Broken Harbor

by Tana French

  Mikey, she said, smiling up at me. You’re looking very handsome.

  I thought you were up at the pub.

  Too many people. That should have been my first clue. It’s so lovely here. So peaceful. Look.

  I shot a token glance at the sky. Yeah. Pretty. I’m going down to the beach, remember I said? I’ll be—

  Sit down here with me a minute. She reached out a hand, beckoning.

  I’ve got to go. The lads are—

  I know. Just a few minutes.

  I should have known. But she had seemed so happy, all those two weeks. She was always happy at Broken Harbor. Those were the only two weeks of the year when I could be just a normal guy: nothing to guard against except saying something stupid in front of the lads, no secrets prowling the back of my mind except the thoughts of Amelia that turned me red at all the wrong moments, nothing to watch for except big Dean Gorry who fancied her too. I had relaxed into it. All year long, I had watched and worked so hard; I thought I deserved this. I had forgotten that God, or the world, or whatever carves the rules in stone, doesn’t give you time off for good behavior.

  I sat on the edge of the other chair and tried not to jiggle. Mum leaned back and sighed, a contented, dreamy sound. Look at that, she said, and stretched out her arms towards the flirt and rush of the water. It was a soft evening, lavender waves lapping and the air sweet and salty as caramel, only a high thin haze in the sunset to say that the wind might turn on us and bite down sometime in the night. There’s nowhere like here, sure there isn’t. I wish I never had to go home. Don’t you?

  Yeah. Probably. It’s nice.

  Tell me something. That blond girl, the one with the nice dad who gave us milk that day we ran out. Is she your girlfriend?

  Jesus! Mum! I was twisting with embarrassment.

  She didn’t notice. Good. That’s good. Sometimes I worry that you don’t have girlfriends because . . . Another small sigh, as she brushed hair off her forehead. Ah, that’s good. She’s a lovely girl; she’s got a lovely smile.

  Yeah. Amelia’s smile, the way her eyes came up sideways to meet mine; the curve of her lip that made me want to bite it. I guess.

  Take good care of her. Your dad’s always taken good care of me. My mother smiled, reached across the gap between the chairs to pat my hand. So have you. I hope that girl knows how lucky she is.

  We’ve only been going out a few days.

  Are you going to keep on seeing each other?

  I shrugged. Don’t know. She’s from Newry. In my head I was already sending Amelia mix tapes, writing out the address in my best handwriting, picturing the girl-bedroom where she would listen to them.

  Stay in touch. You’d have beautiful children.

  Mum! We’ve only known each other—

  You never know. Something skimmed across her face, something swift and frail as the shadow of a bird on water. You never know, in this life.

  Dean had a million little brothers and sisters, his parents didn’t care where he was; he would be down on the beach already, ready and waiting to leap on his chance. Mum, I have to go. OK? Can I?

  I was half off my seat, legs braced ready to shoot me off through the dunes. Her hand reached across the gap again, caught hold of mine. Not yet. I don’t want to be on my own.

  I glanced up the path towards Whelan’s, praying, but it was empty. Dad and the girls’ll be back any minute.

  We both knew it would be longer than that. Whelan’s was where all the caravan-park families went: Dina would be running around playing catch and shrieking with the other little kids, Dad would get into a game of darts, Geri would sit on the wall outside flirting for just one more minute. Mum’s hand was still wrapped around mine. There are things I need to talk to you about. Things. It’s important.

  My head was full up with Amelia, with Dean, with the wild sea-smell surging in my blood, with the whole cider-tasting world of night and laughter and mystery that was waiting for me in those dunes. I thought she wanted to talk about love, girls, maybe God forbid sex. Yeah, OK, just not now. Tomorrow, when we get home—just I have to go, Mum, seriously, I’m meeting Amelia—

  She’ll wait for you. Stay with me. Don’t leave me on my own.

