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Rory and Cian nod, understanding this is something I need to do on my own.
With no time to waste, I commence my walk toward the bungalow with no expectations; this avoids disappointment. On the listing, it has a D. Morrison as the current owner. They’ve lived here for fifteen years, which tells me they bought this place not long after my mum died.
A sensor light switches on when I get within a few feet of the front door. No turning back now. There is no doorbell, so I knock on the wooden door.
There is light from a TV flickering through the sheer front curtain and I’m about to take a peek inside, but when the front door opens and an aul’ doll greets me in a blue dressing gown, I smile.
“How ya doin’? Sorry to disturb ye, but I was wonderin’ if I could trouble ya with some questions?”
She narrows her blue eyes.
She has every right to be suspicious. A strange ladison her doorstep at nine p.m.
“What questions?” she asks with a thick Irish accent, ensuring she holds onto the door in case she needs to shut it quickly.
Rubbing the back of my neck, I decide to lead with my gut because it’s now or never. “’Bout the woman who lived here before youse. Her name was Cara Fost—”
Suddenly, the door is yanked open, and the muzzle of a shotgun is inches from my forehead. “Away with ya,” says the aul’ lad who is wielding the shotgun.
Slowly raising my hands, wishing to show them I want no trouble, I say, “I mean no harm. I just wondered if you knew her—”
“Ah’ll knack yer bollocks in. Chase yerself!” he warns, his grip firm on the shotgun.
“Boys a dear,” the aul’ doll gasps, clutching at the cross around her neck.
“Really sorry, but I can’t do that. Not until ya answer my question.” I won’t surrender. Not when I’ve come this far. “Do ya know what happened here?”
“Wise up, cub! Did ya not hear me? Away on! Ya got naw business being ’ere.”
The aul’ lad gestures with the gun that I’m to go, but when the aul’ doll’s eyes fill with tears, it confirms itismy business. I’m not going anywhere.
I direct my question at her. “The woman, Cara, she was—” But the aul’ lad doesn’t let me finish.
“Don’tcha listen to him, Imogen,” he warns, his gaze never wavering from me. “Are ye deef? Call the peelers, I will.”
If I wanted to, I could drive that shotgun into his chest, setting him off balance and force my way in. But I don’t want that. This bungalow has seen enough violence.
Imogen reaches for a tissue out of her pocket and wipes her nose. “Who are ya, wee lad?” she asks, ignoring the man, who I’m assuming is her husband. “Why ya askin’ after Cara?”
“Y’knew her?”
A sniffle escapes Imogen, which is a strange response for someone she didn’t know.
“You did know her,” I press, reaching forward to gently grip her wrist. “Please, just tell me how.”
But the aul’ lad has had enough.
Without warning, he flips the shotgun and delivers a buttstroke to the center of my forehead. I stagger back two steps and clutch at my bleeding head, stunned at the bollocks on this aul’ lad.
“Keegan! If yer mother were still alive, that would kill her,” Imogen scolds, but Keegan, aka the aul’ lad who just kicked my arse, ignores her and comes chasing after me with the shotgun.
“Is that you? Or ye away in the head?”
My vision is blurred, but I manage to dodge the gun-wielding lunatic as he tries to hit me again.
“I don’t want any trouble,” I pant, raising one hand in surrender while the other cradles my brow.
“Yer head’s full of wee sweetie mice. Trouble’s been had.”
