A Secret Worth Killing For

‘I lodge with a woman who’s got three grandchildren living with her. Her daughter’s in prison, the father’s no good. Part of my rent is to look after the kids. That’s why I could never invite you.’

He doesn’t seem offended or even taken aback – instead he puts his arms around her and pulls her close.

‘I’m glad you told me,’ he whispers. ‘It’s great not to have secrets from each other.’ He sits up and beams. ‘Hey, perhaps I’m allowed to ask you back to my place now!’

She sits up too, smartly pushes him back down, lies on top and begins to touch him again. ‘I thought you’d never ask.’

The only sourness in this unmatchable moment is the mental effort to dismiss the exchange in the pub. Part of her wants to tell him everything, even why she first went to Mrs Ryan. But she knows that can never be.

CHAPTER 9 (#ulink_62fadde4-e757-56cd-8d15-19e57e902063)

On the Monday morning, he’s not in the library. She’d never asked, just assumed he would be. Her concentration keeps wavering as she imagines him walking through the door. He doesn’t. Tuesday morning he’s not there either. She has a premonition of something wrong.

Just before the lunch break, he arrives with a grin.

‘I thought you’d be here yesterday,’ she says on the way out. She didn’t mean to – it just comes out.

‘Hey,’ he says, putting his arm round her. She doesn’t pursue it and they head to the sandwich bar. It’s turned cold, grey winter and they eat inside.

‘I’m really glad you told me about the kids,’ he says. ‘I know not to ask too much of you.’ She wonders if this is some kind of explanation for the day before.

‘I’d like to spend more time—’ she begins.

‘Me too,’ he interrupts. They munch silently for a few seconds.

He looks up, a glint in the eye. ‘We could sometimes work from my flat in the afternoon.’

‘Work?’

‘Sure,’ he says, ‘why not?’ She knows he’s deceiving himself as much as she is.

‘OK, maybe day after tomorrow?’ she suggests. He’s skipped a day, so she can too.

‘Done.’ He stretches out his hand – she shakes both it and her head.

He doesn’t arrive at the library till mid-morning, takes down a bound volume, buries himself in it for an hour and a half, closes it, and walks behind her, brushing her neck with the back of a hand, to replace it. She follows him out.

‘I bought a car,’ he announces.

‘A car!’

He grins inanely. ‘Let’s pick up a sandwich and go.’

‘OK.’

He says he’s parked the other side of St Stephen’s Green so, lunch in bags, they cut through the bared winter trees, his arm around her shoulder reinforcing the warmth of her coat.

Suddenly she feels him flinch. He jerks to a stop, whisks her under some branches, pulls his hood over his head and buries himself in a hug with her. She’s too surprised to resist, then tries to pull away.

‘What the—’ she begins, but he puts his forefinger over her mouth to silence her. He has a quick glance behind, repeats the signal with a finger over his own lips and hides himself within her again. A minute passes, he breaks away and they resume the walk.

‘What the fuck was that all about?’

‘I thought I saw a ghost,’ he says. ‘Well sort of.’ She can see he’s thinking it out. ‘Actually, it looked like a girl I once knew. Had no idea she could be here. It would have been awkward.’

‘Awkward?’

‘Yeah, it sort of ended messily.’ His eyes drop to the ground. ‘Probably my fault.’ He says it to mean anything but. ‘It was a while ago. Hey, I’m sorry.’

‘What’s her name?’ she asks.

A beat. ‘Her name?’

‘Yeah, her name.’

‘If you really want to know, she’s called Susan. It just could have been really difficult,’ he repeats. ‘She was upset.’ Another beat. ‘So was I.’

‘Exactly how long ago?’ she asks.

‘Couple of years,’ he replies briskly. He’s more confident now.

‘Oh, well, guess it happens,’ she says. ‘Weird, though, she turns up here.’

‘Yeah, I know. I mean I didn’t know. It’s nothing, just coincidence.’

She doesn’t push but it’s a knife to her heart. She berates herself for letting it get to her – of course he’s had other girls. How could a boy like him not have?

They reach a bright-red hatchback car.

‘What do you think?’ he asks.

‘It’s flashy,’ she says without enthusiasm. She tries not to go on thinking about what happened.

‘It’s an RS turbo, not just some crap Fiesta,’ he explains. ‘After last weekend, I thought we could hit the road some more.’

‘That’d be good,’ she says, ‘if I can ever get away again.’

She detects his deflation. He wants the car to be for the two of them but the incident in the park has soured the surprise.

They draw up in a broad avenue of well-kept Victorian villas. He opens the door of his first-floor flat and ushers her in ahead of him and through to the sitting room.

‘Wow, it’s big,’ she says.

‘I’m lucky,’ he replied. ‘I inherited a bit of money. Though I guess that wasn’t lucky really.’ A cloud passes over his face. She suddenly feels for him, gives him a hug and a kiss, and pulls back to look around.

One wall is a tableau of portrait posters. Martin Luther King, Lawrence of Arabia, Muhammad Ali, Karl Marx, Bobby Sands set alongside Jesus Christ, Ayrton Senna holding the 1991 World Championship trophy.

‘Friends of yours?’ she asks him.