Copyright

Published by Avon an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street,

London, SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2018

Copyright © Judy Leigh 2018

Cover illustration © Becky Glass

Cover design © Emma Rogers

Judy Leigh asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008269197

Ebook Edition © April 2018 ISBN: 9780008269203

Version: 2018-01-11

Thanks to Kiran at Keane Kataria and to Rachel Faulkner-Willcocks and her team at Avon, HarperCollins for being incredible and making this novel become real. To the talented MA students and lecturers, Falmouth, class of 2015, and to Sarah and Jim for letting me stay at the villa. To the Totnes writing group – thanks for conversations and creativity. To my early draft readers, Erika, Sarah, Beau, for their warmth and good humour. To Liam and Caitlan for their irrepressible intelligence and energy. To Tony and Kim for wild Sunday lunches. To Big G for all the love and for keeping me grounded. To my Dad, Tosh, and to my own Mammy, my inspiration.

Dedication

For Irene.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Keep Reading …

About the Author

About the Publisher

Chapter One

She bounced up and down on the edge of her bed, still in her nightie. When the creaking stopped, the silence closed in around her. Everyone was asleep in Sheldon Lodge. The room was dim and cramped, so she went over to the window and looked outside at the path that led to the road into Dublin. A bird flitted up and away. A single cloud moved across a square of sky. Evie made a puffing noise through her lips and pulled herself away.

She went back to the bed and picked up the thin paperback lying on the duvet. Season of the Heart. Recommended reading for the ladies at Sheldon Lodge. Evie had never been much of a reader. There was a picture of a milkmaid in russet petticoats on the front cover, sitting in a cornfield. Her hair was the same bleached yellow as the corn and her face was sad. Evie flipped the novel over and read the blurb. Dulcie Jones is thrust into the life of a country maid when her gambling father sells her to pay his debts. But Marcus, the mysterious son of her new master Lord Diamant, has other plans for Dulcie …

Evie threw the book away from her onto the duvet. It was six thirty am.

‘What a lot of shite,’ she muttered to herself, and then she raised her voice: ‘It’s all complete shite.’

Sheldon Lodge offered its usual deaf ear, although she expected Mrs Lofthouse to run in, all wobbling bosoms and waving hands, to tell her to go back to bed and not disturb the other residents. Evie shuffled into her slippers and dressing gown, and snorted through her nostrils. Most of the other residents were disturbed already, well into their eighties and nineties – even the youngest of them at least ten years older than her.

She wandered into the kitchen, listening for Barry the chef who would make her a cup of tea. She could hear him behind the metal shutters, moving around, organising breakfast. She banged her fist softly to call for his attention and waited. No reply.

Evie sat down at the little table with its plastic cloth printed with yellow roses and realised she was in Maud Delaney’s seat. Maud, with her thin hair cropped short, usually spent the day in the chair, humped over the table, her head resting against a cold cup of tea, her eyes covered with her puffy ringed fingers. Maud’s place was next to Annie Armstrong, who gulped air like a fish. Every day Evie wondered if Maud was dead until Slawka and Joe, two of the carers, came to move her with the winch. At least it broke the monotony.

Barry would open the breakfast bar shutters in a minute and Evie would have a hot drink and toast. Even better, there would be someone to talk to. Barry would grumble about his daughter Natalie, who had been arrested for taking recreational drugs at a pop festival in the park, and Evie would discuss the problems of poor hen-pecked Brendan, and they would both laugh and chatter. Then there would be scrambled eggs and more toast and it would be halfway through the morning and the Irish Times would have been delivered in the Day Room. She’d have two cups of coffee and make her little joke, as she did every day, that it would taste a lot nicer with a nip of cognac. Of course, they let her have a glass of red wine with her meals, but somehow it tasted bitter. Like all the sunshine had gone from the grapes.

Evie picked up a pack of playing cards that had been left on the table and she shuffled them. She didn’t know how to play cards, but it was something to do. She sorted through them again and a card poked itself towards her. She took it out. It was the four of hearts.

Evie placed it on the table and smiled.

Four. Her lucky number.

Chapter Two

He stared at his face in the mirror. His hair was still auburn, although faded, the curls flecked here and there with grey, and his blue eyes were crinkled around the corners. He lathered his face with shaving soap and smiled at his white-bearded reflection – a paternal face, like Santa Claus. He imagined how it would be to dress as Father Christmas, surrounded by four children. He’d always thought he’d like two of each: two boys who liked football, a sporty girl, maybe a surfer or a swimmer, and then one for Maura. A chirpy cheeky one with Maura’s soft shining eyes.

He lifted the razor and swiped it smoothly across his cheek, then screamed. Thin red blood seeped through his fingers and spattered on the pale tiles of the floor. He swore and dropped his razor in the basin, reaching for toilet roll to plug the small leak in his neck. He looked in the bathroom mirror: sallow face with a foaming beard and eyes round as a fish’s. His crisp shirt was going to have to come off. Maura would not be pleased.

He threw the paper in the toilet and applied more, torn into squares, folded urgently. He stiffened and strained his ears. A rustling sound like a cold breeze warned him of Maura’s approach; the linen-clad thighs were rubbing together with a soft hiss, a stalking reptile.

