hands deep in the pockets of grubby jeans. ‘That’s me name, case you was wondering.’
She looked into the woods. ‘Where do you live?’
He took his hands from his pockets and pointed eastwards. ‘Lough End Farm, with me ma and da, and Bridie and Caitlin.’ He was Irish, his accent thicker than her own, and his green eyes looked dull and vacant.
Laura remembered the farm from her childhood. It had stood empty for years – was empty when she set off for university. ‘When did you move in?’ she asked.
‘Almost two years now.’ He sniffed, and wiped his cuff across his nose. ‘Bridie’s a year old, Caitlin’s two months. They cry a lot.’
She placed the knife on the patio table, keeping her eyes on the lad, who nibbled at his thumbnail and scraped his heavy boots through the leaves and twigs.
‘So you want to talk,’ she said.
‘I do. Yeah.’
‘About?’
He shrugged. ‘I just …’ He stopped, screwing up his nose, and nodding towards the house. ‘Did you know the couple who lived here?’
She nodded.
‘They would tell me to piss off if I came up this end of the woods. They thought they owned it, but I told ’em they can’t own a fecking wood.’ He kicked a stone, and it flew up and hit the patio table, the clatter echoing into the darkness.
‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘But they thought they could do what they liked.’
‘How did you know them?’
‘They were my parents.’
‘Christ! I thought I had it bad.’ His face broke into a smile as he glanced towards an owl on a branch of a high tree, its eyes wide and haunting, and then he looked back at Laura.
‘I’m Laura,’ she said. ‘Do you want a glass of lemonade or something?’ And deciding the boy could do with a treat she added, ‘I’ve got chocolate biscuits.’
He shook his head. ‘I should get back before Da notices I’m gone. Ma always says he’ll beat the shite out of me if I’m too long.’
‘Surely not.’
He shrugged. ‘He hasn’t yet, but I ain’t risking it. Listen, can I come by again some time? Would you mind?’
She smiled. It would be good to have the company. She was already feeling the isolation of the place. ‘I’d like that,’ she said.
‘Grand,’ he said, and took off, small and wiry, zigzagging through the trees.
February 2018
I hated Sundays as a child. The thought of school the following day meant my hours at home were ruined, whatever we did. If I’d had my way, I would have stayed with my mother every day, watching her paint.
Sometimes, although never in depth, she would talk about her parents. ‘We were never close,’ she told me once, touching my cheek. ‘Not like us, Rachel – we’re different. It’s you and me against the world.’
‘I love you, Mum,’ I would say.
‘Love you more,’ she would reply, as I leant my head on her knee.
If I was honest, I wasn’t a fan of Sundays even now, especially today. Grace would be with Lawrence until six o’clock, and I had nothing planned. Plus I was woozy and fatigued from drinking too much. And with the weird things that had been happening, it really did have all the hallmarks of being a pretty rotten Sunday.
Needing someone to talk to, I’d messaged Zoe and Angela at four in the morning. Why I thought they’d be awake, I had no idea. But now the sun was up, its rays streaming through the kitchen window, and they still hadn’t replied – I thought maybe they were miffed I’d disturbed their sleep.
Lawrence hadn’t replied to my stroppy text either. Had Farrah deleted it, or perhaps suggested he shouldn’t respond to his crazy ex?
Nibbling on a piece of dry toast, swallowing it down with sweet tea and painkillers, promising myself I would never drink again, I stared, trancelike, out of the kitchen window. My eyes fell on the summerhouse where I worked most weekday mornings, and I wondered what right I had to offer psychological help to others when I couldn’t seem to manage my own life at the moment. Tomorrow, Emmy would arrive on her morning off from the TV studio, and I wasn’t even sure I could face her.
Perhaps I should move out of Finsbury Park – start again somewhere new.
We’d moved nearer to central London when I worked in Kensington, and Lawrence worked in the finance district as a Software Development Engineer. Later, when he suggested we didn’t need my salary, and I could be a stay-at-home mum, I’d had no objections. I adored spending time with Grace – being a mum. But after a while I missed working. So, over-riding Lawrence’s objections at the time, I set up a business from home to fit around Grace.
I stared down at my phone. I hadn’t opened the message from Ronan Murphy, convinced that if I did, whoever had sent me the request would know I’d looked at it. But now I needed to know.
I grabbed my phone, and opened the message, my hand trembling. Just two lonely words:
Hi, Rachel.
I tapped the screen:
Who is this?
Seconds later an attachment flew into my inbox. I opened it, heart thumping, oblivious to any thought it might hold a virus. It was a photograph of a pretty, pale pink cottage, with roses around the door. At the foot of the photograph were the words: Evermore Farmhouse, followed by an address in County Sligo.
‘For God’s sake,’ I whispered. What the hell’s going on?
Within moments I was Googling Ronan Murphy, adding the name of the insurance company, followed by the name of the farmhouse. Then I tried keying his name into LinkedIn, Instagram, and Twitter. But as with David Green, it was impossible to find him.
By nine o’clock, I felt calmer, and the painkillers had kicked in. I’d showered, pulled on leggings and a long, baggy jumper that touched my knees, and attempted to do something with my hair, which needed cutting badly.
My phone pinged. It was Angela.
Oh, sweetie. Do you want me to come round? X
I didn’t. The desperate need for a friend in the small hours had vanished.
Maybe later. Thank you X
A red heart appeared on the screen, along with a row of kisses. At least I had friends I could rely on.
Phone in my hand, I brought up Lawrence’s number. Should I call him? Ask to speak to Grace? I stopped myself. I was still fuming about Farrah, and the last thing I wanted to do was upset my daughter. Instead I rose and took the stairs two at a time, deciding to distract myself by clearing out my wardrobe. De-cluttering and filling a bag for charity would make me feel better, I felt sure of it.
I’d been working for about an hour when the doorbell rang. I raced downstairs to see a large envelope on the doormat. I reached to pick it up.
It was addressed to me.
Inside was a canvas, folded twice. The painting was in my mother’s unique style, although unsigned. But it was ruined. Flakes of dried paint lay in its creases, and splodges of black filled the pale blue sky – a childlike attempt at clouds,