Sleep Sister: A page-turning novel of psychological suspense (24 page)

‘We met before you started working in Havenstone,’ she said when she and Tork were leaving. She had a penetrating stare that verged on rudeness. ‘In the village. I thought you were a ghost – not that I believe in ghosts or anything crazy like that. But it’s kind of weird. Every time I see you I think of Sara.’

Eva had no recollection of their meeting. ‘Sara?’ she asked, puzzled.

‘She was married to my uncle. She’s dead…’ Her voice trailed away. She climbed into the Woodstock van and Tork accelerated away.

E
va drove
to Oldport on the finished section of the motorway – a long grey slash with flashing signs, bypassing narrow main streets that had been crumbling under the force of juggernauts and traffic jams. Peter Wallace expressed surprise that the work had progressed so fast. He complimented Eva on what had been achieved, examining the walls she’d uncovered, and listened intently when she discussed her plans with him. She was conscious of his scrutiny, a subtle, brooding awareness, difficult to pin down. Not a look that said he desired her. Her instinct was never wrong in that department. No, it was something else, something too private for her to fathom, but she sensed it and it made her nervous.

One evening, when Eva was leaving the garden, he stretched out his hand as if he wanted to remove something from her hair. For an instant, his hand remained in a reaching position before falling to his side. A sharp, almost painful sensation flickered in her stomach as she imagined his fingers touching her. She flinched, moving quickly aside, shocked at her reaction. Later, alone in the caravan, she found twigs and leaves tangled in her curls. She brushed them furiously to the floor.

The heavy work on her cottage was finished and the landscaping was now underway. Soon the greenhouses would be assembled, ventilated and electrified, their wooden frames blending easily into their natural surroundings. Slowly, Eva was bringing order to this wild place and her relief in the mornings when she left her caravan to drive to Havenstone was palpable.

She tried to sense his dead wife’s presence in the old house. There were no photographs, no clothes, no odds and ends to suggest she’d ever existed. Eva imagined her shadow wandering lost in those empty rooms where all that remained were the colours and textures Sara Wallace had created around her.

O
ctober was
a month of mist and light rain. Red-gold leaves on the trees, not yet ready to fall. Faye’s birth month. A month that should have had a cake with one candle and balloons on the door. Eva stood in a cemetery of angels, teddy bears and toy windmills blowing silently in the breeze. She laid flowers by Faye’s tiny headstone. In the afternoon she spoke to Greg on the phone. He hung up when their silence grew too deep to break.

Peter Wallace had mentioned that he would be away for the day and she worked in his garden without resting. Tork, sensing her mood, kept his distance. Before leaving for Grahamstown she stopped off at the local supermarket to buy bread and milk. A baby lay in the cradle of a shopping trolley, pink and calm in a quilted sleeping bag. She raised her tiny fingers in a fist and let them fall again.

Eva stopped, unable to move past her. She wanted to lift her in her arms and run to a silent place. She wanted her nipples to pucker under the suck of tiny gums. The back of her neck was cold with sweat as she moved away. Was this what she was destined to become? A demented baby thief, ripping babies from their prams and from the arms of their mothers?

She walked quickly from the supermarket and climbed into her van. Her legs trembled so much she was afraid to drive far. It was dark when she reached Havenstone. Peter had given her a key to the front door when she’d first accepted the contract. She entered the empty house, sat by the long kitchen table and stared at the surface, her eyes following the curving grain until it blurred. Then she placed her head against the wood and began to weep.

She didn’t hear him enter. Her first awareness of his presence was the feel of his hands on her shoulders, a steady, comforting touch. She raised her head and covered her cheeks, appalled that he should discover her in such distress. Unable to speak, she ran from the kitchen, through the hall and down the front steps. She heard his footsteps behind her, his voice urgent, concerned. He caught her on the bottom step and forced her to a standstill. She did not resist when he led her back into the house.

In the drawing room he poured her a brandy and stood over her while she drank it.

‘Please don’t apologise.’ Her silenced her attempts to explain her presence there. ‘I know today is your child’s birthday.’

‘How do you know?’ She was startled by his knowledge and when he mentioned Wind Fall she remembered the first time she’d seen him in the breakfast room with Liz.

Heat returned to her cheeks. Her breath steadied. She told him about the supermarket and about the National Library – where her past was a headline on microfilm – and how she was unable to stop crying because she’d climbed the headland and believed she was on the other side.

