Red Ribbons
Born in Dublin, Louise Phillips returned to writing in 2006, after raising her family. That year, she was selected by Dermot Bolger as an emerging talent in the county. Louise’s work has been published as part of many anthologies, including County Lines from New Island, and various literary journals. In 2009, she won the Jonathan Swift Award for her short story Last Kiss, and in 2011 she was a winner in the Irish Writers’ Centre Lonely Voice platform. She has also been short-listed for the Molly Keane Memorial Award, Bridport UK, and long-listed twice for the RTÉ Guide/Penguin Short Story Competition.
In 2012, she was awarded an Arts Bursary for Literature from South Dublin County Council. Red Ribbons is her debut novel. Her second novel, The Doll’s House, will be published by Hachette Books Ireland in 2013.
Follow Louise on Twitter: @LouiseMPhillips
www.louise-phillips.com
Red
Ribbons
Louise Phillips
Copyright
Copyright © 2012 Louise Phillips
The right of Louise Phillips to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in Ireland in 2012 by
HACHETTE BOOKS IRELAND
1
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters and places in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious. All events and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real life or real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
ISBN 978 14447 4304 3
Hachette Books Ireland
8 Castlecourt Centre
Castleknock
Dublin 15, Ireland
A division of Hachette UK Ltd
338 Euston Road, London NW1 3BH
www.hachette.ie
Contents
Copyright
Tuscany, Italy
NUI Maynooth, Renehan Hall
Cronly Lodge
Six Months Later …
Ellie
Dublin Mountains
Ellie
The Quays, Dublin
St Michael’s Psychiatric Hospital, Dr Samuel Ebbs’ office
Incident Room, Tallaght Garda Station
Meadow View
Ellie
Mortuary, Tallaght Hospital
Crumlin village
Mervin Road, Rathmines
Ellie
SAC (Special Area of Conservation)
Meadow View
Ellie
House of Charles Innes
Meadow View
Dublin Mountains
Ellie
Meadow View
Devine Family Home, Harold’s Cross
Ellie
Rose Lane
Home of Jessica Barry
Ellie
Meadow View
Crumlin
Ellie
Mervin Road
Ellie
Incident Room, Tallaght Garda Station
Ellie
Meadow View
Ellie
Mervin Road
Meadow View
Ellie
Slattery’s public house
St Michael’s Psychiatric Hospital, Dr Samuel Ebbs’ office
Meadow View
Mervin Road
Incident Room, Tallaght Garda Station
Mervin Road
Ellie
Cronly Lodge
Incident Room, Tallaght Garda Station
Cronly Lodge
Mervin Road
Home of Dr Samuel Ebbs
Tallaght Garda Station, Incident Room
Meadow View
Incident Room, Tallaght Garda Station
Beachfield Caravan Park
Mervin Road
Incident Room, Tallaght Garda Station
Beachfield Caravan Park
Meadow View
Ellie
Mervin Road
Cronly Lodge
Ellie
Meadow View
Mervin Road
Ellie
Incident Room, Tallaght Garda Station
Meadow View
Gorey, County Wexford
Ellie
Gorey Garda Station
Incident Room, Tallaght Garda Station
Mervin Road
Meadow View
Interview Room, Gorey Garda Station
St Michael’s Psychiatric Hospital
Gorey Garda Station
St Michael’s Psychiatric Hospital
Mervin Road
Incident Room, Tallaght Garda Station
Mervin Road
Meadow View
Gorey, County Wexford
St Michael’s Psychiatric Hospital
The Beach Road, Gorey, County Wexford
N11, Gorey Exit
The Hideout
Ellie
The Hideout
The Woodlands
Ellie
Acknowledgements
For Robert
In the dark, all he could hear was the flow of the water. The ground underfoot was a mix of scrub and barren soil; he made no sound as he moved. They were now in a place without shadows.
Her breathing had been deep, her chest moving in and out, her body trembling.
‘Let’s play a game,’ he had said, and in his mind he had heard the old clock ticking – tick tock, tick tock – followed by its familiar elongated pause: everything in perfect rhythm.
He had left the duct tape across her mouth to keep her silent. The skin on her lovely face now, blotchy, bruised and wet from tears. Her arms and legs tied securely.
He wanted it to be quick.
Tick tock, tick tock.
He pulled the electric cable tight around her neck, closing off her oxygen, trapping the blood vessels. This time, expediency was all that mattered, although he did not want her to suffer.
He prepared her body properly – brushing her hair and tying both plaits neatly with the ribbons. Her lips had reminded him of a painting by Vermeer, the deep shades of cherries over-ripening on the canvas. He laid out her body, as if she were a young girl sleeping, before gently kissing her forehead. She hadn’t understood, but then, why should she?
She was never good enough.
