Twisted River

PENGUIN
BOOKS

TWISTED RIVER

SIOBHAN MACDONALD
was born in Cork in the Republic of Ireland. She studied in Galway and worked as a writer in the technology industry in Scotland for ten years, then in France, before returning to Ireland. She now lives in Limerick with her husband and two sons.

PENGUIN BOOKS

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eBook ISBN 978-1-101-99194-7

Copyright © 2016 by Siobhán MacDonald

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LIBRARY OF CONGRE
SS CATALOGING-IN-PUB
LICATION DATA

MacDonald, Siobhán.

Twisted river : a novel / Siobhán MacDonald.

pages cm.—(A Penguin Mystery)

ISBN 978-0-14-310843-6

1. Families—Fiction. 2. Home exchanging—Fiction. 3. Americans—Ireland—Fiction. 4. Irish—United States—Fiction. 5. Psychological fiction. 6. Suspense fiction. I. Title.

PR6113.A2618T87 2016

823'.92—dc23

2015018810

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover design: Matt Dorfman

For Neil, Jamie, and Alasdair.

I would like to thank the following people who proved themselves invaluable in bringing
Twisted River
into being: My husband Neil for his support and editorial eye. Sarah O'Donoghue—my first and loyal reader. My sons Jamie and Alasdair, for their humor. My agent Isobel Dixon for her support. My lovely editor Emily Murdock Baker and my friends and relatives who provided much encouragement along the way. You know who you are.

CURRAGOWER FALLS, LIMERICK, IRELAND

LATE OCTOBER

S
he would never have fit as neatly into the trunk of his own car. He presses two fingers against her beautiful neck. Just in case. No pulse. The blow was fatal. He looks at her one last time and closes the trunk.

Her blood is all over his hands. Oscar stares at the curious patterns forming on his pale skin. No latex gloves this time. He tries to think. In the cold he hardly moves, watching the tiny pearls of red slide down the coarse hairs to his wedding band. The burning in his stomach spreads upward to his chest. His control is slipping, his panicked breath forming small clouds in the dark. Oscar is in turmoil. From man to shivering animal in the space of three minutes.

Across the road, water rages over the falls. Oscar has felt like this before. It was a long time ago but the memory is vivid. In fourth grade, he punches Annabel Klein so hard in the stomach that she vomits. Another memory flashes before him. This time he's standing over Birgitte, watching her die. Up the road, the church bells sound a mournful chime. What's done is done.

There comes the sudden beat of wings. Looking up, Oscar sees an arrowhead of swans slicing through the night sky. A splutter of rain starts
to fall, the drops making a tinkling sound on the plastic bags scattered at his feet. Shards of glass from a smashed jar of peanut butter mingle with exploded bags of popcorn. There's a squashed banana—the flesh pulped from its skin—and a packet of brownie mix daubed in blood.

Should he look in the trunk of the car one more time to make sure?

He fumbles for the catch. It isn't like his BMW. This is a VW sedan. The car they'd agonized in, attempting to sort things out. He'd so wanted to straighten things out. His fingers slip left and right, searching for the catch. The VW badge is smeared with blood. There it is. He squeezes with his thumb and forefinger.

“Dad?”

He freezes. He hadn't seen the kids pick their way across the gravel.

“Elliot?”

His nine-year-old is shivering in pajamas in the driveway. Jess, his twelve-year-old daughter, is behind him.

“You've been gone a long time, Dad,” says Elliot.

It's more a question than a statement.

Jess stands there, perplexed, eyes innocent and wide. He sees her scanning the debris of the grocery shopping all over the driveway. His children cannot know what just happened. They must be protected, no matter what. The roaring in his ears begins to build again. He wills his mouth into a smile, pulling his lips over his teeth. He hopes it looks convincing.

Jess's face drains of color as she edges toward him. The sound in his ears is almost unbearable.

“What is it, Jess?”

He can see her mouth is moving. She is asking something.

“What did you say?” he shouts.

“Where's Mom?”
she shouts back.

