One Bad Turn Read online

  One Bad Turn

  Also By

  Also by Sinéad Crowley

  Can Anybody Help Me?

  Are You Watching Me?

  Title

  Copyright

  This ebook edition first published in 2017 by

  Quercus Editions Ltd

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © 2017 Sinéad Crowley

  The moral right of Sinéad Crowley to be identified as

  the author of this work has been asserted in accordance

  with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced

  or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

  including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval

  system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available

  from the British Library

  EBOOK ISBN 978 1 78429 344 4

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses,

  organizations, places and events are either the product of the

  author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance

  to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales

  is entirely coincidental.

  Typeset by CC Book Production

  Cover design © 2017 Blacksheep

  www.quercusbooks.co.uk

  Dedication

  For Conor and Séamus

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  EPILOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  There was no need to think about where she was going: her feet knew the way. Down the path, out of the gate, a right turn when she reached the pavement. There was no need to make any plans or decisions. Leah just needed to run.

  And to think, a little over a year ago, she hadn’t been able to jog for more than five minutes without nearly collapsing. God, the state of her! It made her totally cringe just to think of how pathetic she’d been. Barely able to reach the end of the road without bending over, crippled by a stitch, red-faced, sweating and terrified she’d bump into someone she knew. Now, lacing up her trainers and getting moving had become, quite simply, the best part of Leah Gilmore’s day. Not that she’d ever admit that to her mother, of course. The old dear would ratchet up even more points on the smug scale, and that was the last thing she needed.

  Ignoring the red man on the crossing signal, Leah hopped off the kerb and ran across the empty road without breaking stride, relishing the smoothness of her movements and the way her body seemed to be operating exactly as it was designed to. At least one part of her had its shit together. Everything else in Leah’s life was a total mess. She had no money, no college place, no one to hang out with now her friends were all busy settling into their new lives. There were no jobs in Fernwood for someone with her lack of experience and references, and her mother had made it quite clear that an allowance was, for the moment at least, out of the question: ‘Not after the way you spent it last time. Come back to me next year and we can discuss it again.’

  A year. That was what her mum insisted Leah needed to get her life back in order. A year of studying, living quietly at home and watching TV every night, sharing a sofa with her mother and that pain in the arse she’d married. After that, her mum said, Leah could start again. Go to college, meet up with her old friends or make new ones. It would only take twelve months. ‘Nothing, in the scheme of things,’ she kept saying. Leah wondered if her mother realized how ancient that made her sound. Twelve months seemed a hell of a long time to her. The trouble was, though, she had no option other than to go along with her mother’s wishes. After all, as she kept reminding her, there was no plan B.

  Don’t think. Keep running.

  Leah raised her head slightly, enjoying the slight sting of the salt air as it flowed into her nostrils, the breeze from the bay deliciously cool against her cheeks. Her earbuds were in place but she hadn’t turned any music on, not yet, preferring to let the soft slap of her feet against the pavement dictate her rhythm.

  Keep running.

  A car passed, a hand waved. Leah couldn’t see the driver, but nodded anyway. It was most likely a friend of her mother’s, or the mother of a friend. That was how it was in a village like Fernwood. You couldn’t sneeze in your kitchen without somebody two doors down asking about your cold. Leah had lived in Fernwood for all of her nineteen years, in the same house for the first sixteen, and now she was back there again, dependent on her mother and stepdad for everything, like some little kid. One day she’d get away but, for the moment, running around the block would have to do.

  Slap-pad, slap-pad. She speeded up as she passed the steps to the beach, but the boy’s face still popped into her head, like it always did at this point in the run. Just as quickly, she shoved the memory aside. Obsessing over what had happened wouldn’t change anything. At least that was something Leah and her mum could agree on. There was no point in thinking about Alan Delaney any more. Much better to forget him and to move forward. To run.

  The sea wall grew higher and Leah’s stride lengthened as the its shadow cooled the air. She curved round a woman pushing a buggy, moved further into the wall to avoid a man walking a dog, then passed a yellow sign and allowed herself a slight smile. A year ago those yellow one-kilometre ‘heart health’ markers had seemed to be taunting her, reminding her only of how unfit she was. Now she regularly passed seven in the space of a morning’s session. It was amazing, really, what training every day could do for you. Plus no drink and no fags, of course. And having absolutely fuck-all else to do.

  Keep running.

