The Colour of Blood

by Declan Hughes

  “I need you to tell me a few things first. How did you get mixed up in all this?”

  “Emily rang me. Asked me if I wanted to be in a threesome with two girls. Said that it would be filmed, but that I could wear a mask.”

  “And you said no problem?”

  “Mr. Loy, mathematics scholars are not exactly coming down with offers of twosomes, let alone, ah, exponentials thereof… and the offers we get – well, those I tend to get are generally from the kind of girls who hope I won’t be too interested in sex. So it was hardly something I felt I could pass up.”

  “And the offer coming from Emily, that didn’t surprise you?”

  Jonny stared at his plate.

  “No. We’ve kind of… from a youngish age, sort of… experimented. Not so much in the last few years. Since Emily had boyfriends. But before, well… it was always her idea, I mean, it would have had to be, she being the girl… I suppose she tried stuff out on me… before doing it for real.”

  “When you say youngish?”

  “Thirteen, fourteen.”

  “And then she dropped you. Did that hurt you?”

  “Maybe. A little. But we’d still, occasionally – Christmas, or at a family party – she’d give me… a treat.”

  “So there was no great problem for you when she suggested you make a second movie with her?”

  “On the contrary.”

  “And this whole thing about her and David Brady being blackmailed—”

  “They didn’t tell me about that until afterwards. And I wasn’t too happy. I mean, whoever was doing it was going to try and get money out of Uncle Shane, it was clearly some kind of low-life scumbag. But when Emily explained the situation, that they were implicated in a whole underage thing, I had to go with it.”

  “You didn’t think you were being sucked into it?”

  “I didn’t. But with the tattoo, I don’t know what to think.”

  “When did you get the tattoo?”

  “About a month ago. And it was Emily’s idea. She asked me to come along with her, when she was getting hers, part of her whole new look, the hair, the piercings, all that. And while we were there, she persuaded me to have one done. I’m sure she didn’t… I’m sure it was just in fun.”

  “I’m sure it was. But do you think… might Emily have lied about the whole situation with the thirteen-year-old girl? Might she have set you up?”

  “No.”

  “Jonny, was she with you all day today? In the house in Honeypark?”

  “She was in the house, but not always in the room. We had our own rooms. It was a weird setup. I mean, that creepy guy, Moon, and the Reillys, total little skangers but decent enough actually, they’d get us food and drink and whatever, it didn’t feel like we were there against our will. I was just waiting for Emily to give me the word on when we were getting out. And to be frank, given the amount of sex we were having, I didn’t care when that would be.”

  “She was in the house, but not always in the room. If she wasn’t in the same room as you, could that mean she might have left the house?”

  “I suppose so,” he said, then shook his head quickly, took his glasses off and stared at them.

  “Why would she have left the house?” he said, his voice shrill. “What are you implying? That she killed David Brady?”

  “I’m not implying anything. I’m asking questions. That’s my job.”

  “Well, I think I’ve had enough of your questions, Mr. Private Detective. It’s a grubby little job, don’t you find?”

  His Trinity manner had become grander, his voice a fluted drawl; I could feel the class boundary rising to divide us.

  “It certainly has the habit of uncovering a lot of grubby secrets,” I said.

  “So there’s no point in asking you not to tell Mum—”

  “I’ve already told your mother everything. I’m working for her, as well as for your uncle. She didn’t appear particularly surprised.”

  Jonathan stood up abruptly, and his metal chair fell back with a crash against the hardwood floor. He looked down at me, his lips compressed, his hands clenched into fists.

  “If you think trying to pin a murder on Emily is going to help anyone in this family, you must be out of your fucking mind,” he said, in a low voice thick with passion. “But I wouldn’t expect someone like you to understand a family like ours.”

  Since Jonathan himself had raised the possibility that Emily had the opportunity to kill her ex-boyfriend, I was a little taken aback by his sudden rage. As he stalked off, his mother approached from the passageway and tried to stop him; he backed away and waved his unwieldy arms at her, then ran down the corridor, and a door slammed.

