“Nuala Parker?”
She nods.
“How can I help you?”
The two exchange glances, before the shorter and younger looking one steps forward.
“I’m Detective Inspector Liam McNally. This is Detective Sergeant Cian Ferguson. Do you mind if we come in?”
She stares at them dumfounded. Oh, fuck. What’s happened? Are Ritchie and Danielle okay?
“Aye, aye… Er… Yeah, please…”
She stands back and points in front, before following the detectives into the living room. As she turns to close the door, she sees Michelle still standing, eavesdropping, at the dining room door.
“Upstairs,” she barks, her face showing she isn’t joking.
Slamming a bare foot on the floor in frustration, Michelle whines, before thundering up the stairs. Nuala doesn’t close the living room door until she hears the slam of Michelle’s. Turning, she sees the two detectives seated in the armchairs. She falls into the, usually, comfortable sofa. Now, it’s like she’s slowly getting swallowed up by quicksand. She knows she should be bustling about making tea and coffee. Bringing home-baked treats and resting on the arm of the chair whilst her husband does all the talking. Isn’t that what happens on the TV? But she’s the head of the household… And the thought of delaying what they have to say further makes her want to scream at them to tell her what they know.
“Is… Is it… My children?” she finally squeaks after being unable to hold it in any longer.
“Are we right in thinking, Mrs Parker,” the inspector ignores her, “that you were the owner of 210 Glenshane Road before you sold the property six months ago for the development of the new dual carriageway?”
“Aye… I was.”
Where are they going with this? Is this about the graffiti?
“Mrs Parker… There’s no easy way to say this, but a body has been dug up from behind your garage a few hours ago. Nothing has been confirmed, but we have reason to believe that it is the remains of your husband, Aaron.”
Nuala can only stare at them. Has her heart stopped? Aaron? Behind the garage? The garage that contained nothing but shite that they had gathered over the years. No, they’re wrong. It can’t be. He couldn’t have been there, all this time. Just yards from them. They’re mistaken. They’re taking the piss. But something in both of the men’s expressions tell her that they aren’t. She tries to speak, but her mouth is too dry. She tries to lick her lips, but her tongue won’t work. She looks down at her hands, seconds before clenched tight with worry, now hanging limply to her side. She begins to look back up at the officers, but she’s falling forward. Her eyes glazing over. She’s gone before she can feel the impact of her body on the carpet.
Chapter Seven:
She should have brought a glass. All those weeks of her ma scowling at her to bring all the mountains of glasses half-filled with water down to be washed. Why out of all times had she listened to her only days ago? Now Michelle can’t hear a thing. Just muffled sounds of the men’s gruff voices as she tries desperately to hear anything from downstairs. Her hair pulled to the side so her ear is pressed against the cold wooden floor. Growling frustratedly, she sneaks over to her bedroom door and winces as it creaks open a slither. She expects the living room door to fly open and her ma to scream up at her to get back to her room. Like she did so many times before when she would sneak out of bed to wind up Danielle. But everything is silent.
She stares at the bannister, as if it will reveal to her the secrets she’s missing. Why would two peelers be at their door? She hasn’t stolen anything in months, and she doubts they’d come to tout on her smoking up the walls. Surely, they’d have more important things to be doing. She jumps as she hears the bang, and she senses movement downstairs. Stepping one foot out onto the landing precariously, she strains to hear what’s going on below.
“Mrs Parker? Mrs Parker! Ferguson, get her some water.”
That’s all the confirmation she needs. Throwing her door closed behind her, she jumps down the stairs just as the older looking man steps out and looks up at her.
“The kitchen’s through there,” she jabs a pointed finger towards the door on her right, but doesn’t stop. Skidding into the room, she sees her mum lying face down on the carpet. “What the fuck have you done?”
She squares up to the other man, who isn’t much taller than her.
“Please, Miss Parker, can you sit down. Your mother has fainted.”
Ignoring him, she skids on her knees towards her mum, who is moaning incomprehensibly.
“It’s alright, Ma. I’m here, what’s wrong with ye, eh?"
Pulling her up into a sitting position, Michelle’s shocked to see her nose is bleeding. Fishing out a hankie from her pocket, she presses it onto her ma’s nose, who winces in pain. The scene remains like that for several more seconds, until who she guesses to be Ferguson returns to the room with a wine glass of tepid water. Michelle’s mum takes it gratefully in her shaking hand, swallowing large gulps. Michelle and the other peeler, McNally she thinks he’s called, both take an arm each and lever her back
