Sleep Sister: A page-turning novel of psychological suspense (6 page)

A
t first Celtic Reign
played quietly, afraid their music would intrude too harshly into the world the sick man had created within himself. Crowded together in Connie’s sitting room, the musicians filled their glasses with whiskey or snapped the tops off Guinness bottles. This small room with its glass ornaments and dried flowers in the window was the ‘showing-off room’, used only when visitors arrived. Cigarettes were lit, smoke spiralling upwards. Barry coughed and muffled the sound into his fist. The session was Connie’s idea. At first he was irritable when she suggested it. He feared the musicians were humouring him. He didn’t want them to see him like this – a sickly, dried-up shadow. She assured him they needed this time with him. They wanted to participate. She did not say ‘in your dying’, but the words hung there and Beth felt this understanding flow swift as a current between the two of them.

Before the musicians arrived, Connie eased him from their bed, exchanging his crumpled pyjamas for a pair of jeans and a shirt with neon flowers, a gaudy pattern that only succeeded in emphasising his wasted body. She seated him in the armchair so that his friends wouldn’t notice how slowly he moved. Beth trimmed his beard. Like his hair it had grown sparse over the past few months and was cut into shape with a few snips.

As the glasses emptied the tempo of the music quickened, carrying its own momentum. Soon the musicians were lost in the notes and Barry became one with them, his eyes bright as he jigged his foot. For a short while he played the spoons. His hands were skeletal, the spoons rapping off his skinny knees. The sound reminded Beth of rattling bones. He called on her to dance. She was seized by a familiar embarrassment, reverting to the panic of a small child asked to perform in front of adults. She had not danced since that Christmas at Cherry Vale. Something painful caught in her memory and was released in the same instant. A sensation so familiar she hardly noticed it.

The fiddle player, Annie Loughrey, ran the bow over her fiddle, shouting, ‘How about a reel, Beth? We’ll go easy on you.’

Beth took off her shoes, but her feet still felt heavy, clumsy because she hadn’t danced for so long. When the musicians yelled and stamped she was carried away by their enthusiasm. She was aware of Stewart watching her, his shoulder propped against the wall, a glass of beer in his hand. She moved to the increasing tempo, arms stiff by her sides, hair flying. Her legs kicked out, her shirt swirled. His eyes told her he liked what he saw before he looked away. Peter did not look away. When she finished dancing he swung her around and kissed her cheek.

Soon afterwards her father’s shoulders slumped. The animation left his face. Connie moved swiftly towards him but he insisted on one more tune.

‘Play “Carrickfergus”, Annie. No one can stroke that tune the way you can.’

‘It would draw tears from a stone,’ agreed Blake Dolan, bending his head dolefully over his bodhrán.

Annie began to play. The young girl had long delicate fingers. The notes rose, a thin quavering lament. The thoughts of each person in the room seemed to fuse, achingly aware of the wasted man sitting so still in their midst.

Soon afterwards, the musicians left to play in The Fiddler’s Nest, hearty in their farewells, not admitting that this was the last goodbye. Barry, equally anxious to keep up the pretence, joked them from the room.

‘Cheer up, me darlin’. I’ve seen him looking worse on many a morning after a hard session in the Nest,’ the bodhrán player joked with Beth at the front door. He patted the back of her head, as if he was already offering his condolences. Peter also said goodbye. He had a painting to finish before morning.

When Connie came downstairs after settling Barry for the night she poured a glass of whiskey and drank it neat, tilting her head back. Under the light Beth noticed grey roots fading into her black hair.

‘You’re going to collapse before this is over if you don’t watch yourself,’ Beth warned. ‘Daddy should be back in hospital.’

‘You know how he feels about hospitals,’ replied Connie. ‘Anyway, what can they do for him except prolong his agony? He wants to die here and as long as I can look after him I’ll be with him.’

‘Connie… Does he realise… Does he talk to you about it?’

‘We’ve talked about it, yes.’ Connie’s voice was slightly slurred. Lipstick stained the glass, a bruised kiss clouding the rim.

‘Then why won’t he talk to me?’ demanded Beth. Her eyes scalded with unshed tears but her father had not given her permission to cry. He always spoke to her about cheerful things and what he would do as soon as he recovered, meaningless plans that made her ashamed when their time together was so short. ‘He keeps pretending he’s going to get better.’

