Page 1 of Final Betrayal

PROLOGUE

TEN YEARS EARLIER

The body was heavier than he’d thought it would be. How could one so young and thin weigh so much?

He dragged her to the opening and shoved her down into the depths with the sole of his boot. Unwrapping the tools he needed from the hessian cloth, he deposited them in the rucksack and hauled it onto his back, then lowered himself down after her.

Hauling her along the ground until he reached the area he wanted, he positioned her upright so that her dead eyes could see him work. It took some time, but when he was finished, he didn’t get the feeling of accomplishment he’d thought he’d have. But no one would ever see her. Not down here.

Walking backwards, he made his way like a hunchback, sweeping away all indications that anyone had been here with a small brush he’d had in the bag. Squeaks and swishes accompanied his movement. Down here it was like another world. He felt safe and free. He didn’t want to leave. At this moment he felt he could go back there and lie down on the earth, close his eyes and join her in her final resting place. A black hole for a bitch who had rejected him.

He slogged on, untangling his jacket as it snagged on a jutting rock. The climb upwards was more difficult than his descent had been. He clutched the protrusions on the wall and heaved himself up and out. Sliding the covering back over the hole, he made sure there were no visible clues left behind. A quick glance around told him no one had seen him.

Back at the car, he threw the rucksack into the boot. The temperature had dropped in recent days and winter was biting on the horizon like a ravenous dog. He didn’t like winter. Or the cold. No, he much preferred the long summer nights when he could wander around for hours; when the moon appeared in a sky full of stars and he could howl like a wolf in heat if he had a mind to.

He felt the first drops of rain and jumped into the car before the black clouds burst. He had done the job. All would be well now. He was safe.

It wasn’t until the next day that he discovered his nightmare had only just begun.

ONE

Conor Dowling stood outside the gates of Mountjoy Prison and breathed in the city air. It was the same air he had breathed inside the walls for the last ten years, but somehow it seemed fresher out here. Free. He blew out a long breath, shouldered the bag that held his meagre possessions and took his second step to freedom. Alone.

There was no one waiting to pick him up. No reporters even. But he hadn’t expected any. Once he’d been found guilty and consigned to spend the best part of his life, his twenties, behind the grey walls of the prison, his story had gone so cold it had merged with the snow of time.

He listened to the city sounds as he walked away, one foot in front of the other, without a backward glance.

Back in Ragmullin, Conor stared from across the road at the terraced house. It hadn’t changed at all in the last ten years. It appeared the grass hadn’t even been cut. It was still early morning as he crossed the road and opened the creaking gate hanging on one hinge. He didn’t have a key, so he raised his hand to knock on the door. It was his own home, and here he was, like a stranger. Lowering his hand, he moved to the front window. The reflection of a stranger stared back at him.

At thirty-five, he was tall and skinny, with a head of uneven stubble. Gone was the shoulder-length hair his mother had called high-maintenance. When he was fourteen, she’d gifted him a second-hand battery-powered razor, which he’d become fascinated with, and along with shaving his head, he had taken to shaving his body hair. That was what he wanted to do again now. His fingers itched to find a razor and feel the sharpness run down his chest and legs. To free his skin of fuzz.

He moved back to the front door. Tried the latch. It opened. He put one foot on the worn laminate floor inside, and then the other. The familiar smell was the first thing to bring back memories.

The pungent odour of bacon and cabbage, along with stale grease, wrapped around him. How could that be? Conor knew his mother had been the recipient of Meals on Wheels for at least the last four years. His friend Tony Keegan had told him that. Some friend, Conor thought. At least he visited him in prison every couple of months. But Conor had the feeling he only did that to check that he was still safely inside. His mother had never visited him.

He opened the door to the living room, expecting it to be empty. Gulping down a deep breath of the fetid air, he saw his mother sitting in a faded, well-worn armchair. She looked taller than he remembered, but then he noticed that the legs of the chair were propped up on slats of timber.

Vera Dowling was only sixty-five years old, but she was eaten up with rheumatoid arthritis, which gave her the appearance of a woman at least twenty years older. Standing behind her, he noticed her lumpy hands crooked around the arms of the chair. Slowly she turned.

‘Today’s the day, is it?’

Her voice had once been sharp and strong. It was still sharp, Conor conceded, but no longer strong.

‘Yeah, Mam. I’m home.’

‘I hope you weren’t expecting a party with balloons and flags. Not my scene at all.’

‘I wasn’t expecting anything.’

Still he stood behind her chair. He’d faced up to the most dangerous criminals in jail, and here he was like a schoolboy frightened of the class bully.

‘Come round here where I can see you, lad.’

He didn’t want to face her, but eventually he shunted the message from his brain to his feet and moved to stand in front of her.

‘Did they not feed you in that place?’ She raised a swollen hand; scrabbled around the side of the chair and found her walking stick. Holding it like a sword, she pointed it at him, jabbing his chest. ‘Bones, that’s all you are. Now that you’re back, you can start cooking for me and for yourself. You can cancel that plastic food, too.’

Taking a step backwards, out of range of the stick, he said, ‘Plastic food?’

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