66

When the car swept through the big iron gates of the cemetery, Dora glanced at Donny and said: ‘What are you doing?’

‘I told you,’ he said, not looking at her. ‘Something I want you to see.’

Dora gulped, feeling a fresh stab of fear. At a low, gut level, she was always afraid these days. But this was new: more acute, more painful, making her heart race and her palms start to sweat.

She hated graveyards. She always had. ‘I don’t want to be here,’ she said.

He shot her a glance. ‘Tough,’ he said, and drove on, very slowly now, past lines of headstones set in rough tussocky grass. A couple of mourners moved among the stones, looking at the inscriptions. A kneeling woman was changing water in one of the urns, carefully placing fresh white roses in there, one by one, arranging them with the greatest care.

Donny steered the car further up a bank, the wheels crunching over gravel. The car came to a halt. Donny switched off the engine and got out, coming around to Dora’s side. He opened the door.

‘No,’ said Dora, trembling. ‘I’m not getting out. You do whatever you want, but I’m not coming.’

Donny grabbed her arm and hauled her out of the car. She was yanked close up against him, his face inches from hers. ‘You’re coming. You got to see this,’ he said, and shut the car door and started dragging her off, along the line of stones.

These stones weren’t old and covered in moss and lichen – these looked new. Donny pulled her along the line and then he suddenly stopped.

‘I’m not looking,’ said Dora, knowing what this was now, not wanting to see it, refusing to see it.

‘Yes you are,’ he said, grabbing her chin in a hurtful grip and turning her head to the stone in front of them. ‘Just you fucking look, all right?’

He was breathing hard with temper. Dora had no choice. A freezing gust of wind hit her, making her shiver, as she stared at the stone in front of her. It read:

Susan Maguire

Beloved Wife and Mother

Sadly passed and now at peace.

Below, there were the dates of her birth, and her death.

‘This is my mother’s grave,’ said Donny. He was still holding Dora’s arm in an excruciating grip. ‘I come here every week. Every week. I never miss. And look.’

‘I’m not going to look,’ said Dora, and started to cry.

‘Yes you bloody are. Look.’ He shook her, hard.

Dora had to look at the smaller stone beside Susan’s. It read:

Here lies William Maguire, taken too soon.

May he find his peace in heaven.

‘He was seventeen years old,’ said Donny tightly. ‘Seventeen! All his life ahead of him, until he came across you, you bitch. You and your rotten jailbird lover. Between you, you saw him off. Finished him.’

‘I had nothing to do with it,’ she choked out, but she had. She knew she had. A few careless words from her had sent William Maguire on the road to hell. And his mother had followed close behind.