‘He hasn’t the words to tell you what he’s feeling. It’s different with me. We have no history, no regrets.’

Beth reached forward and squeezed her hand. ‘Celtic Reign coming here was a terrific idea. I hope he’s carried away on a stream of music.’

The older woman poured another drink, sipping it slowly this time. ‘Sara should be here. I can’t understand why your mother’s being so stubborn. She’s breaking his heart.’

Stewart came into the room. He took the empty glass from her and placed it on the table. ‘You should try and get some sleep, Ma, while you have the chance.’

Connie’s footsteps dragged wearily as she mounted the stairs and entered the bedroom where Barry dozed uneasily. It seemed so unfair, Beth thought – all that wasted time with Marjory and only a few short years with the woman he loved. An unforgivable love in the eyes of so many people, selfish in the demands it had made on their families, yet Beth didn’t resent the brief happiness they’d known.

‘I’m going for a walk.’ Stewart took his leather jacket from a hook on the door. He glanced at the empty bottles, the overflowing ashtrays and stale sandwiches. ‘I need some fresh air before I tackle this lot. Want to come?’

Beth’s head throbbed from the stuffy heat in the room. She linked her arm in his as they turned without hesitation towards the estuary road. A light burned from one window in Havenstone. Peter’s studio. He sometimes slept on the floor when he was working and everything was flowing in the right direction. An animal in his lair, she thought, comfortable where he dropped, stretched out on an old mattress he kept propped against the wall. Moonlight touching the half-finished canvases as he drifted off to sleep.

At Pier’s Point a heron, caught in the glow of moonlight, lifted its wings and glided into the darkness.

‘I had a dream about flying last night,’ she said. ‘I woke up thinking that that’s the way it must be when you die – flying into the sky and everything down below becoming dimmer and dimmer until you’re all alone in the dark.’

‘Maybe you’re flying through the dark to get to the light,’ said Stewart.

‘That sounds like something Jess would say.’

‘How is she?’

‘On her knees chanting litanies, I should imagine.’

Jess still wrote every week. Serene letters brimming with descriptions of silent meals, needlecraft, woodwork sessions, basketball practice, prayer vigils, meditation and contemplation. Sometimes, in the early hours when she was in the church praying, she felt herself lifted high on a wave of bliss so powerful it made her tremble in case it was ever taken away from her.

‘I touch the core of my being,’ she wrote. ‘And God is there waiting for me to arrive.’

Beth believed this was magic-mushroom stuff. Smoke some grass and see the Lord. Or a state of mind brought about by overwork. Jess’s daily work schedule read like the itinerary of a Siberian gulag.

In her last letter Beth wrote back: ‘It must be wonderful to know yourself so well that when you feel the touch of happiness you can claim it as your right.’

Reading over what she had written she was puzzled by the meaning in her own words. She left them there, knowing Jess would understand.

‘I don’t know what to do.’ She touched Stewart’s arm as they stood on the pier.

‘About Sara?’ he asked.

‘Yes. She won’t come to the phone when I ring. I can’t believe she’ll let Daddy die without saying goodbye to him.’

‘I’m sure she’ll change her mind. Come on – let’s go back. Standing here in the cold won’t solve anything and we have a war zone to tidy up.’

Reluctantly, she left the pier and turned in the direction of Main Strand Street. As they approached the house she noticed the long car parked outside.

‘A Mercedes!’ Stewart stopped to examine the registration plate. ‘Very flash.’ He sounded impressed. ‘Wonder who that belongs to?’

‘I know the owner.’ Beth was surprised at the calmness in her voice. She turned the key in the front door and entered.

Albert Grant had put on weight. She could see it on his face, under his chin. He stood in front of the fireplace, smiling. He had grown a moustache. It tickled her cheek when he hugged her. She was swamped in his warmth, the familiar scent of Old Spice and soap.

She forced herself to stand still until he released her.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ she demanded.

‘What a way to greet your uncle, love. I’m surprised at you,’ Connie said reproachfully. She made an attempt to tidy bottles out of the way then stopped, embarrassed by the debris of the party.