  The first note of desperation rising through her voice, tainting the air like toxic smoke. I whipped my hand out from under hers as if it had burned me. Tomorrow at home I would have been ready for this, but not here, not now. The unfairness of it slashed like a whip across the face, left me stunned, outraged, blinded. Mum. Just don’t.

  Her hand still outstretched towards mine, ready to clutch. Please, Mikey. I need you.

  So what? It exploded out of me, took all my breath and left me panting. I wanted to punch her out of my way, out of my world. I’m so fucking sick of taking care of you! You’re the one who’s supposed to be taking care of me!

  Her face, stricken, openmouthed. The sunset light gilding away the gray in her hair, turning her young and shimmering, ready to vanish into its blinding brightness. Oh, Mike. Oh, Mike, I’m so sorry—

  Yeah. I know. Me too. I was shifting on the chair, scarlet with shame and defiance and hideous embarrassment, dying to get out of there even more. Just forget it. I didn’t mean it.

  You did. I know you did. And you’re right. You shouldn’t have to . . . Oh, God. Oh, love, I’m so sorry.

  It’s OK. It’s fine. Bright flashes of color were moving in the dunes, long-legged shadows stretching in front of them as they ran towards the water. A girl laughed; I couldn’t tell whether it was Amelia. Can I go?

  Yes. Of course. Go. Her hand twisting among the flowers of her skirt. Don’t worry, Mike, love. I won’t do this to you again. I promise. You have a gorgeous evening.

  As I jumped up—already putting up a hand to gingerly triple-check my hair, running my tongue over my teeth to make sure they were clean—she caught me by the sleeve. Mum, I have to—

  I know. Just a second. She pulled me down, pressed her hands to my cheeks and kissed my forehead. She smelled of coconut suntan oil, of salt, of summer, of my mother.

  Afterwards people blamed my father. We had done a good job, he and I and Geri, of keeping our secret locked safe inside our own four walls; too good. No one had ever suspected the days when my mother couldn’t stop crying, the weeks when she lay in bed staring at the wall; but back then neighbors watched out for each other, or watched each other, I’m not sure which it was. The whole road knew there had been weeks when she didn’t come out of the house, days when she could only manage a faint hello or when she tucked her head down and scurried away from their curious eyes.

  The adults tried to be subtle, but every condolence had a question swaying in the undercurrent; the guys in school didn’t even try, half the time. They all wanted to know the same things. When she kept her head down, was she hiding black eyes? When she stayed indoors, was she waiting for ribs to heal? When she went into the water, was it because my father had sent her there?

  I shut the adults up with a cold blank stare; I beat the shit out of classmates who got too blatant, right up until the day when my sympathy points got used up and teachers started giving me detention for fighting. I needed to get home on time, to help Geri with Dina and the house—my father couldn’t do it, he could barely talk. I couldn’t afford detention. That was when I started learning control.

  Deep down, I didn’t blame them for asking. It looked like plain salacious nosiness, but even then I understood that it was more. They needed to know. Like I told Richie, cause and effect isn’t a luxury. Take it away and we’re left paralyzed, clinging to some tiny raft lurching wild and random on endless black sea. If my mother could go into the water just because, then so could theirs, any night, any minute; so could they. When we can’t see a pattern, we fit pieces together until one takes shape, because we have to.

  I fought them be
cause the pattern they were seeing was the wrong one, and I couldn’t make myself tell them any other way. I knew they were right about this much: things don’t happen for no reason. I was the only one in the world who knew that the reason was me.

  I had learned how to live with that. I had found a way, slowly and with immense amounts of work and pain. I had no way to live without it.

  There isn’t any why. If Dina was right, then the world was unliveable. If she was wrong, if—and this needed to be true—if the world was sane and it was only the strange galaxy inside her head that was spinning reasonless off any axis, then all of this was because of me.

  I dropped Fiona outside the hospital. As I pulled up the car, I said, “I’ll need you to come in and give an official statement about finding the bracelet.”

