“What the fuck is going on?’ he says, and I look around, and see that Steno is still in there, and I tell Leo Halligan as much as I know of what the fuck is going on. He nods at me, and then he vanishes into the crowd. The next thing, Steno is at my side.
“We’ll go down onto the turf to watch the race,’ he says.
"Fair enough. Down we go, through the tunnel beneath the private boxes, and Madigan’s bar is heaving with half-dressed young ones, it’s like one of those Club 18-30 holidays. Out we come and it’s good to feel grass beneath your feet, even if it is sopping wet. The grandstand is behind us, with the Dublin mountains towering above, but we head down past the line of bookies’ pitches, and Steno salutes Jack Proby of Proby and Son, who doesn’t look very pleased to see Steno.
"It’s not the best place to watch a race if you want to get the whole picture, but it’s the business if you want the atmosphere, and the atmosphere is only brilliant. Bottle of Red was favorite anyway, and the Hutton thing has added a whole other level, the chant’s going around in waves:
Pa-trick HUTTON, back from the DEAD!
Pa-trick HUTTON, back from the DEAD!
Pa-trick HUTTON, back from the DEAD!
"Rocking back and forth from the grandstand down to the barrier and back, impossible not to get caught up in the motion of it, absolutely classic.
"There’s a field of thirteen, and Hutton keeps the horse back all the way around the first time, buried in a pack. Contrariwise and Vico Fancy lead from the off, and you just know they’re not going to have the legs to make it, and when they’re on the road side for the second time, they fall away, and Hendre takes up the lead and holds it until they hit the last jump and turn into the final furlong and here comes Bottle of Red, Hutton has to use the elbows a bit, he’s boxed himself in, but he breaks out and he breaks clear and now he’s coming, past Columbine, past Kelly’s Hero, past Dodger, and as they turn he’s neck and neck with Hendre, Hendre and Bottle of Red, and then Hutton lets her go and it looks like he was holding her back all along, and Hendre has nothing left and Bottle of Red, Bottle of Red, Bottle of Red by a mile, and the chant would raise the hairs on your neck:
Pa-trick HUTTON, back from the DEAD!
Pa-trick HUTTON, back from the DEAD!
Pa-trick HUTTON, back from the DEAD!
“Beautiful!” Steno yells in my ear, and I’d swear there were tears in the fucker’s eyes.
“Parade Ring, come on,” he says, and we boot up there. Some courses have a separate winners’ enclosure; at Leopardstown, the horses go back round to the parade ring they started in.
There’s a huge crowd gathering, and Steno brings me into the parade ring, maybe to keep me close, maybe to use as a shield. Means I get a perfect view of all that happens. There’s TV reporters going around with those huge microphones and cameras and everything, and Hutton rides the horse in to great applause, and someone is talking to F.X., asking him about Hutton’s return, and Hutton tips the hat to even greater cheers, and F.X. mutters something about there being much rejoicing for the one who was lost, and Hutton dismounts as the groom rushes to hold the horse, and as Hutton approaches F.X. a blond female reporter spots Father Vincent Tyrrell and draws him into the group of three for the camera and asks him about the parable of the prodigal son and Vincent Tyrrell says yes indeed, Luke chapter fifteen, but of course there are all manner of prodigals, why he and his brother, Francis, haven’t spoken in ten years, not since the day Patrick Hutton disappeared.
"I can see Steno edging closer because Hutton is freaking out now, looking wildly around him, like a robot malfunctioning, whatever the plan was, this wasn’t it, and Vincent Tyrrell is still talking, and someone to one side of the camera is signaling to the reporter to cut the interview dead, but the reporter won’t, she seems mesmerized, so does everyone, and no wonder: while Hutton is shaking his head and blinking and F.X. is standing stock-still like he died ten years ago and forgot to tell anyone, Vincent Tyrrell is saying that the prodigal son is of course at root a story about the father, not the son, and he should know: Patrick Hutton is Father Vincent Tyrrell’s son.
