Her Name Was Rose Page 8

  Perhaps, I told myself, this was just what it appeared to be – that Cian just needed someone to talk to? Maybe he just needed to think about a cup of tea instead with someone he could listen to? Cling to the normal in the incredibly abnormal?

  I picked up my phone. Typed a quick response.

  No need to apologise. Or to offer a cup of tea. It was the least I could do. This all must be so hard.

  I hit send, expected no more. Hoped, perhaps for a response, somewhere deep inside. Hoped that he would talk to me. That he would confide in me – even though I really didn’t have any right to assume that. Was that mad of me? I felt confused but unable to step away from it.

  It was only a matter of minutes before his message arrived in my inbox.

  I think every day will be hard now for us. I’m just trying to keep putting one foot in front of the other. I have to, for Jack. Please say you’ll meet us for a cup of tea? It’s the least we can do – and to be honest, the distraction, a chance to talk to someone new – would be good.

  I felt for him. Imagine the whole world being in your business, watching you, pretending to support you in your grief but ultimately when night fell, he was alone in his house with his son and his thoughts.

  I typed back quickly.

  Of course. Let me know when suits. And if there’s anything I can do?

  His response was almost immediate – as was the friend request he sent me so we were officially ‘connected’.

  Would Saturday suit? Afternoon? Or is that too short notice?

  I replied that it would and that I looked forward to it and we agreed to meet at 2pm at Primrose Café.

  When I put my phone down, confident that night’s exchanges of messages were done, I found I had to make a conscious effort to keep those happy feelings floating at the top. This was okay – it was perfectly normal that he would reach out to someone slightly removed from the situation he was in to find some sort of listening ear. Wasn’t it?

  Chapter Eleven

  I didn’t intend to look online again that night. I wanted to exist in my perfect little bubble. One where a day that had tested me had ended well; in fact, it had ended well with the promise of something more, another connection. I went to the kitchen and fished around in the cupboard under the sink for the bottle of vodka I had hidden there. As I had banned fizzy drinks from the flat as part of my ongoing health kick, I settled for a (large) measure of vodka poured over some ice and sipped on it before putting my Foy Vance CD on and laying back on the sofa to listen to it. I wanted to enjoy the moment; celebrate it even. I savoured the tang of the vodka as I felt its warmth slide down my throat and into my stomach.

  I closed my eyes tighter. Sipped some more vodka.

  My head felt light – a gorgeous wooziness washing over me. I picked up my phone and WhatsApped Maud.

  I met him, I typed.

  Who? she replied.

  Cian! He’s so sad, Maud. Like he needs a hug.

  Cian? The husband of the woman who died?

  Yes, he came into the surgery today. He is SOOO handsome. And so lost & lovely.

  You need to be careful.

  Of course! Am not stupid!

  You know I worry about you.

  There’s no need. I’m a big girl, I jabbed at the screen.

  Sweetheart, I’m at work. I can’t get into this right now. But I will call you later. I know you’re a big girl. But you know how it is …

  I knew how it was. I knew that Maud would always feel she had something over me because she had been the one to help me piece myself back together after what happened with Ben had left me broken. But that was the past; I was different now. Stronger.

  The next time Maud saw me – when she saw my confidence emerge, when she saw my new healthy, clean-eating lifestyle, when she spotted the highlights in my hair, my newly whitened teeth, the new additions to my wardrobe – then she would see how far I had come. She would be happy for me, and she’d stop worrying.

  I got to my feet, perhaps a little less steadily than I would have liked, lifted my glass and the bottle and walked to the kitchen where I poured the rest of the tempting clear liquid down the sink. Filling a pint glass with water, I drank as much as I could and washed down two paracetamols.

  Just before settling down to sleep, I checked my phone to find a text message from Tori telling me to check the Derry Journal’s website.

  Through fat fingers and numb thumbs, I found the website and saw they were reporting that the body of a nineteen-year-old male had been recovered from the River Foyle. While the deceased’s identity had not been confirmed, he had been named locally as Kevin McDaid, the man currently awaiting trial over the death of Rose Grahame.