He heard her voice before he saw her. It rang ice clear.

‘Brendan, for the love of God …?’ She rounded the corner, looked him up and down and snorted.

Brendan looked her up and down in turn and snorted too, but discreetly. Her cleavage tippled over the top of her V-neck jumper, revealing the tentative lace of a beige bra. The orbs he had first coveted and then caressed now held less fascination for him. The tight slacks and high heels accentuated her curves, and her face, now stern, was topped with little blonde curls pinned high on her head. He mopped his wound and waited for the onslaught to begin.

‘Will you look at your shirt? It is completely ruined. I will have to get you another one. The blue one won’t go as well with those trousers but never mind, it will have to do.’

Her pause for breath was punctuated by his placatory ‘OK, my love’ – but even as he said it, he felt a pang of regret that it wasn’t OK and there wasn’t any love.

She stared at him for a second and he wondered if she was having the same thoughts, then she sighed and started up again. ‘Brendan, it’s always the same every Saturday afternoon. You know these visits upset me.’

Brendan couldn’t help noticing the lines that puckered perfectly around the mouth as she spoke. She has the mouth of an arsehole, he thought to himself. As she stared at Brendan, her eyes were like bullets, small, blue-grey, ready to fire. Any attempt to pass her would be a battle manoeuvre in the making, so he stayed fixed, bloody paper in hand.

Maura rustled away, her heels tapping like nails to the brain. Brendan flushed the toilet and watched the paper, its perfect whiteness blotched with red spots, as it gurgled, dissolved and disappeared.

Brendan was sitting in the yellow Fiat Panda on his driveway. A wafting fragment of toilet paper was still attached to the dried blood on his neck. The engine thrummed gently.

He listened to the DJ on the radio: ‘The birds are singing and summer is blooming here in Dublin, and so let’s have the Beach Boys, bringing us “Good Vibrations”.’

He banged his head softly against the steering wheel. Harder. Harder still. There were definitely no good vibrations to be had anywhere here. Still no sign of Maura.

He saw a young woman and her child who emerged from their front door. It was Erin from number 27 and little Colm. Erin found her phone and started to chatter. The little boy moved from one foot to another, kicking stones. He only had on a thin jacket. The wind ruffled his hair, shaking the flags of his trouser legs, and he looked cold. He sat down on the kerb, dangling his fingers in the dirt. He scrabbled purposefully in the gravel, found something and picked it up. It was a discarded cigarette. Colm held it in his two fingers, raising his hand in an imitation of an adult pose, pulling a haughty face.

They’d both wanted children, him and Maura. The doctor in the hospital in Dublin said there was nothing wrong with the pair of them, and they should both just relax. That was ten years ago. He was nearly forty. Too late now. It was around that time that Maura’s soft eyes hardened. Her sweet smile became pursed lips, puckered and hard. Maura was always the love of his life. Now she was just his wife, who sat across the table at breakfast in a tight suit, her hair pulled back and pinned up and her brow tight with a frown. She used to gaze up into his eyes and promise to love him for ever. Now she slammed his coffee on the table at breakfast and told him not to let it go cold. He sighed. Perhaps that was what love was now; like coffee, it starts hot and strong, only to become tepid and cool.

Outside the car, the child looked up at his mother, who was talking and waving the arm carrying the handbag. Colm put one end of the cigarette in his mouth. He began to smoke as he had seen his mother smoke, as he had seen other adults smoke. He had it off to perfection, inhaling deeply, holding his breath while he smiled like the Bisto kid and then blowing out the imaginary smoke in a steady stream. Brendan laughed, a quiet chuckle. Erin stopped talking, pushed her phone into her bag, turned to the boy and gave him a slap across the head.

Colm dropped the cigarette butt and screamed, his face reddening with furious tears. He looked like a comic book character. Erin grabbed his hand and with a swift pull she yanked him to mobility. His little feet moved in the air, then landed in a run to keep time with his mother. Brendan thought that was no way to treat a kiddie; his hands clutched the steering wheel harder as the Panda shuddered when Maura leapt in. She swung the carrier bags of cakes into the space behind her and looked sharply at Brendan.

‘Are we ready to go, Brendan? Do we have everything?’

He nodded. ‘I think so, my love.’

Maura stared straight at him, her eyebrows making a deep V in her forehead, her mouth pursed. He knew the expression like he knew his own reflection.

‘Brendan, what in the name of God is this stuck on your neck? Toilet paper. Now look at the state of you.’

She reached in her handbag for a tissue. He knew what was coming. Her pink tongue poked through her lips, dampened the paper and scrubbed the hard tissue against his neck. Like a dutiful child, Brendan kept still and closed his eyes and thought that he could feel the love leaking from his life.

She looked at him, breathing out sharply, the moist hanky in her fist. She paused and, for a second, her eyes were soft again. She ruffled his hair, her fingers snagging in his curls. She touched his neck with the tenderness she’d have bestowed on a child. ‘There, Brendan, you’re all done. Much better. Shall we go?’