‘Well, I’m surprised too. He only comes to Dublin when he has something nasty to do. I’m just wondering what it is this time.’

‘I came when Marjory told me the sad news. Poor Barry. A fragile grip on reality at the best of times.’ He stared at Stewart, then back at Connie. ‘I presume this young man is your son, Mrs McKeever?’

‘He is indeed.’ Beth saw her mouth tremble as Albert ignored Stewart’s outstretched hand. A whistle shrilled from the kitchen: the kettle was boiling. She rose to her feet. ‘Tea or coffee, Councillor?’

‘Tea will be fine, Mrs McKeever.’

When she left the room he took off his jacket, easing his shoulders in circular movements. ‘That’s better. I’ve had a long drive. It’s good to see you again, Beth, although I hoped we could have met under happier circumstances… Like a visit to your unfortunate mother.’

‘I asked you a question and you still haven’t answered it,’ she replied. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I think it’s fairly obvious. I’ve booked into the Oldport Grand for the night. In the morning I’ve organised an ambulance to collect your father and take him home to Anaskeagh.’

Beth froze. ‘No fucking way!’

‘Beth!’ Connie, horrified, stood in the doorway, a tray in her hands. ‘I can’t believe my ears. Shame on you.’

‘I’m sorry, Connie. But he can’t just suddenly appear and start taking over. He wants to take Daddy away.’

Connie placed the tray on the coffee table. She glanced fearfully towards the councillor and shook her head. ‘I’m afraid there’s some mistake, Councillor. Barry has no intention of going back to Anaskeagh.’

‘Please, Mrs McKeever, don’t make a scene,’ he interrupted her smoothly. ‘I’m only doing what is right and proper under the circumstances. This is not exactly the ideal environment for a sick man.’ A smile touched his lips as he surveyed the room, raising his eyebrows at the sight of the empty whiskey bottle lying on the floor.

‘Daddy isn’t going anywhere,’ Beth shouted. She was aware of Stewart holding her hand, trying to calm her down.

‘Mr Grant, you can’t just ignore what my mother is saying. Barry wants to stay here with us.’

‘Young man, I mean no disrespect to your mother.’ Albert gave a slight bow in Connie’s direction and swept his gaze back to Stewart. ‘But I need hardly remind you that she is not Barry Tyrell’s wife. As the law stands she has absolutely no rights, no say, no decision.’ His tone changed, became placating as he turned his attention back to Connie. ‘Let’s look at it this way, Mrs McKeever – you must be worn out looking after a sick man. I’m relieving you of the burden of responsibility—’

‘She’s worn out all right but that’s the way she wants it,’ Beth interrupted. ‘He made her promise to be beside him when he… Goes.’

Her uncle shook his head firmly. ‘I’m afraid it’s not that simple. Your father is coming home to Anaskeagh where he belongs. To be with the people to whom he belongs. With his wife’s permission I’ve booked him into a private ward in the Anaskeagh Regional. He’ll have the best of care and the chance to die peacefully, with dignity and surrounded by his own family.’

‘Appearances!’ Beth yelled. ‘That’s all you care about. Just because you’re a county councillor – you don’t give a tinker’s curse about my father. Neither does she! She wouldn’t even let Sara visit him.’

‘Beth – calm down. I’m not having any arguments in my house when Barry is so ill. Tomorrow when he’s stronger we’ll let him decide what he wants to do.’

‘I’m afraid not, Mrs McKeever. It is as I’ve stated. There will be no further arguments.’ Albert Grant did not try to disguise his anger. ‘In the morning you will come with me, Beth. You will do what a good daughter should do and look after your father instead of allowing outsiders to do it for you. As for you, Mrs McKeever, an ambulance will be at your house at nine in the morning. You can’t deprive a dying man of his last opportunity to see his wife and daughter. If there are farewells to be made let them be made before then. I don’t want to see you or your family near Anaskeagh at any stage. Is that clearly understood?’