  Sandra Howard replaced Jonathan’s chair, sat in it, a pale smile on her face, and began to assemble the ingredients for a gin and tonic. She was wearing a dark suit, black shot with some kind of green; the hem of her skirt brushed her knees; her legs in black stockings looked long and slender.

  “The teenage symphony: tears and tantrums, and the slamming of the bedroom door. Don’t take it personally, Ed.”

  “I think he meant it personally.”

  “What were you talking about?”

  “His relationship with his cousin. Among other things. Where is Emily?”

  “Resting. She has a room here. She was starting to freak out. A doctor is coming up from the centre to see to her.”

  Sandra flashed an uneasy look at me, the first time I’d seen her furtive or defensive. She took a long hit on her drink, which was heavy on the Tanqueray, and brandished the green bottle at me. I took it and made my own. When Sandra looked up again, her gaze was steady.

  “They’ve had a rough time of it over the years, Ed, both Jonny and Em. I know, silver spoon, everything money can buy, everyone should have their troubles, but really, they shouldn’t.”

  “Why shouldn’t they? Tell me their troubles.”

  “Jonny’s father died when he was eleven. Richard O’Connor was my first husband. He was a doctor – he was the one who helped me believe in myself, in my father’s legacy – because I hadn’t gone into medicine myself, I felt unworthy, I had been teaching in Castlehill College, drifting, really, but he gave me focus – he reminded me I was my father’s daughter. And I took over the running of the Howard Maternity Centre, and I founded the Howard Clinic and the Howard Nursing Home, assembled the investors, saw them built and open and running successfully.”

  Sandra got up suddenly and turned all the lights out and beckoned me across the room to the great window.

  “You can just about make the three towers out through the mist, see? I hope one day to see a fourth.”

  Three great blurs of light were discernible, shimmering in the murk. I looked at Sandra, straight-backed, regal. Her eyes were shining with pride, and something that looked like defiance, or triumph, and something else, a shadow, a sudden darkness that appeared from nowhere and was just as briskly dispelled.

  “He said I did it all myself, but of course I didn’t, it was Dr. Rock – that’s what everyone called him, Richard O’Connor, R-O-C – he inspired me, Ed, just like my own father had inspired me, and Rock inspired Jonny too, he – you know when Jonny was eleven, he played rugby, played very well, he was a prospect, insofar as you can be at that age, but to look at him now, well, you couldn’t imagine it, could you?”

  I shook my head.

  “Rock had played, and he coached at Seafield and even in the school. And I’m not like Shane, I’m not saying rugby is some kind of universal panacea, but – sometimes a father can be so important, so inspiring, that when he dies it’s like the air has gone out of the world. I think that’s what happened for Jonny. And Denis didn’t get to know him until later. In fairness, Jonny’s started to get along really well with Denis since he went to college. He really goes for the whole legal Caesar bit. It’s me and Denis who don’t get along so well anymore.”

  “Is that right?” I said. “Are you separating?”

  “I th
ink so. Mutually. Amicably. We’ve just… run out of…”

  She exhaled, smiling, and shrugged, and waved a hand in the air. I didn’t smile back.

  “I don’t think it’s having an effect on Jonathan, if that’s what you meant,” she said.

  “It wasn’t. You were going to tell me about Emily. Her troubles.”

  “Emily – oh Jesus, Emily.”

  She walked across to the fire, where she stood, staring into the flames. I stayed by the window. I could see the fire reflected in the glass, flickering red in the black.

  “Emily’s mother, Jessica – you met her, didn’t you?”

  “This morning, yes.”

  “How did she strike you?”

  “Initially, very sexy, maybe a bit too flirtatious, a bit blatant. A bit much. And then… I don’t know, like she was at one remove from herself… like she was damaged.”

  Sandra stared into the fire and breathed out slowly.

