“Good point,” McNally nods. “And the threats on the O’Flaherty boy… The journalist,” he adds, for the women’s benefit, “that isn’t like the Jacks either… Usually they’re more action, less talk.”
McNally and Ferguson had called in on Cathal on their way back to the station earlier this evening after getting a call from the incident room. They took his statement about the threats he was getting, but further investigation had come up short. The email has only been active for a number of days, and they were able to link it with a pay-as-you-go phone. It has only ever made contact with Cathal. Phone triangulations have zoned it in on Lisnagelvin Shopping Centre twice, as well as around the area of Cathal’s house for the picture message of his retreating sister. Where the perpetrator was exactly is hard to pin down.
“But, what could Boyle have to do with this?” McNally brings this evening’s antics back to the table.
“Maybe he’s holding his own celebrations?” Niamh chuckles into her glass.
“Maybe,” Ferguson nods, “or maybe they’re planning something. Or panicking. Either way, it looks like we’re one step closer to finding out the truth.”
“Fancy a trip over? Just to check it out,” McNally directs the question towards Ferguson.
He’s over the limit, he knows that. But the eagerness to find out is too overwhelming. He’d book a taxi, or ask to see if a patrol car could pick them up. After all, they’re not far from the Bull’s Horn, what with Ferguson living so close to the Strand Road embanking the Foyle.
“Aye, just for a quick gander,” Ferguson sloshes the last of his wine to the back of his throat and stands, flinching at the scraping of the chair legs off the wooden floor.
“Jane, I’m so sorry, we’ll be right back,” McNally also stands, before turning to Niamh and winking, “will you be here when I get back?”
“Hmm, I dunno,” she raises her perfectly shaped brows at him, “it might be past my bedtime.”
Chapter Sixty-One:
Stepping out of Dermott’s car, Nuala thanks him as he holds out an arm to help her. Her wrist is badly sprained, and as she straightens up, she tries to tug at her sleeve to hide the brace again. She’s so embarrassed. The doctor said she’s lucky that that’s all she hurt, but she doesn’t feel lucky. All the horror stories of people hitting their heads when falling were told, almost as if rehearsed, whilst the brace was being adjusted. To be honest, she feels like a good blow to the head is what she needs. But she can’t be selfish, she needs to think of her family. The three children who look up to her. She’s all they have left.
She just wants to crawl into bed and hide her face in shame, but knows that people will be landing soon for the wake. They’ll have to make do with glasses of water, and maybe some will land with casseroles and the likes. Would it be incredibly rude to use their food for the people coming? She thinks so, but they’ll just have to grin and bear it. It’s not like they’ll say anything. Dermott had told her the body was on its way when he collected her from the hospital. Closed coffin, obviously. How is she going to get through the next few days if a trip to the Tescos is enough to land her in hospital? Panic attack, they had brushed it off as. Handed a few leaflets about counsellors and away she was sent. As if it were that simple. Panic attack? She felt like she was being swallowed alive. Turned inside out.
But the answer to all her questions park up in the next two cars. Out steps Danielle and Michelle from one, and Ritchie from the other, all three of them migrating to the latter’s passenger-side door. Struggling out, feebler than she’s ever seen her, is her mum. She totters over, walking stick in one hand, and gives Nuala a hug that must take every ounce of strength. Deceiving strength. Squeezing the negativity out of her. When she pulls away, Nuala has tears collected in her eyes as she looks at her little family, Dermott included. Taking them all in. She has to stick around. For them, rather than for herself.
“Right, let’s get in and get the kettle on,” her mother jabs the bottom of her stick towards the front door, giving a gummy grin.
Linking arms, they all march across the garden, before Michelle breaks the chain to open the door. They step through and sigh, before moving into the living room. That’s where Nuala gasps, her good hand flying to her chest. All the sofas have been pushed back against one wall, and the coffee table is littered with finger food wrapped in cling film, from an array of sandwiches to cocktail sausages and sausage rolls. Dining room chairs scattered around the floor. Where their TV once stood is now a barren corner, wide enough for a six-foot coffin. The family are silent as they gaze around, the only sound coming from Granny’s padding feet trotting over to the nearest settee, which she groans into, oblivious. Nuala turns around to her children, but they all look as confused as her.
Where’s Dermott? The foursome turn and retreat into the kitchen, barely acknowledging their granny’s shout for ‘milk and two sugars.’ Once they open the door, they see Dermott slouched against one wall. He shrugs and nods towards the corner. Following his gaze, Danielle inhales excitedly, clapping her hands to her mouth. Beside the tower of polystyrene cups and packets of sugar stand Jase, Katie, Travis, Steph, Georgia (holding a squirming and smirking baby William), Jimmy and Chris. They all smile nervously at the family, before Danielle squeals and runs over, letting herself be enveloped by them all.
“Guys,” Nuala shakes her head, hobbling into the kitchen properly, “did