  She ran for five more minutes along by the sea wall, then four, then three, then two, then reached the traffic lights and moved back east across the road. Her back was to the bay now, her stride shortening as she began the long, slow climb towards the base of Kennockmore Hill. The footpath was narrower but there were fewer pedestrians to dodge. People didn’t walk up Ken
nockmore Hill: they aimed their SUVs at electronic gates and clicked themselves into their homes.

  Keep running.

  Leah’s breath was coming in short pants now, her cheeks rosy as she navigated the hill.

  ‘Duration, four kilometres.’

  The mechanical voice from her running app helped urge her on. She’d share the achievement on Facebook when she’d finished. Until a year ago every picture had shown her and her friends duck-faced and pouting, bottles in their hands, smeared glasses on the tables in front of them. Arms held at an angle to emphasize their waists, boobs stuck forward into the camera lens. Leah couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a night out like that, or been tagged in someone else’s photograph. Posting about her runs proved she was still alive.

  A sharp pain stabbed her knee, but she ran through it and it dulled after a minute. Leah knew better than to stop on that part of the climb – if she did, it would be too hard to get going again. Instead, she slowed her breathing and used her elbows to jab her way through the air. She was running so slowly now that she was able to close her eyes for a second, concentrate on the way the muscles in her back contracted under the sports bra. She felt the sweat soak into her clothes, one drip escaping and splashing onto the concrete below. Felt the bad luck of the year go with it.

  Lost in thought, she didn’t realize how far she’d come until she reached the entrance to the car park. Brilliant. She was more than halfway up the slope now with most of the hard work behind her. For the first time Leah allowed herself to look up to where the top of Kennockmore Hill loomed over her. If she squinted she could even see the Victorian folly on top, where at weekends Spanish students asked locals to take their photo, Dublin Bay sparkling behind them. Today, midweek, it would be quieter – there would be only a couple of dog-walkers up there, or one of Fernwood’s better-known residents taking a ramble on a day when they were unlikely to be hassled for a selfie. The number of singers and film stars who had made Fernwood their home had earned it the title of Dublin’s ‘rockbroker belt’. In the past, the sheer numbers of well-known residents in the village had allowed them to hang together and create a semblance of a private life, but the advent of the camera phone had made that far more difficult, even halfway up Kennockmore Hill. It was almost impossible, these days, to keep anything offline.

  No – don’t go there, Leah, don’t think. Just run.

  ‘Duration, five kilometres.’

  Fantastic. Leah almost thanked the lady on her running app out loud, then laughed at herself and looked up again. If things were different she’d love to tackle the hill itself, buy herself some proper mountain running gear, scramble to the top via one of the side routes, kicking stones and branches out of her way. She would never be able to do that, though, any more than she’d be able to run through the wavelets on Rua Strand, far below. Too many memories, and all the banging on about ‘positive thinking’ her mother did could only get her so far. So, no, she wouldn’t be running up the hill any time soon. As long as she stuck to the path she was on, though, she’d be fine.

  The pavement was curving downwards now, following the base of the hill, and Leah felt the tension in her muscles ease, her weight fall forward slightly. She was coming up to the entrance to the children’s playground. After that the road would take a steep turn downwards and she’d be flying. She’d be home in twenty minutes, maybe, and, yeah, perhaps she should enter a race or something, like her dad was always telling her to do; nothing major, just a five k, just something to test herself against, it would be nice to have something to— Jesus Christ! The blow to her side almost pushed her over and her arms flailed as her feet scrabbled for purchase on the ground. But the elderly lady wasn’t so lucky – she’d gone down hard and Leah had to pitch to one side to avoid falling on top of her.

  ‘Oh, my God! Are you all right?’

  Leah dropped to her knees. The gravel underneath her stung, but she was so panicked she barely felt it. Christ – she’d been sprinting, hadn’t even seen the woman who had walked out of a small pedestrian gate. She hadn’t hit her head, had she? Or broken a hip? The woman, grey curls in disarray under a purple felt hat, was lying on the ground, facing away from her.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ Leah repeated. Even though ‘Not again’ was what she really wanted to say.

  Please, not again. Don’t let somebody else die, I couldn’t bear it. But the words wouldn’t form. Instead, she reached out one hand and touched the woman on the shoulder.

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘Mam!’

  Leah turned in relief to see a tall, dark-haired man looming over them.

  ‘Mam, are you okay?’

  ‘Oh, thank God.’

  She scrambled to her feet and squinted at him. The man had jumped out of a red Hiace van. In his panic he’d left the engine running and the sliding door at the side stood wide open.

