When Your Eyes Close: A psychological thriller unlike anything you’ve read before!

When Your Eyes Close: A psychological thriller unlike anything you’ve read before! Tanya Farrelly The gripping new psychological thriller from Tanya Farrelly.THREE LIVES ARE ABOUT TO CHANGE FOREVER…Nick Drake is determined to get his life back on track. And if hypnosis has even a chance of working, he’ll give it a try. But as his eyes close, Nick sees something that terrifies him.Michelle Carlin is Nick’s girlfriend. She’s determined to stick by Nick no matter what, but she can tell he’s hiding something from her, something dangerous.Caitlin Davis is still reeling from the suspicious disappearance of her husband a year ago. But she has secrets of her own which could ruin her and everything she holds dear.These three people’s lives are set to collide. And as long-buried secrets, lies and betrayals come to light, they will be lucky to escape unscathed…‘An excellent, twisty tale’ Jo Spain, bestselling author of The Confession‘Thoroughly enjoyable’ Arlene Hunt, author of Last to Die‘A superbly twisty tale’ Sam Blake, author of The Cathy Connolly Series When Your Eyes Close TANYA FARRELLY A division of HarperCollinsPublishers www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk) Copyright (#u6dc2ce22-3286-53ac-ac4c-7200c6523284) KillerReads an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk) First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018 Copyright © Tanya Farrelly 2018 Cover design by Holly Macdonald © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018 Cover photographs © Shutterstock.com (https://www.shutterstock.com) Tanya Farrelly asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. Ebook Edition © September 2018 ISBN: 9780008280024 Version: 2018-08-08 Table of Contents Cover (#uc9c49b9c-d948-50ff-a60c-4e23deb91954) Title Page (#u940d81aa-af41-5bea-9f89-9ac01a6d9882) Copyright (#uedc26564-ace6-5771-887e-002923739d2b) Dedication (#u3b476bf9-a73c-5517-a59c-a253f38ee89f) Chapter One: Nick (#uff701078-7dd6-5d1b-941c-79f6b02700c1) Chapter Two: Caitlin (#u13e7e73d-9fed-5012-9d10-0a458fade8fb) Chapter Three: Michelle (#ue6bd4abf-1a2a-541e-9661-77bad1d52502) Chapter Four: Nick (#u793c8fe0-e019-53e5-9985-fe023fe5304f) Chapter Five: Caitlin (#u3ea20223-10ee-55f0-96c8-6a3eac26bc45) Chapter Six: Michelle (#u466c6834-36e2-5a00-86d2-89b658c84a32) Chapter Seven: Nick (#u5022c976-8828-51c9-9f15-7d1bf8256770) Chapter Eight: Caitlin (#u46010677-1e91-5d95-bf72-df9cfe1b651d) Chapter Nine: Michelle (#u4d9b2a49-c1cc-527b-a238-df714762bf77) Chapter Ten: Nick (#u78ef53de-f5ef-5bcf-9c13-ffa0f2e4bd75) Chapter Eleven: Caitlin (#ud7bd94a3-6964-5ad2-91ec-63a78e8bc9cb) Chapter Twelve: Michelle (#u9bed694f-1bb6-5f4c-8559-412f259b6ac4) Chapter Thirteen: Nick (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fourteen: Caitlin (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifteen: Michelle (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixteen: Nick (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Seventeen: Caitlin (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eighteen: Michelle (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Nineteen: Nick (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty: Caitlin (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-One: Michelle (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Two: Nick (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Three: Caitlin (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Four: Michelle (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Five: Nick (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Six: Caitlin (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Seven: Michelle (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Eight: Nick (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Nine: Caitlin (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty: Michelle (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-One: Nick (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Two: Caitlin (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Three: Michelle (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Four: Nick (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Five: Caitlin (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Six: Michelle (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Seven: Nick (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Eight: Caitlin (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Nine: Michelle (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty: Nick (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-One: Caitlin (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Two: Michelle (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Three: Nick (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Four: Caitlin (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Five: Michelle (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Six: Nick (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Seven: Caitlin (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Eight: Michelle (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Nine: Nick (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifty: Caitlin (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifty-One: Michelle (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifty-Two: Nick (#litres_trial_promo) Epilogue: Two Years Later … (#litres_trial_promo) Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo) Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo) Also by Tanya Farrelly (#litres_trial_promo) About the Author (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) Dedication (#u6dc2ce22-3286-53ac-ac4c-7200c6523284) For Dave, an extraordinary writer and husband, without whose laughter I’d be lost. CHAPTER ONE (#u6dc2ce22-3286-53ac-ac4c-7200c6523284) Nick (#u6dc2ce22-3286-53ac-ac4c-7200c6523284) Nick Drake pulled up outside the house named The Arches and cut the engine. He was twenty minutes early and there was another car, a dark grey saloon, parked in front of his. He looked at the long white bungalow illuminated by the half dozen lamps that lined the winding drive, and wondered if it were, after all, a good idea to have come. Shivering, Nick reached into the pocket of his leather jacket and his fingers closed round the pack of cigarettes that he kept there for emergencies. He noted that there were only two left. With trembling fingers, he placed one between his lips and held the lighter to the tip until it burned crimson. He lowered the window and inhaled deeply until the smoke filled his craving lungs, and he felt the rain blow in on the damp night air. On the passenger seat his mobile phone began to ring. He looked at the screen and saw Michelle’s name flash up again. Rain drummed on the windscreen and the phone rang out, and then blipped to inform him that she’d left yet another voice message. It was her fifth call in three days. He knew that he should call her back, but he didn’t feel like talking to anyone. Talking meant making things real. And he wasn’t ready for that. A few minutes passed before the bungalow door opened and a security light clicked on. A figure stepped into the rain, pausing to pull up the hood of an anorak before hurriedly descending the driveway. With head down, the woman made a dash for the grey saloon car. The heels of her boots clicked on the tarmac, and the indicator lights flashed amber as she hurriedly unlocked the car and slipped inside. Illuminated briefly by the interior light, Nick saw the woman pull the hood of her anorak down and run a hand through unruly dark hair. The engine started, and the grey saloon turned and reversed into the driveway, the headlights momentarily blinding Nick as the car turned and disappeared down the lane by which he’d come. For a few minutes he sat and stared out the windscreen. He drew on his cigarette until there was nothing more between his fingers and the tip, and then he stubbed it in the ashtray, closed the window and stepped out into the rain. The girl who opened the door was no more than seven years old. She looked at him with big brown eyes. Then a man’s voice came from a room within. ‘Kirsty, I told you not to answer the door.’ The owner of the voice appeared from what Nick imagined was the kitchen. ‘Go on in like a good girl.’ The man put an arm round the little girl’s shoulder to draw her inside. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said. Nick shrugged. ‘The name’s Nick Drake. I’ve an appointment for nine o’clock.’ ‘Sure, come on in.’ The man stepped back and ushered Nick inside. The child stood behind the man and stared at Nick. He smiled at her, but she didn’t smile back. ‘Take a seat in here. Tessa will be with you soon.’ Nick was shown into a room not dissimilar to the waiting room in the doctor’s surgery. A television played in the corner, the volume muted. He sat in a hard chair by the door and waited. The sound of children’s voices came from somewhere within the house. ‘Boys, quit messing around down there. Get to bed.’ There was laughter, followed by the sound of running feet and then silence. Nick stared at the television. ‘Nick?’ He turned to see a blonde woman in her fifties standing in the doorway. ‘I’m Tessa. Do you want to come this way?’ Nick stood and felt the pain in his abdomen as he did so. Tessa put out a hand to shake his, and he followed her across the hallway and into a small, darkened room. ‘Please, take a seat,’ Tessa told him. Nick sat, and she sat opposite him and picked up a pen. She reached towards a small device on her desk and pressed a button. ‘I generally record the sessions, Nick, and send you the file. It can help to do self-hypnosis between sessions. You don’t have any objections?’ ‘No, no, that’s okay.’ Nick waited, putting his hands between his knees to hide the tremor that had crept into them. He longed desperately for the last cigarette in the pack inside his jacket, knew that that would be the final one. Another bad habit curbed. Outside, the rain continued to thunder down, beating against the window. ‘How long have you had a problem with alcohol, Nick?’ ‘I don’t know. I didn’t see it as a problem.’ ‘But now you do?’ He nodded. ‘The doctors say if I don’t stop drinking I could be dead in a year, eighteen months at the most. And I can’t get on the transplant list unless I’m six months clean.’ Tessa scribbled something on her notepad. ‘Have you ever tried to give up before?’ ‘Yeah, but it didn’t take.’ Nick thought of the AA meetings his ex-wife, Susan, had made him go to – the room of men, most of whom were there only because their wives had insisted. He’d lasted about three months, and then he’d finished up in a bar across from the meeting hall with two of the other recruits drinking whiskey until closing. And he’d thought it was all such a laugh – until Susan had left. ‘Any ideas why you drink, Nick?’ Tessa’s eyes flitted from the page to rest on him, and he fidgeted in his seat. ‘Does there have to be a reason?’ He knew that he sounded defensive, but he hadn’t come here for counselling. He simply wanted help to detox. ‘There usually is. There are various reasons, of course; it can come from pressure at work, or at home … It starts as a means to relax, or to escape … then over time it becomes the problem itself …’ He didn’t answer right away; he tried to think back to when his drinking had got heavier. He’d always had a taste for it – had started when he was about sixteen. And as for escape, he’d felt like that for a long time too. He just wasn’t sure what it was he was trying to escape from. When things had got bad with Susan … then he had a reason. He guessed that that was when he’d really hit it hard. ‘I’m divorced. We fought a lot; I suppose it started then … or at least made it worse.’ Tessa nodded. She didn’t say anything, didn’t judge him, and he imagined he wasn’t the first messed-up alcoholic divorcee she’d dealt with. ‘Have you ever been hypnotized before?’ Her voice brought him back from his thoughts, back to the dim room and the sound of the rain outside. ‘No, never.’ ‘Okay.’ She put down her pen and smiled. ‘If you’re ready, let’s get started.’ They both stood, and Nick moved towards the chair she gestured to. ‘Hypnosis is nothing more than a deepened state of relaxation, Nick. I’m going to ask you to simply lie back, close your eyes and relax. You’ll be aware of everything that’s going on around you.’ Nick lay back in the reclining leather chair and closed his eyes. Tessa placed a thin blanket over him. He didn’t feel relaxed. His body was tense, and he was aware as he lay still of the rapid beating of his heart and the discomfort in the right side of his abdomen. The hypnotist was standing near him. A strong woody fragrance that reminded him of his ex-wife permeated his senses as her soft rhythmic voice cut in on his thoughts. ‘Now I want you to completely relax your body. The more relaxed you become, the more susceptible your mind will be to suggestion. We’re going to start with your feet and work our way up to your head.’ Nick shifted in the chair. He opened his eyes slightly and saw Tessa standing over him, her silhouette dark against the dimmed light behind her. Step by step, she instructed him to relax each part of his body until his limbs felt heavy, the tension gradually subsiding as he sank deeper into the leather seat. ‘For a long time, you’ve been hurting, Nick. And you’ve been relying more and more on alcohol to deaden these feelings of pain; but it’s only by experiencing the negative things in life that you can also appreciate the highs. That’s why you’ve come here today, to reconnect with your emotions, to discover that in order to live again you have to feel.’ The woman’s voice was slow and methodical – practised so as not to jolt him out of his physical state of relaxation – but even as he listened to her words, he could feel himself fighting them. Did he really want to get in touch with his feelings about Susan, and the end of their marriage? Since meeting Michelle, he’d put all that behind him. He’d been feeling more positive than he had in years. ‘Focus now on an area of your life that gives you happiness. Something that makes you feel confident, that makes you feel proud. Notice how you feel inside, Nick: assured, happy and fulfilled and let these feelings grow.’ Michelle. They’re on their second date and he’s telling her about the time he got the call to design a house for a well-known rock star in south Dublin. His reputation as an architect is at its peak. A year ago, he landed the big contract to design the house which now stands on a clifftop proudly overlooking Killiney Bay. He’s taken Michelle up there to see it, has parked the car on the Vico Road and led her down the steps to the beach, where it’s possible to look back up at the house. ‘Did you meet him?’ she asks. ‘What’s he like?’ ‘Sure, he doesn’t say much. You know the type.’ He reaches out then, cups her face with his hand and leans in to kiss her. The wind blows her blonde hair in her face, and she clings to him and tells him she’s freezing. It’s a cold night in February. He feels the spray from the sea blow in on the wind, and he kisses her again and tells her she’s beautiful. ‘What?’ she shouts, and laughs as his words are drowned by the roar of a train passing on the tracks above bound for Bray. ‘As you’re experiencing these good feelings, Nick, I want you to take a deep breath and squeeze your hand into a fist. Your subconscious mind will memorize these feelings of happiness and whenever you want to feel like this again, you’ll simply take a breath and make a fist again.’ They’re climbing the steps back up to the Vico Road to where the car is waiting. He tightens his arm around Michelle’s shoulders as she stumbles and steadies herself by putting both arms round him. Her laugh rings out in the cold night and he wants to protect her – to keep her safe in his arms. He squeezes his hand into a fist as the woman’s voice, coming from some place far away, tells him to do. He’s filled with an emotion – something akin to love – although he barely knows this girl. With her he feels elated. ‘Okay. Now, I want you to imagine yourself in a situation where you would normally reach for a drink. Take in your surroundings, Nick. Where are you? Who are you with? Try to visualize the scene in as much detail as possible.’ Friday night: the after-work crowd. They’re in a pub in Capel Street and the rounds keep appearing before the previous ones have even been drunk. He checks his phone and sees he’s got a message from Susan. Where r u? He texts back, tells her he’ll be home soon – but he doesn’t feel like going home. All they do lately is fight. It’s easier to stay here with the work crowd, but he knows if he stays too long it’ll be worse – that as soon as he walks in the door, the accusations will begin and that’ll be it – the whole weekend ruined. ‘You’re reaching for that drink, Nick. But when you pick it up, you realize that you don’t want it. You don’t want another drink. I want you to take that drink and pour it down the sink. As you do so, I want you to squeeze your hand into a fist and remember those good feelings, those feelings of fulfilment, those feelings of pride. You’re taking control of your life, Nick, free from the burden of addiction, from the need to blot out those painful memories with alcohol.’ Elation. He feels adrenalin course through his body. And he’s transported again. This time he’s in a house, a strange house – not the house he lives in now, or the one he’d shared with Susan. There’s a green suite and green and orange curtains. Everything is brightly coloured, gaudy. He’s different too. His hair falls to his shoulders, and he’s wearing a T-shirt with Black Sabbath across the front – but he’s about the same age as he is now. He goes into the hall. He’s got some good news and he can’t wait to tell her. He shouts up the stairs: ‘Rachel, are you home?’ Nobody answers, but he thinks he hears a noise from above. ‘Rach? Are you here?’ No answer still, but there’s a definite bump from one of the rooms upstairs. A feeling of panic rises in his chest. He looks round the room for a weapon, something to protect himself with. In the kitchen he takes a sharp knife from the drawer, and slowly climbs the stairs. The door to his and Rachel’s bedroom is closed. It’s never closed, but maybe Rachel is in there after all. Maybe she’s sleeping. He glances into the other rooms – empty. He reaches for the handle, grabs it suddenly and pushes the door inwards. Rachel screams and pulls the bed covers up, hiding her naked body from him as though he’s a stranger. The man, buttoning up his shirt, jumps from the edge of the bed where he’s been sitting, puts his arms out instinctively for protection. Nick sees himself wield the knife. He hears Rachel scream in protest, but it’s too late. There’s blood on the man’s white shirt, on his hands and on the carpet. It’s pooling around his fallen body. Nick squeezed both hands into fists. He tried to summon Michelle’s face, to wake from the nightmare. He heard Tessa’s voice and strained towards it like a drowning man. ‘I’m going to count from one to five and when I reach five, you’re going to wake, Nick. One, two, three …’ On the count of five Nick opened his eyes. He attempted to sit up. His skin was damp with sweat and his whole body was trembling. ‘It’s okay. You’re okay, Nick. You’re in control. Nothing can happen to you now.’ ‘It wasn’t me,’ he said. ‘What do you mean? What happened?’ ‘I was in this house, but it wasn’t mine. It wasn’t my place. I was different – the way I looked. I was there to see Rachel. She … she was my wife. But I don’t know her. I have no idea who she is. It was like I was someone else … like it was someone else’s life. I went upstairs, and she was with someone – a man. Jesus … it was awful.’ Tessa was quiet. ‘What happened, Nick?’ ‘I had a knife. To protect myself. I heard a noise upstairs, and I thought there was an intruder. And then I saw him in the room with her, and I went crazy. There was blood, so much blood. I know it wasn’t real, but, Jesus, what was it … some kind of nightmare?’ Tessa hesitated. ‘Your appearance, Nick. You said you looked different?’ Nick nodded. ‘My hair was long. I was wearing a Black Sabbath T-shirt. I’ve never worn my hair long. I don’t understand … I mean does this normally happen to people under hypnosis?’ Tessa hesitated again. ‘Not to any of my clients, no. But there is something called confabulation. It’s when the mind creates false memories, and to the individual it can seem extraordinarily real. Some people who experience this believe that they’re experiencing remnants of a previous life.’ ‘A previous life?’ ‘Yes, but there’s no scientific evidence to suggest there’s any truth in that theory. It’s much more likely – and certainly it’s my belief – that the mind distorts memories in the same way as it does in dreams. I hope this hasn’t put you off, Nick. It’s extremely rare that something like this should happen. And if it happens again, well maybe it’s something that needs to be dealt with: a residual fear.’ Nick nodded, but he didn’t know what to think. He could still feel the knife in his hand, hear the woman screaming. Tessa reached for her diary on the desk. ‘Do you want to make another appointment?’ she asked. ‘Perhaps Wednesday?’ He shook his head. ‘I’ll give you a call,’ he said. He took his wallet from inside his jacket and paid. Tessa didn’t mention anything about forwarding the recording; maybe she’d decided it was better if he didn’t listen back – either way, he didn’t ask. Outside, it was still raining. Nick rushed towards the car. His hands were still shaking as he took the last cigarette from the box, lit it and let the car window down. He put the radio on to try to distract himself from what had just happened. What the hell had that been? Remnants of a previous life … he didn’t believe in any of that mumbo jumbo, and he was glad that the hypnotist didn’t either. Michelle was into all that hippy stuff, she’d be intrigued, but not him. It was a nightmare, that’s all it was … it had to be. On the radio, Black Sabbath were playing ‘Paranoid’ – Ozzy Osbourne screaming into the night. Fingers trembling, he turned down the volume and inhaled the nicotine deep into his lungs. Then he closed his eyes and squeezed his hand into a fist. Anything to try to distract himself from the nightmare that kept replaying in his head. He thought of Michelle, and how she made him feel, let the emotions wash over him. He couldn’t talk to her, not now, not after what he’d just experienced. Instead, he took the phone from his inside pocket and sent a quick text. Call you tomorrow. N x. CHAPTER TWO (#u6dc2ce22-3286-53ac-ac4c-7200c6523284) Caitlin (#u6dc2ce22-3286-53ac-ac4c-7200c6523284) Caitlin Davis closed the door behind her with a mixture of anxiety and relief. She knew what the evening held, but getting through the day until she’d arrived at this moment had been hard. Several times during the afternoon she’d found herself drifting despite the mayhem of the office and the decisions that needed to be made as to what should appear in the next issue of New Woman, the magazine she’d founded almost six years before – the same year she’d met David. Caitlin threw her handbag down on the bed, sat down and kicked off her shoes. In her stockinged feet she stood on the edge of the bed and removed a box from the top shelf of the wardrobe. Carefully, she climbed down, took the lid off and took out the bundle of photos that lay at the top. David. It was a year today since she’d last seen him. A year since that terrible night when she’d called their friend, Andy, frantic, to tell him he hadn’t come home. Walking through Dublin city centre that afternoon, everything had reminded her of their time together. She’d passed restaurants where they’d eaten, pubs where they’d gone with friends – places that she’d found it impossible to enter since he’d disappeared. In the days, weeks and months of the last year, every man of his height and build had drawn her attention. Every corner she’d turned she’d expected to see him, and each evening when she’d put her key in the lock it was with a sense of dread at the emptiness ahead. Caitlin picked up a framed photo and allowed herself to feel the ache that his absence had caused – an ache that she tried to quell by keeping busy, but there was nothing that would make her forget. The void that David had left would always be there – and it was only today – on the anniversary of his disappearance, that she would allow herself to be consumed by the total agony of that absence. She stared at the picture, taking in his smile, the creases at the corners of his grey eyes, the way he had her wrapped tight, both arms around her. God, they’d been so happy together. She’d loved him so much. There was no way she would ever have let something come between them. What happened had been unprecedented. Another person might have collapsed under it. But she’d experienced pain before and had survived. So instead, she’d done the only thing she could do; summoned all her strength and carried on. No matter what it cost her. She put the picture to her lips, stood it on the bedside locker and lay back on the bed. For the millionth time, she thought of all that had happened that night, of how dismissive the guards had been when she and Andy had gone to the station to report David missing. They’d buzzed the bell at the desk, waited a good ten minutes before the garda on duty appeared. He’d then taken them through to one of the interview rooms, sat there and, disinterestedly, taken notes. He’d told them that nobody was officially a missing person until the mandatory twenty-four-hour period had elapsed. ‘You don’t understand, David would never do this …’ she’d said. She’d broken down in tears then as Andy explained how David was supposed to meet him that evening and had failed to turn up. He tried to impress on the garda how completely out of character that was for his friend. They’d taken it more seriously in the days that followed. They’d questioned Caitlin in detail, asked her about David’s behaviour leading up to his disappearance. Had he been acting in any way strange? Had he ever done this type of thing before? How had his mood been in recent weeks? She’d told them that no, there had been no warning, nothing that would have set off alarm bells. As far as she had been concerned everything was fine. And how was the marriage, they wanted to know: had they been experiencing any difficulties? Perhaps they’d argued? She’d thought of the years they’d been together; they’d