"Patrick Hutton is shaking his head, and suddenly he has a long knife in his hand, and the crowd in the ring turns to flee, and Hutton steps up to F. X. Tyrrell and the knife flashes in the light, but before he can use it, Vincent Tyrrell is in front of F.X., protecting him, and Hutton steps back and stares at them both for a moment, shaking his head some more, then Hutton brings the blade up and slashes a gulley deep across his own throat. Blood shoots from it, and there are screams everywhere, and Hutton topples to his knees and then to the ground, and Father Vincent Tyrrell goes down to him, and as the cries go out for doctors and ambulances, the priest who was his father whispers a last confession in his son’s ear, and above them, like he’s been turned to stone, in the parade ring at Leopardstown Racecourse in the shadow of the Dublin mountains on St. Stephen’s Day stands Francis Xavier Tyrrell, the trainer of the winning horse."
TWENTY-NINE
The screen went black after Vincent Tyrrell’s admission on live television that he was the father of the winning jockey of the 1:30 at Leopardstown. In their confusion, which they no doubt shared with the viewing public, RTE replaced the racing altogether with a concert of Christmas music from Vienna.
"Why did Vincent Tyrrell say that? What was he thinking of?" Miranda cried.
"What were you expecting Hutton to do? Kill F. X. Tyrrell live on air?" I said.
No sooner had I formed the words than I realized that yes, that was exactly what had been planned for Tyrrell. Miranda’s phone rang, and she took the call out in the hall. When she came back in she was crying, but through her tears her words were hard with rage.
"That was Leo. Patrick is dead," she said. "He wanted to die. He killed himself. But for nothing. F.X. is still alive. Patrick went for F.X. and Vincent saved his life. No one can put an end to the Tyrrells. Oh God, poor Patrick."
She shook her tears away, apparently uncertain what to do next.
"The Guards will be coming, then," I said. "By now, F.X. will have told them Regina and Karen are being held hostage."
"Yes," Miranda said. "They’ll be coming for me. There’s not a lot of time left."
"You can say you were forced into it by Hutton and Steno," I said. "That’s certainly how Vincent Tyrrell must see it. The victim. That’s what you were. A tragic set of circumstances, the child of incest, an incestuous marriage, a child of your own who…nobody could have anything but sympathy for your plight, Miranda."
"You know that’s not exactly how it happened. Real life kept intruding, getting in the way. I’ve never looked for anyone’s sympathy. I’ve never been anybody’s victim. And I’m not going to play the part now."
Miranda suddenly burrowed in the sports grip she had brought and produced a Stanley knife. With it, she cut the ties binding Regina to her chair and then cut mine. There had been no sound from Karen’s room for a while. I assumed Regina would go to the child instantly. Instead, as if set free by the silence, Regina suddenly spoke in a voice that she had kept silent for a long time, a voice that seemed to come from a younger place within her, and what she said carried the intensity of a dream.
"It was in the stables," she said. "The last one, you could see the river from there. And the paddock with the trees, and the two ponies sometimes. There was always the rustle, but not of straw. Francis was an innovator there, straw could carry all manner of bugs and ticks and rot, parasites and spores that would cause the horses illness. Francis pioneered the use of shredded paper. It was so white there, the bright white that fills up a room, like when you wake up and it’s been snowing, and everywhere there’s soft bright light, like the first day. That’s what it was like in all the stables, but most especially this one. There was a ledge above the door, and you could see the river from there. That winter, it snowed. A thick blanket. Makes the sound different in the air, as if you don’t have to speak so clearly. As if everything was understoo
d.
"I was always in love with Francis. He was my daddy and my brother, my protector and my friend. I would have done anything he wanted."
"Did he force you?" Miranda said, seemingly unable to bear Regina’s fond, elegiac tone applied to an event that was to have such devastating consequences for her.
Regina smiled, a sad smile that chilled me to the bone. She shook her head.