  I clicked onto Facebook, which was in meltdown. Vitriol aimed at McDaid. Emotional messages to Rose saying she could now be at peace. People pleading with others to be thoughtful of McDaid’s family at this time. Swear words and vile pictures and every emotion under the sun typed out by keyboard warriors keen to vent.

  Police were not thought to be looking for anyone else in connection with the death, which I knew was police talk for suicide. Kevin McDaid had killed himself. I thought for a second how it wasn’t really fair. His death wouldn’t have been as violent as Rose’s. Don’t they say drowning is quite peaceful in the end?

  He had escaped justice. Escaped standing in front of Rose’s family and telling them all why. Telling them sorry. Looking Jack Grahame in the face and telling him he was sorry for taking his mother away.

  But then again, he was dead. Gone. Surely Cian could start to move on now? Surely this provided some closure for him? Surely he would feel a sort of relief in knowing that man wasn’t out there living his life, and would never be living his life again. He wouldn’t serve a few years in some cosy cell with his Xbox to keep him company, eating his three square meals a day and not having to worry about finding a job, or paying the heating bill or any of those things we had to worry about here on the outside. He wouldn’t one day walk out of the gates of the prison, if he even got sent to jail in the first place, and get to start over. He wouldn’t get to enjoy new beginnings.

  Kevin McDaid wouldn’t feel anything ever again. He wouldn’t hurt anyone ever again. He wouldn’t destroy another life.

  I climbed out of bed, walked to the kitchen and poured myself another glass of water, which I drank quickly, as if it would have magical sobering properties. I stood in the kitchen, shivering in my underwear, and tried to read my phone again. Tried to take in what was in front of me. Someone posted that they had seen him go in. Seen him jump.

  Someone else said it was good enough for him.

  Another person said McDaid had been drinking and spoofing that he would be out of jail in a couple of years just hours before he went missing.

  An anonymous profile – an obviously made up name – said his mother had received a text message from him, had panicked and sent a search party out and this whole sorry state of affairs was about to get really messy.

  ‘You couldn’t make it up’ someone else had typed.

  ‘Unless you’re Cian Grahame. He could make anything up’ someone replied, complete with laughing emoji.

  All entertainment for the masses, it seemed, this nightmare in people’s lives. I had to stop myself telling people they mightn’t be so flippant if they had been there.

  *

  Two things dominated my thoughts the following morning. The death of Kevin McDaid and, if I’m honest, the impact that the death of Kevin McDaid may have on my plans to meet with Cian that Saturday.

  I’m not sure what I was expecting in the surgery – a sense of all coming right with the world, perhaps? Maybe some sort of morally questionable glee at the news McDaid was dead? I’m not saying my colleagues were mean-hearted, or the kind of people who would take any pleasure from the suicide of another, but in this instance it would be understandable in the circumstances, wouldn’t it? I mean, we would all pretend we weren’t feeling that way, but we would be. Bec
ause he was a bad man. We’d do our best not to think about the family and friends he left behind. We had probably already judged them as lacking in some way anyway.

  But there was no glee – partially hidden or otherwise – at Scott’s that morning. People look worn out and tired. The veneer of keeping up appearances for the sake of the clients coming through the doors was wearing thin, so thin it was almost transparent in places. Look hard enough, or even a little, even more than a cursory glance, and the strain was showing.

  The door to Owen’s office was closed. I could hear voices inside, raised, emotional. Donna and Owen talking. I wanted to put my ear to the door, to listen in properly, but the office was in clear view of the waiting area, where any of our patients could look up and see me clearly being a nosy baggage.

