It Could Never Happen Here, page 28
‘So, what is it?’ she said, positioning herself in the centre of the room. She didn’t invite the teenager to sit. He wouldn’t be staying.
‘I’m not sure where to start …’
‘I’ve got ten minutes before I drop Amelia to school, so you’d better figure it out.’
‘It’s about the photos Amelia and the other girls sent to Woody – except they weren’t sending them to Woody, not really …’ And then he told her the worst thing she had heard in a long time. He talked quickly and clumsily, falling over certain words and abandoning sentences only to start them again, but he got the details out.
‘Seamus McGrath?’ she echoed.
‘Yes,’ he said uncertainly, and she realised she was a few sentences behind him.
She nodded and he continued. He told her how the school caretaker had come to contact Woody, that he had blackmailed him with some unspecified threat, and made the child send on all the photos of the girls. Seamus McGrath was looking at those photos. Seamus McGrath was looking at a naked photo of her beautiful, ambitious, confident daughter. Seamus McGrath, the school caretaker, a man well into his fifties, had all those photos.
The teenager explained how he didn’t know what to do, how he was technically an adult but didn’t feel like one, and how Ella had told him that Beverley always knew what to do. His dad had been like that, he said, but since he wasn’t around any more, he’d come to her. He thought Beverley was the kind of person he needed. He knew she wasn’t his biggest fan, but Glass Lake was important to her and obviously Amelia was important to her and maybe she’d know what to do.
‘Do you know what to do?’
‘I just have to think …’ she replied, though instinctively she knew exactly what to do. She would get in her car and drive around Cooney in circles until she saw Seamus McGrath crossing the road on Main Street or pulling into the hardware shop down by the pier, then she would mount the pavement and run him over. Or perhaps she would wait until he was at the top of a ladder, fixing the spotlights on the auditorium stage, and she would charge across the stage and topple the thing, sending him crashing to his death. The details were vague, but the outcome was clear: she would kill him.
‘I thought about going to the guards but they’re not big fans of our family. A lot of them are in the GAA club and they weren’t too happy when Mike Roche Senior moved away. Anyway, it would be too hard to prove. It’s just an email address – how can I prove that Seamus was the one operating it? Even though I know he was. Maybe we could get a confession? What do you think about that? Mrs Franklin? Do you think we could get him to confess?’
‘I’m thinking …’
It was not the photo she had walked in on Amelia taking that she saw in her mind’s eye, but rather the framed one in the living room, the one of Amelia in her school uniform, her navy stockings pulled right up to the hem of her skirt, and grinning so widely you could see her missing tooth. Seamus McGrath had taken that.
Arlo ran through their various options, but none fit the bill. There was nothing for it but to get rid of the depraved man. It was almost serene, this visceral realisation. She’d gone from nought to ready to kill in a matter of seconds, and she was fine with it. She knew now that this was what her mother was talking about. This was the defining point in her life, the one she would recollect on her death bed and know she had done what was right, the one where she was led by love for her children and a desire to protect the vulnerable.
‘Mrs Franklin?’
‘Yes,’ she replied in that same sharp, defensive tone she used when they were at a Lakers meeting and Claire caught her daydreaming.
‘What … what should I do?’
‘You’ll leave it to me.’
Arlo nodded, waiting for her to say more.
‘It’s Wednesday now so … today. I’m at the school this evening. It’s the last night of preparations before opening night tomorrow.’
‘I’ll be there too,’ said Arlo. ‘It’s my last few hours’ work with Glass Lake. Seamus has me helping with lights and some other bits. Will we talk to him then? But there’ll be a lot of other people around. Maybe it’d be better to confront him somewhere more private? If we want to get a confession? But then I don’t know where. He’s not at the school today. He’s out collecting some final set pieces. I’m not sure where he is exactly ...’
