buildings right opposite this one, with windows that faced right on to her kitchen. She got up, crossed quickly to the kitchen window and slammed shut the blinds with a shaking hand.
She looked again at the hair. It was the same texture and colour as her father’s had been before it became peppered with grey; the same colour as her own. Was that George’s? Harry’s? It wasn’t her mother’s; mum had been bottle-blonde just about forever.
Suddenly she didn’t want to be here alone in this big, echoing apartment with its lovely views. She went through to the sitting room and shut the blinds in there too, then went to the front door. She checked it was locked, and put the chain on.
After that she began to unwind, just a bit. Aware that she had been holding her breath, she told herself breathe, you idiot. No wonder you thought you were going to faint, you have to breathe.
She wished someone was here with her, someone who was a bit of a bruiser, an action-man type. Oh, you mean like Lorcan Connolly? shot into her brain. The one who caused you tears and heartache, and turned out to be the rottenest, most chauvinistic bastard you’d ever met?
Come on , she told herself. Get a grip, okay?
She went back into the kitchen. The hair still lay there on her table. Gracie stared at it and shuddered. Then she hurried back into the sitting room and went to the answering machine. She hadn’t wiped the messages. She replayed them, five al together, two about business, and three from the girl called Sandy, each one more distraught than the last.
She listened to Sandy’s messages again, tuning in this time, paying close attention. George was in hospital, Harry was fuck-knew-where. Sandy gave her phone number – a mobile, not a landline. Gracie wrote it down on the pad, cleared the messages, and dialled.
No answer.
Gracie went and took a shower, slipped on her slouchy indoor-wear, and made herself a warming cup of tea. She kept glancing through the open doorway at the hair on the kitchen table. She didn’t think she could keep down any food, so she didn’t bother trying. Instead she turned on the evening news, listening but hardly hearing any of it, the note constantly replaying in her mind. Call the filth on this and you’re all dead. She phoned Sandy’s mobile again at seven, then at eight. It went straight to voicemail. She left a message, said please call.
At nine, Sandy did.
‘Hi. Sandy?’ asked Gracie, quickly muting the TV with the remote.
‘Yeah. Hi. How are you?’ The girl sounded exhausted.
‘Fine. How’s George?’
‘I’ve been at the hospital all evening with him. He’s about the same. Still in intensive care.’ She sounded tearful again. ‘It’s horrible in there.’
‘I can imagine,’ said Gracie, although truthfully she couldn’t. ‘Did Mum go in with you?’
‘She’s going tomorrow. We’re taking turns, makes it a bit easier.’
‘Can you give me her number again? I mislaid it after you left it yesterday.’
‘Sure.’ Sandy repeated the number. ‘Pity you’re not closer, you could come and see him.’
‘Yeah I could.’ Gracie glanced through to the kitchen, looked at the dark red hair there – one of her brothers’ hair. It belonged either to handsome, gentle, idle Harry, or loud, chunky Jack-the-lad George. Probably it was Harry’s. She wasn’t going to tell this poor, wretched-sounding girl about the hair. She wondered if she should tell the police about it, show them the note, but it had stipulated no cops . . . and Harry was missing. And they’d said they were watching her.
‘Listen, I’m coming down to London,’ she said, the words coming out almost of their own volition.
‘Really? When?’
Gracie thought about that. She looked again at the hair. ‘Tomorrow,’ she said.
Chapter 12
21 December
Gracie called in on Brynn next day at his sister’s place and told him to take over, that she was going down South for a bit.
‘How long’s a bit?’
She looked again at the hair. It was the same texture and colour as her father’s had been before it became peppered with grey; the same colour as her own. Was that George’s? Harry’s? It wasn’t her mother’s; mum had been bottle-blonde just about forever.
Suddenly she didn’t want to be here alone in this big, echoing apartment with its lovely views. She went through to the sitting room and shut the blinds in there too, then went to the front door. She checked it was locked, and put the chain on.
After that she began to unwind, just a bit. Aware that she had been holding her breath, she told herself breathe, you idiot. No wonder you thought you were going to faint, you have to breathe.
She wished someone was here with her, someone who was a bit of a bruiser, an action-man type. Oh, you mean like Lorcan Connolly? shot into her brain. The one who caused you tears and heartache, and turned out to be the rottenest, most chauvinistic bastard you’d ever met?
Come on , she told herself. Get a grip, okay?
She went back into the kitchen. The hair still lay there on her table. Gracie stared at it and shuddered. Then she hurried back into the sitting room and went to the answering machine. She hadn’t wiped the messages. She replayed them, five al together, two about business, and three from the girl called Sandy, each one more distraught than the last.
She listened to Sandy’s messages again, tuning in this time, paying close attention. George was in hospital, Harry was fuck-knew-where. Sandy gave her phone number – a mobile, not a landline. Gracie wrote it down on the pad, cleared the messages, and dialled.
No answer.
Gracie went and took a shower, slipped on her slouchy indoor-wear, and made herself a warming cup of tea. She kept glancing through the open doorway at the hair on the kitchen table. She didn’t think she could keep down any food, so she didn’t bother trying. Instead she turned on the evening news, listening but hardly hearing any of it, the note constantly replaying in her mind. Call the filth on this and you’re all dead. She phoned Sandy’s mobile again at seven, then at eight. It went straight to voicemail. She left a message, said please call.
At nine, Sandy did.
‘Hi. Sandy?’ asked Gracie, quickly muting the TV with the remote.
‘Yeah. Hi. How are you?’ The girl sounded exhausted.
‘Fine. How’s George?’
‘I’ve been at the hospital all evening with him. He’s about the same. Still in intensive care.’ She sounded tearful again. ‘It’s horrible in there.’
‘I can imagine,’ said Gracie, although truthfully she couldn’t. ‘Did Mum go in with you?’
‘She’s going tomorrow. We’re taking turns, makes it a bit easier.’
‘Can you give me her number again? I mislaid it after you left it yesterday.’
‘Sure.’ Sandy repeated the number. ‘Pity you’re not closer, you could come and see him.’
‘Yeah I could.’ Gracie glanced through to the kitchen, looked at the dark red hair there – one of her brothers’ hair. It belonged either to handsome, gentle, idle Harry, or loud, chunky Jack-the-lad George. Probably it was Harry’s. She wasn’t going to tell this poor, wretched-sounding girl about the hair. She wondered if she should tell the police about it, show them the note, but it had stipulated no cops . . . and Harry was missing. And they’d said they were watching her.
‘Listen, I’m coming down to London,’ she said, the words coming out almost of their own volition.
‘Really? When?’
Gracie thought about that. She looked again at the hair. ‘Tomorrow,’ she said.
Chapter 12
21 December
Gracie called in on Brynn next day at his sister’s place and told him to take over, that she was going down South for a bit.
‘How long’s a bit?’
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