  So I took a deep breath and walked on to the kitchen where the face of St. Rose stared down at me. I wondered what she would make of it all? She was the kind of woman who would have probably forgiven Kevin McDaid for killing her before the last breath had escaped from her perfectly lined lips. She wouldn’t have wanted a double tragedy to come out of it all. Two families plunged into grief instead of just one. I wondered what she would think of Cian messaging me and asking to meet with me? Would she be as magnanimous about me as she would no doubt be about Kevin McDaid? Some things could be forgiven more than others. I had to remind myself I wasn’t doing anything wrong. Nor was Cian. We were just two people meeting for tea. In a platonic way. Even if I allowed myself to occasionally drift into daydreams where he stood, his new book aloft in one hand, my hand holding the other. Smiling from my Facebook page.

  I filled the kettle. The need for caffeine was strong, as was the need to eat the jumbo-sized croissant I had picked up in the M&S Foodhall in Foyleside before going to the surgery. I looked in the fridge hoping to find some butter to spread thickly – needing as many calories as possible to soothe my stomach but I was out of luck; I’d have to eat the croissant dry. And, by the looks of it, drink the coffee black. It wasn’t like Donna not to have picked up milk on her way in, but then again, these were extraordinary times. A bit of forgetfulness now and then was only to be expected. I topped up my coffee with cool water and checked my phone one last time before I had to put it in my locker.

  A public post from Liz McDaid was being shared widely, complete with a picture of Kevin McDaid, wearing a suit and grinning lopsidedly at the camera, a beer can raised in a cheerful salute to whoever was behind the lens. Although littered with errors and text speak, her message was all too clear.

  This is my boy. Youse will all be talking about how he died by now. Everyone in this town likes a gossip and I no there are lots of folk out there who will be smilin at the news of Kevin’s death. Shame on u all! He was no angel but he was only 19, his hole life was ahead of him. I no he didn’t mean to kill that woman in the accident, but u lot r so quick to judge. He was a good boy. He had his problems but he was a good boy. My only son. And don’t listen when people tell you he killed himself. Kevin wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t do that on me. He always said he would watch out for me. Me and him were a pair. He wouldn’t of left me like that. And youse know he was going to be a daddy soon. He was relly looking forward to that.

  People would want to be lookin closely at what happened and ask some questions of the cops. Because my boy wouldn’t do that. He wouldnt go in the river. He didn’t run from his problems.

  Don’t be coming round our house to gawk at him and to pretend to be his friend when youse wouldn’t of spit on him when he was livin. Where were youse all these last few weeks? When he needed u? Look at urselves. What youse did to my boy. Only his friends are allowed at the wake, and keep away from the funeral to. RIP our Kev. My wee son.

  I felt for Liz McDaid. Of course I did. She was a grieving mother, trying to come to terms with the loss of her son and the legacy of hurt he had left behind. But surely she, more than anyone, knew the kind of person he was? His criminal record spoke for itself, never mind that he had admitted killing Rose! A mother’s love must really be unconditional, I thought. Then I tried to push out my thoughts on my own mother and our fractured relationship.

  It was distasteful that Liz McDaid was speaking so openly over social media given what Kevin had done and that she was trying to pin the blame elsewhere. I knew the sort – the kind that would always, always look to blame someone else rather than point the finger where it really needed to be pointed. It was a shame though, even I had to admit, that McDaid’s child would never know his or her daddy – but then again, who wanted a childhood visiting daddy dearest in prison?

  I clicked off the link and was just opening my locker when Donna walked into the staffroom. She looked flustered, a pinkish blush on her cheeks that complemented the red tinge around her eyes as if she had been crying.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I asked, well aware I was asking the most stupid question in the world and the obvious answer was that no, of course she wasn’t okay.

  She fixed a smile on her face. I could see it took considerable effort to do so – to pull all her facial muscles into the right shape. ‘I am,’ she said softly. ‘This is all just very strange. I don’t know what we’re supposed to feel. It makes it raw again, but it’s done, isn’t it? It’s over. It’s closure – but we still have to grieve for Rose. None of this brings her back.’

  I nodded, rubbed her arm gently, tried to think of something to say.

  We were interrupted by Tori arriving, narrowly avoiding walking into the door frame while she gawked at her mobile phone. ‘Did you guys see this? This post from Kevin McDaid’s mother?’

