The Time Roads

Evan stood in the corridor, shoulders hunched, hands shoved into his coat pockets. Except for a stark white shirt collar, his clothes were entirely black. Síomón gestured for Evan to come inside, but Evan did not move. “They held David’s wake yesterday,” he said in a clipped voice. “Why didn’t you come?”

“I—I didn’t know.”

“They sent a notice around.”

A red haze washed over his vision, and his stomach roiled. He wished he’d not drunk quite so much tea the night before. “I haven’t been well, Evan.”

“So Garret told me,” Evan said, in that same hard voice. “And Mrs. Drogha. So that is the excuse I gave Commander Ó Deághaidh, when we spoke at Maeve’s funeral.”

Pennants fluttering atop the long black motorcar. Lord Ó Cadhla, come to fetch his daughter’s body home. Ó Deághaidh saying, We’ve had another death.

“Síomón!”

Síomón flinched. His gaze swung immediately to his desk. He half expected to see the cocaine again, but the desk remained innocently clear.

Evan stared past him into the room. His expression softened to concern, looking more like his usual self. “What’s wrong, Síomón? Can you tell me? Is it because of the murders?”

“Nothing.” Síomón swallowed against the dryness clogging his throat and tried again. “Nothing that sleep and the right food won’t cure.”

An awkward pause. Evan shifted on his feet and glanced away. “I see. Well. The other reason I came was that we’re holding a wake ourselves, a private one, for Maeve and David together. It’s tonight, at Bantry’s Pub. You should come.”

“Bantry’s,” Síomón repeated. Then a shadow crossed his vision, and he distinctly heard Evan say, “I’m sorry you’re too ill to come. Shall I stop by tomorrow?” and his own answer, “Yes. Please do.”

When Evan had gone, Síomón closed the door and leaned against it, eyes squeezed shut. “It’s nothing,” he whispered. “I’m unsettled. My nerves strained. Nothing more.”

He stumbled into his bedroom and lay down. Hours later, he woke with a start, sweating, his heart beating against his ribs. His rooms were dark, the air stale and cold. A rapping sounded at his door—a steady rhythm as though someone had been at it a while.

Evan.

Síomón rolled from the bed, calling out, “Just a moment.”

He scrubbed his face with cold water and ran a comb through his hair. The cocaine had not mysteriously reappeared. Calmer now, he opened the door, ready to face Evan.

But it was Susanna who stood outside. Susanna with her plain black sari, her face serious. “Síomón,” she said. “You must not do it.”

He blinked, confused. “Do what?”

She gestured sharply, taking in his appearance and the cluttered room behind him. “Make yourself a recluse. I haven’t seen you in three days. Evan tried calling on you yesterday, but you wouldn’t answer the door. He said you were ill. Bollocks.”

“Susanna…”

“Don’t.” Her voice scaled up, and she made an obvious effort to regain her control. “Don’t lie to me, Síomón. I know you’re grieving for Maeve and David. We all are. I just came to ask—to say that you should not hide from your friends.”

With that, she turned and fled down the stairs.

Síomón closed the door and turned back to his rooms. Only a day had passed since Evan’s morning visit, but a veneer of dust coated the floors, and his rooms had an odd neglected look. Where had Garret disappeared to?

Evan tried calling, but you wouldn’t answer.

Síomón’s gaze veered to his desk. The cocaine had returned.

He had trouble remembering much after that. Morning. Night. Afternoon. The hours flickered past his eyes like pages of a book. Once he found himself crouched over his wastebasket, retching. Another time, he massaged his cramped hands, studying a list of numbers. Moments later, he stood in his bedroom, drinking coffee, bemused to find himself dressed and shaved.

He was still gazing at his carpet when someone tapped at his door. Evan or Susanna, he thought. Or possibly the long-absent Garret.

But his visitor was Aidrean Ó Deághaidh, looking grim and weary. “You must come with me, sir.”

“Why? More questions?”