‘Joanna, Jesus, it’s awful, isn’t it?’

‘I don’t even know why I’m phoning, but I’m sitting here in the house trying not to let the kids find out and I just feel like I need to talk to someone. Anyone who knew her.’

‘I’m the same. And I hardly knew her at all, to be honest. But, God, it’s horrendous. I’m just … shell-shocked.’

‘Do you know anything more about how it happened? Did she …’

‘Jump? God, I don’t think so. That’s not the impression I got from the guards. Why, did you think she was … well, suicidal?’

‘No, not at all. I had coffee with her yesterday and I mean, I don’t know her, but she seemed fine.’

‘I’m sure it was an accident. And the guards are investigating. I suppose if it was suicide, they’d tell us? They do, don’t they?’

I nod into the phone though I suspect we’re both grasping at straws, afraid we missed something in Cora’s behaviour or demeanour.

‘So the guards called to you too?’ I ask, after a bit.

‘How do you mean?’

‘You said the impression you got from the guards.’

‘Ah. No, they called at Cora’s door, looking for a next of kin, but got no answer. I came out to see what was up and got most of the story.’ A beat. ‘Wait, do you mean they called to you?’

‘No, I— Oh, Liz, sorry, the kids are arguing in the kitchen – I’d better go. I’ll see you at the school.’

25

June 2018

MARK IS LATE HOME on Friday night and I can’t go to Kinsella House, which is the one place I need to be right now. It’s not Tuesday, she might not be there anyway, I tell myself, as I pour a glass of wine. And what would I even say? How would I ask what I need to ask, without mentioning the thing we don’t talk about? The guilt about Lila never goes away, but on nights like this, it surges up, overwhelms me. I sit, refreshing news coverage of Cora’s death, waiting for Mark to come home and ignoring the fresh headache that’s setting in. The updates are scant. A body on the tracks isn’t common in Dublin, but it’s not headline news either. Most people view it as a tragic accident. But I keep thinking about the police visit earlier. If it was a tragic accident, why were they here? Do they think I somehow drove her to suicide? I couldn’t have. My mind casts back to our coffee yesterday. She was certainly angry about how Lily’s disappearance had affected her family, determined to get justice. Cold. Fearless even? Not suicidal. But then, what would I know?

Mark finally arrives and we sit together in the garden, me on my third glass of wine as he starts his first. There’s still heat in the low evening sun and the artistry of the pink-gold sky is at odds with everything that’s gone on today. My head is pounding now.