Into the Night Sky Read online

  INTO

  THE

  NIGHT

  SKY

  Caroline Finnerty

  Also by CAROLINE FINNERTY

  The Last Goodbye

  In a Moment

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Published 2014

  by Ward River Press

  123 Grange Hill, Baldoyle

  Dublin 13, Ireland

  www.wardriverpress.com

  © Caroline Finnerty 2014

  Copyright for typesetting, layout, design, ebook

  © Poolbeg Press Ltd

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  1

  ISBN 978-1-78199-992-9

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  www.wardriverpress.com

  For Simon,

  My love, always.

  He stands in the evening stillness and breathes in deeply. The air is cold – it hits his lungs hard and sharp, tasting like wood smoke from the chimneys channelling their smoke upwards in diagonal lines. He exhales and watches his breath cloud out into the air in front of him. The grass is already white-tipped and everything looks bleached under the moonlight. It feels as though he is intruding into nature’s time – the time when she wishes to be left alone in the magic of night before the demands of a new day take over. Somewhere in the middle distance he can hear the dry snap of a twig breaking. He takes hold of the letter in his gloved hand and brings the paper up close to his face to read afresh the words he wrote just minutes before while sitting at the kitchen table. Their kitchen table. He studies his own handwriting for a minute. Already the words seem to be losing their familiarity – they don’t say everything that he wanted to say, like something got lost between his head and the paper.

  He folds the letter in half and picks up the white paper lantern. He secures the letter on a hook inside the top of the lantern which he then sets down while he roots for the box of matches in his pocket, finds it and takes one out. It makes a dry, scraping sound as he pulls it back along the rough red strip until “Shsssssisshh”, the flame hisses to life and the smell of sulphur enters his nostrils. He has always liked that smell. He brings the match to meet the lighting strip of the lantern and watches as it catches fire instantly and starts to glow a warm orange. It’s the same colour as when you look up at the sun with your eyes closed on a fine summer’s day and you can see the blood inside your lids.

  He holds the lantern steady with both hands, keeping it with him until the moment that he is ready to let go and then he releases it and it starts its ascent upwards, carrying his words with it. He looks on as it wobbles back and forth while it tries to find its first feet on the air and he worries that it might not make it up there after all. He watches anxiously but it holds its own and continues upwards until it is level with the slate rooftops of the nearby houses. It gets braver still and climbs above the yellow chimneypots, ready to go on its way, into the night sky.

  Chapter 1

  Something bad is going to happen. She can feel it. The feeling is suffocating. Stifling. What if she has stopped breathing?What if the duvet is covering her face?What if she accidentally rolls on top of her and smothers her?

  Ella Wilde bolts upright in the bed and reaches out to place a hand on her daughter Maisie’s small body to check yet again if she is still breathing. She feels the gentle rise and fall of her chest and, reassured, she lies back down. But the voice starts up again. Now! Quickly, you really need to check her now!Something bad is going to happen. She can’t shake it off. It is coming from the very kernel of her being. It is ten past four in the morning and this has been happening all night long. On and on it goes. She sits up again and reaches over to do the same thing and of course Maisie is still breathing, as she knew she would be. Logically she knows that at five months old Maisie is past the risk age for cot death but still the thought torments her. She tries to switch off and sleep, but then a niggling doubt perched on the ever-present gnawing feeling of dread starts again. Check her now, the voice says, she might have stopped now – and she has to check her because she knows that the one time she doesn’t check, is the time that something will happen.

  The clock reads six and she decides to get up and go upstairs to the kitchen of their converted Martello tower house, letting her husband Dan and Maisie sleep on in the bed. Outside the window the sun is starting to come up, lighting the sky in shades of orange and red. The sea glimmers silver. She can feel her heart thumping against her ribcage and she doesn’t know why.

  A while later Dan comes up the stairs with the baby in his arms. He hands her over to Ella and sets about making her a bottle.

  “You’re up early.”

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “I’ve noticed that you haven’t been sleeping well at all lately.”

  “I think I’m going mad,” she blurts out. “I can’t sleep. I lie awake all night long staring at the ceiling.”

  “Why?” he says, pushing two slices of bread down into the toaster while he waits for the bottle to heat.

  “I don’t know what is wrong with me.”

  “You’re just tired.”

  “It’s more than that. I’m exhausted all the time. I just can’t seem to get it together at all. It’s like the smallest of tasks stresses me out completely and sends me into a tizzy.”

  “Well, you’re under a lot of pressure at work.”

  “But this is different –”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I just can’t explain it.”

  “Look, once you have a decent night’s sleep you’ll be grand.”

  “Do you really think so?” She feels the pressure of tears build at the corners of her eyes but she blinks them back quickly.