hardly ever argued. And, on the rare occasion when she got annoyed, he’d make some joke to make her come around. David was like that; quick-witted and hard to resist. He was also the most stable person she’d known, a foil to her own sudden moods. She’d gone through the details with them again and again, told them that he’d left for work that morning as normal. He was a music teacher at a secondary school for boys. The school principal had verified that David had turned up for work at 8.30 a.m. as usual and that he’d left at 4 p.m. that afternoon. CCTV footage showed him putting his violin case in the boot of the car before getting in and exiting the school car park. The police had carried out door-to-door enquiries, establishing that nobody had seen David return to the house that afternoon. His car had been located clamped in a backstreet in the city centre. A place where, unfortunately, there were no cameras. A ticket in the windscreen showed that he’d paid to park until 5.30 p.m., and an assistant in a music shop in George’s Street said that David had been in the store at about 5 p.m. and had bought violin strings. His violin had still been in the boot – one string broken, explaining his purchase. The information given by the music shop assistant had been the last reported sighting. David’s picture had gone up all over the city, on billboards, in DART and bus stations. It had almost destroyed Caitlin to see his smiling face everywhere she went. And still the guards had found no leads. As the months passed and they began to lose interest, Gillian, David’s mother, had suggested that they hire a private detective. He’d worked on the case for six months until eventually he told Caitlin he didn’t believe he could help her – that sometimes people just didn’t want to be found. For Caitlin that was like a slap to the face. David would never have walked out on their life. It was obvious, she’d told him, that something had happened to prevent his return. A few months later, when she’d met the detective in the street, he suggested that it was time she tried to move on, that it didn’t look as if David were coming back. He’d asked her out for a drink then, and the only emotion she’d felt was a deep sense of revulsion. She hadn’t got close to anyone since David’s disappearance. It was the last thing she wanted. Recently, she’d even found herself the object of a well-meaning matchmaking scheme by a friend who’d been urging her to get on with her life. This endeavour had simply led to her refusing dinner invitations from such friends who clearly had no understanding of how much David meant to her. Instead she’d sought to fill the void in other ways. She began running, and soon found herself jogging five kilometres each evening in the local park. Recently she’d pushed herself to seven. She’d lost weight, but that wasn’t her objective. She’d always been slim. She began running to escape the emptiness of the house in David’s absence – and then she found it was the one thing that lessened the stress and helped her to sleep at night. Exhausted, she’d sometimes shower and fall asleep with the TV on, one arm stretched across David’s side of the bed. There were mornings still when she opened her eyes expecting to find him next to her. David had taught her to play the violin. She still practised most evenings and had joined a group of musicians who did a jam session in a wine bar every Wednesday night. Their friend, Andy, was the cellist and he’d invited her to join. Music was a passion that she and David had shared, and when she played she summoned feelings, not of loss, but of the elation she felt when they were together. Often, she’d sit with Andy over a glass of wine and they’d talk of the past. He was one of the only people she felt truly understood her; the only one who felt David’s loss as keenly as she did. The phone rang, and Caitlin put the box of photos to the side. She knew that it would be David’s mum. They spoke often, and she knew she’d call on the anniversary of his disappearance. Caitlin had lost her own mother when she was five years old, and Gillian was as warm and compassionate as she imagined a mother should be – unlike the woman who’d brought Caitlin up. During her relationship with David, she’d grown close to his mother and since his disappearance they’d become closer still – each woman seeking a part of him in those he loved. Caitlin picked up the phone and waited to hear Gillian’s soothing voice. Instead the voice that spoke was male. ‘David’s alive … but don’t try to find him. It could be dangerous for both of you.’ Caitlin tightened her grip on the receiver. ‘Who is this? What do you—?’ Before she could finish speaking, the caller had hung up, and all she heard was the constant blip of the disconnected line. Trembling, she put down the receiver, then picked it up again. What should she do; call Andy, or Gillian? Surely, they’d advise her to call the guards, but what if it was dangerous as the caller had said? Maybe she ought not to tell anyone. She replaced the receiver and tried to clear her mind. Was it a hoax call? If this man knew something, why had he chosen to call now and not before – and why on the anniversary of David’s disappearance? Caitlin was trying to make sense of the thoughts that collided inside her mind when the phone rang again. After a second’s hesitation, she snatched up the receiver. She didn’t speak but waited for the man to say something first. If he could play games, then so could she, but this time it was the voice of David’s mother that greeted her. CHAPTER THREE (#u6dc2ce22-3286-53ac-ac4c-7200c6523284) Michelle (#u6dc2ce22-3286-53ac-ac4c-7200c6523284) Michelle took a long drink from her water bottle and dabbed the perspiration from her face with a towel as the girls filed past her with smiles and words of thanks for another great Zumba class. She smiled back and said goodnight to each of them by name, but she didn’t feel the buzz that she usually got from the workout. Tonight it had been an effort. Unable to concentrate solely on the music, she’d made some mistakes and slipped into the wrong moves at the wrong time. Not that the women had noticed; it was only three weeks into the course and they’d not yet mastered the choreography that accompanied each song. Michelle shoved the towel into her sports bag and searched in the pocket for her mobile. Three days and still she’d heard nothing from Nick. She looked at the screen in frustration. Every time she received a text message she opened it expecting it to be from him. The last time they’d spoken everything was fine. She was sure that nothing had happened between them that might have led to this. There had been no argument, no cross words, which made his silence simply incomprehensible. She’d tried calling him again before she began the class. The phone had rung out and she’d left a message saying that she hoped that everything was okay. Throwing on a fleece, Michelle zipped up her sports bag and prepared to go home. She turned off the lights in the sports hall, said goodnight to the security man at the front desk and walked out of the community centre into the dark rain-filled streets. Already damp with perspiration, her hair clung to her forehead. She pushed it out of her eyes and hurried down the street. Outside the car park a homeless man sat, paper cup in hand, the hood of his jumper pulled up ineffectively against the rain. Michelle dug a few coins out of her pocket and dropped them in giving the man a brief smile. He mumbled words of thanks and wished her a good night as she walked inside. She knew his face. She’d talked to him once, some months before when she’d begun volunteering on the soup run with the Simon Community. He’d told her about being made redundant, and about a messy divorce in which his wife had got everything. He swore he didn’t touch drugs or alcohol, but most of them said that – it wasn’t her job to believe or to judge them. She hadn’t seen him in a while, had hoped that maybe his luck had changed, but the same faces always returned to the streets. Some of them she knew by name now – the ones who were glad to chat. This man had stood out because he sounded educated. He’d once, he said, held a senior position in a logistics company, and she wondered again about the circumstances that had led to him being in the street that night. In the car park, she took the stairs two steps at a time until she’d reached the fifth floor. She hated these places at night – eerily lit by florescent lights – cars packed together, a predator could easily lie undetected waiting on a lone female to return to her car. Keys in hand, she unlocked the car from several metres away, and walked briskly, head held high until hurriedly she pulled open the driver’s door and climbed inside. When she turned the key in the ignition the radio came on and the gravellish tones of Tom Waits sang ‘Closing Time’ into the night. Nick. She couldn’t get him out of her mind. It had been like that from the beginning, but whereas then her thoughts were pleasant and giddy, now they brought fear and uncertainty. She tried to reassure herself. Nick was crazy about her, he’d told her that. Only two weeks before he’d invited her out for dinner to meet his sister and her husband – a step that she believed he hadn’t taken with anyone else since divorcing his wife. Afterwards, he’d told her that his sister had been mad about her, and that Rowdy the dog was too, so he reckoned he’d have to keep her. And now a whole weekend had passed without so much as a call. Michelle spiralled down the ramps and exited the car park. The rain had started to come down heavier, and she turned the wipers on to clear the windscreen. The homeless man had gone – she hoped he’d managed to find shelter for the night. The city streets were almost deserted. A woman struggled with an umbrella blown inside out in the wind and driving rain. Tom Waits’s melancholic tones were replaced by the unmistakable sound of Pearl Jam as Michelle found herself turning in the opposite direction of home and driving instead towards Nick’s house. She had to find out what had happened to prevent him from calling her. Perhaps he was ill, or worse still had had an accident. Whatever the reason, her fears would not abate until she’d satisfied herself that he was all right – that there was a reasonable explanation for, what felt by now, his interminable silence. Michelle felt her heart quicken as she turned onto Nick’s road. She slowed as she approached the house, terrified that she might see Nick’s ex-wife’s car in the driveway – or worse. Surrounded by trees, it wasn’t possible to see the house until she’d pulled up at the gate. Outside the front door the light was on. It shone onto the wet tarmac revealing the absence of Nick’s car. Michelle looked at the clock that showed it was after nine. It was unusual for Nick to be out on a Monday evening. He’d normally have just finished walking Rowdy round the block. She’d learned his routine in the time they’d been together. Though she figured he wouldn’t have even ventured out with the dog on a night like this. She was sitting there wondering what to do when her phone blipped. She opened the text, immediately saw Nick’s name and read the brief message: Call you tomorrow. N x. At least she knew that he was all right. She read the short message several times as though the words might change or give her some clue as to what was going on in his mind. She wondered briefly why he’d signed off with his initial. It wasn’t something he normally did. Nor was the single kiss characteristic of his usual effusive messages, punctuated with kisses after almost every sentence. But then the message itself was a mere one line. Michelle closed the message, put the phone on the seat next to her and started the engine. Wherever Nick was and whatever he was doing he clearly couldn’t or didn’t want to speak to her. His message had been of little consolation, save the fact that it confirmed he was alive, but that came with its own anxieties – namely that his feelings for her might have changed. Michelle took a deep breath and tried to still the chaotic thoughts that raced and circled in her mind. She would go home, take a shower and try to concentrate on a book or a movie, anything that might distract her from the negative feelings that Nick’s absence had caused her. She knew that to dwell too long on a fear was to fulfil the prophecy – whatever was going on with Nick right now, she told herself it probably had nothing to do with her. He would talk to her when he was ready. The last thing she wanted to do was to push him into anything he wasn’t ready for. She had to prove that she was the antithesis of everything his ex-wife had been. CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_2b3571ed-7203-506c-a986-60827d823a96) Nick (#ulink_2b3571ed-7203-506c-a986-60827d823a96) Nick woke in the night to the sound of a woman’s voice in his ear. He flailed blindly for the lamp and knocked over a glass of water on the bedside locker. When he finally found the switch, the light dispelled the auditory apparition, but failed to slow his racing heart. The voice had been distinct, angry, but what bothered him most was he hadn’t caught the words that the woman had said – and yet somehow, he knew her voice: it was Rachel’s. Sweating, he sat up and threw back