The Panda engine was still humming softly. Maura was sandwiched inside a brown checked jacket with a faux-fur collar; she had the red lipstick and crimson nails of a ferocious hunter that had just skinned and swallowed its prey whole. ‘What are we waiting for?’

He gulped. ‘Maura, I don’t think Mammy likes Sheldon Lodge. I mean, she hasn’t settled—’

‘She is in the best place, Brendan. They can do Tai Chi and cookery classes for the aged. They can give her a good life. Better than she was, by herself.’

‘She looks miserable, to tell the truth.’

Maura thought for a second. ‘Nonsense. I’m sure she’ll be happy as a lark. Come on, let’s get moving. Traffic will be terrible in Dublin centre.’

His hands were squeezing the steering wheel. He glanced at the faux-fur collar around Maura’s throat. He moved the gears into first. The DJ on the radio was excitedly talking about the heyday of Oasis and the 1990s, then the chords struck out and the song began: ‘Wonderwall’. It was a song that was playing all the time, the year they’d met.

The tune epitomised the ecstasy of their young love. Brendan had taken Maura, slender and soft, in his arms, as they kissed and whispered and planned for the future. They had both been just eighteen and she had gazed at his face as if he was a blessed saint. He had felt that he could achieve anything, for her sake. And the voice sang the words just for them. Words which promised undying love, love beyond measure, love so vast it would last for ever.

As Brendan smoothly turned the Panda towards the edge of the estate, Maura’s eyes were half closed in a glaze and she began to sing, in her thin, cheese-grater voice:

‘Wonderwaaaaall …’

She was in her own world, and he had no idea what she was thinking. He wondered if she remembered the happy times; if she recalled their many walks by the River Liffey, how he gave her his anorak once when the rain started, how she squeezed his fingers and smiled into his face. He wondered if she was thinking anything at all. His fingers made deep grooves on the fabric on the wheel, wondering where she had gone, the sweet, soft-skinned girl of his past. He sighed from somewhere, lost fathoms inside him, and looked at the traffic ahead, nose to bumper, grumbling to a halt.

Chapter Three

Four is the luckiest number. Born on fourth of April, 1942. Fourth of five children. Four hundred thousand euros from the sale of the house. Four sausages for lunch today. Four had always been lucky for her. Her da had given her a four-leaf clover, dried between the pages of a book, when she was four years old. She’d had her son on the fourth of March. He’d been her fourth baby, the only one who stuck.

Fifteen is not a good number. Left school at fifteen. Hated school. Married Jim on fifteenth of July. Married life, from then onwards, until he died. Moved to Sheldon Lodge on the fifteenth of December. Room number fifteen. No, fifteen is definitely not a lucky number.

Evie was deep in thought when Mrs Lofthouse spoke to her. Mrs Lofthouse spoke for the second time, and the third, more loudly and with slow emphasis.

‘Evelyn. Your son is coming to see you today. Brendan? He is coming to see you.’

Evie blinked. She put on her best confused look and stared directly back.

‘I’ll just give your hair a bit of a tidy up. Brendan will be here at four.’

‘Four.’

‘Brendan – and his wife Maura. Lovely couple, Evelyn.’

Evie pulled a face. Maura was always stiff, polite, putting on a pretence of wifely perfection. Evie didn’t feel she knew her well at all, even after almost twenty years. Maura was humourless, starchy. She reminded her of the nuns at school, who insisted she must be called Evelyn and not her preferred abbreviation. She’d decided at four years old that ‘Evie’ was so much nicer, cheekier: it suited her much better than the more formal version. Evie was a chirpy name. Maura could do with being chirpier, she thought. The nuns flitted into her head again and she remembered how they had punished her for using the Lord’s name gratuitously. That was the first time she took up swearing as a hobby. The words rolled in her mouth like sweets.

‘Bollocks,’ said Evie, and looked pleased.

‘That’s just not nice, is it?’ Mrs Lofthouse’s sigh showed how much she suffered in her work. She waved the brush in the air. ‘There, Evelyn. You look lovely. Shall we put on a bit of lipstick now? Make you look bright and breezy for Brendan?’

Evie took the lipstick from Mrs Lofthouse’s fingers and turned it over in her hand. Paradise pink. Mrs Lofthouse had paradise pink lips, which hung like prawns over her huge teeth. Her teeth pushed apart in different directions, one sticking out to the right and one leaning backwards to the left. Evie took the paradise pink lipstick and applied it to her own mouth like a child with a crayon.

Mrs Lofthouse’s lips sprang apart. ‘If you are going to be silly …’

Evie employed the vacuous stare again.

‘I’ll wipe it off and we can start again. Ah, now. You look a million dollars.’

Evie gurned at her, spreading her lips wide. Mrs Lofthouse’s prawn pout clamped itself into a thin line. The visitors were due.

