by Brothers
It was the most unflattering she could possibly have looked, but yet he couldn’t take his eyes off her. She hadn’t the body of the nineteen-year-old student that she was when she first wore it, but that was still who Michael saw when he looked at her.
‘I really think you should burn that thing,’ Michael said laughing. ‘How long have you had that tattered old T-shirt?’ he said.
Marie didn’t answer, to her it was sentimental, a piece of their history, a remnant of her young carefree student days; the days when she fell in love with him. Marie looked at him purposefully, changing the subject with her eyes. He followed her gaze to the news story on the screen and he realised why she needed him in the first place.
‘Okay.’ He signalled his thumb towards the lounge at the front of the house. ‘I’ll just check the thing, in the front room?’ he suggested carefully, not wanting to draw Eve or Jack’s attention. Closing the door behind him, he turned the news channel on but he was too late. The report had just finished.
‘Come on guys, you’ll be late for pony camp.’ Marie shooed the two children towards the door. ‘Helmets,’ she scanned their hands. ‘Boots,’ she glanced at their feet. ‘Back braces, good.’ She slapped Jack’s shoulder, ‘And lunch.’ She kissed them both on the top of their heads. ‘All set, guys.’
‘It’s over,’ Michael said, returning through the heavy double doors to the kitchen. ‘We may catch it on playback. I’ll run them down now.’
‘Come straight back here, Michael, will you? I’ll put the kettle on.’ Eve and Jack jumped into the jeep. ‘Close the gates behind you, though,’ she reminded him. She didn’t want any other roving reporter calling, especially since she hadn’t had time to get dressed yet.
She looked around the kitchen at the clutter of cups, milky spoons and the half-full bowls of cereal on the countertop and began to clear away. She adored their home and had painstakingly invested all of her time, effort and energy in restoring it. Every stroke of paint was done by her fair hands or by Michael’s. It had been a labour of love, for both of them, and Marie had fallen in love with the old house, just as she had fallen for Michael all those years ago. Her mother-in-law’s influence had definitely worked to their benefit.
Marie sat at the kitchen table and pressed rewind. It was shocking to hear her husband’s name in the same sentence as ‘murder’. ‘Sensationalism,’ she spoke out loud at the television. ‘Bloody hacks,’ she added. It was the same type of journalism that required the morals of a loan shark and the cunning of a poker player, she thought.
‘Well,’ Michael said, returning through the back door ten minutes later.
‘Nothing new,’ she sighed. ‘But they know your name, mentioned Timothy Fitzpatrick as well.’ She paused. ‘Which is why, I suppose, they are showing images of the house and you leaving through the gates’ She shook her head. ‘And that you only bought the house in January.’ She shook her head. ‘Trying to suggest that you had something to do with it.’ She rewound the image to play for a third time. ‘That’s outrageous.’ She sighed again.
‘Ah, don’t let it get to you,’ He poured himself a mug of coffee from the machine. ‘You know more than most what they are like,’ Michael said.
‘They are trying to create a story out of nothing.’ She lifted her mug. ‘Me too.’ She held her empty mug out for him to pour. She had lost count of the amount she had already drunk and she wasn’t even dressed yet. ‘Trying to influence the audience, vilifying you because you happen to have a nice house, a nice jeep,’ Marie said, repeating her frustration. Her heady passion for investigative journalism and student activist days had long since waned, however she was more worried that, in their digging, they might uproot more than just the details of the body. Her mind flicked to the secret her mother-in-law had told her, a secret that Michael didn’t even know existed. She needed to protect it; she needed to protect her family. ‘They should be reporting the facts, not influencing the audience with cleverly orchestrated images and subliminal suggestions, the bloody politicians do enough of that.’ This was the same type of sensationalism that she baulked against, the type of journalism that made her turn her back on the industry, leave her job in the national newspaper behind and move to Kilkenny to start her family. There was no place to tell a story unless you could sell a story, her editor had said to her.
