Alex Barclay - Darkhouse

The kitchen was too empty, no chili sauce on the counter, no boots by the door, no Anna. Until he lifted his hand. Underneath, was the thinnest of shadows, stretching twisted and long-legged across the grass outside the sliding door. She usually refused to be photographed for a feature, but here she was, caught and kept forever in one shot, in shadow. Joe pressed his fingers to his eyes, but there were no tears. Everything he felt was held under pressure in his chest. The last photo in the spread was the lighthouse as it had stood, tragic and shabby and untouched. This was the photo he was still looking at an hour later when Giulio walked in.

‘How is she?’ he asked.

Joe blinked. ‘We haven’t spoken in a while. I guess she’s doing OK.’

‘You know you can go over there any time and I’ll look after things here.’

‘I’m only just back on the job. They’re not gonna to let me take off.’

‘I think under the circumstances—’

‘Look, honestly? I don’t think she’s ready to see me yet,’ said Joe. ‘I’m responsible for the fuck-up that is our lives. And now I’m back catching psychos... oh, yeah, minus one pretty important one. You think that’ll have her rushing back? Do you think that’s something that makes her feel safe?’

‘She’ll come around. Your job is part of who you are... and you do it well.’

Joe raised his eyebrows.

‘If I did it so well, Duke Rawlins would never have gotten out of Ireland. But, no — he’s got more freedom than we do, for Christ’s sake.’

‘Is there any hope of tracking him down?’

‘Depends on your definition of hope. I get every shitty update on the investigation, hoping it’ll be the one, but...’ He shrugged. ‘And I’m doing what I can. But I don’t know. He’s smart. He’s been getting away with this shit half his life. Who’s to say things aren’t going to stay that way for the next half?’

‘The authorities will find him.’

Joe stared at him. ‘I don’t want the authorities to find him.’

Silence stretched between them.

Joe took a deep breath. ‘I think Anna needs to stay with her parents for now.’

‘Maybe,’ said Giulio. ‘For now.’

‘I just don’t know how to help her. In the middle of the night, she’s crying, I can’t tell her it was only a nightmare and it’s not real and it’s never going to happen. What the hell use is that?’ He exhaled slowly. ‘And then there’s her blaming me, which I know she can do nothing about right now. He said he’d kill her and Shaun. Not me. She knows that. He wanted a world of pain for me, but he didn’t want to see me dead. No, I had to live through it all, like he did with whatever fucked-up life he had.’

He paused. ‘And you know what? I have my own nightmares.’

‘Time will take care of that.’

‘Anna’s not even forty and she’s already hovered on a flatline. She’s in pain, she’s got scars she can’t bear to look at. She keeps calling, wanting to know where Shaun is, who he’s with, what he’s doing. I’m not gonna tell her he’s been drinking and out late. You’ve seen him. You’ve seen how hard it is to stop him. What do I do? Do I take the chance he’ll come out the other end in better shape? I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here. When Shaun talks to her on the phone, he’s so patient. They have this weird bond. And I’m just this person watching. It’s like they’re afraid of me.’

As Giulio reached down to put a hand on Joe’s shoulder, he saw the magazine. He picked it up and brought it close.

‘Her work is very impressive.’

Joe nodded. ‘Here, listen to this.’ He took the magazine and read out the small type at the end of the page. ‘“ Anna Lucchesi is on vacation. For more details on this feature, please contact Chloe Da Silva .”’

Joe laughed. ‘Vacation? Jesus Christ. I wish.’

He leaned back and looked out the window to where Shaun sat on a low wooden bench in his oversized parka. He was bent forward, his legs crossed at the ankle, his mobile phone pressed to his ear. His breath was misting the cold air.

He snapped the phone shut and jogged towards the window. He was smiling, then mouthing something Joe couldn’t make out. He gestured for him to open the latch.

‘It’s Mom,’ he said. ‘She’s leaving Paris tonight. She’s coming home, Dad.’

I thank my agent, Darley Anderson, for his belief, enthusiasm and kindness. And for all their hard work, I thank everyone at The Darley Anderson Literary Agency.

Thanks to my publisher, Lynne Drew, for her insight and guidance.

Thanks to Amanda Ridout for her vision and thanks to everyone on the brilliant team at HarperCollins.

For outstanding achievement in editing and entertaining, thanks to my gifted editor, Wayne Brookes.

For their constant and gracious support, thanks to Moira Reilly and Fiona McIntosh.

For their expertise and their generosity in sharing it with a rookie, thanks to Ron Campbell, Dr Stuart Carr MRCSEd (A&E), Professor Marie Cassidy, Gerry Charlton Barrister-at-Law, Joan Deitch, Dick Driscoll, Jim Fuxa, Colin Hennessy, Martyn Linnie, Brett McHale, Tony O’Shea. They do the facts, I do the fiction; any mistakes are mine.

For their faith, love and laughter, I owe so much to my beloved family.

For their encouragement and the perfect environment for work and play, thanks to Sue Booth-Forbes, Maureen and Donal O’Sullivan and family, Anna Phillips, Una Brankin, Mary Maddison, Maggie Deas and Matthew Higgins.

Thanks to all my wonderful friends.

Special thanks to Brian and Dee for grabbing on, taking the leap and never ever letting go.