Silent Voices

Book 9: D.I. Lottie Parker

by Patricia Gibney

Genres: Police Procedurals; Thrillers; Crime Fiction; Suspense

Synopsis

The words blurred as she read the note from the killer. She could feel her blood turning to ice. Shivers ran up and down her spine. ‘Before you make the biggest mistake of your life, meet me. If you don’t, her blood will be on your hands. She is with me. You know where to find us’.

When twenty-five-year-old Beth Mullen returns home, expecting to find her twin Rachel waiting for her, the silent house sends a shiver down her spine. She races upstairs to find her beautiful beloved sister cold in her childhood bed, her sparkling blue eyes closed forever, the morning after attending a glittering party…

Newly engaged Detective Lottie Parker knows that Rachel has been murdered the minute she enters the bedroom. Rachel’s neck is bruised and a shard of glass placed in her throat. Confronted with such a horrifying killing, Lottie wastes no time in pursuing every clue.

While interviewing the partygoers, Lottie discovers that Rachel’s handbag and keys are nowhere to be found. But as she is searching for them, a brilliant young doctor is found murdered with glass in her throat. The doctor was nowhere near the party and Lottie is forced to question everything. Two beautiful young women with the world at their feet have been brutally silenced. Why did the killer need them to die?

Desperate to find proof of what really happened to Rachel that night, Lottie gets close to the hostess of the party, whose two daughters were friends with Rachel. But Lottie’s hunt for the truth is getting under the killer’s skin, and when Lottie’s fiancé Boyd goes missing, will she be able to find him before it’s too late? Or will he too be silenced forever?

An unputdownable crime thriller from bestselling author Patricia Gibney, with an ending that will blow your mind. If you like Lisa Regan, Robert Dugoni and Rachel Caine you’ll be totally hooked by Silent Voices.

Release date: February 5, 2021

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 450

Sample

Nine years earlier

The boy tried not to cry. He’d thought he knew the way home, but now he wasn’t so sure. It was dark in the fields, far away from the lights of the house he’d just left. He’d been told to go home. They didn’t want him there. Had even laughed at him. Big boys were not supposed to cry, but he was crying now. He hoped his mum and dad would be at home, like he’d just been told, even though they were supposed to be away for the night.

He walked across the field, up the lane, and gingerly stepped over the stile. He let his feet sink in the sandy ground. The dew was heavy underfoot and the distance ahead of him appeared shortened by the stubborn fog lying far too low. The trail should be familiar, bred deep in his mind from his treks with his daddy to check on the work at the quarry. Some days he never saw his dad. Long days and never-ending nights, the air punctured by the thud of drills and the hum of machinery. He loved that noise. His daddy had told him it was only a small operation but that one day the boy might make it great. He didn’t like the way the green of the hedges had become grey with dust and stone after the summer and the nests had begun to empty. But his family didn’t seem to worry about nature.

The silence wrapped itself around his shoulders and the fog dampened his hair as he trudged on. He wished he’d worn his wellington boots, because his runners were wet and sluiced up and down as he walked. Maybe he could have a look at the quarry before he crested the hill. There’d be no one there at this time of night, but he knew a way in. Anyway, that was the shortest way home. He eased through the gap in the wire fence and kept going.

He only realised he was close to the lip of the quarry when he heard the stones he’d kicked up as he walked hitting the water. The cavernous space opened up as all around him the fog rose mystically into the sky and the stone and grass split the earth before him. The boy felt he was alone with nature. Just then, he thought he heard a noise behind him. No, only silly people would come up here in the dark. Did that make him silly? There it was again. A rustle. Leaves shifting on the branches. The wind? No, the night was still with the fog hovering around him. Why did it have to be so dark? As he went to move away from the edge, the rustling came closer and stones crunched underfoot. He made to turn around, and felt a hand pressing between his shoulder blades.

‘No!’

