The Living (15 page)

I stood up reluctantly and got the computer, opening it on the coffee table. Matthew dragged the table closer to the sofa, and I went through the start-up procedure. I looked in a few folders, reading filenames, finding no clues. Although some of the documents were unfamiliar to me, everything seemed entirely unremarkable.

A thought struck me, and I called up the list of recently used documents in the word-processing program. Nothing I didn't recognize. I couldn't tell whether the order was different from before. I opened some files at random, but soon realized that this was futile.

I was aware of Matthew beside me, his fists gently clenched on bouncing knees. I turned to look at him. ‘You really want to have a go, don't you?'

He nodded vigorously. ‘Oh, yes, please.'

I sat back and let him take over.

Within seconds, I was lost. Nothing Matthew did remotely resembled my ineffectual pawing at the keyboard. He had multiple windows open, each delivering drips or waterfalls of orderly cyphers in white on black, which he examined before keying in further arcana. ‘You know your stuff,' I remarked.

‘My sister's a computer security expert. I've picked up a few things over the years.'

He resumed his purposeful tapping, muttering unintelligibly to himself. I finished my tea, waggled my feet, yawned, stared at the bare walls, the cracked ceiling. After a while I said, ‘Well, Sherlock? Find anything?'

‘I'm not sure. They might have installed some kind of scanning software …'

I felt as if he were speaking from a long way away. I said nothing, just sat and looked blankly at him.

‘But the thing is, that could easily have been done remotely, while the machine was connected to the net – you use this for e-mail, don't you?'

I nodded.

‘So they wouldn't have needed to get into your flat. They must have had some other reason. Something on the hard drive.' He turned back to the keyboard, lower lip protruding in thought.

I put my hand on his arm. ‘Matthew, this is too bizarre. This is – I'm sorry, I just can't believe this is happening. I can't believe you're being so calm about it.'

He blinked, came back to me. ‘Sorry. This must be awful for you. I read too many thrillers, I expect.'

He was so upbeat, I wanted to shock him, shake him, hit him, wake him up somehow to the enormity of what was going on. ‘This is just not even on my map,' I said. ‘I can't believe you know about this stuff.' Exhaustion rolled in from all sides, making my head spin, my sight flicker.

‘I know almost nothing,' Matthew said. ‘Just enough to be dangerous.'

‘Stop it,' I said, and dissolved in tears. My throat ached with shame, but I couldn't help it.

Matthew's arms were round me, holding me close, rocking back and forth, whispering, ‘Shhh, shhh, it's OK, don't worry about it. We'll sort it out. Cate, I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have been flippant. You must be feeling terrible.'

‘Yes,' I said, between gulps of air, ‘I'm feeling terrible, and I'm feeling stupid. And none of this is happening. It's all just crazy.'

Matthew reached out and shut the lid of the laptop. ‘How about something to eat?'

‘That would be nice,' I managed, in a craven whine.

‘Shall I cook a frozen pizza?'

‘Yes, please.'

Matthew went to the kitchen, and I heard him moving about. I was wrung out, squashed, cracked. I worried about him seeing me in this needy state. He would surely run now, I decided. He liked his privacy too much, his distance.

He put his head round the door. ‘Ham and mushroom or pepperoni?'

I had to pull myself together, present a coherent face. ‘Ham and mushroom, please.' I breathed deeply, tried to relax.

‘Deed's done,' he said a moment later, and went to put on some music – a tranquil jazz singer. He turned off the central light, and we sat in the dim glow of the averted anglepoise with our arms round each other. We said very little. When the pizza was ready, Matthew cleared the laptop and its case off the coffee table. I sat, inert, while he brought the food and glasses of water in from the kitchen. He disappeared again and came back with a white candle in a metal holder. He found matches in the mess on his desk, and lit the candle with a flourish.

‘There,' he said. ‘Candlelit supper. Can't say fairer than that.'

We ate our pizza, which tasted far better than it deserved to. We kissed quite a lot between slices, and talked about nothing in particular.

‘You know, you really are exceptionally pretty,' Matthew said at one point.

