“That doesn’t make her fine. Someone who’s fine doesn’t steal her niece’s babysitting money. Someone who’s fine wouldn’t need all of us to walk on eggshells all the—”
“I know, Geri. But that’s not something we can deal with tonight. Let’s just focus on one day at a time. OK?”
Over the estate wall the sea was darkening, rocking steadily towards night; the small birds were out again, scavenging at the water’s edge. Geri caught her breath, exhaled with a shake in it. “I’m so bloody sick of this.”
I had heard that note a million times before, in her voice and in my own: exhaustion, frustration and annoyance, cut with pure terror. No matter how many dozen times you go through the same rigmarole, you never forget that this could be the time when, finally, it ends differently: not with a scribbled apology card and a bunch of stolen flowers on your doorstep, but with a late-night phone call, a rookie uniform practicing his notification skills, an ID visit to Cooper’s morgue.
“Geri,” I said. “Don’t worry. I’ve got one more interview to get through before I can leave, but then I’ll sort this out. If I find her waiting for me at work, I’ll let you know. You keep trying her mobile; if you get through, tell her to meet me at work, and give me a text so I know she’s coming. Otherwise, I’ll track her down the second I finish up. OK?”
“Yeah. OK.” Geri didn’t ask how. She needed to believe it would be that simple. So did I. “Sure, she’ll be fine on her own for another hour or two.”
“Get some sleep. I’ll keep Dina at mine tonight, but I might have to bring her over to you again tomorrow.”
“Do, of course. Everyone’s grand, Colm and Andrea haven’t caught it, thank God … And I won’t leave her out of my sight this time. I promise. Mick, I’m really sorry about this.”
“I mean it: don’t worry. Tell Sheila and Phil I hope they’re feeling better. I’ll be in touch.”
Richie was still leaning against the car door, gazing up at the sharp crisscross of walls and scaffolding against a cold turquoise sky. When I beeped the car unlocked, he straightened up and turned. “Howya.”
“Sorted,” I said. “Let’s go.”
I opened my door, but he didn’t move. In the fading light his face looked pale and wise, much older than thirty-one. He said, “Anything I can do?”
In the second before I could open my mouth, it surged up inside me, sudden and powerful as floodwaters and just as dangerous: the thought of telling him. I thought of those ten-year partners who knew each other by heart, what any of them would have said: That girl the other night, remember her? That’s my sister, her mind’s fucked, I don’t know how to save her … I saw the pub, the partner getting the pints in and tossing out sports arguments, dirty jokes, half-true anecdotes, till the tension fell out of your shoulders and you forgot your mind was shorting out; sending you home at the end of the night with a hangover in the making and the feeling of him solid as a rock face at your back. The picture was so clear I could have warmed my hands at it.