Before I Die

  Before I Die

  Jackie Morrissey

  Contents

  Part I

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Part II

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Part III

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  From Jackie

  Rights Info

  Part I

  Prologue

  A shaft of sunlight stabbed the old woman’s eyes as she squinted down from her first-floor window. The street was empty. Somewhere, a bee droned amongst flowers, but otherwise nothing disturbed the intense heat and silence of midday. With a sigh, she let the curtain drop back into place, relapsed into her armchair and closed her eyes. He was late. She’d been watching since early morning, sure that he would respond, certain that he would do something to help her.

  Her mind replayed their meeting over and over, as it had for the past twenty-four hours. Had she said enough? She’d been rushed and anxious, telling it all in an urgent whisper, aware of the need to say everything before she came back, and all the time looking into his face for signs of understanding, signs that he believed her. Even, perhaps, some expression of outrage or shock at what she was telling him.

  ‘Do you hear me?’ she’d said, wild-eyed, no doubt, with panic and urgency. ‘Will you help me?’

  He had looked at her face with great seriousness, a probing look, before nodding his assent. ‘Don’t worry, Señora Cardona, I understand what you are telling me. Terrible things. I am sorry for you, for your troubles. I will get help for you.’ He’d whispered these words, no doubt because she had whispered; she hadn’t had to tell him. Then, patting her arm in a comforting gesture, he had hoisted a bag of tools onto his broad workman’s shoulder and continued on his way down the cool and shadowed hallway and out through the creaking hall door, admitting the radiance of sunshine into the gloom just for a second before it was cut off and he disappeared from her view.

  As the door slammed shut, she thought she heard a noise from below, the kitchen, maybe her coming back through the garden door. She retreated into her room, closing the door behind her with caution before dragging herself to the armchair, using the furniture for support. Her muscles strained at the unfamiliar activity. As she slumped back into the chair beside the window, she felt anxious and exhausted, but for the first time in months, just a little bit hopeful. Soon, something would happen. Somebody would make it all stop. Somebody would give her back her life.

  Now, a full day later, her worried fingers pulled at a thread on the wide shawl she wore around her shoulders, and she wondered if he had misunderstood. Even worse, could he have just walked away and forgotten her? Surely not; he’d had a kind face. She would not believe he would just leave her to her fate. There might be a million reasons why he was delayed. He had to convince the policía of the facts. Could he have forgotten what she’d said? She had made him repeat after her – My name is Elena Cardona, Elena, you have that? E-l-e-n-a. My daughter is the one. She is poisoning me. I have the proof – here, take these pills; they are not the ones my doctor has prescribed. My doctor is Dr Nicolás Garcia, from Calle San Miguel, near the church. He will know. Take them, take them! You must show them what is happening. She is drugging me, but now, now I do not swallow them. Help me, please. You must help me.

  The clock beside her bed ticked slowly onwards. She leaned forward again to peer through the window, one hand shielding her eyes. A lone car coughed its way up the hill. An old car, too shabby to be driven by the policía. All the same, she watched its progress with a flicker of hope, a hope that died as the vehicle rattled past without pause, its sound tapering to nothing as the car dwindled into the distance, then disappeared. The silence that followed was oppressive, like the quiet of the grave. She checked the time again. Almost two o’clock. Lapsing back against the worn upholstery of her old armchair, she surrendered to exhaustion and, once more, closed her eyes.

  She awoke feeling vexed and confused. The late afternoon shadows had spread throughout the room while she slept. Soon, it would be dark. Wincing at her sleep-induced stiffness, she pulled herself upright in the chair with a sense of urgency and focused on the road outside. Nothing. Tears pricked her eyes. Nobody had come to help her. Nobody was coming.

  She was alone.

  Or was she?

  A sound from behind her, a slight bump, followed by a rustling noise, sent a freezing shudder down her back. It was a sensation she had experienced as a child faced with a giant spider lurking in a corner. This was no spider, though. This was something large, perhaps human-sized. She tried to turn, but could not manoeuvre around in the chair.

  ‘Lola? Is that you? Why do you not speak? Lola, if you are there, talk to me.’

  The room was silent. She stopped all movement and strained to catch a sound. Nothing. Or was that a breath, a sigh perhaps, coming from the far corner, the darkest shadow? She tapped the tiny hearing device in her left ear. It emitted a high-pitched ringing noise in response. It was working.

  Struggling to rise, she pulled herself upright against the small table beside her chair. Leaning on it, she tried to calm her rapid, panicked heartbeat. She had to turn around. Around to face whatever it was, behind her, in the room. Her breathing was ragged from fear. Her shin banged against the table leg, and she gave a startled cry in response. The sharp pain made her drop back into the armchair, tears of despair wetting her cheeks.

  ‘Who is there? María Lola, speak to me. I know it is you.’

