Tonight Shard had played The Bare Pit again. A good gig, good crowd, good atmosphere. Harmony seemed to have been restored to Feral’s womb and to the band. Jake fought off a wave of tiredness as he passed under the motorway bridge straddling the estuary. Years before, when news broke that it was to be built, Rosanna had actively protested against its erection. She was convinced it would destroy the bird sanctuary she loved. Her protests came to no avail but the wildlife now co-existed peacefully with the low rumble of traffic above them.

The sudden wail of a siren reverberated through the van. Two blue lights revolved in the rear-view mirror. Jake pulled sharply into the grass verge as a fire engine swerved past, followed a moment later by a second one. Seabirds fluttered upwards like startled wraiths and the swans, disturbed from their trance-like glide, lifted their heads from under their wings. Two garda cars sped past. Jake’s anxiety grew as the blue lights momentarily disappeared around a bend before reappearing. They were going in only one direction.

On Mallard Cove the hedgerows were in full leaf. Branches whipped against the windows as he slowed. The pot holes had not been repaired and seaweed was strewn on the road. Smoke billowed upwards, caught in the glare of the headlights. He had rounded the next bend before he saw the flames shooting skywards. He skidded to a halt by the edge of the shore and ran across the road. The honk of swans, familiar by now and, mostly, unnoticed, seemed to have an added urgency, as did the splash of water washing across the pebbled shoreline. The back wall of the barn formed part of the boundary surrounding Sea Aster and he could see the fire raging within it.

When he had identified himself a female guard allowed him through the cordon.

‘The fire’s confined to the barn,’ she said. ‘They don’t think there’s any danger of it spreading any further. No one appears to be in the house and – ’

‘It’s empty,’ Jake reassured her.

Firemen in yellow helmets surrounded the barn. Water spiralled upwards from their hoses. The howl of flames as they tried to gain new territory had a terrifying intensity. Jake imagined the old sofa igniting, the Shard posters curling and kindling, the wooden floor crackling, the amplifiers and microphones sparking, melting, everything consumed in the flames. His songs too, his laptop and the notebooks of rough notes he had not copied or recorded. His mind was a blank when he tried to comprehend how much information he had lost and could never retrieve.

The guard urged him to keep back, let the experts deal with it. The flames died quickly. In the scale of a night’s work, this fire was easily contained, said one of the firemen as the hoses were wound up. Chemicals, now those were a different story, he added. They never knew what they were going to come up against in that kind of situation.

‘I suspect a faulty wire was to blame.’ He took off his helmet and rubbed his hand over his bald head, streaked it with soot. ‘Either that or you left a heater on.’

Jake shook his head. He was meticulous about checking everything before he locked the barn after rehearsals. The smell of smoke was strong enough to make him gag. When the fire brigade and the squad cars finally left he rang Nadine. Her answering machine came on. The same thing happened when he tried to contact Ali, Brian and the twins. Did anyone pick up anymore, he raged. What was the sense in having a family unit if they were unavailable at times of intense stress?

Hart drove over immediately after he phoned, accompanied by Daryl and Reedy. They surveyed the blackened interior, their expressions growing bleaker as they realised the extent of the damage. They stayed with him for the night, drank beer and talked about the old days. Daryl quoted verbatim Hot Press reviews the young Shard had received while a sober and sympathetic Hart did a fry-up for breakfast. Reedy promised to contact a colleague who was an expert on data retrieval. With a bit of luck the songs could be saved from the laptop hard drive.

After they left Jake showered and collapsed into bed. He was unable to sleep yet unable to rise to face the blackened ruins. Ali, waking to his message, rang immediately. She kept crying, as if something precious had been stolen from her, and was too incoherent to be any comfort. Nadine, full of apologies for not getting his message earlier, rang shortly afterwards.

‘It’s awful, Jake. All your precious songs… it’s awful. Have you any idea how it started? Could it have been the wires? The electrics always looked a bit shambolic.’

‘The wires didn’t cause the fire.’

‘What are you suggesting?’ Her voice dropped, as if she suspected they could be overheard.

‘I don’t know… I don’t know…’

‘If you believe what I think you believe then you must go to the police immediately.’

‘What can I tell them? I’ve no proof.’

Later, after the loss adjuster had been and gone, Jake imagined the charge he would make. The evidence he would be asked to present if he did report his suspicions to the police. Nadine’s slashed paintings, now burned. A piece of pottery, legally purchased and filled with memorabilia of a broken relationship. The sense of an invisible presence in empty rooms, objects that he could have moved in absent-minded moments and displaced. Visits to a theatre and a tapas bar, to nightclubs to hear her favourite band. Those friendly and encouraging texts and emails. A damaged van filed in a garda report as vandalism by persons unknown. What else… oh yes… an unflattering magazine feature about Shard. Eleanor’s stroke due to high blood pressure which she had ignored, despite medical advice… and the barn. The loss adjuster had given his verdict. The gas heater had been left on. Indisputable evidence, the path of the flame a clear delineation. The heater had burned on the lowest setting and probably would not have caused any damage except for the close proximity of a wicker bin filled to the brim with sheets of paper. When they ignited the flames licked against the old sofa and its inflammable material had caused an immediate combustion… and then there was the pièce de résistance. Her engagement had appeared last week in The Irish Times.

Liam Brett and Karin Moylan are pleased to announce….

Jake saw himself through the eyes of the guard who would file his report. A delusional egotist, caught up in his fantasies about being stalked by a beautiful woman. He would be laughed out of the garda station for making an accusation that had as many holes as a sieve.

Chapter 58

Nadine

I keep my fears at bay when I’m painting. It’s become my escape. Perhaps it always was, but it’s different now. I don’t grow disheartened or indifferent as the course becomes more demanding. I don’t feel the urge to drop out with half-baked excuses and hide half-finished canvases in crowded attics. The students in Bonnard are young and giddy, happy to miss lectures and still-life classes. The mature students are diligent. Like me, they’re aware that time is relative and dangerously swift in its passing.

It’s a month since the fire yet the back of my neck tingles when I think of her. Is it over now? The scorching? Have the flames sated her thirst or is she waiting for an appropriate moment to strike again? Was it arson or an accident? Jake sounds shaky when he rings. He’s not sleeping well. Night sounds startle him awake. He has a sense of being observed without being able to observe the observer.

I’ve signed Sea Aster over to him. I could feel the force of Eleanor’s decision dragging me down. She meant well but some memories can’t be eradicated. I’ll always see Karin Moylan in the bay window, sense her imprint on the furniture, in the attic, in Jake’s bed, the scorched barn. Why would I need a house with such crushing associations? I want Jake to use the attic as the recording studio. It’s perfect for his needs. I can visualise it already: skylights, a spiral staircase, one of the walls knocked down and converted into a picture window with a view over the estuary. He has to put the fire behind him. The insurance company will pay the claim without a quibble. In the cold light of day it’s difficult… impossible… to believe she’s responsible.