Evie watched her waddle away then leaned forward in her chair and gazed around the Day Room. The other residents were in wingback chairs, turned towards the TV where Jeremy Kyle was doing a lie detector test. They were mostly oblivious to the chatter; the flickering screen was reflecting in the glaze of spectacles. Evie looked at the old ladies sitting in the window. Sunlight streamed against their faces, but they hardly seemed to notice the warmth. The flowers were out in the garden; daily, a robin perched on the oak. The old ladies stared straight ahead. One of them, Elizabeth, never spoke a word. Every day, Evie would try: ‘Good morning, Lizzie, and how are you today?’

Nothing. Elizabeth continued to stare ahead. The other one, Barbara, could not hear well. Even Alex, the friendly Ukrainian lad who brought the breakfasts, had to raise his voice to startle her from her dreams. At eight in the morning, Alex would be there, his hair stuck up in a little quiff at the front, his face all smiles:

‘Barbara, darling, your eggs and sausage – here you are – eggs and sausage – Barbara?’

The aged ladies were dry, thin sticks of women in their nineties, old enough to be her own mother. She saw them in the yoga class each Tuesday, looking around and lifting their twig-like arms. A thought popped into her head: Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Deaf. She was bored, and being bored made her feel mischievous. What else could she do in this sanatorium of smiles and sandwiches, which smelt the whole day long of perfumed piss?

The clock struck four. They would be here soon. She closed her eyelids and listened to the soothing music that told the residents they were in a caring environment. The armchair had moss-green cushions with silky fringes. Evie sank back into its fat embrace.

Frank Sinatra was singing ‘Fly Me to the Moon’ in his jolly lilt.

Evie thought about the moon and stars: where were they, exactly? Far up in the heavens? Is that where death was, alongside Frank and Jim and the others? What about after death? Evie decided she would like to come back as a reindeer.

A playful two-dimensional sketch of Rudolph popped into the television of her imagination, its nose a beacon and its legs delicate in snow. Her eyes rolled again beneath their papery lids and suddenly Rudolph exploded and was replaced by a huge reindeer, god-like with antlers and eyes aflame. It spoke in a Hollywood actor’s voice:

‘I’m Evie Gallagher and I am god-damned pissed off …’ It glared around the forest, mounted like a sentry on the hilltop of ice, and stamped its regal hoof once, sending soft snow skywards. Evie opened her eyes suddenly to see two looming faces, twins in symmetrical concern.

Evie said, ‘I am god-damned pissed off.’

‘Mammy,’ said Brendan. ‘How are you?’ and he realised she had already answered. Maura launched herself forward, her dutiful expression on her face.

‘Mother, it’s good to see you. You’re looking well. Can I get you a cup of tea?’

Evie looked at Maura in her suit and tightly pinned curls and decided she would rather eat shit. She closed her eyes. The reindeer was gone. In its place were thin blue veins that throbbed in her lids. She heard Maura whine to the care assistant: ‘I think she’s getting worse, Mrs Lofthouse.’

‘She comes and goes, I think.’

Evie wished they would all come and go.

‘It’s so upsetting for Brendan, seeing his mother like this. It’s like she’s away with the fairies.’

‘We see it all the time,’ replied Mrs Lofthouse, hollowly. Evie was not sure what she saw all the time; Mrs Lofthouse was short-sighted and short-witted. In fact just plain short. And fat. Evie felt a hand on her arm; she knew Brendan’s touch. Her emotion was visceral and she remembered the little boy who used to clutch at her fingers as a child. She opened her eyes. He was in his late thirties now, but looked older, his hair still thick but greying, his face loosening, hanging from the sharp cheekbones: a worried face. His mouth seldom offered the boyish chuckle he had once used as his trademark, but his eyes were still rounded with hope. Evie was about to smile at him, but Maura’s grunts made her turn sharply.

‘You’re back with us again then, Mother?’ Evie twitched her nose; Maura’s perfume was attacking her throat and making her choke.

‘I am not your mother,’ she wheezed.

‘Mrs Lofthouse, could Mammy have a glass of water please?’ Brendan called out and the care assistant waddled over like a frontline sergeant major holding a cup like a bayonet. Evie expected her to shout, ‘Chaaarge.’

Mrs Lofthouse said, ‘Come on, Evelyn, drink up.’ Evie took a mouthful then sat up, looking at each of them. She thought of the film about the hobbits, sitting around the table for a hobbity talk, each stunted, each poised, each waiting their turn. Evie coughed again and the water in her mouth sprayed in all directions. She spat and choked and laughed at the same time, a cachinnation of triumph. She flopped back in the comfy armchair, put her arms on the supports.

An hour passed. The conversation was slow and stilted. Evie stared through the window at the place where the path started and wound away towards the road. Brendan shifted in his seat and smiled towards his mother and then at his wife.

‘We can’t stay too long, Brendan,’ Maura said.

He rose up slowly, his eyes on his mother. ‘All right, Mammy, I’ll see you next week, same time.’

‘She probably can’t hear you, Brendan. It is so upsetting for him to see her like this.’

‘We see it all the time,’ mused Mrs Lofthouse.

‘Bye Mammy.’ Brendan kissed the top of her head. Evie almost reached out to him. Maura shook her head and pursed her lips. Evie scrutinised her daughter-in-law for several seconds.

‘Maura?’

‘What is it, Mother?’