‘You’re worse, for getting bothered,’ Michael said, shaking his head. The passion in his wife had never taken much to ignite. He shifted in his seat so he could touch her, connect with her. There was something so attractive about her when she was fired up. Was it the curve of her jaw or the conviction in her voice or the sense of goodness that shone from her? He studied her. Maybe it was the way she pursed her lips in determination. He couldn’t decide.
She smiled and leaned into him, just like she always did.
‘You’re cold,’ he said; his eyes twinkling with mischief. ‘I think I’ll warm you up a bit.’ Michael had as much desire for her now as he had the first time he’d said the very same phrase to her.
‘Upstairs,’ she suggested, afraid that George McGrath might just wander in the back door and see much more than he bargained for on a Tuesday morning.
‘I’ve a farm to see to, Marie, I can’t just drop everything on a whim.’ Michael smiled, his eyebrows raised in anticipation. ‘Just for your, pleasure.’ He couldn’t have denied the appeal of her, even if he wanted to.
She made her way across the kitchen tiles; her painted toes creating a flash of ruby red colour with every step. He watched from behind as she took the first step of the grand staircase, the mahogany bannisters just tall enough to cover her chest.
‘Here then.’ She crossed her arms across her body, lifted the old grey T-shirt over her head by its falling hem and flung it back towards him, she was naked underneath. ‘Now, I’m even colder,’ she said, smiling diffidently.
Michael traced the outline of her body with his eyes and stood slowly to follow her, not breaking his gaze.
She began to move, slowly at first, step by step; her hand on the rail as she climbed the steps. His long legs strode across the floor and as his pace quickened, she sprinted up the stairs, her hair falling in tangles down her back; her bare skin creating a kaleidoscope effect as snippets of her body flashed through the carved posts of the staircase. He took the steps, two by two.
The high ceilings of the entire upstairs made the bedrooms feel quite majestic and Marie had been steadfast in restoring the historic details perfectly, from the brilliant white snowflake centrepieces to the charming elegance of the cornices; it had cost a fortune to restore properly.
Marie ducked under the scattered sheets that lay in crumples across the four-poster bed and waited for Michael. The duvet draped from the foot of the bed to the floor in the same position that they had left it earlier.
Michael dropped his clothes, his stone-coloured work clothes blending with the deep tones of the mink-coloured carpet, creating a camouflage effect.
All his life, having grown up on the farm next door, Michael had felt compelled by the appeal of Fitzpatrick Estate, taking every opportunity in his youth to make sure it wasn’t crumbling too fast or too furiously. He lamented its decay on his frequent visits home from college and watched as the once beautiful sash windows flaked and crispy patches of paint fell like autumn leaves to the ground, swirling around in the winter winds. He often wandered through the fields watching the brambles strangle the grasses and commandeer the hedges. He ventured through the old farm buildings and every time he did, he mourned. What was once the grand old house on the hill was deteriorating in front of his eyes, season by season, year by year. He wished then, while he watched the rotting roof sag with the weariness of neglect, that he could rescue it.
‘I still wonder how I got so lucky.’ He pulled her into him and she kissed him.
‘Do you mean that about me, or the house?’ she said, her hand on his chest as she lay against him. She couldn’t help but giggle at his deliberate he
sitation. Since she had known him, he had spoken wistfully about his plan to restore the old, grand house on the farm next to his and as soon as the inheritance from his mother’s estate had come through and the opportunity to first lease and then buy Fitzpatrick Estate had presented itself, he had never looked back. He pounced at the chance to buy the old derelict farm and restore it to how it should have been. Although Marie’s plans for the place didn’t stop there and with applying relentlessly for agri-tourism grants from the local council, they were finally in a position to develop it into a working farm retreat with holiday chalets for the thousands of tourists that visited their medieval city. That was until the body was discovered.
‘But did I tell you how much I love this house?’ he answered, his smile stretching across his face. Her skin felt so soft against his calloused hands. Clean hands were one of her demands, he was always sure to wash them if he wanted to put them anywhere near her.
‘No, do tell,’ she said, her cold skin rapidly warming with the heat of her husband’s body against her.
