my fault.
Douglas Kelly peered around the door. His cheekbones stuck out more than they used to, so did his forehead, nose, and chin, as if he were slowly disappearing from the inside out. His freckled scalp stood out through a crown of thin grey hair. Wasn’t even forty yet, and he already looked the other side of sixty.
It was a nice house, about a third of the way down a small Georgian terrace – one of four that enclosed a little private park. But where the one behind McDermid Avenue was sprawling and overgrown, this one was trimmed and tidy, closed off from the road by a set of four-foot-high railings. Nice neighbourhood too: mullioned windows, no litter, every car an Audi, a Porsche, or a Range Rover.
Couldn’t have been further from my crappy little Kingsmeath council house if it was in Australia.
Douglas Kelly blinked at me.
I stood on the top step, hands behind my back. ‘Douglas, can we come in, please?’
He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, as if he was tasting the air, then turned and stalked back into the house. Not so much as a word.
We followed him into the lounge.
Douglas slumped into the leather couch and reached for a china mug. He peered up at the carriage clock ticking away on the mantelpiece, the noise jarring in the cluttered room. Cardboard boxes made a cubist city on the polished floorboards, each one printed with a red squirrel in dungarees, carrying a huge acorn: ‘SAMMY’S MIDNIGHT FLIT ~ YOU’D BE NUTS TO TRUST ANYONE ELSE!!!’
A standard lamp cast a yellow glow in the gloomy room.
I licked my lips. Took a deep breath. ‘Douglas, you’ll have seen—’ My phone rang. ‘Fuck …’ I dragged the thing from my pocket, dropped it, grabbed it before it hit the deck. A name sat in the middle of the screen: ‘KERRIGAN, MRS’. No thanks. I switched the phone off, then stuck it back in my pocket again. ‘Sorry.’
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
A car drove by on the street outside.
Try again: ‘Douglas, it’s—’
‘I’m sorry about the mess. We should really get round to unpacking, but …’ He blinked, biting his bottom lip, deep breaths hissing in through his nose. His pale blue eyes shimmered. He scrubbed a hand across them. Stared down into his tea. ‘I’m sorry. It’s been …’
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
‘Douglas, we’ve found—’
‘All these years you’ve come out and sat with us: every sixteenth of September, even when Angela had her breakdown … You didn’t have to do that.’
‘Douglas, I’m so sorry, we—’
‘Don’t say it. Please.’ The china mug trembled in his hands. ‘Please …’
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Dr McDonald picked her way between the boxes, squatted down in front of Douglas Kelly and put a hand on his knee. Just like she’d done with Helen McMillan’s parents. ‘It’s OK. You can let go.’
‘It’s …’ Douglas screwed his eyes closed, biting his lips.
‘It happened a long, long time ago. She’s not suffering any more, he can’t hurt her. It’s over.’
‘Who …’ A tear ran down the side of his nose. ‘Who …’ When he opened his eyes they were pink and swollen. Lips quivering.
‘It’s OK, Douglas, it’s OK. It’s over. She’s—’
Douglas Kelly slammed the mug into Dr McDonald’s face. It shattered, shards of delicate white bursting open in slow motion like a flower blooming, tea spraying out. She grunted, toppled backwards, glasses clattering into the fireplace. He let go of the remaining bits of mug and clenched his hand into a fist – launched himself off the couch, swinging for her.
I dipped my knees and lunged. And then everything snapped back to normal speed.
Slam: I barrelled into his side, pinning him against the couch as he struggled and kicked and screamed.
‘WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?’
I grabbed his arm – twisted it around behind his back. ‘Calm down!’
‘IT’S NOT OK! IT’LL NEVER BE OK!’
His leg jerked out, and Dr McDonald grunted again.
‘DOUGLAS: CALM DOWN!’ I twisted harder, shoving his face into the leather upholstery and keeping it there. ‘Come on, stop it …’
He bucked, and writhed, and swore, and after what seemed like hours, finally went slack. Shoulders quivering, sobbing.
Dr McDonald huddled by the fireplace, staring at the palm of her left hand. Scarlet trickled down her pale face from a gash in her eyebrow. ‘I’m bleeding …’
I let go of Douglas and backed away from the couch. He didn’t even move, just lay there crying, so I helped Dr McDonald to her feet.
She wobbled in her bright-red Converse Hi-tops. ‘I’m bleeding …’ She frowned. ‘Where’s my glasses?’
I picked them out of the fireplace and handed them to her. One leg was bent and twisted.
On the couch, Douglas drew his knees up to his chest, curling into a ball, arms wrapped around his head. ‘Hannah …’ He rocked back and forth. ‘Oh, thank God, it’s over …’
‘Ow …’ Dr McDonald held onto the wall outside with one hand, the other clutching a wad of bloodstained kitchen paper against her eyebrow.
The rain was on again. Getting darker too. The Dickensian streetlights flickered on as the gloom tripped their automatic sensors.
‘He’s not normally like that.’ I looked back towards the house, where Douglas Kelly was finally getting to mourn his daughter. He was wrong though – it wasn’t over. Because next year, on the sixteenth of September, another homemade birthday card would slither through his mailbox and bring it all back again. And the year after that, and the one after that too … ‘Sure you don’t want some painkillers?’
‘Can we just get to the hospital, please?’
High overhead, a plane roared across the dark-grey sky, navigation lights blinking red and green. Lucky bastards getting away from … Shite.
On the other side of the road a woman leaned against the park railings, the smoke from her cigarette curling around beneath the dome of her black umbrella: long camel-hair coat and black suit, auburn hair tied back in a ponytail. Thin rectangular glasses. Jennifer.
Shite and buggery.
I dug out the car keys and
