Perfectly Preventable Deaths

18 Creeping Savory

Mamó’s been away a lot since that long night. We’ve had some people come, and knock and wait, and sigh and leave. Their faces resigned. I still don’t know what sort of help she offers. But I want to. I walked back to the crossroads one evening last week, just to look at it. It felt like there had not been anything there. No menace at all. Just calm.

Catlin and I are heading into the village – Catlin’s meeting Lon (of course she is) and Oona messaged me to go for a walk. Mam drops us halfway there, and, as soon as she’s gone, Catlin turns to me, eyes wide.

‘There’s going to be a youth-club lock-in soon,’ she says. ‘Lon lets them drink in his pub, and nobody says anything because it’s probably safer than the alternative.’

‘What, not drinking?’

‘No, like going up to the mountains where they found all those dead women and drinking there.’

‘Jesus,’ I say slowly. ‘You’re not wrong.’

‘Yup,’ she says. ‘Even murder clouds have silver linings.’

We traipse past the butchers and the shop that has a post office inside it. The squat, dark church is there, behind black wrought-iron railings.

Catlin turns in. ‘I want to light a candle.’ She’s halfway to the door by the time I roll my eyes and follow.

‘Whyyyyyyyyyyyyyy?’ I moan at her. I am not gone on churches – they’re too close to weapons for my liking.

This church is small and fat. It has thick dark walls with stripes of bright white marble. I think they’re fossils. Things that lived before there was a church. I head in after her. It smells of Mr Sheen and fresh-cut flowers. The pews are honey dark and shining. The stained-glass windows filter out the light so it’s really dim. I trail my hand along them as I look for Catlin. She’s huddled to the left of the altar, crouched towards a table covered in dripping candles, red and white and trailing wax like tears.

Above the candles, in a little alcove, is a squat white thing. A motto is mosaiced over its head.

‘Our Lady of Ballyfrann,’ I read.

‘They say that she’ll protect you if you need it.’ Catlin’s face is grave. Her eyes are focused on the lump of wood. I can make out the curve of face and head.

‘Who says that?’

‘The priest. Father Byrne.’

I nod my head. Our Lady of Ballyfrann looks like a maggot with a human head. There’s something strange about her, but a power too. I breathe in the waxy air, thick with frankincense, and wonder what my twin is thinking. Why would she need protection, and from what?

‘She didn’t do a great job with all those other girls that got murdered,’ I comment, shrugging.

‘Maybe they didn’t ask,’ my sister says. Her eyes are staring up, shining with reflected candle flame. Suddenly I shiver.

‘Madeline,’ she says, ‘this place. Do you feel … scared here ever?’

‘All the time.’

She reaches out to hold my hand. ‘Me too. I don’t know why … I have so many reasons to be happy …’

‘It could be the mutilated fox?’ I suggest.

‘It totally could be that.’ She smiles her Catlin smile at me. ‘I’ll just say one quick Hail Mary and we can get out of here.’ I see her lips trace the familiar words. The wood of the statue is dappled with shadows moving in the candlelight.

Something here is wrong.

I feel it too.

The daylight, when it comes, is a relief.

‘It was really dark in there. Even for a church,’ I say to Catlin.

‘Yup. It’s beautiful though, isn’t it?’

‘It is,’ I say. It’s what she wants to hear.

Catlin checks her phone.

‘Shit. Eight messages from Lon. He’ll be raging I’m late.’

‘You’re, like, five seconds late. He’ll get over it,’ I tell her.

‘I don’t know. I don’t want him to think I’m rude,’ she says. ‘He treats me like such a laaaaaaaady.’

‘You are a laaaaaaaady,’ I tell her, as she runs towards the pub, almost knocking over a bin. This is the good thing about Ballyfrann. Everywhere is runnable. Except the castle.

Oona waves. She’s wearing a navy pea coat, standing beside the old petrol station. Her face looks fresh. A sort of glisten-blush. She asks me where my sister is. I tell her that Catlin’s off to see Lon. She makes a little motion with her mouth.

