He’ll kill him for spite, Rory had said.
And he might. Don was hell-bent on taking revenge on Rufus, and he’d been thwarted yet again. There was every likelihood he’d kill the boy to punish Rory. And that would be another death on Rufus’s conscience.
Bone-weary in body and spirit, Rufus went back into the house. While he’d been busy at the grave, Orla had been clearing up in Rory’s room. The metallic stink of blood had been replaced by the smell of pine disinfectant. Everything was clean, and tidy. It was, he thought, as if Rory had never been there at all.
They sat up the rest of the night. Rufus felt as if he would never sleep again. Orla had changed her nightdress for a clean one, and the blood-spattered winceyette gown was soaking in the washing machine. She seemed almost chatty, sharing a glass of whisky with him.
‘I told you, you see? You wouldn’t listen. I’ll tell Ma tomorrow that he’s moved on, don’t worry about it. I was right, you see. All along, I was right.’
‘Yes. You were right.’
But you’re not right in the head, are you?
He’d never seen a woman kill before – let alone kill so dispassionately, as if she hadn’t a feeling in her entire body. His instincts had been telling him all along that something was wrong with Orla. She seemed devoid of emotion. She killed in cold blood. She painted mad pictures. She found sex repellent. She hated babies. She had no time for anyone, and seemed constantly to anticipate attack from any direction. When he looked at her face, he no longer saw her beautiful green eyes. All he saw was the chilling taint of madness.
‘I’m sad that Redmond died,’ said Rufus, draining his glass and refilling it. ‘Because I can see what it’s done to you.’
‘I’m sad about that too,’ said Orla. ‘I’ll be sad until my dying day over the loss of him.’
‘Orla… is that all it is? Is that what’s made you this way?’
Orla took the bottle from him and topped up her own glass. ‘What way is that?’ she asked, smiling.
‘Cold,’ he said. Frigid. Frigid and fucking dangerous.
‘Cold?’
‘You… don’t want to make love,’ he said by way of explanation. And that’s the least of it.
Orla let loose a heavy sigh. ‘Ah, are you still going on about that? I can’t help it. I just don’t like it very much, that’s all.’
‘Yes, but why? Have you never looked into it, asked a doctor maybe?’
‘No. Because I don’t have to.’
‘Why is that?’ He wanted to hear the truth of it. A voice inside him warned that prodding her into some sort of confession might be dangerous, but he was past caring. He’d been staying all this time, living with the constant fear that Don would show up, thinking that was the worst thing that could happen. Little did he know. Nothing could have been worse than the horror he’d witnessed tonight, the loss of Rory, the sheer God-awful weirdness of Orla.