Borderlands (15 page)
"So,
Miriam, what can we do for you?" she said, still standing in the doorway.
"I'm
here to see your husband. And you, of course, Deborah."
She smiled
and extended the glass again, which I took from her and set on the coffee
table.
"Tommy
Senior tells me you called with him, Benedict. We appreciate it," she
said, slurring her words only slightly. Despite her state, or perhaps because
of it, she held herself perfectly erect, her head haughtily tilted back, but
her eyes were glazed and a hint of red was blooming on her cheeks. She was an
attractive woman, more so now than ever. Her skin was still dark and supple,
her figure trim and well proportioned. Debbie had once commented that anyone
could have that body if they hadn't had two children, but it was clear that
Miriam worked to keep her shape. As though sensing my admiring glance, she
straightened herself further, so that her breasts pushed against her jacket and
strained at the buttons.
Debbie
coughed. "Ben always does what he says, Miriam. He told me about your
husband's father. I was sorry to hear it."
"Have we
anything to worry about?" Miriam asked me, as if Debbie had not spoken.
I assured her
that her father-in-law was safe, as best we could tell, and that I had assigned
an officer to follow up the complaint. I felt ridiculous, speaking in my
policeman voice in my own living room after midnight on Christmas Day,
especially as it was clear the Powells could have phoned for such information.
"And
where is your husband?" Debbie said, sitting on the sofa as it became
apparent Miriam would only leave in her own time.
"Oh,
drifting about. Doing his Santa routine - delivering his very own little
present. Emptying his sack!"
An awkward
silence followed, none of us sure how to take her final comment.
"I feel
I have disturbed your evening," Miriam said, trying to stand up with
dignity and almost succeeding. "I shall impose on you no longer. Good
evening and happy Christmas. Deborah . . . Benedict . . ." and she
stumbled against the coffee table. Again, I reached out to steady her and she
gripped my bandaged hand and squeezed it while she righted herself, causing me
to wince.
"I'm
alright," she stated emphatically, fishing in her purse for her car keys.
"Miriam,
you can't drive home like this," I said, and Debbie rolled her eyes.
"We'll phone you a taxi."
I tried four
different numbers, in Lifford and Strabane, but none was answered. Eventually
it became clear that one of us would have to take her home, and Debbie made it
even clearer that she wouldn't do it.
The
conversation on the journey was strained until we reached Miriam's driveway.
"Did I
see you sitting outside my house the other day?" she asked, smiling coquettishly.
"Afraid to come in?"
"I...
I got a call on the mobile and had to stop."
She wagged
her finger back and forth in front of me and tutted. In the confines of the
car, I could smell alcohol and cigarettes off the heat of her breath. "You
weren't sure whether to come in, Benedict. A woman knows these things."
I didn't know
what to say and so said nothing.
She
continued, "It was nice. Kind of like a first date again. The nervous
boyfriend waiting in the car?" She raised her eyebrows inquisitively.
"Goodnight,
Miriam," I said, trying to sound as firm as possible. "I have to get
the kids' presents ready for the morning. Merry Christmas to you and
Thomas."
"Debbie's
a lucky woman," she said. "I was once, too." She smiled and
waggled her finger at me. "Ah, I remember. You couldn't control yourself
with me once." Again she smiled coyly, but the impression in the darkness
was anything but coy.
"A lot
of water under the bridge since then," I said. "Goodnight then."
"Goodnight,
Benedict," she said. "Merry Christmas."
She leaned
over to kiss me on the cheek, and so I leaned towards her. However, at the last
moment, she moved her head slightly and the corners of our mouths connected
with a tingle, like static. Her lips were moist from her lipstick and I felt
them tug slightly on mine. The gentle teasing of her lips, the warm haze of
alcohol which filled my mouth and nose, the under-scent of coconut which seemed
to radiate from her skin - all took me back fifteen years. I shifted slightly
in my seat, pressing my lips on hers, hearing her moan deeply, feeling the cool
wetness of her mouth. Our teeth knocked together slightly, like a teenager's
kiss. Feeling her tongue in my mouth, I touched the tip of it with mine. I
placed my hand to the side of her face, her skin warm and soft; my other hand,
thick with bandages, touched her neck fleetingly, then lower, slipping inside
her jacket as she groaned and shifted her body against mine, her own hands
moving down my chest. She pressed my face against her neck and whispered something
hoarse and urgent which I could not decipher. I could feel the fabric of her
underwear, the sheen cool and smooth to my touch. Unbidden images of my wife
came to my mind and, with those, the sharp recollection of the threat of
infection I carried. The haze lifted and I pulled away from her quickly.
She opened
her eyes and smiled at me, attempting demure but managing only satisfied. Then,
without another word, she got out of the car and staggered to her front door,
waving over her shoulder without looking back. As I watched her, I became
aware of a movement at the window and I looked up to see Thomas Powell watching
me from their living room. Despite the fact that I sat in shadow, he held eye
contact for a few seconds. Then he closed the blinds, leaving me sitting in the
darkness, which seemed to grow around me and thicken as I wiped his wife's
lipstick off my mouth.
When I got
home, Debbie was laying out the last of the presents on the armchairs. She did
not speak when I came in, nor as I began to build the buggy we had bought for
Shane. When she was done she said simply, "You missed a bit,"
pointing at the corner of her mouth. Instinctively, I rubbed at my mouth, and
Debbie looked at me as if I were someone whom, after ten years of marriage, she
suddenly did not recognize.
"You ...
you ... bastard," she hissed, unable to find a more succinct way of
expressing her feelings for me. Then she went up the stairs to our bedroom and
I sat on the living-room floor, a screwdriver hanging useless in my hand, as I
listened to her soft sobbing, muffled by our pillows.