B
arry Tyrell took
a month to die. Once he was admitted to hospital the stoicism he had shown in Oldport deserted him. He snarled and spat and suffered his way through his final weeks until even Beth dreaded spending time with him in the small ward he called ‘Death Row’. When his lips dried into cracked sores she swabbed them with wet cotton wool. She spooned cold drinks into his mouth and wrote the letters he dictated to Connie until his mind wandered, unable to concentrate. Then she composed them herself, escaping into the fresh air for a few minutes to post them. She read Connie’s replies to him, taking the letters with her when she left the hospital in case Marjory found them. Twice his family were called to his bedside in the middle of the night and twice the doctors brought him back again. Lonely, resentful, frightened, he lingered on.

‘Meddling bastards,’ he raged. ‘Why can’t they let me die in peace? I’m spent, washed up. What good will it do to give me a few more days?’

Catherine O’Donovan said he was the most bad-tempered patient she had ever nursed. ‘I’ve had some lulus in my time but he takes the biscuit. Poor devil.’

Every time the postman called, Beth expected a letter from Mrs Wallace informing her that she was fired. Twice a week she rang Stewart from the public phone at the hospital. She looked forward to hearing his voice, reassuring her that there was another world outside Death Row and its cocooned, glasshouse atmosphere.

Sara had grown tall and leggy. Why should this surprise Beth? Time hadn’t stood still for her sister either, though Sara’s face still held the same childlike contours, a little too much puppy fat on her cheeks and around her chin. A fringe almost covered her eyes and her long, blonde hair hung limply over her cheeks. Beth longed to gather it in her hands and twist it into a ponytail. Then, perhaps, she would know what Sara was thinking and how she felt about Beth’s return.

Marjory’s visits to the hospital were brief and businesslike. She talked to the ward sister and the doctor on duty. The nurses brought her cups of tea and biscuits. They wanted to know what new styles were in the boutique and were thrilled when she promised them a discount of ten per cent. Father Breen, doing his hospital rounds, blessed her and called her a saint in the truest sense of the word. Beth always left the ward as soon as her mother entered, ignoring the pleading look Barry gave her, the tight, dry grip of his fingers. He wanted her with him all the time. She resented the responsibility his dependence placed on her, longing to be back in Oldport, feeling guilty at the intensity of this need, knowing she would only be released when he was laid to rest.

So many changes to be absorbed. The First Fashion boutique added to the prosperous air of the town. Even Marina would be impressed, Beth decided, staring in the windows at mannequins with tousled curls dressed in glittery jumpsuits and wide-shouldered suits. A Chinese restaurant and a launderette had opened on River Mall. The old cinema, known as The Flea Circus, had been turned into a bingo hall. Maggie Hearn had sold her grocery store and a modern supermarket with chrome shelves and pale strips of fluorescent lighting stood in its place. Fresh pebbledash livened up the grey walls of the council houses on Fatima Estate. But Marjory had been determined to move and had bought one of the new houses being built on the site of the Emerald Ballroom.

‘The next time you decide to honour us with your presence I’ll have moved as far as possible from this slum your father forced me to live in,’ she informed Beth soon after her arrival.

‘I’m glad things worked out so well for you.’ Beth attempted to soothe old wounds.

‘Oh no, things didn’t work out,’ Marjory interrupted, her voice quickening. ‘I made them happen. Despite everything!’ She too had changed. The weight she had lost was emphasised by the ruffled curls framing her face and the width of her shoulder pads. Her sewing room was now a spare bedroom where Beth slept for the duration of her visit. The wardrobe, the den where monsters once crouched and waited in the darkness of childhood fears, had been moved into the room. Standing on carved claws, in need of a good polishing, it looked curiously alien in its new surroundings but the smell of mothballs was instantly familiar. There had been no monster. Only the shadow of her uncle, vague and threatening. She had been four years old when she’d opened her eyes one night and seen him standing beside her bed, the wardrobe door open behind him. For an instant she thought he had been hiding inside and had jumped out to scare her. Four years of age… Maybe he’d come to her room before then. She had no memory. Only when she’d reached four did she understand the meaning of fear and she had carried it in front of her as a shield ever since.

No matter how often she tried to change the subject, his name ran like a magnetic thread through her mother’s conversation. Since becoming a councillor he had galvanised the county council with his energy and dedication. A new primary school was being built. He had plans for attracting tourists into the town. He was the driving force behind the GAA. He was lobbying for funding to improve the town’s sewage system.

‘At least that should give him enough space to take a shite,’ sneered Beth.