CURRAGOWER FALLS

EARLY SEPTEMBER

K
ate could never quite make up her mind whether she loved or loathed September. A flurry of withered leaves danced over her feet as she scurried down the steps of the Clare Street campus and set off briskly for home. Snatching a quick glance at her watch, her heart skipped a beat. She was cutting it fine. She quickened her step. She had to make it home before five. Not a second later. It was a new routine, now that summer break was over. It had been harder with all the idle time this year. Things had been different when they'd had the beach house.

Today had been difficult. Once upon a time Kate would have jumped at the chance of becoming assistant head of the Visual Communications Department. She would have been thrilled to bits. But that was before there were other demands on her. She should have been elated at being offered the position so soon after her return to the workforce. Instead, she felt a bittersweet sadness at having to turn it down. Life was about choices and this was a choice she had to make.

Simon Walsh, the head of department, had looked at her in disbelief.

“This is a windup. You're teasing me, right?”

With a heavy heart, Kate shook her head.

“But, Kate, you're the best person for the job,” Simon protested.
“You know that. I know that. I know you're only just back but you've got the talent and you know this department like no one else.”

“I know that, Simon. And I'm flattered. Really, I am. But things at home, you know . . .” She hesitated. “It's just not that easy. The job I have now I can manage. Assistant head is a whole other proposition. Extra responsibility, more time here on campus. I have thought about it. Believe me.”

Realizing she was serious, Simon ran a distracted hand through his long hair. “There has to be a way. I was so looking forward to having you as my wingman.”

Again, Kate shook her head. She'd made up her mind.

“I'm sorry. There'll be other equally suitable candidates. Anyway, surely the job has to be openly advertised?”

Disgruntled, Simon had taken off, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his crumpled linen jacket.

Already Kate was at the Abbey Bridge and a gust of wind pulled at her slackly fastened chignon, threatening to loosen it. A man on a bicycle swept by, close to the curb. She smiled to herself. It appeared he had every worldly good he owned in his pannier. A black and white dog with attitude sat in the basket up front. Again she looked at her watch. There were scarcely fifteen minutes left. Would she make it? In the old days she might have taken the car but they had only one car now and Mannix had it today. Her laced-up boots started to chafe against her skin as she broke into a jog.

Suddenly, Kate heard the pounding of feet from the rear. Two guys with white hooded tops ran past her. It wasn't clear if one was the quarry and the other the prey or if they were running together. Moments later a squad car screamed through the evening traffic pursuing the two fleeing creatures until they disappeared through an alleyway and out of sight. Unperturbed, Kate continued her journey, the satchel full of papers clapping up and down on her hip.

This was a city where the haves lived side by side with the have-nots. A city whose messy bits were not hidden from view. Even though these encounters were common enough, Kate was always cautious
making her way home past the inner-city housing schemes by the old walls of the city. She was panting now. She glanced again at her wrist. Five more minutes to go.

Once she got to the ancient walls of King John's Castle, Kate could just about see her house across the river. She could imagine it in her mind's eye, just around that bend of houses that overlooked the falls. Kate liked this part of town. She liked the fact that it had probably looked largely the same over the span of centuries. Thomond Bridge with the falls on one side, the low humpbacked rolling hills on the other. The whalebone-white arches of Thomond Park Stadium in the distance. The Treaty Stone with the somber bulk of St. Munchin's Church across the road. The boardwalk.

She scurried over Thomond Bridge, her calves hot and sweaty and her hair eventually escaping and swishing about her face in the wind. Her mouth had gone dry. Why the hell had she not ended that last lecture just five minutes early?

Rustling through sheaves of papers and the crumpled tinfoil of hastily eaten sandwiches, Kate searched for the jagged clump of keys at the bottom of the canvas bag. She managed to stumble through the front door just as the church bells began to chime five. She'd made it!

“Fergus? . . . Izzy? . . . I'm home.”

Kate clambered up the stairs to the kitchen, heart in her mouth.

