After the Silence

by Louise O'Neill

  ‘You’re hopeless, Mum.’ Evie rolled her eyes. ‘This shit is wasted on you.’

  ‘Language,’ Keelin said half-heartedly. ‘And you know I’m not into this stuff. I never have been.’

  Her daughter frowned. ‘This can’t be easy for you either,’ she said, as if the idea had only just occurred to her. ‘How are you doing, Mum?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Keelin answered automatically. That’s what she always said when anyone asked how she was – I’m fine! Great! Busy! – not that many people were interested in hearing about how Keelin Kinsella was these days. ‘But I’d better go, Evie. The documentary makers will be here soon – we’re just waiting on the text from Baltimore to say they’re on the ferry.’

  ‘Showtime!’ her daughter called out in a booming voice, like a ringmaster at a circus. ‘It’s showtime, children.’ Keelin’s hand jerked involuntarily, almost dropping the phone in fright. ‘Don’t say that, Evie. I can’t—’ she began.

  ‘What’s wrong, Mum? You’ve gone totally white.’

  ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘It was nothing. I love you.’

  ‘Love ya right back,’ Evie replied, blowing a kiss.

  The screen turned blank and Keelin saw a woman in its reflection, an outline pencilled in the black glass. Who was that person? That stranger? she thought, before remembering what she looked like these days, the creation she had remade herself into.

  That’s you. That’s you now, Keelin.

  Chapter Four

  Later that afternoon, they both started when Henry’s phone beeped. It was a message from the man at Baltimore pier, the man her husband paid handsomely to keep them informed of imminent arrivals to the island. Forewarned is forearmed, he always said. ‘Two young men with Australian accents have just boarded the ferry to Inisrún,’ Henry read aloud. ‘They’re nearly here,’ he said to Keelin. ‘Are you ready, darling?’ And she nodded, ignoring the dizzying sensation that felt like she was falling, as if in a bad dream, waiting for the bottom of her nightmare to rise to meet her. She would have to be ready, she said. There was no going back now.

  ‘You found the place all right then?’ she heard her husband ask as he opened the front door to their guests.

  ‘It would have been hard to miss,’ a male voice answered. Keelin stood at the top of the stairs, a hand clutching at the banister, as she watched them walk into her house, these men who had the potential to set her life on fire, and probably wanted to do so, all in the hope of making their reputations. Laughing, throwing well-worn suitcases and backpacks and camera equipment at their feet. They looked younger in real life, their clothes like those of students, low-slung jeans and scruffy trainers, beanie hats pulled low over their foreheads.

  ‘Hello there,’ she said, joining them. ‘Welcome to Inisrún.’ She shook their hands, hoping her palms weren’t sweating. ‘May I take your coats?’

  ‘I’ll keep mine, thanks,’ Jake said, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his navy-blue rain jacket. He was taller than she had imagined, his untidy curls tucked behind his ears, and he was in need of a shave.

  ‘You’re not cold, surely?’ Henry slapped him on the back. ‘It’s nineteen degrees outside. That’s tropical for Ireland, my friend.’

  ‘That’s what I told him,’ Noah said, laughing. ‘But he didn’t believe me. He’s been moaning since we set foot on the tarmac at Cork airport.’

  ‘It’s lucky you came now then,’ Keelin said. ‘May is a good month for your first trip to the island. There’s a grand stretch in the evening these days.’ She sounded inane, like a cliché of an Irish woman unable to talk about anything other than the weather, but she couldn’t help herself. ‘It can get very bleak here, in the winter.’

  ‘I guess,’ Jake said. ‘Although it’s a pity we weren’t green-lit before March. It would have been useful to be here for Nessa’s anniversary.’

  An uneasy silence spilled between the four of them at the mention of her name, lapping at their toes. Keelin could feel Jake’s eyes on her, interested to see her reaction, and she kept her face very still. She couldn’t become complacent, she told herself; she had to remember why these men were here, why they had come to this house and this island. It was all because of her.

  ‘It’s always a difficult time for the island, the anniversary,’ Henry said quietly. ‘We hope your programme will bring some peace to the Crowleys at last. That poor family.’ He let out a deep sigh. ‘But please, come in and make yourselves comfortable.’ He motioned at the young men to follow him into the kitchen. The heart of the home, the architect had pronounced, outlining his desire to create a space that would make the most of the natural light and stunning sea views. The interior designer had selected the island carved from Italian marble in gleaming white, the bespoke fitted cabinets in stainless steel and glass, the overhead lighting fixture that resembled an art installation in misshapen orbs of silver. One of the Australians let out a low whistle as they walked in, muttering, ‘Very nice,’ under his breath.

  ‘What’ll you have?’ Henry asked as he opened the fridge door, peering inside to see what had been delivered from the mainland that morning. ‘We have still and sparkling water, and there’s tea in those canisters by the Aga, isn’t there, darling? It’s rather a scandal in this part of the world if you don’t prefer the traditional breakfast tea, and it has to be ­Barry’s, naturally. I’m sure you’re well aware of the interminable tea war, being a Cork man,’ he said to Noah, who chuckled politely. He was already charmed by Henry, Keelin could tell, a ready smile on his lips whenever her husband made a quip. ‘But there’s a selection of herbal teas as well,’ Henry continued. ‘And we have a Nespresso machine if you’d prefer coffee. Or you might be in the mood for something stronger?’ he raised an eyebrow mischievously.