  I saw her eyes shut for a second. “When?”

  “Now, if you don’t mind. I can wait here while you drop off your sister’s things.”

  “When are you going to . . . ?” Her chin tilted towards the building. “To tell her?”

  To arrest her. “As soon as possible. Probably tomorrow.”

  “Then I’ll come in after that. I’ll stay with Jenny till then.”

  I said, “It might be easier on you to come in this evening. You might find it tough, being with Jenny right now.”

  Fiona said tonelessly, “I might, yeah.” Then she climbed out of the car and walked away, holding the bin-liner in both arms, leaning backwards as if it weighed too much to carry.

  * * *

  * * *

  I handed the Beemer in to the car pool and waited outside the castle wall, lurking in shadows like a corner boy, until the shift was over and the lads had gone home. Then I went to find the Super.

  O’Kelly was still at his desk, head bent in a circle of lamplight, running his pen along the lines of a statement sheet. He had his reading glasses on the end of his nose. The cozy yellow light brought out the deep creases around his eyes and mouth, the white streaks growing in his hair; he looked like some kind old man in a storybook, the wise grandfather who knows how to fix it all.

  Outside the window the sky was a rich winter black, and shadows were starting to pile up around the ragged stacks of files leaning in corners. The office felt like a place I had dreamed about once when I was a kid and spent years trying to find, a place whose every priceless detail I should have been hoarding in my memory; a place that was already dissolving through my fingers, already lost.

  I moved in the doorway, and O’Kelly raised his head. For a split second he looked tired and sad. Then all that was wiped away and his face turned blank, utterly expressionless.

  “Detective Kennedy,” he said, taking off his reading glasses. “Shut the door.”

  I closed it behind me, stayed standing until O’Kelly pointed his pen at a chair. He said, “Quigley was in to me this morning.”

  I said, “He should have left it to me.”

  “That’s what I told him. He put on his nun-face and said he didn’t trust you to come clean.”

  The little fuckwad. “Wanted to get his version in first, more like.”

  “He couldn’t wait to drop you in the shite. Practically came in his kacks at the chance. Here’s the thing, though: Quigley’ll twist a story to suit himself, all right, but I’ve never known him make one up from scratch. Too careful of his own arse.”

  I said, “He wasn’t making it up.” I found the evidence bag in my pocket—it felt like days since I had put it there—and laid it on O’Kelly’s desk.

  He didn’t pick it up. He said, “Give me your version. I’ll need it in a written statement, but I want to hear it first.”

  “Detective Curran found this in Conor Brennan’s flat, while I was outside making a phone call. The nail polish matches Jennifer Spain’s. The wool matches the pillow that was used to suffocate Emma Spain.”

  O’Kelly whistled. “Sweet fuck. The mammy. Are you sure?”

  “I spent the afternoon with her. She won’t confess under caution, but she gave me a full account off-the-record.”

  “Which is bugger-all use to us, without this.” He nodded at the envelope. “How’d it get into Brennan’s flat, if he’s not our man?”

  “He was at the scene. He’s the one who tried to finish off Jennifer Spain.”

  “Thank Jaysus for that. At least you didn’t arrest a holy innocent. That’s one less lawsuit, anyway.” O’Kelly thought that over, grunted. “Go on. Curran finds this, clicks what it means. And then? Why the hell didn’t he hand it in?”

  “He was in two minds. In his view, Jennifer Spain’s suffered enough, and no purpose would be served by her arrest: the best solution would be to release Conor Brennan and close the file, with the implication that Patrick Spain was the perpetrator.”

  O’Kelly snorted. “Beautiful. That’s only beautiful. The fucking gobshite. So out he walks, cool as a cucumber, with this yoke in his pocket.”

  “He was holding on to the evidence while he decided what to do with it. Last night, a woman who’s also known to me was at Detective Curran’s house. She spotted that envelope and thought it shouldn’t be there, so she took it away with her. She tried to hand it in to me this morning, but Quigley intercepted her.”

