It Could Never Happen Here, page 32
She pointed to the two electronic names above the seats: Beverley Franklin, Ella Franklin.
‘These are both taken,’ she said, before the woman got any ideas. ‘My daughter’s just in the bathroom.’
When the woman shuffled on, she returned her handbag to ‘Ella’s’ seat.
Her daughter was not in the bathroom, or anywhere else on this train. She was probably sitting in a lecture hall or crammed into that tiny shed of a place she and Arlo Whitehead now called home. But if Beverley was going to get public transport, she’d be damned if she was going to spend the journey wedged in beside a potential psychopath. So she’d booked both seats. It was the logical solution.
She’d been to Ella’s house twice now, and while it would not be to her liking – who gets a real tree, let alone still has it up in late January? – she was happy her daughter was happy. More importantly, she was happy she was talking to her. They hadn’t had anything worse than a disagreement since she moved out. Maybe absence really does make the heart grow fonder. Or maybe it was easier for Ella to be civil to her mother when she wasn’t trying to keep a lover squirrelled away on the top floor of their home. She’d still rather her daughter was dating someone with more prospects than Arlo Whitehead but, after the whole business with Seamus and the photos, she had a newfound respect for the boy. She felt confident, at least, that he’d do all he could to protect her daughter.
Her phone buzzed and she pulled it from her handbag.
‘Did you make the train?’
‘Of course I made the train, Mother. I’m sitting here now.’
‘Wonderful, a stór, just wonderful!’
‘Are you all right? You sound a bit out of it.’
‘No, no,’ said Frances, wind chimes jangling somewhere in the background. ‘I’m just getting everything ready for your visit. My lovely neighbours heard you were coming and they dropped around a few brownies for the occasion. Isn’t that lovely? I may have started on one, but I promise there’ll be lots here for you. You know, if you wanted to stay until Thursday, I’m running a beginners’ workshop and I think you’d really—’
‘I have to be back by Thursday, I told you. The camera crew is coming to film Amelia.’
‘Of course, of course. Dorothy finally goes to Oz!’
The musical had been cancelled after Seamus’s death, but a few weeks later The Big Children’s Talent Show got in touch to say they’d still like to feature Amelia, maybe with a solo performance of ‘Over the Rainbow’. Naturally, the other Lakers were already clandestinely complaining about nepotism, but their daughters couldn’t carry a note between them, and she had little time for shameless jealousy.
‘I’m going now, Mother. I’ll get a taxi from the station and I’ll see you shortly,’ said Beverley, pulling a newspaper out of her bag. ‘I have the Southern Gazette to read.’
Fiona Murphy’s estate agency business had appeared on the latest tax defaulters’ list – and Beverley hadn’t read a single newspaper article so many times since her own heyday in the acting limelight.
................
Christine was working on an article about Bill Farrell’s official mayoral bid. His wife was running his campaign and she had Christine bombarded with press releases. If she didn’t write something soon, Lorna’s accusations of political prejudice would start to have merit. But she didn’t care how many times the woman quoted them, she would not be likening Bill to Barack Obama or, and this was a journalistic principle she was willing to go to jail for, Lorna to Michelle.
‘Do you think something bad will ever happen again?’ asked Derek, despondently, from a desk across the room.
‘I don’t know, boss.’
Her editor sighed.
A real-life, legitimate mystery had finally happened in Cooney and it had been solved – in so much as a suicide note could solve anything – before he could even get an issue of the paper out of it. The pathologist’s report had brought an end to any remaining speculation or conspiracy theories. Derek hadn’t felt this shortchanged since Charlie Whitehead confessed to dangerous driving causing death, doing him out of a trial.
He was a good newspaper man, but he was not the most sensitive of humans.
‘Someone has to be up to something,’ he beseeched, continuing to make his way through the local phonebook. An ‘O’Sullivan’ had been added to Interpol’s ‘Most Wanted’ list the previous week and he was cross-referencing the name. For all his news hack cynicism, Derek remained an optimist.
‘Post,’ declared Amanda, appearing at the entrance to the office. She dumped three envelopes on their boss’s desk.
‘Hope!’ declared Derek, greedily ripping open the first envelope. ‘Another bloody complaint about all the Keating twins’ photos …’ He balled that one up and threw it in the bin. The next one, he waved above his head. ‘This is for you.’
Christine walked over to collect the latest Bill Farrell for Mayor missive.
‘Our last shot …’ he said, rubbing the final A4 envelope between his hands like a man about to roll the dice at a high-stakes craps table. ‘Come on, compromising photographs of a high-ranking official …’
He tore the top from the envelope and pulled the single photocopied sheet from within. It was, at least, a photograph.
‘Another missing cat! Who do these people think we are? We might be desperate, but we’ll never be that desperate. I spent seventeen months embedded with a notorious crime gang, and the subsequent six under garda protection. I do not report on missing bloody cats!’
