Ruthless - страница 9

I should be dead too, she thought. I am a dead woman walking.

Her mind kept returning to the crash. Fergal tapping the dial. The propeller juddering to a halt. The heart-stopping plummet into the ocean, into the grip of ice-cold waters that should have claimed her life, not just the lives of Redmond and poor Fergal.

Cissie had kindly washed out her clothes the day before, and now Orla snatched them up. Throwing off the borrowed nightie and dressing gown, she dressed hurriedly then went to the door and listened. The house was quiet; the old couple weren’t awake yet. She crept downstairs and took a small amount of cash she found in the dresser drawer, then crammed her feet into a pair of Cissie’s shoes. They were a size too small, and chafed her sore feet, but she was too intent on getting away to notice.

Pulling on a coat, she silently unbolted the front door and stepped out into the blustery morning. She took up the bicycle, and started pedalling in the direction she had seen the lights of a village the night she arrived. From there, she could catch a bus to the nearest town. And then she would make her way home, to Limerick.

The Delaneys had started out in a modest house in Moyross. That was until Davey Delaney, tired of scraping a living on a factory floor, decided feck this and went to try his hand in London.

Old man Delaney had done pretty well there. After a spell as a bookie’s runner, he’d got into scrap dealing. And as soon as the money started to roll in, he’d set up a few sidelines – hijacking goods lorries, operating a couple of illegal gambling dens, and of course running prostitutes.

It hadn’t taken him long to carve out his niche among the London faces. And having established a little pocket of power for himself and his kin in Battersea, he defended it ferociously, coming down hard on anyone who tried to muscle in. He even managed to expand his territory, seizing control of a stretch of dockland across the river in Limehouse.

Life in the teeming dog-eat-dog city suited the brutal aspects of his nature. And the family thrived too. While in London, the wife dropped him some children: Tory first, then Patrick, then the twins – Orla and Redmond – then the baby of the family, Kieron. But they never forgot their roots. The proceeds of gambling, robbery and vice paid for a grand farmhouse a stone’s throw from the Shannon, and his wife was always nipping across, checking on the renovations and furnishing the place.

Eventually the old man admitted to his age, decided it was time to retire, let the boys take over. They leapt at the chance. And all went well, until the apple of his eye – Tory, his eldest, his most beloved son – was cut down in his prime.

Davey was never the same after Tory’s death. He withdrew to the farm, leaving the business to Pat, to Redmond and Orla. Kieron wasn’t interested, he fancied himself an artist. When the family came to visit, Davey would sit staring at the wall, making no attempt to join the conversation. Suspecting a nervous breakdown, his anxious wife steered him to the doctors. Within a year, they came back with a diagnosis: dementia. There was no question of Davey moving into a nursing home; he stayed on at the farm, the dream home declining with each year in fading grandeur, Davey losing his mind, his wife nursing him.

Now, Orla approached the farm. She paused outside to gaze around her. It was exactly as she remembered. Dad had been so proud of the place when he’d bought it, giving out about the thirty acres of land that came with it, and how old the place was.

Orla let her eyes drift over the stonework. It looked tired in places. But the house was still a fine big place, with panoramic views across open country towards the great grey sprawl of the river.

This was home, and she did have a few good memories of it. But oh, everything had happened here. For every good memory, there were ten bad ones.

She went to the big oak brass-studded door and pulled the bell chain. Far away in the house, she heard the thing echo and jangle.