I nod earnestly, swallowing the bubble of tears in my throat.
‘Even what’s happening inside of me, that isn’t complicated. It’s just biology. Biology gone bad, some might say, but that’s not how I see it. It’s just the biological luck of the draw, that’s all.’ He raises his hand, a tiny salute. ‘So there you go now, Cat, love. If stage four prostate cancer isn’t complicated, I’m damn sure dating a nice Mayo man isn’t.’
What do you say to that?
How about dating a nice Mayo man whose sister died a horrible, violent death as an indirect result of your father’s utter selfishness.
Oh, and he has no idea about any of this.
Complicated enough for you?
For one beautiful, liberating second, I think about saying it. I imagine splitting the vein, telling the secret, sucking the poison right out, here in the company of this kind, uncomplicated man.
But instead I tell him another secret. Something no one else knows. Something I only realised myself just now, when Cairns talked about life boiling down to who makes you happy and who doesn’t.
‘I’ll tell you what is bloody complicated, sir. Applying for a B-2 Visa.’ I move my chair in closer, taking hold of his hand. ‘I haven’t even told Her Majesty, so to misquote the song, don’t start spreading the news just yet. But . . . I’m moving to New York.’
Acknowledgements
As always, I’m hugely grateful to the wonderful Katherine Armstrong at Bonnier and Emily Griffin at Harper (US). Behind these editor extraordinaires, there are also teams of equally wonderful people working hard to bring my stories to the widest possible audience – special thanks to Ciara Corrigan, Clare Kelly, Felice McKeown, Nico Poilblanc, Alex Allden, Ruth Logan, Ilaria Tarasconi, Heather Drucker, Kristin Cipolla and Kim Racon. High-fives are also due to Jon Appleton for his beady-eyed copy edit.
Immeasurable thanks to my agent, Eugenie Furniss, who maintains the perfect balance of passionate cheerleader and calming voice of reason in every single situation.
To Alan Howarth, for helping me keep Cat’s world authentic (and for never losing patience with my endless stream of procedural questions!).
To friends and family, your continued support means everything – Mum, Dad, the Naughton and Frear families, Helen, Cat, Carla, Fiona, Steph, Lee Whittlesea (not a gangster brought down by Tessa Dyer, but a very dear friend) and many, many more. And the crime writing community – there really are far too many of you lovely lot to mention, but special air-kisses to The Ladykillers (long may we lunch).
Colin Scott, too – you keep me sane, you keep me laughing, you keep me writing. Genuinely, thank you.
And of course, Neil – who not only makes me feel like the only girl in the world, but the best living writer too. It’s hard to sum up how grateful I am – keep up the good work, baby. I love you.
If you enjoyed Shed No Tears, keep reading for the first chapter of the addictive DC Cat Kinsella thriller, Stone Cold Heart
He told me he was innocent of his girlfriend’s murder. He told me his wife was out to get him. What he didn’t tell me was why.
He has a history of cheating. He attended the party where his girlfriend was murdered.And so did his wife.
Adulterer.
Murderer.
Victim.
Can I find the truth in the lies?
@MadLou wishes I’d been choked with my own placenta at birth.
@daveholby2 wonders how I can live with myself.
I won’t dignify Mad Lou with a response, but Dave makes a fair point. You see, I always knew I had it in me to kill someone. Whether I could live with it afterwards, now there was the real question.
Because you can kid yourself that you know who you are. You can declare yourself to be a strong person, a weak person, or maybe one of life’s middle-grounders, ricocheting between warrior and wimp depending on which side of the bed you got out of. But trust me, until you’ve seen the light fade from someone’s eyes, knowing it was you who flicked the switch, you who crushed their last seconds of hope, then you’ve got no clue about what strength or weakness means. You’ve got no idea about the horrors you can learn to live with.
See, ultimately, life makes you live with it. Its routines. Its regimes. Its way of pulling you on to the next thing before you’ve properly evaluated the last.
And fundamentally, nothing changes anyway. The world still turns. Night still follows day. You still stand in supermarket queues, wondering how you always manage to pick the slowest one. You still whine about train fares, phone bills, non-dispensing cash machines.
You still live.
And she’d have lived too, if only she’d calmed the fuck down.
1
AUGUST 2017
‘Cat, wait . . .’
He knows my name. How the hell does he know my name?
I keep moving forward, pretending I haven’t heard him over the incessant gurgle of the coffee machines and the insipid soft jazz. I’m nearly at the door now. Just a few more strides and I’ll be safely outside, away from Casanova’s attention and basking in the scents of a grimy London summer.
Warm beer. Bus diesel. Raindrops hitting hot pavements.
Bliss.
‘Hey, Cat, wait a second . . .’
This moment’s been looming and I could kick myself for not listening to my gut and taking my custom elsewhere. Actually, I could kick DC Ben Swaines. Swaines has become the worst kind of coffee snob since he started dating a barista from Sydney, and now it’s all ‘earthy’ this and ‘resinous’ that, because why use one adjective when you can use three or four?
I don’t even drink the damn stuff.
Casanova, owner of The Grindhouse, has been using this as a ruse to flirt with me over the past few weeks, suggesting he whisk me off to Vienna – first class, of course – where the traditional Fiaker is bound to convert me, and declaring that ‘Only sex and a round of golf at Gleneagles’ can match the thrill of finding a new single-source coffee bean.
It takes all sorts to make a world, as my mum used to say.
‘Please . . . hang on . . .’
He’s louder this time. Insistent. It doesn’t help that it’s late afternoon and The Grindhouse is in the dead zone. There’s only me and one end-of-tether granny shovelling goo into a squirming toddler’s mouth, so there’s no way I can ignore him again without appearing rude or stone deaf. With no other option, I put my game face on and swing round, smiling. He’s already walked out from behind the counter and I’m momentarily thrown by the full length of him as he’s been half a human the entire time I’ve been coming here. Just a floating buff torso in a Ralph Lauren shirt, doling out la-di-da come-ons and caffè macchiatos.
‘Oh God, don’t tell me.’ I slap my hand to my forehead. ‘I’ve left my card in the machine again, haven’t I?’
Could this be my fault? Maybe I’ve led him on? Maybe he’s mistaken forgetfulness for a convoluted form of foreplay?
‘No, no, you’re fine,’ he stutters, which in itself is a bit odd. ‘I just wanted to ask you something. It’s rather delicate, really. Can we sit down?’