The two journalists leaned over their boss’s shoulder to look at the flyer. ‘Dr Tickles,’ read Amanda. ‘Cute.’
Derek slammed the page down on his desk and stormed out of the office. ‘I’m going for a smoke! Call me when someone gets shot!’
Christine dedicated another forty minutes to putting some shape on the Bill Farrell article, then she grabbed her car keys and bag. Amanda had already left, and Derek was back at his desk, poring over the phonebook.
He looked up as she pulled on her coat.
‘Didn’t you say something terrible happened to your cat?’ he asked hopefully. ‘Someone stole him or crucified him or something?’
‘Our cat was abducted, yes, but just temporarily. All is well now, and he is safe at home.’
‘Oh,’ sighed Derek. ‘Great news.’
‘See you tomorrow, boss.’
He waved a hand distractedly in her direction as she disappeared out the door and down the stairs.
It had taken a while to get the last of the dye out of Porcupine’s fur but once they’d achieved it, he had settled back in easily. The children were more besotted with him than before and, with the musical scrapped, Maeve’s bedroom noticeboard had returned to being a shrine solely dedicated to the unworthy creature. Even Mrs Rodgers had eventually stopped lingering at their garden gate.
Personally, Christine would be delighted if nothing bad, or even exciting, ever happened in Cooney, ever again. Come back endless petitions and parental tiffs, all is forgiven! She’d seen Principal Patterson and Beverley a few times since the showdown in the Glass Lake workroom, but she hadn’t said more to them than a few words. Word around town was the Whiteheads had moved to the city – and Arlo was now sharing a house with Ella Franklin. Good for him.
She turned the car up Seaview Terrace, slowing as she passed Mrs Rodgers’ house – a habit she had yet to get out of. The older woman was sitting on her stoop, wrapped up against the January chill in a bulky coat, oversized hat and furry hand muff.
Only, it wasn’t a hand muff.
‘Is that …?’
Christine brought the car to a near stop.
Sitting on Mrs Rodgers’ lap, blocking her hands from view, was another cat. The woman smiled brightly as she stood from the step. With some trepidation, Christine rolled down the window. The cat had light ginger fur and a crude white stripe running down the centre of its forehead. It was identical to the animal from this afternoon’s missing poster … except for the white streak and about three extra pounds.
‘Hello, Christine,’ the woman shouted over. ‘Have you met Terence? He’s my cat. I’ve had him a long time now.’
Christine looked from the animal formerly known as Dr Tickles to her deranged neighbour. She opened her mouth but the words would not come. The animal stood on all fours and stretched. Unable to tear her eyes away, she felt for the window control.
‘Lovely to see you, dear,’ called Mrs Rodgers, as the cat nuzzled down to sleep and the window eventually, thankfully, shut.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
•••••••••••••
This was the first book I wrote after becoming a mother – and the first I wrote during a pandemic – so a lot of the process is a blur. But I must thank some of the people who helped me through it.
I wrote the first draft of It Could Never Happen Here in my parents’ house – which is ten minutes from my own. Covid-19 had just struck and my son was six months old and at home with his father while I headed off up the road to my childhood home to get a few hours’ writing in before breastfeeding called me back again. I was avoiding contact with my parents, bringing my own teacup and water bottle, and all childcare was off the table. It was a mad time.
As things relaxed slightly, my dad started to make me coffee and deliver it to the bedroom where I was writing. It was always served in the same Seamus Heaney mug – which has the word ‘Inspiration’ on it. I hope it had the desired effect, Dad. And thank you, too, for never asking how the writing was going. This book is dedicated to you.
My mam, a retired primary school deputy principal, inadvertently provided the initial spark for the book. She has given me so many ideas at this stage that she is likely owed a royalty. I am also grateful for the lockdown baking spurt she went through while I was writing in her house. Warm scones went very well with the Heaney coffee.
I’d like to be able to thank my son, but honestly, he was a terrible sleeper throughout the first draft of this and so not of much direct assistance. I do love you though, Ruan, dearly, and I am so very glad you exist. Thanks are, however, due to my partner Colm, who often got up to settle him during the night and was the parent most likely to rise with him in the morning.
To Sarah Hodgson, my editor, thank you for your care, patience and understanding. And to everyone else at Corvus who helps with my novels – I will avoid the temptation to list names, in case I forget anyone, but know that the work is appreciated. A huge thank you to my agents – Liz Parker at Verve, and Sarah Lutyens at Lutyens & Rubinstein – for being invested in the book at every stage. I am very grateful.
And finally, to you, the reader. With every book I write, I grow more appreciative of the people who read them. Without you, these words wouldn’t exist. I hope you enjoyed it. (Or if you are one of those people who skims the acknowledgements first – that you will enjoy it.) Thank you, thank you.
Eithne Shortall, It Could Never Happen Here
