Girl Targeted Read online

  Girl Targeted

  Val Collins

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organisations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved

  © Val Collins 2017

  The main character in this book is Aoife. This is a very common Irish name and is pronounced ‘Eee-fah’.

  For further information on names/terms that are uniquely Irish, check out my website at www.valcollinsbooks.com

  Contents

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  DCA Office, Manor House, Dame Street, Dublin 2

  You can do this. But what if I can’t? You have to. There’s no other way. People do it every day, every hour. They manage and so will you. Don’t think, just act. Another fifteen minutes and all your problems will be over. Life will go back to normal and you’ll never have to think of it again.

  ONE

  Earlier That Day

  Sweat trickled down Delia’s back. Her face burned and she could feel something bubbling up from the pit of her stomach. Her hands shot out and were within inches of the girl’s scalp before she realised it. She snatched them away and gouged her nails into the palm of her hand. What was happening to her? She looked around. Had anyone noticed? Her neighbours were on this train. Some of their kids were in Ellen’s preschool. She couldn’t have them thinking the poor child had a lunatic for a mother.

  Delia knew she had a reputation for being highly strung, but until recently she had exercised extreme control over her emotions. Her temper tantrums, glorious outbursts that terrified family and colleagues by their violence and unpredictability, were actually carefully orchestrated performances. One or two a year and she controlled everyone in her life. She had always believed more frequent outbursts would be counterproductive. But something had changed in the last month. Almost every day she felt the urge to hurt someone. The previous week a man had bumped against her in the supermarket and she had almost punched him. The incident terrified her. She was a respected member of her community, a single mother with a daughter to support. She couldn’t afford a criminal record. Routine, she decided, was the only answer. Doing the same things, in the same order, at the same time would reduce her stress levels and enable her to keep control. It had worked reasonably well until today.

  Today Delia’s routine was shot to hell. Firstly Ellen had thrown up all over her, then a frantic search for clean clothes had made her late for work and now the train was filling up while she was stuck behind a young girl struggling to reach the luggage rack. Delia fought the urge to fling the girl to the floor and crack her skull open. ‘Think,’ she muttered to herself. How would she have handled this a month ago? She put her hands in her pockets and sighed loudly. It had no effect. The girl was absorbed in her struggle and oblivious to her surroundings. The train lurched and Delia saw her opportunity. Pretending to lose her balance, she flung herself forward, aiming an elbow at the girl’s ribs.

  ‘Ow!’

  The girl turned, saw the queue behind her, mumbled sorry and moved to one side.

  That was better. She was in control again. Delia gave a wide, fake smile and was about to apologise profusely for losing her balance. ‘I’m so—’ she began. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted a woman in a green coat approaching the only remaining seat from the opposite end of the carriage. All protestations of concern forgotten, Delia bolted down the aisle. The other woman was slightly ahead and would get there first, so she threw her bag at the empty seat.

  ‘Well, really!’ the woman muttered, but she walked away as Delia had guessed she would.

  Delia sat down beside a middle-aged, obese man who already occupied three-quarters of the seat. She wanted to scream, ‘Where the hell am I supposed to sit?’ but reminded herself that might be viewed as inappropriate. She had to be content with jamming her rucksack between them and squashing him into a corner.

  ‘Excuse me,’ the man said.

  Delia ignored him. She’d barely had time to establish Ellen didn’t have a fever before rushing out the door.

  Taking Ellen to the doctor? she texted.

  Will wait to see if sick again. Reading her a story now. Seems fine.

  Delia leaned back in the seat. For one blissful moment she almost relaxed; then she remembered the day ahead. Bloody bankers, she thought. If they hadn’t bankrupted the country she wouldn’t be stuck in a job she hated with people she despised. What she wouldn’t give to be free of the lot of them, especially Dan. If she never had to see that pig again … or Laura, with her golden hair and her husband and her perfect—

  Her thoughts were interrupted by an announcement. ‘We apologise for this delay. This is due to the late departure of a previous train.’

  Pain shot through her ankle at the same moment her neighbour yelled, ‘Jesus Christ!’

  Delia looked at her foot and at the man who was now rubbing his shin and it dawned on her that she had kicked him.

  People were turning in their seats to stare. Delia gathered her belongings.

  ‘Foot slipped,’ she muttered and hurried away before he could respond. She pushed her way down the narrow aisle, banging off a lady sitting on the edge of one of the tables and almost tripping over a young man stretched out on the floor, his long legs blocking the exit. The front of the train was less crowded, and to her relief she found an empty space between two of the carriages. She flung her belongings on the floor and leaned against the wall, legs trembling.

  What had she done?

  He deserved a kick, taking up all that space, she told herself. But that wasn’t the point. She had never intended to touch that man. She hadn’t even realised she had touched him until her foot hurt. It was like someone else was controlling her body.

