One Bad Turn Page 10

  And then the young fella waved the spade at her, and her attempts to make sense of the situation crumbled as he spoke.

  ‘You’ll hardly sell it. It’s a bit wrecked, to be honest with ya.’

  ‘I—’

  But no words came. No positivity. No grand plans. There would be no use for a spade in an apartment. The place Eileen had found to rent was okay – it had two bedrooms, a decent-sized kitchen area. She’d seen worse, much worse, during her panicked search. But it didn’t have a garden, not even a patio, or a balcony on which to place a couple of plants, and there was no prospect of her ever having one either. The way things were going she’d never afford to rent a whole house again, let alone buy one.

  ‘I’ll just throw it in here then for the moment, so?’

  The kid took her silence as acquiescence and shoved the spade under a pile of boxes, the handle sticking out into the street. Eileen went back inside before he noticed the tears. Into the house, which wasn’t her home any more. And she had no one to blame but herself.

  Her father’s death had come without warning. Eileen had gone out to the garden one evening to ask if he wanted tea and found him lying on the grass, the spade still in his hand. It was a sudden passing, but a gentle one, far easier than her mother’s had been. Eileen’s heart splintered but it didn’t break, not that time, not now she had Alan to think of. So, after the funeral, she had gone out into the garden, picked up the spade and oiled the handle. Held it in her hand and told her dad, in a whisper, how much he’d meant to her. Then she’d put it in the shed, closed the door and made her father a promise: she would create a good life for Alan in his memory.

  She had managed to do just that, for a while, but then things became a little harder. Without the support of her father, Eileen was faced with a choice between paying for childcare or cutting back on her working hours. She had chosen to go part-time: she could always take a better-paying job when her son was older. Then little things began to go wrong with the house, and she had to ring professionals to tackle jobs her father would have handled. A leaking tap, a cold radiator. Every solution required a cheque. A door-to-door salesman persuaded her she needed new windows and she agreed, realizing, even as she was handing over the money, that he had overcharged her. The garden was huge and unmanageable. The boiler had to be replaced. Alan needed new shoes.

  The letter, when it came, felt like the answer to all of her worries.

  ‘The house is your biggest asset’, Marc Gilmore had written, in a clear, reassuring tone. She could phone him, if she was interested to find out more. An asset. She’d never thought of it that way before. It had always just been home. ‘Number eighty-four’, her mother had called it, as if the family owned tens of properties and there was a danger they might get them confused. Alan had referred to it as ‘The Gaff’ one day, near the end of primary school, when he was drunk on the power of being the oldest and tallest in the yard. But to Eileen it was the only house she had ever lived in. She could find her way around it in the dark, could go to the toilet late at night and avoid the creaky stair without thinking about it. She was aware, of course, in a blank, disinterested way, that its value had climbed sharply in recent years. Nobody living in Ireland could avoid the fever that had swept the country, the thirty-page property supplements in the newspapers, the leaflets pushed through the door telling her estate agents were desperate for properties like hers, a four-bed semi in a great part of Dublin with a huge back garden and close to terrific schools. Her parents must have planned for more children, but they’d never arrived. Now, if anything, the place was a little too large for herself and her son. The roof on the garden shed was rotting. There was an ominous stain on the kitchen ceiling.

  ‘It’s just a case of releasing some equity.’

  She had been confused, at first when she got Marc’s note. How did he even know where she lived? But when she’d phoned him to find out more, he reminded her they’d exchanged addresses that day in Bewley’s, so he could send her the photograph of the five of them.

  ‘Maybe it would be best if I called round?’

  So, she invited him over, curious to hear what he had to say.

  He had put on weight since the day they’d met in Bewley’s, but it suited him somehow, Eileen thought. The extra pounds filled out his camel-coloured overcoat and lent further gravitas to everything he said. Heather sent her love, he told her. She was up to her eyes just now. She’d qualified as a doctor a few years ago and was trying to get her own practice off the ground. But they’d have to get together for drinks, when things calmed down a bit. And, yes, she would totally recommend Eileen take his advice on this one. One of Heather’s doctor friends had done the exact same thing to finance a new surgery. It was a no-brainer, really. You could think of the house as a cash machine, almost. Sure what was the point in leaving the money locked up inside it? Alan was almost in his teens now, and didn’t Marc know right well how expensive that stage was? It was incredible, really, how much money it took just to keep them ticking over. Had Eileen thought about university yet?

  Marc had explained everything very carefully. He wasn’t there to bamboozle her with figures, he told her. It was a business transaction, that was all.

  ‘I can’t afford a mortgage,’ she told him, then watched his big handsome face relax into a smile. Ah, God, sure it wouldn’t be like that at all. Sure, the bank would call it a mortgage but she wasn’t some kid getting her foot on the property ladder, that was just semantics. It was an investment, really, that was by far the best way to look at it. Eileen would raise a few bob on the house and he, Marc, would invest it for her and get her a far better rate than anything she’d find elsewhere. The initial loan – he gave his hand a sudden dismissive flick in her direction – would be on an interest-only basis: she’d owe a couple of hundred euro a month, maximum. In fact, he himself could deposit the money to pay it back into her account every month, just to keep things simple. And then, when the overall investment matured, she’d get it all back with a significant profit as well.

