Contents ( 48)
- PAST LIFE
- David Mark
- PART ONE
- PROLOGUE
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- PART TWO
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- PART THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- EPILOGUE
- ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
She roots around inside the cupboard, looking for the offending shoe. Rips it upside down and feels it fall into her palm. It had half killed her when she realized that it had been replaced upside down. That it had been discovered, and wordlessly replaced.
She looks at the dead screen. Powers it up, and enters the code. Prays for silence; for an absence of news. This is her morning ritual. Each day, she hopes it will not ring. Each day, she begs the universe to spare her the horror she knows is coming.
Her younger brother, Valentine, is the only member of her family who understands the life she leads with Aector; the concessions and compromises they have both made to allow their relationship to be greater than the sum of its parts. He knows the importance of letting her keep the truth from him until it is absolutely unavoidable. It is Valentine who sent her the phone, and who has vowed to keep her informed. Valentine who has refused to go into hiding with the rest of his clan, while they await the wrath that will soon descend. Valentine who has promised to tell her if it is time to run.
The screen fills with text.
Grālt′a. Bwikad hu grīson? He got Aidan. Shotgun and slash-hook. Siobhaun saw it all. He’d have done her too if not for a Gardai patrol car. He’s getting closer, Ro. You have to tell him. He’s coming. For all of us. He deserves it. Deserves his revenge. I love you, Mo gra’ath. xx
She holds in the sobs that threaten to unravel her. Holds the phone like a hot gun. Pictures her cousin, Padraig. Thirty-odd. Big lad with dark hair and a tattoo of the Blessed Virgin on his neck. Thinks of his little girl, Siobhaun, watching as the man who has sworn vengeance on the Teagues took blade and hot metal to her kin.
There is a tapping at the door to the cupboard under the stairs. From the timidity, she knows it is her son. She smears her tears away. Tries a smile. Opens the door and looks into his big worried face.
‘Daddy’s on the telly,’ says Fin, half proud, half concerned. ‘He doesn’t look right.’
Roisin follows her son to the living room. Looks into the eyes of her husband. Reads his eyes and knows that he has seen something that has scared him to his bones.
Then he is gone, and the screen switches to a news reporter, wrapped up warm, her back to the gathering dawn. Roisin forces herself to listen. To concentrate over the low buzz of panic that fills her skull.
And then she hears the word that makes it all real.
‘… Unfolding tragedy … Dymphna Lowell … respected clairvoyant and fortune teller … suspected murder …’
And very gently, Roisin McAvoy slides to the floor.
ELEVEN
Twelve years ago
The fight had looked like something from an arcade game. She’d watched it in Jackie’s caravan, crammed in with every bugger else on the plastic-covered sofa, baby Valentine sticky on her lap and a tin of flat, warm beer in her fist.