‘I love how elegant it is.’ He ran his fingertips under her eye, faint lines showing the amount of times she had laughed and the amount of times she had cried. ‘How it blends the new and the old together.’ His fingers continued across her cheeks and pushed her hair back on her shoulder. ‘I love the way, it’s so classy.’ He kissed her shoulder. ‘And clever,’ he added.
‘Really, a “clever” house?’ She laughed at his descriptions.
‘I love how strong it is,’ he said, his arm around her back with his large hands stretching nearly its full width. ‘Like nothing, no matter how bad, could knock it over.’ He grinned.
‘I’ll knock you over in a minute if you don’t stop talking about the house,’ she answered, feigning outrage. His double meanings were not lost on her.
‘I love that, even though it’s old,’ he said. She slapped his chest. ‘Or getting more mature,’ he said, grinning. ‘That it is finding new ways to be, evolving and changing to meet the needs of the family that lives inside of it.’ He placed his hand over her heart. ‘Like a guru of agri-tourism house.’
She couldn’t help but laugh at his ridiculousness; she knew he was running out of words to use.
‘Careful,’ she warned him. ‘There are those houses that might be ten years younger than others,’ she said and winked at him.
‘That it’s still the only place, in this entire world, I’ve ever wanted to be and nothing else, nowhere else, compares to it,’ he said, his hands held her tightly.
Marie knew how much he loved the house, how much of his life he had spent dreaming about owning it and how much it had meant to him to be finally in a position to fulfil that dream. She knew that it was his one wish, his driving force, to return to Kilkenny and take over Fitzpatrick Estate and she had been happy for it to be her dream also. Little did Michael know that the force behind his love for Fitzpatrick Estate was rooted far deeper than his appreciation for the old architecture and his love of the land.
‘I love you too,’ she said.
They had reclaimed the downtrodden overgrown farm and transformed it, allowing it to breathe again, filling it with freshness and newness, even gave it a slightly grander title of Fitzpatrick Estate. He loved the house then and now, ten years later, even with every cent he was owner of gone and a dead body buried in his land, he loved it even more. And he couldn’t explain why.
‘Still though,’ Michael continued the earlier conversation, ‘I’d love to know where they are getting their information from,’ he said; his arm extended across both pillows. Marie’s hand rested on his chest.
‘So would I.’ Marie was equally as concerned. ‘God knows, there are too many busy bodies down in that town, it’d be hard to blame it on just one,’ Marie said.
‘I don’t like the idea of them using my name, though. Seriously, if they only checked out a few facts, Google will forever now have a link to my name and this bloody story.’ He sighed.
‘Mmm,’ Marie’s thoughts were the same, but even more concerning were the thoughts of what else the reporters might uncover. She knew only too well how deep they were prepared to dig. ‘That’s how they draw you out.’ She lifted her head and rested it on her hand. ‘They make the public believe something by suggesting it, not actually saying it, mind you, so we can’t sue them, and then they tell you they are doing you a favour by getting you to do an exclusive interview, to tell “your side of the story”.’ She reached to the bedside table to grab the remote. She wondered was it too late. ‘I want to see if anyone else is running it. I might have an idea of how to stop this circus in its tracks.’
‘What are you cooking up now?’ Michael asked, rolling to his side of the bed.
‘I’m not sure.’ She had an immense love for Michael and a desire to protect him, just as his dying mother had asked her to do, she had no choice but to do it. ‘I might have an old contact who could bury this from getting any bigger,’ she said, considering her options. It wasn’t the most ideal of situations but she decided it was the better of two evils.
Chapter 8
Tuesday Afternoon – 2016
‘Afternoon, Dearest.’ Rose hadn’t needed to put her glasses on; she recognised Tim’s ringtone from the first note. He had been her rock all her life and now, especially since her beloved husband, Matt, died a little over a year ago, and her only daughter, Lizzie, working in London, he was irreplaceable to her, as was his partner Robert.