  Eileen hesitated then, and Marc backed off, telling her he’d give her plenty of time to make up her mind. It was a big decision, he said, and he wanted her to be sure she was making the right one. That evening Eileen read over the papers in bed, looked at the figure on the bottom line. Thought about getting independent advice – there was an accountant in work who might talk it through with her. But early the next morning Marc phoned again, only this time with a note of urgency in his voice. He had a new investment opportunity, he told her, gold standard, for long-term clients only. He shouldn’t even be telling her about it – his regulars would be furious if they knew he was offering her the chance to skip the queue. But, look, she was a friend. He didn’t want to see her miss out, so he was willing to make an exception. The only thing was, there wasn’t a huge amount of time. If she wasn’t ready to decide straight away, the opportunity would have to be handed to someone else. Sorry to be blunt, but that was how it was. What was it the young people said? You snooze, you lose. And, he said, Heather was hoping Eileen would go for it too. They were old friends – they wanted the best for her.

  That, for Eileen, was the clincher. Heather wouldn’t set her wrong. In her head, Eileen pictured the investment as a boat, steaming away from the shore with Marc and Heather throwing a life-raft over the side and urging her to climb on board. Sure, she was concerned about the voyage, but it was exciting too – and how dangerous could it be anyway? Marc and Heather would look after her, she was sure of it. There was no decision to be made, really. She had two choices: she could stay where she was, with her leaking roof and disaster of a garden. Or she could sign a couple of forms and solve all of her problems, straight away. It wasn’t that she wanted to be rich or anything. But it would be nice not to worry any more. Half the country was buying second homes and flying to New York to do the Christmas shopping. She, Eileen Delaney, just wanted to be able to look out on the b
ack garden without seeing an acre of weeds. So, she signed. And if Marc sounded just a little too pleased when she told him of her decision, well, that was easily explained away. He was happy for her. That was all.

  In the beginning, it all worked out exactly as he’d said it would. The money arrived into her bank account and she had to stop herself giggling when she saw the row of figures on the ATM screen. She didn’t spend it foolishly. She fixed the roof, bought a new boiler, paid a gardener to pave half the lawn and return every month to look after the rest. And then, after everything else was sorted out, she took Alan on his first ever holiday abroad. He was the only boy in his class who hadn’t been to Disneyworld, he said. She had no doubt that was an exaggeration, but he deserved a treat – he was such a good kid. So they went for two weeks to Florida, saw the sights and spent a few days by the pool. And as Eileen lay back on the sunbed, her book resting on her chest, an iced coffee by her side, she looked across at her tanned, lanky son, who was playing volleyball in the pool, and had to stop herself laughing out loud. Marc was right. She hadn’t been living at all, only surviving. She had made the right decision. It really was that simple. The money to pay the new mortgage arrived from his account into hers every month. She didn’t even have to think about it.

  Then one month, two years and three days after she’d signed the papers, the payment didn’t come. Eileen didn’t blink when she checked her balance, just assumed it was a computer error, a fault with the bank, one of those things. The girl in the call centre didn’t sound too bothered either when Eileen phoned to enquire. Chances were the money would be there the following morning. But it wasn’t. Nor had it appeared the day after that. The girl on the phone took it more seriously then, as did Eileen. Her mortgage payment, small and all as it was, was now overdue, and the bank was calling it a mortgage, no matter what Marc had said. Eileen took money out of her savings account to pay it and left a message on Marc’s phone. A week later when he hadn’t returned it she called again, but this time got a disconnected tone.

  It took just over a year for her to lose everything. The bank people were blandly sympathetic and no help. It was all very simple. She had signed a form that promised them their money back and now she couldn’t pay it. The amount she had borrowed, that telephone number, which, for a short while, had represented freedom, was now making her retch with fear, and as she hung over the toilet bowl in her new tiled en suite, Alan banged on the door to ask her if she was okay. He always hated it when she was ill. She thought it was because it reminded him that she was all he had.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she used to say to him, when he woke up in the middle of the night, dreaming he was lost and couldn’t find her.

  ‘I’m here. I’ll always be here, and you’ll always have me, and our home. You’re safe here, we’re safe, the two of us.’

  And now she had thrown that home away.

