The Disenchanted Widow Read Free Page A

He paused before answering, fearful that his voice might betray him. “Really?”
    “Well, are ye gonna open the door so I can give it to ye?”
    “Yes…I mean no. Just…just push it under the door, Stanley, please.”
    “God, you’re a right queer one, Strong.”
    He waited for Stanley’s departing footsteps, for the outer door to bang shut, before rising. He knew what the note contained. He knew who it was from.
    Action was needed now. Yes, action. Anything to delay opening it. He checked his watch. Time to finish up for the day.
    At the sink, he cleaned his brushes with turpentine. The remaining oils on the palette were sheathed in polythene and tightly secured to keep the air out.
    He pulled on his green velvet jacket and positioned his Borsalino at just the right angle. Only then did he feel brave enough to bend down and pick up the wretched thing.
    It was written in heavy, black pencil, as though by a child’s hand. The import of the words, however, was far from childish.
    Dont forget your wee dental appointment. Thursday 8 pm sharp. Therell be consawquences if you miss it Lorcan my oul son.

Chapter three
    B eing a city girl, Bessie Lawless was not used to reading road maps; never had much cause to. On leaving Belfast she’d headed northwest, toward the town of Ballymena, then followed a more westerly route because it looked more direct on the map. Since she was in a hurry to get away from Belfast, this seemed the sensible thing to do.
    Her plan was to visit her sister, Joan, in Sligo and get a loan from her to help fund their passage to Uncle Bert in England. She’d already written to Bert, a former drains inspector from the Short Strand. Five years before, he’d come into unexpected wealth via the death of a maiden aunt. The windfall had enabled him to make flesh a long-cherished dream of owning a townhouse pub in Hackney.
    If Joan loaned her the fare—and that was a big “if” indeed—Bessie’s plan could work. But Joan had no idea that she was on her way, and Bessie had no intention of telling her. They didn’t get on, and giving notice of her arrival would only mean offering Joan the excuse of being conveniently out when she called. Or hiding in a cupboard at the sound of the car drawing up. She knew her older sibling all too well.
    But Bessie’s unfamiliarity with maps ensured that, barely an hour into the journey, she found herself hopelessly lost on a seriesof rural roads without signposts. Herkie, still sitting regally atop the record player, was enjoying the novelty of it all. He’d never seen sheep or cattle up close and was paying more attention to them than to the map spread out on his knees—the map he was supposed to be following.
    They drew up at a crossroads.
    “Right, where to now, son?”
    “Take a left, Ma,” he said immediately, gazing in fascination at a goat tethered in a nearby field.
    Bessie glanced over at him, irritated.
    “How can ye be so sure, son?” She yanked the map away from him. “And is it any wonder we’re friggin’ lost: yer readin’ that map upside down .”
    “But I see a signpost at the bottom, Ma. That’ll tell us where till go.”
    “Right, if you send me the wrong way again, I’ll put ye in a field with them bloody sheep, and they can take ye to yer Auntie Joan’s.”
    The sign read TAILORSTOWN , but it wasn’t marked on the map. Since they were in the middle of nowhere and heading nowhere, she decided to follow the sign and get a fill-up of petrol at least.
    Some ten minutes later, they pulled into what appeared to be a filling station on the outskirts of the village.
    God, she wondered, drawing the car to a halt, does anybody live here at all?
    The filling station had an unsettling air about it. It looked by turns deserted and inhabited; smoke was curling up from what appeared to be a car-exhaust chimney pot set atop a dilapidated, two-room dwelling with a sagging roof tufted with weeds and patched here and there with flattened beer cans.