Twisted River (17 page)

“I'm not much of a housekeeper.”

She set the cafetière on the table. In her dance tunic she looked shapely, curves in all the right places. With flashbacks to their brief encounter, he tried to ignore the images whizzing through his head.

“You wanted to see me?”

Mannix felt sick with trepidation.

“Yeah, yeah, I did. I found your business card when I was clearing out my purse. I thought it might be nice to meet.”

Mannix wondered where this was leading. He trod carefully.

“You do know I'm married, Joanne?”

“Of course I do.”

She cut her grilled cheese sandwich into neat triangles. She offered him one. He shook his head.

“You have two kids and a pretty blond wife. I saw the picture, remember.” She tore a triangle in two and popped it into her mouth. Her nails were still red and perfectly polished.

“I don't understand,” Mannix said.

She poured herself a coffee.

“What's to understand? You're married with kids. I get it. I have Grace. You get it. I just thought it might be nice to meet again . . .”

As he struggled with her logic, a second door slowly opened into the kitchen. He held his breath.

“Oh, hi . . .”

It was Grace in her pajamas.

“Hello, Grace,” he replied.

“You got my postcard? I sent you one from Disney on the last day.”

“I did. Thank you.”

What else could he say to the kid?

“You had a good time, then?”

“Absolutely awesome. You should have seen the rides but I was too small to go on the good ones. Maybe next time.”

“Off to bed now, Gracie, you know what the doctor said. You need your rest.”

“Good night, Mum.” Grace hugged her mother tight.

“'Night, 'night, Gracie,” said Joanne as Grace shut the door behind her.

“She looks a lot brighter,” said Mannix.

“She's definitely on the mend,” said Joanne.

“I think I'd better get going,” said Mannix, looking at his watch. It was getting late. He needed to get out of here and he didn't want Kate accusing him of sloping off for a drink with Spike again.

“Oh, if you're sure . . .” She looked disappointed. “It's not that late.”

She looked around at the clock above the stove. He noticed where tendrils of hair had escaped her ponytail and curled into the nape of her neck.

“I'm sure.”

Mannix got up to leave. He was heading for the door.

“Your collar, it's crooked,” she said. “Let me . . .” As she reached up to straighten the collar of his waterproof anorak he smelled the closeness of her and his skin began to tingle. She smiled and looked at him, a question in her eyes. Without thinking, he leaned down and kissed her full on the mouth.

This time they made it as far as a darkened bedroom. Not as furtive or as furious as before, they took their time. And this time there were no interruptions from Grace.

“It's okay, you know,” she said afterward, wrapped in a sheet. She was gathering together the tights and leotard and tunic scattered over the floor. She came back to the bed and ran a red fingernail down the hairline on his stomach. “Just now and again it might be nice to meet. Nothing regular. Just if we feel like it. I think we click, if you know what I mean.”

“I do,” said Mannix, his arms behind his head. She was easy company.

It was definitely late now. No matter what time Mannix returned, he was going to get a frosty reception. So he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. Mannix felt relaxed for the first time in ages. He'd stay awhile longer. And half an hour later, as if to cement their arrangement, they had sex again.

Later that night, Mannix walked back over the Condell bridge with a spring in his step. I can do this, he said to himself. As long as we're both straight up with each other, there shouldn't be a problem. No worries, I can definitely do this. No strings, no attachments. No one gets hurt.

Easy.

I've got it all under control.

 • • • 

It was the last day of October. Halloween. At Pier 83, Mannix, Kate, and the kids queued for their Circle Line boat trip around lower
Manhattan. Conversation was strained. Fergus had borrowed Kate's camera and was snapping photos of the
Intrepid
on the adjacent pier. A relic from World War II, it had been an aircraft carrier. It reminded Mannix of the Airfix models he used to paint as a kid. Fergus was the only happy camper this afternoon. He'd mentioned his visit to the Empire State at least ten times today already. Mannix envied him, having already fulfilled a life's ambition at the tender age of eight. The child was happily oblivious to last night's disturbing revelations about his sister and Frankie Flynn. As they shuffled in the queue, Mannix saw Kate snatching the odd glance at Izzy. She had so surprised them both, this child whom Kate later claimed in private not to recognize. This child they had somehow failed.

