Red Ribbons (3 page)

Kate clicked up her final slide of the afternoon, which covered methods of operation and key signatures left at a crime scene.

‘The one thing we should always keep in mind when examining any case is that despite obvious indicators of a particular form of operation, or signature, perpetrators very often do similar things for very different reasons. So along with finding the signals, we must also be mindful not to be led in the wrong direction.’

HIS FLIGHT FROM FLORENCE LANDED BACK IN DUBLIN airport at 4.15 p.m., so it was late evening by the time he got back to Cronly Lodge. Instead of going up directly to see the old witch, he chose to walk the beach instead. The spring and summer crowds had not yet begun to arrive for their annual land grab of the sunny southeast but, at this hour, either way, the strand was deserted.

He walked slowly on the sand, near the water’s edge, not wanting to rush his next move. Mrs Flood, their housekeeper, had been given the thankless task of minding his mother while he was away. She had left moments earlier, when he had called to confirm he was near at hand. Everything was at long last firmly crystallised in his mind. He knew what he needed to do. Once the bishop had filled in the missing pieces, all other plans had changed. It was strange how that one part of the jigsaw had escaped him for so long. The truth was, he had not thought even his vile mother could sink so low. The only reason he was now delaying the inevitable was his desire to hear it all from the bitch herself.

Leaving the beach, he walked up to the house and let himself in. He locked the door behind him, then drew the curtains downstairs before making his way up the old staircase. When he reached the landing, her roars told him she knew he was there well before he opened her bedroom door.

‘Is that you, you selfish little shit? Back to mind your ailing mother? Not before time. The prodigal son returns, let’s all thank the heavens.’

Part of him didn’t even want to look at her, wanted to just shut her
up once and for all – but he knew that it was at testing times that a person’s true character proved itself.

‘I see you haven’t lost any of your charm while I was away, Mother.’

‘No thanks to you. Off on your little holiday while I’m cooped up in this hellhole like some bloody prisoner. Is that stupid cow gone?’

‘Mrs Flood?’

‘Of course Mrs Flood, how many stupid cows are there? Nobody gives a shit about me, not you, not anyone – least of all that awful bloody woman. Give me my pills. The cow hates me, you know. Hates me, hates me, hates me. Are you listening? I’m telling you, they’re all the same, bastards, fucking bastards the lot of them. Do you hear me?’

‘I hear you.’

‘They’re all swine, worse than swine, and you’re no better. Give me my pills.’

‘Not just yet.’

‘I haven’t had any. I don’t care what the old bat said. I remember more than she does, you know.’

‘I don’t doubt it.’

‘Where did you sneak off to anyway while I was dying in my bed? Give me the pills, will you? Come on, there’s a good boy.’

‘I was meeting old friends.’

‘Lucky you. Friends? What friends? Some cheap tart was it? Is that cow still here?’

‘Mrs Flood left an hour ago. It’s just you and me now, Mother.’

‘Good, good, that’s good. We were always good together, you and I, blood is thicker than water, a cut above the rest of them, we always were.

‘I met an old friend of yours. Bishop Antonio.’

‘I don’t know any Bishop Antonio. Why won’t you give me my pills?’

‘You don’t need them. Not yet. We don’t want to blur the mind too soon, do we?’

‘I’m tired, why are you talking about that damned man?’

‘You brought him up.’

‘No I didn’t … I don’t remember.’

‘Two weeks ago, before I left.’

‘Two weeks is a lifetime when you’re dying. Give me the pills, will you? Don’t be cruel.’ Her eyes were pleading, narrowing into slits. ‘Oh, but I forgot, you like being cruel, don’t you? Makes you feel big, doesn’t it, picking on an old, defenceless woman? You’re no better than the rest of them, taking advantage. Some loving son you are.’

‘He was asking for you, Antonio, wanting to know how my mother, the old hag, was getting along.’

‘There’s a place in hell for people like him, and you.’

He watched, disgusted, as a line of spittle settled on her top lip. ‘Fancy visiting it?’

He crossed the room to her swiftly and she gasped at the sudden pain. ‘Stop pulling my hair. It hurts. Get away!’