‘This evening at Glass Lake will be fine,’ declared Beverley. Amelia was in danger of being late for school, and she had a lot to organise. ‘I’ll see you then, Arlo.’ She stood from her stool and walked the teenager to the door. ‘We’ll keep this between ourselves, all right? It’s only another few hours, and it won’t help to tell anyone else. Is that—’ She peered out the glass panel, but she had imagined the sound of her daughter’s hand-me-down banger pulling up. ‘So, we’re agreed? We’ll keep it between us?’
So used was she to getting her own way that Beverley took this to be a closed matter. Nobody else was to know. She didn’t notice that the teenager hadn’t responded; she didn’t know that Arlo had one other confidant in mind.
37
••••••
ABERSTOWN GARDA STATION
Joey had felt sure today would bring a development, maybe even a resolution, but there was fifteen minutes left in his shift and he was no closer to understanding why Seamus McGrath had ended up in the River Gorm than he had been this morning. He’d chased his one lead and it had led to nothing. Frank Cafferty had been at the school all yesterday and he’d been surrounded by witnesses the whole time. What had he expected? That the mild-mannered teacher had pushed the unremarkable janitor to his death because they hadn’t gotten on particularly well?
The clock above the station exit ticked loudly and Joey watched the second hand make its journey around the face. The sergeant still wasn’t back from visiting Miriam McGrath and Joey had done every scrap of work he could think to do. He was just reaching for the pen jar – a few biros were wearing the wrong colour lids – when the phone rang. Joey dived for it.
‘Aberstown Station,’ he said breathlessly, just as the double doors pushed open and Whelan lumbered in from the cold.
‘This is Sergeant Mulhern. Is Sergeant Whelan about?’
‘He’s …’
Whelan was about two feet from him now, slowly removing his hat and reaching up to the coat stand.
‘I’ll just check … Can I tell him what it’s about?’
‘News on Seamus McGrath.’
Joey’s heart soared, then sank. Couldn’t this man have called two minutes earlier? Or couldn’t his sergeant have stopped for another sandwich?
‘Are you phoning from pathology?’
‘Forensics. Is the sergeant about or not?’
Reluctantly, Joey held out the receiver. ‘A call from forensics, sir. News on Seamus.’
His boss took the phone. ‘Sergeant James Whelan,’ he said, lowering himself into the chair.
The younger guard tried to hear what was being said down the line. But all he got was the creak of the sergeant’s battered chair as he rotated it towards the desk.
‘And they’ve done a thorough search?’ said Whelan, after an eternity of listening. He swung the chair again, so he now had his back to Joey. ‘No, I understand. Yes, I agree. Not what you’d want, but still. That does seem to settle the matter.’
38
••••••
THE EVENING BEFORE
On her third visit in almost as many weeks, Christine Maguire found the Glass Lake auditorium to be in a whole new state of disarray. It was the evening before opening night – officially the worst time of year to find yourself in the place – and the parents were frantically charging about the hall just as their children had done a week ago. Claire Keating’s husband was arguing with Mr Peoples, the choirmaster, while banging something out on the piano, and Beverley was lecturing several sheepish-looking parents on the stage. They may not have been dressed head to toe in the same colour, but the scene was oddly familiar.
She glanced around the auditorium, but there was no sign of Connie Whitehead. She had been feeling uneasy since Maeve’s confession on Monday afternoon and while she wanted to make her daughter own up to the prank phone calls and apologise, she also couldn’t help thinking about the why of it all. What had Mr Cafferty done that Woody was so eager to get rid of him? She didn’t want to add to Connie’s hardship, potentially over nothing, but it would be irresponsible to not at least voice her concerns to an adult member of the Whitehead family. She had been hoping to mention it to her, in a semi-casual way, this evening.
There was a roster board in the middle of the hall, but there was no sign of Connie’s name. Christina found her own name and headed over to Mrs Walsh. Glass Lake’s oldest staff member was standing before six towering stacks of plastic chairs and two towering mothers.
‘If you could just start to place some of these in rows …’ the Junior Infants’ teacher was saying, in what was clearly not her first plea.