  “Yeah, of course I do.”

  He is laughing now and she knows he doesn’t get it. He isn’t taking her seriously, he doesn’t understand how awful things have been for her lately and she doesn’t seem to be able to articulate it to make him understand. The problem is, she thinks wryly, that she’s not sure if she even understands it herself.

  Later she straps Maisie into her car seat and climbs into the driver’s seat. She’s not sure where she’s going to go but all she knows is that she can’t face staring at the stone walls of her kitchen all day. Dan is taking their two older children, Celeste and Dot, to their swimming lessons so it’s just her and Maisie alone together for the afternoon. She is about to turn the key in the ignition when the doubts start up again. What if she’s not strapped in properly?What if the straps are too loose? She doesn’t trust that she has done it properly so she has to get back out and check it again. This has been happening a lot lately. Her mind constantly questions itself.

  She drives down the steep incline from Land’s End Rock. The sea is twinkling on her left and yellow flowered gorse bushes and green scrub cover the rocks on her right. Her heart is thumping inside her chest, as it has been all night. She can’t shake off the feeling of d
read, like a hole in the pit of her stomach, that something awful is going to happen.

  She drives through the pretty fishing village with its pastel-coloured shop fronts and down by the coast. She crosses over the tracks of the DART line and then through grim, geometrically planned housing estates.

  Soon she finds herself on the dual carriageway. The blinding whiteness of the low-burning winter sun makes it hard to see the road before her. She is in the right-hand lane as cars whizz past in the lane on her left. She can see a driver come up close behind her in her rear-view mirror. He flashes his lights but she doesn’t move. He does it again. She ignores him, so he moves into the left lane and draws level with her. When she looks over at him, she sees that his whole face is contorted in anger. His index finger is stabbing at the air in front of him as he gestures at her to get out of the overtaking lane. She doesn’t need to hear him to tell that he is shouting. She turns away from him and studies the crash barrier running along the central median instead. Its smooth concrete form is glistening in the morning sunlight. She wonders, if she drove into it right now, would she cross over to the other side of it or would it just bounce her back onto her own? She hates these thoughts; they just arrive in her mind, plant themselves there like wild seeds, and take over until she has to use all her strength to push them out again. They keep coming lately and they frighten her.

  Eventually the man gives up and drives on past her.

  A while later she sees a sign for the exit for the city centre and, pulling erratically across two lanes of traffic, she decides that this is where she will go.

  Her tyres screech off the painted surface of the underground car park. Finding a space, she silences the engine. She gets out and sounds echo around like in a swimming pool. Gingerly she lifts Maisie’s car seat out and clips it onto the buggy frame, saying silent thank-you’s when she doesn’t wake.

  Outside she pushes Maisie along, aware as always of the double takes that her presence attracts. “Is that Ella Wilde?” she can hear them whisper. She lowers her head and keeps on walking. She sees a mother bending over her baby to kiss it in its buggy. Everything about the woman’s actions seems effortless. Why can’t she be like that? Why doesn’t it come to her that easily? She knows she is staring but she just can’t help it. She wants to go up and ask her how she does it. She wants to know what the difference is between her and this woman – what is she doing wrong? Suddenly out of nowhere she feels tears roll down her cheeks. All around her are women capable of meeting their children’s needs but she feels so overwhelmed by the basics. The woman rights herself and notices Ella looking at her. She flashes her a smile but Ella turns away and quickly pushes the buggy inside a shop.

  She takes the lift to the upper level where the designer clothes are. Exiting the lift, she stops in front of a black silk dress with a plunging neckline and runs her fingers over the cool material.

  A beautifully made-up girl, with fuchsia-pink lipstick, comes over and smiles at her, showing off perfect white teeth. Her heels leave tiny dents in the plush carpet as she walks. Ella feels ashamed of herself, but her immediate reaction is jealousy. She is jealous of her beauty. Jealous of the time she must have spent over her blow-dried hair that morning. Jealous of her smile. Her youth. Ella didn’t even brush her hair leaving the house, let alone put on make-up. Except for in work, she can’t remember the last time she even wore make-up.

  “Can I help you there at all?”

  She can almost see the girl’s mind working hard, trying to figure out where she recognises her from.

  “I’m just having a look, thank you.” She forces herself to smile back at the girl. She knows what will come next: ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking but you’re not Ella Wilde, are you?’ She turns and wheels the buggy away before she has to go through the usual exchange. She doesn’t have the energy for it.

  “Okay, well, I’ll be just over here if you need help – just shout,” the girl calls after Ella before walking off again in her stilettos.

