They had plenty in common. Liked the same TV shows, laughed at the same jokes. He was marvellous company, charming and courteous, although Adele was perceptive enough to detect a streak of self-indulgence running through him. But that had been true of Josh, it was true of most men. Maybe all men. Brendan was a nice guy, but not the strongest of characters; forced into a corner, he’d put himself first. But you had to balance positives against the negatives. Brendan made her smile for the first time since Josh’s accident when they were out boating in his native Australia, on the final day of the holiday of a lifetime to celebrate their fifth wedding anniversary.
Bereavement was another thing they had in common. Brendan made no secret of his devotion to the first Mrs O’Leary. Not that Adele resented this: jealousy wasn’t one of her vices. She deplored the way Gilly had betrayed Brendan’s trust. He still kept photos of her in an old suitcase in the loft, and the identical pout featured in every single one. Gilly was pretty and vain, the doted-on daughter of a widowed wealthy banker. When Daddy died, she needed someone else to spoil her rotten. It was clear even from Brendan’s kind-hearted comments that she’d been flattered by his unfailing attentiveness, and relished having a good-looking man at her beck and call. And Brendan, tall and introspective, with a mop of dark hair and deep brown eyes, was a very good-looking man.
Adele lingered in her favourite fashion store, where Christmas carols sung by a kids’ choir trilled over the loudspeakers.
Brightly shone the moon that night
Though the frost was cruel…
After that disturbing episode with Squeaky, she was in the mood for a treat. A skimpy designer nightdress caught her eye. The price was extortionate for something so insubstantial, but money wasn’t a problem, and Brendan would love slipping it off her slim white shoulders. So: a treat for both of them. She carried her trophy to the till.
Poor Brendan deserved his fun. He was terrific in bed, but that hadn’t been enough for vain and selfish Gilly. She’d started an affair with an old school friend called Hodgkinson, who contacted her via a social networking site. Hodgkinson was married to a woman disabled by some rare malfunction of her auto-immune system. Brendan knew none of this until the police came knocking at his door one Saturday afternoon, and told him that his wife had been found dead in a car filled with exhaust fumes. The car belonged to the man whose body was draped across hers. She and the school friend had perpetrated the ultimate in selfishness. A suicide pact.
‘Sire, the night is darker now
And the wind blows stronger
Fails my heart, I know not how,
I can go no longer…’
She stabbed her PIN number into the credit-card machine. Brendan was quite open about the fact that the police had needed to check him out in order to make sure that he hadn’t contrived an ingenious double murder. To a suspicious detective, the affair might seem to give him a motive to do away with Gilly and her lover, and to make matters worse, Brendan inherited all the money her father had left her.
Lucky he was a conjuror in his spare time. While Gilly spent her last hours with her lover, he’d risen bright and early to travel to a hotel in Bath where he’d been booked by a distant cousin to perform some table magic at her husband’s fortieth birthday party.
It all made sense. Gilly was a flake, the other man was depressed about his wife’s deteriorating health, and they couldn’t see a happy future together. Two star-crossed lovers whose self-absorption knew no bounds.
And even if a suicide pact seemed an overreaction, what other explanation could there be? The lover’s wife was immobile in a hospital bed, while Brendan had a perfect alibi.
It was so sad. Brendan explained to Adele that after Gilly’s death, somehow he couldn’t face performing magic tricks any more. She sympathized; he was a sensitive soul. The money he inherited enabled him to pack up his job, but he still yearned to become an entertainer. Six months after he and Adele returned home from a blissful honeymoon cruise in the Caribbean, he stumbled across an internet auction that seized his imagination.
Squeaky was for sale.
As a schoolboy, he told Adele, he’d practised mimicry from time to time, but magic was his first love. On the spur of the moment, he decided to acquire a dummy of his own and become a ventriloquist.
At first, Adele was delighted. Brendan needed to scrub the memory of magic – and Gilly’s treachery – out of his mind. What better way than to discover a fresh interest? For a few weeks, because they believed in sharing, she even taught herself ventriloquism. Its mysterious nature intrigued her; the first ventriloquists had been shamans and gastromancers, and the idea of taking on another persona seemed attractive to her.
“You’ve got a knack for it!” he’d exclaimed in delight.
She’d tried to look modest. “I just believe a couple ought to share their interests, that’s all.”
All too soon, the novelty palled. As it did, she found herself disliking Squeaky more with every week that passed. How silly, to loathe a stuffed dummy. Yet she couldn’t help feeling dismayed by the amount of time Brendan devoted to his hobby. Worse, he teased her by making Squeaky poke fun at her clothes and hair styles. All in good fun, of course, but Squeaky’s sense of humour was sharper and less kindly than Brendan’s. Once or twice, a barbed jest got under Adele’s skin.
Was Squeaky a boy or a hoydenish girl? Brendan was vague, and the dummy’s appearance and voice were oddly sexless. But there was no denying that Squeaky had a spiky personality, tainted by malevolence. He, she or it – whatever – seemed to glory in stirring up trouble.
Before long, Adele wanted Squeaky out of the house, but Brendan was better at ventriloquism than he’d ever been at magic, and he wouldn’t hear of ditching the dummy. He started to pick up bookings: children’s birthday parties, in the main, but he also performed in social clubs and rest homes. Today he was putting on a show for sick children in a hospice. Brightening their troubled lives.
When Adele pushed it, they had their first blazing row. Brendan’s pleasant face turned pink with outrage. He wouldn’t hear of getting rid of Squeaky. How could Adele possibly make a fuss about a doll who brought pleasure to countless people, kids and old folk in particular?
Adele found herself shouting, “Sometimes I think you care more about that fucking dummy than you do about me!”
“You’re making a fool of yourself,” he hissed. “Behaving like a spoiled brat.”
He’d never criticized her before, and that came as such a shock, in the end she gave in. Usually, Brendan was master of his emotions. But she’d seen something new in him. A cussed determination that was proof against anything she might say. She saw that he found her objections to Squeaky mean-spirited and neurotic.
Shopping done, she decided a quick gin and tonic would fortify her for the return trip with Squeaky. She wasn’t due to meet up with Brendan for another half-hour, so she made her way to the Spread Eagle, on the other side of the road from the hospice. It wasn’t a salubrious locality, and the pub didn’t have a good reputation, but who cared? Suppose some man chatted her up, she wouldn’t start kicking and screaming. She could do with being made to feel good. To feel herself desired again.
Walking up to the bar, she glanced in a large oval mirror that hung above the counter. In the reflection, she saw Brendan. He was seated at a table, with a half-pint glass of beer in front of him, handing a padded envelope to a bulky man with a broken nose.
For God’s sake. It was Gerard Finucane.
Adele didn’t wait to be served. As Finucane put the envelope in the pocket of his coat, she turned on her heel and hurried out into the wintry evening.