  “This young one,” O’Kelly said. He was clicking the top of his pen with his thumb, watching it like it was fascinating stuff. “Quigley tried to tell me ye were all having some mad three-way—said he was concerned because the squad should be upholding morals, all that altar-boy shite. What’s the real story?”

  O’Kelly has always been good to me. “She’s my sister,” I said.

  That got his attention. “Holy God. I’d say Curran is missing a few teeth now, is he?”

  “He didn’t know.”

  “That’s no excuse. Dirty little whoremaster.”

  I said, “Sir, I’d like to keep my sister out of this, if possible. She’s not well.”

  “That’s what Quigley said, all right.” Only presumably not in those words. “No need to bring her into it. IA might want to talk to her, but I’ll tell them there’s nothing she can add. You make sure she doesn’t go chatting to some media bastard, and she’ll be grand.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  O’Kelly nodded. “This,” he said, flicking the envelope with his pen. “Can you swear you never saw it till today?”

  I said, “I swear, sir. I didn’t know it existed till Quigley waved it in my face.”

  “When did Curran pick it up?”

  “Thursday morning.”

  “Thursday morning,” O’Kelly repeated. Something ominous was building in his voice. “So he kept it to himself for the bones of two days. The two of ye are spending every waking moment together, you’re talking about nothing only this case—or at least I hope you are—and Curran’s got the answer in the pocket of his shiny tracksuit the whole time. Tell me, Detective: how the sweet living fuck did you miss that?”

  “I was focused on the case. I did notice—”

  O’Kelly exploded. “Sweet Jesus! What does this yoke look like to you? Chopped liver? This is the fucking case. And it’s not some piece-of-shite druggie case where nobody cares if you take your eye off the ball. There are murdered kids here. You didn’t think this might be a good time to act like a bloody detective and keep an eye on what’s going on around you?”

  I said, “I knew something was on Curran’s mind, sir. I didn’t miss that. But I thought it was because we weren’t on the same page. I thought Brennan was our man, and looking anywhere else was a waste of time; Curran thought—said he thought—that Patrick Spain was a better suspect and we should spend more time on him. I thought that was all it was.”

  O’Kelly took a breath to keep bollocking me, but his heart wasn’t in it. “Either Curran deserves an Oscar,” he said, but the heat had gone out of his voi
ce, “or you deserve a good kicking.” He rubbed his eyes with thumb and finger. “Where is the little prick, anyway?”

  “I sent him home. I wasn’t about to let him touch anything else.”

  “Too bloody right. Get onto him, tell him to report to me first thing in the morning. If he survives that, I’ll find him a nice desk where he can file paperwork till IA’s done with him.”

  “Yes, sir.” I would text him. I had no desire to talk to Richie, ever again.

  O’Kelly said, “If your sister hadn’t nicked the evidence, would Curran have handed it over, in the end? Or would he have flushed it down the jacks, kept his mouth shut for good? You knew him better than I did. What do you figure?”

  He’d have handed it in today, sir, I’d bet my month’s salary on it . . . All those partners I had envied would have done it without a second thought, but Richie wasn’t my partner any more, if he ever had been. “I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t have a clue.”

  O’Kelly grunted. “Not like it matters either way. Curran’s through. I’d boot him back to whatever council flat he came from, if I could do it without IA and the brass and the media crawling up my arse; since I can’t, he’ll be reverted to uniform, and I’ll find him some lovely shitehole full of addicts and handguns where he can wait for his pension. If he knows what’s good for him, he’ll keep his mouth shut and take it.”

  He left a space in case I wanted to put up a fight. His eye told me it would be pointless, but I wouldn’t have done it anyway. I said, “I think that’s the right outcome.”

  “Hold your horses there. IA and the brass aren’t going to be happy with you, either. Curran’s still on probation; you’re the man in charge. If this investigation’s gone down the jacks, that’s all yours.”