Free Fragile Lies by Laura Elliot

got through it. There’ll be other occasions. It’s something I have to accept.”
    “Have you been able to make any decisions about –” Donna’s voice quavered then strengthened again. “Are you going to look for a divorce?”
    “As soon as it can be arranged.” Saying the words gave authenticity to her decision but the words had a dream-like quality, as if some other person, someone cold and empty of emotion, were uttering them. Later, trying to sleep, she forced herself to think about tomorrow’s meeting with the Sheratons. Her distracted thoughts were not helped by the sounds of road-works on the pavement outside her parents’ house. The road was an artery into the city, busy during peak hour, and an emergency had arisen that meant the work had to be carried out during the night. The interminable trench was cordoned off by red and white striped plastic barriers, and leaflets delivered to each house on the crescent had apologised in advance for the inconvenience. She covered her head with a pillow but the noise penetrated. She had no idea who was responsible; electricity, gas, telephones, they all seemed to operate independently. At last she slept but her dreams were disturbed by crashing sounds, thuds and the relentless thump of heavy machinery.

Chapter Eleven
    B rahms Ward , 8 p.m.

    K illian , I know what happened that night. I want to weep but I’ve no tears left. Bozo Daly gave her an identity. He put flesh on her bones and turned her from a phantom into a living, breathing being who can be traced and be held accountable. He’s ill, I’m afraid, very ill. A nurse rang to tell me. She referred to him as Luke Daly. Did you know that’s his real name? Neither did I until she described him. He wanted to see me urgently and so I went immediately to his bedside. He’s in the Mater Hospital, frail and old in his striped pyjamas. I can’t imagine him as a Luke. Too biblical. But he’s sober for a change and his nose, that humped and cratered structure that belongs to an alcoholic, not a clown, no longer resembles an angry weal. It was the first time we’d spoken since your accident.
    Lorraine Cheevers is her name. I wonder if she noticed a clown on the pier that night? Probably not. Bozo Daly is used to being invisible. But he saw her take her lover’s hand and pull him back into the safety of her car. It’s a crazy story, Killian, and will be impossible to prove in a court of law, not that Bozo will ever get that far. From the look in his eyes I’d say he’s already hearing the beat of angels’ wings. He refuses point blank to talk to the police. He’s well-known to them and they, for their part, have little faith in a clown with selective memory lapses. I could go to them myself but what can I say? A robbed bracelet, a television programme and the opinion of a wino who lived the last ten years of his life on the edge of a river.
    Remember Artistically Speaking ? Talking heads and boring art farts, you used to say. They made a programme about her. I know the producer. We shared a flat for a few months when we were students. He used to wear knitted bedroom slippers. Now he wears Gucci loafers. We’ve all moved on, I guess, since those days. He gave me a copy of the tape.
    Last night I switched on the video. Red hair, blue eyes. Her neck is long and slim. I could fit my hands around it easily. I could squeeze it until the life fades from her eyes and they are lustreless, empty. Like your gaze, Killian. So far removed from us. Yet you weep tears. I see them ooze from the corners, trickle down your cheeks. Where do they come from, those tears? Are they the last ripples in a dried-up riverbed, flowing heedlessly from a wasted reservoir? Or do they signify emotion, the possibility of hope, the glimmer of a nightmare ending?
    Jean touches your tears and signs the cross on your forehead. I see them fall and I think of revenge. Last night I watched Lorraine Cheevers. I studied her face, her willowy frame,