  For a full minute, then two minutes, the only sound in the room was of the old woman’s quiet sobbing. Then she heard a rustling behind her, followed by an unhurried and purposeful movement across the room. It stopped just behind her. She could feel the heat of the other person’s body, almost touching her. Her head jerked as she felt a fluttering sensation, like a moth brushing past, or an exhalation of breath against her hair. With a shudder, she flapped her hands towards the disturbance, but felt nothing.

  ‘Peekaboo, querida madre.’ The voice was flat, expressionless. ‘Don’t you want to play? I have been sitting here all afternoon, waiting for you to wake up, but then, what’s new? I always was waiting, wasn’t I?’

  The old woman cried, but made no answer. The voice continued, relentless.

  ‘You remember back then? I remember. Two years old, waiting for my mother. But you didn’t come. You left me there, with those nuns, while you had your nervous breakdown.’

  ‘The old woman’s sobs were convulsive now, but she struggled to respond. ‘I was ill, Lola, you know that. It wasn’t my fault. I was alone, your father…’

  The voice hissed into her ear, ‘I don’t care about my father. Don’t talk to me about him. You picked a loser, and that’s your fault, too. But I needed you, and you weren’t there. You didn’t want me.’

  The speaker moved
into Elena’s view, close up. Her face was expressionless, cut from stone like an Easter Island statue. Then she stepped back, and the mouth shaped itself into a mirthless smile. ‘But you have me now, don’t you, mi madre, you have me, here, with you all the time.’

  Seeming to lose interest in the conversation, she began to move around the room, a slow rotation, picking up items as she did so, then putting them back after examining them – a piece of jewellery from beside the bed, a carved wooden owl from the mantelpiece, a hair clip in tortoiseshell. Draped across the end of the bed was a scarf, a silken and ornate scarf, beautifully coloured in subtle autumnal shades. The speaker picked it up and ran it between her fingers.

  ‘You used to wear this, years ago. It looked so good against your black hair.’ She looked into the mirror as she spoke, holding the scarf against her own dark head. She turned this way and that, posing, then focused her attention once more on the woman in the armchair. The scarf dangled loosely from her hand before she dropped it onto the bed. As she moved towards her mother, the old woman cringed in silent terror, her eyes fixed on the younger woman’s face.

  ‘Boo!’ Her movement was sudden and threatening, hand raised, only to land with a thump against the back of her mother’s chair. The old woman’s arms lifted to protect her face as she gave a strangled shriek of terror. Her daughter laughed and moved to stand behind the armchair. Her voice hissed into the other woman’s ear. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you. I want you unmarked. Nobody will be able to say I struck you. Not that they’d have any reason to come asking. Would they, mi madre?’

  The old woman said nothing; her laboured breathing was audible in the silent room. She waited, sure now that her daughter knew. A sob escaped her as she heard the gloating tone of her daughter’s savage whisper, hot against her ear, and felt the younger woman’s quick-breathed excitement.

  ‘Did you think they would believe you. You? The old loca woman who was once in the crazy house, years ago? Who has been loca all her life? That nice young carpenter, you thought he would help you? Hah! His father, he told me, once walked naked down the main street of his home town. He was so sorry. So sorry… for me. Comprendes? Sorry for me, as it should be. Me, who has to put up with you all the time, you crazy old bitch. But no more. No more.’

  Silence filled the room. When the voice resumed, its tone was soft, insinuating, like an unwanted caress.

  ‘Time for your pills, mi corazón, the policía will not be coming today.’

  1

  Maureen peeped out through the net curtain. It seemed all clear outside. She dropped the net back into position with care and stepped away from the window. Her cat came rubbing up against her, hoping to be fed, but Maureen’s mind was on other things. She continued to peer through the window from a vantage point some six feet into the room. She knew from experience that, provided the light was off, nobody could see through that far – if anybody was nosy enough to come peering through her window. She also knew from experience that ‘anybody’, aka Dolores, was quite shameless about such behaviour and would not only peep in, but would stand outside knocking and calling, as well. The last time, she had even brought the next-door neighbour into it. So humiliating. Maureen relived the embarrassment just thinking about it. Dolores, with her loud voice and bossy manner, enlisting the innocent neighbour to help torment her victim.

  ‘Oh, sorry! Sorry! Excuse me! Yes, you. Can you come here? I think your neighbour, Maureen, you know her? Maureen Walsh? Yes, I look after her sometimes. Yes, I think she is maybe not well? She is not answering. I keep on knocking, but she does not answer.’

  That time, afraid of how far Dolores might take things, Maureen had accepted defeat and come out, pretending to have been asleep. Dolores had known, though. She had given Maureen that sharp look she had, with its barely covered hint of cynical disbelief, and then kept on and on about pills, not taking too many pills; was she sure she was on the right dose? Why should she be sleeping so much in the middle of the day and not even hearing Dolores knocking even though she had been banging so hard for ages…

  Maureen checked the clock. Fifteen minutes had elapsed since Dolores’s last attempt, itself her third try that morning. It might be safe to relax. She cast a longing glance at the TV and her comfortable armchair. She’d often said she would never watch daytime television, but since her injured ankle, sometimes, on a cold, wet day like today, the idea seemed attractive.

