I managed to snag a taxi at the bus stop ahead of a group of four revellers, replete with party hats and champagne bottles, celebrating the New Year. The village looked heartachingly picturesque, yet I could not shake the sense of emptiness with which the day's events had left me, nor the growing doubts about my family's safety. I tried phoning the station, but there was no answer and I guessed that those who weren't looking for Harvey had gone home for the festivities.
The snow was falling faster now, leaving the hills bright. Both our village and Strabane were haloed with the reflected orange glow of the streetlamps. All around us, the world was white and crisp and cold. As the driver attempted the final incline up the hill towards my house, the car slid on the road, turning at a ninety- degree angle. He tried as best he could to correct our position and make the hill again, but this time the car would not move while he accelerated and, when he stopped, began to slide down towards the level again. Finally, the driver admitted defeat and told me he could take me no further.
As he manoeuvred his way back onto the main road, I began to trudge up the hill. I attempted to run but the snow was too thick and my body too sore to make much headway. I should probably have considered conserving my strength, but I had a father's shortsightedness and the only thought in my mind was the possibility that my children were in danger.
When I was perhaps a quarter of a mile from my house, I heard the sound of an engine shuddering through the gently falling snow. A single weak light sparkled through the haze and the lumbering outline of a tractor appeared. I waved my arms, shouting for the driver to stop, a new hope flickering in my chest against the rawness of the winter wind on my lungs. Then, as the silhouette took form and substance, I saw Mark Anderson, perched high up in the cab of his old Ford. He slowed as he drew level with me and I called to him for help. He laughed, spat out the open window, then shunted into gear again and drove on, skittering snow over me.
I screamed profanities in his wake, and pulled my pistol from my jacket, but it was an empty gesture. My screams, such as they were, were blanketed by the snow.
I struggled onward, my ribcage feeling as if it would explode, my head throbbing. At one point I took a fit of coughing so hard that I spat blood onto the snow. Then, amongst the whispering of the snowfall, I heard a familiar yelping which I recognized as Frank's and I realized how close I was to home. As his barking continued I also had to acknowledge that Debbie would have brought him into the house by now, had she been able. I tried in vain to disregard what scene would be waiting for me when I finally reached my house.
The house was in darkness when I finally got there, yet I could see thin skeins of smoke drifting from the chimney. I went around the back of the house, where Frank sat on the doorstep, his bandages bright against the brown of his fur. He whimpered slightly and limped towards me, his eyes mournful. His coat was matted and heavy with moisture; he had clearly been outside for some time.
I opened the back door as softly as I could. Any element of surprise was lost, though, for Frank shoved his way through my legs and bolted into the kitchen, thudding against the chairs with enough force to knock one over. Almost immediately I heard Penny scream, a shout muffled quickly, and I knew that she, at least, was alive. I also knew that Harvey was here – waiting for me.
Frank scrabbled at the door to the living room. Underneath it, I could see the flickering of the fire. I could wait for back-up, but it would simply turn this into a situation from which my family had no chance of escape. Besides, I couldn't stand out here, waiting for someone to help. I pushed the door open with my foot, my gun in my hand.
Debbie and Shane were sitting on the sofa, Shane squirming restlessly. Debbie had clearly been crying, her eyes wide and red.
Harvey was sitting in the armchair closest to the fire, Penny held in front of him as a shield. His gun was held by her head, though it was pointing at me. When he saw my pistol, he held the gun tight against her skin, her beautiful soft skin. Frank, who had run to Debbie, now turned his attention to Harvey, growling and baring his teeth.
'Drop the gun, Devlin,' Harvey said, his own gun steady.
'Give it up, John. I'm not going to let you out of here, you must know that,' I said, though the quaver in my voice revealed my lack of conviction.
Frank barked, while Debbie tried to pull at his collar to restrain him. Harvey's attention flickered towards the dog, then back to me.
'Drop it,' he snapped.
'Let Penny go,' I said, inching closer to him.
Frank barked again, then twisted and tugged so hard that his collar slipped over his ears and he lunged towards Harvey. In turn Harvey kicked out at the him. Penny, seemingly more concerned about Frank than herself, flailed against Harvey and slid off his knee onto the hearth. I fired one shot, indiscriminately, while I grabbed at Penny. The edge of her dress was burning when I lifted her away, and I thumped at the flames with my bandaged hand until they were smothered.
She scrabbled into my arms, sobbing. When I looked up, Harvey lay sprawled in my armchair, a single small bullet-hole in his left cheek, his eyes wide with disbelief. I did not feel sorrow for him, as I had with Yvonne. I did not even close his eyes when he exhaled his final, weak sigh. I simply gathered my family and we stood outside while we waited for the Guards to arrive. I hoped the snow would fall thickly enough to bury all transgressions and make the world fresh and clean with the dawn.
Epilogue
20th March 2003
In the days that followed, and in my absence, the NCIB were drafted in to piece together what had happened. They eventually discovered that, having fled her house in Strabane, Yvonne had joined her brother in a rented farmhouse in Ballindrait.
Presumably, Sean Knox, or John Harvey as he had become, recognized the ring belonging to his mother on the list of stolen goods he had been given to check. Perhaps he had waited years for some sign of her life – and death – to emerge. Or perhaps it simply happened unexpectedly, setting in motion a chain of events which would culminate in the Three Rivers Hotel and, later, in my own home. Either way, once he got a hit in the second-hand jewellers, it mustn't have been too hard for him to identify Whitey McKelvey from the description given of a young traveller boy with big ears and hair so blond it was almost white.
Working backwards, they traced Ratsy Donaghey to Bundoran and, there, killed him, having established at least that Johnny Cashell and Seamus Boyle had aided him in their mother's murder.
Yvonne had begun a friendship and ultimately a relationship with Angela Cashell, another woman's arms presumably the perfect refuge from a voyeuristic father and a drug-pushing boyfriend like McKelvey. Using McKelvey as their fall-guy, Yvonne and her brother drugged Cashell. It can only be assumed that Harvey then had sex with her before she died and that Yvonne knelt on her chest as the life drained from her.
Later, Yvonne would pick up Terry Boyle, out for a celebratory pint on his return from university. She directed him to a lay-by on Gallows Lane and Harvey followed. The fact that Boyle's window had apparently been wound down at the time of his death suggested that Harvey had approached Boyle's car in uniform.
It was assumed that Ratsy Donaghey had told them something about Costello's involvement with their mother. Either that, or Joanne Duffy had told them something – though she denied having had any contact with them since she had abandoned them in Dublin twenty-five years previous.
However they learnt of his involvement, the outcome remained the same: on the morning of New Year's Eve, they broke into Costello's house. One of them, probably Harvey, hit Emily with a poker, though they may not have intended to kill her. Then they took Kate Costello to the Three Rivers. At the same time, Yvonne managed to lure Thomas Powell there. It transpired that Miriam was correct in her suspicion that her husband was having an affair with a nurse. Again, it was assumed that Ratsy had named Powell Sr as he died. In each case, they decided on transferring the punishment for the sins of the father onto the children. Harvey went to Finnside to deliver the photograph of Mary Knox, which was found amongst a pile of Christmas cards lying on Powell's bedside cabinet later that day.
Finally, they waited for me to find them and make their decision for them with regard to whether Costello's or