‘I’m not putting out a single chair until someone gives me a good reason why my son can’t be the Munchkin mayor.’
‘My God, woman. There is no Munchkin mayor,’ snapped Lorna Farrell. ‘Beverley made it clear that this production is based on the book, not the film. There is no mayor in the book.’
‘I do not see the harm in letting my son wear a gold chain on stage,’ said the other woman, ignoring Lorna and beseeching Mrs Walsh. ‘We ordered it especially, paid for fast-track delivery and everything, and we’ve been doing character development for weeks now. He’s sitting on the floor at dinner time because, as a Munchkin, he’s too short to make it on to the seats, and he’s dreaming about chairing council meetings. The child is committed!’
‘Sounds more like he should be committed,’ muttered Lorna.
‘Ladies, please, we need to get these chairs out and in rows,’ begged Mrs Walsh. ‘I’d lift them myself if it wasn’t for my trapped nerves. Christine, dear! Hello! Could you start putting out the chairs …? Please?’
‘Of course, Mrs Walsh,’ she said, pulling a plastic seat from the top of the pile. She placed it down beside her and gave the auditorium another quick search. ‘Has anyone seen Connie Whitehead?’
‘Thank you, Christine, but the row actually starts at the other—’
‘Connie Whitehead doesn’t volunteer,’ scoffed Lorna. ‘Especially not now her son has been kicked out of the musical.’
‘So she’s not coming?’
‘The chairs, ladies, please!’
Christina took a chair from a separate pile and started a row going in the other direction. She had about five of them lined up when the double doors opened at the back of the hall and Arlo appeared, looking slightly frazzled.
He was an adult, technically – and speaking to him about it was better than nothing.
Mrs Walsh blocked her path. ‘Don’t go.’
‘I’ll just be a minute. I’ll be back.’
‘If you go, they’ll go. Please. I can’t put the chairs out myself. My back can’t handle it.’ The teacher looked up at her imploringly.
‘I …’
The double doors opened again, and she glanced over in time to see Arlo disappearing back out into the corridor. Beverley was down off the stage and hot on his heels. Whatever set design drama she wanted him for could wait until Christine had had a quick word.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Walsh, I really am. I’ll be right back,’ she called as she jogged off across the hall, side-stepping an argument about camera positions as she made her way out into the corridor.
‘Arlo!’ she called.
The teenager, who was halfway down the corridor, stopped. Beverley also turned. Then, Beverley started moving again, pulling the teenager with her. This was not a pairing Christine had expected. Just that afternoon, when she called to Butcher Murphy’s to get some lamb, she heard that Arlo and Ella Franklin had been secretly dating for months and that Beverley had just found out. So, unless Beverley was leading the teenager somewhere to do away with him …
She ran to catch up with them. ‘Can I speak to you for a minute, Arlo?’
‘Is it about your cat?’
‘Hmm? Oh no, that’s all fine. It’s about Woody, actually, and my daughter …’
‘Photos?’
‘No …’
‘Come on,’ said Beverley, pulling the teenager again. ‘We haven’t time.’
‘This is actually quite important, Beverley. If I could speak to Arlo in private for a minute …’
‘And what we’re doing is actually quite important too. Come on,’ she said again.
‘Can I find you later, Mrs Maguire?’ the teenager said, turning so he was walking backwards away from her.
‘This isn’t really the sort of thing that can wait,’ she said, following them.
‘I’m sorry, but we are in the middle of something.’
‘Maeve has been prank phoning Mr Cafferty,’ she said, annoyed that she’d been given no option but to have this conversation in front of Beverley. ‘She’s been doing it at Woody’s behest. She said Woody was trying to get Mr Cafferty to quit his job.’
‘Please, Mrs Maguire, could we talk about this later?’
‘Don’t you think that’s worrying? That your brother would want his teacher to quit his job that badly? I mean, what could he possibly have done?’
She couldn’t be sure, but she was pretty sure Beverley rolled her eyes.