  I didn’t answer, didn’t want to let even a hint of my obsession out by admitting that of course I had seen it, and read it in detail, but Donna grabbed the phone from Tori and scanned the screen.

  ‘What does it say?’ I asked, pretending I didn’t know.

  ‘A lot of things – that he was a decent fella.’ Tori rolled her eyes at that. ‘And she didn’t believe he would have killed himself. I wouldn’t say he accidentally fell off the bridge though, would you? And I heard they found his belongings, folded neatly on the footpath, plus his mum got a text message. You can’t send that kind of text message by accident.’

  Donna looked up from the phone. ‘Your friend seems to know a lot; the rumour mill in this town would sicken you.’

  Donna’s voice was harsh, angry – more angry than I had ever seen her. Poor Tori visibly cowered as Donna thrust her phone back into her hand. ‘It’s all tasteless – chatting about it. He’s dead. He killed Rose – our friend Rose. Then he had the decency to kill himself too, which was good enough for him if you ask me. Now I think we should remember we’re here to work and get on with being professional – if you remember how to do that.’

  Tori looked as though she had been slapped in the face. ‘I didn’t mean anything …’ she stammered. ‘I just … didn’t …’

  ‘Didn’t think. You didn’t think,’ Donna said. ‘Now put your phone away and let’s get on with today.’

  Donna slammed her own locker shut, turned on her heel and left. I could see Tori’s hands shaking as she put her bag and phone away. ‘I didn’t mean anything,’ she said to me, her voice trembling. I could see tears sitting in her eyes. ‘I thought we were talking about it. Donna usually talks about things.’

  ‘Try not to take it personally,’ I said, trying to soothe her. ‘I think the news just has everyone a bit on edge. It’s bound to bring up a lot of feelings about Rose and how she died.’

  ‘I loved her too,’ Tori said, as she left the room. ‘She was my friend too.’

  ‘I know,’ I said, and I couldn’t think of anything else to say to comfort her because Donna had been out of line. Whether or not her feelings were raw didn’t really matter. Tori hadn’t deserved that. And still, the horrible inner part of me was even more glad that I hadn’t admitted to reading the post myself.

  Chapter Twelve

  2008

  Rose

 
Rose Maguire: said yes!

  The stone in my engagement ring glinted under the bright lights of the dental surgery. I allowed myself a moment to revel in it – the way it caught the light and threw it back at me – before I slipped on my latex gloves and set to work.

  We’d kept it quiet for a bit – not because we weren’t happy. We were happy, deliriously so, but because Cian said it would be nicer to hold the secret just to ourselves for a while.

  I’d wondered if he’d been embarrassed about my ring – even though I wasn’t, not at all. But I know he wanted to give me more than he did. The ‘diamond’ in my ring was a rather lovely cubic zirconia, which to the untrained eye would look no different, but so many people had trained eyes these days. They’d wonder whether it was a platinum or white gold setting when the truth was it was silver. It had cost a little over £100 and he had vowed, on his knee in front of me, that when times got better he would replace it with my dream ring.

  I didn’t want any other ring, I told him. I was entranced by the romance of it – that this ring was all we needed to say we loved each other. It made our love purer. Didn’t it?

  ‘I will get you another ring,’ he had said again, a determination in his voice. ‘You deserve more.’

  I thought all I needed – all I deserved – was to be with him in the room we were in, in our lives together. Our flat. Our easy existence, me going out to work, him writing. I had such faith in him that I didn’t mind paying the bills, keeping us afloat. We were a team.

  But Cian? He sometimes seemed not only to be embarrassed that I was the primary breadwinner in our relationship, but even resentful about it.

  ‘It should be me providing for you, not the other way around.’

  ‘Don’t be so silly,’ I’d chided him. ‘This isn’t the 1950s. We’re in this together. It’s not like you’re not working – you’re writing a book, Cian. One I know you’ll have great success with.’