  Another ten minutes and the train would arrive at the station. A short walk and she’d be in the office. It would be easier then, she told herself. At least she’d be in familiar surroundings. She groaned as she remembered her 9:30 meeting with Dan. She could do without that today. Closing her eyes, she rested her head against the door.

  ‘Get a grip,’ she muttered. ‘You need that job. Ellen deserves a good life.’

  That’s why she put herself through this hell, for Ellen.

  Delia straightened up and examined her reflection in the glass. She ran her fingers through her dark, curly mop, trying to tame it into submission. For several minutes she practised facial expressions until she was confident she could pass for a woman in control. She could cope. She would cope. Nobody would be allowed to come between her and the life she wanted for Ellen. Anyone who got in her way would regret it.

  *

  A hand touched her shoulder and Laura woke
with a jolt. Her eyes darted around the empty carriage as she tried to figure out where she was.

  ‘You have to get off the train now,’ a man in an Irish Rail uniform said.

  ‘What’s wrong? Where is everyone?’

  ‘They all got off.’

  ‘What happened to the people sitting beside me? How could they get out without me noticing?’

  ‘I don’t know, love. You have to leave. This train is going out of service.’

  Laura rooted in her bag for her ticket. As she held it against the barrier, she glanced at the station clock. ‘Oh dear God,’ she muttered, pushing against the barrier and tearing down the long platform.

  ‘We’re full,’ the bus driver shouted, closing the door on her face.

  Laura jammed her foot into the tiny gap. Barely able to breathe she panted, ‘Please, please let me on. I can’t be late.’

  ‘There’s another bus in a few minutes.’

  ‘I’ll have died of a heart attack by then. You don’t mind if I squeeze in, do you?’ she pleaded with the people lining the aisle.

  ‘Let her on,’ a man in the back shouted. ‘Can’t you see she’s desperate?’

  ‘All right.’ The bus driver opened the door. ‘But just this once. In future get here on time.’

  ‘Thank you so much,’ Laura said. ‘It’s the kids. Flu. I was up all night with them. You’re a lifesaver. I can’t tell you how grateful I am.’

  *

  Aoife heard the click of the letter box. She was straining to pick up the post when her mobile rang. ‘Hi, sweetheart.’

  ‘Just checking you’re okay.’

  ‘Don’t worry so much. I’m not due for another four weeks.’

  ‘You will take it easy today, won’t you? No rushing off to the shops? If you need anything, phone me and I’ll pick it up on my way home.’

  ‘I’m not an invalid, Jason. I can’t stay in the house all day, I’d go nuts.’

  ‘Well, if you have to go out, phone Mum. She’d be happy to drive you wherever you want to go.’

  ‘I don’t want to go anywhere specific. I’ll probably walk down to the park, get a bit of exercise.’

  ‘Mum would love that. A walk would do her good.’

  Aoife laughed. ‘You make her sound like a geriatric. She’s fitter than either of us. We can’t … oh, that’s probably her on the phone. I’ll call you back.’

  Aoife didn’t recognise the number but she was glad of an excuse to drop the subject.

  ‘Aoife Walsh.’

  ‘Hi, Aoife, it’s Lisa from Advance Recruitment. Have you gone on maternity leave yet?’

  ‘Not yet. I’m starting next Thursday.’

  ‘Great. One of my temps never showed up this morning. Could you fill in until Wednesday? I should be able to organise someone else by then.’

  ‘Who’s the client?’

  ‘DCA, Dublin Charity Administration. They provide an administration service to small and medium-sized charities.’

  ‘Where are they based?’

  ‘In Dublin 2. Let me check the address. Ah, here it is. Manor House, Dame Street. Near the Olympia Theatre. Can I tell them you’ll be there by ten?’

  ‘I’d never make it. Tell them I can start at eleven, but I have a hospital appointment so I’ll have to leave early.’

  When everything was confirmed, Aoife lumbered upstairs to change. What would she tell Jason? He was convinced she would go into labour the second she left the house. If he knew she was going into the city, he’d be worried sick all day. She would ring straight through to his voicemail, she decided. That way he couldn’t ask any questions.

  ‘Hi, it’s me. Sorry I had to hang up. I’m going to have a shower now, then I’m going out. See you tonight. Don’t worry and have a good day, okay? Bye.’

  When he returned her call a few minutes later, she didn’t answer. She knew he’d assume she was in the shower. But what would she do when he phoned again? If she kept ignoring his calls he’d think something was wrong. Forty minutes later, she checked her phone as she was leaving the house. No call from Jason. That was a first.

  There were no taxis available, so Aoife had to walk to the station. She buttoned her coat up to her neck and buried her face in her scarf, but the wind cut through her. If only Jason hadn’t taken the car. She had suggested driving him to the station, but he had been appalled at the idea of his pregnant wife getting out of bed to act as his chauffeur.

