Next, I returned to Lifford, stopping off at the station to confirm what I already knew to be the case: the photograph from the site where Angela's body was found was the same as that taken from Ratsy's flat. Mary Knox. Williams had left a note saying that she and Holmes had gone with a police artist to get a sketch of the girl spotted with Terry Boyle the night he died. I headed straight for Clipton Place to confront Johnny Cashell over the arson attack on my house. It seemed, however, that he had been out the night before celebrating his release and, slightly the worse for wear, was now in the pub, searching for the hair of the dog.
As it turned out, I missed him in McElroy's bar. However, I did find out that Johnny had been there all of the day before – after his daughter's funeral – and had had to be carried into a taxi at three in the morning – which meant he was still lying comatose in the bar when someone torched my car – which meant he slid right back down my list of suspects.
Finally, when I had nothing left to do to avoid it, I drove back over to Lifford and to Powell's house. This time I pulled into the drive where Miriam's BMW sat alone. I knocked on the door twice and was about to turn and leave when I heard the slamming of one of the internal doors. Seconds later, Miriam pulled the front door open, her face flushed and her breathing heavy. Her breath smelt of cigarettes and drink. She stood in the doorway, leaning slightly against the doorframe, and smiled. "Come in," she said, and turned and led me into the living room.
"Debs said you wanted to see me, Miriam," I said, standing by the sofa.
"Sit, Ben, please," she said, doing so herself. As she sat, she ran her hands along the backs of her legs, as though to smooth out a skirt, but it was clearly force of habit, for she was wearing jeans and a white, man's shirt with the top buttons open wide enough to reveal the flush at the base of her throat and the swell of her tanned chest. She seemed to be aware of my gaze for, as she spoke, she fingered the collar of the shirt and rubbed her index finger along the length of her collarbone.
"I wished to apologize for my behaviour in your home the other night," she said, smiling at me girlishly.
"I need to apologize, too, Miriam, for what happened in the car."
She waved her hand, as though wafting my words from the air.
"No need, Ben. Just think of it as two old friends renewing their acquaintance."
"You wanted to speak about your father-in-law?" I prompted, already growing uneasy with the direction the conversation was taking.
"He saw someone again the night before last," she said.
"In his room?" I asked.
"Not quite. Outside. He said he saw shadows at his window, trying to peer in through the crack in the curtains."
I was reminded of our own experience several nights before. Could the two incidents be linked? "He didn't see their face?" I asked.
"No," Miriam replied. "I just thought it might be important."
"You could have phoned me with this, Miriam," I said, standing up.
"I know you're mad at me," she said quickly. "I know you hate me for what I did to you. With Thomas."
"I don't hate you, Miriam," I said.
"You do. You're right. It was horrid of me. But, I've paid the price for it. My wonderful husband. He's standing in the next election. It'll be the first time he's stood near me in years. His waitresses and nurses, they do it for him. He thinks I'm withered up. Used goods, he says." The words tumbled out without pause, as if Miriam were somehow aware that if she stopped now, she would never have a chance to unburden herself again. Or perhaps she just liked an audience. "Am I used goods, Ben?"
"I need to go, Miriam," I said, moving towards the door.
"You used to be a better man than this, Ben. I remember. I remember touching you. You were so excited you couldn't hold yourself back. I remember. You do, as well. I know you find me attractive. Oh, Debbie's a great mother, I'm sure. But would she do what I'd do? Remember you and me down by the water station? We have unfinished business, Ben. Let's finish it," she said, playfully. She moved towards me, swaying gently from side to side, her head lowered slightly so that she looked up at me through her fringe. "No one need ever know," she said. "Just a bit of harmless fun."
She was close to me now and I could feel the heat radiating from her body. Her skin seemed to emanate something more than warmth. I could smell again the exotic coconut of her skin and taste again her mouth, cold and sharp. I wanted to feel the soft tug of her lips. She put one hand on my chest, the tip of a finger finding its way between the buttons and rubbing the hairs of my chest. She ran her fingernail along the skin and something deep inside me began to well up. She smiled at me with her mouth, but her eyes remained slightly out of focus, as though she were not really there, and in their emptiness I saw my children and my wife. I felt again Deb's neck and the softness of her hair. I took Miriam's hand and lifted it from my chest, then moved away from her. Her smile wavered, as if she could not understand what had happened. Then it faltered completely as I moved backwards towards the door.
"Goodbye, Miriam," I said. "I want to go home to my family. I'm sorry if I gave you the impression that there was something else there."
She set her face defiantly against the shafts of winter sunlight streaming down the hallway. "Get out, you useless shit!" she spat. "See if your wife will be a whore for you on the back seat of a car."
As I turned to open the door, I came face-to-face with Thomas Powell, who flashed his most political smile. He looked freshly showered, his hair still damp and slightly spiked. He had recently shaved and smelt strongly of aftershave, despite it being late afternoon. "Have I missed something?" he said.
I did not tell Debbie of my visit to Miriam Powell, and all evening I debated with myself over the real reason for it. Miriam had sensed the unfinished nature of our relationship; but it was also vanity on my part. Miriam Powell would still sleep with me out of pity, or charity, or some obsessive need to debase herself even further.
Perhaps she wanted revenge against her adulterous husband. Perhaps she just wanted to enjoy herself.
If I had not seen the emptiness in her eyes, would I have gone ahead and given myself to her and given away all that was important to me? I told myself that I would not. And, as I kissed my children goodnight and curled up to sleep behind Debbie, I believed that to be the truth.
I dreamt that night of Miriam Powell. She and I were together in the back of a car, parked behind the cinema. We were kissing and her breath was hot and urgent against my ear as she pressed her cheek to mine. Over her naked shoulder, through the windshield, I could see the body of Angela Cashell lying on the grass. Debbie was standing over her, shaking her head. Miriam tugged at my shirt, flicking open the buttons, and I heard shouting. Rubbing the condensation from the window, I looked across to another car, parked beside us. The light was on inside and I could see Costello with a faceless woman. She had brown hair and brown eyes and her body was scarred and abused. She looked at me and screamed. Then the car I was in began to move. Behind me, flames forked out of the boot and I believed I could hear the petrol bubbling in the tank, ready to explode. My stomach lurched, and when I looked again, Terry Boyle was sitting beside me, the fetid smell of his breath and his scorched flesh thick in my mouth and nose, the charred remains of his hand clasped on my knee. Then Whitey McKelvey was driving, his face contorted and frozen, his hands lying useless on the melting wheel, which spun wildly out of all control.