“Something's wrong,” Kate had said on waking. “And it's not just Izzy. It's more than that.” She was leaning on the crook of her elbow now. Staring at him. That piercing stare. She was drilling into him. “There's something else. I feel it. Don't ask me how. I feel it—a sense of impending doom.”

“For God's sake,” he groaned. “We're on holiday! Don't do this . . .”

“I can't help it, Mannix,” she said softly. “Like my mother says—when you feel it in your bones . . .”

This time he didn't bother replying. There was little point. Up against his mother-in-law, he didn't stand a chance. Alice Kennedy had never liked him. And without putting it into words, when they had moved to the house at Curragower Falls, he made it plain that she wasn't welcome in his home if she was going to look down on him. From time to time, Kate would remark how it would be nice for the kids to see more of their granny. Instead, the woman wisely chose to stay away. That suited Mannix fine.

Once aboard the Circle Line cruise, the O'Briens opted for a bench outside in the sunshine, even though it was chilly. The boat chugged out into the Hudson and the commentary began. The voice was deep and rich and made Mannix think of an old cowboy. Moments later, their narrator came into view. Mannix smiled. He hadn't been wide of the mark. As the boat rocked and chugged against the
tide, their narrator pointed out the air-conditioning ducts for the Lincoln Tunnel between New York and New Jersey. He pointed out the bizarre driving range in lower Manhattan with its giant nets to catch the golf balls. And as they drew closer to the site of the Twin Towers, he recounted his harrowing experiences on 9/11.

Mannix became aware of a vibration in his pocket. He waited until they came closer to Ellis Island before he pulled the phone from his pocket again. It was from the same number. This time, he didn't even read the text. Instead, he made the decision he should have made at the start of the trip. He powered the mobile off.

“We are now heading into the East River,” said their tour guide. “Of course, the East River is not a river at all,” he added. “It's actually the Atlantic . . .”

“So now you know,” Mannix said, smiling at Kate.

She looked pretty in her burnt-orange coat, with a rosy glow in her cheeks. The sun was going down behind her. She smiled back and was about to say something but the wind took her breath. Mannix looked at Izzy and Fergus. Their cheeks were equally rosy. Life wasn't perfect, he knew that, and they had their problems. But looking at his family, Mannix felt a deep pang of guilt at what he'd jeopardized.

“And here we have the heliport for the United Nations.” The white-haired tour guide passed by them. “This is where the U.S. president comes in to address the UN.”

“It looks different on the telly.” Kate laid her head on his shoulder.

But things were rarely as you imagine them to be. Mannix thought back over the last few months. He'd been so smug. So in control. Or so he'd thought. He could have his family and a bit on the side as well. He'd succeed where other men unraveled. On the face of it, things had been going smoothly all summer. He'd had the server problems at work as cover. There had been a few snatched hours here and there most weeks. Even when Kate had gone to Kilkee with the kids, he'd come back to Limerick to the flat in Pery Square. He and Joanne would sit out in the small cobbled garden at the rear of the Georgian basement and drink cold beers. Gracie had sat with them
too, painting stones, or getting them to taste the multicolored ice pops she'd made.

But then his birthday came. That much dreaded forty-third birthday at the end of August. A shiver ran up his spine as he remembered it.

The day of his birthday, he'd promised to drop in to Joanne before going home after work. He'd left work early and made it to the Pery Square flat before six.

“You came!”
said Joanne, opening the basement door in a long white cotton shirt and flip-flops.

“I said I would!” He planted a kiss on her cheek.

Gracie was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, smiling. Looking over her shoulder, Joanne caught sight of Grace. “Come out to the garden,” Joanne said, taking Mannix by the arm. “I know you can't stay long. But we have a surprise for you, don't we, Gracie?” She was looking at Grace conspiratorially.

“We sure do . . .” The child was beaming.

He'd followed them out into the tiny garden, hidden from view of office block windows by a covered trellis. Mannix had always felt safe and unseen here. The small round table was set with a flowery cloth. A fat matching teapot sat in the middle.

What he saw next struck fear deep in his heart. He stared hard at the table, trying to cope with the shock. He couldn't bring himself to look at Grace but looked at her mother instead. Joanne was smiling. Seeing the look on his face, she raised an eyebrow, the smile glued into place.

