The Woman at 72 Derry Lane. Carmel Harrington

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       Chapter 2

      REA

       Next door, 72 Derry Lane

      While Rea slept, the thick putrid stench of rotting food contaminated the air in her house, sneaking its way from the kitchen, up the stairs and into her bedroom. Maybe it was the smell that interrupted her slumber or maybe she sensed that dickhead next door was at it again. Either ways, she was awake. She fumbled towards her phone, knocked the bedside lamp sideways in the process, cursing as she did so, then clicked the home button. The smell was making her gag now, so it took two attempts to speak.

      ‘Siri, what time is it?’

      ‘The time is 23:59.’

      Almost midnight? If she hadn’t been half asleep she might have enjoyed some banter with her iPhone friend, but instead she opened her eyes to confirm which end of the day she was at. Pitch-black darkness. Damn it. She’d only been asleep for a few hours.

      The smell worsened, clogging up her airwaves. ‘There’s a special place in hell for you, Louis Flynn, you extortionate little fecker,’ she muttered. It was her bloody bin in the kitchen stinking the house up. Louis, who did odd jobs for Rea, like taking the bins out, knew he had her over a barrel. Fourteen years old and with a mouth on him that had no business on one so young. He was playing hard ball, staying away, proving a point. Showing her that she needed him more than he needed her. She’d a good mind to phone him, wake him up and see how he liked to be inconvenienced.

      Rea got up and went downstairs, opening the windows, then stepped back, wafting her arms manically, trying to disperse the air around her. She positioned herself in front of the slight breeze that ran its way around her and, hopefully, the rest of the house. Such was her relief from the dispersing stench that at first she didn’t hear them. But the welcome caress of the cool breeze faded as the hairs on the back of her arms stood to attention. Her eyes opened wide and her heart began to quicken as she strained to listen. She could hear them. Or rather, she could hear him. Because, as normal, the woman was mostly silent.

      A loud crash rattled around the room, followed by a dull thud. Had he thrown something? Or was it her falling? Rea closed her eyes as imagined scenes of what was unfolding next door prickled her. Damn it, he was beating her again.

      She’d only spoken to her next-door neighbour once before in person. He had a plummy south Dublin accent and within seconds she knew that she didn’t like him. He wore an expensive suit; one of those ones that had the label on the outside, just in case you didn’t realise it cost the price of a regular mortgage. He’d looked her up and down, blatantly, without even bothering to hide his obvious contempt for her. Downright rude. He didn’t need to say out loud what his conclusion of her was. It was written all over his pompous, arrogant face. She was just the fat, greying lady from next door, who meant nothing to him. Inconsequential. Irrelevant.

      The funny thing was, when he raged at his wife, his posh, arsey tone slipped and a much coarser accent was left. He cursed like a rabid dog. And tonight he was pissed at his wife again, for some unfathomable reason, and was letting her have it good time. As his temper flared, his shouting grew louder.

      ‘… you made me do this …’

      ‘… only yourself to blame …’

      ‘Why can’t you listen to me …?’

      Rea stood close to the window, helpless. With every word uttered, there was the unmistakable sound of an accompanying slap. Sweat trickled down the small of her back as her own body reacted to the sound of him when he battered the young woman. Damn it, she never asked for this. She didn’t want to be a silent witness to their domestic rows, but she couldn’t un-hear them either.

      Now small, pleading whimpers of the woman began. What the hell have you done this time, Dickhead? Rea couldn’t listen any more, so she went back upstairs to her bedroom. She slammed the door hard behind her. Enough already. She wanted no part of this.

      But even though the door was shut and she could no longer hear the cries, it was not as easy to quieten her conscience. She had to try to help. Again. What if that was her daughter, Elise, in trouble? They’d be much the same age. She’d want someone to rescue her, wouldn’t she? As the thought of Elise threatened to undo her, she banished her from her thoughts. She needed to focus on the woman next door. The problem was that she’d rang emergency services several times following other incidents like this one. And to what end? Because the Gardaí would arrive and Mr and Mrs Perfect would give an award-winning performance. He’d smile and tell them that all was okay and she’d agree, standing shoulder to shoulder with him, saying that they’d just had a heated debate. There was nothing to worry about, all a false alarm. Or words to that effect, she assumed, because the Gardaí would walk away, leaving her to his cruel hands once more. Why did she lie for her man like that?

      At first, despite herself, the woman made Rea want to scream. She should speak up, stand up for herself. Why did she let him get away with his crap time and time again? She thought of Elise again and her conscience pricked her. That woman next door was someone’s daughter too. Who was she to judge, when she knew, better than anyone, that nothing was ever as simple as it appeared?

      Terrified, no doubt. Trapped. She looked at the walls, the windows, the door. If anyone knew what it felt like to be trapped, it was her.

      She walked down to the hallway, peering through the peephole of her front door. Derry Lane was quiet. Cars parked on either side of their road, under leafy oak trees. The street lights were on, casting shadows. Her house, number 72, was right in the middle of the cul-de-sac. She noticed a light on, across the way, in Louis’s house. She wondered if he was still awake. Probably on his iPhone; he was never off that yoke. But then she copped a strange car parked out front. Ha! A sure sign that his mother had a new man visiting. Linda might as well put a red light above the door and be done with it, the amount of traffic that went in and out of there.

      Maybe she should call her all the same and tell her about the goings-on next door. Ask her to help. But no sooner had the thought struck her than she discounted it immediately. Linda Flynn was a silly, vacuous woman, who only had one thing on her mind – men. Maybe she was right. But at any rate, she’d be no use nor ornament to the plight of Mrs Dickhead next door. This was going to be on her shoulders, no one else’s.

      At least the smell СКАЧАТЬ