, cycling round the bend, and her heart almost lit up at the sight of another human being.
Maybe she should get herself a cat. At least she could speak to it, even if it didn’t answer – it was better than talking to herself, which seemed to be happening more and more.
‘It’s Postman Pat,’ she said, rubbing a hand over her stomach, which barely showed a baby was growing inside her. ‘He’s coming to see us, peanut,’ she added, as he propped his bike against the wall.
There was a clatter, as three letters dropped through the letterbox and onto the mat. She headed over and picked them up. There was a letter from her solicitor sorting out the ownership of the house and the money her parents had left her, a phone bill, and a handwritten expensive-looking envelope. She ripped open the final letter, her eyes filling with tears as she read the words:
Dear Miss Hogan,
It’s come to our attention that you are carrying our son’s baby. We realise you are probably concerned and distressed too and so we would like to offer you the money to have a termination in a private clinic and a lump sum for you to make a fresh start; on the condition you no longer contact Jude. He has a bright future ahead of him, which I’m sure you already know, and I’m also sure you want a similarly bright future for yourself, without trying to raise a baby on your own. We all agree it’s for the best if you and he have no more to do with each other. It was foolish of you to get into this predicament. But it’s easily rectified. Please contact us at your earliest convenience, so we can arrange an appointment.
Sincerely,
Bruce Henshaw
She ripped the letter into shreds, dropping to her knees as she sobbed. How could they?
The tears stopped eventually, and she laid her head down on the floor and closed her eyes, small sobs escaping as she drifted off to sleep.
It was dark when she woke. Realising she’d slept all day, she blinked to clear the sleep from her eyes and stretched her aching limbs. The pain from reading the letter had subsided, replaced with anger.
She walked through the house, moonlight touching the dark lounge as she made her way through the shadows and the pockets of pure black. She moved closer to the window and looked out at the lake. Someone was out there – just as they had been on the first night. She’d dismissed it then as a trick of the light, but tonight, there was no doubting the silhouette she’d seen.
The solitary figure would have unnerved her once, but she didn’t care any more. Come and get me if you dare. You can’t hurt me. I’m already destroyed.
The figure darted behind a tree, as though he’d heard her thoughts.
‘Who are you?’ she called, her words trapped behind the triple-glazed glass. Without a second thought, she raced to the kitchen and picked up a carving knife. ‘Right, you bastard,’ she whispered, heading for the patio door, and throwing it open. ‘It’s time someone paid.’
She stood for some moments, her robe dancing about her ankles in the wind, her eyes skittering around the area, knife clenched in her hand. ‘What the hell do you want?’
A silent figure peered from behind the tree. It was too dark to make out his features.
‘I’ve got a knife,’ she yelled, raising it like a warrior. ‘And I’m not afraid to use it.’
‘I just want to talk,’ a voice called back. He sounded young, a teenager perhaps. ‘Wanted to find out who’d moved in.’
‘Come here then.’ She clenched the knife tighter, but as he approached and stepped into the light,