Tuscany, Italy
HE COULD HAVE TAKEN A DIRECT FLIGHT FROM DUBLIN TO Galileo Galilei airport in Pisa. Instead he chose a Dutch airline with connecting flights first to Paris and then on to Florence. Examining his boarding pass, he double-checked the date and times on the overhead monitor, 10-03-2011 – departure 06.20. If all went according to plan, he had plenty of time to catch the connecting flight to Florence at 11.05 a.m. He cared little about losing a few more hours; it meant nothing. The only important thing was his intention and the knowledge that this trip, well overdue, was finally coming to pass.
Once safely on the plane, he smiled affectionately at the stewardesses, sitting back with ease, enjoying the sound of English, French and Dutch instructions coming from the cockpit just like he had as a boy, when his curiosity about language had first been aroused.
He was now three months into his leave of absence from Newell Design and he missed developing architectural plans and elevations. Still, looking after his deranged mother had had some advantages. For one thing, it meant he didn’t have to listen
to the continuous whining of the imbeciles with whom he worked. He prided himself on being a good listener, for, these days, far too many people spent far too long talking rather than thinking. Of course, the upside of being a good listener was that he found out most things he needed to know, in the end.
Studying people was one of his pet pastimes – working out exactly what made them tick and why. He liked to categorise them, something that had been easy at Newell Design, given how transparent his colleagues had been.
There was Jackie, who had done numerous courses – ‘up-skilling’ was what she called it, but he had another name for it, ‘jack of all trades and master of none’. It was the mark of a woman who longed to be someone different, but who didn’t have the imagination to achieve any real change. Then there was snivelling Susan, who had buried her husband last year and was looking to ‘start over’, which entailed a lot of blathering about inner peace and a new penchant for Tarot cards. And ‘young cool guy’ David; oh yes, the boss definitely liked him. The others didn’t particularly interest him either – Karla from Scotland, Daniel with a face like a bulldog and reliable Henry, who had worked at the company for so long that everyone kept a keen eye on his desk in the hope that one day he might not be there. They were a tedious bunch, only Jarlath offered any sense of intrigue. Jarlath shared his admiration for seventeenth-century French philosophers and mathematicians, which meant talking to him was at least tolerable. In appearance, however, Jarlath disappointed. He was in his early thirties and scrawny, a man who would benefit from some building up and taking more care of himself. Despite being twenty years Jarlath’s senior, he felt physically superior. He suspected Jarlath was an only child, just like he was. This was indicated by some of his more obvious qualities: self-obsession, a loner, happier burying his head in a book rather than watching television, a keen appreciation of music – good music, that is, not the rubbish variety that seemed to be played in every home, office and coffee shop.
‘Would you like some tea or coffee, Sir?’ The stewardess had such a lovely smile.
‘Any herbal tea, my dear?’
‘Of course,’ she said and smiled again.
Jarlath and he had often discussed Blaise Pascal, a pure intellectual in the truest sense, combining a love of mathematics and logical reasoning with an insatiable desire to understand mankind.
When he had told them he needed a leave of absence from work, snivelling Susan had been the worst. Still lamenting her late husband, when she had found out he had an ailing mother she had stupidly thought he could share her pain. Jarlath had displayed heightened levels of discomfort at Susan’s overkill of empathy. It was the kind of emotional display that never sat easily on the shoulders of the young.
Choosing a window seat, he was relieved that both seats to his right remained empty, and he was free to enjoy the clear blue sky above the clouds, losing himself in thought. It was often difficult keeping up the façade of being nice, and he had no doubt that if any of his colleagues had been asked about him, their opinions would be completely flawed. This was of his own making, of course, as generally he made a point of only presenting a two-dimensional aspect of himself to the world. Accordingly, he had dished out his usual round of pleasantries before leaving, promising Jackie he would consider her suggestion to examine all forms of ‘up-skilling’ while he was away.
‘Oh, such a lovely man,’ he had heard Susan say as he’d closed the office door behind him.
He smiled grimly at the memory of being out of their company and able to breathe in fresh air.
Yes, he had earned his break, and not just from them but from the old bag too. He knew tongues would wag in the village about him taking a trip to Tuscany while her ladyship was on her last legs, but a week’s respite was what he needed. Let the local rumour mill churn out whatever it chose, it would never be any more than speculation.
≈
Standing in the elegant foyer of the Hotel de Tucci, he stood back and admired the black-and-white chequered floor. Across this enormous chessboard, guests, hotel staff, and overly pampered dogs and cats scuffled nosily. He would not stay long in Florence. One night’s rest was all that was required, then he would be ready to start the drive to Livorno. Choosing to take the stairs rather than the lift to his room on the first floor, he thought again about how his mother’s unintentional trips down memory lane had awakened feelings he had suppressed for far too long, and how it was with a mix of anticipation and trepidation that he planned the next leg on his journey. In many ways, his life was now echoing the words of Pascal: ‘Let each one examine his thoughts. He will find them all occupied with the past and the future.’ This empathy of thought pleased him.
