Mr Lynch’s Holiday

44

Inga was still up painting. She welcomed them in and served them bitter coffee with spiced biscuits.

‘You knew already,’ said Dermot. ‘I remember the bag of rice. For the cats.’

‘I didn’t want to worry you with it.’

‘How did you find them?’

‘That day down at the playground. When we found Ottoline. After you left I had a sense that someone was watching me. I had my suspicions about who it was.’

‘So you knew before then?’

She shook her head. ‘No. Not at all. My suspicion was wrong. It’s shameful to admit it. I thought it had to be someone here and the only person I thought who might possibly ever do such a thing was Roger.’

Eamonn shrugged. ‘That’s not so crazy.’

‘Oh, it is. Poor Roger. I just thought how angry he was with me for feeding the cats and how he liked hunting. I thought he might be trying to teach me a lesson. I sound quite stupid.’

Dermot smiled. ‘Like Dr Watson.’

‘Anyway, I thought I’d leave the carcass in the bag on the ground and then pretend to leave. I waited to see if anybody came back.’ She got out a cigarette. ‘I got a terrible shock when I saw him. Not Roger. Some poor young man. He looked so scared. He picked up the bag and I followed him.’

Eamonn asked, ‘Do you know how many of them there are?’

‘Twelve at least. The lucky few that made it across.’

‘Does anybody else know? What about Esteban?’

‘He knows, I think. His uncle has a farm, and the farmers, they need cheap labour, you know, and the migrants, they need work. It’s been going on for months. A van collecting them at night.’

Dermot had an image of a rusty old transit. He remembered Matty Keegan. Frozen winter’s mornings, the sound of him dressing in the room.

‘Have you told the police?’

She shook her head. ‘I found a charity that works with illegal immigrants. I spoke to them today. They are going to come and talk to the men. I wasn’t sure what to do. I didn’t know who to tell. I didn’t want the authorities involved. The men have been through enough, I think. I hope they will get some help now.’

Dermot nodded. ‘I don’t know what else you could have done.’

She looked out of the window. ‘We talk about strange noises, things that go bump in the night; I think we almost enjoy the idea of ghosts. But real people? Confined to darkness and silence, living among us? It’s so sad. So awful.’

It was after one when Eamonn went, leaving Dermot and Inga talking. It was only when the sky started to lighten that Dermot stood and said, ‘I should be going.’

‘Oh yes, of course. It’s very late. You must have packing to do.’

‘I didn’t bring much.’

‘Well. Later today you’ll be back in England, happy by your own fireside.’

Dermot imagined opening the front door. The familiar smells. The familiar things. Suffocating.

He gestured over at her painting. ‘I would have liked to have seen that when it’s finished.’

‘Oh. Well. Maybe I can send a photo. It’s not the same thing, but if you wanted to see it, I could email you an image.’

He nodded. ‘Email. I’d need a computer for that.’

She smiled. ‘Or I could just post a photograph.’

‘No, you mustn’t go to any bother.’

‘It would be my pleasure. I could send it to you as a postcard and then maybe you could send me a postcard in return.’

‘Of Birmingham?’

‘Why not?’

‘I’m not sure they make them.’

She smiled. ‘Well. Maybe we will keep in touch anyway. I would like that.’

There was suddenly an awkwardness where there had been none. Without warning she leaned forward and kissed him on both cheeks.

‘Goodbye, Dermot, it was really very good to meet you. I hope we will meet again.’

He remained standing in the same spot, feeling the brush of her lips against his skin, the light touch of her fingers on his arms. He looked at her for a long time and then he said, ‘Did you say you had a computer?’

‘Yes, a laptop.’

‘Can you get the Internet on it?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you know how to work it?’

‘Of course.’

‘Do you think you could help me with something?’