‘Dan Hewitt.’
‘What about him?’ Lennon asked.
‘Has he been involved, done any questioning?’
Gordon went quiet.
‘Has Dan Hewitt been involved?’
‘He sat in on my interviews,’ Gordon said. ‘And he went to the suspect’s cell to double-check one of the names he gave. The suspect became aggressive, and DCI Hewitt had to use CS spray to subdue him. What’s on your mind?’
‘I don’t trust him,’ Lennon said.
‘DCI Hewitt is your superior officer,’ Gordon said. ‘It’s not for you to trust him or otherwise. He’s also Special Branch, which places him somewhere between me and God Almighty in the pecking order as far as you’re concerned. We’ll have no more talk of that, understood?’
‘Just be careful around him,’ Lennon said.
‘No more, I said.’
Lennon listened to Gordon’s breathing. Somehow he got the feeling Gordon agreed with him, but couldn’t say it out loud. ‘All right,’ Lennon said. ‘Forget I mentioned anything.’
‘I already have,’ Gordon said. ‘I’ll keep in touch.’
Lennon slipped the phone into his pocket and walked into the living area. Marie lay dozing on the leather couch, a blanket pulled to her chin. She hadn’t slept much the night before, and it showed on her face. In fact, the dark under her eyes said she and good sleep had been estranged for some months.
He lowered himself into the armchair as quietly as he could, wincing as the leather creaked. Ellen looked up from her play and smiled. She had drawn more figures and carefully torn around their outlines. Now she arranged them in different positions depending on their roles in the drama she was acting out on the floor.
‘Is that your mummy?’ Lennon asked, pointing to one of the figures.
‘Mm-hmm,’ Ellen said.
‘And is that you?’
‘Mm-hmm.’
‘You didn’t make one of me?’
Ellen shook her head.
‘Why not?’
‘Don’t know,’ Ellen said.
‘But you made one of Gerry Fegan.’
‘Mm-hmm.’
‘Do you like Gerry?’
Ellen smiled. ‘Mm-hmm.’
‘Do you like me?’
Ellen frowned. ‘Don’t know.’
‘You might do,’ Lennon said. ‘If you give me a chance.’
Ellen wiped her nose on her sleeve, sniffed, and said nothing.
‘I used to be good at drawing,’ Lennon said. ‘When I was a wee boy. I never kept it up, but I was pretty good. I won prizes.’
‘What did you win?’
‘A cup one time, and a badge another time,’ he said. ‘One time I won a book token.’
Ellen tidied her torn-out figures into a pile that signalled she was done with them. She took the notepad and pencil and handed them to Lennon. ‘Draw me a picture,’ she said.
Lennon took the pad and pencil. ‘What of?’
Ellen knotted her fingers together as she thought about it. ‘Me,’ she said.
Lennon selected the black pencil from her small collection. Remembering the lessons from art class a quarter-century before, he drew an inverted egg, then segmented it to place the eyes and mouth.
Ellen stood at his side, leaning on the armrest. She giggled. ‘That’s not me.’
‘Just wait,’ Lennon said. He pencilled in the ovals for the eyes, the soft undulation of the mouth, the nose so like her mother’s. He defined her cheekbones with short strokes, then longer wavy lines for the hair. ‘See?’
Ellen gave a small laugh, then covered her mouth as if she had let a secret slip.
Lennon took the yellow pencil from the floor. It was blunt, but it would do. He wound it through the darker lines to make the gold strands of her hair. When had he last drawn anything? Not since he’d been at school. He held the pad at arm’s length and examined his work. It wasn’t bad, considering. He showed it to Ellen.
‘There, see?’ he said. ‘It’s you.’
Ellen smiled and took the pad from his fingers. She dropped to the floor, lay on her belly, and selected the orange pencil. She sketched orange daggers radiating from her face until her portrait looked like a sun in a dull white sky.
‘What’s that?’ Lennon asked.
‘Fire,’ Ellen said. ‘It burns.’
‘What fire? Did you see a fire?’
Ellen chose the red pencil next. She filled in the spaces between the orange daggers. ‘When I have bad dreams. It burns. Then I wake up and it doesn’t burn any more.’
‘Do the dreams scare you?’
Ellen put her pencil down and hid her eyes with her hands. She dropped her head so that her breathing sounded strange against the floor.
‘I’m sorry,’ Lennon said. ‘It’s all right. You don’t have to tell me. They’re only dreams. They can’t hurt anybody.’
‘That’s what I’ve told her,’ Marie said.
Lennon’s heart skipped. ‘You’re awake.’
Marie stretched, her long arms reaching to forever. ‘I don’t think she believes me.’ She extended her hands towards Ellen. ‘C’mere, darling.’
Ellen sniffed and abandoned her pencils and paper on the floor. Marie held the blanket up. A puff of warm air and faded perfume brushed Lennon’s senses. Ellen climbed onto the couch and burrowed in next to her mother. Marie engulfed her in the blanket, wrapped it tight around her, pulled her in. The warmth turned to chill, the perfume dissipated, and Lennon wondered if he’d only imagined them.
‘What time is it?’ Marie asked.
Lennon looked at his watch. ‘Just gone five.’
‘You don’t have to stay with us,’ Marie said. ‘Nobody knows we’re here, do they? Nobody but that man. The door looks like it’s good and strong. We’ll be fine.’
‘I should stay,’ Lennon said.
‘What if I don’t want you to?’
‘I’ll stay anyway.’
‘Christ.’ Marie closed her eyes. ‘Is that all I am to anybody these days? A fucking damsel in distress?’
Ellen’s head popped out of the blanket. ‘That’s a bad word, Mummy.’
‘I know, sweetheart. I’m sorry.’
Satisfied, Ellen burrowed back down again.
Was she worth it?’ Marie asked. ‘That woman. Was she worth what it cost you?’
‘No,’ Lennon said without hesitation.
‘Then why?’
Tendrils of fear and need spread out from Lennon’s heart. He had played out this conversation a thousand times in his mind. He considered his words. ‘Because I was a coward,’ he said.
Marie lifted her head. ‘Good answer,’ she said. ‘Go on.’
‘I was a child. I wasn’t ready for … that. Being grown up, sharing things, not putting myself first all the time. I was scared. Wendy gave me an escape route, and I took it. When I look back, I realise that’s all she ever was tome: an easy way out. A coward’s way out. I don’t know, maybe we weren’t meant to be together. Maybe it was never going to work out. Maybe I just wasn’t ready. Whatever it was, I could’ve done the right thing, but I didn’t.