"No. No, he didn’t force me. I’d like to say he did, because it would give you comfort, and me at least an excuse, and maybe a shred of dignity. Later, the other one did, or more accurately, they both did, but that’s to jump ahead. No, Francis didn’t force me. The reverse. It wasn’t in his nature, I know, he wasn’t disposed that way. But I kept after him. I had decided that he would be the first."
Miranda groaned in anguish and disgust.
"That’s how I thought. And I kept it going, hints and caresses and invitations, I’d give him rubdowns after the day’s work with the horses, so he’d see how well I could run things here, how I’d be a credit to him. And one day, in the snow, in the white of the stable, in the white of the snow…the rustle of the paper now, so soft in your ears…like music it was…"
It was Miranda’s turn to retreat now; I could hear her trying to control her breath.
"A few months, that’s all it was. A few days within a few months. He brought it to a close. We both knew it was wrong, but I didn’t care. And then…and then I was pregnant. I never knew…the nuns in Scotland said they’d look after the child, but Francis insisted he knew the right family. I never dreamed for a second it would be the Harts at the Tyrrellscourt Arms. It was almost…it was almost like it amused him. Like it was a game for him. And of course, I suspected, everyone assumed it, for heaven’s sake, are you two sisters, are you mother and daughter? But I didn’t want to believe…couldn’t let myself believe…"
"Why did he do that, Regina? Why did he place her so close to you?"
"To punish me. Just as I had punished him."
She said the words blankly, without affect.
"What about Hutton? What about Vincent Tyrrell?" I said.
Regina’s face clouded over.
"That’s where it got…I never…oh God forgive me…it was Christmas, Vincent was staying here…I was drunk, and a bit…maybe I was talking loose…flirting with Francis, who wasn’t responding, and with Vincent, who was…I got angry with them both, and stormed off…and Francis came, and said, why didn’t I…if I slept with Vincent, I could be with him again…so I did. It wasn’t even…I’m trying to make it better now on myself, saying I was drunk, I knew what I was doing…I knew damn well what I was doing. I don’t know why I wanted it…still don’t…Francis was all I ever wanted…"
"But you went with Vincent just the one time. How did you know Hutton was his child, and not Francis’s?" I said.
"Francis had an operation, after Mary…after Miranda was born, a vasectomy. So nothing like that could happen again."
"And then when the boy was born, you said you couldn’t raise him."
"The child of a priest? I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. I let him go. Francis persuaded me it was the best thing. I was young, starting out, I didn’t need that. Didn’t need it."
"But you stayed here all those years, and let them both come back into the house, and saw them come together—"
"I did everything I could to block that match. Everything. I…and don’t forget, I didn’t know Miranda was my daughter—"
"But you suspected. Why didn’t you act on those suspicions?"
"I don’t know."
"And then there was a child."
"There’s nothing wrong with the child," Regina said. "She’s had every test, every…they found no disability, nothing. And Francis…I don’t think he enjoyed a day of peace after those children were born. Neither of us did, really. It was a kind of torture to him, knowing what he had done, never quite being able to forgive himself. I think…I think what we made was a kind of sacrifice, to live through it together. And I was blessed that Karen was given to me. Unworthy as I was."
"Why?" I said. "What possessed him? To experiment with human lives that way?"
Regina shook her head, all tears spent for now.
"He once told me, out in the stable, he said he thought the purest blood might make the finest offspring. That if it could work for horses…"
"But it doesn’t work for horses."
Regina nodded.
"And you went along with him," I said. "Why?"
Regina looked at me with what almost looked like pity in her extraordinary eyes and shook her head. Again, when she spoke, it was in a voice that seemed to come from the very depths of her soul.
"You don’t understand. No one could understand who wasn’t there."
"Who wasn’t where?"
Regina turned her gaze on Miranda as she spoke.