  She never used to listen to the business section of the news. Now she couldn’t turn it off, gripped in terrified fascination as horror story followed horror story. Everyone had lost money. She was far from being the only one. One day someone on the radio said the bank machines were going to run out of funds and that everyone should hide their cash under the bed, but Eileen had no money to withdraw and just stared blankly at the dial. When she got the call to say her hours at work were being cut she was too numb even to argue. The bank wrote to her, then phoned to say that the entire amount of her loan was now outstanding and that the interest was accumulating by the day. She was lucky, the estate agent told her. If she sold right now she’d just about be able to cover her debt. Another six months, if the prices continued to fall the way they were going, well, who knew what might happen? Much of what she had left over went on the rental deposit for their new apartment. It was miles from Alan’s school, but he told her that didn’t matter: he wanted to move schools anyway. His friends wouldn’t want to trek all the way across town to some flat – he spat out the word – and he wouldn’t want to invite them there.

  ‘What about this, love?’

  The young fella had come out of the house again, this time holding a sewing machine Eileen had inherited from her grandmother and had never learned to use. When he saw the look on her face he placed it gently in the van without saying any more.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  There was a high-pitched ringing noise in the room. No, in her ears. Claire shook her head to try to clear the sound but, as it faded, another more worrying one emerged from the background.

  A baby crying. Her baby crying.

  Anna.

  She was sitting on the floor, she realized, her cheek pressed against a cold wall. Claire opened her eyes and jerked forward, desperate for escape, but she had no hands to save herself and immediately toppled face first onto the carpet. From above her head a man’s voice growled, ‘Don’t even think about moving.’

  Anna. But Claire couldn’t say her daughter’s name, couldn’t say anything. With increasing panic she realized her mouth had been taped shut, just as tightly as her hands were taped together. Her nose was pressed against the dusty carpet, her lungs compressed because of the angle at which she had fallen. The veins in her head began to swell and her ears were ringing again.

  ‘There.’

  There was a sudden ripping noise and she felt her ankles being shoved together.

  ‘That’ll do.’

  The man, a satisfied note in his voice, grabbed her roughly by the shoulders and pulled her up into a sitting position. For a moment, the relief at being able to take in air through her nose suppressed all other thoughts. Then, moving as carefully as she could, Claire raised her head and looked at him. The newspaper-seller, as she still thought of him, had pulled the hood of his sweatshirt up over his head and had zipped it up to the neck, leaving only his eyes and nose showing. It wasn’t a perfect disguise, but it was better than nothing and would make it difficult to identify him in the future. He had thought that far ahead, then.

  Anna’s cry sharpened to a scream.

  ‘Ma-ma-muh!’

  Claire’s stomach churned at the thought of what her little girl was going through, alone, terrified, probably wet through and almost certainly starving. But she had to stay calm, use her training, think. Moving as unobtrusively as she could, she tested her wrists behind her back. They were completely immobile, however, presumably bound with the same surgical tape she herself had used on the woman, Eileen, just moments before. Eileen. Where was she? Claire looked across the room, but could see only the doctor, Heather, who was sitting against the opposite wall and offering little resistance to the man who was now binding her hands too.

  Then Claire shifted her gaze, and understood why Heather was being so compliant. Eileen was standing over her, the gun rock-solid in her hands.

  ‘Don’t do anything stupid, Heather. If you can possibly avoid it.’

  She turned then and shot Claire a vicious look.

  ‘And I have my eye on you too. Don’t even think about moving.’

  Claire rested her head against the wall, but allowed her eyes to dart around the room, absorbing as much information as she could while trying not to draw attention to what she was doing. The door that linked the annex to the surgery was still wide open. The second door, the one that led to the toilet where she’d left Anna was still shut, it was only a bit of plywood, less than an inch thick. If a bullet went astray— Claire shut that thought down. Along that route lay panic, and there was no time for that now. Instead, she concentrated again on testing her bindings, pulling at each limb in turn to estimate what movement, if any, she had been left with.

  The man in the orange jacket gave the tape on the doctor’s feet a final tug, then rose to his feet.

  ‘You heard the woman. Don’t move.’

  He walked back across the floor, and as he came closer Claire saw just how helpless she was. Being a guard wasn’t going to get her out of this. Her experience, h
er skills, her knowledge and her training – all of it was useless. She was just a victim, tied up and helpless on the floor. Her baby was depending on her and there was absolutely nothing she could do to save her.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Eileen, 2014

  Eileen reached over and picked up the bottle of wine from the bedside locker. The hotel didn’t provide a corkscrew, but that was okay: she always bought the screw-top type now. She twisted the lid and filled the glass she’d rinsed in the bathroom earlier, forcing herself to stay calm as she ran over the alternatives in her mind. She didn’t want to call him, he’d be mortified if his friends thought she was checking up on him and she didn’t want to give him any more reasons to hate her, he had quite enough of them already. Alan was seventeen, almost an adult, there were plenty of places he could be at – she checked her watch – almost 1 a.m. A party could have gone on longer than he had expected, a date could have worked out better than he’d planned. But, right now, she could think only of negative reasons: an accident, a mugging, an unprovoked assault. Slowly, she replaced the glass on the locker without taking a sip. It would be best not to drink. She might need a clear head later, whatever happened.