Dead And Buried

‘Ex-wife.’

‘You’re family,’ Galloway insisted.

Conor shrugged. ‘Not any more.’

Galloway was bluffing, he thought. If they had anything on him – anything that’d stick – he wouldn’t be sipping a beer on a riverside terrace. No, he’d be in an Antrim Road interview room, with some smooth solicitor telling him it was fess up or face ten years in Maghaberry.

It’d be hard time, too. Not political time, Provo time, Colm Murphy time – the time that got you songs sung about you and free drinks on the Falls Road. Just hard, dirty, criminal time.

So they’d got nothing on him.

He stayed silent, turning his beer glass on its mat, till Galloway threw back the last of her drink, set the glass down hard on the tabletop, and said: ‘Life’s hard enough in this town, Conor.’ She stood up and shrugged the strap of her bag onto her shoulder. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

Conor stood up. ‘Is that a threat?’ Suddenly he felt very aware of his height – or, rather, he felt aware of how he towered over the detective – of Galloway’s smallness, her fragility. The wind off the river dishevelled her hair and she smoothed it awkwardly with her left hand.

‘It’s been nice talking to you again, Conor,’ she said, and Conor thought: at a time like this, after a talk like this – what sort of person could say something like that?

‘I’d best be getting on,’ he said. ‘I’ll be seeing you, Detective.’

Galloway held out her hand and he took it uncertainly. ‘You will,’ she said.

IT WAS It was one of those new estates where all the streets were named for historical figures – painters, here. So there was Turner Drive and Monet Crescent and Stubbs Avenue.

And Rembrandt Close. His home. Turning carefully through a T-junction – the three O’Neill kids, he remembered, were always kicking a football around there – he told himself: it’s not your home any more.

And then he had to try and ignore the question that came to him next, demanding an answer: if this isn’t your home, Con, where the hell is?

The estate didn’t look as brand-new as when he’d left it, but not much else had changed. The odd house had new window frames, or a new car in the driveway. But there across the road, giving his lawn a regimental crewcut, was old Len Swallow, same as ever – and, when Conor wound down the window, even the smell of the place was the same: lilacs, Christine had taught him, from a mauve-blossomed bush by the front door of number eight. The Maguire place.

He’d thought it’d be weird, coming back here. But it wasn’t.

He was still feeling a little otherworldly as he climbed out of the car – but a sharp knock at an upstairs window shook him out of it. He started in alarm. He looked up, saw it was Ella, smiling, pulling on a hoodie, tapping her wrist in a ‘you’re late!’ gesture – and he cursed himself for being so edgy. It was that bloody policewoman.

He waited, leaning on the car, for Ella to make her way downstairs. Galloway. Jesus – he could hardly believe how quickly he’d been drawn back in, how quickly she’d renewed her grip on his life. He straightened up when he saw Ella appear in the doorway. She had a puppy in her arms.

They exchanged hugs and Ella gave him hell for being half an hour overdue and he, thinking quickly, blamed the damn traffic on Albertbridge Road. Then he sized up the puppy with a professional eye.

A bitch. Six weeks old or so. Patterdale, but not pure-bred – something of a Welsh in the tail, something of a Border in the muzzle – a good-enough looking little mongrel.

‘What d’you call her?’

‘Gracie.’

He lifted the squirming puppy out of his daughter’s arms. ‘Black and tan,’ he noted, running a calming hand along the puppy’s flank. ‘Don’t tell your grandmother.’

‘Eh?’

‘Never mind. Before your time. Where’d you find her?’

‘She’s a present from Kieran. She’s lovely, isn’t she?’

‘Oh. Yeah.’ Again Conor felt jealousy stir – where was bloody Kieran, he thought, when you fell and broke your wrist at six years of age, and was it Kieran sat up with you all night when you got the croup when you were a wee baby, and was it Kieran slogged around every toy shop in Belfast on Christmas Eve because you wanted—

He stopped himself. And where have you been ever since, Con? Four thousand miles away, that’s where.

‘I’ve decided I – I want to be like you, Dad,’ he heard Ella say suddenly, nervously. He blinked. He wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that.

‘How’s that?’

‘I’m going to be a vet.’ She took the puppy impatiently back from him, kissed its ears, muttered some babytalk. But when she looked up she was serious. ‘I mean it. I’m doing really well in science, and I’d love working with animals and – well, I want to be like you.’ She smiled. ‘Whatever mum – well, whatever anyone says.’

Conor smiled ruefully. ‘C’mon. I’m not your careers advisor today. I’m your driving instructor. Got the keys?’

‘Yep.’

‘Then get Gracie here back in her basket, and let’s get going.’

They kangaroo-hopped down Rembrandt Close and turned without signalling into Canaletto Way.

‘Slower. That’s the way.’ Conor steadied the Audi with a gentle hand on the wheel.

‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t be sorry – it’s your first time, after all. Turn here – mirror, signal.’

As she rolled the wheel through her hands Ella started to say, ‘It’s not my first…’ but then she stopped, and bit her lip.

Conor had a go at playing the easygoing dad. ‘It’s okay,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Kieran take you out for a lesson?’

Ella frowned at the road ahead. ‘Not Kieran.’ An anxious sidelong glance. ‘Simon.’

‘Oh.’ Simon – five-languages Simon, university lecturer Simon – Simon, the new man in Christine’s life.

‘He just showed me how to start the car, and we just drove round.’

With a smile and a calmness he didn’t feel Conor reached over and squeezed Ella’s shoulder. ‘It’s fine. It’s good that you get on. Brake. Down to first. Off you go. I’m glad he’s able to help.’ He settled back in his seat. For a minute he watched the road in silence. Then he said, ‘Did he have fun?’

‘When I turned right onto the Stubbs Street roundabout I thought he was going to piss himself.’

Conor laughed. He knew Ella was only saying it to make him feel better. He didn’t care. It did make him feel better. Now they’d broached the subject, Ella started to talk more freely. Her mum hadn’t been seeing Simon for all that long, she said – Simon was all right; she really didn’t know him that well.

‘Well, as long as your mum’s happy.’

‘I wouldn’t say she’s happy exactly.’ The Audi turned a corner, bumped a kerb. ‘She’s always – well, she’s very tired from her work. Stressed.’

Conor nodded. ‘I know how that can be,’ he said.

Ella drove on. After a while – after a few narrow scrapes past parked cars, a few daring dashes through gaps in traffic that barely left the wing-mirrors with an inch to spare – she said: ‘Stop doing that.’