Once again she was confiding in this stranger. He listened intently and did not make futile, sympathetic remarks. Nor did he hold her hand or stroke her hair, even though he was so close she only had to stretch out to touch him. When she was composed again he ignored her protests and drove her to Grahamstown in her van.

The site looked desolate. The caravan was cold. He looked around the cluttered, untidy space then stared through the window at the darkness outside. He asked how work was progressing on her garden centre. Some planting for spring had been done but the cottage – she shrugged, too weary to talk about debts and her bank manager, who refused overdrafts because it was a high-risk project. She saw him frown, tension gathering between his dark eyebrows, as if her problems were also pressing down on him. She ordered a taxi for him on her mobile and they drank coffee while he waited. Once again she apologised for intruding into Havenstone.

‘I’m glad I came home and found you,’ he said.

For an instant she thought he was going to take her in his arms. She stepped backwards, relieved when the lights of the approaching taxi swept over them. He signalled to the taxi driver to wait and turned back to her.

‘If you’re free some night I’d like to take you out for a meal.’ He spoke carefully. ‘I want to discuss something with you. Strictly business,’ he added hastily, seeing her startled expression.

She agreed, too weary to think of an excuse. Later, when the day with all its grief had faded, she would cancel. If he needed to discuss business, the garden in Havenstone was the appropriate place.

It rained that night. The wind grew in strength. The plastic coverings on plants fluttered, loud as the wings of angry swans. In the small hours she rose from the bed and phoned Greg. She wanted to talk to him about loneliness and empty nights. When an automated voice told her he was unavailable on his mobile, she rang his landline. A woman answered. Her assertive drawl grew impatient at Eva’s silence. In the background she heard music playing on a stereo. She hung up without speaking and tossed sleeplessly for the rest of the night.

W
hen Peter Wallace
informed Eva that he’d made a reservation in Goodlarches she did not demur. She would wear black, a sleek dress with shoestring straps, and sheer black stockings to tease and tantalise. They would dine by candlelight and drink a toast to the future. The evening could take care of itself.

G
oodlarches was
silent with the weight of money and diners in their twilight years. Elderly wives in floral silk dresses flanked by serious husbands, silver-haired devils behaving themselves for a change. No prices on the menu. Greg would immediately have demanded to know why. He would probably have done an
Elucidate
special on the scam of the celebrity chef.

Peter Wallace had shaved off his beard. He looked younger without it, more exposed: firm full lips, a strong chin. He ordered their meal with authority, chose the wine after a brief glance at the menu. A sophisticated man, used to dining out in restaurants without prices. They were tense throughout the meal, unsure of the roles they should play. Their voices sounded too loud when they spoke.

As soon as the meal ended he flashed his credit card and they left the restaurant. He suggested a nightcap in Havenstone. Eva accepted. He poured brandy into goblets, handed one to her and proposed a toast to the success of her garden centre. She raised her own glass and they drank together. He seemed calm, but she sensed his uneasiness – shared it – and when he leaned towards her, she thought he was going to kiss her.

She tensed her knees, acutely conscious that she’d sunk deeply into soft cushions and her black dress was sliding up her thighs. The thoughts she’d harboured of making love to this middle-aged man mortified her. She wanted to pull her dress over her knees, but that would have made her embarrassment obvious. The room seemed hot suddenly, or perhaps that was the scorch of embarrassment on her cheeks. She heard a clock ticking somewhere nearby and wondered again about the woman who had once shared this house with him.

‘Are you having financial problems with your garden centre?’ He asked the direct question without preamble. She agreed. No sense denying it any longer. He had paid for her work in Havenstone, and the money had sank without a ripple. He didn’t seem surprised when she outlined the problems she’d encountered. He believed her idea for situating a garden centre in Grahamstown was excellent. But she was under-capitalised. He wanted to invest money in it.

The suddenness of his offer took her breath away. He spoke carefully, as if he understood the thoughts going through her mind. There would be no strings, emotional or financial.

‘Why?’ Her question was blunt and he answered calmly.

His offer had certain stipulations. He wanted a share in her company. It would be a silent partnership, and she would be completely free to make her own decisions.

‘I have the money,’ he stated. ‘You have the expertise. When your garden centre is established I expect to make a return on my investment.’

‘Why should it matter to you whether or not my business succeeds?’ she repeated her question, keeping her tone as businesslike as his.

He hesitated before replying, as if he too sensed the tension in the room. ‘When Sara died…’ He stumbled over his wife’s name, as if the sound was strange to his lips. ‘When she died I went to pieces. I drank too much and made stupid business decisions I now regret.’