“What's the matter, Mannix? Don't you like it?”

He didn't reply. He couldn't.

Turning on his heel, he'd made his way through the flat, exiting the hall door and climbing the stone steps hurriedly out onto the street outside. Something had to be done, and quickly. He knew that now. Things had gone too far. Way too far.

He only hoped it wasn't too late.

CURRAGOWER FALLS

HALLOWEEN

“H
ey, guys, you up for this trip to Bunratty?”

Oscar was scanning Kate O'Brien's suggestion list and tourist leaflets.

“What's Bunratty?” asked Jess, swinging in the cane chair in the window recess.

“Remember the castle we passed on the highway near the airport? That's Bunratty.” As well as the medieval castle there was a reconstructed medieval village. “According to this brochure, there's a Halloween event today. Visits to a creepy crypt, séances, and fire eating.”

“Count me in,” Elliot shot up from the sofa.

“Okay, then,” said Oscar. “Jess, you go organize Mom. She can't still be in the shower.”

Hazel was still fretting over yesterday's incident with the hammer. And twice now, she'd mentioned someone in the park watching the house. Oscar didn't want to think about it, but every now and then four shadowy consonants flashed before his eyes. PTSD. Post-traumatic stress disorder.

“It's okay, I'm here,” said Hazel, making an appearance. She looked strained under her makeup.

“It looks like everyone's on board for Bunratty,” Oscar said.

“Great,” said Hazel. “I'll just go check if my sunglasses are in the car.”

“Sunglasses, Mom? It looks like rain,” said Jess innocently. Hazel was being overly sensitive, you'd have to look pretty hard to see the remains of any bruises.

On Hazel's return, Oscar sensed that something was wrong.

“What's up, hon?” He saw that she had found the glasses.

“Out there,” she mouthed, pointing to the window.

Not again. This was getting tiresome.

He strolled to the window. There was no one in the park. It was deserted. He waited. A woman with a stroller walked by. He looked at the river. The tide was out, leaving the boulders of the falls exposed. But there was nothing else remarkable. Or unremarkable, for that matter. Certainly nothing sinister. He turned to Hazel and shrugged.

Hazel walked slowly to the window to check for herself. “I could have sworn . . .” she said softly.

An hour later they were wandering around the reconstructed nineteenth-century village. Oscar was feeling pretty virtuous about himself, he was doing this Ireland thing for Hazel. It was more than he'd ever done for Birgitte—he'd never even gotten around to visiting Sweden. But there had never been any compelling reason to visit, there was no family there. Like Hazel, Birgitte too had been an only child. Her parents had died before Oscar had a chance to meet them.

In Bunratty, the Harveys spent the afternoon going from one thatched cottage to another, listening to ghost stories around peat fires. On October 31, the Celtic festival of Samhain, they learned that the division between this world and the next is at its thinnest, the thin division allowing the spirits to pass through on Halloween. After the storytelling, they made their way to the crypt in the castle. Entering the castle through the portcullis door, Oscar could feel the cold reach out to touch him. It seemed colder inside than out.

Elliot was on a high after leaving the dungeons. The live tarantula in the glass box had really caught his imagination. In the car on the way back, he ran his fingers up and down Jess's arm, pretending to be a spider.

“Enough already,” hissed Jess.

“Come on, you guys. We had a super afternoon. Don't go and spoil it,” said Hazel.

“Can we rent a scary movie for tonight, Mom?” asked Elliot.

Every year, back home in the States, Hazel made a big deal of Halloween. She invited the kids' friends. She lit pumpkins and put glow-in-the-dark witches out on the balcony of their Riverside Drive apartment.

“I'll see what I can do about a scary movie.” And then casually, “We could get in just a few little goodies . . .” She paused. “What do you think, Oscar?”

“A few goodies . . .” he repeated.

“Oh, come on, Dad. Chillax for once!” said Jess.

Oscar said nothing.

They went ahead and made their plans. Hazel would drop Oscar and the kids back to the house before heading off to source a scary movie and all the accompanying junk deemed necessary to celebrate the night. Oscar had real difficulty watching his kids eat junk. Hazel thought him too Draconian. But Oscar knew only too well where such sloppiness could lead. Over the years, he'd seen how his sister, Helen, had steadily turned her food into flesh.

