ABBY
Dad warmed to Callum before the weekend was out, with Callum promising VIP match tickets and a few pints afterwards. I’m newly optimistic with the prospect of blending my new life in Dublin with my old one in Carrick, no longer terrified of them crossing. So much so that I’m planning a show about it, something along the lines of, How To Embrace Your Past As Part Of Your Future.
Alicia and Mam wave us off with tears in their eyes, like we’re heading to the other side of the earth instead of Dublin. I promise to return as soon as possible and am actually looking forward to it, keen to reacquaint myself with a town that I’ve been avoiding.
‘You ok?’ Callum places his hand on my thigh, giving it a gentle squeeze.
‘I will be, once I get you back to my house.’ There hasn’t been a lot of time for intimacy while we’ve been away.
‘I hear you.’ He winks and accelerates.
I wonder for the millionth time in the last couple of months what on earth I’ve done to deserve this man. It isn’t something I’d ever have predicted. Then again, nobody did, not even Esmerelda.
The moment we enter my cul-de-sac, I realise there’s a problem. Vivid flashing lights from an ambulance illuminate our private estate. Several neighbours hover excitedly on their doorsteps, observing the unusual commotion from the house next door to mine. Callum swings into my drive and motions for me to stay in the car. No chance. I get out and cross Mrs Boyle’s perfectly tended to peonies.
The ambulance speeds off, lights flashing but no siren. Two plain-clothed detectives remain alongside two uniformed guards. Callum approaches one of the detectives, who apparently recognises us. His eyes dart back and forth as he makes the connection.
‘What happened?’ Callum asks.
‘Is this your house?’ The second detective quickly joins us.
‘It’s mine,’ I confirm.
‘Do you mind if we go in?’ The first detective, who’s older and heavier, gestures to my front door. I fumble in my handbag for keys and hand them to Callum to open the door, shaken by the commotion.
Callum shows them into the hallway. The guards take in every inch of my house as they follow us through to the kitchen.
‘How well did you know Mrs Boyle?’ The younger guard asks, removing a notepad from his breast pocket.
‘She was a good neighbour. We had tea together a few times. She was nice, if a little nosy, God forgive me. She took the odd parcel for me. I checked on her if I hadn’t seen her for a few days.’ The words tumble out of my mouth in no particular order. I realise he referred to her in the past tense, and so had I.
‘Is she dead?’ I know the answer already.
‘I’m afraid she is.’ The older detective nods.
Esmeralda’s words from weeks ago strike me with an unnerving clarity, instantly transporting me back to her crumbling cottage in Wicklow amongst the smell of the cats and chilling evening air.
She’d been right. About everything. Mrs Boyle was as close as a person could get, in proximity. She lived next door. I initially assumed that Esmerelda’s prediction referred to a person I had a close relationship with, not the person I lived close to. Nevertheless, she’d been spot on.
The work opportunity. Then Karen’s cancelled engagement. Now someone close to me had died. Is it wrong that I’m relieved that if it had to be anybody, it’s Mrs Boyle, who I wasn’t overly fond of, but lived fifteen feet away from me?
‘What happened?’ Callum questions as I stand rigid and quiet.
‘We aren’t a hundred per cent sure. One of her sisters called round for a visit this afternoon, and when Mrs Boyle failed to answer the door, it roused her suspicion. Initial reports indicate a stroke, but we’re waiting on the coroner’s report to eliminate foul play. We’ll know more in the next twelve hours.’
Callum makes the two detectives coffee as they ask the usual questions: Where had we been this weekend? Had we noticed anything unusual lately?
This type of thing happens in movies, or to other people. I answer to the best of my ability, but I’m in shock. Ashamedly, not just because my next-door neighbour had dropped dead, but more so because it had been predicted with an unnerving accuracy by an elderly woman forty miles away. And it was only half an hour ago that I’d literally dismissed her predictions as nonsense.
Callum shows the officers out. The thought of his big strong arms around me, under the comfort of my duvet is something I selfishly crave while poor Mrs Boyle isn’t even cold yet. Despite my physical desire for him, a wave of uncertainty penetrates my soul.
Would Esmerelda be proved right about everything?
This unnerving thought casts a whole new light on mine and Callum’s relationship. Maybe it’s destined to fail from the very beginning. A hollow feeling of desperation edges into my heart, contrastingly low against the highs of the weekend.
Callum climbs into bed next to me. His presence here feels so overwhelmingly right. Yet if Esmerelda’s third prediction proves as accurate as her first two, it’s all wrong. She distinctly told me, in no uncertain terms, that I would marry a man called Patrick, a fact which I’d laughed out loud in response to. It’s no laughing matter now.
I fall into a troubled sleep, one where Sean Fitzpatrick lurks in every corner.
