'I thought they were going to attack us!' Rebecca laughed, straightening her hair, giggling at her nervousness. Then she saw his face and stopped. 'What is it?'
'I don't know.' He shook his head. He'd seen the birds close, seen mottled irises and it had made his innards twitch. He thought about Veronica, about the pile of bones, her tight, unhealthy smile when Penderecki stepped into the room, almost as if she'd planned it. Suddenly he tamped out the cigarette and stood. 'I'd better go.'
'So you are going to give her attention.'
'Yes.' He rolled his sleeves down. 'I suppose I am.'
Veronica's red Tigra was parked outside the house. Smug. As if it had a right to be there. It was dark now, and over the roofs, on Penderecki's side of the railway cutting, a thin column of smoke rose. The house was in darkness. Caffery let himself in, cautious, prepared for the worst.
'Veronica?' He stood on the doormat, nervous in his own home. 'VERONICA?'
Silence. He switched the hall light on and stood blinking. Everything was as he had left it, the hall carpet slightly rucked, the bag of dry cleaning he'd forgotten that morning still slouched against the skirting. Through the open door of the kitchen he could make out the outline of his morning coffee cup on the table. He closed the door, hung his jacket on the banister and went into the kitchen.
'Veronica?' It was airless in here. On the windowsill one of her plants, a bougainvillaea, had flowered an obscene red during the day, and now it seemed to him that it was leaching the very oxygen from the house with its fat fleshy leaves. Hastily he opened the window, let the smoky tang of night air into the kitchen and took a quick welcome swig of Glenmorangie straight from the bottle.
The living room was undisturbed, Veronica's precious glasses in their tea chests still waiting to be collected. He opened the French windows and went back into the hall. It was in the dining room that he found the first evidence of her presence. The room had been cleaned thoroughly, obsessively, the scent of lavender furniture polish was still heavy in the air.
He stood in the doorway for a long time before he noticed, propped on the mantelpiece, a black-edged card, the type used for funeral services. The message was simple.
Fuck you, Jack.
Love Veronica
'Thank you, Veronica.' He put the card in his pocket, opened the bay windows and went back into the hallway. The only noise was the grandfather clock ticking, and the lazy mechanic buzz of a dying fly. Upstairs, then. She must be upstairs.
'I'm here, Veronica.' He stopped halfway to the landing, looking up at the closed bedroom doors. 'Veronica.' Silence. He mounted the last few steps and paused, his hand on the bedroom door.
He was suddenly overwhelmingly tired. If she had overdosed and was lying on his bed he would spend another sleepless night. Casualty. Stomach pumps. Psychiatric evaluation. Her granite-grey family sitting silently, letting him know he was responsible without saying a word.
Or he could, he could — the thought made him shiver — simply turn around and walk out of the door. Call Rebecca, apologize for leaving, meet her for a drink, spend the night trying to coax her into bed while Veronica silently slipped over the edge, alone.
He stood, pulse racing, while the possibility exhausted itself. Then took a long, deep breath and slowly, very slowly, opened the bedroom door.
'Shit.'
She'd made the bed and dusted in here too. But there were no startling death images, no arterial spray on the wall, no empty pill bottles. No Veronica.
He quickly checked the cupboards. Everything was as it should be, towels folded neatly in candy-striped piles, bedside clock ticking quietly. Ewan's bedroom, then. He went back onto the landing and found the door to Ewan's room open. Veronica stood a pace inside, staring at him.
'Veronica.'
They regarded each other for a moment, pulses pounding. She was wearing a white silk blouse and white linen slacks. A scarf printed with tiny gold buckles was secured at the neck by a diamond pin. Her face was white and controlled. There was nothing about her to suggest she had tried to harm herself.
'Why are you in my house?'
'I came to collect Mummy's glasses. Is that allowed?'
'Take them and get out.'
'Civility.' She sucked in a breath through her teeth and arched her eyebrows. 'Know that word, Jack? Civility.'
'I'm not here to argue—' He stopped. He had focused further into the rest of the room, the empty shelves, the box files on the floor — open, every one cracked wide, emptied.
For a moment he stood, taking this in, silent and unmoving, only the congested thudding of his heart for company — Shit, she knows exactly where to push me — then stepped forward, ignoring her standing calmly next to him, and crouched amongst the debris, his hands shaking. As he picked through the files — lifting them, upturning and shaking, running trembling fingers through their white spaces — he knew he would find little. He knew how thoroughly a coiled heart like Veronica's does its work.
'Well?' he said eventually, sitting back on his heels, breathing hard. 'Well? What've you done? Where've you put it all?'
She shrugged as if his interest surprised her and turned casually to look at the window. Reluctantly he followed her eyes. Beyond the pale, lifting curtains phlegmy tendrils of smoke drifted across the moon.
'Shit,' he sighed. 'Shit, yes, of course, I should have guessed.' He got wearily to his feet and crossed the room, placing cold fingers lightly on the window frame. And there, just as he had expected, on the other side of the cutting, lit black and red by drifting embers, stood Penderecki, holding up the incinerator hood to throw in another handful, whistling to himself and smiling as if he'd been waiting and watching for Jack to come.
'Oh, Veronica.' He rested his hot forehead against the pane and expelled a long breath. 'You should have ripped my heart out instead.'
'Oh come on, Jack, don't overreact.'
'You bitch,' he murmured. 'You little bitch.'
'What? What did you call me?'
'Bitch.' Caffery turned calmly to her. 'I called you a fucking bitch.'
'You're crazy.' She looked at him in disbelief. 'You know, sometimes you make me hope that pervert did kill your brother. And slowly too.' Her face twisted. 'Because you deserve it, Jack. You deserve it for the way you're killing me. You're killing me—' But Caffery had grabbed her roughly by the arm. Her cuff buttons exploded across the room. 'Jack!'
He dragged her to the door, crunching and scattering the empty files underfoot. 'Jack!' She kicked at him. 'Let go of me — Jack!'
'Shut up.' Anger made him strong and composed. He wrenched her down the stairs — enjoying her powerlessness, enjoying the futile spitting and struggling, the manicured nails ripping on the banisters. At the foot of the stairs he stopped and held her at arm's length, regarding her calmly.
'Christ.' She wrenched her arm from him and took a step back, massaging her elbow, her eyes wide, hair dishevelled. A vein had burst in the white of her left eye, but her face was dry. He saw he had scared her. 'Don't touch me again, OK? Don't—'
'Just shut up and listen—'
'Please — Daddy'll take it very seriously if you come near me—'
'I said shut the fuck up and listen!' He pushed his face close to hers. 'Now, I'm telling you once: if you ever come near me again I will kill you. I mean it — I will fucking KILL you. Is that clear?'