by Tana French
Then were looking for something further back, I said, just like you thought. God knows how far. Remember what you told me, about the Purcells round your way?
A pause. Well never find it, so. The records, sure.
Most of Irelands public records went up in a fire in 1921, in the Civil War. You dont need records. People round here know about this, I guarantee you. Whenever that baby died, this guy didnt get the story out of some old newspaper. Hes way too obsessed with it. To him, thats not ancient history; its a real, fresh, crucial grudge that needs to be avenged.
Are you saying hes mad?
No, I said. Not the way you mean. Hes way too carefulwaiting for safe moments, backing off after he got chased . . . If he were schizophrenic, say, or bipolar, he wouldnt have that much control. He doesnt have a mental illness. But hes obsessed to the point where, yeah, I think you could probably call him a little unbalanced.
Could he get violent? Against people, I mean, not just property. Sams voice had sharpened; he was sitting up straighter.
Im not sure, I said, carefully. It doesnt seem like his styleI mean, he could have broken down old Simons bedroom door and whacked him with a poker any time he wanted to, but he didnt. But the fact that he only seems to do this stuff when hes drunk makes me think hes got an unhealthy relationship with alcoholone of those guys who grow a whole new personality after four or five pints, and not a nice one. Once you throw booze into the equation, everything gets less predictable. And, like I said, this is an obsession with him. If he got the impression that the enemy was escalating the conflictby going after him when he threw that rock through the window, for examplehe could well have upped his game to match.
You know what this sounds exactly like, Sam said, after a pause, dont you. Same age, local, smart, controlled, criminal experience but no violence . . .
The profile I had given him, back in my flat; the profile of the killer. Yeah, I said. I know.
What youre telling me is that he could be our boy. The murderer.
That streak of shadow again, quick and silent through the grass and the moonlight: a fox, maybe, after a field mouse. He could be, I said. We cant rule him out.
If this is a family feud, Sam said, then Lexie wasnt the specific target, her lifes nothing to do with anything and theres no need for you to be there. You can come home.
The hope in his voice made me flinch. Yeah, I said, maybe. But I dont think were at that stage. Weve got no concrete link between the vandalism and the stabbing; they could be completely unrelated. And once we pull the plug, we cant go back.
A fraction of a pause. Then: Fair enough, Sam said. Ill get to work on finding that link. And, Cassie . . .
His voice had gone sober, tense. Ill be careful, I said. I am being careful.
Half past eleven to one oclock. That fits the time of the stabbing.
I know. I havent seen anyone dodgy hanging around.
Do you have your gun?
Whenever I go out. Frank already lectured me about that.
Frank, Sam said, and I heard that remoteness come into his voice. Right.
After we hung up I waited in the shadow of the tree for a long time. I heard the crash of long grass and the thin scream as whatever predator was out there finally pounced. When the rustles had faded into the dark and only small things moved, I slipped out into the lane and went home.
I stopped at the back gate and swung on it for a while, listening to the slow creak of the hinge and looking up the long garden at the house. It looked different, that night. The gray stone of the back was flat and defensive as a castle wall, and the golden glow from the windows didnt feel cozy any more; it had turned defiant, warning, like a small campfire in a savage forest. The moonlight whitened the lawn into a wide fitful sea, with the house tall and still in the middle, exposed on every side; besieged.
10
When you find a crack, you push on it and you see if something breaks. It had taken me about an hour and a half to work out that, if there was something the housemates werent telling me, Justin was my best bet. Any detective with a couple of years under his belt can tell you whos going to break first; back in Murder I once saw Costello, who was installed in the eighties along with the decor, pick the weak link just from watching the gang of suspects get booked in. Its our version of Name That Tune.
Daniel and Abby were both useless: too controlled and too focused, almost impossible to distract or wrong-footI had tried a couple of times to nudge Abby into telling me who she thought the daddy was, got nothing but cool blank looks. Rafe was more suggestible and I knew I could probably get somewhere with him if I had to, but it would be tricky; he was too volatile and contrary, just as likely to storm out in a strop as to tell you what you wanted to know. Justingentle, imaginative, easily worried, wanting everyone to be happywas pretty near to being an interviewers dream.
The only thing was that I was never alone with him. In the first week I hadnt really noticed it, but now that I was looking for a chance, it stood out. Daniel and I drove into college together a couple of times a week, and I saw a lot of Abbybreakfasts, after dinner when the guys were washing up, sometimes she knocked on my door at night with a packet of biscuits and we sat on the bed and talked till we got sleepybut if I was ever on my own with Rafe or Justin for more than five minutes, one of the others would drift over or call out to us, and we would be effortlessly, invisibly enveloped by the group again. It could have been natural; all five of them did spend an awful lot of time together, and every group has subtle subdivisions, people who never pair off because they only work as part of the whole. But I had to wonder if someone, probably Daniel, had considered all four of them with an interrogators assessing eye and come to the same conclusion I had.