‘You do realise “dearest” is a term of endearment, Rose, and I’ll thank you not to use your sarcasm on me this fine Tuesday afternoon, not today anyway.’ Tim spoke drolly. He could picture her where she sat in Matt’s armchair by the back patio doors.
‘What can I do for you, brother dear, is that better?’ she asked impishly, even after all these years, she couldn’t help herself when it came to teasing her older brother. ‘Where are you?’
‘At, home,’ Tim said. ‘Working,’ he added. He hadn’t been able to concentrate on any project and had decided to work on his current project at home; Robert had joined him there. ‘I was going to come out and see you this evening. I want to talk to you about something.’
Rose could sense a difference in his voice. ‘Okay,’ she said suspiciously. ‘Can I have a hint?’ It would have suited Rose to have an evening alone. Her dizziness was increasing, particularly more so in the mornings and her energy was nearly non-existent. If Matt was still there, he would insist on her seeing a doctor, which was why she had made an appointment with the doctor and subsequently got a referral to the hospital. She hadn’t wanted to say anything to Tim and Robert until she knew more.
‘No,’ he answered, unapologetically.
‘I see, it must be good so.’ She laughed. ‘Is Robert coming with you?’ Robert and Matt had been the greatest of friends, they had to be, considering Rose and Tim always took each other’s side, especially when it came to winning at their regular poker games. Rose and Matt’s plans to travel following both their retirements as teachers had always included Tim and Robert flying in to meet them at whichever far-flung destination they had decided upon. But like a thief in the night, Matt’s cancer robbed them of their chance to follow through on their plans together.
‘No I won’t let him.’ Tim was brash but loveable. He threw Robert an apologetic glance.
‘That’s a pity.’ Rose was as skilful with her witty one-liners in return.
‘I’ll be out around seven, don’t cook, we’ll order in.’
‘Okay.’ Rose was grateful. She knew that otherwise she would have needed to find the energy to get to the supermarket; there wasn’t even a crumb in the cupboards. A takeaway would help that problem.
‘Did Lizzie phone as usual last night.’ Tim had already texted Lizzie, and knew the answer, but asked Rose anyhow.
‘She did. She’s grand, she seems to like this guy she’s dating, but still a bit homesick, if you ask me.’
‘You would say that.’ Tim had picked up the sa
me discontentment in his niece’s voice but didn’t want to add to Rose’s burden. It was no secret that working in recruitment wasn’t Lizzie’s profession of choice, not any more. ‘What are you like, she’s fine, having the time of her life in London, she is.’
‘Maybe.’ Rose wasn’t convinced. ‘Well, I’ll see you later then.’
Tim hung up his phone.
Rose sunk into the sumptuous mink velvet armchair and snapped open her book. This was her favourite spot, just after lunch, where the sun slanted through the French doors in her kitchen. She hadn’t finished the first page of her book when her phone buzzed.
St Vincent’s University Hospital: Your appointment at 11:20 at the Neurology Unit on Friday has been cancelled. Please contact the hospital on Ext 352 to reschedule. Thank you.
The timely reminder of her pending diagnosis caused havoc with her concentration. She didn’t have the heart to continue with her book so she dialled the hospital number instead.
‘Neurology department please.’ Rose was pleasant and patient as she spoke to the hospital’s switch. The friendly voice that received her call made her smile. ‘Oh, hello, it’s Rose O’Reilly here. I’ve just received a text cancelling my appointment on Friday. I was really quite eager to see the doctor as soon…’
‘Oh good, Ms O’Reilly.’ The receptionist had prepared herself for the barrage of complaints following the generic message that the clinic had sent. ‘You’re one of the first to respond.’ Rose shifted in her seat. ‘You see, the consultant Mr Tomkinson has had to change his surgery days. He is expecting that the junior doctors are going out on strike. So he wanted to reschedule everyone in advance.’
‘I see.’ Rose was endeared by her eagerness but anxious none the less. It had worried her enough to attend the doctor in the first place and complete the battery of tests they had suggested. Her appointment on Friday was necessary for her to understand what it meant.