‘In candlelight,' I said, fishing hard.

‘Yes, also in candlelight.'

‘Well, you're not the worst yourself.'

‘Good. I must say, it's encouraging to hear that I'm not the worst.'

‘Yes,' I said. ‘But don't let it swell your handsome head.'

‘Cruel woman.'

‘Come here.'

We began to undress each other there on the sofa, and soon, in silent agreement, we got up and made our way to the bedroom. We didn't turn on the light. I had the impression of an open wardrobe door, a chair piled with clothes.

We crawled into bed and were soon naked, clutching at each other, moving together with grace and meaning.

Later, we lay facing the window, Matthew's long arms encircling me. I was still anxious and wakeful, despite my exhaustion. The image of his avid face as he hacked away at the laptop wouldn't leave my head. It was late – nearly two o'clock – but I knew I was a fair distance from sleep.

‘I have to go to work in the morning,' I said. With the laptop, I mentally added. And tell George what happened. Which presumably means the end of my little home-based copyediting career.

‘You sure?' Matthew murmured.

‘Hmmm.'

‘You could take the day off.'

‘I … maybe. I don't know.'

‘Come on. You may never have an excuse this good again.'

I reached a hand behind me to stroke his downy thigh. ‘I'll tell you one thing. I really don't want to go back to my flat tonight.'

‘Stay with me, then.'

‘All right.'

I lay in the dark with my eyes open and my stomach clenched, wishing it were that simple.

Part Three

A Song of Ireland

I
TALKED MYSELF INTO
going to work the next day, which was a mistake. George was furious because the printers had accidentally flipped an illustration in
The Irish Horse
, and nobody had noticed the error until the books had been bound and delivered. He loomed around for much of the morning, looking stormy. I heard him banging up and down his office, shuffling paper and cursing. Shouting into the phone – ‘It's
very
noticeable! There's a bloody sign up on the wall behind the horse. You can
see
it. The text is clearly backwards!'

He appeared at the door, teeth bared. ‘Have you Paula's mobile number?'

‘Sure,' I said, hastily reaching for the office address book. I scribbled Paula's number on a sticky note, which George snatched from my hand. He bolted back into his office, slamming the door.

The details of the night before hovered around me like a flock of terrible black birds, skimming and swooping and landing without warning. I was upset with Matthew. He'd been businesslike at breakfast, all terse and mechanical, as though the well of comfort we'd found together last night had run dry. There was no
suggestion that I stay again tonight. He did his best, but I sensed that he wanted me out of his space. The portcullis was firmly down. We kissed goodbye like a pair of actors on a stage.

All morning I pretended to work. I could barely focus. At lunchtime I went down to the newsagent for a sandwich. As I walked back, my mind was fixed on the doors – the front door of my house and the door of my flat. I couldn't recall noticing anything odd about them when I got home from Ardee. Which meant these people might have keys. (They might be in there right now.)

There was nothing for it: I was going to have to talk to Uncle Fintan. I pulled out my phone and quickened my pace.

‘Hello?' said Uncle Fintan, in his careful way.

‘Hi, Uncle F, it's Cate. Have you got a minute?'

‘Of course, Cate, I.'

‘Listen, something happened last night. I think someone got into the flat when I wasn't there.'

‘Oh, lord bless us and save us. When you weren't there. Was anything?'

‘Well, no, I don't think so. But this is the thing. I don't think the lock was broken. I think they might have keys.'

There was silence, and then Uncle Fintan said very gently, ‘And if the lock wasn't broken, and nothing was taken, do you mind my asking, how do you?'

‘I just …' I faltered. What an idiot I was. I hadn't thought this through. I hadn't prepared myself to tell him the whole story – not by a long chalk. I was nearly back at the office; I stopped and
leaned against a cold gatepost. ‘OK,' I said. ‘This is going to sound a bit wacky.' I told him I thought I was being watched. I told him what I'd found when I got home last night – the open laptop, the click of the front door.

‘And what were they after, do you think?' Uncle Fintan's voice had an unusual energy – it sounded almost like fear.