  “Damaged… ‘damaged’ is a good word. Jessica’s mother died of ovarian cancer when she was six. She was an only child. Her father was a not terribly successful actor, and the heavy drinking that usually goes along with the theatre got much worse after his wife’s death. And Jessica looked after him. Made his breakfast, ironed his clothes, made sure he was on time for rehearsals. She was his little wife. Her periods started early, when she was about eleven; at twelve, she’d reached full sexual maturity. At least, her body had. And her father noticed. And Jessica noticed him noticing, and began to use makeup, and to dress so he’d go on noticing. And one night when he lumbered in from the pub after whatever play he was in, or wasn’t in, drunk again, she was waiting for him in the marital bed… his patient little wife, all ready for love… and he tried to resist, but, as with the drink and the failure, he didn’t try hard enough.”

  Her voice had thickened with emotion; now it faltered. The fire crackled and hissed. I stood dead still, as if moving might break the spell, as if we were at a séance, and Sandra was communing with the departed. She glanced quickly over her shoulder at me, and I saw her eyes were glistening. There was nothing I could say, and before I had a chance to think of something, she turned back to the fire and continued.

  “She told me all about it one night, early in the marriage. She’d had a row with Shane – over sex, how she wanted it more than he did, or how he had accused her of cheating with her leading man: young love, high drama, and she arrived up here and we drank brandy, and she told me all about it. How it lasted eighteen months or so, until she was fourteen. By then she had started sleeping around – older boys at school, a couple of her friends’ fathers. And her own father had fallen apart under the strain, the shame of it all. Spent time in mental hospital. And drying out, though as soon as he’d get out, the drinking would start again. Whiskey, at the end. And Jessica running wild now, expelled from school, and no one to care for her – there was an aunt, on her mother’s side, in Clontarf, but she didn’t want to know. And the father died, pancreatitis, I think, or maybe liver, a drink death anyway, and Jessica was left, sixteen, all alone, desperate, afraid. Taken into foster care, ran away, one, two, three families. And finally the social worker in charge of her case, despairing, took a flier, had the inspired idea of encouraging her to act. She got in touch with some of Jessica’s father’s former colleagues, the employable ones, and they were all stricken with guilt and ‘there but for the grace go I’ sentimentality and they got her some walk-ons and a few auditions and she turned out to be a natural. I suppose you could say the theatre saved Jessica’s life.”

  Sandra turned and faced me, and I could see the glow of the fire in her red hair and the pity in her green eyes.

  “But those eighteen months, Ed… herself and her father, and Jessica just twelve, thirteen years old… alone in the house, her father’s little wife… I don’t think she ever moved on from there. From what Shane said – and I know she’s been unfaithful to him throughout their marriage – she doesn’t much enjoy sex, but she likes the power it gives her.”

  “And Emily…” I said.

  “And Emily,” she said. “Her mother’s daughter. Emily and Jonathan. Shane didn’t know, and Jessica didn’t know, but I knew, I think I’ve always known. Is that what Jonny was so excited about, that I might find out?”

  I nodded.

  “The weird thing is – the awful thing, maybe – I never felt it was wrong. I mean, kids are going to do it, thirteen, fourteen, you can try and delay, but by sixteen most of them are having sex, and as a parent what are you going to do? Tell them not to? Or pretend they aren’t? I mean, it’s good, isn’t it? If you do it right? And if they experiment together, if it’s not an older person taking advantage of them.”

  “I think some people might feel a little uneasy at their being cousins.”

  “It’s not brother and sister. It’s not an incestuous relationship. The taboo about cousins marrying, reproducing, is based on the fear that they’ll keep doing it, and that the children of extended families of married cousins will marry each other. Then you have a problem.”

  “I doubt if your brother would be so sanguine.”

  “I don’t know that I’m sanguine about it either, Ed. I’m just saying I never felt it was wrong. Maybe that says as much about me as it does about anyone else. I mean, Jonny’s been in therapy since shortly after Rock’s death. And Emily – this is something else her father doesn’t know – Emily has been seeing the same therapist for years too. She came to me, I set it up for her. So… and no, I don’t believe there should be a stigma attached to it, but I’m old-fashioned enough to wish our kids didn’t need it. So sanguine isn’t close to how I feel.”

  “When I spoke to Jessica Howard, she said it was your idea that Emily do medicine. She suggested that you were anxious one of the children be the keeper of the Howard flame. That that burden came to rest upon Emily.”

  A flash of rage creased her brow and stained her cheeks like wine spilled on white linen.

