Digby?
… Birdie Salaman?
… dark forces connected to Harry Gilliam?
… Cecily the hen …? No … she was dead …
… the Mysterious Clatterer of Old Dublin Town …?
The sleeping tablet was starting to work its malign magic and I was pulled down into an ugly unsettled sleep.
And now I was awake and hadn’t died of concussion, which was a bitter disappointment, and someone had just sent me a text. Blearily I looked at it. It was from Terry O’Dowd. Who? Oh, the lovely man in Leitrim who’d said he’d fix Docker’s front door. He said the door was mended and so was the gate and he was asking for a ridiculously small amount of money. I made a promise to myself that if I managed only one thing today, it would be to get a cheque from Mum for him.
It was time to take my antidepressant. I choked it back, without any water. Work, I begged it. Work.
I realized I needed to eat something. I hadn’t eaten anything decent since … when? Since the Cheerios yesterday. I decided to walk up to the nearby garage and buy another box of Cheerios. The fresh air might help me feel a bit less strange.
Before I went out I checked myself in Wayne’s bathroom mirror and it was a shock. My forehead was bruised and patterned with dried blood, and my left eye was slightly bloodshot. I used my fingernails to flake off as much of the dried blood as possible without starting the wound bleeding again, then I got my make-up bag. It was time for the heavy guns: my Clinique Advanced Concealer. Gently I patted it on, dab after dab, until the damage was considerably toned down.
Next I combed my hair and that was an even bigger help. I had a fringe and it covered my forehead perfectly, so as long as the hair stayed in place you wouldn’t know to look at me that I’d ‘sustained a blow to the head’, as the coppers might say. Hairspray, that’s what I needed. But a rummage through Wayne’s shower gels and suchlike came up empty. Inconvenient for me but I respected him for it. Hair gel, especially that ‘rock hard’ stuff is acceptable on men, but hairspray smacks too much of a fussy old woman.
I suddenly realized I was in terrible pain. The whole of my skull – back, front, eye sockets, teeth – was throbbing with agony, bad enough to make me feel like puking. It had been there since I woke up but it had taken until now for me to notice. As I was standing in front of Wayne’s bathroom cabinet it seemed like the handiest thing in the world to take four more of his Nurofen. But as soon as I swallowed them down I felt ashamed. This wasn’t right. I was crossing the line here. I’d already crossed it last night by taking one of his sleeping tablets. That was very bad. So bad that I wouldn’t think about it now.
My phone beeped with an incoming text. It was from Artie, reminding me that he had a free house this afternoon. I texted him back, saying that now I was working the case again I wasn’t sure I could come, but to let me know anyway as soon as all three kids had gone.
Out in the world, the morning was horribly bright and I felt weird. I rummaged around in my bag until I found a pair of shades and a baseball hat to take the terrible glare off things. I couldn’t really feel my feet connecting to the ground. It could be the blow to the head. Or the bang to my knee. Or it could be just me.
I walked on, on my nerveless feet, and the moment I turned into the garage forecourt I saw the newspaper headline. In massive black letters, the words jumped several metres towards me:
IS ZEEZAH EXPECTING?
I almost laughed out loud. Artie had been right.
I hurried closer to the array of newspapers outside the front of the shop. A second red-top carried the headline:
IS ZEEZAH UP THE DUFF?
There was a blurry photo of her. Clearly, she’d eaten something small and round – a Malteser, perhaps – because there was the tiniest little circular bump on her tummy and it was being taken as proof positive that she was with child. Apparently the full story was on pages four, five, six and seven.
A quick scan of the other papers, even the non-tabloids, showed they all had stuff about Laddz. It was a veritable media blitz. Jay Parker had done his job well.
I gathered up armloads of papers, then went into the shop. They had hairspray and Nurofen but nothing a person could eat, only boxes of Cheerios. What was wrong with this world?