‘I don't know – something on the laptop?'

‘Eddie's book, I suppose. Was it on there?'

‘No.'

‘Any contact details for him?'

‘No, not as far as I know.'

‘Good. And did you sleep in the flat last night?'

‘No, I … stayed with a friend.'

‘All right, so,' said Uncle Fintan, revving down to his normal speed. ‘I'll get a locksmith over this afternoon. It shouldn't take too long. I'll meet you at the house when you come home.'

‘Thanks a million,' I said. It was entirely inadequate to express my relief.

‘Ah, sure, it's no trouble at all, Caitlín. You can always.'

I thanked him again and went back to work.

And with that, my courage was spent. I tried to muster the wherewithal to tell George what had happened, but I failed. When the day finally came to an end I just tucked the laptop under my desk and hoped he wouldn't ask about it. Hoped whoever I was hiding it from wouldn't break into the office to carry on where they'd left off.

Uncle Fintan phoned as I was standing at the bus stop in the sodium dark, eyes peeled for the
Chichester Psalms
car. He said, ‘I'm at the house now and I have your new keys. Is it … are you?'

‘I'm on my way.'

The journey home was nerve-wracking – both the juddering bus and the walk at the other end. I did my best to check every car that went past me. When I got to my house I nearly tried to open the door with my defunct key, but remembered in time to ring the bell. After a moment I heard movement inside, footsteps approaching the door. There was a pause, which I guessed meant that Uncle Fintan was looking at me through the spy hole. Then I heard the rattle of the chain, and the door opened at last. After I came in, Uncle Fintan carefully slid the chain back into place.

We went upstairs, and I made us tea. ‘Will you stay and have something to eat?' I asked.

‘Thank you, that would be.'

‘Great,' I said. I made us a Spanish omelette with peppers and peas, and we listened to Schubert while we ate.

‘Cate, you said earlier you thought someone was?'

I gave an inward sigh. I'd relaxed quite a bit, and I didn't relish the thought of discussing my worries again. ‘It's just this car I keep seeing around the place. George reckons the Special Branch. He practically gave me a medal.'

Uncle Fintan didn't ask for more. After we'd cleared up the dinner things, he said, ‘Actually, Cate, I might sleep on your sofa
tonight, if you don't mind.'

‘Well … sure.' Was this out of concern for my safety or to avoid a cold welcome in Swords?

Without overture I was assailed by a wave of exhaustion, as though the tension of the last two days had caused something essential to snap, leaving me limp and useless. I sorted out sheets and blankets for Uncle Fintan and went to bed.

I didn't feel much better in the morning. I'd kicked off the covers during the night, and I woke cold and stiff. I dressed quickly. It was early, but when I crept out to the sitting room I found Uncle Fintan already awake. I pulled the curtains and let in what daylight there was.

My attention was drawn to a car parked across the road a few houses down. A large, dark saloon; I couldn't see the number plate. I closed my eyes, feeling the anxiety start to build up again. And the tune in my head:
five two eight four five
…

‘Is everything?'

‘Yeah, I'm fine.'

Uncle Fintan came over and drew me gently to one side, away from the window. ‘Is it the car?' He stood at an angle, looking out into the street.

I said, ‘It's about three down, over on the other side. But I don't know if it's them.'

I indulged a brief fantasy of marching out there and confronting them, demanding to know what it was they wanted – what they thought I knew. What would they do then? They'd hardly
gun me down in the street, would they? Perhaps I'd be arrested. Uncle Fintan would so enjoy bailing me out.

By the time I left for work the dark car had gone.

I
WAS MUCH BETTER
able to engage with my work today. George had cheered up, having come to a satisfactory arrangement with the errant printers, and I was almost ready to send the fisheries book to the typesetter. My head was full of quotas, spawning seasons and the consistent notation of Latin species names; when my phone buzzed it made me jump.

A text from Matthew: ‘How's it going? Sorry I haven't been in touch. Supervisor is heaping work on my head. 990'

So he was sorry, was he? I texted back: ‘That's all right. I haven't been in touch either, and I'm not sorry at all.'