He thought he’d said the word out loud, but maybe he hadn’t. Instead the air was filled with a hysterical laugh. Not his laugh. Then a choked scream left his body as the hand on his back pushed, and he was flying through the air.

The water was thick and viscous. It rushed into his screaming mouth and travelled into his lungs as quickly as his head dipped below the water.

He was strangely calm.

It might only have been built in the last ten years but the little chapel house looked like it dated back to the time when the monks set up the first Christian churches in Ireland. At a push it held a hundred people, but today it was laid out for less than thirty.

Sprays of baby’s breath interspersed with fragrant freesias were tied in little bunches with white satin ribbons on the backs of the chairs that lined the short aisle. When the first guests began to arrive and the door was opened, a miasma of scent wafted towards them in a wave of freshness. Light filtered through the small arched windows, casting rainbows on the stone walls and bathing the interior in a mystical aura.

A coolness permeated the inside of the chapel, even though outdoors the midday air was warm. Three pillar candles stood on the flower-draped altar, one each for the bride and groom, while the third candle had the names of dead family members inscribed in gold filigree.

Chatter preceded the guests as they took their seats. Family in the first two rows with friends behind them, followed by colleagues. The friends’ section was mainly colleagues, but that didn’t matter.

In the bedroom of the stone cottage adjacent to the chapel, Lottie stared at herself in the long mirror. She had to admit she didn’t recognise the reflected image. Below a tight satin bodice, the chiffon cream dress floated out from her waist, and with the light streaming in through the window, she thought it looked magical. She hardly ever – never – wore dresses, and she would have got married in her jeans and T-shirt if she’d thought she could get away with it. But her daughters had been adamant, so she’d given in. A small victory for the girls, but she was surprisingly happy with her reflection. Her hair had been coloured a little lighter than normal – a box job last night; Chloe had insisted – though she wasn’t sure if it was strawberry blonde or out-and-out blonde. She never fussed about such things. A few stray flowers placed strategically around her head hid the clips that held her hair in place. Katie had worked her magic with make-up and eyeshadow and a whole load of other shite Lottie had never used before, but she was pleased with the effect. At least it hid the bruises.

‘It’s smashing,’ she said, hugging her elder daughter.

‘You look ten years younger,’ Katie said, a wide smile lighting up her eyes.

‘Go away! I’m only forty-five,’ Lottie said playfully. She’d turned forty-six in June. ‘Is Louis ready?’ Louis was Katie’s two-year-old son, Lottie’s grandson.

‘He’s ready, but I can’t guarantee he’ll do what he’s supposed to do.’

‘It doesn’t matter. As long as Boyd is there, along with you, Chloe and Sean and little Louis, I’ll be happy.’

‘I know you haven’t met Chloe’s boyfriend yet, Mam, but he’s not what you’d expect—’

‘Not today, Katie.’

‘Just giving you a little warning.’

‘Thanks,’ Lottie said. ‘And I love your dress.’ Katie was dressed in a fuchsia-pink floaty number from Macy’s, while Chloe was wearing a similar style in blue (end-of-line sale). Lottie’s own dress was from a charity shop, but they all looked quite expensive. No point in wasting money I don’t have, she thought. ‘Is Sean ready?’

‘Sean is never ready,’ Katie groaned. ‘I’ll go check on him.’

‘Thanks. And Katie?’

‘Yes?’

‘Please don’t let Granny Rose near me before the ceremony. She’ll say something to upset me, and I can’t be dealing with that today of all days.’

‘Sure thing.’

Alone, Lottie felt her heart balloon with happiness. It was a feeling she’d thought she’d never again experience after her husband, Adam, had died five years ago. A period of hell had enveloped her then, and she’d floundered in the depths of addiction and sorrow, but eventually, with the help of her colleague, friend and soon-to-be husband Mark Boyd, she had arrived at this day, after a week of storms and torrential rain, with the sun shining brighter than she ever remembered at the end of November.