  ‘I didn’t even see her – I think she’s hurt.’

  But the man ignored her, just bent over his mother and touched her on the shoulder.

  ‘Come on now, Mam, we’ll get you back in the van.’

  ‘Maybe we should call an ambulance—’

  Leah’s words disappeared as the man turned and delivered a quick jab to her stomach. Winded, taken utterly by surprise, she stumbled backwards. In one swift moment he picked up her legs and tossed her into the open vehicle.

  ‘She’s in – move.’

  The woman wasn’t old at all, Leah saw, as she lay on the floor of the van, her mouth open, too winded even to scream. She was only her mother’s age, wearing a wig. And now she couldn’t see her at all because the man was standing in the door, blocking her from view.

  ‘This is for Alan Delaney,’ he snarled at her. And then he slammed the door.

  Leah’s last thought, before a sharp turn flung her onto her side and drove everything but wild panic from her mind, was that of a toddler, lost in a department store:

  Mummy, please find me. I want to go home.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Claire was so surprised by the tears that they stopped almost as soon as they’d started.

  ‘I’m so sorry – I just don’t know what’s wrong with me today.’

  Crying in the doctor’s surgery. What was she like? She’d want to cop on to herself. But the doctor said nothing, just handed over a tissue and sat back in her chair. She didn’t even have to look for the box of Kleenex, just reached down and found it straight away. Weeping women must be an occupational hazard in a GP’s world.

  ‘You must be exhausted. You’ve a lot going on.’

  The doctor’s voice was quiet but authoritative. Not overly friendly, but not too brisk either, although Claire’s was her last appointment of the morning. She was probably anxious to close the surgery and get home. Just pragmatic, and in total control. It was this air of competence that had kept Claire coming back to her surgery, years after she and Matt had moved to another side of the city. Dr Heather Gilmore was a woman you could trust. A woman whom you felt would always figure out the best thing to do.

  ‘I’m sorry. I feel very foolish.’

  ‘Not at all. You can always come back in a few days, you know. There’s no need to make any decision now.’

  Her head dipped slightly and Claire noticed, not for the first time, how even Dr Gilmore’s hair seemed to behave with absolute decorum. On most people the tight curls would have looked untidy, but each strand on the doctor’s head seemed to be the exact same length, colour and texture, and the curls dropped around her slightly too thin face as if they had been cut using a set square. Despite her air of calm, however, she couldn’t resist taking a quick look at her watch, and Claire knew it was time to go. She would gather her thoughts elsewhere.

  From the buggy by the door came a soft, but strangely adult-sounding snore. Claire smiled, despite her misery. At least one thing had worked out as she’d planned it. When the
childminder had phoned in sick that morning, Claire’s first instinct had been to cancel her visit to the doctor. She didn’t want to conduct the most sensitive of conversations with her newly mobile eighteen-month-old daughter poking at whatever dangerous equipment was lying around the surgery. But her appointment was too urgent to be put off for another day. So, she’d fed Anna a huge breakfast and sung all the way over in the car, keeping her awake until just before her appointment time. The plan had worked perfectly. Snuggled in her buggy, the little girl had fallen asleep in the waiting room and would stay that way for at least another hour, leaving her mother plenty of time to go somewhere quiet, have a coffee, sort her head out. Make the decision that needed to be made.

  ‘So – we’ll leave it there, then, for the moment.’

  The note of impatience in the doctor’s voice was subtle, but Claire wasn’t stupid. She scrubbed at her eyes with a tissue.

  ‘I’ll give you a call,’ Dr Gilmore added.

  Claire gave a watery smile, then both women started when the doorbell buzzed.

  This time, the doctor didn’t bother to hide her irritation.

  ‘I close up at one. All of the patients know it.’

  But the buzz came again, longer this time, and the doctor rose to her feet.

  ‘I’d better see what they want.’

  Claire, suddenly conscious of her reddened nose and swollen eyes, stood up too and looked round the room. She hadn’t cried in public for at least twenty years and didn’t feel like being stared at by some stranger now.

  ‘Is there somewhere I can freshen up?’

  ‘Bathroom’s through there.’

  Distracted, the doctor jerked her head in the direction of a door, which was half hidden by a screen at the back of the room.

  Walking over, Claire pushed it open and saw that, rather than opening into a back yard, as she had assumed, it led to a narrow corridor, which ended in another door, this one marked ‘TOILET’.

  The doctor shrugged.

  ‘I kept meaning to get a proper extension built, but that one does the job. Look—’