‘It’s supposed to hurt. Antonio was very generous with his information, Mother, filled me in on a lot of missing gaps.’

‘He was always a mouth, the slimy bastard. Stop at my hair, stop this instant! You can’t make me say anything. I’m not afraid of the likes of you.’

‘Can’t I? How’s this?’ Grabbing her dried-out grey ponytail, he pulled her head so far back, the bones in her neck creaked in response. ‘Here, look in the mirror, Mother, see how ugly you are.’ He took up her hand mirror with the ivory handle from the side table and turned it towards her.

‘He told me a little story, Mother. It was all about you. You like being the centre of the story, don’t you? You always did. You’re not looking, Mother, open your eyes. Not a pretty picture, is it? They say a mirror cannot lie, but you can. Can’t you? You lie better than anyone.’

Letting go of her hair, he walked over to the window and yanked up the bottom sash so he could breathe in the evening air. The
outside seemed as humid as her bedroom, a heavy veil of smothering. He watched shadows engulf the garden, thinking he could hear the leaves of the elderberry trees swaying. His indignation rose as she continued to chide.

Out of nowhere, she began to laugh, loudly and hysterically. ‘Got you all riled up, son, has it? All excited about your young tramp? Or maybe you liked Antonio more? He always said there was something not right about you, silly sneaky little boy. You are a sneak, aren’t you? Like a snake crawling around in the dark, slither, slither, slither, snake, snake, snake.’

‘Shut your mouth or I’ll shut it for you.’

‘Not with your back to me you won’t. Go on you idiot, keep looking out that window – dreamer – loser. All that money for your education, and for what? Do you think you would have had any of it, if it hadn’t been for me?’

He pulled the window down, clicked the latch over and closed both curtains. Turning, he waited in the dark, listening to her chiding him, the room becoming clammier with the passing of time. She never stopped, it was relentless. It had always been relentless, for as long as he could remember. He walked over to her bed once more and stood over her, smelling the sweat from her body, her hair wet with moisture, her breath foul. Inside him, a savage mixture of old memories and hate churned.

‘Why don’t you tell me your side of the story, Mother? I am sure it will be very insightful.’

‘Tell you what, you little shit?’

‘Come on, you know you want to. Let’s hear it from the whore’s mouth.’

She stared at him, eyes wide open, her hands balled up into useless fists. ‘You’re mad.’

‘I guess that makes two of us.’

‘I want my pills. Give me my pills.’

‘Not in the storytelling mood, are we?’ He had left the bedroom door open so he could hear the sound of the Napoleon clock from downstairs. It swooned up the stairwell, the way low sounds can move in near silence. Tick tock, tick tock.

Her arms were already badly bruised from injections and blood tests, a few more marks from tying up her hands would go unseen. He knew now that she might never tell him, just as he knew everything the old bishop had said was true. He had wasted enough time – a lifetime – trying to get her to explain things. No more.

She screeched like a wounded animal before he pressed the pillow down hard, but he held firm. Beneath his hands her frail body resisted, thrashed and writhed with a strength he hadn’t expected. He viewed it all clinically, objectively, like he wasn’t even involved. He was glad she put up a good fight, though. The kill, in the end, was all the better for it.

I KNOCK ON THE DOOR. WELL, ISN’T THAT WHAT YOU’RE supposed to do with doors? That, and open and shut them. I hear a man inside the room cough, the sound muffled by the wooden divide. Maybe if I stand here long enough, I can disappear, sink into the ground or evaporate into the air. I wouldn’t mind that. I am wearing some other person’s clothes, an unbecoming grey blouse and faded jeans. By now, I am used to these things. Everything I have belonged to someone else at one time or another, everything, that is, except the bits that matter. Sadly, the bits that matter are all mine. My short, brown hair is washed and tucked, childlike, behind my ears. I wear neither make-up nor jewellery. There is no need for such things here. I have no need for such things.

Moments earlier, on the way to this door, I had caught sight of myself in the gold ornate mirror in the corridor. Unlike me, it is beautiful. It has an intricate frame and hangs on the wall past the sign for Female Rooms. The mirror does not discriminate. It welcomes all of us on our daily walkabouts. Of course, there are those of us who have looked in the mirror who are no longer here – some of us are no longer alive. Apart from the tiny black spots around the glass edges, it is perfect, and never fails to greet us. We cannot avoid it as it hangs in the walkway leading to the kitchen and Living Room 1 and Living Room 2. I wonder which genius decided on that: to hang a large mirror where we are forced to look into it, and be looked at by it; confirming the
nothings
we have all become.

