The Accident

by S D Monaghan

  ‘This isn’t a good time, Shay.’

  ‘Isn’t a good time? Damn straight it isn’t,’ Shay said, with black-framed glasses aimed directly at David’s eyes. ‘Our downstairs hall is destroyed for the second time today. Worse than this morning when it started from nowhere. David, the smell inside! It’s a health hazard now. Our house. Where we live. I’ve been on this road for thirty-five years and nothing like this has happened until you finished your build. Ryan’s not answering, while your engineer just wants it all in writing and insists that it can’t be your building work. But it is your bloody building work. For god’s sake, David, there’s a smell in our home. The problem’s under your new patio. It needs fixing. Hear me? I’m arranging rods. If Ryan isn’t bothered then I’ll just fix the bloody thing myself. Understand?’

  ‘I’ll look into it,’ David said, having no idea what he was talking about, only really registering the bit about the patio and feeling his stomach take an elevator plunge at the idea of Ryan being under there.

  He let himself into the hall. Tara had already hung two paintings: Line In the Sand IV and Horizon II. Fuelled by Mai Tai cocktails, she had sketched them on a hammock in Thailand, back when they’d been plotting their future. She’d been in full flow back then, soaking herself in her life’s purpose. David had always envied those who had a calling in life. Until he’d been seventeen and had begun to lose himself in the history section of the local library, he had never wanted to be anything. Up till then, he’d learned from the adults in his world – his teachers and the police in particular – that he had no future.

  Dora walked out of the front room, stretched her front legs, paws fanning out prettily like petals, and glanced up at David. Twitching her nose, she sensed something and froze like a set scene from the Natural Museum of History. She dashed upstairs.

  The kitchen door was ajar. David spied at what lay beyond it through the crack. He’d always liked to watch Tara from afar, observing the men around her search for an angle, reach for the clever line that would make her toss back her long neck and laugh so throatily. But then she’d slept with Ryan. Then he’d killed a man. Now things had changed forever.

  Rapping his knuckles on the door, he waited for the end of his life – or at least, this phase of it. Tara smiled from the far side of the island. It sat four, but there were only two metal stools beside it, as if emphasising that all of this was just for them. David nodded at the man sitting at the dining table between the Romanesque pillars, who was clearly trying hard not to act like he was in the biggest kitchen he’d ever been in. His seat was turned away from the table so that his body faced into the room. With his long legs stretched out, David could see that he was at least six foot tall. He was about fifty, wearing an open leather jacket, and his dark brown hair was neatly side-parted.

  ‘Come in,’ the man said, in a middle-class Dublin accent. He had the routine confidence of a large man.

  David half-smiled. He disliked him instantly – as he did all police. Who would want to spend time with a person who wanted to police everyone else?

  ‘Just a joke. You knocked on the door – but it’s your house. And a very fine house too. Best of everything. Top spec.’ The man ran his eyes over David, lodging details of his black jeans, T-shirt, loafers, suit jacket; as if considering the fact that most people – most suspects – dress like who they want to be, not who they are. ‘Your wife gave me a tour of downstairs. Amazing what can be done with these old Georgians. Not that there’s anything wrong with the originals. Some people would pay a lot of money to get one of these perfectly untouched.’

  Tara said, ‘Some people intended to do that. But they all got extensions in the end. The gardens are just too big not to.’

  ‘Have you checked up the history of this place? A house as old as this must have an impressive list of tragedies connected to it.’

  Tara straightened. Critical talk about the house clearly bothered her. It was as if she believed that the house would hear it.

  ‘What I mean is, people have to die somewhere, and a century-old house must have seen some of its inhabitants... I’m rambling. Your control room off the pantry – it’s like the engine room of a nuclear sub. The plumbing involved to get that underfloor heating system, solar panels, the upstairs rads all neatly into that space...’ He looked at David. ‘What’s your name again?’

  ‘David Miller.’ It sounded wrong to have to say that inside his own house. He put out his hand and waited for the policeman to offer his first name, but he didn’t.