≈
The drive to Livorno was a pleasant one, with russet-coloured rooftops dotting the landscape. The road eventually led into the lovely seaside town he remembered so well from his youth. The distance was short, a little over twenty kilometres, and he had switched cars at Pisa, enjoying the covert aspect of it all. Much time had passed since that old business, so there was really no cause for any concern, but being careful added a certain excitement to the proceedings. With the car window rolled down, he took in the familiar smells of a place to which he had always known he would return.
Mother hadn’t meant to resurrect the old wounds, but years of keeping her trap shut had been undone by the garbled workings of a decaying brain, and once resurrected, it had changed everything. It started harmlessly enough, but then, it usually did.
‘Do I look different today?’ she had purred, deluding herself that her beauty had returned.
‘No. Not particularly.’ The air in her bedroom had been dry, stifling.
‘But you are looking at me, staring the way you like to. You always liked looking at your mother, didn’t you?’
‘I was just looking, nothing more.’
‘You shouldn’t stare at me that way, people might talk.’
He had turned his back to her, but the idiotic bitch had continued.
‘But who cares about them? We don’t, my darling, do we? We never did. None of them understand. Jealously is a dreadful affliction, don’t you think?’
‘No one is jealous. You are rambling.’
‘Don’t lie, little boy. I can see right through you.’
Standing at her sick bed, he had breathed in the stench of her old age.
‘I am not a little boy any more.’
‘You are staring again.’
‘Am I?’
‘You know you are, and don’t lean on my shoulders so hard. It hurts. You think I’m weak-minded don’t you, but I have the measure of you.’
‘Just checking your reflexes, Mother. They are as sharp as ever I see.’
‘You were the same with that young tramp, staring at her too, following her like some demented lapdog.’
‘Why don’t you take your pills, Mother? You know how you like to lose yourself.’
‘She was a tramp, you know. Antonio liked tramps – young ones, especially. Don’t you remember? Don’t you? Oh, but you must.’
He’d felt his spine tighten as he clenched his fists. He’d remembered Tuscany, and the room with the long windows. ‘Shut up.’
‘Tickle, tickle, tickle,’ her claw-like fingers had reached out, touching his chest. ‘Remember how you liked this, little boy?’
‘I never liked it.’
He’d stood back farther, because the desire to punch her had suddenly become so strong, throbbing through him like a sharp pain. It would be a mercy, some might think, to finish off the old bitch. He’d taken a long, measured breath, letting her ramble, as he’d listened.
In the end, he was glad he had. It had been so long since he had allowed himself to remember any of it.
≈
Arriving at the outskirts of Livorno, he felt relief at being far away from her. He could almost taste the treasures that Suvereto would unfold. His intentions and aspirations had been clear from the beginning: the trip was simply a way of rekindl
ing the more positive aspects of the past. Sometimes, though, life sends you an added bonus and the course changes, taking you somewhere unexpected.
As he walked across the paving stones in Suvereto’s ancient town centre, its narrow alleyways and broad squares captivating him, he saw Bishop Antonio Peri. At first, he had thought his mind was playing tricks, that it was just a stooped, overweight old man who resembled Antonio. When he looked again, it was undeniably him, even without the pomp and glamour of his ornate bishop’s robes. The last he had heard, the poisonous bishop had been relocated to Florence, but it seemed he too had been compelled to return, and there he was, drifting easily with the locals, none of them knowing the kind of monster he was.
It took some time to secure a private audience with him. In the end, just like the old bitch, the once-arrogant pig shared far more than he had intended; words crawling through old wounds. The fall from the cliff edge some days later would have been attributed to his fragility and stupidity – what was a frail old man thinking, walking on such a dangerous cliff edge? The sea had been so blue, the sun blinding on the water, the fat bastard whining like an abandoned baby, tasting fear, begging for clemency with his pathetic babbling.
He had smiled to himself as he heard the bishop’s scream curling through the air, his death resonating a new beginning.
NUI Maynooth, Renehan Hall
Saturday, 12 March 2011
HEAVY RAIN CLOUDS WERE BEARING DOWN ON YET another dark afternoon when Dr Kate Pearson finally reached the car park. She had spent over an hour negotiating her way through bumper-to-bumper traffic coming out of Dublin, and was hoping to get a shot of caffeine before the talk began. The conference at the university had been booked to capacity over a month in advance, which meant a packed room of people, all waiting for Kate’s talk. It seemed that understanding the psychology behind crime and criminal profiling was the latest buzz and fascination for the masses.
It was the first time Kate had given a lecture at Maynooth and the line-up was impressive, featuring some of the best crime writers and criminology academics in the country. Since returning from London to Ireland after Charlie was born, she’d spent the last few years working with young offenders – a far cry from her tenure with criminal psychologist Professor Henry Bloom. Her current work was aimed at the prevention of criminal acts, rather than identifying key aspects of them. Henry, who was well respected and held in high regard by Scotland Yard, had taught her a great deal about getting inside the mind of an offender, but, despite the positive attributes of her current role, a part of her still pined to unravel a profiling puzzle.