“Hiya!” Ellen chimed as he entered. She lay on the floor, a coloring book and crayons strewn around her. The flat was open-plan, with the living area to the front, a kitchenette to the rear. Two doors opened off this room, leading to the back of the house.
“Hello, Ellen,” he said.
Fegan took in the large open space, and the homey objects scattered about it. His own home was drab and spare by comparison, decorated only by the wooden objects he’d made himself. He clutched one of them, wrapped in plastic.
“Lookit,” Ellen said, climbing to her feet. She brought the coloring book over for him to see. There was a picture of a pig in a little dress. Ellen had colored it all green.
‘Very good,” he said.
Marie stroked her daughter’s hair. “Ellen, leave Gerry alone a while, okay?”
Ellen pouted. “Okay.”
As Marie took his coat, Fegan said, “I brought you something.” He handed her the plastic bag as his cheeks grew hot.
“Oh?” She opened it.
Fegan had found the piece of oak on a derelict site near his home. It might once have been a small part of a mantelpiece or a banister. He had worked with the grain over weeks, sanding into its flow, until it became a fluid shape like a river current. He smoothed out the hole where a knot had been, and built up thin layer after thin layer of varnish, buffing between coats until it looked like it burned from within. To finish, he mounted it on a slate base.
“It’s beautiful,” Marie said.
“It was just gathering dust in my house,” Fegan said. “It’ll look better here.”
“Thank you.” She placed it on a table by the window next to an open laptop computer.
“Anything?” Fegan asked.
“Nothing. It’s been quiet. I’ve been working, mostly.” She studied the piece in what little light the drawn curtains let through.
“It’ll be dark in a couple of hours. They’ll come after that.”
“And what’ll you do?” she asked, turning back to him.
“Talk to them,” he said.
“Talk? I doubt they’ll listen.”
“Well, then I’ll try . . . something else.”
Marie stared at him for a beat then said, “I’m glad you came.”
Dinner was simple - grilled chicken breast with boiled new potatoes and salad - but Fegan devoured it like it was his last meal. When Marie asked if he wanted more, he said yes before she’d finished the question. The time since anyone had made him a home-cooked meal could not be counted in weeks, months or even years. It was almost two decades since he had last sat at a table and eaten with people he knew and liked.
Ellen had meticulously separated the red-leaf salad from the green, and banished it to the side of her plate. Likewise, she had removed dark spots from the potato skins with the care and precision of a surgeon, and deposited them with the unwanted salad. Other than that, she had cleared her plate whilst chatting to Fegan about shoes, drawing and Peppa Pig.
“What’s Peppa Pig?” Fegan asked.
Ellen giggled, and said, “Silly.”
Fegan didn’t inquire further.
When the meal was done, Marie stood and shooed Ellen away to her coloring books lying strewn around the living area.
“So, what happens after tonight?” she asked. She began clearing the table. “Say you see them off. They’ll just come back with more tomorrow, won’t they?”
“Maybe,” Fegan said. “I’ll come back and take care of it again, if you want me to.”
She brought the dishes to the sink where pots were already soaking. “And what about after that? They’ll come back with more and more. I don’t want Ellen to see that. And I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“I won’t,” he said. He joined Marie at the sink, took a towel, and began drying dishes as she handed them over. “I’m going to take care of it. In a few days, it’ll be sorted.”
“How?”
“Don’t worry about that,” he said. “I’m going to take care of it, that’s all you need to know. You and Ellen won’t have to worry any more.”
She held on to a plate as he went to take it from her. “What does that mean?”
He smiled at her. It felt easy and honest on his lips. “You won’t have to worry. That’s all.”
Marie returned his smile, but Fegan glimpsed something hard and jagged in it as she turned away.
Marie told Fegan about Jack Lennon, how the handsome policeman had asked her out as she packed her Dictaphone away. The story had been about Catholics in the police service at a time of reform. Jack had been a good interview, open and eloquent. Charming, even. He blushed when Marie asked if Jack Lennon was really a John.