48
Back at Wayne’s I spread the papers out over the living-room floor and gorged on information about Laddz. Zeezah’s ‘pregnancy’ had been denied by a Laddz ‘spokesman’ (Jay Parker, I was guessing), but that didn’t stop speculation that she was about ten weeks gone. A whole half-page was given over to a column by some pregnancy expert, who told us how Zeezah might be feeling at the moment – nauseous, probably, in the mornings. You don’t say! Perhaps a little more tired than usual. It gave dietary tips – plenty of fresh fruit and veg, red meat at least twice a week and a recommendation that she take a calcium supplement. It advised gentle exercise – yoga, perhaps, and brisk walking. There was also tons of coverage of Zeezah’s recent marriage to John Joseph and absolutely loads about the upcoming gigs.
Just as Artie had predicted, there were also stories about the other Laddz. There was an ‘At Home’ with Frankie, Myrna and the twins, except the ‘At Home’ had been obviously done in a hotel, because the place was big, bright, clean and uncluttered, nothing like the hellish, nappy-riddled abyss I’d visited.
There was a ‘Family Values’ interview with Roger St Leger and his oldest daughter, an eighteen-year-old, who hoped to be an actress. ‘I get on great with Dad’s girlfriends,’ went the quote, ‘especially because they’re usually my friends first!’
There was even a glossy photographic spread with Wayne, which had been taken before he’d done a legger. Here he was in the same beautiful sitting room that I was currently in, looking – maybe only I could see it? – a little sad.
I rang Artie and we had a laugh at the extent of the Laddz coverage.
I decided not to mention the assault from the Mysterious Clatterer of Old Dublin Town. I didn’t know what to make of it myself, and I didn’t want to think too much about it because it might scare me, and then I’d have to stop. And I needed to keep going.
Yesterday, when I’d decided to stop looking for Wayne, I’d been so clear that he was safe and that I should just let him alone. Now everything was murk. Pure murk. I’d no idea whether I was being manipulated into looking for a misfortunate man who didn’t want to be found. Or whether I was saving a good man from a bad situation. Either way, I was on Wayne’s side.
‘Are you … okay?’ Artie asked.
I hesitated. What did he mean? Was I acting weird? Artie knew about my previous patch of depression and my spell in hospital – I’d told him fairly shortly after we’d started going out. But I’d told it like I was telling him that I’d once fallen down the stairs and dislocated my knee: a one-off injury in the distant past, a freak occurrence that was unlikely ever to happen again.
Right now I didn’t want to talk about how odd I was feeling. I didn’t know why, but I just didn’t, so I said, ‘I’m grand.’
‘You very busy?’ Artie asked.
‘I suppose. But text me as soon as all the kids have gone out and we’ll see what we can manage.’
I hung up. I’d really want to get moving. The clock was ticking, and not just down to Wednesday night but also against Walter Wolcott. Professional pride wouldn’t let me be beaten by a lummox like him. But it might happen. He was dogged and patient. He would personally call at every bed and breakfast in Ireland in his unflattering beige raincoat if he had to. And he might find Wayne that way, he just might. Me? I had to rely on a flash of genius and they were unreliable bloody yokes.
I rang Mum and explained to her that I needed a cheque for a man in Leitrim.
‘Why Leitrim?’ she asked.
‘Look, that’s not important. Just, if I call over and give you the cash, will you give me a cheque?’
‘Course I will. Listen,’ she dropped her voice to a low excitement, ‘did you see them last ni
ght?’
No need to ask what she was talking about. What was funny was how many people watched Saturday Night In. Everyone prefaced their admission with the words, ‘I wouldn’t normally watch it if it was the last show on earth, that Maurice McNice gives me the colossal itch, but the telly accidentally switched itself to RTÉ and …’
‘And now, in today’s papers, they’re saying she’s pregnant.’ Mum’s voice dripped with scorn.
‘You don’t believe it?’
‘Of course I don’t believe it! It wouldn’t surprise me if she was a man. Like Lady Gaga. She takes us for fools. Poor John Joseph.’ Mum sighed. ‘He could have had a lovely Irish girl and instead he’s stuck with that Arab … man. Listen, we’re definitely sorted for the concert on Wednesday night, aren’t we? Get at least six tickets. Claire and everyone want to go after they saw Saturday Night In. I know your business with Jay Parker is finished, but make sure.’