‘What?’ I ask.

‘I don’t like Lon,’ she tells me. ‘I’ve heard some things. Your sister should be careful. I feel he is a … how to put it … prick.’ She pronounces it preek. It sounds so classy.

‘He is a preek,’ I tell her. We have so much in common, me and Oona. It’s kind of amazing. ‘He is probably the worst man who even lived. Bar none. Why do you hate him? Is it because of his smug face? What have you heard?’

‘No. Not exactly. Just things about him being, uh, obnoxious. And things.’

‘What things?’ I ask, remembering what Layla said before, up in the mountains. About not wanting to worry him. The grim twist of her mouth. I wish that there was something concrete. A reason I could put my finger on. She told me to tell Brian about the two of them. Maybe I should. I need to talk to him when I get a chance.

‘I’m not sure. I don’t know.’

I try to meet her eye, to press her further, but she looks away, eyes up to the white sky. Neither of us wants to go to Donoghue’s in case we’d run into Lon and Catlin. I don’t think he’s working, but his flat is right above it. Catlin’s never been there, but she thinks that today might be the day. Which creeps me out a little and I don’t want front-row seats. Oona takes me to a little bakery with tables in the back. It’s called ‘Collinses’ and is, unsurprisingly, run by the Collinses. There are about a hundred of them living here, apparently. Five generations.

‘Wow!’ I say, thinking of how little we know about my dad’s family. Once he died, they left us to ourselves. ‘That must be something.’

‘It is hard to make friends with a Collins, I think,’ Oona tells me. ‘They value family so much. We are outsiders. I went to Charley’s house the other day, and even though she invited me and everything, I didn’t feel like I was welcome there. They glared at me, you know?’

‘That’s terrible,’ I tell her. Then say, ‘Mamó glares at me all the time.’

‘That’s different,’ she says. ‘She glares at everyone. It’s fairer.’

‘What do you think she …?’ I start to ask, but I don’t know what I’m asking, how to put it. The woman plonks the teapot and mugs down, and we go quiet. Wait for her to go.

Oona takes her tea black with a little spoon of honey stirred into it. She makes a happy sound at the first sip. I smile at her, and she smiles back.

There is a pause.

‘We went inside the church,’ I say, for something to say. ‘Myself and Catlin. She wanted to light a candle.’

‘To Our Lady of Ballyfrann?’

‘Yes. What’s the story with that thing? It’s so strange-looking.’

‘My dad grew up here, and he said to me that it was older than the town. The story is that there was a farmer with a withered hand who lived here and he went out cutting turf and found that thing, and when he touched it, his hand healed up, so he took it to the priest and he decided it must be the Virgin Mary. Apparently there were a few more miracles as well.’

‘Why haven’t I heard of it so? You’d think it’s be all over the Internet, or at least on postcards and things, like Knock or Ballinspittle.’

‘My father says people here like their secrets kept,’ Oona says.

Do you have secrets, Oona? I wonder. I flinch a little as she reaches out to pick a bit of something off my shoulder. It’s unexpected. Why would her lovely hands want to touch me?

We leave the shop and walk out past the pub, over the roads towards the mountains, and talk and talk. After a while, she links her arm through mine and rests her head a little on my shoulder. I can feel her soft hair against my cheek. It’s still a little damp. But she is warm. A pleasant sort of moisture. She smells like lavender, fresh water. So easy to breathe deep. I’m hyper-aware of her, the movement of her body. Her warmth beside my own. Her little face. Underneath my skin is almost humming. Like I’m about to start collecting things, but not so worried-nervous. Leaves crunch and shine beneath our feet as we walk on. It must have rained while we were drinking tea.

I look down at my hands. The cuticles are rough, the nails are chipped. Nothing about me is good enough for anyone. When Oona sits, she crosses her legs twice, around and around again, curling in on herself like an ampersand. She’s different to every other person that I’ve met. There’s just … this thing about her. This warmth, this depth. I want more and more.

We walk until the stars are in the sky. Until Mam rings to ask me where I am.