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Michael put out his hand and said softly, ‘Give me the knife, Kate, an
d then we can discuss whatever it is that’s troubling you.  Okay?’

Kate stared at him with enormous eyes for an endles
s second and the tip of the gleaming blade started to tremble; she was a healer, not a killer, and she could not to do it.  Much as she wanted to, she could not kill.  But there was another way.  She let the knife fall to the ground and instantly Michael stooped to pick it up.  But even quicker Kate scooped up a heavy iron skillet from the hob with both hands and brought it down onto the back of his head with all her strength.  Michael dropped like a stone, landing face-first on the gray slate tiles, the knife skittering out of his fingers and under the kitchen table.

Without waiting to see if he wou
ld rise again Kate leaped over his supine body and ran for the front door.  She tore the heavy door open and sprinted down the stairs,
knowing
that he was after her, that his out-stretched fingers were only inches from her back.  She hurtled through the front door out onto the dark, quiet street, looking for escape, for a way out.  Her car was parked right there by the kerb but she had fled without her bag and her keys were in it, and her mobile.  Then her gaze fell on the three astonished reporters standing staring at her across the road, two of whom were busily snapping pictures of her.  The third was speaking into a mobile phone and Kate ran over and grabbed it from him unceremoniously, pressing the END symbol before punching 999 with badly trembling fingers.

Grainne was staring at her in wide-eyed horror as Kate concluded her story.  For a long time she could not speak but at last she whispered in disbelief, ‘You...you didn’t kill my
father?
’

Kate
shook her head, though not without just the faintest touch of regret, ‘No, though he’s likely to wake up with one fuck of a headache.’  She leaned forward and said urgently, ‘The point is that he’s locked up!  You’re safe now! 
Safe
!  And no one will ever hurt you again!’

But
Grainne was gone.  As soon as Kate had spoken her eyes had gone blank and she had retreated into her own mind, had fled the horrors of her past yet again.  Kate couldn’t blame her; hadn’t she, in her own way, been doing precisely the same thing her whole life?  Hadn’t she always avoided confronting what had been done to
her
?

Kate, herself weeping tears that shoul
d all have dried long since, cradled the girl in her arms and whispered, ‘It’s okay, you take all the time you need.  Because I think you’ll be back soon.  And no matter how long you need I’ll be here when you come back.  To talk to you and listen to you.  That’s what I trained for, that’s what makes sense of my own life, my own suffering.  That’s what eases my pain.  We’ll heal each, and get better together.  And one day you will be well again.  You
will! 
I swear it.’

    Getting back out of Deacon House without seeing the waiting Trevor was easier said than done but Kate managed it by walking down the fire escape at the end of the corridor on Grainne’s floor, and making her way around the building to where Peter’s BMW was waiting for her in the car park.  She would have to face Trevor sooner or later, of course, but right now
later
was the preferred option.  He would want to talk to her, to dissect and relive and eventually talk to death the events of the previous night.  Which, frankly, was something Kate did not think she could handle just then; apart from anything else she was just too damned tired.

The problem with peopl
e like Trev –and her, if she were honest- was that they spent so much of their time discussing problems that eventually it became inconceivable to them
not
to discuss every event, every facet of a person’s life.  And while no one knew better than Kate that repression of negative emotions could be harmful, she had also learned that sometimes it was necessary, and perhaps healthier, just to be alone for a while, to absorb traumas and deal with them privately and quietly.  The talking could come later, after the wounds had been licked clean.

She sat into the car beside Peter and gave him a small smile, ‘Let’s go.’  The Gardai had arrived swiftly the night before, and had instantly taken the unconscious Michael into custody.  Unfortunately they had also sealed off his apartment and had refused to let her retrieve her handbag, which of course contained her keys
.  Luckily she had long since memorised Peter’s UK mobile number, and a second call on the shocked but extremely obliging reporter’s phone had brought him round within minutes.  He had accompanied her to the police station and sat with her all night while she answered the endless questions, simply holding her hand without saying a word and thereby providing unspeakable comfort.  The police hadn’t wanted him there, of course, but she had told them that she wasn’t talking if they made him leave, and would instead wait till the next day, until her lawyer was present.

The only jarring note
had been when they left the Garda station; he had wanted to bring her straight home, while she had insisted on coming out to see Grainne.  Letting the girl know that she was finally safe was far more important than sleep, however tired she might be.  And she
was
tired; unspeakably so.  But she thought that she could now sleep peacefully.

She sank back into the leather seat and shut her eyes, letting Peter whisk her home
down the motorway; commitment-phobic or not it was nice, and useful, to have him around.  In fact, if he ever recovered from his anger over her fling with Michael, she might just ask him to stick around permanently.  She shivered as they entered the bottom of her street and parked in front of her building; never mind Peter, would
she
ever recover from her liaison with that monster?  Would she ever feel clean again?  To say nothing of feeling
used
.

After cautious
ly checking that there were no reporters about –though it was a certainty that almost every reporter in Ireland was camped outside Store Street Garda station just then- they made their way down the steps to Kate’s front door.

‘Okay, then, maestro,’ she said with a tired smile, ‘Show me your plan for getting me into my flat with no key.’

He winked at her and said confidently, ‘Watch and learn, kid, watch and learn!’  He slipped a credit card in the door jamb down towards the catch, then when it hit metal he simultaneously hit the door with one massive shoulder.  The catch burst the receiver off the frame with a splintering crash and the door flew inward, causing Kate to slap him hard on the other shoulder.

