Lyrebird. Cecelia Ahern
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both saw something fascinating in the forest. I jumped into action, you … froze.’
‘I didn’t freeze.’
‘What were you doing there, all that time, while I was at the cottage? Was she there the entire time?’
‘Fuck off, Bo.’
‘Well, it’s a valid question, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. We had sex. In the two minutes I was away from you, we had sex. Up against the tree.’
‘That’s not what I fucking mean and you know it.’
Wasn’t it?
‘I’m trying to figure her out and you’re not giving me anything. You must have had a conversation but you keep ignoring the question. She told you her name. You were alone with her before I got there, I want to know what you talked about …’
He ignores her; the desire to yell at the top of his lungs in front of everybody is too great. He buries the anger, buries it, buries it deep, until a simmer is all that remains. It’s as much as he can manage. He looks at Sky News but doesn’t see it.
Bo eventually leaves the table, and the room.
He could think about what Bo said, analyse it, understand it, look within himself for the answers. He could think about what he said and why, he could think about all of it. But he’s jet-lagged, hungry and pissed off, so instead he concentrates on the news on the TV, starting to hear the words coming from the presenter’s mouth, starting to see the words that scroll by at the bottom of the screen. When he finishes his last rib, he sucks his fingers dry of the sticky sauce and leans back in his chair, feeling bloated and satisfied.
‘Happy now?’ Rachel calls across the empty restaurant.
‘A night’s sleep and I’ll be grand.’ He yawns and stretches. ‘How’s Susie?’
‘A bit pissed off. Weather’s too hot. She can’t sleep. Feet and ankles are swollen up. Baby has a foot in her ribs. Think we’re going home tomorrow?’
Solomon takes a toothpick out of its packet and picks at the meat between his front teeth. ‘Hope so.’
He does want to go home, he knows that much is true. Because he feels spooked. Because he did lose himself in that forest. And Bo saw it happen. And just like Joe wanted to go back to his farmhouse, Solomon wants to return to Dublin, to the Grotesque Bodies show that he despises, to his apartment that constantly smells of curried fish wafting up from his neighbours. He wants normality. He wants to go where he’s used to not thinking about how he’s feeling, where no confusion or analysis is necessary, where he’s not drawn to people he knows he shouldn’t be, or to doing things he knows he shouldn’t do.
‘Are you asleep? Because your eyes are open,’ Rachel says, waving a rib across his eyeline, sending sauce flying on the table and floor. ‘Fuck.’
Bo comes running into the bar, with that look on her face, and her phone in her hand.
‘That was Jimmy – the garda we met earlier. He’s at the Toolin farm. Joe called him to go talk to that girl, but his car hit Mossie on the way up the track. The girl took Mossie into her cottage and she’s doing that crazy voice thing. She’s locked herself in and won’t let anyone near her or let anyone look at Mossie.’
Solomon looks at her in a ‘so what?’ kind of way. It’s all he can summon up, but inside his heart is beating wildly.
Bo fixes him with an intriguing look. ‘She’s asking for you, Sol.’
Jimmy is standing by his patrol car, doors open, garda radio on, car directed straight towards the trees at the bat house. It’s still daylight on this summer evening.
He lifts his arms in an apologetic way as they approach. ‘Mossie was running around the car, I didn’t see him.’
‘Where’s the girl now?’ Bo asks.
‘She grabbed the dog, carried it to the cottage, and now she won’t come out or let anyone in. She’s in a hysterical state. Joe said to call you.’
He looks as stunned as they had been when they first witnessed Laura’s vocal outburst.
‘She asked for Solomon?’ Bo asks, eager to move things along.
‘She asked for Tom first. Kept demanding I get him, that he could tell me who she is. I told her that he was dead and she went even more doolally. Then she mentioned Solomon.’
They were in the forest, both unable to break their gaze.
‘Hi,’ he said gently.
‘Hi,’ she said softly.
‘I’m Solomon.’
She’d smiled. ‘Laura.’
Bo is looking at him in that same uncertain way.
‘I told her my name before we had sex,’ he snaps. Jimmy prickles, Bo glares at him.
‘Are you going to get her?’ she asks.
‘Not if he’s going to arrest her.’
‘I’ve nothing to arrest her for. I need to talk to her, find out who she is and why she’s on Joe’s property. If she’s a squatter, those laws are complicated, and if Tom gave her permission, there’s not much we can do. I’m only here to put Joe’s mind at ease. And I went and hit the feckin’ dog,’ he says guiltily.
‘So what do you want me to do?’ Solomon asks, feeling the pressure build.
‘Go to the cottage and see what she wants,’ Bo says.
‘Okay, Jesus,’ he curses, running his fingers through his hair, retying it in a knot on the top of his head. He walks up the trail to the cottage; the other two follow him but stay close to the bat house when he goes to the cottage.
Solomon’s heart pounds as he approaches the door and he has no idea why. He wipes his clammy hands on his jeans, and prepares to knock but before he even lifts his hand, the door opens. He can’t see her, assumes she’s behind the door and so he steps inside. As soon as he’s in, the door closes. She locks the door and stands with her back to it, as if to reinforce it.
‘Hi,’ he says, shoving his hands into his pockets.
‘He’s by the fire,’ Laura says, eyes barely able to settle on him. She seems nervous, worried.
Even though she introduced herself earlier, Solomon is almost surprised to hear her speak. In the woods she had a wild girl feeling about her; here in her home she seems more real.
Mossie is lying on his side on a sheepskin rug before the log-burning stove, his chest rising and falling with his slow breaths. His eyes are open, though he seems unaware of what’s going on around him. The fire blazes beside him, a bowl of water and a bowl of food sit untouched by his head.
‘He’s not eating or drinking anything,’ she says, getting on the floor beside Mossie, arms over him, protecting him.
Solomon should be looking at the dog but he can’t take his eyes off her. She looks up at him, lost, worried, beautiful enchanting green eyes.
‘Is he bleeding?’ He goes to Mossie and slides beside him, opposite Laura, the closest they’ve been. ‘Hiya, boy.’ He places a hand on his fur and gently rubs.
Mossie looks at him, the pain obvious from his eyes. He whimpers.
Laura echoes Mossie’s whimper in an astonishing likeness that forces