This remark was the end of the uneasy truce mother and daughter had tried to maintain since her return home. She was relieved they did not have to pretend any longer.

‘How dare you use that kind of filthy language in my house.’ Marjory glared at her. ‘You’re disgusting! Working in a factory certainly hasn’t improved your manners. Your uncle may be a busy man but he never forgets his family. We wouldn’t have anything if it wasn’t for him.’

‘Can we occasionally change the tune?’ Beth tried to control her temper. ‘I’m sick of hearing about St Albert, patron saint of the needy.’

‘Then you can hear it again,’ insisted Marjory. ‘While your father was swanning around Dublin with his whore my brother took the time to sit down and help me draw up my business plan. He’s financed my boutique, lock, stock and barrel. When Sara finishes her Leaving she’s going to university, thanks to him. At least one of my daughters will be able to rise above the level of working in a factory.’

‘What about me? What favours did he ever do for me?’ Beth leaned towards her mother. ‘Fuck all – that’s what!’

‘Stop it! Stop it… both of you.’ Sara, who had been sitting between them, jumped to her feet. ‘I’m sick of listening to the two of you going on at each other.’ She turned furiously to Beth. ‘At least we have peace when you’re not here. If you can’t stop fighting with Mammy I don’t want you to come home ever again.’ She ran from the room, slamming the door behind her.

‘Satisfied?’ demanded Marjory.

‘It’s strange,’ said Beth. ‘Daddy’s dying and all we can do is say hurtful things to each other. I hoped it would be different when I came home but it’s still exactly the same.’

‘And who’s to blame for that, may I ask?’ Marjory lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply. ‘It’s too late for apologies, madam. Over four years too late. The only reason you’re here is because your uncle insisted you do your duty.’ She removed a flake of ash from her lip, appraising her daughter behind a haze of smoke. ‘How do you think I felt? My daughter disappearing without a word and not even one visit the whole time. Not even for Christmas. You certainly gave the gossips plenty of ammunition—’

‘So what did I have?’ Beth interrupted. ‘A boy or a girl – or was it twins?’

‘You think it’s so funny? Well, let me tell you something, miss. If it wasn’t for Sara I wouldn’t let you set foot in this house again. Any more smart remarks or language and you’re out on your ear so fast you won’t know what hit you. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Crystal clear,’ replied Beth. ‘It’s great to be home.’

Sara never stayed for long at the hospital. Her father’s laboured breathing made her fidget and stare out of the window. His presence placed a burden upon her young shoulders that she was ill-prepared to carry. She made no effort to talk to Beth and spent most of her time in her bedroom.

Anaskeagh Head was still a forbidding challenge. One afternoon the sisters climbed to the summit. Goldie moved stiffly, limping slightly. Arthritis, Beth guessed. She rubbed his back, noticing grey hairs in his coat, pleased when he didn’t pull away. Time had obviously healed his fear or brought him to terms with it. His breath grew quieter as he rolled over and offered his belly to be stroked. They followed a passage Sara had discovered on the slopes of the headland, almost overgrown with ferns and briars that clung to their jeans. It might have been used by sheep or maybe it had been created by the way the wind blew into the scrub, forcing it to grow naturally apart. It led them to Aislin’s Roof, one of the biggest rocks Beth had ever seen, almost cavernous in its width and overhanging slant. Sara was unable to keep still. The camera Beth had sent to her for her twelfth birthday hung from her neck. She photographed birds in flight and a dead tree, twisted stunted limbs outlined against the sky. The wind blew stronger as they climbed upwards and the sun, clearing the clouds for a few moments, struck against the granite rock, surrounding the girls in flickering walls of mica.

‘This is what I miss most,’ said Beth. She sat down and waved her hand at the peaks. ‘Oldport is so flat. Just fields of vegetables and flowers – although Peter says I should enjoy it while I can. Soon it will be covered in houses.’

‘Tell me about him. Is he a good painter?’ Sara asked.

‘How should I know?’ She was taken aback at the suddenness of the question. ‘Personally I don’t like what he does. I can never figure it out.’

‘Even when he paints you?’

‘Especially when he paints me.’ She laughed abruptly.

‘Are you in love with him?’