‘Did anyone ever tell you? You have a mouth like an arsehole.’

Brendan’s face brightened, a smile flickering on his lips, and he looked at Evie with tenderness and something close to desperation.

‘Come on, Brendan.’ Maura’s mouth was now screwed tightly in anal closure. Brendan saw his mother wink at him before he rushed out after his wife.

Mrs Lofthouse snorted. ‘We’d better clean you up, Evelyn.’

‘I’m coming back as a stag,’ Evie announced.

Evie was sitting at her dressing table in room 15, second floor: her room. On the door was a small notice which read: ‘Please respect my dignity. Knock before entering and wait. I may be asleep.’ In the mirror, Evie saw the room reflected behind her: the single bed with the red rose duvet cover, her little chest of drawers, the shelf with her photos, the moss-green curtains and magnolia walls and the mouse-grey carpet. This was her home now, thanks to the sale of the house. Maura had said the house was too big for her, but room 15 was far too small. Brendan had thought she would have company in Sheldon Lodge and, when she had first looked round it, the thought of spending her first Christmas alone made the place look like a hotel. The bedrooms were attractive, as was the dining room with the little tables set for four, and Barry, the cheerful chef in his pristine checked pants, had promised her that he would let her have real butter on her toast. The manager, Jenny, had been friendly and welcoming, enthusiastic about the new lifestyle Evie would enjoy – fitness programmes and music nights and watercolour painting. Evie had looked with a child’s hopeful eyes at Sheldon Lodge, at the twinkling tree and the decorations, signed the forms and moved in. Christmas had turned out to be turkey, torpor and television.

The triple mirror held her reflection, and her mother’s face looked back at her from three angles, hollow-eyed. Her mother had had no teeth when she died. Evie still had all her own teeth, bar one. Her mother had been grey but Evie’s hair was soft and brown, although the roots were streaked with silver. Her mother was all done in at forty; Evie was seventy-five, but she was certain she was not done yet.

‘Hot chocolate for you, Evie? Rich Tea biscuits or Penguins?’ Evie glanced over her shoulder to see Alex, his smiling face peeping around the door. Alex placed the tray down, and lifted off a mug and a plate of biscuits. ‘Everything all right for you today, darling?’

‘I’d rather have a nice glass of Merlot.’ She chewed her lip. ‘Alex – do you like it here?’

Alex’s cheeks lifted with laughter. ‘I am here for three years, Evie. I have girlfriend here. Work is good and the people are friendly. Dublin better than Kiev for me, that is for sure.’ Evie looked miserable and turned away. ‘Why you don’t like it here, Evie?’

‘I am bored, Alex.’

‘There is television, darling. Banjo player is coming in later. Maybe now you can play dominoes downstairs with Barbara?’

‘I don’t give a shite for dominoes.’

‘I know what you mean.’

‘It’s driving me mad.’ Evie’s eyes were intense. ‘I’ve come here by mistake.’

Alex shook his head. ‘Maybe tomorrow things are better?’ he suggested, but his face lost its smile as he picked up the empty tray and left Evie alone again. She lifted the cup. The hot chocolate was tepid and the biscuit tasted like grit.

Evie looked around at her room. She could not live like this for the rest of her days. Images came to her of static yoga classes and gurning banjo players and the two old ladies who stared, unblinking, at the television. Her fingers clutched at the neck of her jumper and as the idea came to her she stood paralysed, and could only feel the beating of her heart. In one movement, she was in front of the dressing table.

She tugged open her top drawer, lifting underwear to find her purse, her driving licence, her cheque card. Below were more familiar things: her bus pass, a passport, some jewellery, a small umbrella. She touched the four-leaf clover that her father had given her so many years ago, still dried and pressed in tissue paper, now between the pages of her small photograph album that was crammed with pictures of a younger Brendan in shorts with his father Jim. She found the mobile phone that Brendan had given her for Christmas so they could keep in touch, still in its box. These items were no longer relics of the past – they were tickets to new freedom. Without thinking, she pushed them all into her small handbag. June in Dublin was always pretty, and the Monday morning shops would be full of people. She would spend time breathing fresh air; just a small scent of the real world was already in her nose. Evie knew the door codes and the schedules of Sheldon Lodge. Each day ran like clockwork. It would not be difficult. That night, she slept the sleep of the smug.

Chapter Four

The children swarmed across the pitch, some yelling, some pushing, some straggling behind. Brendan blew the whistle with a pheep so loud it hurt his ears. The kids buzzed around him, their voices a cacophony of complaints.

‘Get yourself changed now.’

‘Mr Gallagher, that last ball was a penalty. Dennis brought the striker down.’

‘Did not, you gobshite.’

‘And you did so.’

‘I’ll give you a fat fucking lip.’

‘Yeh? Yeh? Come on, then.’

Brendan blew the whistle again. The kids’ faces were red with sweat and effort.

‘In the changing rooms: showers, now. Go on.’

The kids sloped off, shoulders down. One of them muttered, ‘Twat.’

