Stephen opens his mouth to ask what they had fallen out about, but Frank beats him to it. ‘She was seeing this local bloke, Callum, and I caught him sneaking out of the house that morning. He was older. She was sixteen. You can imagine my reaction.’
Stephen catches himself before he repeats the words in his head. Something doesn’t ring true.
‘How much older was Callum?’
‘Can’t be sure, but he was at least mid-twenties. He was one of the local farm boys. Worked over at the pig farm with Diane.’
‘Diane Bevan.’
‘Yes.’
Stephen jots down his findings on his pad of paper. ‘So … the morning of the day before she disappeared, you found Callum sneaking out of her bedroom,’ says Stephen.
‘Yes. I told her she was too young to be engaging in … that sort of thing.’
‘She was sixteen. It’s legal.’
Frank shoots him a stern look; clearly not the response he’d been looking for from Stephen. ‘She stormed out of the house and didn’t do any of her chores that day, so I had to do them, didn’t I?’
‘Um … I suppose you did, yes.’
Frank stares at Stephen for a moment. Had Stephen said something wrong? Frank had asked him a question, so he’d answered it.
‘Right … well … anyway … Sophia didn’t come back to the farm till later that night. I was angry. I’d had a few drinks.’ Frank chugs the rest of his drink; the glass now empty. He signals to the barman for another two.
‘You were angry and had a few drinks.’ Sometimes Stephen likes to repeat the facts, to ensure he hasn’t misunderstood the person he’s talking to. Some might say it comes across as condescending, but he needs to ensure he knows exactly what is going on, that he has everything clear.
‘That’s right.’ Frank doesn’t seem at all fazed by Stephen’s repetition.
Stephen watches as a waitress brings over two fresh drinks. He hasn’t finished his first one yet. Stephen waits until she’s walked away, a sudden idea springing to mind.
‘Frank, were you aware that your daughter was attracted to other women?’
It seems he catches Frank at the worst possible time – mid gulp – because Frank coughs and splutters, grabbing a serviette from the table and dabbing his mouth where splashes of whisky are clinging to his rugged beard.
‘Good God, man! Why would you blurt out something like that? Are you insane?’
Stephen shrugs. ‘It’s a perfectly acceptable question, Frank.’
Frank dips his head, glancing around at the bar, as if checking whether anyone is listening in on their conversation. ‘Y-Yes, I was aware, Mr Mallow. She never told me as much, but … I was aware.’
‘Stephen, please. So, would you now like to rephrase your previous answer about a young man leaving her room?’
Frank clears his throat and takes a breath before picking up his glass once again. He nods at the one remaining on the table, the one Stephen hasn’t touched yet. ‘Drink up, Stephen. You’re already lagging.’
‘Are you trying to get me drunk, Frank?’
‘No,I’mtrying to get drunk. It helps to have company.’
Stephen sighs, already tired of Frank’s reluctance to answer a simple question. He picks up his glass, takes a large sip, holding the whisky in his mouth for a moment, then swallows. It burns as it travels down his throat. Once empty, he slams the glass on the table and picks up the second one. There. Maybe that will keep the old man happy. Doesn’t look like he’ll be driving back to Rosemore Cottage tonight.
Frank, after taking another sip, settles back in his seat and continues. ‘Fine. There was no boy. We had an argument about something else.’
‘Which was?’
‘She kept asking questions about John Hammel, our ancestor who hung himself from The Hanging Tree a hundred years ago. He started the family curse, you see.’
‘Tell me about this curse.’