There, curled up in a blue fleece blanket in a corner of the chaise longue, staring intently at the clock on the wall, was Fergus. He looked from her to the clock and back again. The TV flickered busily at the other side of the room.

“See, I told you,” said Kate, out of breath. “I told you, five o'clock. Home by five.”

“I see that, Mum. It's five o'clock now. But you're very
nearly
late . . .” He turned back to the TV.

“Whew!” she mouthed to Izzy, who was leaning over the breakfast counter in an apron.

Izzy knew only too well the consequences of her mother arriving after the agreed time. She too had witnessed that thinly veiled anxiety,
seen it erupt and spew out great torrents of anger and confusion, blistering the remains of an evening. And yet this evening, Fergus's response didn't register the relief it normally did when Kate walked through the door.

This evening there was something else. Something else was eating him. Kate's fingers itched to ruffle his curls but Fergus hated being touched on the head. Instead, she laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Good day?” she said to the back of his head.

Izzy looked up from her homework on the counter, looking grave.

No response from Fergus.

“Good day, Soldier?” she asked again.

“All right, I guess . . .”

It was then that Kate noticed the familiar hairy creature hulking its way across the screen, mammoth knuckles scraping the pavement, the anguished roar of frustration as it beat its breast in pain.

“
King Kong
?” Kate looked at Izzy.

Izzy nodded.

So it had been a bad day.
King Kong
always made an appearance after any unsettling incident or unhappy encounter. The great lumbering creature seemed to act as a salve. What did Fergus see in him? Was it the primal anguish and confusion of the beast?

Kate filled with dismay. This was the second time this week already. In fact,
King Kong
had graced their TV screens more times this term than all of the previous year. Shoulders slumped, she went to the hallway and hung up her purple jacket and the satchel of project proposals that now seemed doomed to remain unseen for the evening.

Returning to the kitchen, she put her arms round Izzy, squeezing tight. None of this was fair on Izzy. Kate had to constantly remind herself and others that her daughter was only eleven. As the money had slowly dried up, Izzy never questioned, never complained, accepting every new cutback and economy with stoicism. Music lessons gone. Ballet classes gone. The only thing left was Girl Guides.

Izzy tried hard. “Don't worry about us, Mum, I'll mind Fergus when you go back to work”; “I'll walk Fergus home from school”;
“I'll help Fergus with his homework.” Inasmuch as anyone could help Fergus with his homework, Izzy tried. She tried her little heart out.

“Is Dad home for dinner? He promised to take me to Guides tonight.” Izzy undid the apron and handed it to her mother.

“He'll be on his way,” Kate responded with more conviction than she felt. Mannix's behavior had been erratic in recent months, but he had a lot on his mind with the new job, and anything was better than all those months of unemployment.

Alone in the room with Fergus, Kate set to chopping peppers and onions. Every now and then she looked over at the velvet chaise longue that she had personally reupholstered. Fergus was cocooned and fetal under his blanket.

“Today not so good then, Soldier?”

Fergus's face suddenly blotched up and he bit his lower lip. Kate stopped chopping.

“There was writing,” he said. “On the wall.” Dislodging his glasses, he screwed a fist into an eye socket.

Kate's heart sank. “What do you mean?”

“Writing on the wall in the school yard over by the wheelie bins. They were all laughing. Everyone was laughing . . .”

He rubbed the other eye now, desperately trying to keep in the crying.

“I don't care,” he said. He twisted the blanket.

“What did it say?”

How stupid of her! How incredibly stupid! How could Fergus tell her what it said? He could scarcely read. Even after five years of learning support, reading did not come any easier. They were going to have to go private. She knew that. She'd known it for some time. But it was the money. Always, the money. They'd do their own research, find their own therapists.

“
Who
was it, Soldier?” she asked this time. “
Who
was it that wrote on the wall?”

Fergus looked at her as if she already knew.

“Frankie?”

Of course.

“It was Frankie, wasn't it?”

Silence.