  ‘Detective Fenton,’ he said, and shook David’s hand before quickly retracting his arm. ‘So, a perfect house in a nice area full of two-million-euro-plus properties, with a nearby famous street full of the type of families that make the Guinnesses seem middle-class. And because this is a much sought-after neighbourhood with excellent schools, good French restaurants and an organic food supermarket, people think nothing bad happens here?’

  ‘Detective,’ David said, ‘nothing bad ever does happen around here.’

  Fenton grinned a patient, tolerant smile, communicating clearly that he didn’t like his first impression of Tara’s husband. ‘Except for that immigrant. Remember? Six months ago? Found in the kids’ playground?’

  ‘Yeah,’ David said. ‘I know all about that.’

  ‘I’m sure you do. Would’ve been round about when you were buying this place. Someone beat a Somalian to death. Terribly sad, and not good for the house prices.’ Detective Fenton chuckled, visibly struggling to lasso his bitterness. ‘Sorry,’ he continued, ‘it’s just that I haven’t talked real estate in a long time. It’s not much of a topic up where I live. In fact, where I live, doing up your house involves getting a ladder and a few cans of paint. It doesn’t involve diggers, cranes and closing off half the street for six months. You aren’t from here, are you? Like, you’re not a local boy?’

  ‘No. The Cawley Estates. I’m sure you know them. You guys break in the new recruits up there. Maybe you even walked a beat up there.’ David found it hard to hold Fenton’s gaze – it was like looking into the power of the state. But he persevered.

  Fenton smiled in a friendly, interested way – as if trying to picture David as the rough piece of work he must’ve been about twenty-five years ago. ‘I know them well. Wouldn’t say you miss it much.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with the Cawley Estates. Made me who I am, and I had a good childhood up there.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Fenton said, clearly not believing him, his smile growing broader. ‘So, Tara was telling me that you manage a kids’ team – Gaelic, rugby or soccer?’

  ‘Soccer. I just help out. Mostly on the sideline. Tactical stuff. Try and get a game for as many lads as possible without weakening the team. They’re from Cawley.’

  ‘Fair play.’ Then, snapping back to business, Fenton said, ‘You know Ryan is missing?’

  David pretended not to notice the adrenaline in the room begin to expand like the steam from an electric kettle. ‘Have you not spoken to my wife about this already?’

  ‘No. What happened to your forehead?’

  ‘Oh…’ David rubbed the bruise. ‘Hit my head off a beam this morning.’

  ‘Uh-huh. Now, Ryan is missing. We need to find him.’

  ‘Right – what can we do to help?’

  ‘Wait,’ Tara interjected.

  Competition for David’s attention was fierce.

  With two pairs of eyes switched to her, Tara said, ‘If he’s missing... Well, fine, I mean, obviously he is missing – but isn’t it way too soon to be calling in the cops?’

  ‘Yeah,’ David added. ‘Isn’t there a wait-and-see period until someone is deemed officially missing?’

  ‘Usually there is,’ said the detective. ‘But Ryan has lots of friends on the force. Plus, for us he is a person of interest. He was involved in certain activities…’

  ‘Certain activities?’ Tara said. ‘What type of—’

  ‘Nothing to be worrying your pretty little head ov
er,’ Fenton said, standing, presenting his full height and width before quickly softening the gesture by fixing his side-parting. ‘But because of certain activities, and the fact that he’s missing, then that’s enough of a red flag to get us involved.’

  ‘Well, we haven’t spoken to him since…’ Tara gazed to the ceiling as if she was trying to remember something just on the outskirts of her memory. ‘Early yesterday. I talked to him on the phone.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About this kitchen. The wiring for an industrial loft-like effect. It’s complicated.’

  David said, ‘Yeah, the electrician – Mike – was wrapping up. So Ryan wanted to know if we would ever change from exposed fittings.’

  ‘And I said, in the future, probably,’ Tara added.

  Like a relay team, David took her up: ‘And so Ryan told Mike to put all the wiring inside the ceiling. Therefore, all those conduit pipes you see up there – there’s nothing in them. They’re just for show.’

