‘What did you win?’
‘A cup one time, and a badge another time,’ he said. ‘One time I won a book token.’
Ellen tidied her torn-out figures into a pile that signalled she was done with them. She took the notepad and pencil and handed them to Lennon. ‘Draw me a picture,’ she said.
Lennon took the pad and pencil. ‘What of?’
Ellen knotted her fingers together as she thought about it. ‘Me,’ she said.
Lennon selected the black pencil from her small collection. Remembering the lessons from art class a quarter-century before, he drew an inverted egg, then segmented it to place the eyes and mouth.
Ellen stood at his side, leaning on the armrest. She giggled. ‘That’s not me.’
‘Just wait,’ Lennon said. He pencilled in the ovals for the eyes, the soft undulation of the mouth, the nose so like her mother’s. He defined her cheekbones with short strokes, then longer wavy lines for the hair. ‘See?’
Ellen gave a small laugh, then covered her mouth as if she had let a secret slip.
Lennon took the yellow pencil from the floor. It was blunt, but it would do. He wound it through the darker lines to make the gold strands of her hair. When had he last drawn anything? Not since he’d been at school. He held the pad at arm’s length and examined his work. It wasn’t bad, considering. He showed it to Ellen.
‘There, see?’ he said. ‘It’s you.’
Ellen smiled and took the pad from his fingers. She dropped to the floor, lay on her belly, and selected the orange pencil. She sketched orange daggers radiating from her face until her portrait looked like a sun in a dull white sky.
‘What’s that?’ Lennon asked.
‘Fire,’ Ellen said. ‘It burns.’
‘What fire? Did you see a fire?’
Ellen chose the red pencil next. She filled in the spaces between the orange daggers. ‘When I have bad dreams. It burns. Then I wake up and it doesn’t burn any more.’
‘Do the dreams scare you?’
Ellen put her pencil down and hid her eyes with her hands. She dropped her head so that her breathing sounded strange against the floor.
‘I’m sorry,’ Lennon said. ‘It’s all right. You don’t have to tell me. They’re only dreams. They can’t hurt anybody.’
‘That’s what I’ve told her,’ Marie said.
Lennon’s heart skipped. ‘You’re awake.’
Marie stretched, her long arms reaching to forever. ‘I don’t think she believes me.’ She extended her hands towards Ellen. ‘C’mere, darling.’
Ellen sniffed and abandoned her pencils and paper on the floor. Marie held the blanket up. A puff of warm air and faded perfume brushed Lennon’s senses. Ellen climbed onto the couch and burrowed in next to her mother. Marie engulfed her in the blanket, wrapped it tight around her, pulled her in. The warmth turned to chill, the perfume dissipated, and Lennon wondered if he’d only imagined them.
‘What time is it?’ Marie asked.
Lennon looked at his watch. ‘Just gone five.’
‘You don’t have to stay with us,’ Marie said. ‘Nobody knows we’re here, do they? Nobody but that man. The door looks like it’s good and strong. We’ll be fine.’
‘I should stay,’ Lennon said.
‘What if I don’t want you to?’
‘I’ll stay anyway.’
‘Christ.’ Marie closed her eyes. ‘Is that all I am to anybody these days? A fucking damsel in distress?’
Ellen’s head popped out of the blanket. ‘That’s a bad word, Mummy.’
‘I know, sweetheart. I’m sorry.’
Satisfied, Ellen burrowed back down again.
Was she worth it?’ Marie asked. ‘That woman. Was she worth what it cost you?’
‘No,’ Lennon said without hesitation.
‘Then why?’
Tendrils of fear and need spread out from Lennon’s heart. He had played out this conversation a thousand times in his mind. He considered his words. ‘Because I was a coward,’ he said.
Marie lifted her head. ‘Good answer,’ she said. ‘Go on.’
‘I was a child. I wasn’t ready for … that. Being grown up, sharing things, not putting myself first all the time. I was scared. Wendy gave me an escape route, and I took it. When I look back, I realise that’s all she ever was tome: an easy way out. A coward’s way out. I don’t know, maybe we weren’t meant to be together. Maybe it was never going to work out. Maybe I just wasn’t ready. Whatever it was, I could’ve done the right thing, but I didn’t. You didn’t deserve what I did to you, and neither did Ellen. If it means anything, I am sorry.’
Marie stared at some point miles above Lennon’s shoulder. She stayed that way for minutes, her breath soft in the surrounding quiet, Ellen’s softer still as it deepened towards sleep.
‘It isn’t looking good for my father,’ Marie said. ‘They said it’s just a matter of time before another stroke comes, and that’ll be that. He hadn’t spoken to me since I took up with you. Most of my family haven’t. We both paid a price for you being a cop.
‘I was feeding my father ice cream in the hospital, and he was watching me. I don’t know if he really saw me, but I wondered what he thought. I realised I don’t really know him. My own father, I’m sitting by that bed grieving for him, and I don’t really know who he is any more.’
A tear escaped Marie’s eye, crept silently across her cheek to drop onto Ellen’s hair.
‘You can see her if you want,’ Marie said. ‘When this is over, when we get settled. If you wanted to see Ellen, I wouldn’t mind. If you want.’
‘I’d like that,’ Lennon said. ‘Thank you.’
‘S’okay,’ Marie said. ‘Just don’t let her down. Ever.’
‘I won’t,’ Lennon said. ‘I swear.’
Marie closed her eyes and nestled deeper into the couch, gathering Ellen closer. When their breathing fell into step, and Marie’s eyelids fluttered with dreaming, Lennon stood and went out to the hall. He entered the bathroom and closed the door behind him. He locked it and turned on the tap.
For the first time in sixteen years, hiding behind the sound of running water, Jack Lennon wept.
66
No one noticed Fegan as he entered McKenna’s bar on the Springfield Road. It was early yet and only a few drinkers sat staring at pints of Guinness or glasses of whiskey. Tom the barman filled chill cabinets with bottled beer and cider, the clink of glass on glass piercing the gloom. His head was just visible as he crouched behind the bar.
This was where it had all begun, just a few months ago. Michael McKenna had placed a hand on Fegan’s shoulder and set his own death in motion. Had that not happened, if McKenna hadn’t sought him out that night, Fegan wondered if he might never have started this terrible journey. Perhaps the twelve would still have been following him, hiding in the shadows, emerging to torment him when sleep was all he wanted.
Fegan walked further into the pub, seeking the dark places. No one sat at the bar. He watched Tom work for a while before slowly, quietly approaching. Tom stood upright, an empty crate hanging loose at his side. He turned, saw Fegan, froze.
‘Hello, Tom,’ Fegan said.
Tom stared, his mouth hanging open.
‘I want a word,’ Fegan said.
Tom’s eyes darted around the bar before coming back to Fegan.
Fegan nodded to the door behind the bar. ‘In the back,’ he said.
Tom didn’t move.
Fegan walked to the side of the bar, lifted the hinged top and walked through.
‘What do you want, Gerry?’ Tom asked, his voice like sand on paper.
‘Just a talk,’ Fegan said. He indicated the door. ‘It won’t take long. Then I’ll leave you alone.’
Tom backed up until he reached the door, the crate still in his hand. Fegan scanned the dark corners of the pub. No one watched. They both entered the back room, a small space with a sink and a microwave oven, boxes of crisps and peanuts stacked in the corners. Fegan took a stool and placed it at the centre of the linoleum-covered floor.