It was Monday morning before I got my chance. We were in college; Daniel was giving a tutorial and Abby had a meeting with her supervisor, so it was just Rafe and Justin and me in our corner of the library. When Rafe got up and headed off somewhere, presumably to the bathroom, I counted to twenty and then stuck my head over the barrier into Justins carrel.
Hello, you, he said, looking up from a page of tiny, fastidious handwriting. Every inch of his desk was heaped with books and looseleaf and photocopies striped with highlighter pen; Justin couldnt work unless he was snugly nested in the middle of everything he might possibly need.
Im bored and its sunny, I said. Come for lunch.
He checked his watch. Its only twenty to one.
Live dangerously, I said.
Justin looked uncertain. What about Rafe?
Hes big and ugly enough to look after himself. He can wait for Abby and Daniel. Justin was still looking way too unsure for a decision of this magnitude, and I figured I had about a minute to get him out of there before Rafe came back. Ah, Justin, come on. Ill do this till you do. I drummed shave and a haircut, two bits on the barrier with my fingernails.
Argh, Justin said, putting his pen down. Chinese noise torture. You win.
The obvious place to go was the edge of New Square, but you can see it through the library windows, so I dragged Justin over to the cricket pitch, where it would take Rafe longer to find us. It was a bright, cold day, high blue sky and the air like ice water. Down by the Pavilion a bunch of cricketers were doing earnest stylized things at each other, and up at our end four guys were playing Frisbee and trying to act like they werent doing it for the benefit of three industrially groomed girls on a bench, who were trying to look like they werent watching. Mating rituals: it was spring.
So, Justin said, when we were settled on the grass. Hows the chapter going?
Crap, I said, rummaging through my book bag for my sandwich. Ive written bugger-all since I got back. I cant concentrate.
>
Well, Justin said, after a moment. Thats only to be expected, isnt it? For a little while.
I shrugged, not looking at him.
Itll wear off. Really, it will. Now that youre home and everythings back to normal.
Yeah. Maybe. I found my sandwich, made a face at it and dumped it on the grass: few things worried Justin as much as people not eating. It just sucks, not knowing what happened. It sucks enormously. I keep wondering . . . The cops kept hinting that they had all these leads and stuff, but they wouldnt tell me anything. For fucks sake, Im the one who got stabbed here. If anyone has a right to know why, its me.
But I thought you were feeling better. You said you were fine.
I guess. Never mind.
We thought . . . I mean, I didnt expect you to be this bothered. To keep thinking about it. Its not like you.
I glanced over at him, but he didnt look suspicious, just worried. Yeah, well, I said. I never got stabbed before.
No, said Justin. I suppose not. He arranged his lunch on the grass: bottle of orange juice on one side, banana on the other, sandwich in the middle. He was biting the edge of his lip.
You know what I keep thinking about? I said abruptly. My parents. Saying the words gave me a sharp, giddy little thrill.
Justins head snapped up and he stared at me. What about them?
That maybe I should get in touch with them. Tell them what happened.
No pasts, Justin said, instantly, like a quick sign against bad luck. We agreed.
I shrugged. Whatever. Easy for you to say.
It isnt, actually. Then, when I didnt answer: Lexie? Are you serious?
I did another edgy little shrug. Not sure yet.
But I thought you hated them. You said you never wanted to speak to them again.
Thats not the point. I twisted the strap of my book bag around my finger, pulled it away in a long spiral. I just keep thinking . . . I could have died there. Actually died. And my parents would never even have known.
If something happens to me, Justin said, I dont want my parents called. I dont want them there. I dont want them to know.
Why not? He was picking the seal off his bottle of juice, head down. Justin?
Never mind. I didnt mean to interrupt.
No. Tell me, Justin. Why not?
After a moment Justin said, I went back to Belfast for Christmas, our first year of postgrad. Not long after you came. Do you remember?
Yeah, I said. He wasnt looking at me; he was blinking at the cricketers, white and formal as ghosts against the green, the thwack of the bat reaching us late and faraway.
I told my father and my stepmother that Im gay. On Christmas Eve. A small, humorless snort of a laugh. God love me, I suppose I thought the holiday spiritpeace and good will to all men . . . And the four of you had taken it so completely in your stride. Do you know what Daniel said, when I told him? He thought it over for a few minutes and then informed me that straight and gay are modern constructs, the concept of sexuality was much more fluid right up through the Renaissance. And Abby rolled her eyes and asked me if I wanted her to act surprised. Rafe was the one I was most worried aboutIm not sure whybut he just grinned and said, Less competition for me. Which was sweet of him, actually; its not like I was ever much competition to him anyway . . . It was very comforting, you know. I suppose it made me think that telling my family might not be such a huge big deal, after all.