Minutes later, Brendan sat in the staff room, clutching a coffee. He looked down at his muddy shorts and saw two pale booted legs dangling. He gazed around the office; piles of paper meant piles of report writing. More evenings at home in front of the laptop. The coffee tasted burnt. The door swung open and Penny Wray came in, her shorts pristine, her ponytail bouncing. She put a hand on Brendan’s shoulder as she passed.

‘Was it murder?’

‘That group is always murder.’ Brendan took another mouthful of coffee as punishment. ‘I spend all Sunday night dreading the little beggars.’

Penny sat down and crossed perfect legs. She pulled a bottle of water from her bag and unscrewed the lid effortlessly. ‘I just had Year Seven girls doing performance on the trampoline. I have some great little gymnasts in that group.’

Brendan thought that Penny didn’t look like she had been on the trampoline. She smelled of something sweet, something fresh, and Brendan sighed. Then he remembered. ‘It’s the Class From Hell next for English.’

Penny laughed, a sound soft with sympathy and warmth, and she touched Brendan’s arm. ‘I don’t know why they make you teach English, Brendan. You are a sports teacher.’

He shrugged. ‘I am thirty-nine, Penny. That is what they do with old PE teachers – farm them out to the classes no-one wants to teach. The losers in front of the losers.’

‘I will be a head teacher by the time I am your age.’

Brendan did not doubt it, and that made the prospect of teaching poetry to the worst class in the school almost unbearable. Twenty years to retirement. Years of teaching kids who disputed penalties, who hated Yeats’ poetry, who hated him, then home to Maura in the evening to write reports while she grumbled about how they needed a new car and how he didn’t have time to take her out in the evenings. Brendan swallowed more coffee.

‘I’m running my kick-boxing class tonight.’ Penny looked at him and smiled. ‘Why don’t you come along?’

Brendan pictured Penny in her boxing kit, throwing punches and kicks, touching his arm, his waist, as she helped him do the same, their voices loud in one groan of effort. ‘Wish I could.’

‘You could bring your wife?’

He thought of Maura in her jog bottoms, kick-boxing, and pushed the thought away. She’d never shared his love of sport. The klaxon sounded and Brendan rose up like a trained pigeon and grabbed his battered briefcase, heading for the door. He heard Penny call:

‘Good luck with the evil ones, Brendan. I’ll get you a baguette for lunch when you’re back.’

In the corridor, a sudden gust of wind blasted through the banging door and gripped him by the throat.

An hour later, the klaxon screeched and room E5 was empty again. Brendan put his head in his hands. The silence rang in his ears, more deafening than the shouting and banging on desks that had filled the room minutes before. His head hurt, a dark throbbing behind his eyes. When he opened them, the room looked back at him, a panorama of upturned chairs and screwed-up paper. Brendan picked up the bin and began to fill it with litter. He held a paper ball in his hand, squashed to fist-size. He opened it, with slow care, and read the words:

I have spread my dreams under your feet,

Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

He bent again and picked up more paper.

‘Brendan. Ah. Here you are.’

Nancy Doyle pushed her glasses up from her nose and showed him her practised lipstick smile. He looked around at the mess in the room and noticed Nancy surveying the space: a professional head teacher’s assessment of his lesson, based on the amount of discarded detritus.

‘Brendan, can we sit down a minute? I need to have a little chat with you.’ The smile again; Brendan assumed the worst.

‘Of course, Nancy.’

He moved his chair to look at Nancy; the dark suit, silk shirt, hair swept up. She drew a breath. ‘Look, Brendan, I’ll cut to the chase. I’ve just had a call from Sheldon Lodge.’

Brendan sat upright. ‘My mother?’

‘They’d like you to phone them. As soon as you can. It appears your mother left the home first thing this morning, and she hasn’t returned.’

Brendan saw an image of his mother in her coat, her shoulders hunched against the cold. It was her back view as she walked along crowded streets. In his mind she was frail, and passers-by bumped her out of their way as they rushed in the opposite direction.

‘I’m sure everything is fine. Your mother does seem to have taken quite a few of her belongings, though. I think you should go and ring Sheldon Lodge now. Do you have a phone on you?’

He did not move.

‘Go and sort it out about your mother. Give me a call at the end of the day, will you? Let me know she’s safe and sound.’

Brendan felt energy rising through his legs; he was up and grabbing at his briefcase, walking frantically to the door, calling over his shoulder:

‘Thanks Nancy. Yes, I will. I’ll be sure to get back to you later. Thanks.’

He was through the swing doors and moving towards the yellow Fiat Panda, parked between white lines in the car park; his mobile was in his hand, searching for the number of the care home, as he muttered, ‘Tread softly, because you tread on my dreams? Oh, Mammy, what in hell have you done now?’

Chapter Five

On the crowded bus to Dublin, Evie sat low in her seat and hugged herself. It was as if eyes were focused on her back, as if she was constantly being watched. She stared through the window, thinking she could be recognised at any moment, identified and apprehended. The idea came to her: she would buy a hat, one which would update her appearance and cover her hair at the same time: a disguise. Her fingers fiddled in the little bag; they were all there, all of her things. Clutching the bag to her chest, she shuffled to the front as the bus slowed.