  Detective Fenton grunted. He wasn’t interested in talking about the house any more. ‘And that was the last time either of you talked to him? No other calls?’

  David nodded. Tara did too. She was good. She was a better liar than David. There was no doubt emanating from her. She appeared to be an attractive, happy young woman who had just moved into the house of her dreams. She did not seem to be a woman who was being queried by the police in front of her husband about the disappearance of her lover.

  ‘OK. Thanks for your time, and apologies again about having called you home so quick from the university. And that thing you do with the kids’ football team? Giving back to the community – admirable. Seriously.’ Fenton walked to the kitchen door, placed his hand on the handle and then released it. ‘One more thing.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Tara said. The natural la-de-da casualness of her expression had suddenly dampened. It was a slight flicker in her eyes. There was something she’d forgotten, or something she’d just remembered, that might trip her up. David wondered if Tara was worried that Ryan’s disappearance had something to do with her. Was she afraid that Ryan was now in love with her? The moment the thought crossed his mind, a voice in his head snapped: He deserves to be dead.

  ‘Well, it’s a bit tricky... A bit awkward.’ Fenton made an expression as if one of his fillings had just fallen out.

  ‘What is?’ Tara asked, not smiling, no longer playing the game.

  The detective looked first to David and then to Tara, his expression grave and concerned, almost embarrassed. He fixed his hair again. ‘There’s the problem of Ryan’s phone. We have it.’

  David’s jaw clenched. How?

  ‘Where did you get it?’ Tara asked in a disbelieving tone. David was glad his wife was doing the talking. He was finding it difficult to breathe.

  Detective Fenton folded his arms, making him seem like a battering ram about to lunge forward. ‘He left it in his car. Though his wife, Christine, insists that Ryan would never go anywhere without it. A man of habit, is Ryan. He checks his messages last thing at night. Plugs it into the charger and goes to bed. If his phone isn’t where it is supposed to be, he will rip the house apart to find it.’

  ‘His phone…’ David said slowly. ‘He left it in his car?’

  The detective’s tongue quickly licked his upper lip. Fenton clearly believed that fact to be the least mysterious of all the facts at his disposal.

  ‘So... His car is here. Outside. So... It seems he parked the car here early this morning and vanished. Without his phone. Christine got home late last night and the driveway was empty. She assumed he was working late. But Ryan wasn’t there in the morning, either, and so at first she assumes he didn’t come home at all and had left her a message on her phone. But he hadn’t. And so she then assumed that she didn’t hear him come in last night or leave when he got up before her.’ Fenton shrugged, as if he wasn’t sure if he believed that.

  David felt his underarms dampening with heat. If there was a time to surrender, end it all and turn himself in, then this was it. No – not yet. Whatever the police can throw at me now, they can throw at me tomorrow or the day after. I need time to figure it all out. As long as he was still free, there was a chance – a slim, tiny chance – that somehow this could all work out. However, he also knew that the moment this escalated, the police would search the house. They’d talk to Mike and Bruno and would discover that David had just appeared from upstairs that morning as if he’d been there all night. And they’d check his finances. Of course they would. They’d see he gave all his and Tara’s money to Gordon – if he decided to give all their money to Gordon. Stop panicking. He tried to streamline his thoughts. Deal with one problem at a time. And the first problem is the detective.

  Fenton looked directly at Tara. ‘So I checked the recent calls on Ryan’s phone. There’s a record of five calls between you two which were made in the morning and the afternoon. Three that he made and two from you. And yet... Tara, you said you’d only called Ryan once yesterday?’

  Tara was about to say something but then blanked, as if not really believing that she had nothing to offer. She looked at David, a deep regret in her eyes. A sadness.

  ‘We share the phone,’ David said. ‘Sometimes I take Tara’s. She doesn’t miss it when she’s painting, and I deal with her agent and the gallery owners and all that. I’m her manager – as well as lecturing in modern European history. Those calls were from me to Ryan and Ryan to me. Yesterday, when I was last talking to him. Like I’d said earlier.’