Sitting at the small dressing table, she stared at the gift her mother had given her. A gold locket. ‘It was my mother’s,’ Rose had told her. ‘It’s an irreplaceable heirloom. Don’t lose it. I put a photo in it, just for you.’ There had been no expression of love or good wishes. Just that statement. Don’t lose it. Lottie wanted to say, why give it as a gift if you’re attaching orders? But she’d only murmured a thank you and let Rose off.

Opening the locket now, she stared at the small, crudely cut-out photograph of Adam’s face. Her heart lurched in her chest before dipping dramatically somewhere into her belly, and her breath caught in the back of her throat. Tears threatened to override her sense of happiness. Was Rose just being her usual tactless self, or did she really think she was doing the right thing? Lottie snapped the locket shut and dropped it into Katie’s make-up bag. Out of sight and all that. Not that she had forgotten Adam. She missed him and loved him still. But she loved Boyd in a different way. A new way. He was part of her present, not her past. He was here for her. She trusted him. Believed in him. Loved him. Didn’t she? When she wasn’t taking unnecessary risks and almost getting him killed!

Wiping away her tears before they ruined her make-up, she opened the lid of the blue velvet box that Boyd had given her. A thin silver chain with two interlinked hearts. Hand-crafted. Simple. Profound. Thoughtful. It was truly beautiful. Clipping it around her neck, she admired it in the mirror. A smile reached her green eyes which glinted like emeralds in sunshine. Enough! she admonished herself.

She slipped her feet into the cream silk shoes that Chloe had insisted she buy. Despite the price for something she’d never wear again, she’d given in and purchased them. Anything to keep her girls happy. Ready at last, she opened the door and stepped into the small living room, where her family awaited her.

‘Oh my God! You look amazing,’ Chloe enthused, grabbing Lottie’s hands and twirling her round the room. A mesh of cream and blue chiffon swished in the air and Louis squealed with delight.

‘What do you think, Sean?’ Lottie said, regaining her balance as Chloe let her go.

Her son gripped his bottom lip with his teeth and his eyes glimmered with tears. His fair hair was cut tightly around his head, but his fringe still hung low towards his blue eyes. Adam’s eyes. She felt her hand fly to her chest and gulped.

‘You look stunning, Mam,’ he said eventually. ‘Beautiful.’

‘Am I not always beautiful?’ she joked, trying to release some of the tension which was in danger of simmering out of control.

Sean hugged her tightly, then stepped back. ‘Are we Parkers ready to get this show on the road?’

An expectant silence descended on them, and Lottie inhaled the floral scent of her daughters’ perfume.

‘Who’s got my bouquet?’

Katie took the bunch of wild flowers from the kitchenette sink and wiped the stems with a tea towel before handing them to her.

‘I’m ready if you are,’ Lottie said, and for the first time in five years, she felt truly happy. ‘Let’s get the next phase of our lives started.’

The nervy butterflies swarmed in the pit of her stomach as she stepped outside the door, walking behind her daughters and grandson. Sean grasped her elbow a little too tightly, then eased his fingers and let them rest softly on her arm.

‘You okay, Mam?’

‘I’m a little nervous. What if Boyd doesn’t turn up?’

‘Of course he’ll turn up.’

As they walked across the cobbled stones of the courtyard, she glanced to the cottage where she hoped Boyd had arrived this morning to change into his new suit. It looked deserted.

‘Stop fretting,’ Sean said.

They rounded the corner and approached the chapel, and she felt the first wave of anxiety. Why was there a huddle of people outside? They should be inside. Chloe and Boyd had planned this down to the last detail, the last second. Boyd was like that. OCD. He’d drummed the schedule into her brain. ‘Twelve noon. Not a second later.’ How many times had he said it? Too many to count. She started to smile, but stopped as her mother approached with Grace, Boyd’s sister.

‘What’s wrong?’ Lottie said. ‘The celebrant not shown up?’

‘No, she’s here,’ Rose said, disdain greasing her words. She was old-fashioned and wasn’t about to change.

