Deciding this is a better idea, I start to crawl around the side of the house until I’m in the back garden. From here, I can see through the conservatory perfectly. Wicker furniture with uncomfortable-looking cushions thrust over them. A giant radio resting on a floating shelf that looks like its groaning under the weight. A painted picture of a pear idly resting below. Sliding doors through to the kitchen.
I wonder if they remembered to lock the door. Surely, they did. I mean, how many times do you shout at a burglar on the TV shows and films that they wouldn’t be able to get access into the house so easily? Worth a try though, right? Creeping over, I rattle the handle as quietly as I can. It’s locked, as I figured. Stepping back a few metres, I survey the back of the house. Directly in front of me on the first floor is a large window where you see the stairs break off onto a landing, before resuming again on the opposite side. A dying plant the only thing perched on the level. Another frosted glass window indicates it must be the bathroom. Short of the window on the ground floor, there’s nothing else to go by. I spot two more of what I presume to be bedroom windows on either side of the house. But whose is who?
A light beams down on me, making me jolt my head towards the source. The bathroom window. Stepping back and away from it, shining down on the garden, I’m just about to escape its beam when I misplace my footing. I fall to the ground with a sharp clap. Looking down, I see I’ve reached the edge of the garden, and have just fallen into a plant pot, lying broken beneath my feet. A sharp pain tells me that I’ve scraped my leg against it on my descent. I sit there in the darkness and silence, hoping whoever has made a late-night trip to the toilet hasn’t heard me. The sound of the pipes bursting to life tells me that they haven’t and I exhale, not realising that I was holding my breath. Counting to 20 after the light goes off, I stand and start brushing myself down. Leaning down and unpeeling my sock from the cut, I wince as the fabric catches on the blood, already sticking things together. I’ll need to be more careful.
“Oi!”
I jump, looking over at my left where the noise came from. Through the neighbouring fence, I see a woman standing at her back door with a cigarette lit and pointed towards me. Her nightie swaying in the breeze like a banshee.
“Fuck do you think you’re doing?”
I scrabble around me, running back the way I came, around the other side of the house away from the woman, now shrieking after me and shouting for Alan, presumably her husband. I don’t stop until I’m back in the car and have screeched it along Trench Road and down Fountain Hill. Flying across the Craigavon Bridge and circling the roundabout to finally come to a stop in the carpark on Foyle Road, I relax and rest my head on the steering wheel. What am I going to do?
Chapter Thirty-Three:
2016
_____
God, he looks awful, Danielle thinks, as her brother drops his bag on the floor and goes over to kiss their mum on the cheek. His hair is dishevelled and hasn’t been washed in days, and needs cut. His clothes look wrinkled and musty, obviously thrown on to catch the flight that Ma bought for him, albeit a few days earlier than planned.
As he goes over to sit on the single armchair, he ruffles Michelle’s hair, who snoozes on their mum’s knee, her face still puffy and red from when she cried herself to sleep. Too drained from the day to stay awake for the 10 o’clock news, where a repeat will air for requests for anyone who knows anything about their father’s disappearance to come forward. Not that it will suddenly tell them where he is, they know that’s what Dermott’s for, although he’d left barely a half hour ago. They aren’t going to hear anything new from the TV, but they know that they must do something. Sitting in deafening silence is driving them crazy.
“No trouble renting a car, love?”
“Naw, Ma. Was grand. Sure, it’s just at arrivals.”
“Good man, I’m sorry I couldn’t lift you… I was runnin’ around that town 50 times over…”
“I understand, Ma.”
“I’ll get you the money you spent on it anyway.”
He nods and resumes his attention to his phone. Not once has he looked over in Danielle’s direction, where she sits on the loveseat with Chris. She felt Chris tense when Ritchie had opened the door, and he’s still to settle. Taking his hand, she stares at him until he looks up at her and they both smile warmly at each other. She had been stupid last night; he would never cheat on her. With all the playboy stories that Ritchie had told her to deter her from going out with him, it had made her very insecure. She constantly second guesses her outfit and makes more of an effort when she knows she’s going to see him. He never really complements her anyway, which makes her feel she isn’t good enough for him. Like he’s just waiting for something better to come along…
“Police are asking the public for information regarding the disappearance of Everyone Unite Party leader Aaron Parker. It seems the well-known politician attended the cancer charity night in the Waterfoot Hotel last night but never made it
