Do you have a spare key, he asks me.
No. Next door do. Or Becky’s assistant comes to take in packages and deliveries when they’re away.
Hope you can get back to sleep, Allegra, she says.
Thanks, Garda. I’ll see you around the village, on the beat, next time maybe you’ll recognise me in my uniform. I’ll see you to the car, I walk with them, my flashlight lighting the way to their car. By the way, if you ever need parking ticket information, it would help place someone at a particular location, or something like that, then I’m your girl. We take photos of the cars now, you never know what shows up in the photos.
We usually get that information from the county council, he says, and I deflate a little.
Of course.
Thanks, Allegra. Good night, she says. More friendly. Good cop bad cop.
Do you have a card or anything, I ask.
He doesn’t budge. She roots around in her pocket and hands me her card.
Laura Murphy.
I watch their car until the tail lights disappear and then I grin, I can’t stop grinning, and I feel like I’m floating as I head back to bed.
I like her. Garda Laura Murphy. An ideal one of five.
Sixteen
I’m up. Uniform on, high-vis jacket, lightweight boots. Birds are singing. It looks like it’s going to be a glorious day. No raincoat needed. Lunch is packed. Edam cheese on granary bread, no butter, a Granny Smith apple, candied walnuts, and a flask of tea. I leave the McGoverns’ grounds, looking out for any signs of foul play in the morning light but all is still intact after last night’s intruder. I walk through Malahide Castle grounds, pass the man in the suit with the headphones and jaunty walk, pass the leaning jogging woman. The dog walker with the Great Dane. An old man with a wheelie walking frame and the younger version of him. Good morning, good morning, good morning.
I’m back.
The trip home has helped me. It stripped people away from me, yes, but it gave me something back. A mission. Another one. Though they are linked. I have a spring in my step. I have the letters in my possession that I wrote on the train, signed, sealed, waiting for stamps and delivery. Though I’ve more than three letters, with duplicates for each person to go to as many addresses of theirs that I can locate, I have a total of sixteen envelopes for four people in my backpack. I don’t need to write to Pops, he’s one of my five whether he likes it or not, and I plan to contact the fifth person on Instagram. Garda Laura Murphy is a new recruit to the list but I’d like to befriend her in the flesh. That’s eight people I’m reaching out to but I’m realistic; the odds of Katie Taylor, Amal Alamuddin Clooney and Ruth Brasil all writing back to me are very slim. Maybe it will be just two of them.
Back at the Village Bakery for the first time in a while. Whistles is outside eating a doughnut, a hot coffee on the ground beside him. He gives me a nod as I enter. There’s a woman sitting at the counter at the window, head in her phone, lost in whatever social media wormhole she’s been sucked into. She stuffs the last of her croissant into her mouth, followed by a slug of coffee. I recognise her from around. She drives a silver Mini Cooper. Black top. Two door. Always parks on St Margaret’s Avenue. I’ve never had to ticket her and for that she has my respect, so she gets a good morning from me as she thanks Spanner and leaves.
Freckles, it’s you pal, long time no see, Spanner says. I was beginning to think you’d defected to the other side. Deconstructed apple pie today the grand chalkboard has revealed this morning. Deconstructed my arsehole, Freckles, isn’t the whole point of baking to construct, he asks, isn’t it already deconstructed on the shelves when you buy the ingredients. What’ll you be havin, the same as usual.
He’s busy with his back to me, banging and pouring, all elbows and shoulders.
How’s Ariana, I ask.
She’s great. She’s a fuckin princess, he says, back still turned, pouring the batter into the waffle machine. She had her first Irish dance feis on Saturday.
He turns around, wipes his brow with his dishcloth on his shoulder, and reaches into the pocket in the front of his apron for his phone. He shows me a photo.
There she is. Had her spray tan done for the day an’ all, she was bleedin delighted. She’d all the gear on, youngest in the group, hadn’t a feckin clue what she was doin, dances like her ma, stomps like a horse, ah no, only jokin, her ma was all-Ireland champion, not that she’d be able to kick her legs now with all the extra weight, but I’m sayin nothin about nothin. They say people get fat when they’re happy so she must be delirious.