the covers. Rachel, the woman from his dream; why was it that she seemed so real to him now? He got out of bed and pulled on his jeans. His hands were shaking badly, and a pulse throbbed in his left temple. Had he been dreaming before the voice had woken him? He didn’t remember. He just remembered the voice so close to his ear that he’d jumped. Downstairs, Nick switched the kettle on. He gripped the counter wishing that he’d not poured out the half bottle of whiskey that he’d had in the press two days before. The prescription that the doctor had given him lay on the living room table. He’d been prescribed Valium and Librium, drugs whose names he was familiar with but had never anticipated having to use. The doctor had said there would be withdrawal symptoms, but he hadn’t expected to feel this bad. The drugs would have helped to ease the tremors, and now with trembling hands he made a mug of coffee, heaped in four spoons of sugar, and wished that he’d heeded the doctor’s advice to have the script filled right away. Nick took his coffee into the living room, and rummaged in his coat pocket for his cigarettes, but then remembered he’d smoked his last in the car after his appointment – his only immediate means of self-medication gone. He sat back in his armchair, sipped the too-sweet coffee. Bars of light filtered through the venetian blind and bathed the room in the orange hue of the streetlight. It fell on the painting that Michelle had bought him for his birthday the previous month, a print of Van Gogh’s Starry Night. Michelle. He was glad she couldn’t see him like this. She didn’t even know he had a drink problem, or if she suspected it, she’d never said. He was rarely drunk. Over the years his body had developed such a tolerance that he’d had to drink more and more to feel the effects. Michelle drank, too, but one glass of wine and she was more than a little tipsy. She hated the taste of beer and he suspected that she only drank wine to be sociable. Nick picked up his phone and scrolled through her last few messages. She’d said that she hoped everything was all right. If only she knew how not all right things were. He knew she’d stick by him, he wasn’t afraid of that, but why should she have to? They’d only been seeing each other for eight months and he didn’t expect her to take on the burden of his illness. He knew it was going to be awful, the abstinence and the unbearable wait for a donor to be found – for someone else’s ill fate to determine his continued existence. He thought about the length of time it might take to find a suitable donor, if they found a suitable donor. The doctor had been frank about that. Type O negative was the rarest blood group. He had to face the facts. Apart from that there were the horror stories portrayed in the media: patients who died while on the transplant list, all because there weren’t enough people carrying donor cards. He hadn’t had one himself, had never even thought about it before he’d found himself in this bind. He hated to admit it, but Susan had been right. He’d screwed up his life. When he’d met Michelle, he thought that things were turning around, that maybe he had a chance at real happiness, but now he couldn’t bear to break the news to her, to drag her into his self-made mess. The thought of letting her go was agonizing, but how could they plan a future when he couldn’t be sure that, for him, such a thing even existed? She deserved so much more than that. Nick gulped the last of his coffee, winced at the accumulation of sugar at the bottom of the mug and thought he might be sick. The caffeine had momentarily eased the thudding in his temple, but his hands were shaking worse than ever and he wondered how he was going to get back to sleep. He remembered an all-night pharmacy that he’d seen a couple of kilometres away and wondered if he was fit to drive. Then he picked up the prescription, stuck it in his jeans pocket and pulled his leather jacket on. He needed those tablets badly. Outside, the rain was still coming down. Nick ran to the car; he started the engine, set the wipers on full speed and drove out of the housing estate. He was shivering, but his skin felt hot. It was almost 2 a.m. when he pulled into the shopping centre car park, which was empty save for two cars he imagined belonged to the pharmacy staff. Shivering, he cut the engine and stepped into the wet night. The pharmacist looked at the prescription, asked him to confirm his address and disappeared out the back. One look at him and he was pretty sure the pharmacist could identify a victim of detox. Not only were his hands shaking, he was perspiring too. His hands and face were clammy to the touch. A few minutes later, the pharmacist reappeared. He went through the directions with Nick but didn’t refer to his condition. He didn’t know what Librium was used for apart from withdrawal, but he knew that his mother had taken Valium after the shock of his father’s death, so he supposed these drugs were used to treat a number of conditions. He thanked the man, put the small pharmacy bag in the inside pocket of his jacket and went back out in the rain. In the car, he fumbled on the floor until he came across a half bottle of water that had rolled under the passenger seat. He swallowed two tablets and hoped that it wouldn’t be long before they began to take effect. The rain was still teeming down as he exited the car park; the wipers, set on automatic, raced to clear the windscreen. The coffee hadn’t helped; if anything, it had made him feel even more jittery. He thought of the session with the hypnotist – about what she’d said about confabulation. He’d looked it up on the Internet and the definition was just as Tessa had said: a false memory, or pseudo memory, a term that was used in cognitive psychology defined as a recollection of something that had never happened. He’d considered what she’d said about some people believing that confabulations under hypnosis were memories from their past lives, and he’d changed his search to ‘hypnosis and past life regression’, laughing at himself even as he did so. If only Michelle could see him now; she loved that kind of thing. He thought of all the times he’d teased her about her interest in the occult. He’d scoffed when she’d told him about her visits to an elderly gypsy lady – even when she’d insisted that the woman had known things, specific things about her family that couldn’t simply have been speculation. ‘And what does this lady do?’ he’d asked. ‘Read your palm, your cards?’ Michelle had told him that, no, the woman simply held your hand and gently rubbed it, that it was as if by touching you that she could access those private recesses of your mind. ‘Of course she can,’ he’d argued, ‘your hand probably jerks every time she hits on something and she just goes with it.’ Michelle had laughed and called him a sceptic. What would she think of him now, making appointments with a hypnotist and reading about regression and past lives? Nick was preoccupied with such thoughts when a dark shape suddenly stepped in the road in front of him. He jerked the wheel, thankful there were no cars on the other side of the road. Heart hammering, he pulled into the kerb and checked the rear-view mirror. The man had reached the opposite side of the road and was fumbling with something that Nick imagined to be a sleeping bag. Nick got out of the car, his legs weak, and walked back to the man who seemed ready to bed down in a doorway for the night. ‘Jesus, man, are you all right? I could have killed you,’ he said. The man looked at him unfazed and continued setting up his bed for the night, a dirty green sleeping bag that looked as though, like the man, it had been soaked through. Nick put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a fifty-euro note. ‘Look, get yourself into a hostel for the night, man. It’s no night to be in the street.’ The stranger looked at him, and at the money in his hand. ‘Are you sure? I wasn’t asking …’ There were tears in the man’s eyes. Nick was surprised at his timbre. He didn’t sound like someone who should’ve been in the street. Embarrassed, he thrust the money into the man’s hand. ‘God bless you for this,’ the man said. ‘God bless you.’ Nick dashed back to the car. When he looked in the mirror again, he saw that the man had bundled up his sleeping bag and was walking in a brisk manner in the direction of the city. Only if he were lucky, Nick knew, would he find a shelter for the night. Shaken by the experience, along with his symptoms, Nick drove home slowly, absorbed still by thoughts of reincarnation. In his search that afternoon, he’d come across an excerpt from a book called Many Lives, Many Masters, by a Dr Brian L. Weiss, MD, an American psychotherapist. It told the story of how Weiss, a sceptic, had learned to believe in past lives when a patient of his had been accidentally transported to a past life during standard hypnotherapy. Nick had read the two-page extract and then re-read it. It seemed that Weiss’s patient had found herself in a different time and place, just as he had. He’d refreshed his search. The Internet was full of stories of people who claimed to have lived before. Finally, annoyed with himself for even entertaining such a ridiculous idea, he’d closed down his computer. Hocus pocus, that’s all it was. What he’d experienced was a confabulation. It had to be. Chiding himself still for his foolishness, Nick reached the house without further incident. He knew that his jumbled thoughts were most likely a further consequence of the withdrawal from alcohol – something that he hoped the medication would help with when it had had a chance to get into his system. In darkness, he climbed the stairs, longing for the oblivion that sleep might bring and trying to put from his mind what might happen at his next session with Tessa. He would phone her to make another appointment in the morning. Regardless of what might happen, he’d need the woman’s help to quit drinking. CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_0b345acd-a29a-5852-bd95-20ddfbe3c8ef) Caitlin (#ulink_0b345acd-a29a-5852-bd95-20ddfbe3c8ef) ‘Cait love, come in.’ Gillian stood back, and Caitlin stepped into the hall, shaking the rain from her umbrella before closing the front door. She hadn’t told Gillian what had happened, not yet. Instead, she’d broken down on the phone at the sound of her mother-in-law’s voice, and Gillian had told her immediately to come over, that she shouldn’t be alone, not tonight of all nights. Caitlin had accepted gladly, packed an overnight bag, and driven straight there. All the time the man’s words resounded in her head. David’s alive, he’d said, but who was he, and what did he know? She had to find out. ‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t talk on the phone, Gillian …’ She stood before her mother-in-law and pulled at her gloves, wondering if she had done the right thing in coming. Gillian put her hand on her arm. ‘Has something happened?’ Caitlin nodded, she couldn’t keep this to herself. She had to confide in someone. And Gillian was the mother she’d never had. They’d hit it off as soon as David had introduced them. ‘I got a call just before you rang. It was a man. He said that David … that he was alive. He said I’m not to try to find him … that if I did, it would be dangerous … I don’t know what to make of it. I mean, why now, why today? Whoever he is, he must know something.’ Gillian’s hand went to her mouth. ‘Did he say who he was? Did he give you any information to go on?’ Caitlin shook her head. ‘He hung up before I could ask him anything.’ ‘Have you called the guards?’ ‘No, I was going to … but then I thought about what he said. I mean, what if it is dangerous? What if David’s alive and something happens to him if we get the guards involved? I don’t know what to do … that’s why I came over … I had to tell someone, do something … I’m not even sure I should be here.’ Caitlin took off her coat and followed Gillian into the living room where a fire burned, and a soap opera played on the television. Gillian picked up the remote control and put the TV on mute. They sat opposite each other, Caitlin on the sofa and Gillian in her armchair by the fire. ‘What did this man sound like?’ Gillian leaned forward, eager for information. Caitlin shrugged, trying to remember the voice. ‘I don’t know. His accent was neutral. Definitely Irish; I think I’d have noticed otherwise. His exact words were “David’s alive. But don’t try to find him. It could be dangerous for both of you.” I wonder who he meant … David and me, I presumed – but he could have meant us, couldn’t he? That it would be dangerous for you and me to try to find him. I don’t know what to do, whether to call the police or not?’ Gillian hesitated. ‘Okay, if what this man says is true, if David’s alive, then he’s not likely to come to any immediate harm. It’s been a year, Cait, and wherever he is, he’s been safe.’ ‘You think we should call the Guards then?’ ‘I don’t know. I mean it could be a hoax, someone who read about David in the paper.’ Caitlin thought of the calls the guards had received in the initial stages of the investigation. They’d had numerous reported sightings of David, none of which had led anywhere. ‘It would be strange though, no? It’s been months since anything’s appeared in the paper. Why would someone decide to make a call now and not before?’ ‘I don’t know, Cait. We have to look at all the possibilities. I don’t want to get my hopes up. Not again.’ Caitlin nodded. ‘Oh, Gillian, I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t have even told you, but I couldn’t keep it to myself …’ Gillian stood up and placed another log on the fire. ‘What about that detective, the one we hired before? Would it be worth getting in touch with him?’ Caitlin shook her head. ‘No, he didn’t turn up anything last time. And I didn’t get the impression he’d tried very hard either.’ ‘Okay, I think we should tell the guards then. We can do it discreetly – not call from either of our phones-– but from someplace else. There’s every chance that this call is a hoax, Caitlin, you have to be prepared for that, but we won’t rest easy if we don’t report it. We both know that.’ Caitlin nodded. ‘I’ll make the call from work tomorrow. No one can overhear me in the office. I’ll tell them our concerns about contacting them. I can’t see that they’ll do very much – we’re not providing them with any new information, but at least I’ll have told them.’ Gillian sighed. ‘Hope is what keeps me going, the thought that we’ll see David again. But every time I get my hopes up, it comes to nothing and I suffer the same pain all over again. Sometimes, I think it would be better to accept the fact that David’s not coming back. It sounds terrible, doesn’t it? But I have to get past the suffering – maybe acceptance is the only way. And you … you can’t put your life on hold. You’re a young woman …’ Caitlin got up, crossed to Gillian and took her hand. ‘Don’t say that, Gillian. Don’t give up … we can’t. Maybe this call will turn out to be something. David’s out there somewhere, I’m sure of it.’ She squeezed her mother-in-law’s fingers, thankful that, terrible as the past year had been, it had brought them closer together. She didn’t know what she’d do without Gillian in her life. No matter what happened, she had to preserve that. ‘Do you mind if I stay tonight?’ she asked. ‘I don’t feel like going home; I don’t think I could face it.’ David’s mother put her arm around her. ‘You know you’re always welcome, Cait. I’d be glad of the company. You don’t even have to ask. You’ve still got a key, don’t you? Come over anytime, even if I’m not here, you can let yourself in. This is your home too, same as it was David’s.’ Caitlin nodded. With a lump in her throat, she didn’t trust herself to answer. Instead, she hugged Gillian, then got up and said she’d put the kettle on. In the kitchen, she stood at the sink and looked out at the rain beating against the window. Gillian had unmuted the television and the homely sound of chatter filled the room. She could feel David here in this house, could imagine him coming up behind her, arms wrapping round her waist as he used to do. She almost expected to see his reflection in the windowpane. Christ, there were times when she couldn’t bear it. She took a deep breath to steady herself; this wasn’t the time to come undone, not now. CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_1a01d48a-3d43-580a-b513-bf5668e7ab96) Michelle (#ulink_1a01d48a-3d43-580a-b513-bf5668e7ab96) The rain was coming down in sheets as Michelle and Conor made their way from the premises on Capel Street onto the quays, their backpacks loaded with sandwiches and flasks of hot tea and soup. Michelle checked her phone, as she had been doing compulsively all afternoon, while Conor poured soup for the homeless man on the bridge, and then took from his pocket some treats for the Jack Russell who sat obediently by the man’s side. No messages. She put the phone away and stooped to fondle the dog’s ears. ‘How’s it going, Tommy?’ she asked the man. He nodded and slurped the soup. She didn’t ask if he was hoping to get into a shelter; he’d told her before that he was a loner, that all he needed was the dog, Buddy, for company. ‘Have you eaten at all today, Tommy?’ she asked. The man stopped to think. ‘Had the best steak you can imagine,’ he said, ‘back in 1993.’ He laughed at his own joke as he unwrapped the tuna sandwiches Conor had given him. The dog was crunching on a biscuit as they closed their backpacks and moved on. Michelle was used to the run. Usually, she even enjoyed it. Nick had asked her if it wasn’t too dangerous, but she told him, no, that the volunteers always went out in pairs, and that some of the homeless people were the nicest, gentlest people you could meet. She’d been appalled by some of the stories they’d told her. They’d been spat on, and worse, by drunken fools who thought themselves superior; their deplorable behaviour proving the exact opposite to their own skewed beliefs. As they continued along the North Quays, it occurred to Michelle that she hadn’t recently seen the homeless couple that usually sat on the Ha’penny Bridge. ‘Hey, what’s happened to Dolly and Jim? I haven’t seen them in a while,’ she asked Conor. Conor sighed and looked at her. ‘Jim passed away – pneumonia,’ he said. ‘Shit.’ Michelle felt tears prick her eyes as she thought of the couple always making jokes and sitting close together. She took a deep breath. Conor looked at her and she turned away so that he wouldn’t see the tears. ‘It sucks, I know,’ he said. Michelle nodded, not trusting herself to speak. It didn’t seem right, Dolly without Jim. She wondered where Dolly was, whether she’d been forced to seek refuge in a shelter now that her partner was gone. Michelle took a deep breath, then lowered her head and quickened her step to match Conor’s. By the time they were out of sandwiches and had returned to the premises, Nick had still not called. ‘I’m off. See you guys on Friday,’ Michelle called. She ducked out of the building and ran down the narrow stairs before anyone had a chance to engage her in conversation. Usually sociable, she couldn’t face talking to anyone today and as she stepped out into the street she swallowed back more tears. Why hadn’t Nick called? In the car, the tears came again. Something was wrong – and she couldn’t bear to be kept in ignorance. She wiped her eyes, breathed deep and turned on the ignition. It was after ten o’clock when Michelle found herself outside Nick’s house again. She turned on the dim overhead light and checked herself in the rear-view mirror, then took her compact from her bag to renew her foundation and coat her lips with pink gloss. She didn’t look too bad considering the day she’d had. She took a deep breath, got out of the car and walked up to the front door. Her heart thumped as she rang the bell and waited for him to answer. A few minutes passed and she leaned on the bell again. She heard movement inside, and through the frosted glass of the hall window she saw Nick descend the stairs. He didn’t look pleased to see her. He ran a hand through his already dishevelled hair. She noticed the dark circles beneath his eyes, and his hands were shaking. ‘What are you doing here?’ he said. ‘I was worried. Can I come in for a minute? I won’t stay long.’ He stood back, avoiding her eyes as she stepped past him into the hall. He followed her into the kitchen. ‘Are you okay?’ she said. ‘I’m fine. You shouldn’t have come, Michelle. I was going to call you …’ He still didn’t meet her eye. She put a hand on his arm. ‘Nick, what’s going on? Why have you been avoiding me?’ ‘I haven’t, I’ve been busy that’s all …’ He stepped away from her, crossed the kitchen to the dishwasher and began emptying it. Michelle stood in the middle of the room, lost. ‘Can’t we at least talk about it?’ ‘Sure, but you shouldn’t just show up like this. It’s not fair.’ ‘Not fair? Do you think it’s fair to just ignore me? I’ve been worried sick. You haven’t called in days. I thought there was something wrong. And obviously there is, but we need to talk about it, Nick. I mean … is it me, am I the problem?’ Nick shook his. ‘No, it’s not you. Not personally.’ He stopped putting away the dishes and turned to look at her. ‘I’m sorry, Michelle. Look, I don’t know what to tell you. I just don’t feel that great right now. Can’t we do this another time?’ Another time. Another four days of silence, more maybe? ‘No. I’m sorry, Nick, but I can’t go on like this; not knowing what’s happening between us. If you want to finish it, then it would be better if you just told me.’ He didn’t say anything for a minute. ‘Look, Michelle, you know I’m crazy about you. It’s just … I don’t think I can do this right now. Maybe it was too soon after my divorce, everything happened so quickly.’ She was fighting back the tears. This was the last thing she wanted, and if he was so crazy about her, what the hell was he doing? ‘So, what? We just end it – walk away and pretend we never met?’ Nick took a deep breath. He looked like hell, and she wondered if there was something else going on. ‘I don’t want to string you along … not when I don’t know what …’ ‘Nick, you’ve been stringing me along for days. I thought we were happy, I thought we were doing great … what happened to change your mind? Is it your ex-wife, is that it?’ ‘Susan? No, that’s got nothing to do with it.’ ‘What then? I just wish you’d give me a reason …’ ‘I’m sorry … I guess I’m just not ready. I’m so sorry, Michelle, I really am.’ ‘Right, well that’s it then. There’s nothing I can say to change your mind.’ He pinched the sides of his nose, shook his head. For a minute she thought he was crying. It was all she could do to keep back her own tears. ‘Right, well, there’s a bag of stuff upstairs, clothes … If you don’t mind, I’ll go up and get it.’ ‘No. No, go ahead.’ Rowdy sniffed beneath the sitting room door as she passed. She walked on, seeing the dog would surely make her come undone. At the top of the stairs she paused. This might be her last time in this house, and she didn’t even know why. She wished he’d change his mind, follow her up the stairs and tell her not to go, but he didn’t. In the bedroom, she picked up her slippers from her side of the bed, put them in the bag that she’d left there for convenience. He’d told her there was no need to keep taking it every time she left, and so she’d taken it home once a week to fill it with clean clothes, but this time there’d be no coming back. She stood at the end of the bed, looked round the room, committing everything to memory. When she neared the door, she noticed something on his bedside locker. It was a container of pills and, curious, she picked them up. Valium the label read. Surprised, she put them down again. What was he doing taking Valium? He’d never mentioned being on any sort of medication. She’d never seen him take it. ‘Did you get everything?’ Nick asked as Michelle headed back downstairs. She nodded. ‘Nick, those tablets on your locker … is everything all right?’ He looked taken aback, but then sighed resignedly. ‘Yeah, I’ve just been a bit stressed, you know. Work … the doctor said they’d help.’ ‘Okay. Look, if there was anything else wrong, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you? I’m here for you, Nick, if you need me. I can be a friend if you’re not ready for anything more …’ ‘I know.’ He walked with her to the door. She waited for him to say that he’d call her, anything that might give her hope, but instead he just hugged her awkwardly, and told her to take care of herself. ‘You too,’ she said, and hurried to the car before he could see just how badly he’d hurt her. CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_f23fefb0-4fdf-587d-b4d2-98f624dd9984) Nick (#ulink_f23fefb0-4fdf-587d-b4d2-98f624dd9984) In daylight, Tessa’s house was even more impressive. Nick looked out across the lake as he stood on the porch waiting for someone to answer. Round the back, he could hear children playing, their squeals of innocent delight. Tessa answered the door herself this time. ‘Hello, Nick. Please, come in.’ Her smile was warm as she stepped back to admit him. The medication had helped, for the shakes at least. He’d felt like hell after Michelle’s visit. He’d gone into the sitting room and sat on the sofa crying, the pain so bad that nothing could ease it, and the only one he could blame was himself. The dog had looked at him, puzzled, and he’d buried his face in its fur until the convulsions had eased. But he knew that he’d done the right thing. If he’d been honest, Michelle would have insisted on staying. Better that she think he was a total bastard and get on with her life. She’d get over him; he wasn’t that special. Not like her. ‘How have you been?’ Tessa asked as she led him into the small office. ‘Up. Down. The doctor prescribed Librium and Valium. They’re helping a bit. How many sessions do you think I’ll need before the urges stop?’ Tessa indicated for him to lie back in the chair. ‘It’s different for everyone,’ she said. ‘I know it’s only been two days, but have you noticed any difference?’ He shook his head, took off his jacket and sat into the chair. As soon as he did so, the visions came back – the confabulation. He wasn’t surprised. His dreams always came back to him as soon as he got into bed at night. He tried not to think about it. Tessa must have seen his discomfort because she referred to it at once. ‘I know you’re probably a bit nervous after what happened last time, Nick, but it’s not common, so try to put it from your mind. Just lie back and try to relax.’ He took a deep breath, exhaled it shakily. ‘That’s it,’ the woman said. She began with the same instructions as last time. Her voice was gentle, lulling him towards unconsciousness. This time he didn’t fight as much. He allowed his body to slacken limb by limb as she told him to. Sleep deprivation aided his hypnosis. He was aware, but from somewhere far away, of Tessa’s voice telling him to make a fist, to think of a time when he felt empowered, when he felt strong. He thought of Michelle again, but then he remembered that Michelle wouldn’t be there anymore, and he let himself drift back, and back further still to the time before he married Susan. To his youth and then suddenly to his childhood. He’s in a playground, his father pushing him on a swing. He laughs, asks his father to push him higher. He kicks his legs out, catapults himself into the air, hands gripping the metal chains. Then suddenly, the scene changes. He’s the one pushing the swing. He’s laughing still, but his laughter is joined by a high-pitched squeal of delight. ‘Hold on tight,’ he says, as he pushes the swing and the little girl in jeans and a yellow T-shirt flies forward – pigtails sailing behind her as the swing pauses at the crest before making the descent into his waiting hands. ‘Okay Caitie, we’d better get going,’ he says, as he steadies the swing and helps her down. But she’s already running towards the slide. The images shift between his life and the unknown. Sometimes, he’s aware of Tessa’s voice guiding him. She tells him that he’s somewhere quiet, somewhere peaceful and he sees himself in a field by a small stream. He’s gathering firewood, but he’s his other self – the one with long hair. He has a moustache. He’s just lit the fire when he hears voices, singing. He looks up, smiles. A woman is coming through the trees, it’s Rachel. The little girl skips next to her, jumps through the long grass. She runs towards him singing one of their favourite songs – ‘Kisses Sweeter than Wine’. ‘Nick.’ Tessa was calling to him. Nick? No, John. Johnny, that’s what Rachel called him. ‘I’m going to count from one to five, Nick. When I get to five, you will open your eyes. You will feel good. You will feel relaxed.’ The images were fading. The woman and the little girl moving beyond reach. He was reluctant to wake. He wanted to stay there in the camp with Rachel and their child. Their little girl, Caitlin. That was her name: Caitie. His eyes fluttered. ‘One. You’re coming back now, Nick. Two. You’re becoming aware of your body again. Three. You’re bringing with you all of those good feelings. Four. You are aware of the sounds around you. Five. You’re opening your eyes, Nick. Open them slowly. Keeping hold of those positive feelings.’ He blinked. Closed his eyes again. Caitie. ‘Open your eyes, Nick.’ He opened them, saw Tessa hovering next to him. She smiled. ‘You did great, Nick. Just take your time now.’ He lay there a few minutes longer trying to hold on to the images of the woman and the girl, but they had faded – nothing left but an all-too-real memory. He opened his eyes, sat up. Tessa had turned the light on, she was poised at her desk waiting for him to speak. ‘She was there again.’ Tessa eyed him, curious. ‘Who?’ ‘Rachel. The woman from last time. We were camping. I was lighting a fire and they appeared from the trees, Rachel and Caitlin.’ ‘Who is Caitlin?’ ‘My daughter.’ Tessa nodded. ‘Are you close to your daughter, Nick?’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t have any children, it was in the dream. In the dream, Caitlin was our daughter – mine and Rachel’s.’ Tessa looked perturbed. ‘This woman, Rachel, do you know her in real life? Could she be someone from your past?’ ‘I don’t think so. And yet, I feel like I know her; she’s so real. And Cait – the little girl … I’d like to go back,’ he said suddenly. ‘Maybe I can find out more information, figure out what’s going on.’ Tessa shook her head. ‘You’ve done enough for today,’ she said. ‘I can’t explain these images, Nick. Maybe as we go on, it’ll become clear. Maybe these people are part of your past, something you’ve blocked out.’ Nick looked at her, incredulous. ‘I couldn’t have blocked out something like that. I’d know if I had a wife, a daughter. It’s just not possible.’ Tessa picked up her pen, scanned her diary to make their next appointment. ‘That’s not quite what I meant. Maybe these people take a different form in your confabulations. I’m not sure. We’ll just have to see what comes out in subsequent sessions.’ ‘What about that thing you said before? About past lives?’ Even as he said it, the cynic in his head scoffed at the thought. But the images were so real … ‘I’m afraid I don’t believe in that. I think we get one chance here, let’s try and make sure you get the best one you can. Now, how about Friday?’ she said. Friday. Only two days away – he reckoned he could manage that. As Nick got in the car, he fought the temptation to phone Michelle. He’d like to talk to someone, to tell them what was happening to him, but he couldn’t. Not yet. He had to figure it out himself. Maybe what Tessa said was true. Maybe Rachel was a version of someone he knew, of Susan maybe? Although, even as it occurred to him, he didn’t believe it. And Caitlin – his little girl – where had she come from? Nick got back to the house, took his Valium, and sat at his computer. He typed ‘past life regression’ into the search engine again, this time ignoring the voice in his head that told him that it was all nonsense. What if it wasn’t … if there was the sliver of a chance that it was true? It would explain why the experience he’d had under hypnosis had seemed so real. It would explain why Rachel – her name had even taken on a new significance for him – seemed more than a conjuring of his imagination. It would mean that death was not the end. CHAPTER EIGHT (#ulink_c6ca1382-cbb5-530b-b96b-8c319685e4d0) Caitlin (#ulink_c6ca1382-cbb5-530b-b96b-8c319685e4d0) Caitlin had hung up from the guards feeling frustrated. She’d asked to speak to Walt Gallagher, the sergeant who had been in charge of David’s case, only to be told that he’d retired the month before and nobody had deigned to tell her. When she’d asked who had taken over the sergeant’s cases, she’d been told in a disinterested tone that the speaker had no idea. His work had most likely been distributed among the force. Trying to keep her cool, she’d asked if she could speak to someone senior in the office. The man on desk duty had enquired what it was about, making her relay the whole story up until the phone call she’d received the previous night, while interjecting intermittently with the odd ‘mmm-hmm’ and ‘I see.’ When Caitlin had reached the end of the story, the man transferred her to someone else, someone who had, apparently, taken over the case from Gallagher. The new sergeant, Trevor Parks, had her retell the story of David’s disappearance again. When she’d told him about the anonymous phone call, Parks didn’t seem too excited. Instead, he’d told her that more than ninety per cent of the time, this type of call turned out to be a hoax. It was not something to pin her hopes to. Probably, it had been some sicko who’d read about the case in the paper and thought it would be funny to make a crank call. ‘But the case hasn’t been mentioned in the paper for months,’ Caitlin had interjected. The sergeant had told her then that there had been an article about Ireland’s missing in the magazine in the Sunday World the previous week. Maybe David was mentioned in that? He didn’t have access to the article himself, but maybe Caitlin should contact the paper to find out. ‘What will you do?’ she’d asked. ‘Can you trace the call?’ ‘We can look at your phone record, see if it’s a known number. Apart from that, I’m afraid we have very little to go on.’ Of course. It was as much as she had expected. They’d check the number – if they even bothered with that – but they wouldn’t be able to trace it. Was it any wonder so many cases went unsolved? On Wednesday, she went online and tweeted to find out if anyone happened to have a copy of the missing person’s supplement that had been printed with the Sunday World. An hour later, she received a message on Twitter. It wasn’t anyone she knew, a random follower who had a shared interest in true-life crime. She looked at his profile: @darbryan1. His interests, apart from following true-life crime stories, it said, were film noir and folk music. He looked pretty normal. She read his message. @darbryan1: Hi Caitlin. I have that supplement. Can pass it on if you want it? Dar. Caitlin wrote back. @caitlindavis: Thanks. Do you know if there’s a link? @darbryan1: I don’t think so. Could post it to you if you give me address? Address. Was it a good idea to send some random stranger her address? Maybe there was an easier way to get the supplement. She didn’t answer darbryan1’s message. Instead, she phoned the Sunday World, but they told her they didn’t have any spare copies to send out and the supplement wasn’t available online. She sat looking at her computer screen. She could ask darbryan1 if there was any mention of a David Casey in the supplement. She hadn’t changed her maiden name when they’d got married, so at least he wouldn’t make the connection. @caitlindavis: That’s okay. Thanks. I don’t suppose you recall if there was anything about a guy called David Casey in there? @darbryan1: Hmm, not sure. I can check for you. Hope you didn’t think I was some weirdo asking for your address! J @caitlindavis: That’d be great, thanks. About a half hour later, she received another message from darbryan1. He’d scanned and attached a page of the supplement. A brief paragraph mentioned David, saying he’d last been seen at a music shop on 16th October 2016, that his car had been found in the city centre but that no leads had suggested where David might have gone. Several sightings had led nowhere. At least now she knew; the hoax call had very likely come about as a result of the article. She’d put her phone number on all of the missing persons posters she’d put up at the time. It was a miracle, she thought, that she hadn’t received any calls up until now. The guards had told her it hadn’t been a good idea, making her number public like that, but she didn’t care. If anything was reported, she wanted to know about it. @caitlindavis: Thanks Dar. She typed back. @caitlindavis: That’s exactly what I was looking for. @darbryan1: No problem. Happy to help. Too many missing people out there. L She wondered if he had a story of his own, but she didn’t ask him. Gillian wasn’t surprised when she told her the response she’d got when she called the guards. She didn’t tell her about darbryan1, or the article. What was the point in killing her hope completely? Caitlin was fuming. What sort of person would get amusement from making a call like that? Some sicko. She was glad, suddenly, that David had insisted on their telephone number not going in the directory. At least the man didn’t know where she lived. Who knew what a person like that might do? – but God, he’d be choosing the wrong woman to mess with. She only wished that she could track him down. He’d be sorry he’d ever made that call. CHAPTER NINE (#ulink_2a9ec75e-e661-5602-b57b-7bed524c0dc9) Michelle (#ulink_2a9ec75e-e661-5602-b57b-7bed524c0dc9) Michelle pulled off the road and parked beside the low wall outside the cottage. A dog barked ferociously, and she strained to see where it was, but among the caravans and general chaos of the garden she couldn’t spot it. The lock was not on the gate, which meant the old woman was available. She stepped from the car and hovered outside, looking at the door and the window, checking again to see whether there was any possibility that the dog was loose, but the rest of the garden was fenced off from the footpath, so she took her chance. As soon as she tapped on the door, a cacophony of barking erupted from the house. The unseen hound started up again in tandem. She heard the old woman telling the dog to stop and a few minutes later the door opened and she was beckoned inside. Nothing had changed since she’d last been here. The old woman led her into a room filled with old newspapers, religious relics and an array of paraphernalia that must have gathered over decades. In contrast a wide-screen television was mounted above the fireplace, the sound now muted. Michelle sat on the sofa that was covered by an old quilt and tried to ignore the stench of urine and something else, something rotten that she couldn’t identify, as the small dog eyed her warily from behind the old woman’s legs. ‘Life is good?’ the woman said. Michelle attempted a smile. ‘Not bad,’ she said. She always tried to tell the woman as little as possible: she didn’t want to lead her in any way; although, if the woman was still as good as she’d been before, the strain in her voice would be enough to alert her that something was the matter. Nick, in his scepticism, was accurate about that. Michelle knew there were any number of charlatans out there. She remembered the time she and her friend, Anna, had gone to see your man off the television – the one who told horoscopes. They’d gone in one after the other, and afterwards when they’d consulted, they’d realized that he’d been too lazy to even invent different stories. They were both about to meet a man with a tan briefcase. They’d laughed about it after, pockets lighter by forty euros. Anna had sworn never to visit a psychic again. But Michelle knew that the old woman was good. Hadn’t she told her about her mother’s illness? A sickness of the blood and the bones, she’d said. There was no more accurate description of the cancer that had attacked her mother’s bone marrow. Within five years she was gone, leaving Michelle and her sister devastated. The old woman took Michelle’s hand and rubbed it gently, watching her face all the time. ‘You work in a place with a lot of people,’ she said. Michelle only slightly inclined her head in affirmation. ‘A lot of women, dancing.’ Michelle smiled. ‘That’s right.’ The old woman hadn’t lost it. ‘You’re good at your job. You’ll have your own business maybe in the next year or so.’ Again, the psychic was right. At least that was the plan. She’d already looked into starting her own Zumba and Pilates classes. She’d spoken to a friend to find out what it would entail, setting herself up as a business, taking out personal insurance. She was saving some money before she quit her job to set out on her own. It was her goal, and she knew she’d do it. ‘Things haven’t been so good in love,’ the old woman said. ‘No.’ ‘How long were you together?’ ‘Almost eight months.’ ‘And everything was going well before. You were thinking of moving in together?’ They hadn’t talked about that, but Michelle had thought that it hadn’t been too far off. She spent three or four nights a week at Nick’s place anyway. He said he hated it when she wasn’t there. She did too. She’d loved living alone before. She liked the freedom, the not having to answer to anybody. Before, she’d lived with a man for almost three years, and it had stifled her. Everywhere she went, he’d asked questions. The thing he’d claimed to love most about her, her free spirit, was what tore them apart in the end. And then a year later, Nick had come along. ‘Things went bad – just like that.’ The old woman clicked her fingers with her free hand, then rested it on top of Michelle’s. Despite herself, she could feel the tears coming. Nick would surely laugh at her for that – a flashing neon sign for the psychic to interpret. Damn him anyway. ‘No explanation.’ ‘No, he just … disappeared.’ ‘He’s torn,’ the woman said. ‘Wants you in his life and doesn’t.’ She was silent for a moment. ‘Is he well?’ she asked then. ‘You mean healthy?’ Michelle shrugged. ‘I think so.’ The woman looked confused. ‘A drinker maybe?’ Nick drank a few beers, but he didn’t drink too much, did he? She’d never seen him particularly drunk, no more so than a lot of their friends. The old woman sighed. ‘I’m not sure this is a good situation for you, lovey. This man, he has a good heart, but he’s not willing to commit. There’s a reason, but it’s not clear to me. There isn’t another woman?’ ‘No. I mean, he was married before, but that’s finished.’ ‘A child?’ ‘No.’ ‘Funny, I see a child. A dark-haired little girl and a woman.’ Strange. There was no child – unless he hadn’t told her. He wouldn’t have kept something like that a secret – not after eight months, would he? ‘How old is this child?’ ‘Four, maybe five, and Johnny …’ ‘Johnny?’ The old woman looked sharply at her. ‘You said his name was Johnny?’ ‘No. No, it’s Nick.’ ‘Nick?’ The woman looked confused. She let go of Michelle’s hand, ran her palm across her forehead. ‘I’m sorry, dear. Ignore that. It’s … I don’t know, I’ve given you a wrong reading, I think.’ ‘You think it’s someone else?’ ‘No, not someone else. Sometimes things get confused. I don’t know. Maybe you could come back tomorrow, dear. We could try again.’ Michelle took out her purse, but the old woman waved her hand and told her to put it away. ‘No money,’ she said. ‘Not for today.’ Michelle left, disappointed. She thought of the woman’s reading. Johnny. She didn’t know anyone called Johnny. She hoped the old lady hadn’t had some premonition about the future. A woman and a dark-haired child. It didn’t make any sense, but then the other things did. She’d known that she taught dance to a lot of women. That she planned to start her own business. Maybe she had good days and bad, the old lady. Michelle contemplated how old she might be. She’d first visited her ten years before, and she’d thought she was ancient then. Maybe her powers were going as the years advanced, her visions becoming blurry. Powers. She heard Nick mock her. You don’t really believe in all that nonsense, do you? Maybe he was right. Maybe it was all nonsense, and she ought to just get on with her life. CHAPTER TEN (#ulink_7e674d0b-c391-5783-b092-64eadd6c6311) Nick (#ulink_7e674d0b-c391-5783-b092-64eadd6c6311) ‘Do you know what year it is?’ Tessa’s voice intruded on his vision. ‘It’s 1980.’ ‘Where are you?’ ‘At home. It’s Cait’s birthday. She’s five. They’ve made a cake, her and Rachel.’ ‘Are you Nick or Johnny?’ ‘Johnny. John Davis.’ A pause on the recording, then he speaks again. ‘She’s so happy. We’ve got her a bicycle. She’s starting school soon … Rachel is planning on going to college.’ ‘What’s Rachel going to do?’ ‘Design. She works in a home store, but she wants to be a designer. Interiors.’ ‘And what about you, Nick?’ He doesn’t answer. ‘What do you do?’ Still no answer. ‘What’s going on, Nick?’ ‘Rachel, she says she has to go out this evening. I don’t want her to go. It’s Caitlin’s birthday, but she says she has to. She’s meeting Orla.’ ‘Who’s Orla?’ ‘Her friend. She’s trouble, I don’t like her.’ ‘Why not?’ ‘I don’t know. There’s something about her. Rachel’s annoyed. She says it’ll only be for a few hours.’ ‘Are you jealous? Jealous of Orla?’ ‘No. I think she’s hiding something … she’s not being honest.’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘I don’t know … I’m not sure yet.’ Tessa leaned forward and stopped the recording. ‘That’s pretty much it,’ she said. ‘I bring you out of it then.’ Nick looked at her. ‘It’s so weird, listening to myself …’ ‘What do you think is happening, Nick?’ ‘I don’t know. It seems so real and now, I mean the year: I wasn’t born then. This sounds ridiculous, but I’ve been reading about it, you know, the past life stuff. I’ve always been a cynic, but I’m beginning to wonder … maybe it’s the only explanation.’ Tessa wasn’t as quick to dismiss it as usual. She doodled on the notepad with her pen. He noticed she’d scribbled the year and the name, his name: John Davis. Johnny. ‘We’ll keep going, Nick. See what happens.’ The craving was strong. Nick pulled into a supermarket car park and went into the off-licence. Just a mouthful. A mouthful would stop the trembling in his hands. He returned to the car with a small bottle of whiskey. He put the paper bag on the passenger seat, breathed deep and made a fist. Michelle. He hadn’t heard from her since she’d turned up at the house that night. He’d fought the urge to contact her, had picked up the phone a thousand times, and had to keep reminding himself that it wouldn’t be fair. What was done was done. And yet, if he told her, she could help. She could be the only thing between him and that bottle of whiskey. He took his phone from his pocket, the craving getting worse as the ringing went on. He hung up without leaving a message. What was she doing? Not sitting by the phone anyway. That was good. He wouldn’t expect her to. Maybe she was too angry now to even answer. At home, he opened the bottle of whiskey and poured a shot. This would be it, his last, something to steady him while he tried to figure out what the hell was going on. He raised the glass to his lips, swallowed it in one and gripped the sink as the liquid burned the back of his throat. He picked up the bottle to pour again, and then, mad at his own weakness, made a fist and tried to overcome it. Take the drink and pour it down the sink, Nick. Tessa’s voice. You don’t want it. Don’t need it. But he did. He’d begun pouring the second glass when his mobile rang. The jangly sound of it almost made him drop the bottle. Michelle. Her name flashed up on the screen and he answered it before he had time to think. ‘Hey. Did you ring?’ ‘Yeah. Sorry, were you in class?’ ‘No, soup run. We’ve just finished.’ Her tone was uncertain, but at least she wasn’t mad. He couldn’t handle that. ‘Could you … I mean is there any chance you could you come over?’ A beat before she answered. ‘Okay. I’ll just go home first, get changed …’ ‘No. I mean, do you think you could come straight away? There’s something I need to tell you.’ She picked up on the urgency in his tone. ‘What is it? Is everything all right?’ ‘I don’t want to discuss it over the phone, how soon can you get here?’ ‘I guess around thirty minutes, all being well …’ Relieved, Nick hung up and paced the room. He looked at the bottle of whiskey, but he didn’t pour another drink. He could hold out; Michelle was on her way, she could help him. He screwed the top onto the bottle and put it in the press, Tessa’s voice nagging in his head, telling him to pour it down the sink, but he couldn’t do that. Not yet. He’d do it later, after he’d told Michelle. Johnny. What was going on? He turned his laptop on and sat at the table. He had a year now; he had names. He typed the name ‘Johnny Davis’ into Google. A number of sites came up – nothing that looked familiar. He clicked on Google Images, scrolled through looking at picture after picture – and then he saw it. A grainy black-and-white shot. A long-haired man in a black T-shirt. He peered at it but couldn’t make out if it was the same person he’d seen under hypnosis. He went back to the search engine, added the year ‘1980’ and the word ‘murder’. Hand shaking, he hit the return key and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he found himself reading the words he’d dreaded. Three Dead in Horror Spree, Child Escapes. Christ. He clicked the link. It was archived information from the Independent newspaper. The bodies of a man and a woman in their early thirties were found at a house in south Dublin in what appears to have been a domestic killing. The alarm was raised by a neighbour who heard screams coming from the house at around 6 p.m. The woman has been named as Rachel Davis, who lived at the address. Police are still trying to identify the man. In what is believed to be a related incident, a car plunged off Dun Laoghaire pier at approximately 7 p.m. A five-year-old girl was saved in a dramatic rescue by a man who swam out to the car. The driver who drowned at the scene has been identified as John Davis, husband of the deceased woman. He is believed to have handed the child out through a window just before the car was submerged. Police are not currently questioning anyone else in relation to either incident. The shake in his hand had got worse. This was all so horrifyingly familiar. He clicked on another link, saw himself, or rather Johnny Davis, and the woman, Rachel, smiling at the camera, looking very much in love. Three dead. Johnny Davis had killed himself, and attempted to take the little girl with him, but had changed his mind at the last second. The girl, the orphan, Caitlin, was that her name? He searched again, desperate for his assumption to be disproved, for there to be some other explanation for what he’d witnessed under hypnosis. He scanned the other news stories, but none of them mentioned the child’s name. He started again, typed ‘Caitlin Davis’ into the search engine. It was a long shot; the girl would be what – forty-two now? She could be married, or if not, she could have taken the name of her adoptive parents. There were a couple of women called Caitlin Davis on LinkedIn. Nick stared at the profile pictures and clicked to enlarge one of them. It had to be her. She bore such a resemblance to the woman, Rachel, that it just couldn’t be coincidence. He read her profile. She was the owner and editor of a woman’s magazine. He looked at her sites. She had a Twitter account. Her most recent tweet asked if anyone had a copy of a newspaper supplement about missing persons. It was probably a story she was working on, he thought. Caitlin. Rachel. They’d existed, these women from his confabulation. What would Tessa make of that? But what about him, could he really be Johnny Davis, a jealous husband, a killer? No, there had to be another explanation. Maybe he’d heard about it, read about it somewhere, but even as he considered the possibility, he dismissed it. It was too real. He needed to go back – to be regressed again. If he could piece the whole story together, remember information that wouldn’t have been printed in the newspaper, then he would know. It occurred to him that the only person that could corroborate such personal facts was Caitlin. He looked at her Twitter profile again. Caitlin Davis. Whatever happened – he would have to find her. CHAPTER ELEVEN (#ulink_9af53d20-b016-577f-91f1-788baab3a1b2) Caitlin (#ulink_9af53d20-b016-577f-91f1-788baab3a1b2) Caitlin went through the motions of playing at the gig that night. She couldn’t shake the memories of David, but then anniversaries and the days surrounding them were the most difficult, everyone knew that. Andy tapped her lightly on the shoulder with the bow from his cello as they were packing away the instruments. ‘You okay?’ She shook her head. ‘Not really.’ ‘Want to stay for a glass?’ ‘I don’t think so; I wouldn’t be much company.’ ‘Who says you usually are?’ He swatted her. ‘Just joshing,’ he said. ‘Go on; just one. We can talk about it.’ ‘All right,’ she forced a smile and snapped her violin case shut. As much as she wasn’t feeling sociable, she didn’t feel like returning to the empty house either, not yet. She was sitting at a table in the corner of the wine bar, a tea light candle flickering on the table, when Andy returned from the bar with a bottle of Merlot and two glasses. ‘Don’t worry – you’re just getting the one. The rest is for me.’ He winked and sat next to her. ‘Now, what’s wrong, Caitie? What has you looking so glum?’ Caitie. Andy was the only one who ever called her that, and it always brought back memories of her father who’d never used her full name. ‘The anniversary,’ she said. ‘Can’t believe it’s been a year.’ Andy put a hand on her arm and squeezed it. ‘I tried calling you on Monday.’ ‘I know, I got your text. I was with Gillian. God, it was an awful day. I’d just got home, and I got this call … a man telling me that David was alive. I thought it might be something, a real lead, but it turned out to be a hoax after all. Some sick fuck who’d seen David’s name in the paper.’ ‘Oh God. I’m sorry, Cait. Any ideas why now?’ ‘The Sunday World ran a supplement last week about people who’ve gone missing.’ Andy sighed. ‘Have you thought about changing your number?’ ‘No! What if someone really had information … what if David …?’ ‘I know, but you should let the guards deal with it, Caitie. What if this person, or someone like him, finds out where you live … have you thought about that?’ ‘He won’t. We’re not in the directory. Thank God, David talked me out of that.’ They finished the wine, and then ordered another. By the time they left the wine bar Caitlin was feeling light-headed. It wasn’t an altogether unpleasant feeling. Andy guided her, hand under her arm, out the door and onto the street. It was a quiet night in the city. They walked towards the main street where she waved down a cab. Andy hugged her tight, then pulled back and tucked her hair behind her ears. ‘You can be sure of one thing, Davis,’ he said. ‘David didn’t up and leave. He’d have to be mad to do that to someone like you.’ She smiled and extricated herself from his embrace. There were moments when she thought that Andy Quinn wanted to be more than her friend; it was evident in the way he looked at her. He’d been brilliant since David’s disappearance; he continued to listen when everybody else had grown tired of it, letting her talk it all out without chiding or judging her. She’d gladly do the same for him, he was a wonderful friend, but she hoped he knew it would never grow into anything more. It was dark when Caitlin stepped into the hall, but a bluish glow illuminated the living room; she’d left the computer on. She really ought to leave on a light when she was out late; Gillian was always warning her about that. She kicked her shoes off and sat down at the computer. She shouldn’t have drunk so much wine; she’d pay for it the next morning. Already there were only six hours until she was due at work. She’d just check her emails and fall into bed. There was nothing interesting in her mail, except a notification to say that darbryan1 had sent her a message on Twitter. Curious, she opened the website and logged on. There was a short message and a document he’d scanned, a newspaper article about a missing girl, which she skimmed through quickly before reading the message. @darbryan1: Hi Caitlin. It occurred to me I should have told you my story. Maybe you’re not interested or will think I’m odd telling you, a stranger, but I have a feeling that you’ve been through the same thing. If you want to talk, message me. And if not, best of luck on your own quest. I know I’ll never give up mine. Lisa was my girlfriend, she vanished after a night out with her colleagues almost six years ago. Caitlin clicked on the article again and read it in detail. Lisa Hunt, it said, had last been seen leaving O’Grady’s bar at around 1.30 a.m. on the morning of 5th September 2011. There had been an unconfirmed sighting of a woman of Lisa’s description getting into a dark-coloured car, possibly a Nissan. After that there was nothing. Lisa, it said, was a twenty-seven-year-old special needs assistant in St Malachy’s Secondary School. A picture inset showed a slim dark-haired girl with a beautiful smile. Caitlin sighed. This girl had vanished in the early hours of the morning, more than likely picked up by a predator. Most people would conclude that the girl had been raped then murdered and her body disposed of in the mountains. The least she could do was sympathize with darbryan1. @caitlindavis: Hi Dar. I’m so sorry. … for what? For your loss? That was as good as saying your girlfriend was murdered. She’s not coming back. Okay, she wasn’t a man who had disappeared in the middle of the afternoon, but she could still be alive, couldn’t she? She thought of that case where the woman had been a prisoner in a basement for fifteen years. She’d fallen in love with her captor, mourned him when he died. For most people it was incomprehensible. For Caitlin it was less so: she continued to love her father even after what he’d done. To begin with, people had told her it was an accident. She was five years old, she wouldn’t have understood. When she was older, she’d read the truth – how her father had killed her mother and the man, and then, unable to bear it, had collected Caitlin from a friend’s house, where she’d been playing, and had driven them both off the pier. At first when she’d read this, she had been sure it was lies. She had no recollection of the incident. Had no memory of the car plummeting into the water, or of the stranger who had rescued her. And yet she remembered everything from her life before. She remembered how happy they’d been, the three of them together. Those memories were as clear now as they had been back then. Caitlin shook herself from the past and started to type: @caitlindavis: Darren/Daryl? Thank you for sharing your story. You’re right, I do understand. A year ago, my husband walked out of the house and never returned. A police investigation and the hiring of a private detective led nowhere. Only my instinct tells me that David is still alive. I’m so sorry about Lisa’s disappearance. I know the pain you’re feeling and hope that someday, we’ll both find out what has happened to our loved ones. Best, Caitlin. She was surprised when a few minutes later, she got a reply. @darbryan1: Caitlin. I’m so sorry. I figured David must be your husband. It’s incredible to think that someone can simply disappear. The pain of wondering if you’ll ever see them again never stops, I know … And yeah, it’s Darren by the way… For the next hour Caitlin found herself exchanging details with Dar Bryan. At first, she was cautious, she had no idea who he was after all, but then she thought what harm could it do? Everybody already knew what had happened. And besides, it might help to hear his story. To hear first-hand what other people went through. What they both needed was someone to listen. As Dar pointed out, it wasn’t long before people started to avoid you because they couldn’t bear to hear you go over the same things time and again. Caitlin had experienced that too, friends who had distanced themselves from her in her agony. One who had bluntly told her that she couldn’t do it anymore, that Caitlin would simply have to get over it. The last six months had seen the end of more than one of her fair-weather friendships. Dar Bryan understood; he’d been there. It was the first time she’d spoken to someone else who had. CHAPTER TWELVE (#ulink_2bd0a51c-19ca-5f51-9e43-39da329e30c4) Michelle (#ulink_2bd0a51c-19ca-5f51-9e43-39da329e30c4) It was less than a half hour later when Michelle stopped the car outside Nick’s house. She sat for a moment, looked in the rear-view mirror and attempted to smooth her hair. She looked a mess. If Nick had changed his mind, then he’d surely change it back again. A part of her wondered if she should’ve told him that she was busy, that she couldn’t meet, but his tone had sounded urgent, desperate even, and that wasn’t like Nick. She couldn’t abandon him, not if there really was something wrong. He didn’t answer the door immediately. She watched the window for movement, saw the hall illuminated briefly as he opened the kitchen door, then heard his step on the wooden floor. ‘Hey, thanks for coming.’ He stood back for her to pass, and even in the gloom she could see several days’ growth on his jaw, his eyes sunken for want of sleep. Whatever was going on, it was serious. Under the harsh ceiling light, he looked worse than she’d imagined. He indicated for her to sit but didn’t sit next to her, opting instead for the armchair where the dog usually sat. There was no sign of the dog, which was strange. ‘Where’s Rowdy?’ ‘What? Oh.’ Nick got up, opened the back door and the big dog came hurtling through the door. He leaned to ruffle his fur, but the dog made straight for Michelle who welcomed the short reprieve, before whatever it was Nick had to say changed everything. She knew as soon as she saw him that it would. ‘I’m sorry, Michelle, for the other night, for not explaining …’ So here it was finally, the explanation, it didn’t mean that anything had changed. ‘The thing is … I’m sick.’ ‘What?’ The surprise was so sudden, it was almost a relief, but for seconds only. ‘What do you mean? What’s the matter?’ ‘I’d been feeling a bit off for a while, so I went for some tests, bloods. I didn’t want to tell you. The doctor says I need a liver transplant.’ He looked at her for the first time since she’d arrived. ‘Jesus, Nick. Is it definite? When?’ ‘They won’t put my name on the list for six months, you have to be clean – no alcohol …’ Even as he said it, Michelle could smell the whiskey on his breath. She thought of the old woman, her question about whether he was a drinker. ‘And even then, there are no guarantees that a donor can be found in time.’ She didn’t know what to say. She got up, crossed the room, crouched before him and took his hands. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘What can I do?’ Nick shook his head, looked away from her. ‘Nothing. You don’t have to do anything. That’s why I wanted to finish it … it wasn’t you, it’s because there are no guarantees. A year from now, I mightn’t even be here. How can that be fair on you?’ ‘So, what? You think I’m going to walk away? Don’t be stupid, I couldn’t, I-I love you, Nick.’ The words were out. She’d been biting them back for weeks now, afraid, waiting for him to say it first, but it didn’t matter now, did it? ‘All I’m saying is, I wouldn’t blame you. You don’t have to, you know? I wasn’t going to tell you at all, I just figured I owed you an explanation.’ ‘Well, I’m sticking around whether you want it or not.’ The look of relief on his face was heartbreaking. ‘Come here,’ he said. As he pulled her to him, she could smell the whiskey again. When they parted she looked round, but there was no sign of the bottle. He must have put it away before she arrived. That wasn’t good, not if he was supposed to have given up. ‘Nick, have you been drinking?’ ‘Yeah, but it’s the last one, I swear it. I have to get myself straight. I’m seeing someone, a hypnotist.’ ‘Really? Wow. You’re the last person I figured would do that. I can’t believe it’s that bad … I mean, I’ve never even seen you drunk. No more than anyone else.’ ‘That’s the thing. It takes more and more to get me drunk. When we were married, Susan insisted that I try to stop, made me sign up for AA meetings, but I didn’t really take it seriously. I thought she was exaggerating … but it turns out she was right, about that anyway.’ The old woman’s words resounded in her head. A dark-haired woman and a child. ‘You and Susan, you didn’t have any children?’ ‘What? No … there was a miscarriage. And after that, it didn’t happen … we tried.’ He leaned back to look at her. ‘You hardly thought I’d not have told you about something like that? If I’d had a kid, I mean.’ Michelle shook her head but didn’t tell him anything about the old woman. ‘Of course not. Look, about the transplant, Nick. What about a live donor, they can do that, can’t they?’ ‘Not in this country … maybe in the States. I don’t know much about it.’ ‘Well if they could … the donor doesn’t even have to be a blood relative – just the same blood type. Which are you?’ ‘Michelle, no – even if it was the same, which I’m sure you’re not, I wouldn’t let you do it.’ ‘Why not? The liver rejuvenates – in a matter of weeks it would be like I hadn’t even done it. What type are you?’ Nick sighed. ‘Right now, I need to get on that transplant list – and live donor or not, it’s going to be six months.’ ‘Nick, your blood type?’ ‘O negative. One of the rarest there is. Try finding someone with that blood type who’s willing to donate.’ Michelle sighed. She was B positive. There was no question of her being Nick’s donor. They’d have to hope for a miracle. Even on the transplant list, his chances were limited. She took his trembling hand. ‘We’ll find a way,’ she said. ‘We’ll beat this.’ ‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ he said and bolted for the bathroom. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/tanya-farrelly/when-your-eyes-close-a-psychological-thriller-unlike-anythi/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.