I lay on the
sofa with Shane's blanket over me and felt sorry for myself. The wound on my
hand throbbed under the bandages to the same rhythm as the guilt and regret
hammering behind my eyes.
At 2.45 a.m.
I was sitting on the back doorstep, smoking my fifth cigarette. I tried to see
the Star of Bethlehem, as if that might offer some hope, but rain was falling
now in sheets, cold and sharp as needles, bouncing off the ground and hammering
applause on the corrugated iron roof of Frank's kennel.
At 3.15 a.m.
I began to feel drowsy, my eyes heavy. More than once I jerked awake as the
heat of my cigarette burnt my fingers. I became aware of a sensation in my
groin and for a few seconds struggled to make sense of it, then realized it was
my mobile phone, which I had set on silent vibrate so it would not ring during
Mass. It was 3.45 a.m. when I learnt that Whitey McKelvey had died in custody.
Outside the station,
in the pounding rain, a number of cars were already parked, some abandoned more
haphazardly than others.
John
Mulrooney had again been called as medical examiner and was checking McKelvey's
arm muscles for signs of rigor. McKelvey lay twisted on the floor, partly under
the bed. He was not wearing shoes and one of his grimy white socks hung off his
foot. His eyes were open, his face contorted in pain, from which even death
seemed to have offered no release. His chin was still wet with saliva and flecks
of spit could be seen on his cheek, the whiteness standing out against the
fresh purple bruise. One of his eyes was ringed with black, and blood was
crusted around his nostrils. Beside him on the floor lay several tablets, which
fitted the description of the one found in Angela Cashell's stomach.
Someone was
taking photographs. Jason Holmes sat outside the cell, being comforted by
another officer as though he were a relative. Someone else brought him a cup of
tea, though probably with something stronger added.
Costello
appeared from his office. "Devlin!" he called, then went back inside.
I followed him in, taking a seat in front of his desk.
"What
the fuck happened?" he began.
"I don't
know, sir. I've only just arrived."
"I'll
tell you what happened. Somehow, someone didn't search the fucker properly when
he came in. Looks like he took a dose of his own medicine." He calmed a
little. "Jesus Christ, he's twisted so bad they might have to break his
legs to fit him in the box." He blessed himself, kissed his thumb and
motioned heavenward.
Mulrooney
knocked on the door, then came on in. "Ben," he said, nodding.
"Happy Christmas."
"You get
all the good ones, eh Doc?" Costello said, and Mulrooney grimaced in
acknowledgement.
"Goes
with the territory. Fairly simple, folks. Looks like he took some of those
tablets beside him, if what you said about the Cashell girl is true." He
had obviously been informed of the cocktail she had taken. "Dead less
than an hour, I'd say."
"Is that
it? Clean-cut and simple?" Costello asked, with more than a little hope in
his voice.
Mulrooney
grimaced again. "I'm not entirely sure. There's bruising on his face from
his arrest, I'm told. One of his fingers is also badly bruised, possibly broken.
Could have been when he was lifted. Looks like someone hit him a fair smack in
the face," he said, glancing slightly towards me. "Badly bruised. I
hope he deserved it, but it might complicate things."
Costello's
face blanched. "You're sure?" he managed.
"Fairly
much. If you need me for anything else, leave it until Boxing Day." He
smiled ruefully as he waved goodbye and left.
Costello
moved to behind his desk and dropped heavily into his chair, grunting as he did
so. "What happened, Benedict?" he said in a tone both friendly and
weary. But I said nothing.
He looked at
me for a moment, waiting. I wanted to come clean and tell him all that had
happened, but I could not speak.
"What
happened, Inspector?" he asked again, the change in mood evident.
"I'm not
sure, sir. Everything was fine when I left. He was lying sleeping, I
think."
"You
think!"
he said.
"What about this bruising to his face?"
"Picked
up during his arrest, sir?" I offered.
"A punch
in the face?" he snapped, loud enough, I imagined, for those outside his
office door to stop and pretend they weren't listening to our conversation.
"Go
home, Inspector," he hissed. "And get your story straight. Because in
the morning I'll have to announce an internal enquiry to the press, the
McKelvey family and every shit-head who's looking to run down this force.
Someone's going to take a fall, Inspector - and it won't be me."
I left his
office in silence, absorbing, but not fully comprehending, all that he had said.
Those outside were no longer even pretending not to have heard. I saw Williams
with her son, who was wrapped in a blanket, lying asleep across three chairs in
the waiting area. Williams was standing with her hand on Holmes' shoulder, and
he sat, head bowed, staring at the floor. She must have spoken to me for he
looked up at me, then he shrugged off her hand and came over.
"What
happened, Jason?" I asked.
"I don't
know sir.
He...
he kept goading me. Acting like he was off his head. I might
have smacked him about a bit. Nothing serious, though. Nothing to
do ...
this," he
said, gesturing slightly towards the floodlit cell with his head.
"Nothing
serious! He's fucking
dead,
Jason," I hissed, trying desperately to keep the
conversation between us.
"Well,
I'm not the only one who smacked him about a bit, sir, am I?" With that he
looked towards Williams, who held my gaze awkwardly for a second and then
looked away.
"Don't
worry," he said. "We'll say nothing. Your secret is safe with
us." He placed his hand on my shoulder, as Williams had done to him, and
kneaded the muscle slightly. I looked at him, my mind buzzing with thoughts, my
jaw muscles seemingly beyond my control.
I stood
outside, under the wash of the streetlamps, as the first light of a Christmas
dawn turned pink the edges of the mountains behind the town and the rain began
to ease. It felt fresh on my face after the heat of the station and my
inclination was to walk down along the river, down to where Angela's body had
been discarded one week earlier, but I realized that it was dawn and the
children would soon be up for their presents.
