Last night, a fishing boat sank in the Irish Sea, off Skerries. The crew were rescued by a launch from a nearby cargo ship. The story was only a small news item, with nothing about the boat’s cargo, or why it sank.
Eamonn says, “That was it.”
I start laughing, shoving him so he stumbles back. “No!”
Eamonn nods, laughing, too. “So thank you,” he says. “Thank you, Tessa.”
I frown, confused, and he says, “Where do you think we picked up the chatter? We heard them talking about it inside a Fetherston Clements property.” The tip had come from Marian.
That night, she meets me on the lane. “I told you,” she says. “I told you which side I’m on.”
* * *
—
At the Christmas tree market in Greyabbey, I buy a wreath and push it home hooked onto the handle of the pram. The holiday has become appealing again. I have plans to hang a stocking for Finn, to open an advent calendar with him, to bring him to hear carols, to make a Yorkshire pudding on Christmas itself.
In his pram, Finn scrunches up his nose to imitate me sniffing. Cars drive past us with Christmas trees roped to their roofs. Already the air has turned festive, and in a few hours, when the temperature drops, this drizzle will turn to snow.
* * *
—
The snow falls all through the night, and in the morning the sky is eggshell blue. Marian wants us to go skiing in the Mournes.
“Can one ski in the Mournes?” I ask. I hadn’t known that was an option. There aren’t any chairlifts, obviously.
“We’ll have to hike up in skins,” she says. Tom has already left with Finn for the day, I’d been wondering what to do with myself.
When we arrive, the mountains are smooth white ridges against the sky. The storm has left behind almost two feet of powder, a historic amount, not seen in decades. We strap into skins and start climbing. Our grandfather taught us to ski, and I imagine he’d be proud to see us on this mountain.
At the peak, we stop to catch our breath, then point the tips of our skis down the slope. Marian is level with me in the pines, her shape appearing and disappearing between the trees. We race down the mountain, and the air fills with the regular, rhythmic sound of our skis turning in the snow.
We’re alone. We could be in the Alps, we could be skiing the backcountry in Klosters or the Val d’Isère, not that I’ve ever been to either. When we reach the bottom of the slope, we’ve left two perfect, curving trails down the mountain. Neither of us can stop laughing, and we hike up and race down again and again.
After coming home from the mountains, we make fondue. Marian boils the oil while I cut bread into cubes. I have a fondue set, a brown crock and two long forks. We’re both so hungry that we start cooking before changing out of our ski clothes, absurd in our henleys and thermal long underwear.
* * *
—
The next morning, I’m fixing breakfast for the baby while thinking about stretch-mark cream. I’m wondering whether to buy some, if it can work after the fact or if that ship has already sailed. I don’t know what makes me look up. When I do, two men in black ski masks are standing on the other side of the garden wall.
38
THE MEN DON’T MOVE. They might have been standing there for a long time. Above them, a few leaves twist on the winter trees. My entire body is given over to sheer panic.
The bowl of porridge I am carrying over to Finn crashes to the floor, splashing my feet and shins. He watches me from his high chair beside the sliding door. The men will be able to see him from their position. And they know I’ve noticed them. I can’t see their faces under the masks, but their eyes are fixed on me.
I won’t be able to free the baby from the high chair straps and reach the front of the house in time. They will beat me to the road.
Blood roars in my ears. The men are coming over the wall now. It’s happening too quickly. Already they’re dropping onto my lawn, in their boots and canvas army jackets. They aren’t holding guns, but both of them are taller than me, and bulkier.
Finn starts to whine with hunger, pointing at the bowl. I cross to the sliding door without knowing what I’m about to do, if I’m going to turn the bolt, but then I’m grappling with the handle and wrenching it open. I step out into the cold air and shut the door behind me.
Through the glass, Finn lets out a wail. The men are already halfway up the lawn. I hold my hands in the air, and they stop walking.
“Come on, Tessa,” says one. “Time to go.”
They wait for me to move toward them. “I can’t leave my son in there. It’s not safe.”