‘You must have loved her very much.’ It seemed the right thing to say, but she knew it was an empty comment.

Love. He shrugged the word aside. He’d wanted to destroy everything in this house that reminded him of their life together. What he hadn’t realised was that in destroying her memory he had almost destroyed himself.

He stood up and walked to the window, pulling the curtains closed on the night. He had money to invest. Tork Hansen had been his first investment. He was prepared to offer Eva the same opportunity.

Who was this man who was willing to invest a small fortune to help her business stay afloat – or, to be more precise, rooted to the earth? Either way, Eva was in the black again.

The night was over. They shook hands. He stood at the entrance to Havenstone, watching her until the taxi rounded the bend in the driveway and turned towards Grahamstown.

T
he leaves were falling
, rustling dry at the edge of the lake when the thatcher finished her roof. A roof put a stamp of permanence on a home. It was an undeniable fact, a shelter from the world. Her cottage walls stood sturdy and strong, a sun splash of yellow on the front door. Matt Morgan declared a ceasefire. He collected mushrooms in a nearby field and brought them to the caravan. Eva fried them in butter and garlic then called him in to share them. They talked about joists and thatch and the number of angels that could dance on the head of a nail.

E
va’s Cottage Garden
was officially opened. With her new partner’s investment securely lodged in her bank account, she was able to hire an assistant to help her in the centre. Muriel Wilson belonged to the Grahamstown Horticultural Society. Her delphiniums had won first prize at the annual Festival of Flowers. She would bring business to Eva’s Cottage Garden, spreading the word where it mattered.

S
ometimes
, when she was on her knees, her hands deep in the soil, Eva forgot about Faye for a short while. There were terrifying moments when her child’s face wasn’t so clear in her mind. Then she took out her photographs, devouring them. Her father was right. Gardening was therapeutic – thoughts sinking into the earth and finding rest. This, she believed, was what healing meant. Short bursts of amnesia. Time was a thief that eventually took everything, even memories.

A
t the end
of November a new producer was appointed to
Stateside Review
. Falling ratings – the cardinal sin. Desks were emptied. Greg was appalled by the ruthlessness of it all. He waited for the axe to fall – last in first out – but, to his surprise, he remained in his usual position by the window. It offered him a view of trains running across the skyline and ant-like figures hurrying beneath grey spires.

Stateside Review
was going for a softer touch, dumbing down and focusing on the human side of the political image.

‘I’m becoming a purveyor of pap,’ he said to Ellen after interviewing a congressman – who supported the death penalty ― about the welfare of domestic pets in New York apartments.

Ellen briskly ordered him from her office. She had a new sales target to reach.

‘From now on, Enright, you can forget about slush funds and misappropriated documents,’ she warned. ‘If you want to save the world, join Greenpeace. If you want to hold this job, keep your head down and your chin in. Viewers have complained about its aggressive slant.’

He returned to his apartment where a voracious shoal of piranha, left there by the previous tenant, was prepared to offer him more sympathy. They, at least, would eat the hand that fed them – an acknowledgement of sorts that he still existed.

Eva was constantly in his thoughts. He was aroused by the sound of her voice when he rang, picturing her tall, rangy body and tumbled hair lying beside him, the soft contours of her breasts, the muscular strength of her arms. She was such a contradiction, blowing hot and cold, yielding in love yet unbending when it came to forgiveness. And reticent when it came to talking about the man who had become a partner in her company.

‘He’s an entrepreneur,’ she said. ‘Elderly.’

If this was meant to reassure Greg it failed.

‘Stop behaving like a ridiculous fool,’ she snapped when he demanded more details of their financial transaction. ‘I need the money and I accepted. It’s strictly business.’

‘There’s nothing left for me to say then.’

‘What makes you think you have the right to say anything?’

‘I’m still your husband.’

‘That wasn’t the impression I got the last time I rang your apartment.’

‘I can’t remember the last time you rang. I’m always the one who rings you—’

‘On the night of Faye’s birthday… what should have been her birthday. I rang and had the pleasure of hanging up on your girlfriend.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Forget it then.’

‘Eva, wait,’ he shouted, sensing she was about to end the call. ‘For God’s sake, let me explain.’

Ellen Lloyd was hard-edged and tough but on the night of Faye’s birthday she had arrived at his apartment with two king-sized steaks and her vinyl collection of Janis Joplin originals.