In a department store, she tried on the whole range, looking at herself in the mirror wearing floppy hats, wedding hats, fur hats, fascinators. Finally, she decided on a red beret. It had panache; it covered her hair completely and she thought she looked like an intelligent outdoor type who might be independent and take walks with a dog. She bought sunglasses, a huge handbag and a jaunty coat in a lightweight fabric and she saw herself in the mirror: a middle-class lady of leisure, or a stylish Parisian tourist. She paid with her card and headed for the chip shop, her old coat and bag in plastic carriers banging against her legs. Fried food was frowned upon in Sheldon Lodge. Evie bought chippers, battered cod and four pickled eggs and settled down on a bench to enjoy them. The chips were hot, mouth-burning, delicious with the forbidden tastes of fat and too much salt and vinegar. The batter crunched perfectly, releasing a stream of grease onto her tongue. It would all go down well with a nice glass of Prosecco, she thought.

A man sat on the bench next to her. He was middle-aged, hunched over, and wore an old overcoat; his face was a dark rash of stubble. Evie offered him a pickled egg.

‘And I don’t mind if I do,’ he told her, pushing the whole egg into his mouth and swallowing it in a gulp.

She offered him another.

‘Thank you kindly,’ he said and, like an anaconda, opened his mouth into a broad yawn before the egg disappeared.

Evie imagined his neck becoming egg-shaped for a moment before it made the downward plunge. She ate her chips one by one. A pigeon fluttered by her feet, its beak jabbing at scraps, and she almost flicked her foot at it. She thought again; perhaps the pigeon was in need of a chip too. She dropped a couple by her feet and the pigeon pecked, its wings folded behind its back like a dapper little man.

‘You’re in Dublin on holiday, then?’ asked Anaconda Man.

Evie considered her reply. ‘Ah, I am a crime writer. Doing research.’

‘Oh and what are you researching?’

‘Good fortune.’

‘Then I am your guy,’ said Anaconda Man, licking egg from the corner of his mouth.

‘Indeed?’ Evie was intrigued. The pigeon fluttered away.

‘Yes, I like to take a chance myself. I am on my way right now to place a bet on a certain horse. And why not come along for the fun of it? To find good fortune.’

Evie thought for a moment. Sheldon Lodge seemed a long way away. She smiled.

‘I would be delighted,’ she said, throwing her warm chip paper in the bin. ‘I have never seen inside a betting establishment before.’

They passed two betting shops, both with big double-fronted windows with posters offering luminously coloured deals for bets and odds. She expected him to pause, but Anaconda Man plodded past, his eyes focused ahead. Evie was just behind him; she was about to snatch at his arm, but thought better of it. Both betting shops were names she had seen many times advertised on the television.

‘We have missed it …’ she panted. ‘That was a betting shop. Where are we going?’

‘Not far now,’ he grunted. He’d broken into a sweat, which sat in seamy creases that folded across his forehead. He walked on quickly, Evie trotting behind.

‘What was wrong with that betting shop?’

‘Nothing.’ Anaconda Man was determined and focused. ‘Just not the right betting shop, that’s all.’

Evie hesitated for a moment. Perhaps he was a deadly and dangerous character like Sweeney Todd or the Ripper, leading her into a dark alley. He might mug her, or worse.

‘Come on, nearly there,’ he grunted. ‘They’ll be off soon and there is a particular hot horse I need to back. Are you with me?’

Evie wondered if she was being unwise. They turned the corner into a dim street where the brick buildings had started to crumble. They stopped at a little shop with dark windows and a creaking door that had probably once been green and, before that, painted yellow – Evie could see patches of it showing through the faded green.

The betting shop was fluorescent bright inside and smelled of dust and sweat; it was a furtive gamblers’ lair, sheltering little men on stools huddled over newspapers. At the far corner was a counter where two men were whispering and exchanging money. The place was full of people eyeing her suspiciously. She was thinking about walking out again when someone spoke.

‘Ah, Memphis. Good day to you,’ called the man behind the counter.

Evie watched her smiling companion; so then, Anaconda Man was called Memphis.

‘Hello there, brother.’

Memphis looked unlike the man at the counter: she assumed their fraternity was based on the betting.

‘I’d like to introduce my fair companion. She is a crime author. Her name is …’

‘Agatha,’ said Evie, holding out her hand and deciding that lies were the safest way forward.

She pulled the red beret down on one side, and glanced over the top of her sunglasses. She would make an excuse in a minute and leave. Memphis raised his arm, holding out money.

‘I want to place a bet on the one-thirty. Twenty each way on number fifteen, El Niño.’ Memphis shared the newspaper he had just picked up with Evie. ‘There you are – El Niño – he’s a good hot horse for you, and no mistake, if you want to make some fast money.’

She studied the newspaper. A name in print and the number four caught her attention at once. She looked at the door; she could stay for a few minutes more. Evie bit her lip and thought.

‘I want to bet on number four – Lucky Jim,’ she announced.

The counter man smiled, his lips a thin U-shape. ‘Rank outsider, lady.’ Two men behind her guffawed.