  Ella fingers a wool skirt with scalloped beading before walking along to where high-heeled shoes and buttery-soft leather bags adorn the walls. She takes down a suede bag with a plaited leather handle. It’s the palest blue in colour – if it was on a paint chart the colour would be called ‘dewy morning’. Checking the label, she sees it is by an up-and-coming Irish designer. She recalls reading something about him in one of the magazines that came with the Sunday papers last week. She looks around and sees the sales assistant is chatting with another girl at the counter. She unzips the bag and looks inside at the silk lining before sticking her hand inside to check the pockets. Taking out the price tag she sees that it costs nine hundred and eighty euro. She knows she can afford to walk up to the checkout now and pay for it but instead she feels that buzz of adrenalin shoot around her body. The same one that she can never say no to. Her eyes scan the floor around her from left to right and back again. The sales assistants are looking in the opposite direction, still engrossed in their conversation. In one fluid movement she stuffs the bag into the bottom of the buggy underneath a blanket.

  Her heart is racing so loudly she can almost hear her blood as it is pumped through her veins. She is sure that they must be able to hear it too. She quickly pushes the buggy back over towards the lift and presses the button to call it, willing it to hurry up. She is convinced she can hear someone coming up behind her, but when she turns around she finds it’s just her imagination playing tricks. No one seems to have noticed her. The lift arrives and she shoves the buggy inside but has to wait for what feels like an eternity until the doors close. Her heart is thumping wildly. She can feel the tension in her shoulders. Sweat is building under her arms and she knows her face is red. Finally they draw closed and she dares to breathe again. Palms sweaty, she presses the button and they glide downwards to the ground floor.

  She sees Maisie has just woken and is now beaming up at her with the widest gummy smile, like she knows what they have just done. Ella smiles back at her, feeling a surge of love for her child. The lift announces their arrival at the ground floor, the doors separate and they walk out.

  “Excuse me!”

  Someone is calling her. She pretends not to hear them and pushes the buggy forward. She is near the door.

  “Excuse me, madam! Excuse me!” The voice is insistent.

  She keeps going forward, like a rugby player determined to get the try. She needs to get across the line.

  “Excuse me.” The voice is almost beside her.

  She is almost at the door now. Her stomach is somersaulting. In just three steps she will be at the door. Three . . . two . . . almost there . . . one . . .

  She feels a tap on her shoulder. She stops the buggy and turns to face the security guard. He is an inoffensive-looking middle-aged man, dressed in a suit.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, love, but is this yours?” He is holding her calfskin leather glove in his hand. “I think you dropped it as you came out of the lift a moment ago?”

  She can’t remember ever feeling more relieved in her life. “Oh sorry – I was miles away there.” She takes the glove from him. “Thank you, thank you so much.”

  “No problem, madam. I hope you have a lovely day.”

  “You too!” She steps outside onto Grafton Street and walks hurriedly up the street. It is not until she rounds the corner onto Duke Street that she dares to stop. She stands on the cobblelock and breathes in the cool air until she starts to calm down.

  Chapter 2

  Conor Fahy sees the three boys on the path outside his shop as he approaches it and immediately his heart rate quickens. They’re just kids, he tells himself. Don’t let them get to you.

  “Excuse me, please.” He tries to go around the tracksuit-wearing boys who are standing blocking the doorway to his shop. Whenever he moves right they move right, whenever he moves left they move left. “Come on, get out of the way,” he says, losing patience.

  “That’s no way to speak to the people who w
ere minding your shop for you, mister!” the tallest of the three, a freckly child with slitted eyes, says to him.

  He guesses they are aged somewhere between eight and ten.

  “Yeah, you were! Come on, clear off.”

  “No – you’ve got to pay us, mister,” the slitty-eyed child says.

  The smallest of the trio says, “A tenner – you owe us a tenner.”

  “Get out of here.”

  He gently pushes them out of the way but the middle one throws himself on the ground. “Aw, me arm, you hurted me arm!” He rolls back and forth across the path in mock agony. “He hurted me arm!” he shouts to a bewildered man walking past them on the path.

  “You better watch yourself, mister – that’s going to cost you! That’s no way to treat a youngfella who was watching your shop for yeh!” the oldest of the three says ominously.

  Conor steps over the writhing boy and goes inside his shop, ready to start another day.

  After he checks his emails, he goes out the back to open up the boxes that arrived yesterday from the wholesaler. He splits one open, running his blade down the brown tape. He reads the back covers of the books inside briefly. There is the new Linwood Barclay and a debut set amongst the Inuit people of Greenland, which has become a word-of-mouth sensation. He carries them out and makes a display in the window. He’s relieved to see that there’s no sign of the three terrorists. They must have finally got bored. The sun is glinting off the glass, showing up the hardened bits of cement that were splattered on there during the construction but were never cleaned off properly by the builders.