Niamh hadn’t closed it. She’d gone inside, however, most likely thinking that Manette and Freddie would do likewise. They did, shutting the door behind them.
Niamh called, “I’ll be with you in a moment. I’m putting on something decent.”
Manette didn’t comment on this. She and Freddie went to the sitting room, which displayed the remains of a tryst: wine bottle, two glasses, a plate bearing crumbs and bits of cheese and chocolate, sofa cushions shoved onto the floor, and a pile of Niamh’s clothing lying nearby. Niamh was, Manette thought, certainly having the time of her life.
“Sorry. Haven’t got to this yet.”
Manette and Freddie turned at the sound of Niamh’s voice. Her “something decent” turned out to be a black leotard, which hugged every curve of her body and did everything possible to emphasise her breasts. These stood to attention like infantrymen in the presence of their commanding general. Their nipples strained against the thin cloth.
Manette glanced at Freddie. He was looking out of the sitting room window, at the fine view of the bay that it provided. With the tide out, plovers and knots by the thousands were in. Freddie wasn’t a bird man, but he was giving them considerable attention. The tips of his ears were absolutely magenta.
Niamh smiled slyly at Manette. She said, “Now. What can I do for you two?” and she bustled round as well as one could be said to bustle in a leotard. She put the cushions back onto the sofa and plumped them nicely, then picked up the wine bottle and glasses and took them into the kitchen. There the remains of a Chinese takeaway dinner were on the worktops and the table. It seemed that Charlie Wilcox was providing all sorts of sustenance, Manette thought. Stupid sod.
Manette said to her, “I phoned. Did you not hear it, Niamh?”
She fluttered her fingers in a pooh-pooh gesture. “I never answer the phone when Charlie’s here,” she said. “Would you? In my position?”
“I’m not sure. Which one is your position? Oh, never mind. I don’t care to know. Yes, I’d answer the phone if I heard the message and the message was about my son.”
Niamh was at the worktop, picking up the takeaway cartons, inspecting them for remains that were salvageable. “What about Tim?” she asked.
Manette felt Freddie come into the kitchen behind her. She moved to one side to give him room. She glanced at him. He stood with his arms crossed inspecting the mess. Freddie wasn’t big on the pickings of daily life being left round to clutter up a place.
Manette gave Niamh the story in brief. One missing son, two days truant from school. “Has he been here?” she finished, fairly sure of the answer.
“Not that I know of,” Niamh said. “I haven’t been home every moment. I suppose he could have come and gone.”
“We’d like to check,” Freddie said.
“Why? D’you think he’s under a bed? Do you think I’m hiding him from you?”
“We think he might be hiding from you,” Manette put in. “And who could blame him? Let’s be honest, Niamh. There’s a limit to what life can ask one boy to endure, and I expect he’s reached his.”
“What, exactly, are you saying?”
“I think you know very well. And with what you’ve been up to— ”
Freddie touched her arm briefly to halt her words. He said reasonably, “Tim might have slipped into the house while you were sleeping. He could be in the garage as well. D’you mind awfully if we have a look? It’ll just take a moment and then we’ll be out of your hair.”
Niamh’s expression said she’d have liked to carry the conversation further, but Manette knew that doing so would lead them in the single direction Niamh would want to go. Ian’s sins against her and against the family constituted the broken record of her life, and she had no wish to repair it. No matter Charlie Wilcox and his Chinese takeaway. Niamh would never get beyond Ian’s betrayal because she had no wish to do so.
She said, “Do as you like, Freddie,” and turned her back to begin putting the kitchen in order.
Searching the house was the business of less than five minutes. It was small, and upstairs there were three bedrooms and a bathroom. Tim would hardly have hidden himself in his mother’s room, since doing so would have risked having to listen to Niamh’s lovemaking, likely to be an acoustically enthusiastic affair. That left his room and Gracie’s room. Manette took these on as Freddie did the honours with Niamh’s garage.
They met back in the sitting room. They shook their heads. Time to move to another location. But Manette felt that she couldn’t do so without a final word with Tim’s mother. Niamh emerged from the kitchen with a cup of coffee. She made no offer of the like to her unwanted visitors. All to the good, Manette thought, as she didn’t want to remain any longer than it would take to say what needed to be said.
This was, “It’s time for the children to come home. You’ve made your point, Niamh, and there’s really no reason to take it further.”
Niamh said, “Oh dear,” and went to a chair, beneath which something had been shoved. She brought it out and shot them a coy smile. “Charlie will have his games,” she said.
Manette saw it was a sex toy, a vibrator by the looks of it, complete with various attachments in various shapes that lay on the floor as well. Niamh scooped these up and placed them along with the vibrator on the coffee table. She said, “What point are you talking about, Manette?”
“You know very well what point I’m talking about. It’s the same point that sent you on your way to the plastic surgeon, and it’s the same point that has that poor stupid bloke sniffing round you every night.”
“Manette,” Freddie murmured.
“No,” Manette said. “It’s time someone took her to task for this nonsense. You have two children and a duty to those children and that has nothing to do with Ian, with his rejection of you, with his love for Kaveh, with— ”
“Stop it!” Niamh hissed. “I will not have that name spoken inside this house.”
“Which one? Ian, the father of your children, or Kaveh, the man he left you for? You were hurt. Fine. All right. Everyone knows it. You had a right to be and, believe me, everyone knows that as well. But Ian’s dead and the children need you and if you can’t see that, if you’re so self-absorbed, if you’re so bloody needy, if you have to continue to prove to yourself over and over that some man— any man, for the love of God— wants you… What on earth is the matter with you? Were you ever a mother to Gracie and Tim?”
“Manette,” Freddie murmured. “Really.”
“How dare you.” Niamh’s voice was fury. “How bloody dare you. To stand there… to tell me… you who threw away a man for— ”
“This isn’t about me.”
“Oh, it never is, is it? You’re perfect, aren’t you, while the rest of us are beneath your contempt. What do you know of what I went through? What do you know of discovering that the man you love has been meeting with other men for years? Public lavatories, city parks, nightclubs where they grope each other and stick their cocks into strangers’ arseholes? Do you know how it feels to have that knowledge descend on you? To realise your marriage has been a sham and, worse, that you’ve been exposed to every possible variety of filthy disease because the man you’ve given your life to has been living a lie for years? Don’t you tell me how to live my life now. Don’t you bloody tell me I’m all about myself, I’m needy, I’m pathetic, I’m whatever else is on your goddamn mind…”
She’d begun to weep as she spoke, and she dashed the tears away from her face. She said, “Get out of here and don’t come back. If you do, Manette, I swear to God I’ll phone the police. I want you out of here and I want you to leave me alone.”