Lottie caught Grace’s arm. ‘Where are you going, Grace? Boyd … Mark will be annoyed if we’re a second late.’

‘He’s the one who’s late,’ Grace said.

Turning, Lottie saw Kirby exiting the cottage Boyd had been allocated. ‘What’s up?’

‘We might need to hold off on the ceremony for a while,’ Kirby said, lighting up a cigar. He looked unusually neat and tidy, though the buttons on his white shirt strained across his belly, and he’d put gel or something in his hair to calm down his unruly curls.

Her chest split in a schism of panic. ‘Where’s Boyd?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Weren’t you with him this morning? To help him pin on his flower or something?’

‘You know Boyd better than anyone, and you know that only he can do it right.’ Kirby took a long drag on his cigar, topped it and palmed it. ‘We agreed to meet at the chapel door at ten to twelve. It’s now midday, and I just went to see why he was late and—’

‘Oh for God’s sake, Kirby, stop rambling.’ Lottie shoved her bouquet into his hand and headed for the cottage. It was a studio-type design, neat and tidy. Typical Boyd.

His wedding suit hung on the back of a door, still in its plastic wrapping. Twirling around, she looked for a sign, for anything at all to tell her what was going on. She found it on the small kitchen table.

A note. Folded in two. Cream vellum paper. The name Mark Boyd on the outside of the fold.

She opened it up, and as she read, she could feel her blood turning to ice and her knees to jelly. Shivers ran up and down her spine.

The words blurred as she reread it. No signature. Hand-written in small, neat letters.

Before you make the biggest mistake of your life, meet me. If you don’t, her blood will be on your hands. She is with me. You know where to find us.

Lottie sank to the floor in a whoosh of chiffon.

The night was silent, birdsong no longer audible in the air. The birds had flown to warmer places, Ellen thought, as her feet squelched through the soggy dead leaves. Rain hung in the air.

Taking the damp washing in from the clothes line was a nightly chore. She wasn’t sure why she continued to hang clothes out each morning and bring them in again at night. She supposed it gave the outward appearance that someone lived in the house. That her life was normal.

A soft sheen of mist settled on her hands as she threw the last peg into the plastic basket hanging on the line. She looked up at the dark sky, devoid of stars, the moon hidden by black clouds. The night her life had changed forever had been quite similar. Silent, damp and dark. The memory had haunted her every day since.

Shivering from the thoughts splicing through her mind, she turned towards the warm light breathing out through the back door, casting eerie shadows along the paving stones that cut the lawn in two. She kicked the leaves from the path onto the grass as she walked, telling herself that she would give it one last run-around with the mower tomorrow, if the promised rain decided not to fall.

She thought she heard a sound. Holding her breath, she listened. Crackling. The leaves were too moist to make such a noise. She couldn’t see anyone about, so she shrugged and walked into the house.

She didn’t realise how cold it was outside until she had shut the back door and felt the heat wrapping itself around her like a shawl. Still she shivered. Placing the clothes on the table, she flattened them out before draping them on the rack beside the stove. Maybe she wouldn’t bother hanging them on the line in the morning.

Talking to herself as she worked, she wondered if she was going mad in the swamp of loneliness in which she found herself. At thirty years of age, she knew she should be happy with her life and out enjoying it, but things were never that simple.

She turned on the television for company and noticed the two mugs on the table, there since her visitor had left earlier. She had too much going on in her head, with the past tormenting her more and more with each visit. The mugs should have been rinsed and stacked in the dishwasher. As she lifted them, she glanced into the one she had used. A finger of whiskey slid around the bottom, so she drained it, even though she’d have preferred vodka, and brought the mugs to the draining board.

On the television, the familiar soap was almost over and she tried to remember what came on afterwards. She threw another stick in the stove and sat down with the remote control. It felt fuzzy in her hands.

