Heathen/Nemesis

Forty-Six

The bathwater lapped gently up around her neck as she slid deeper.

Donna pulled the flannel from the water, wrung it out and placed it over her face. Her breathing was slow and steady, the only accompaniment being the slow dripping of one of the taps. Steam from the water had clouded the mirrors in the bathroom; condensation had formed a dewy veil over the tiles. It had run down in rivulets here and there like tears.

Donna pulled the flannel from her face and put it on the side of the bath. She felt drained.

How she had ever managed to get back to the Shelbourne, she didn’t know. It was as if her legs had turned to ice. She could barely feel the pedals beneath her feet. She’d left the smashed car outside and staggered inside, drawing disapproving glances from the other guests. Once inside her room she’d called reception and told them to get the police. She ordered herself a brandy and downed it a little too fast.

She’d been sitting on the edge of the bed when they’d arrived, two large uniformed men. One of them looked at her as if she were mad as she recounted the story. Donna smiled at the recollection. Why shouldn’t he think her mad? The story sounded crazy enough. The entire scenario had been insane. Who would want to run her off the road the way the Audi had done?

No, he wasn’t trying to run her off the road; he was trying to kill her. Don’t fuck about. Face it. Whoever was driving the car had been trying to kill her, it was as simple as that. But why?

First the business with Mahoney, then the Audi. What was going on?

The police had apologized for the incident as if they were personally to blame, their apologies becoming even more profuse as they told her that, without a number plate (which she had been unable to remember) to trace, there was little chance of them finding the car, let alone the driver. Donna had nodded understandingly, anxious only then that they should go.

Alone in the room she had stripped naked and run herself a bath, trying to wash away the sweat and relax after her ordeal.

She considered what she had discovered, her mind racing like a Roladex.

She was convinced now that her husband had been working on a book about The Hell Fire Club and ...

And what?

That was it. The only other things she had were guesses and suppositions.

He might have discovered a modern-day equivalent of the Club.

It’s possible they killed him (even though the police in England were convinced his death was an accident).

Gordon Mahoney had gone, overnight, from being helpful to being downright rude. Why?

Someone had tried to kill her that very morning.

Why?

Someone had broken into her house, apparently searching for something. Why?

Questions. But no answers.

Donna closed her eyes again.

Her husband had been having an affair with Suzanne Regan.

That was about the only other thing she knew for sure. She wondered how the other woman was involved in this chain of events. Had she been to these places with Chris? Had he shared information with her he wouldn’t share with his own wife?

Donna clenched her fists beneath the water. The knowledge of his affair still ate away at her, and it was knowing that she could never speak to him about the affair that hurt most.

No, not hurt, angered her.

He had escaped her wrath when he died. Both of them had. They’d been wiped off the face of the earth before they could taste her fury. That was what truly enraged her.

She sat up, splashing her face with water, catching a glimpse of herself in the steam-clouded mirror. Her reflection looked distorted. She hauled herself out of the bath, pulled on a bath-robe and wandered through into the sitting-room. She picked up the phone and reached reception, asking them for the phone number of the Dublin National Gallery.

Perhaps if she could speak to Mahoney again, tell him what happened out by Mountpelier that morning, he would tell her more.

She got the number, thanked the receptionist then jabbed the digits, reading them carefully from her pad.

A voice told her she’d reached her chosen number.

‘Can I speak to Gordon Mahoney, please?’ she said.

She was asked to hang on for a moment.

Donna shifted the receiver to her other ear and began doodling on the pad.

The other voice returned.

Gordon Mahoney had gone home about an hour ago.

‘Could you give me his home number, please?’ she asked.

The voice at the other end of the line obliged and Donna pressed down on the cradle to sever the connection before ringing the new number.

She waited for the phone to ring at the other end.

Waited.

It was finally picked up.

‘Gordon Mahoney, please,’ she said.

Silence at the other end.

‘Hello.’

Nothing.

‘Gordon, it’s Donna Ward.’

She heard the click as the phone was replaced.

‘Shit,’ she murmured and punched the same digits.

Dead line.

She heard nothing but the endless whine over the wire. After a moment or two she replaced the receiver.

It was dusk by the time she checked out of the Shelbourne; night was approaching rapidly. The sun left a red stain behind as it retreated below the horizon.

The taxi took her to the airport. By the time the plane rose into the air it was dark.

Donna closed her eyes as it climbed through turbulence.

The flight to Edinburgh should take less than an hour.