‘No sense suffering in silence, Enright,’ she’d said. ‘It’s time to tell me why your heart is breaking.’

It had seemed strange to breathe private confessions into the ear of a woman he hardly knew. But she had listened and hadn’t passed judgement. Instead she’d spoken of lost loves and lost opportunities. After divorcing two husbands, she’d settled on cats as the only tolerable live-in companions. The phone had rung when he was in the kitchen turning steaks.

‘Must be the office,’ he’d shouted. ‘Take a message and tell them I’ll ring back.’

‘No one spoke.’ Ellen had lowered the music when he’d returned. ‘But I could hear someone breathing.’ She’d figured it had been a crank call. One of the many crazies who haunted the Big Apple.

‘Eva, listen to me… You’re talking about Ellen Lloyd. She’s a good friend, and quite ancient.’

‘Ancient?’ Eva laughed, unamused. ‘Then she must be the same age as my business partner. It’s such a relief that neither of us has anything to worry about.’

‘I miss you, Eva.’ He was weary of these brittle exchanges. ‘There’s no one else in my life. No one but you.’

Her voice was softer when she spoke again. ‘When you come home for Christmas we’ll talk.’

‘Can I stay with you in the cottage?’ he asked.

‘I’d like that.’

‘Eva… do you still love me?’

‘I’m confused and I’m angry. But love doesn’t die easily.’ Her words were hesitant but he sensed their truth. Soon they would be together. In the spirit of Christmas they would find a new path.

T
he season
of goodwill was a short break in the Big Apple where the population faltered briefly in its pursuit of the big buck. Unlike in Ireland, where the population glutted on pleasure and sloth for a week. Who was right? Who was wrong? What did it matter? Greg was not coming home for Christmas.

S
tateside Review
had planned
a festive special that he would present. In the hostels of the greatest democracy in the world he would walk among the homeless who had found shelter at the inn. Cameras would be aimed at their grateful faces. There would be many politicians present.

He reminded his producer that a flight home at Christmas had been built into his contract.

‘What d’ya expect us to do? Line up the bums a week beforehand and feed them turkey so you can have a holiday?’ His new producer was a man who did not mince his words. ‘Get fucking real, Enright.’

‘I can fight this on a point of principle.’ He tried to make Eva understand. ‘But they’ll find an excuse to shaft me when I get back. Things are uncertain at the moment. Falling ratings. I can’t take the chance. Why don’t you fly out here?’

‘I won’t close until late on Christmas Eve. You know it’s impossible.’

‘Nothing’s impossible, if you make the effort.’

‘You make the effort then.’

‘I told you! I’m filming on Christmas Day.’

‘Then we’re hardly going to have time to pull the turkey wishbone together, are we?’

‘I suppose you’ll do that with your
business
partner,’ he snapped back.

She hung up on him. How quickly arguments flared between them. So silly to believe a marriage could be saved in a festive atmosphere of holly and mistletoe.

Stateside Review
filmed the unwashed, the unloved, the forgotten. Smooth-faced congressmen shook Greg by the hand and offered their tanned profiles to the camera. He returned to his apartment to shower away the smell of overcooked vegetables and took a cab to Kieran Grant’s house.

Albert Grant was present at the Christmas feast, his complexion gleaming with good cheer and fine malt. His sister sank deep into the cushions of an armchair and sipped sherry. Marjory Tyrell had the vague look of someone who would forget names as soon as the introductions were made. A cigarette dangled dangerously from her fingers. The hostess cast desperate looks in her direction and nudged ashtrays under her hands. The guests recreated an Irish Christmas, becoming noisily jolly and singing nostalgic ballads. They argued about politics and religion. Albert made a rousing speech about Ireland’s finest asset. He raised his glass in Greg’s direction and inclined his head graciously towards Ireland’s youth – her diaspora, long may they spawn the world. Greg felt a hundred years old. He wondered how soon it would be appropriate to leave.

His wife was sleeping alone that festive night. Last Christmas, in her parents’ house when everyone was in bed, and Faye was contentedly sleeping close by them, they had made love in front of the fire. The room had flickered with flame and passion. Such pleasure, deep yet soaring, lifting them, sinking them into each other’s being. How could it fade so quickly?

He saw her image that night in Kieran’s house, a photograph on top of a display cabinet. A young woman, laughing, blonde hair falling over her eyes.

Marjory Tyrell followed his gaze. ‘My child,’ she sighed. ‘My poor lamb.’