A tough kid with a shock of lice-ridden carrot hair, Frankie Flynn was a latchkey kid. In the beginning, Kate tried tolerance. Frankie Flynn didn't have it easy. His mother discarded her fluffy dressing gown only to go to her evening job in the off-license, and it was said she was paid in kind.

“I'll sort this out, Soldier,” said Kate calmly. “I'll take time out tomorrow and go to the school.”

Fergus shot up.

“No!!! You are NOT to go to the school,” he screeched. “If you go to the school I will NEVER EVER talk to you again. EVER. And stop calling me Soldier!” He ran from the room dragging his blanket behind him.

Kate was stunned. Onion fumes mixed with tears of hurt for her child. She needed a moment to think. Going to the window, she edged herself into the wicker seat suspended from the ceiling and looked out at the river. An elderly couple huddled over the handrail in the riverside park. They were throwing scraps to the swans below. A young mum pushed her toddler in a miniature car propelled by a long plastic handle. A couple of joggers ran past in conversation and continued on up the boardwalk. Some pleasure craft had moored on the far side of the river, over the weir outside the seventies LEGO-like office block that hung somber and gray over the water. The silhouette of buildings on the far side of the river was a curious mélange of old and new. Striking and gauche. Elegant and unremarkable. A microcosm of the city at large. It was a view Kate had grown to love as much as she loved this house with its upside-down layout.

Their house had been the place to be at on New Year's when fireworks rained down against the castle walls and bled in multicolor on the water below. Kate stared out now at the late evening sunshine, a golden glint on the ripples over the falls. The tide was ebbing and there would be fishermen out in the shallows later. Urban fishermen
who pitched up with crocked bicycles and bits of old shopping bags. She often wondered if they ever caught anything.

She closed her eyes, feeling the soothing warmth of the low sun caress her eyelids. When she opened them again, the elderly couple was shuffling off, possibly uneasy with the appearance of a thin man pulling a mastiff terrier on a chain—the animal's chest broader and more menacing than its owner's.

Click. The turn of a key in the door downstairs. Mannix. Kate felt her chest grow tight. His steps were heavy on the stairs. One at a time now, not like they used to be.

“You look chilled . . .”

That smile—brilliant as always. That was what she had fallen for—his smile. His shirt still looked fresh and crisp against his sallow skin. In his hand he held his laptop.

She half-smiled, not wanting to start the evening on a sour note.

“The kids?” he asked, draping his raincoat over the back of a breakfast stool.

“In their rooms.”

“Good. Good.” He rubbed his chin pensively and took a few steps toward her. He stopped then as if he'd thought of something.

“All right?” she asked.

He took a few more steps and then sat gingerly on the edge of the chaise longue.

He cleared his throat. “Look, Kate, there's something I have to tell you . . .”

“There's something I have to tell you as well,” she interrupted. She would have to get this out of the way.

“Okay, then . . .” He hesitated. “You first.”

 • • • 

She told him about Fergus. About the episode in the school yard—the latest installment in a catalog of incidents that now seemed to be descending into a regular pattern of bullying.

“That little prick!”

Mannix shook his head, his face gripped by a spasm of anger.

“So, what's this? This is the third or fourth time since the new school year. So our Fergus is that little shit's latest punch-bag?”

Kate's stomach knotted. It was true. It looked like Fergus was set to be Frankie's target for the year. First, there was the disgusting incident with the sandwiches, then the sports bag soaked in urine, and now this.

“Fergus doesn't want me to, but I'm going to the school. I've decided.” Kate stood up wearily out of the chair and padded across the polished floorboards.

Mannix shook his head. “And just what do you hope that will achieve? Come on, Kate. You know what we're dealing with here. Look what happened to that Polish kid's dad . . .”

“What Polish kid?” asked Kate.

“You know, the scrawny fella. What's this the kids call him? Oh, yeah—Polski Sklep.”

“I know who you mean—what happened to his dad?” Kate remembered Polski Sklep being bullied and knew that his mother had gone to the school to complain. But she wasn't aware of any repercussions beyond that.