Page 81 of The Guilty Girl

‘Not at all, but I can’t understand how you had that blood on your—’

‘Neither can I, Mam, because I can’t remember. I think Inspector Parker was right to agree that I come here to be checked over.’

‘She can pay the bill then. I heard it’s like five hundred euros a day.’

‘It’s a public hospital, Mam.’

‘They’ll try to screw us.’ Babs folded her arms.

‘I don’t care.’ Hannah noticed that her mother hadn’t even asked how she was, and that filled her with a huge sense of loneliness.

‘You should come home with me now. Where are your clothes?’

‘I want to go home, but I don’t want to be arrested and I still feel sick. I’d better stay.’

‘I have to leave. Mrs Delaney is sitting with Olly, and if he catches her flu, you can mind him.’

‘Mam, where’s my phone?’

‘At the garda station. They wanted to examine it.’

‘Can they do that?’

‘They can do anything they bloody like.’

As Babs swept out of the ward, Hannah wished she’d pulled the curtain around the bed. The other women were staring at her.

Yeah, she thought, I have a stressed mother, but I know she cares for me.

No phone.

No way to contact Cormac.

And then she realised she didn’t even have his number.

* * *

It was beginning to spit rain as Noel Glennon pulled on a clean tracksuit to go for a run. He decided to sit out on his decking in the drizzle to smoke a cigarette instead. It felt like he was doing something, even though all he was doing was damaging his health.

He rang the number again, but there was still no answer. He had to find out if he’d slipped up anywhere. His head was thumping and he pulled deeply on the cigarette. There was one ace he could play. He didn’t want to do it, but he was left with no choice.

Tomorrow Richie Harrison could yell at him, but now was the time to plan.

* * *

Brontë Harrison listened to her baby’s heartbeat while Richie sat by her bed.

‘You need to tell my father I’m here,’ she said.

‘You’ll be home by morning. No point in worrying him.’

‘My father worries about no one other than himself.’

‘Why tell him, then?’

‘I hate it when you insist on being a fucking idiot. Forget it.’

‘There’s something I have to tell you, Brontë, and you’re not going to be pleased.’

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