Page 73 of Boomerville at Ballymegille

‘Yes, he was good, wasn’t he?’ Jo smiled. ‘He kept the whole thing flowing and was brilliant with the audience, telling jokes and keeping everyone entertained.’

‘The man is a marvel, an all-round entertainment act. Serious eye-candy too.’

* * *

As Joand Hattie talked long into the night, exhausted guests slept peacefully, beneath cosy covers in their comfortable bedrooms, and with the kitchen closed and staff at home replenishing their energy for the next day, the old manor house was silent. Tomorrow, the marquees and stage were to be dismantled and the garden returned to its original use.

Declan and his helpers would be busy.

The occupants of the cottage on the other side of the garden were sleeping soundly too. Outside, pinned to a long washing line, hung eight flesh-coloured bodysuits. Like sausage skin corpses, their lifeless limbs dangled in the oppressive night air.

Lucinda, normally the last to bed, had turned in early and slumbered in an alcohol-induced stupor. She was worn out by the endless procession of children, who’d been eager to be turned into tigers, witches and werewolves. Her finances were replenished and after donating a percentage of her takings to the Round Table charities, it was a satisfied Lucinda that had crawled into bed. Her snores thundered through the ceiling of the parlour to the bedroom above where Alf, Willie and Harry were also comatose.

Bill, however, was wide awake.

Despite fatigue clinging to his weary body, he was too tired to sleep. He felt as flaccid as an old lettuce as he lay on his sleeping bag, on the battered camp bed, while perspiration, clammy and warm, glued his body to the sticky fabric.

He reflected on a day full of confusing emotions. It had started well but by the afternoon, Bill had made a fool of himself and he was angry. His bloody mother, with her voice constantly in his head, had made him look stupid and now, everyone knew that he talked to a dead woman. They must think he was mad. Bill couldn’t believe that he’d cried, and in front of Melissa of all people. Whatever must she think of him?

But as his mind churned, he remembered Melissa’s kindness. She’d touched his arm and spoken softly when he was upset, and, as if reading his thoughts, had known what to do. He still had her hankie in his pocket and knew that he’d never return it. It was the one small thing that he could hold on to and fantasise over. She’d held a cup of tea to Bill’s lips and it had been all he could do not to kiss her fingers, to smell her skin and drink in her flesh. Her soothing words had stemmed his tears, as if the incident was nothing. Melissa had made him feel as though it hadn’t happened at all. Later, when he sat outside the pub, on a bench with Alf and Harry, he’d held a bottle of beer in one hand, while caressing her hankie in his pocket with the other and soon he’d forgotten his outburst and a smile had returned to his face.

Bill sighed in frustration. He knew it was no use. There wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of getting any sleep that night. He reached for his trousers and shirt.

As Bill crept down the creaking stairs, the very fabric of the building seemed to rise and fall to a cacophony of snores that echoed from each room. Even Ness, asleep by Alf’s bed, didn’t look up as Bill crept past. Outside, the air was cooler and it was a relief to be away from the stuffy bedroom.

Bill had no idea where he was going.

But as he put one foot in front of the other and headed across the grass to the cottage gate, his mother was wide awake too.

Now look at the mess you’ve got yourself into, Bill Bradbury! You’ve make a fool of our family! Only a baby blubbers. Whatever were you thinking?

Her voice droned on as Bill walked towards washing hanging on a line.

Unexpectedly, he took a step back and his heart raced, eyes wide, as he saw eight lifeless bodies hanging limply in the velvet dark of the sticky night. But as his eyes adjusted and a colourful towel brushed his face, he remembered Audrey’s Babes and the aquatic performance.

Bill puffed out his breath in relief. He opened the gate and entered the grounds of the manor and as he headed towards the lake, he put his hand in his pocket and found Melissa’s hankie.

You need to stop thinking of that blonde-haired slut! Take that piece of rubbish out of your pocket and throw it in the water.

On and on, his mother’s voice whined, almost in time to his footsteps and Bill felt more miserable than ever.

The water ahead glistened in the moonlight and Bill stopped to stare at the ripples on the surface. Reeds swayed by the grassy banks, where the neatly cut lawn, cool and damp underfoot, created a pathway to the edge of the lake.

As if in a trance, Bill suddenly had the urge to keep walking.

Until the water was over his head.

* * *

Malcolm had parkedhis car down a lane, unseen from the main road. He’d tucked it beside a rickety old gate that looked as though it hadn’t been opened in years. Weeds clung to the rotting wooden struts and the hinges were rusty, nails aged.

It was an ideal spot to lie low.

For the past four hours Malcolm had rested, and now, refreshed from his catnap, he flexed his fingers and smoothed the leather that covered his gloved hands. Frustrated that he’d been unable to get Melissa on her own earlier, he took the keys out of the ignition, unlocked the car and slipped silently out of the vehicle. His body, having been cramped behind the wheel, was stiff and Malcolm stretched out his arms and rolled his head to ease the muscles in his neck. He opened the trunk and reached into a holdall, digging out a black hooded tracksuit. Shrugging off his crumpled clothes and dusty shoes, he slipped it on, adding a pair of soft-soled trainers.

With his preparations in place, Malcolm checked the contents of his bag, adjusted the strap to fit snugly, and slung it across his body. As the moon disappeared behind clouds the colour of soot, he walked away from the car and onto the main road, where the entrance to Boomerville Manor lay only a few yards away. Blanketed by darkness, Malcolm moved swiftly.

He knew that Melissa would be sleeping, weary from her busy day.

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