Another sound. A door slamming. Upstairs? Ellen stilled, before dropping the remote, her hands shaking and her stomach suddenly gurgling. She jumped out of the chair. Her jeans caught on the nail she’d been meaning to hammer back in, and she heard the material rip. Her stomach was gripped with a merciless cramp. The pain burned up to her throat and she thought she was going to either puke or defecate or both. Another sound.

‘Damn it to hell.’ She muttered her late father’s favourite curse as she tried to keep her insides together. Another cramp accompanied by an intense pain caused a shriek to escape from between gritted teeth. She had to get to the bathroom.

In the hall, the yellow shimmer from the outside light flickered in through the small pane of glass at the top of the door. Automatically she felt for the switch on the wall, but another sound caused her to pause. Was it from upstairs?

She could ring her friend to come over. To check it out for her. But she didn’t want to be a burden. She wasn’t easily frightened, but something warned her to be careful.

‘I’m always careful,’ she muttered, having learned the hard way. She climbed the stairs in the darkness.

Tomorrow she’d laugh about this, but tonight she didn’t feel like laughing. She felt sick to her stomach, and the unknown noises weren’t helping.

On the landing, she waited and listened. Not even a breath of air as she held her hand to her chest, gulping silently.

‘Don’t be silly,’ she said out loud when at last she allowed herself to breathe normally. ‘It’s only birds on the roof.’

But there were very few birds around, she reminded herself. A bat in the attic? Yuck. Instinctively her hand flew to her hair. The idea of bats caught in the silky strands was almost more repulsive than a stranger hiding upstairs.

Her guts rumbled and another pain pierced her abdomen, shooting right up to her throat. She stood in the deathly silence, listening to her own laboured breathing. In. Out. In. Out. Imagining things.

‘Maybe I am going mad.’

Doubling over, she screamed as the agony ripped her insides like a sharpened knife. She crawled into the bathroom, dragged down her jeans and hauled herself up onto the toilet. Her cries clogged her throat as the torturous throbbing clenched her lungs, squeezing them like plastic balls until she couldn’t breathe at all.

She tried to pull up her jeans, but she had no energy. She kicked them down over her ankles and crawled out onto the landing. The fetidness was tinged with something she could not have eaten. The taste was in her mouth. What was it? She struggled to put a name to the taste and smell. Her stomach was skewered once again. What was she to do? Phone. She must phone for help. Her mobile phone was on the kitchen table. The landline was at the foot of the stairs. Damn.

She dragged herself up along the wall and edged towards the stairs.

That was when she heard a whoosh. The flutter of material. Right before she felt the push between her shoulder blades. Then the thump-thump of her body as it tumbled, first against the wall and then against the steps, the hall floor coming towards her too quickly. Her hands flailed in front of her, trying to soften her landing on the hard tiles.

The crunch of bone on ceramic.

The crash of her head against the wall.

Two vertebrae in her spine snapping like chicken wings. From the torrid pain, she knew that she’d shattered her coccyx. Everything had happened so quickly.

She grabbed for the hall table and brought it down on top of her. The phone fell just out of her reach. Not that she could make a call. Her cranium smashed against the floor as she came to rest, one leg still on the stairs, the other twisted beneath her body, her nose broken. Blood poured out beneath her head for a time as her heart struggled to come to terms with the bodily assault. She couldn’t breathe. Her airways constricted.

Air, she needed air. She tore at her throat, trying to bore a hole in it with her fingernails. But it was impossible. The pain was excruciating, but the feeling of suffocation made her hysterical.

It took some hours but eventually her heart gave up its struggle to pump blood through her damaged veins and arteries, and her soul exited her body in defeat.

Twenty-five-year-old Rachel Mullen’s pet hate was tardiness, and here she was, half an hour late, walking into a group of people, most of whom she did not know. That should make it easier, but for Rachel, first impressions were key.