  The TV would give her away, though, if Dolores came back, sniffing around. Once that telltale glow from the screen was lit up, anybody at the window would know she was home. Even pulling the curtains wouldn’t help; they were thin, and anyway, closed curtains at midday might raise other questions about her welfare, especially if Dolores was around to draw attention to them. It was the downside to living on a terrace of small houses that fronted straight on to the street. People tended to know a lot about their neighbours.

  Maureen sighed and, picking up her reading glasses and a book, made her way into the kitchen, a back room safe out of sight of casual callers. She was thinking of getting somebody to move an armchair into the kitchen. It would be cosy. Perhaps the neighbour’s teenage boy would do it for her? She wondered what to offer him if he did. What did teenagers expect nowadays? It was so easy to get it wrong, and she didn’t want to turn into one of those old dears she remembered from her own youth, the ones who’d offer a toffee and a couple of coins for some job that had taken an afternoon.

  Putting the thought into the back of her mind, she settled at the kitchen table, book in front of her, cat on her lap. Not entirely comfortable, but at least private. Nobody to talk at her and use up her day. Just because she was old didn’t mean she had no plans of her own, or uses for her time. Dolores, though… how could she understand that? She never read books, as far as Maureen could see. She reminded Maureen of people she hadn’t got along with at school. Bossy people, with too much energy and no hobbies. People who always craved company and tried to organise other people’s lives. Dolores, she said to herself, was too much to take. She was retired now; her time was her own; shouldn’t she be able to live her life as she chose? All right, Dolores was well-intentioned, she supposed. Maybe. All the same…

  ‘Is that your book? And your glasses? Oh really, Mother. Why on earth are you sitting back here, on a kitchen chair, when you know you should have your foot up for part of the day. The doctor told you, didn’t he? You’re not skulking in the kitchen just to avoid Dolores, are you?’

  ‘No, I sit in there because it’s cosy.’ Maureen was defensive. Although she was fond of her daughter, it could not be denied that Alva sometimes seemed to be developing a touch of Dolores-style bossiness as she got older. Or perhaps it was as Maureen got older.

  Alva sighed, pushed an errant lock of hair back behind her ear, and wiped a cup mark off the table with a damp cloth. Maureen hadn’t seen it. ‘Poor Dolores. She’s only trying to be helpful, you know.’

  ‘No, I don’t know,’ replied Maureen, ‘and neither do you.’ Her tone was sharp as she tried to shut down that conversation. If she let Alva run with it, the next thing Dolores would be in every day as her ‘carer’, a horror she had vowed would never happen while she still had any of her marbles left. Dolores had acted as carer once, for three weeks, after Maureen had tripped in the garden and injured her ankle. In theory, it was one visit a day, just to make tea and check in on things, spend an hour doing whatever small chores Maureen was unable to do for herself.

  That had been the idea, anyway. In reality, Dolores had plonked her fat backside into a chair (Maureen forgave herself the catty thought; Dolores deserved it), drank gallons of tea, ate all the good biscuits, and talked, and talked, and talked… Two and three hours would go by, and still that woman sat around yakking, and almost entirely about herself. Not much actual useful work got done, but try telling Alva that. Worst of all was the prying. Alva didn’t believe that either, but Maureen knew.

  ‘She’s nosy and bossy. I don’t like her
. And whether you believe it or not, she went upstairs once and poked around for ages, back when I was crocked and couldn’t follow her.’

  ‘She was probably just checking in case your bed needed changing or something. She was paid to come in and help you.’ Alva ran the tap and wiped over the sink as she spoke. ‘And you’re not answering the door. That worries people. Your neighbour said –’

  Maureen made a sound like steam escaping. ‘That was Dolores again, creating a fuss, trying to bully her way in.’

  ‘But you know she’s right; it’s dangerous, locking yourself in like that and not answering. What if you were inside, on the floor unconscious or something? Okay, I’ve got a key, but I can’t be around all the time. It would be useful if somebody else had access and visited.’ Alva’s voice held a note of appeal. Maureen was not swayed.

  ‘No. I like my privacy, thank you. Anyway, believe what you like about Dolores, but I know she’s not trying to be helpful; she’s just tormenting. Always at the door, and if she gets a foot inside, it’s impossible to get rid of her.’

  ‘All right, relax. I won’t ask her to help you again.’ Alva looked irritable as she scraped old cat food from a saucer into the bin. ‘I do think you’re too hard on her, though. It’s a bit irrational to hate her that much. She’s probably lonely. After all, she’s from Spain; she doesn’t know how things are done here, so maybe she oversteps some boundaries. It’s difficult fitting into a new country. You don’t know, you’ve always lived in Dublin, but I’ve lived abroad, and I can tell you, it isn’t easy.’