  “It was not a burden, that’s so typical of the way Jessica twists everything, Emily wanted to do medicine, wants to still, she…”

  Sandra caught herself, and gave a rueful little laugh, and twisted her mouth in acknowledgement of her flash of temper.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Loy. Sisters-in-law. Jessica is… not always the easiest person to get along with. I’m sure it is difficult to marry into a family like ours. But her own insecurities, her need to be the centre of attention, haven’t helped matters. She wouldn’t even come to my mother’s funeral this year. Said they’d never got along, and to pretend otherwise just because she was dead was hypocrisy. Never mind that it was her husband’s mother, the self-obsessed fucking egotism…”

  “Did Emily go to the funeral?”

  “Of course. She and her granny were close. But look, I don’t… I didn’t really want to get into all this… I don’t necessarily believe that’s at the root of Emily’s issues…”

  “I think family is central,” I said. “She seems very angry at the Howards. That there’s some great tradition, some grand example she’s expected to live up to. She wishes you’d just all leave her alone.”

  Sandra nodded.

  “She’s nineteen, just started at college, a new life. Maybe that’s as it should be. Jonny’s gone the other way, he talks about the Howards like we’re an empire on the march, superior beings all. Probably healthier at that age to want your family on the sidelines. Make your own name.”

  I was relieved at what she said. It didn’t mean the blackmailer had gone away. But it suggested that the source of Emily’s troubles was not as grave as it might have been.

  We stood in silence for a moment. The fire, reflected in the black glass of the wall, seemed to wash the room in its red glow; logs spat and hissed in the grate. Sandra smiled, and this time I smiled back. She came close to me; I could feel her breath on my face, her wood spice scent, her sudden need. I swallowed, and took a step back, and put my hand in my jacket pocket, and fingered the mass card
that had been left beneath my windscreen wiper outside Shane Howard’s surgery, and played a hunch.

  “All right then, Sandra,” I said. “Do you remember someone called Stephen Casey?”

  I must really have fallen for Sandra Howard. Because when she looked at me, and looked away and as quickly back, and said, “Who?” and then, when I had repeated the name and she, having given herself time, having made a thinking face and taken a thinking walk, shook her head emphatically and said “No,” not only did I realize instantly that she was lying, I was surprised.

  “He died on All Souls’ Day, 1985,” I said.

  Her eyes cast around the room, and up at me, and away again. It was almost painful to watch. The telephone rescued her. She left the room to answer it, and I stared at the fire and tried to remember the last time I had been surprised that someone was lying to me. I looked in the flames and tried to remember my ex-wife’s face. I found that I couldn’t.

  Chapter Seven

  I WENT THROUGH A DOOR THAT LED DOWN to the front of the new house and stood outside and smoked a cigarette. There was a sloping garden and a gravel drive that seemed to lead down to the road, and I wondered why Sandra Howard had not approached the house this way. But since I was already wondering whether anything she had told me was the truth, it didn’t seem the most pressing detail. I wondered also whether I should feel pleased with myself that I had caught her in a lie, thereby breaking the spell she had cast over me, or dismayed by my easy susceptibility to a beautiful woman who paid me some attention. Maybe it was Jessica Howard who had got under my skin; maybe it was her daughter’s lurid adventures in pornography. Male lust is a tenacious and comical affliction, immune as it can sometimes be to feelings of compassion or understanding; at times it reduces us all to the lunatic in that Italian movie, sitting in a tree hollering “I want a woman.”

  I checked my phone and found that Dave Donnelly had called again. I walked down the drive a pace, intending to ring him, when I spotted a circular pool halfway down the garden. Security lights lit the grass as I approached it, and I realized it was a match for the pool in the back garden of Emily’s dollhouse. It was bigger than the one in Shane Howard’s back garden, and less ornate: a low, roughly packed granite wall, maybe three feet of water, a rough sandy bed. No marble, no crystal gems, no sense of it being a memorial or a deliberate feature. I looked back up the hill: the turrets and castellations of Rowan House loomed up behind the new extension, ghostly in the mist, like a phantom castle from a gothic romance.