It was dark and murky as they reached the Limerick suburbs. Drizzle fell on clusters of kids in garish bloody masks, pointy hats, and witches' broomsticks. But there was a real menace to the strutting herds of teenagers dressed in all-white track suits. They drove past youths gathering in packs on a supermarket forecourt, marking territory like a raggle-taggle militia, torsos taut with aggression. Their sense of purpose did not feel wholesome. Oscar was glad he was inside the car.

Back in the house, Oscar put on some music. The kids were downstairs in their rooms. They wanted to change into pajamas for a lazy evening's viewing. After a while Oscar got up to close the drapes. Outside, the river looked full and angry, tumbling over the rocks, sluicing along the sides. Above the muffled roar of the water, he heard a sharp crack. A lone red light zigzagged and flared into the sky. And
then another. More fireworks. The street outside had become busy. Oscar stood watching. A black-cloaked child wielding a plastic ax walked by, led by an elderly woman. In the park, a group had formed on the grass, their backs to him. Wearing leisure suits, they were smoking and drinking from cans. He pulled the drapes now, conscious that he could be seen, should they turn around.

Oscar looked at his watch. Hazel should be back soon. As he arranged the cuff of his sweater, he noticed that his fingernails were dirty. He'd been handling the sods of peat in Bunratty earlier. Perhaps it was his profession, but clean nails were something he was particular about. Scrubbing his hands at the kitchen sink, Oscar remembered how he used to enjoy regular manicures before the Susan thing. Before that bitch screwed things up for them. The weekly manicure was only one of many cutbacks. He stood there at the sink brooding, scrubbing his nails, one at a time.

He dried his hands carefully. Hazel should be back by now. She'd been gone at least an hour. What was she doing? He'd found it difficult to gauge her many shifts in mood today. Hearing the crunch of gravel outside, he looked out the little window over the sink to the side entrance below. Yes, that was Hazel in the VW sedan. He stood and watched her from the window as she got out of the car. She walked to the back of the car and opened the trunk. He could see that Hazel wasn't happy about something. She was shaking her head in annoyance. Oscar leaned farther over the sink for a better view. That was better. He could see the problem. Some groceries had broken free of their plastic shopping bags. Hands on hips, Hazel shook her head. Then, swiftly stooping under the hood, she set about repacking the purchases.

Then he saw what she had bought. Among the packets, tubs, and jars—an outsize pack of potato chips, two massive tubs of what looked like chocolate ice cream, and a supersized bottle of full-calorie Coke. Junk. Junk. All junk. The whole lot of it. She'd bought nothing but junk.

Wait! What was that? What the hell . . . ? He could hardly believe his eyes. And in an instant everything changed. Like a forgotten
circuit crackling into life, a switch tripped, and Oscar found himself hurtling down the stairs. It had taken only a moment to register and he could scarcely process what he had seen. He was reacting purely on instinct now, head screaming, a pounding in his ears. He raced outside.

The next few moments were a crazy blur. And after that, for the briefest of moments, time stood still. Oscar tried to understand it, tried to make some sense of the sudden unexpected violence, but an explanation wouldn't come to him. His mind was separating from his body, protecting itself, retreating like a tortoise into a shell.

The numbness passed, and then it came. He could feel it coming, standing there in the drizzle. He knew that feeling. That sickening empty feeling. That feeling of impotence. After all the adrenaline and fear had flushed through him, the memories came flooding back. One after another they replayed in his head. Those memories he'd tried so long to suppress. He was shaking uncontrollably. Shivering like an animal.

Under the harsh outside light on the wall, he watched the blood seeping through her hair. Hazel was slumped over the lip of the trunk, where the blow had felled her. Her head was twisted awkwardly to one side, an open eye staring straight ahead. She looked surprised. Fragments of bone had shattered and splattered into her red-blond hair where the back of her skull was smashed. Oscar pressed two fingers onto his wife's neck to feel for a pulse. He kept them in place for what felt like a long time. Nothing. He bent down, leaning next to her mouth, listening for a breath. Nothing. He stood up and looked again. She was so very still. The blow was catastrophic. Final.