‘You big buffoon, you broke the bloody door!’
she said accusingly, though secretly more amused than angry, ‘I thought you knew what you were doing?’

He gave
her an embarrassed grin and shrugged, ‘So did I.  Not to worry, I can fix the lock in a jiff.  You put the kettle on and I’ll nip down to the nearest Woodies.’  Perfectly naturally, without thinking, he leaned forward and gave her a goodbye peck on the lips.

Kate stood frozen
in the doorway, her heart pounding, as he made his way back up the steps to his car. 
Had
he forgiven her?  Was there hope for them yet? 
There’s nothing to forgive,
the little voice in her mind told her.  She went into the flat and on into the kitchen to put the kettle on, thinking without humour of Ross in
Friends
shouting, “We were on a BREAK!”

And so we were,
she told herself.  But she knew that she still needed his forgiveness.  For the pain she had inflicted on him, and for doing her best to destroy their relationship, the best thing she had ever had in her whole fearful, tainted, unhappy life.

The phone rang and she picked up the kitchen extension, wondering idly if she’d ever get her mobile back from the police.  Praying it was not a reporter she
said guardedly, ‘Hello?’

‘Hi, Kate
, Inspector Mullins here.  I thought you might like to know that Riordan’s awake, so we won’t be charging you with murder after all.’

‘Hilarious,’ she replied dryly.  In fact it
had
occurred to her that it might be better all round if he never woke up, but even so she was still almost overwhelmed with relief to find that she was not a killer.  ‘I suppose he’s denying everything?’

‘The doctor
s won’t let us speak to him until this afternoon,’ came the reply, ‘and you can bet he’ll have a whole team of lawyers around him when we
do
interview him.  Believe me, we’re
not
expecting a confession anytime soon.  Which leaves us with a problem.’

Kate pricked up her ears, ‘What problem?’

‘Proof that he committed any crime.’

‘What?’ exploded Kate
down the phone, her eyes bulging in disbelief, ‘What are you
talking
about?’

‘Calm down,’ replied Mullins, ‘We’ve got him for the underage porn on his computer, no problem.  But since the g
irls are all clearly teenagers we’re going to have a hard job proving they aren’t simply very young-looking eighteen-year-olds.  We’re going to have to try and track them down and prove they’re underage.  I’m sure we will, eventually, get him on at least one or two counts but the unpalatable fact is that his sentence won’t be as severe as it would be if the girls involved were pre-pubescent.  And that’s not all.  The pictures, that email you opened last night, came from
another
powerful politician, and he’s going to be pushing to have this whole thing dropped, to save his own neck.’

‘But…’  Kate stopped,
speechless.

‘Obviously we’re looking for evidence that he stabbed Sean, and that scumbag Shiels, but we’ve nothing yet, and if we don’t turn up something soon he
could literally get away with murder.’

Kate’s mouth was hanging open but nothing was coming out.  At last she managed, ‘I can’t believe it!’  Her mind was churning furiously and she blurted, ‘What about his dead wife?  I’m sure he started that fire
and killed her too!’

‘Well, we’re sure he didn’t,’ came the implacable reply, ‘As the dead woman’s spouse we naturally investigated him at the time and he’s clean.  He might have hired someone else, possibly even our old friend Shiels, but he certainly didn’t do it in person.  The night of the fire he was
guest of honour at a dinner in his club, under the gaze of nearly a hundred other guests.’

‘
Christ
!’ spat Kate in disbelief.

‘Indee
d,’ replied Mullins in his dry tone, ‘And if it
was
Shiels he got to start the fire in his house, that’s another dead end. 
Literally
.  Er, there is a point to my telling you all this highly confidential information.’

‘I don’t like the sound of this,’ said K
ate wearily, her mind numb from these latest shocks, ‘What point?’

‘In your statement,’ the policeman said slowly, ‘you claimed you hurt your face running into the
kitchen door.  Are you quite sure that Riordan didn’t hit you, or
push
you into the door?’

Kate made no reply and eventually the policeman said, ‘Because if he assaulted you it
might give us more leverage when it comes to squeezing a confession out of him, and at the worst we could hold him longer while we look for evidence of his greater crimes.’

Kate rubbed at her forehead, ‘I’m too tired to think straight but my first reaction is to say no.  I don’t want to lie, even to keep that scumbag locked up.’

There was another long silence before Mullins said, ‘No one has asked you to lie, Miss Bennett, we just want to be certain we have your statement right.’  There was another, shorter pause before he added, ‘It might be the difference between him staying locked up and getting out on bail, you know.  Might even be the difference between him confessing and denying everything.  And what do you think he was going to do to you last night if he had caught you?  Give you a kiss?’

‘I know, I know,’ replied Kate wearily, ‘Can I sleep on it?’

There was another long silence and then he said, ‘Well, don’t sleep too long.  We need to move quickly if we’re to pull your statement before his lawyers get involved.’

‘I’ll think about it,’ said Kate unwillingly, ‘but it goes against the grain.’  She hung up and put her head against the cool, tiled wall. 
Why is nothing ever simple in my life?

She h
eard the broken front door creak open, and footsteps in the hall, and turned to face the kitchen door, calling out ‘Pete, that you?’

The kitchen door swung open
, revealing a man standing in the hallway.  It was not Peter.  It was a tall figure dressed in black, with a long knife in one hand.  The same knife he had carried in Trinity, and had stabbed Sean Morrison with.  But this time he had no Balaclava on and she recognised his face.  It was Josh Guilfoyle, Grainne’s uncle.