son came to her and hugged her. Only the idiot Brits would have believed they could break her.
She said that she would make tea for him, but he had no more business in the house.
He would never be loved, not as Jon Jo was loved by Attracta Donnelly. He thought she leaned on him more now than before. She seemed always to have another small job he could do about her house.
But Jon Jo was never spoken of. She was sharp, she could put the numbers together and come to the answer. Jon Jo was the hunted man.
They never let up in the hunt for a killer, he would be hunted for ever.
Siobhan called her the 'widow Donnelly'. Siobhan had it right. Attracta and the face in the photograph had nothing ahead of them.
He made his excuses.
He hadn't his key in the door before Siobhan had it open.
She had him by the collar and she marched him through to her bedroom.
He saw the wild anger in her face.
'You bastard, what's you at?'
7
She saw him flinch from her.
Siobhan Nugent held the Building Society book out in front of her face, in front of his eyes.
'What's this?' Her hand trembled in her anger.
It was only a spitted whisper because the children were in the sitting room across the hall. There was a moment when she thought he might try to snatch it away and then she saw that he was afraid.
'I can't…'
'You feckin' well will.'
'Don't ask me.'
'What's this? It's?500 a month, first of every month. It's interest paid every year. Two years and more…'
'Don't ask me.'
'It's money we don't dream about. It's more than fourteen thousand feckin' pounds. When did we have fourteen thousand feckin' pounds?
When did we have?500 paid in each month, clockwork?'
'Siobhan, don't ask me.'
'Correction, not 'we'; when did Moss Aloysius Nugent have fourteen thousand pounds and more?'
'It's not for talking of.'
'I want to know, I've the right to know. I darn the heels of your socks. I turn the collars of your shirts so's you can go on wearing them. I buy cheap. Damn you, I've worried myself sick about money, and there's fourteen thousand feckin' pounds… Who's paying it?'
'You don't need to know.'
'Why's they paying it?'
It was the twelfth year of their marriage. Her own mother, rest her soul, had told her she could have done better. A new life, a good life, in England, six years of it, and then he had insisted that they come back to bloody Ireland. Nearly six more years of living cramped in his mother's bungalow, because they had no money for a place of their own, and the Housing Executive list stretched away above them because they had been away and lost places on the ladder.
'I want to know, damn you.' She stood her full height. She felt her lips against her teeth.
'Best you don't ever know.'
'Is that your last word?'
'You can't be told. You'll not be helped by knowing, believe me.’’
She heard the pitch of her own voice rising. 'What do I believe?' 1 find a Building Society book that has been kept a secret from me, fourteen thousand feckin' pounds. What should I believe…?’’
There was the click of the front door. There was his mother's voice, and the babble of the kids and the loud laughter from the television. She saw his face lighten, as if his rescue had come. His hand reached out and he took the building Society book from her.
His face seemed to say that he was safe, that he had seen her off, that she would not raise her voice now that his mother was back. He slid the Building Society book down into the hip pocket of his trousers. Her hand was in the pocket of her trousers. Her fingers were round the shape of the box. His mother called out, to let them know she was back, that she was putting on the kettle. He went to go past her. She stood in front of the closed door of the bedroom. His hand was on her shoulder and she felt the gentle pressure as he eased her sideways.
'And what's this?'
She held it in front of his face.
They were very close, almost touching
She held in front of him the small steel box that was the size of a cigarette packet.
'What's this, then?'
The blood colour running from his face. ‘’Give it me.’’
Her thumb rested over the red button that was recessed into the box.
'Tell me, what is this?'
'Don't, for the love of Christ, please, feck you, don't…'
There was his mother's voice again, penetrating into the room, telling them that their tea would be ready in a minute.
She felt her power.
'What happens if I press this…?' Her thumb lay across the red button.
'Don't…'
'Is it a bomb switch…?'
He shook his head. It was as if his voice had died, and him never short for words.
'Is it a warning bell…?'
She saw the fear in his eyes.
'Do they come running? Who'll come? The slob that you bloody jump for? The Devitt boy? The half-wit Riordan kid? The little Brannigan bastard…?'
Again the shake of his head. The smoothness of the red button was under her thumb. He would have known that he could not wrench it from her, not before she had pressed the button.
'Who comes running when little Mossie presses the button…?'
His mother was outside the door. Siobhan leaned against it. His mother said that the tea was poured. The door was pushed against her back.
Siobhan's weight took the pressure. She called, the loving daughter-in-law, wheedling voice, that they would be out in a moment. She heard the footsteps shuffle away.
'Who comes running?'
'Please, Siobhan, you can't know.'
'Or I press the feckin' thing…'
'Don't!'
'I press it.'
She held the steel box right in front of his face, where it would have filled his eyes. He was breathing hard. His face was white.
'You don't know…'
'I press it,'
He crumpled against her, pushing her against the door. The steel box was driven into his cheek. She had destroyed him. She did not know how, nor did she know why. Her arms slipped round his neck. She held the box against the frayed collar of his shirt.