‘Arlo!’
The teenager stopped again. ‘I’m really sorry Maeve got caught up in this. It won’t happen again.’
‘I’m not worried about Maeve. I’m telling you because of Woody. You don’t seem concerned. Would I be better speaking with your mother?’
‘No, don’t do that!’ Arlo glanced at Beverley. What was going on with these two? ‘I already knew about the calls. I only found out this morning, and I am sorry Maeve was involved, but it’s not what you think, and … we’re taking care of it.’
‘That’s enough,’ muttered Beverley, as they came to a halt outside Caretaker Seamus’s workroom.
‘I have to go,’ he said apologetically. ‘But thank you for letting me know. And you don’t need to worry. Thank you but—’
‘Ready?’ asked Beverley, hand on the knob. Then she pushed the door and disappeared inside.
‘Sorry,’ said Arlo again. ‘Thanks for the heads-up.’
And he, too, was gone.
Christine looked back down the corridor, then peered through the small window in the workroom door, but there was some sort of translucent paper stuck to the other side and she couldn’t see in. She felt a wave of irritation at the entitled way Beverley was commanding the teenager and (in spite of her commitment to never becoming too interested in Glass Lake goings-on) an itching curiosity to know what exactly this unlikely duo were up to.
She might not be up for writing sensationalist news stories, but she was still a journalist. It was her job – no, her duty – to be nosy.
‘Feck it,’ she said under her breath, and she pushed the workroom door open.
..................
‘Where is he? Where’s Seamus?’
Beverley had stormed through the door, all guns blazing, ready for an almighty showdown with the Glass Lake caretaker.
Instead, she was faced with the Glass Lake principal.
‘What are you doing here?’
Nuala Patterson barely blinked. ‘This is my school, Beverley.’
The door opened behind Beverley, and the principal’s face changed. It didn’t make sense – because it was Arlo Whitehead who had entered the room – but she could have sworn it softened.
‘Where’s Seamus?’ the teenager demanded, coming to a stop between her and the principal. Whatever about the tone Beverly had used, Nuala wasn’t going to accept that from a Whitehead.
But when the principal spoke, she sounded apologetic. ‘He’s not here,’ she said. ‘I already spoke to him.’
‘But we agreed.’
‘I know. I’m sorry, Arlo. But I didn’t want you getting mixed up in anything else. I took it upon myself. I’ve dealt with Seamus.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘He won’t be coming back,’ said Nuala.
Even though Beverley had been on the verge of murdering the man this morning, she felt a shiver run down her spine. This whole bizarre situation had gone up a notch. Arlo had told someone else about what was going on, despite her ordering him not to. And he’d told Nuala, of all people. Since when did these two speak to each other, let alone in courteous, apologetic tones? Nuala was talking like she was the one who owed Arlo something.
Beverley looked at the teenager, waiting for him to ask some of the many, obvious, follow-up questions. When he did not, she took it upon herself to interrupt this bizarrely cosy chat.
‘Okay,’ she said, raising a hand, like she was back in school, ‘someone needs to fill me in on what’s going on here – and quickly.’
‘Yeah,’ said a voice from behind her, and she spun around to find that Christine Maguire had followed them into the room. ‘I was about to say the same thing.’
39
••••••
Nuala Patterson’smind had been racing for several hours now. From the moment Arlo had appeared in her office earlier today, she had felt like she was floating outside her own body.
Seamus McGrath. The Glass Lake caretaker. Her caretaker. The man she had hired and trusted with so many jobs at the school. Seamus who opened the school in the morning and locked it at night, who fixed everything that needed fixing, who built the sets for the annual musical and took the class photos. Glass Lake was Nuala’s school, it was her responsibility, and she had taken her eye off the ball. Had she been so distracted by her personal dramas that she hadn’t realised what a perverted man was working under her roof?
There was a chance, she had told herself when Arlo had left her office under the false promise that she would sit tight until that evening, that he had got it wrong.