There was no time. There was no time.
He had to move. The kids. Gripped by panic, he bent down and grabbed her lifeless legs. He tried to do it gently. He heaved. It was harder than he thought. He heaved again, a still warm arm draping itself around his shoulder, the fingers brushing his cheek as if to caress him. Stricken now, he let out a sob.

He had to hide her.
The kids couldn't see their mother like this.
Whatever happened after this, this could not be their last memory of their mother. He would spare them this. They were only kids, their
whole lives ahead of them. Oscar knew such pictures stayed in the mind forever.

Swallowing back the bile that burned his throat, Oscar heaved as hard as he could. He gagged, suddenly fearing that he might throw up. He arranged her so that she almost looked like she was sleeping. Curled up, facing him. Gently, he leaned in and closed her eyelids. And one last time, he checked again for a pulse. Reluctantly, he closed the hood, and leaning on it a moment, he felt himself go dizzy.

He lay against the hood for a minute, maybe two, maybe ten. He couldn't tell. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the scattered groceries lying in the rain. He didn't know what it was that he should do next. As if in a trance, he could hardly move. Gradually, he became aware the kids were standing there. Elliot looked around, puzzled, remarking how Oscar had been gone for ages. Jess knew something bad had happened. Alarm flashed across her face. She asked Oscar something but he could barely hear her over the roar of the water. He watched the way her lips were moving.

“What did you say?” he shouted.

“Where's Mom?” she shouted back.

“Come inside, Jess.” He willed himself to move.

“Where's Mom?”
she asked again.

“Inside, Jess.
Now
.”

He had no idea what he was going to tell them. Elliot too was standing on the path, afraid to move. But Jess ignored Oscar's instruction. Already she was walking around the back of the car, eyes wide, taking in the smashed jars, the exploded bags of popcorn and potato chips.

“What's going on, Dad?”

He followed Jess's eyes as she took it all in, until her eyes came to rest. Jess was staring hard at something over his shoulder, something he couldn't see. With a jolt and without turning around, he realized what it was that made her look like that. Confused, she opened her mouth to form another question. No words came out.

“Come, Jess.” He took her by the arm.

The spade!

He should have hidden it. Slid it under the car. But there had been no time. Lying abandoned among the debris, with its frosting of flesh and hair, he'd left it where it was.

Oscar stopped and bent over to pick up three bananas that had escaped intact. He felt a stupid stab of guilt. It didn't matter now, but it hadn't all been junk. And the giant bottle of Coke was Diet Coke. He'd been mistaken. Hazel had been listening to him after all.

“What happened? Where's Mom?” asked Elliot, still standing in the doorway.

“Upstairs now, Elliot,” said Oscar.

But Elliot was rooted to the spot, staring at something on the ground.

“My feet, Dad,” said Jess.

“Look at my feet. There's blood on my feet.”

 • • • 

The kids sat on the sofa warily, hesitantly, almost willing Oscar not to say anything. They wanted to know. But they didn't really want to know. Elliot was chewing his fingernails, unable to drag his horrified gaze from Jess's feet. Her mother's blood was on the white ribbon of her pajama bottoms. In the distance, fireworks went off. The
HAPPY HALLOWEEN
banners they'd received in this afternoon's goody bags at Bunratty hung from the ceiling.

“There's been an accident.”

Somehow the words came out of Oscar's mouth. The fidgeting stopped.

“Mom's been in accident and . . .” But the words got stuck, his throat constricting, choking the sounds. Oscar tried to continue, digging his nails into his fists.

“Mom's not . . . is she? She's not . . .”
Elliot couldn't say the words.

How could he look his children in the eyes and tell them
this
?

But there was no way out. “I'm afraid so, Elliot.”

It was as if someone else were speaking with his voice.

“I'm so, so sorry. So very sorry. But Mom is . . . Mom is . . . Mom won't be coming back.”

It felt like a boulder was pressing down on him. Inside, Oscar felt hollow. In the way a small child takes a few suspended seconds to register a pain, there fell an eerie quiet.

“NO!! NO!!!”

Jess screamed into the horrified silence. “Take it back! You
cannot
say that—take it back, Dad, take it back!” Jess launched herself at Oscar, pummeling his chest.

He tried to grab her flailing hands. “It's okay. It's okay, Jess. Stop. Stop it, please. It's okay.”