I didnt realize, I said. That youd told them. You never said.
Yes, well, Justin said. He picked the cling-film away from his sandwich delicately, being careful not to get relish on his fingers. My stepmothers a dreadful woman, you know. Really dreadful. Her fathers a carpenter, but she tells people hes an artisan, whatever she thinks that means, and she never invites him to parties. Everything about her is pure faultless middle-classthe accent, the clothes, the hair, the china patterns, its as if she ordered herself from a cataloguebut you can see the incredible effort that goes into every second of it. Marrying her boss must have been like attaining the Holy Grail. Im not saying my father would have been OK with me if it hadnt been for herhe looked like he was going to be sickbut she made it so, so much worse. She was hysterical. She told my father she wanted me out of the house, right away. For good.
Jesus, Justin.
She watches a lot of soap operas, Justin said. Erring sons get banished all the time. She kept shrieking, actually shrieking, Think of the boys!she meant my half brothers. I dont know if she thought I was going to convert them or molest them or what, but I saidwhich was nasty of me, but you can see why I was feeling viciousI said she had nothing to worry about, no self-respecting gay man would touch either of those hideous little Cabbage Patch Kids with a barge pole. It went downhill from there. She threw things, I said things, the Cabbage Patch Kids actually put down their PlayStations to come see what was happening, she tried to drag them out of the roompresumably so I wouldnt jump them on the spotthey started shrieking . . . Finally my father told me it would be better if I wasnt in the housefor the moment, as he put it, but we both knew what he meant. He drove me to the station and gave me a hundred pounds. For Christmas. He pulled the cling-film straight and laid it on the grass, the sandwich neatly in the middle.
What did you do? I asked quietly.
Over Christmas? Stayed in my flat, mostly. Bought a hundred-quid bottle of whiskey. Felt sorry for myself. He gave me a wry half smile. I know: I should have told you I was back in town. But . . . well, pride, I suppose. It was one of the most humiliating experiences of my life. I know none of you would have asked, but you couldnt have helped wondering, and youre all too sharp for your own good. Someone would have guessed.
The way he was sittingknees pulled up, feet neatly togetherrucked up his trousers; he was wearing gray socks worn thin by too much washing, and his ankles were delicate and bony as a boys. I reached over and covered one of them with my hand. It was warm and solid and my fingers almost circled it.
No, its all right, Justin said, and when I looked up I saw that he was smiling at me, properly this time. Really and truly, it is. At first it did upset me a lot; I felt like I was orphaned, homelesshonestly, if you could have seen the level of melodrama going on in my head . . . But I dont think about it any more, not since the house. I dont even know why I brought it up.
My fault, I said. Sorry.
Dont be. He gave my hand a little fingertip pat. If you really want to get in touch with your parents, then . . . well, its none of my business, is it? All Im saying is, dont forget: weve all got reasons why we decided no pasts. Its not just me. Rafe . . . Well, youve heard his father.
I nodded. Hes a git.
Rafes been getting that exact same phone call for as long as Ive known him: youre pathetic, youre useless, Im ashamed to mention you to my friends. Im pretty sure his whole childhood was like that. His father disliked him almost from the moment he was bornit happens sometimes, you know. He wanted a big oaf of a son who would play rugby and grope his secretary and throw up outside chi-chi nightclubs, and instead he got Rafe. He made his life a misery. You didnt see Rafe when we first started college: this skinny prickly creature, so defensive that if you teased him the tiniest bit he would absolutely take your head off. I wasnt even sure I liked him, at first. I just hung around with him because I liked Abby and Daniel, and they obviously thought he was all right.
Hes still skinny, I said. And hes still prickly, too. Hes a little bollocks when he feels like it.
Justin shook his head. Hes a million times better than he was. And its because he doesnt have to think about those awful parents of his any more, at least not often. And Daniel . . . Have you e
ver, once, heard him mention his childhood?
I shook my head.
Neither have I. I know his parents are dead, but I dont know when or how, or what happened to him afterwardswhere he lived, with who, nothing. Abby and I got awfully drunk together one night and started being silly about that, making up childhoods for Daniel: he was one of those feral children raised by hamsters, he grew up in a brothel in Istanbul, his parents were CIA sleepers who got taken out by the KGB and he escaped by hiding in the washing machine . . . It was funny at the time, but the fact is, his childhood cant have been too pleasant, can it, for him to be so secretive about it? Youre bad enough . . . Justin shot me a quick glance. But at least I know you had chicken pox, and you learned to ride horses. I dont know anything like that about Daniel. Not a thing.