  ‘But you didn’t “say” any of that earlier. Tara said she’d last talked to him in the morning. And you agreed.’

  ‘Oh. Right. But I implied… that I was talking to him too. At least I thought I did.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘We were wrapping things up... Like the Juliet balcony in my office upstairs. It still wasn’t in.’

  Tara stared at him, unable to mask her amazement. She loved her phone, and went everywhere with it. And she knew David disliked dealing with Ryan and always went through Gordon instead. The fact that her husband and Ryan didn’t click wasn’t a secret. From the moment work started, they’d instinctively repelled each other, despite their best efforts. Tara knew how David hated Ryan’s Dickensian roguish charm, and the cad-like flirtations of the smooth-talking ladies’ man as he shared reminiscences and in-jokes with David’s wife, demonstrating that good memories equal events plus time.

  Fenton failed to hide his disappointment. Perhaps he didn’t suspect David of having anything to do with Ryan’s disappearance. Perhaps he’d simply assumed that there had been an affair between Tara and Ryan and he had wanted personally to witness yet another marriage crack from side to side.

  ‘Well that’s that, then,’ he said, zipping up his leather jacket. ‘I’ll let you two lovebirds get back to your spanking new house.’

  ‘Wait,’ Tara said. The energy in the room shifted as she suddenly became the most important of the three people present. ‘What exactly were you thinking in relation to those calls? Why did you leave it until the last moment to mention them?’

  David began to knead the side of his forehead before realising that he was kneading the side of his forehead. He stared at his wife, pleading, longing for her to stop talking.

  Detective Fenton’s smile remained in place like a limp, forgotten balloon after the party was over. He touched the parting of his hair again – it was almost like a nervous tic. ‘Until we find Ryan, everything that connects to his life is of interest to us. I’ll be in touch.’

  The detective walked through the hallway, whistling quietly as he went, soundtracking his everything-is-going-my-way mood. He slowed at Tara’s paintings before letting himself out. But a sense of relief from the detective’s exit did not sweep over David. Where he came from, nobody’s situation had ever improved after talking to the cops.

  Ignoring Tara, David entered the dark of the front room and dropped a pinch of food flakes into the dim golden glow of the softly bu
bbling aquarium. Dora, now settling on the bookshelf, miaowed a pissed-off protest at having her world turned inside out. From the shadows, David observed the front room and the adjoining library through the French doors. With all their stuff unpacked and still so much empty space, it seemed to him as if they were in the process of moving out. And then he focused on the drinks cabinet: a beautiful skyline of bottles, decanters, glasses, mixers. He poured himself a large Scotch and watched through the window as Detective Fenton regarded David’s BMW coolly and hungrily.

  David returned to the kitchen. Tara sat at the island, her arms folded on the marble surface. He imagined telling her everything – punching Ryan, Ryan falling, Ryan being buried ten feet away from her, Gordon about to take all their money. He imagined her telling him that everything would be all right; that together they were invincible. But Ryan had been Tara’s lover, and because of that she no longer had any right to parts of David. His secrets were not for sale.

  David opened the heavy fridge door. He took a fistful of cubes from the icebox and dropped them into his drink, listening to the sound of fissures ripping through them. With two gulps, the Scotch was gone. It burned his throat and warmed his insides. He could feel its effects immediately taking grip. It was almost medicinal.

  Tara’s eyes closed. Usually, silence didn’t bother David. He took it as a sign of their ease with each other. But maybe he’d got that wrong too. Maybe their silence was only silence. He wondered if secrets were going to become something as solidly part of their marriage as breakfast together, an hour’s worth of shared TV or a glass of wine in the evening to unwind and catch up. David remembered how he’d felt sitting in his car outside this very house last night. He remembered the loss he’d experienced as Tara had driven away. And for a moment, he once again felt intense dread – that he was about to lose her forever.

  ‘David,’ Tara said, opening her eyes. ‘How do you know?’

  He stared at her, watching her suck in her cheeks, unaware that he could see her visibly adjusting her thought processes as she did so. There was no escaping it now.