Why today, of all the days, did I stop and allow my image to puzzle me? It certainly wasn’t because I expected to see the vibrant Ellie Brady who used to live in my body. I had expected someone else, the grey ghost she has become. For a time I stood there, staring. In this place, you do a lot of that kind of thing, ‘nothing things’. There is no pressure to be anywhere else, to do anything other than the daily routine, which is so embedded in your mind that you can catch yourself doing things without remembering how you got to the place in which you are doing them.

At the mirror, I tilted my head as if the woman in the glass would become more recognisable. It wasn’t just the shabby clothes or the childish hairstyle, it was her face. For it was in this that my truth was hidden, buried beneath skin, behind eyes and burrowed into the wrinkled stress lines that cover my brow. My shoulders leaned inwards, stooping my back as if every part of me was worn down. I took a second to stand up straight, fixing my clothes as best I could. I had never done that before, and again I asked myself why I felt so differently today. I even opened my eyes wide, staring, daring me to see the person I remembered from so long before. But all I saw was a ragged person, in matching ragged clothes.

I think all this as I stand at the door waiting for the good doctor to answer my knock. I knock again, harder. The sound of his footsteps tells me my peace will now be broken.

‘Ellie, please come in.’

His cheerful voice says this like he’s an old friend, an acquaintance from the past, from a happy time. But I don’t know him, I only know of him. He is the new doctor, the one who is reviewing my file. This I understand, because this much, at least, they have told me.

I sit on the patient side of the desk. I don’t mind being the patient; the chair is comfortable enough. I have sat in it many times before. I am happy to say nothing, might as well enjoy it while I can. He is sure to intrude soon, sure to ask his questions and try to get a response
– that is what they do, that is what they all do. But I don’t have a response, I have nothing. In nothing I feel safe, for now.

The doctor is tall and graceful in his movements. I notice this as he walks across the room, but I can tell this even when he is seated. The elegant way his arms move as he turns over the case notes, the slow, delicate indentation of forehead lines as he concentrates. When I walked in, he held the door open for me, as if I was some kind of lady. He has an air of gentle confidence, which must help him to control proceedings. I wonder if he is this way out in the real world. Does his disposition change when he is not dealing with lunatics like me? There is already a wooden plaque on the desk with his name on it: ‘Dr Samuel Ebbs’. It is followed by a string of letters. I have learned that the number of letters adds to their importance, but importance to whom? Certainly not to me. To me, he is of no importance; to me, he is simply here.

To the side of the case notes lies a jotter and he writes in it from time to time, even before we start to talk properly. His head is bent and his eyes move constantly from the case notes to his jotter, looking up briefly to smile every now and then. I notice the beginning of baldness, just a slight thinning out in the centre of the crown. His hair is black and his suit expensive, neat. The skin on his face and hands tanned, as if painted by a different climate. He has a sharp nose, but it suits him, gives him an air of intelligence. The wedding band on his finger tells me he is married. His enthusiastic scribbling confirms to me that he is new.

Raising his head, he lays the pen down on the desk without making a sound. These are all indicators that he is now ready to move our proceedings forward.

‘Well, Ellie, thank you for seeing me today.’

Stupid statement – like I have a choice. I say nothing. He looks at me, my silence causing an upward movement of his right eyebrow.

‘You’ve been here a long time?’ He knows this from my file. ‘I would like to help you, Ellie, if I can.’

He waits. So do I.

‘Perhaps we could spend some time together over the next while. I am here to listen and of course to help you any way I can.’

He pauses then, like I’m going to respond. I don’t, not even a blink.

‘Maybe, Ellie, we could aim to have our chats in the afternoon? How would you feel about that?’

‘Fine.’

He can have as many chats as he likes, but I won’t be saying anything. It has all been said before, dragged up and dissected, mulled backwards and forwards. It doesn’t change anything, nothing can.