'Don't worry, Miriam,' I said, reaching down to pick up the pieces as she did the same. Hunkered down, wavering unsteadily, she fell against me, gripping my arm for balance and spilling some of her drink over my shirtsleeve and the picture lying on the floor. Then she started to giggle, as I helped her to her seat. She held out her glass, presumably in a request for a refill, and I noticed Debbie surreptitiously shake her head.
'So, Miriam, what can we do for you?' she said, still standing in the doorway.
'I'm here to see your husband. And you, of course, Deborah.'
She smiled and extended the glass again, which I took from her and set on the coffee table.
'Tommy Senior tells me you called with him, Benedict. We appreciate it,' she said, slurring her words only slightly. Despite her state, or perhaps because of it, she held herself perfectly erect, her head haughtily tilted back, but her eyes were glazed and a hint of red was blooming on her cheeks. She was an attractive woman, more so now than ever. Her skin was still dark and supple, her figure trim and well proportioned. Debbie had once commented that anyone could have that body if they hadn't had two children, but it was clear that Miriam worked to keep her shape. As though sensing my admiring glance, she straightened herself further, so that her breasts pushed against her jacket and strained at the buttons.
Debbie coughed. 'Ben always does what he says, Miriam. He told me about your husband's father. I was sorry to hear it.'
'Have we anything to worry about?' Miriam asked me, as if Debbie had not spoken.
I assured her that her father-in-law was safe, as best we could tell, and that I had assigned an officer to follow up the complaint. I felt ridiculous, speaking in my policeman voice in my own living room after midnight on Christmas Day, especially as it was clear the Powells could have phoned for such information.
'And where is your husband?' Debbie said, sitting on the sofa as it became apparent Miriam would only leave in her own time.
'Oh, drifting about. Doing his Santa routine – delivering his very own little present. Emptying his sack!'
An awkward silence followed, none of us sure how to take her final comment.
'I feel I have disturbed your evening,' Miriam said, trying to stand up with dignity and almost succeeding. 'I shall impose on you no longer. Good evening and happy Christmas. Deborah… Benedict.. .' and she stumbled against the coffee table. Again, I reached out to steady her and she gripped my bandaged hand and squeezed it while she righted herself, causing me to wince.
'I'm alright,' she stated emphatically, fishing in her purse for her car keys.
'Miriam, you can't drive home like this,' I said, and Debbie rolled her eyes. 'We'll phone you a taxi.'
I tried four different numbers, in Lifford and Strabane, but none was answered. Eventually it became clear that one of us would have to take her home, and Debbie made it even clearer that she wouldn't do it.
The conversation on the journey was strained until we reached Miriam's driveway.
'Did I see you sitting outside my house the other day?' she asked, smiling coquettishly. 'Afraid to come in?'
'I… I got a call on the mobile and had to stop.'
She wagged her finger back and forth in front of me and tutted. In the confines of the car, I could smell alcohol and cigarettes off the heat of her breath. 'You weren't sure whether to come in, Benedict. A woman knows these things.'
I didn't know what to say and so said nothing.
She continued, 'It was nice. Kind of like a first date again. The nervous boyfriend waiting in the car?' She raised her eyebrows inquisitively.
'Goodnight, Miriam,' I said, trying to sound as firm as possible. 'I have to get the kids' presents ready for the morning. Merry Christmas to you and Thomas.'
'Debbie's a lucky woman,' she said. 'I was once, too.' She smiled and waggled her finger at me. 'Ah, I remember. You couldn't control yourself with me once.' Again she smiled coyly, but the impression in the darkness was anything but coy.
'A lot of water under the bridge since then,' I said. 'Goodnight then.'
'Goodnight, Benedict,' she said. 'Merry Christmas.'
She leaned over to kiss me on the cheek, and so I leaned towards her. However, at the last moment, she moved her head slightly and the corners of our mouths connected with a tingle, like static. Her lips were moist from her lipstick and I felt them tug slightly on mine. The gentle teasing of her lips, the warm haze of alcohol which filled my mouth and nose, the under-scent of coconut which seemed to radiate from her skin – all took me back fifteen years. I shifted slightly in my seat, pressing my lips on hers, hearing her moan deeply, feeling the cool wetness of her mouth. Our teeth knocked together slightly, like a teenager's kiss. Feeling her tongue in my mouth, I touched the tip of it with mine. I placed my hand to the side of her face, her skin warm and soft; my other hand, thick with bandages, touched her neck fleetingly, then lower, slipping inside her jacket as she groaned and shifted her body against mine, her own hands moving down my chest. She pressed my face against her neck and whispered something hoarse and urgent which I could not decipher. I could feel the fabric of her underwear, the sheen cool and smooth to my touch. Unbidden images of my wife came to my mind and, with those, the sharp recollection of the threat of infection I carried. The haze lifted and I pulled away from her quickly.
She opened her eyes and smiled at me, attempting demure but managing only satisfied. Then, without another word, she got out of the car and staggered to her front door, waving over her shoulder without looking back. As I watched her, I became aware of a movement at the window and I looked up to see Thomas Powell watching me from their living room. Despite the fact that I sat in shadow, he held eye contact for a few seconds. Then he closed the blinds, leaving me sitting in the darkness, which seemed to grow around me and thicken as I wiped his wife's lipstick off my mouth.
When I got home, Debbie was laying out the last of the presents on the armchairs. She did not speak when I came in, nor as I began to build the buggy we had bought for Shane. When she was done she said simply, 'You missed a bit,' pointing at the corner of her mouth. Instinctively, I rubbed at my mouth, and Debbie looked at me as if I were someone whom, after ten years of marriage, she suddenly did not recognize.
'You… you… bastard,' she hissed, unable to find a more succinct way of expressing her feelings for me. Then she went up the stairs to our bedroom and I sat on the living-room floor, a screwdriver hanging useless in my hand, as I listened to her soft sobbing, muffled by our pillows.
I lay on the sofa with Shane's blanket over me and felt sorry for myself. The wound on my hand throbbed under the bandages to the same rhythm as the guilt and regret hammering behind my eyes.
At 2.45 a.m. I was sitting on the back doorstep, smoking my fifth cigarette. I tried to see the Star of Bethlehem, as if that might offer some hope, but rain was falling now in sheets, cold and sharp as needles, bouncing off the ground and hammering applause on the corrugated iron roof of Frank's kennel.
At 3.15 a.m. I began to feel drowsy, my eyes heavy. More than once I jerked awake as the heat of my cigarette burnt my fingers. I became aware of a sensation in my groin and for a few seconds struggled to make sense of it, then realized it was my mobile phone, which I had set on silent vibrate so it would not ring during Mass. It was 3.45 a.m. when I learnt that Whitey McKelvey had died in custody.
Chapter Eight
Wednesday, 25th December
Outside the station, in the pounding rain, a number of cars were already parked, some abandoned more haphazardly than others.
John Mulrooney had again been called as medical examiner and was checking McKelvey's arm muscles for signs of rigor. McKelvey lay twisted on the floor, partly under the bed. He was not wearing shoes and one of his grimy white socks hung off his foot. His eyes were open, his face contorted in pain, from which even death seemed to have offered no release. His chin was still wet with saliva and flecks of spit could be seen on his cheek, the whiteness standing out against the fresh purple bruise. One of his eyes was ringed with black, and blood was crusted around his nostrils. Beside him on the floor lay several tablets, which fitted the description of the one found in Angela Cashell's stomach.
Someone was taking photographs. Jason Holmes sat outside the cell, being comforted by another officer as