"My mother died when I was born, I told you that. But I didn’t grow up here. I was taken into care, placed in a home. It was just the two boys and Da, in a small tenant cottage out the road a few miles from Tyrrellscourt, two rooms, that’s all they had. Francis was fourteen, Vincent twelve. Da was a farm laborer, drinking a lot, and…well, other things. With both of them. Until Francis stood up to him. Francis put an end to that. Francis turned him out. And our da was never seen again. And Francis worked every hour God sent on farms in the area, his eye for a horse quickly noticed, training for this owner, then that one, and the winners began to come, and then the Derby in ’65. Sure he became a hero in the town, more. He found this place, it was in a tumbledown condition, the family had left for England during the war and never come back, and he set us up here. Came and got me, told me my place was with him, was here, at the heart of the Tyrrells. Made sure I went to school. Sent Vincent for the priesthood."
"And was your name Tyrrell to begin with?"
Regina almost smiled, a rueful flicker, as if still bewitched by the family mythology.
"We…we became the Tyrrells," Regina said. "Francis called himself that after he got rid of Da. And then he had his name legally changed. The town had been on its knees until Francis came. So anyone who tried to call us something else was quickly silenced. And soon, no one even wanted to. It was as if we had been expected. As if F. X. Tyrrell was a king in exile, come home at last to regain his throne. Without him, what would anyone around here have been? And what would I have become, a charity girl scrubbing floors and scalding laundry in an orphanage?"
She looked at me as if there was any answer I could give her, other than: What have you become now? Her story had explained everything and nothing. I turned to Miranda, who was staring at Regina with tears in her reddened eyes, the Sig Sauer Compact suddenly flashing in her hand, a droning, humming sound coming from the back of her throat. She looked like she was ready to do something rash. I edged forward to the sofa to get the Glock 17 I’d hidden there, much use it had done me.
"Miranda?" I said.
"What?"
"Let me get this straight: Patrick was supposed to kill F. X. Tyrrell first, is that right?"
"That’s right. First F.X. Then himself. He had a confession. That he was the Omega Man. He takes all the blame."
"He’d never killed anyone before, had he? Not intentionally, not in cold blood. How was he supposed to do it this time?"
"Because it was F. X. Tyrrell."
"And why should that have made a difference?"
"Because Vincent Tyrrell told us that F.X. had raped Patrick in St. Jude’s. He said F.X. had been a frequent visitor there. He said that’s largely why he was asked back to Tyrrellscourt in the nineties: to facilitate F.X.’s visits again."
"That can’t be right," Regina said. "Francis always told me…that after you were born…and after Patrick…never again. That would be his way of atoning."
"His way of atoning," Miranda said, her scorn like a whip. "What about F.X. and Leo Halligan? You must have known about that."
Regina shook her head.
"I…since Kar
en came here, I suppose I…I’ve kept my head down. I’ve see as little of Francis as possible. I haven’t wanted to know…about anything."
Regina was shaking, her face like a mask; she looked helpless and old, her last illusions carried away on the relentless wind.
"His way of atoning," Miranda said, rolling the words around in her mouth like sour fruit. "His way of atoning. What could that be? What could that possibly be?"
I had the gun now, and came up with it loose in my hand, not pointing it at her, just ensuring she could see it. Miranda saw it, and looked at me, and smiled.
"I’m sorry, Ed. I’m so very sorry. It was hard to know what to do. I know I’ve done wrong. I thought I could survive. But not everyone can be a survivor."
She turned to Regina.
"Please, just one thing. Don’t tell Karen the truth. In this instance, it’s better if she never knows. Do the right thing. Tell no one. Say nothing."
Miranda Hart put the barrel of the Sig Sauer compact in her mouth and pulled the trigger.
THIRTY
Regina ran to Miranda and fell to her knees and howled, and pulled Miranda’s body to her and clung to it as she never had, as she never would, the daughter she had found and lost in a day. I located the key I was looking for in Miranda’s sports grip. I tried to tell Regina I was going to check on Karen, but she couldn’t see or hear for grief. I shut the door behind me and went down the corridor to the child’s room. I checked my appearance in the window opposite to make sure that I wouldn’t scare her, and I saw that the snow had finally come. I knocked, and identified myself, and turned the key in the lock and opened the door.
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