She rushed inside to a cacophony of voices, laughter and chat. Throwing her bags on the floor, she wriggled out of her damp coat. There was nowhere to hang it in the small vestibule, so she slung it over her arm. Her hair was falling out of the hastily tied bun on the top of her head, so she pulled off the bobbin and fluffed out the frizzy tendrils with her fingers. Picking up her laptop bag, she slung the strap over her shoulder, and draped her handbag over the other arm. She should have left them in the car or brought them home after her late-afternoon meeting. She felt a blush rise up her cheeks. Why had she had that drink with him? Feck it, she thought, it was worth it because things were progressing and soon her hard work would pay off. Yeah!

Plastering her best smile on her tired face, she pushed open the inner door and entered the buzzing room.

‘There you are, Rachel.’ The young woman approaching her was sporting an insincere smile. ‘Glad you made it. Food is about to be served. Here, have a drink while you wait. I know you love Prosecco. Or maybe you’d prefer vodka?’

‘Prosecco is fine.’ Rachel wasn’t fussed at the moment, though a shot would have been better. But not vodka. That resurrected too many bad memories.

‘I know it was some time ago but I’m sorry about your mum.’ The woman handed over a drink and disappeared into the gathered mass of people.

‘I’m sure you are,’ Rachel mumbled. She stared at the slim flute of sparkling liquid with its sad-looking strawberry swimming in it, then downed it in one go, strawberry too, and picked up another glass from a tray before making her way into the midst of the milling people. She felt out of place, and wrongly dressed. Though it couldn’t be much later than 7.30, most people were dressed in party attire while she was still in her business suit.

She couldn’t see anyone she knew, so she drifted back to the outer edges, parked herself against a wall and watched people interacting with each other. They’re all fake, she thought. Very fake. But then if they were fake, what did that make her? She knew her life was built on one big lie and had spent the last nine years trying to absolve herself. But her mother’s death two years ago had made her think about things differently. Could she right the wrongs of her youth? She could only try.

A tug on her sleeve caused her to swirl around.

‘Hi there. You look as happy to be here as I do. Do you come here often?’

‘Did you just make that up?’ She forced a smile, looking him up and down. She noticed him swaying as he tried to stand still. She decided he was quite drunk.

‘Ha, ha,’ he said mockingly. ‘You’re very funny when you want to be.’

‘You don’t even know me.’ She was bored already and tried to move away. He held on to her sleeve.

‘Aren’t you one of the Mullen sisters? I work for Hazel Clancy. You used to be friends with her, didn’t you? She sent me here to represent her tonight.’

Rachel felt her throat go dry as the name conjured up an old memory. Why had Hazel been invited?

‘Like a million years ago.’ The words stumbled from her mouth.

‘Come on, let’s get out of here. We could catch a few at Danny’s Bar. Doesn’t that sound like a better night out than being stuck here with these bores?’

Swatting his hand away, accidentally spilling some of her drink on his shirt, she stepped backwards against the wall. The room was suddenly too warm, and she felt laden down with her bags and coat. ‘Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but I need to talk with these people. I have to make contacts for my new business. That’s why I’m here. If you don’t mind, I’d like to mingle on my own.’

‘You’re quite the tease, aren’t you?’ He smiled.

She relented a little. Anything for a quiet life. ‘I’m Rachel.’

‘Andy,’ he said.

Ah, now she knew exactly who he was. The clown who invariably ruined everyone’s night out by drinking too much. Nothing had changed, then, over the years. ‘Could you get me a drink, Andy? A proper drink. Gin and tonic.’

‘If you give me your phone number.’

‘Deal.’ She went to open her handbag.

‘It’s a free bar. Annie Fleming is being generous tonight. I suppose it’s not every week Ragmullin has a new restaurant opening.’

‘Here,’ she said quickly, handing him a card. ‘My number’s on it.’

‘Thanks.’ He pocketed it. ‘I’ll be back in a tick.’

As he squeezed through the bodies, she breathed a sigh of relief. Immediately, though, a young girl approached her carrying a tray of canapés.

‘Please take some,’ she said, her eyes flitting about nervously.

