The Betrayal Read Online Free

drive towards the gates of Sea Aster and pass the old stone barn where Tõnality first began. Darkness fell while we were inside, and the windsurfers have folded up their sails. Swans are clustered close to shore and a heron stands impassive and still in the shallows.
    Rosanna wanted her ashes to float across this estuary on a slow, eddying tide. Eleanor refused point blank to even discuss the possibility of a cremation. An ad hoc scattering of ashes would be an undignified and messy ending to her mother’s long, active life, she insisted when I argued that it was Rosanna’s dying wish. She had her way in the end and Rosanna is buried with her husband, a boring man who, she once told me, had defined his identity by the club crest on his blazer and made love to her in the missionary position every Saturday night. At least on this occasion Rosanna is on top. Stop … I resist the urge to laugh out loud and swallow, suddenly close to tears as I apologise to Rosanna for being unable to organise the simple ceremony she desired. Will the members of First Affiliations appreciate their new headquarters? Or will they be too busy plotting strategies to notice the rugged beauty surrounding them? I suspect the latter.
    An arts programme plays on the car radio as I drive along Mallard Cove. A female poet describes how her latest bout of depression inspired her new collection of poetry. You and me both, I think. But I’m not depressed. Just… what? ‘Flat’ is the only word that comes to mind. Seeing life in a pale, predictive palette sounds more descriptive. The depressed poet would forgive the alliteration and approve.
    Jake insists I’m suffering from empty nest syndrome. Four children leaving home in the space of two years does take some adjusting yet I’m glad for all of them. Proud that they’re following their dreams. That’s X-Factor-speak, but it’s true. Last year we said goodbye to Ali, our eldest, as she headed to London and a career on the stage. A month later Brian dropped out of art college and moved to the Dingle peninsula where he lives in the shadow of a mountain and crafts beautiful shapes. Then we said goodbye to our twins Sam and Samantha when they left for Silver Ridge University. The fact that we produced not one, but two elite athletes is a never-ending source of amazement to us. We were aware of their speed from the first time they stood upright and tottered forward on long, sturdy legs. Now, the years of training have paid off and they’ve started a four-year athletic scholarship in California.
    The heron dips its beak and the water flurries as an unfortunate fish is snapped from life. Triumphantly, its supper assured, the heron lifts its broad wings and flies away. Herons have no need for monogamy. Jenny made a nature documentary about them once. They mate to breed, good and dutiful parents, sharing incubation and feeding. But when their chicks are independent, ready to take their own paths through life, the parents return to their solitary vigils. To their solitary freedom.
    The radio presenter introduces a travel writer who has just launched a book about his travels in Papua New Guinea. Instantly, Karin Moylan comes to mind… again. Ants on my skin, heart lurching. Is this what sufferers of post-traumatic stress experience when the past whizzes like a bullet through their memory?
    I meet her mother occasionally, and always by accident. Joan Moylan is polite and sober yet I still visualise her stretched on a sofa or in bed, the duvet drawn tight, her gaze unfocused, the smell of stale alcohol on her breath. Sometimes, when it’s impossible to avoid speaking, we hold brief conversations about the weather and the price of groceries and how the cost of property has gone beyond ridiculous. We never talk about that summer in Monsheelagh, yet it’s moving in slow motion in front of our eyes. No wonder we hurry from each other in mutual relief.
    I ring Jake when I return home but he’s not picking up.