Page 18 of Three Widows

Unable to dredge up any other significant memory of the night, she recalled having the light on in the room, and then it was suddenly dark. She’d blacked out. She really needed to get a grip on her life, otherwise these fleeting episodes could become the norm.

Stepping out of the shower, she wrapped a towel around her body and wiped the steam from the mirror. Her hair dripped and frizzed into curls as she stared at herself. There were no telltale marks on her skin except for heat blotches. It had been a hallucination. She needed to go back on her meds. That meant she couldn’t drink, and she needed to drink to dull the pain.

With wet feet, she stomped back into the room. Grabbing the bottle from its hiding place, she took it to the bathroom and poured it down the toilet. Enough was enough. She had to take control of her life or, worst-case scenario, she would die from alcohol poisoning. Sometimes that was what she wished for. Shaking off her morbid thoughts, she worked out her plans for the day.

She had to talk to Éilis.

There was no way she could continue the Thursday-night sessions with Éilis, Jennifer and Orla. It had been good for a while, helping her to forget. She drank too much on those evenings, but she told herself it was only one night in the week, so what harm was it doing? But then she found herself drinking at other times to obliterate the memories. Thursday night morphed into Friday and then the weekend. The only days she was actually sober were Monday to Wednesday, and even then she was anxious for Thursday to arrive. That meant that for four days out of seven she functioned in an alcoholic fugue. It had to stop. No longer could she use a crutch to blot out the past. She had to face it, and if that meant revealing the widows’ secret, then so be it.

Hurriedly she dressed in her best underwear and a blue cotton dress adorned with yellow butterflies. She tied up her hair to hide the frizz and slipped her feet into her comfortable NeroGiardini sandals. They added two inches to her five-foot-three height. Once she was ready, she had an overwhelming desire to have a drink before she left. Not water. Not coffee. She craved a tumbler filled to the brim, one hundred per cent proof.

Helena McCaul had shrouded truth in delusion for so long, she wasn’t even sure if she had a serious alcohol problem or not.

11

Éilis Lawlor’s children, eight-year-old Roman and five-year-old Rebecca, sat at the table. Kellogg’s Sugar Puffs were scattered across the surface. Milk had dribbled to the floor after Becky spilled it while trying to pour it from the carton onto her breakfast.

‘Roman, where is Mammy?’ Becky said.

Her brother groaned. He didn’t want to worry his sister, but why wasn’t Mam around? ‘I don’t know. Will I ring Bianca? She might know where she is.’

‘She never stays out all night. She always comes home.’

‘Stop sniffling. Eat your breakfast, then I’ll call Bianca.’ He looked around, wondering where he would find the babysitter’s number. He saw their mother’s phone charging on the counter. He leaped up and unplugged it. He knew her PIN code. She’d told him it in case of an emergency. This felt like an emergency.

‘That’s Mammy’s phone!’ Becky yelled. ‘Why is it here when she isn’t?’

‘She probably forgot to bring it out with her. Give me a minute.’

Roman turned his back to his sister. No point in worrying her further. He walked to the sliding glass door and looked out at the sun shining on the wicker patio furniture. His dad had put down the patio. Roman remembered the day was so hot and his daddy had made him wear a floppy sunhat. Gross. He didn’t think Becky was even born then because he had no memory of her being around, moaning like she always did.

He scrolled through his mam’s contact list and found Bianca’s name. He was about to tap her number when he thought of something. Turning to Becky, who had Sugar Puffs stuck in her hair, he said, ‘Where’s Mozart?’

She dropped her spoon and jumped off the chair, shouting for the dog. ‘Mozart! Where are you? Mozart?’ Then she turned to Roman, her little mouth downturned and her eyes big pools of tears. ‘I don’t know where he is.’

‘He’s probably with Mam. Hold on.’ He tapped Bianca’s number and kept his fingers crossed. ‘Hi, Bianca. Do you know where our mammy is?’

‘Is that you, Roman? You’re ringing off her phone. Isn’t she at home?’

‘The phone was on the counter, but we can’t find her or Mozart.’

‘She probably brought him out for a walk to the shop to get milk for your breakfast.’

‘We have milk. We’re eating our breakfast.’

‘Right. I’ll ask my mam if she knows where yours is. Then I’ll call over. Okay, sweetie?’

He usually hated it when she called him that, a name for babies, but in this moment Roman felt as helpless as a baby. ‘Don’t be long. Rebecca is scared.’

He hung up and sat at the table. ‘We better finish our breakfast and clean up the table. We don’t want Mam to be mad when she comes home with Mozart.’

‘Roman? She never brings Mozart to the shops.’ Becky burst into tears.

Little flutters of fear trickled along the hairs on his neck. He leaned over and held his sobbing sister in his arms. He had a bad feeling. A very, very bad feeling.

12

Kirby went out to the yard at the back of the station and lit his cigar. After a few quick drags, he coughed loudly in the smoky haze and debated sending a text to Amy. He wanted to meet her this evening. He needed an ally, and she would be the perfect antidote to a bad day at work. Then he realised he didn’t know where she worked. Knew absolutely nothing about her. The euphoria of waking up with her by his side had all but disappeared.

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