‘I certainly am not!’ She was glad her sister wasn’t looking at her. ‘He’s the most self-opinionated person I’ve ever met.’

‘What about the whore who was living with my father? Tell me about her.’ She turned and stared down at Beth, challenging her.

‘You sound just like Marjory.’ Beth was furious. ‘Connie McKeever is not a whore and you’d better stop calling her one.’

Her sister shrugged and aimed her camera, moving closer to Beth, focusing on different angles of her face.

‘Why did you run away and leave me?’ she asked abruptly.

‘Stop it, will you?’ Beth shielded herself with her hands.

‘Why? Why? Why?’ Sara clicked on each word then ceased as suddenly as she had started. The camera dangled from one hand. A bemused expression settled over her face, as if she was trying to remember the question.

‘You know why! All that shit with Charlie. Imagine calling a cane Charlie. When I think how terrified I used to be of it.’

Sara sat down beside her and flung her hair back in a sudden jerk. ‘Did you break Uncle Albert’s window?’ she asked.

‘No.’ Beth’s heart leapt. ‘Which window?’

‘The big bay one in the front. Someone broke it the night you went away.’

‘Why would I want to do a daft thing like that?’

‘I don’t know. I’m just asking. You’re always saying horrible things about him so I thought…’

‘Well you thought wrong. It wasn’t me.’

‘If you say so.’ She giggled suddenly, nervously fisting a hand in front of her mouth. ‘Tell me about the whore’s son. Do you fancy him too? Stewart. That’s his name, isn’t it?’

‘Sara! Why are you behaving like this?’ Beth’s anger snapped. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

The young girl drew her knees to her chin and encircled them with her arms. Her hands were hidden under the loose sleeves of her jumper. The slate-grey shade drained her face of colour. Shapeless over her jeans, it was the most unattractive thing Beth had ever seen her wear. Sara was a circle within herself, projecting neither thought nor emotion until suddenly, without any change in her posture, she began to cry.

‘Don’t go back to Oldport,’ she sobbed. ‘There’s no reason to go back to those people. You don’t belong to them.’

‘Why should I stay here? I’d smother if I had to live an extra minute in this one-horse town.’

‘It’s not so bad. We’re somebody here. Mammy has her shop and we’re moving to the new house soon. It’ll be great, Beth. She wants you to work with her. She’s afraid if she asks you’ll say no.’

‘Are you away with the fairies or what?’ Beth was glad to have something to rebuff. ‘Why don’t we bring Charlie as well? Then we could all have a jolly old reunion.’

‘It doesn’t have to be that way, Beth, it doesn’t. It was easier when you lived here – she didn’t expect so much from me.’ Sara’s voice was husky. She coughed, trying to clear mucus from her throat. ‘Please stay here… Please, Beth.’

‘No!’ She felt trapped by Sara’s closeness, the guilt her sister aroused in her. ‘I won’t stay here and that’s the end of it. Stop going on at me.’

‘I should have known you wouldn’t listen. You don’t care about anyone but yourself – and that Peter Wallace. Cats’ eyes, cats’ fucking stupid eyes! I’ve never heard of anything so stupid in all my life.’

‘Sara… what are you saying? I can’t believe you’re using such language.’

‘Look who’s
talking. Anyway, I’m just telling the truth. I don’t want you here – or him either. Why can’t he just die and get it over with?’ She began to shout, banging her fists off the grass.

‘Don’t worry,’ Beth replied coldly. ‘I’m sure he’ll oblige us before long. Then we’ll all be out of your precious way again – only he’ll be gone for good. Your precious Uncle Albert hijacked him from the people who loved him and he allowed it to happen so that he could be with you.’

‘So? Am I supposed to fall on my knees and thank him? He was the one who left in the first place. Just the same as you did, and you’re leaving me again so you can be with your precious artist. You needn’t write any more of your stupid letters. I never bother reading them.’

‘Sara, please stop.’ When Beth stroked her sister’s shoulder she felt the slightest of tremors, almost a reflex, a nerve impulse. ‘As soon as you want you can come to Oldport and live with me. You’ll love it.’

‘Lay off, will you?’ Sara whipped back from her touch. ‘I’m not a fucking dog. Perhaps that’s just as well – you’d probably drown me if I was.’