‘My business with Jay Parker isn’t actually finished.’
‘I knew it!’
‘Not like that. For the love of God, shut up about that. I mean, I’m still working for him. So I’m busy. But I’ll sort out those fecking tickets and I’ll be over later for the cheque for the man in Leitrim.’
I hung up. I didn’t want to ask Jay Parker for the Laddz tickets. I just couldn’t demean myself like that. But I didn’t know how I was going to buy them without having a working credit card. I supposed I could go in person to the box office and pay in cash, but those tickets were expensive and I was very, very short of money.
My pride wrestled with my poverty until I realized I’d just have to ask Jay. To defer that humiliating conversation for a few minutes, I went on to the MusicDrome site, and to my enormous surprise (category: highly alarming), every single ticket for Wednesday night was sold. I tried Thursday night and it was the same story. And Friday night too. Every single ticket to all three Laddz gigs was gone! Fifteen thousand seats a night for three nights, that was forty-five thousand tickets sold.
How? What had happened? And so quickly? It was only last night I’d been looking at the sales with Artie and they’d been desultory.
Immediately I rang Parker.
He sounded elated, almost manic. ‘It’s all the publicity. This thing is gathering momentum. It’s going to be huge. We’re already doing a fourth gig in Dublin. And a Christmas album. And we’ve got interest in the UK.’ Then he swerved off into hysteria. ‘So where’s Wayne? We need Wayne.’
‘I’m doing my best.’ I was starting to feel a little hysterical myself at the thought of forty-five thousand people expecting to see Wayne Diffney singing and dancing for their pleasure this coming Wednesday, Thursday and Friday nights. ‘Look, I need tickets. Not for me,’ I added quickly. ‘Like I’d be arsed. But for your good friend, Mammy Walsh. And some of her pals. At least six. Preferably Wednesday night. You must have some kept aside for friends and family.’
‘If you find Wayne, you can have a box.’
‘Thank –’ I stopped myself. No point thanking him unless I knew exactly what he was offering. He might literally mean a box. Like a shoebox. ‘What do you mean? What’s a box? How many people does it fit?’
‘Twelve. It fits twelve. And you get free peanuts.’
There was bound to be a catch, some sort of hidden caveat. Dealing with Jay Parker, you had to be like a chess player. You had to think several sneaky moves ahead.
‘So tell me, Parker, who hit me last night?’
‘What?’
‘Oh, come on.’
‘Helen, what are you talking about?’
‘Last night, when I got back to Mercy Close, someone clattered me on the back of the head.’
‘With what?’
‘It could have been a rolling pin. One of those modern white ones that are a bit like truncheons.’
‘Are you hurt?’
I spluttered. ‘What do you think?’
‘I’m on my way over.’ Abruptly, he hung up.
I sat staring at my phone. As I thought of all the people who’d shelled out a hundred euro a head to see Laddz, I became light-headed with fear. My sense of responsibility and the weight of their expectations were so overwhelming that for a moment I thought I was going to lose my mind.
With shaking fingers I rattled out emails to Sharkey and Telephone Man, begging them to send me Wayne’s financial and phone records immediately – or at least give me an indication of when I could expect them. The thing was, I knew that whoever Sharkey and Telephone Man were, they weren’t sitting around idly playing video games and deciding on a whim when they’d send me the information. Acquiring Wayne’s records was so illegal that it was a highly delicate operation. I didn’t know the ins and outs of it but I presumed payments had to be made by my sources to whatever contacts they had, and those contacts had to wait for the opportunity to access Wayne’s records and then somehow cover their tracks.
I knew that begging was unlikely to speed things up.
All the same, I thought it wouldn’t hurt to ask.
Then I went upstairs to Wayne’s office and stared at his computer and I decided I had to try ‘Birdie’ as a password. I convinced myself it was a real possibility – it was six characters long and she was obviously important to Wayne, judging by the way he’d kept the photo of her in his spare room. I typed in the letters and, after two agonizing seconds, Password Incorrect flashed up. Propelled by frenzied fear, barely stopping to absorb the blow, I input ‘Docker’. To my horror, Password Incorrect flashed up again. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
That was my three chances gone to get into his computer. I’d tried Gloria, Birdie and Docker and none of them had worked. I’d no more chances left.