  As Aoife tried to avoid the waterlogged potholes, she wondered for the hundredth time if buying on the edge of the Curragh had been a mistake. At first it had seemed the ideal location, a five-minute drive to all the amenities of a small town and a forty-minute train journey to Dublin. She had fallen in love with the old house the moment she’d seen it, mostly because the exterior bore an extraordinary resemblance to the Brontë Parsonage. The surroundings were different, of course. Rather than a graveyard, Aoife’s house overlooked flat green plains. From her bedroom window she could see the long lines of racehorses as they made their way to their daily training sessions, and it was almost impossible to leave the house without tripping over a sheep. Spring was her favourite season, especially when the lambs were tiny and took mad leaps into the air for no apparent reason, or walked so close to their mothers there was no discernible space between them. Even in the depth of winter Aoife loved pulling on waterproofs and squelching through the mud, and she nagged a reluctant Jason until he accompanied her.

  The downside to living here was everyone tramped across the plains, leaving the paths deserted. She never felt safe here on her own.

  Aoife reached the end of the path and turned on to the narrow road. A car whizzed by and she had to step into the wet grass to avoid it. Before stepping onto the road again, she looked behind to check the road was clear. In the distance she saw what appeared to be a young man. It was rare to see pedestrians on this road. When, ten minutes later, the man hadn’t passed her, Aoife glanced over her shoulder. From the little she could see, the man seemed young and healthy. Why would any young man walk so slowly? She tried to hurry but who was she kidding? A three-year-old could outrace her these days. There was nothing to worry about, she told herself, but she was still relieved when she reached the footpath and could see the cluster of houses in the distance. She spotted a woman with two young children and followed them until they turned into a shop. She was now on the station road. It was well past rush hour and the road was deserted, but she was only five minutes from the train station. Was he still there? As she turned, the man ducked down and fiddled with his shoelace. All she could see was a black hoodie. Was she imagining that the gap between them had lessened?

  The train was late and Aoife had to wait ages on the platform. She kept one eye on the entrance, but the man in the black hoodie never appeared.

  *

  Delia felt her shoulders relax as the tiny lift shuddered and squeaked its way to the fourth floor. While she was within these four walls she could cope. After thirteen years, life in DCA held no surprises. How weird that she felt safe here. Normally, depression hit the second Manor House came into sight. So much so that if she was in the city at the weekend, she would avoid Dame Street entirely. Usually everything about the building irritated her, even the high ceilings, large windows and ornate plasterwork of the original Georgian features. Not that she saw much of them. The DCA offices were in what had once been the servants’ quarters, and here the floors sagged, the tiny windows didn’t shut properly and the heating system had two settings – sauna and slightly above freezing.

  Delia took a plastic bag from her rucksack, removed a pair of six-inch heels and placed them on the floor. She undid her hiking boots and put them in the plastic bag. By the time the lift doors opened, the rucksack was thrown over her shoulder and she carried her shoes in one hand. Delia could hear voices coming from the canteen, but the long corridor was empty. She walked barefoot to the HR office. Pausing outside, she slipped on her shoes and yanked open the door.

  A star
tled Laura dropped the keys she was inserting in the filing cabinet. ‘Oh! Morning, Delia.’

  ‘Where are Joe and Rachel?’

  ‘They’ll be here any minute.’

  This was familiar territory and Delia felt comfortable dealing with it.

  ‘It’s eight fifty-eight.’ She allowed her voice to rise an octave. ‘Any minute will make them late. I permit you to leave a half hour early every Friday and how do you repay me? You haven’t even taken your coat off yet.’ She slammed the door and, as the bang echoed down the corridor, people could be heard scuttling out of the line of fire. ‘You’re the senior person in this office. I expect you to make sure the others are ready to start work at nine a.m. at the very latest. This is why you’ll never make manager. If you had an ounce of enthusiasm you’d be running this place.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘I don’t want to hear it’s not your job. Your job is to do whatever I ask of you. How do you expect to be promoted if you don’t go the extra mile?’ She stood on tiptoes but Laura still towered over her. ‘Sit down, for heaven’s sake. At least look like you’re planning to work.’

  Laura sat at her desk and Delia moved closer, her finger only inches from Laura’s face. ‘It’s high time you got your act together. I’ve been a manager for eleven years now and I’m only a year older than you. You could be earning a decent salary and I’m sure your husband would appreciate the extra income.’

  The colour drained from Laura’s face. ‘My husband—’ she said through gritted teeth.

  Delia felt a surge of triumph. Watching others struggle for control was a pleasant change.

  Fists clenched, Laura took a deep breath. ‘Everyone has been working long hours all week preparing the year-end report. We—’

  ‘How many times do we have to go through this? Is preparing the year-end report your job?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Does doing your job entitle you to come in late?’

  ‘No, but if we weren’t understaff—’

  ‘Haven’t you heard there’s a recession? Where are we going to find the money for extra staff?’