‘I’ve no free hands,’ Rachel said, but she pushed her handbag further up her arm and politely picked up a canapé, wondering how she could balance it with everything she was already holding. Best to send it down the hatch. The girl offered the tray again; Rachel took another one. ‘That’s enough or I’ll look like a whale.’

‘You look just fine to me,’ the girl said.

‘I’m here to make an impression, but I’m afraid I’m the worse for wear. Think I’ve already had two Proseccos.’

‘Oh, don’t worry, everyone here is in the same boat.’ The girl winked, her dark eyes muted, and headed off to find someone else to help lighten her tray. Rachel noticed a certain sense of isolation and loneliness in the way she carried herself. She herself had been there not that long ago, but now she was full of ideas and enthusiasm for her new venture after escaping from years working in a bank. She had to make this work.

‘Here you are,’ Andy said, a glass full of ice and a shot of gin in one hand, and a bottle of tonic in the other.

‘Let me finish this first,’ she said, indicating the cracker piled with pâté and a slice of cucumber on top.

‘That looks gross,’ he said.

‘Chicken liver.’

He made a puking motion. ‘Double gross.’

She smiled and swallowed before taking the gin and pouring the tonic to the brim of the glass. Andy was helping her to relax after the stress of her earlier meeting. She didn’t really know him, hardly remembered him, so could he be confusing her with her sister? In that instant, she wished she had taken up Beth’s offer to spend the night in Dublin, despite the fact she’d have had to endure a rock concert. For twins, she and Beth had quite different tastes, she conceded.

‘Did you not get one for yourself?’ she asked.

‘I’ve a pint of Guinness resting. Be back in a minute,’ he said, returning to the bar.

Sipping her drink, Rachel saw the evening’s hostess, Annie Fleming, eyeing her through a bank of shoulders and hair. Tipping her glass in acknowledgement, Rachel turned away quickly, desperate to find someone to talk with. She didn’t want to get into a conversation with Annie. That would be awkward, and she wasn’t sure she’d be able to hide her guilty conscience. But she wanted to avoid Andy, who saw himself as her new best friend.

As she looked around, she discovered she knew very few of the people at the party. Much as it had seemed like a good idea in a business sense, she did not want to be here.

Her hand began to jitter and her drink splashed onto her red blouse and her leather handbag. She took a gulp to empty the glass a little. Ugh. It felt hot and tasted awful. Maybe the tonic was out of date? Her throat burned but she couldn’t stop herself giggling like a teenager, without finding anything remotely funny.

Her bones creaked with exhaustion and she felt herself sway. Had the Andy fellow spiked her drink? Wouldn’t surprise her, seeing as he knew Hazel. She could have done without that blast from her past.

Bending over in a fit of coughing, she tried to sip her drink. It was disgusting, but she swallowed deeply to stop the cough.

People. All around. Straightening up, she approached one group and began telling them about her business and how it was going to work. At least she imagined that was what she was talking about, but as she turned away to latch onto another small group, she had no idea what she had actually said.

She had to leave. It had been a mistake to come. She could have been at the 3Arena in Dublin with Beth, shaking her hair out to The Killers.

She placed the glass on the floor, feeling dizzy and sick and tired. Fumbling through her bag, she was unable to find her phone to call a taxi. She’d look for it when she was outside. She made her way quickly through the crowd and out the door. Pausing in the vestibule, she saw her reflection in the mirror there. A face she didn’t recognise stared back at her. Her hair was wild, her skin streaked with mascara, her pupils dilated. Who was this person? She fled outside.

Sitting on the kerb in the spills of rain, Rachel found her phone buried in the bottom of her bag. Once she’d called, she prayed the taxi would arrive soon. She didn’t know how long she could hold onto her belongings and her consciousness before exhaustion overtook her. She was doing her best to make it in the business world after all she’d been through. But now, sitting sopping wet on the pavement, she felt bereft, because all she could think of was her mother’s last hours.

Bo