‘A hundred to one,’ agreed Memphis. ‘But who are we to stop a lady having a little flutter? After all, you’re seeking your fortune.’

‘Be quick,’ grimaced Counterman. ‘Betting closes soon.’

Evie reached into her new bag and pulled out a roll of notes, withdrawn from the bank as contingency earlier. Money just sitting in the bank, doing nothing, which would cover her spending spree with plenty left over. Her hand shook: she remembered selling their home, the place she had lived with Jim and Brendan, then just with Jim, for so many years, and tried to recall her husband’s face.

‘My bet for number four – Lucky Jim.’

Counterman counted silently, Memphis watching every movement.

‘How much do you want to bet, missus?’

Evie nodded her head. She thought of Sheldon Lodge, of Mrs Lofthouse and her pink prawn lips, then she thought of her husband Jim, his flat cap pulled down over serious eyes, a cigarette squeezed between his lips. For a moment, she hesitated, but wasn’t four her lucky number? She’d never proven it to herself properly and this was her big chance. She didn’t understand odds, but this horse had to win. It had Jim’s name and her lucky number. And Jim had been such a good man. Her voice was faint. She crossed the two fingers on each hand. Four fingers. ‘All of it.’

‘Five hundred euros?’ asked Counterman, his eyebrows shooting upwards.

Evie breathed in. ‘Number four. To win.’

Counterman winked at Memphis. ‘Lucky Jim to win – a hundred to one. Here, lady, and best of luck to you.’ And he handed her a slip of paper in exchange for her money.

Evie could see the men’s faces staring in disbelief. She was the centre of their attention, an anomaly, a rank outsider, just like Lucky Jim. She suddenly wished she had left the betting shop when she had the chance.

The tinny voice on the radio announced the start of the race and Evie was aware of the scent of anxious bodies crowding around her. A short man in a cap smirked at her through sparse teeth. Evie tried to move back but she was cornered. A huddle of men gathered around her, all with the same expression, worry mixed with hopefulness as they clutched their betting slips.

‘And they’re off,’ announced the lilting voice on the radio.

Evie breathed in as the mass of bodies came even closer. El Niño was in the lead, closely followed by Steam Packet and Argonaut: no mention of Lucky Jim. As the pace increased, the men around Evie seemed to do an imperceptible jig with their knees. The voice became quicker; the knee jerk turned into a bounce, their backs bobbing, quickening with each furlong. Evie smelled the anxiety of the betting men and she turned her nose as far away as she could, hoping the race would soon end. The five hundred euros had not been a good idea at all. Evie almost wished herself back in Sheldon Lodge. Almost.

‘And it’s number fifteen, El Niño … El Niño followed by Argonaut and they are turning into the home straight, El Niño, he is a neck in front but Argonaut, ridden by Paddy Mills, is giving it everything he has; now it is El Niño …’

Evie thought about dropping her betting slip and running out of the shop but she was hemmed in by the fretting throng who started to cheer. Memphis clenched a fist; he began to pound the air; spittle escaped from the side of his mouth. The voice shifted up a gear, the radio rattling with each consonant. The men’s eyes were glazed with some kind of religious entreaty and she felt that she was the only sane person in the shop. Her own eyes closed in prayer.

‘El Niño has it in the bag but oh, look, now, now on the outside coming up, it’s Lucky Jim, number four, his rider is really urging him forward, with less than a furlong to go; he’s passed Argonaut but it is El Niño, El Niño, El N— no, Lucky Jim has forced a nose in front, and it’s Lucky Jim, Lucky Jim, Lucky Jim. And Lucky Jim wins it by a neck.’

Memphis brought his fist to the counter with a crunch and his fingers splayed, releasing the betting slip. Eyes turned on Evie as if she were an angel. There was no movement, no noise. A strange sensation was seeping into her skin. Lucky Jim had passed the post in first position. She broke the silence. ‘Well …’

The men responded by clapping their hands; Evie was patted, cheered. The little man with a few teeth grasped her arm. ‘Can you tell me a good one for the two-thirty, lady?’

Counterman was calculating her winnings, over fifty thousand euros, as the men watched her, their mouths open. She asked for the cheque to be made out to Mrs E. Gallagher. He handed it to her, shaking his head. She put it carefully in her handbag.

Memphis rubbed moist hands together as he spoke: ‘Would you believe it?’

Evie took a deep breath to steady her nerves. She pushed her sunglasses onto the bridge of her nose, held out her hand and took his, her eyes benevolent and gracious.

‘Thank you so much for your help today, Mr Memphis,’ she cooed. ‘You have brought me good luck. Who knows? Perhaps we will meet again. I will certainly mention you in my latest novel.’

She heaved her carrier bags in one hand and swung her handbag in the other. With the men’s eyes on her, she swept out of the betting shop, feeling like Marilyn Monroe.

Evie blinked as she came out into the brightness of the Dublin streets. She paused, adjusted her beret and looked about at the shoppers moving up and down on the pavements.

She thought about how Jim never had any luck in his life.

Purposefully, she dumped the plastic carriers containing her old coat and handbag on the top of a brimming bin.

‘Holy shite,’ she breathed.

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