Right. I was going to get into my car this very minute and cruise the streets until I saw a computer-literate-looking teenage boy and I was going to kidnap him and chain him to Wayne’s computer until he’d hacked his way in. I was so full of adrenaline that I had to do something, anything.
Calm down, I told myself. This is only a job. Only a job. It’s not a matter of life and death – hopefully – it’s only a job. I reminded myself that ruthless professionals were already working on getting Wayne’s records; the information would be with me in a day or so; there was no need to kidnap any teenagers.
Slowly, my breathing returned to normal and the waves of dread began to recede.
I rang Wayne’s mobile. I’d been ringing it regularly and it had always been switched off. Obviously, wherever he was, if he’d disappeared voluntarily – and I really didn’t know whether he had or he hadn’t – he’d have to power it on occasionally to collect his messages, but my ringing him hadn’t yet intersected with one of those times. I never left a message but this time I did. ‘Wayne, my name is Helen. I’m on your side. You can trust me. Please ring me.’
He might. He just might. Stranger things had happened.
I went back downstairs and when I reached the front door, to my surprise (category: shocking), Jay Parker appeared. He used a key to let himself in, which made me bristle in a territorial way, until I remembered that this wasn’t actually my house.
His face was white and shocked-looking.
‘Show me,’ he said.
‘What? Oh my cuts.’ In all my panic I’d forgotten them.
I stepped out of the hall into the kitchen, where the light was better. I moved my fringe aside and revealed my swollen, skinned forehead.
‘Jesus Christ.’ He looked distraught. ‘How come if you were hit on the back of the head, your face is hurt?’
‘Because the clatter knocked me over and I landed, forehead first, on the road.’
‘It was that bad?’ He seemed horrified.
I studied him carefully. ‘What? You told them to hit me but not very hard?’
‘I’ve no idea who hit you. I’ve no idea what’s going on!’ For a second I thought tears were going to spill from his eyes. He stepped closer to me and moved his head down to mine.
‘W
hat are you doing?’ I asked.
‘I’m kissing it better.’
For the briefest, lightest moment, his lips gently touched the raw skin on my forehead and it felt like balm. I let the relief flow through me then, abruptly restored to my senses, I shoved him away.
‘Sorry!’ he said.
I stared at him. His face was still too close to mine, his eyes were dark and sorrowful and I couldn’t catch my breath in my chest.
I felt that old tug towards him. I remembered the fun we used to have, how uncomplicated everything used to be.
He stretched out his arms in an attempt to gather me to him.
‘Don’t!’
He froze and I backed well away from him, out of his force field, until there was enough space between us. From a safe distance we watched each other warily.
‘Sorry,’ he said again. ‘It’s just …’ He gestured helplessly. ‘This is bad. What’s going on? Wayne has disappeared. Someone attacked you …’
‘And it really wasn’t you?’
‘How can you even ask that?’ With fierce sincerity he said, ‘I would never, ever hurt you.’
Yes, but he had, hadn’t he?
‘What are you doing going out with that old guy?’ he exclaimed. ‘Someone said he even has kids! That’s not you, it’ll never be you.’
‘Hey! You don’t know him.’
‘But I know you, Helen,’ Jay said. ‘We’re the same, you and I. I will never meet anyone else like you and you’ll never meet anyone else like me. We’re perfect.’
‘Are we?’
‘Look at how we were brought back into contact with each other.’
‘Because you hired me!’
‘Then you resigned – and you came back! There’s no point fighting it, we’re meant to be together.’
‘Are we?’
I mean, were we?
The eye contact was becoming too intense, so I closed my eyes to break the connection. I went inside myself and sought out my inner steel bar, then used it to shift my focus back to what was really important here: the job.
I opened my eyes again. ‘Is Zeezah really pregnant?’ I asked.