Page 59 of Her Last Walk Home

‘A chicken casserole wouldn’t go astray. I’ll make one for you tomorrow.’

‘That’d be great,’ Lottie said, catching Chloe’s eye-roll. It was likely Rose might not remember this conversation in ten minutes, let alone tomorrow.

‘I’m off,’ the girl said, and pecked her gran’s cheek.

‘Where’s Katie?’ Lottie asked before Chloe escaped.

‘Getting ready,’ she said, as she stood halfway out the door.

‘For what?’

‘Going out.’

‘Where?

‘You better ask her yourself. I got my head bitten off.’

‘Who’s going to mind Louis?’

‘His idol, Sean. Bye.’ The back door shut softly as Chloe left.

Lottie looked at her mother and the messy kitchen and wondered where to start. As she set about turning on the oven, Sean walked in, Louis in tow.

‘Hi, Mam. You’re home early.’ He swung Louis up in his arms before settling the boy on a chair at the table. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Sure, but I reckon you’re looking for something,’ Lottie said with a grin.

‘Good guess.’

‘Throw the chips on an oven tray and ask away.’

‘Niall wanted me to go over to his house for a while. Are you home for the night to mind Louis? Katie’s going out and Chloe has work.’

‘Suppose so.’

‘Great. Can I do anything else before I go?’

‘Did you eat?’

‘Yeah. Me and Louis had Pot Noodles, didn’t we, bud?’

‘Yeah, they’re nice and gooey.’ Louis looked up adoringly at his uncle.

‘Go on, then, and don’t be too late.’ Lottie shooed her son out with a tea cloth.

‘Why is everyone late?’ Rose asked, taking Louis up on her knee. The boy squirmed to be released, but his great-granny held fast.

‘Food in twenty minutes,’ Lottie said, searching for scissors to open the bag of frozen Donegal Catch.

44

He knew he should forget about the young woman now that he’d seen her with the child in the park, but for some reason his mind could not move on. She was on the list, and her looks and body filled him with a primitive need. Not skinny and scrawny like that yoke in the kitchen. But then that girl had been a lot different when she’d first arrived. It wasn’t his fault that she had deteriorated. It washers–shewho ruled the home with an iron fist.

He didn’t feel sorry for the scrawny one, but at times he felt sorry for the child. Not that he or the kid knew what was going on beneath the surface ofherskin. She was an enigma; a Jekyll-and-Hyde character. A chameleon. She metamorphosed (a big word he’d found in the dictionary and he liked the sound of it) into one person to those outside, modifying herself into what she thought was expected in different environments. And he still wasn’t certain he knew the real woman beneath her strange veneer.

A knock on the shed door shunted him from his musings. He hid his beloved dictionary back behind a flowerpot. Another knock. Soft and timid. He opened the door to find the younggirl there. What age was she? He barely remembered. Probably seven or eight. Maybe even nine.

‘Magenta, what do you want?’

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