  Looking at him now, Keelin thought that it could have easily been ten years ago, before their lives had fallen apart. Henry had always enjoyed having people to the house, filling its many rooms with music and laughter, relishing his role as the magnanimous host. He would sit at the top of the dining table, presiding over whatever heated debate was currently raging on among their guests, refugees or taxes or social welfare housing, everyone repeating arguments they’d read in the Guardian or Spectator, depending on their political allegiances, and passing them off as their own. Henry had been dazzling, his opinions incisive, his quick wit defusing any disagreements that threatened to turn nasty. What do you think, Henry? people would ask, giving him the last word on the subject. Keelin had felt lucky then, watching her husband, the candlelight soft on his handsome face. All these people would have to leave once the party was over, go back to their mundane, ordinary lives, but she would get to wake up next to Henry Kinsella and call him her own.

  ‘Ooh, white wine would be lovely, if you have it,’ Noah said, sitting on a tall stool and slapping his hands on the marble island, leaving fingerprints behind. Keelin gazed at the smears, wondering how to wipe the countertop clean without appearing rude. ‘I could do with a proper drink after that journey. Two planes, a bus and a boat, all within thirty-five hours. I’m cooked.’

  ‘I couldn’t believe how long it took to get to Inisrún from Cork airport,’ Jake said, taking a seat next to Noah. ‘It must feel quite isolated, living here. You’re so far away from everything.’

  ‘It’s not for everyone, island life.’ Henry grabbed a bottle of Chardonnay from the Neff wine cooler and poured Noah a glass. He offered some to Jake too, but the young man politely said no. ‘You have to be comfortable with yourself, is the best way of putting it. You’re surrounded by water on every side, and left alone with your own thoughts for a great deal of the time. It can drive some people mad, particularly in the winter months. But we’ve always loved it here, haven’t we, darling?’ he said to Keelin, and she nodded in agreement.

  ‘You have a beautiful home, Mrs Kinsella,’ Noah said, gesturing towards the sunroom adjoining the open-p
lan kitchen, cut from glass, ceiling to floor, so all you could see was a forever expanse of grey sky, the sea breaking its spine against the rocks below.

  ‘Keelin, please,’ she said. ‘And thank you, that’s very kind.’ A beautiful home – that was what everyone said the first time they came to Hawthorn House. An Tigh Mór, or the Big House, as it was known on the island. Henry used to find the nickname amusing. It’s like we’re in an Elizabeth Bowen novel, he would say to his friends from school, laughing. They burned those houses down, Keelin had wanted to remind him. They smoked the unwanted strangers out.

  ‘How long have you lived here?’ Noah asked, holding on to the edge of the counter and leaning back on his stool in a precarious fashion, as if defying gravity to do its worst. Her son used to do the same thing when he was a small boy, she remembered. In the old house at the other side of the island, the stove lighting and Keelin’s mother beside it, her shoes thrown off, her feet webbed by thick tan tights. The older woman was peeling a mandarin, throwing its skin onto the fire, the sharp scent of citrus rising through the air. Look at me! Alex cried, standing on the upholstered armchair like it was a surfboard and dipping low until it almost touched the ground. Look at me, Mamó! Look what I can do! His grandmother had gasped and stood up in panic, her hands outreached as if to catch him, and the little boy stopped immediately. He steadied himself and climbed down from the chair, rushing to his grandmother’s side. Don’t be scared, Mamó, he said, wrapping his arms around her waist. I’m a big boy now, I can take care of you.

  ‘Darling?’ Henry touched her arm. ‘Noah asked you a question.’

  ‘God, sorry, I was away with the fairies there. The house, wasn’t it? We’ve been here for fifteen years, give or take,’ Keelin said. ‘Almost a year after our daughter was born.’ She coughed, trying to think of something else to say. ‘And you’ve family in Cork, don’t you, Noah?’ she tried.

  ‘Yeah, my mam’s from Beara originally. She moved to Sydney in the early eighties but me and my two brothers were shipped off to my grandparents during the school holidays. It was like another world, the freedom of it! Out the door every morning and we didn’t get home until after sunset and no one was worried about us.’ He looked around the kitchen again. ‘My nan’s house is pretty different to this one though.’

  ‘I bet,’ Jake half laughed, unzipping his jacket and pushing it down around his waist. There was a tattoo circling his forearm, winding underneath his elbow, swirls and dots in black ink. A message, Keelin thought, a code. And then, flash-quick, a picture in her mind’s eye. Another tattoo, on another body. That had been a message too, but one she hadn’t deciphered in time. She swallowed, a familiar clamp-ring of nausea around her neck, squeezing tight. She couldn’t think about that now, not in front of these men. It wasn’t safe.

  ‘Those are great,’ he said suddenly, pointing at the wall behind her. ‘We might use them for cutaway shots, if that’s OK with you guys.’ It was hung with various photographs: one of her and a teenage Alex on a water slide in Cyprus, their mouths gaping in giddy laughter; a two-year-old Evie sitting on her brother’s shoulders in the stands at Páirc Uí Chaoimh, wearing a football jersey in the county colours of red and white; a faded photo of Keelin’s mother and father, taken before a céilí in the fifties, her mother’s waist tiny in her swing skirt.

  ‘He looks like you.’ Jake stood up and walked over to the wall, tapping the edge of a silver frame. It was a recent photo, Alex with his face half turned from the camera, Keelin beside him, her arm around his shoulders.

  ‘Like me?’ she asked, surprised, for no one ever said Alex looked like his mother.

  ‘No,’ Jake replied. ‘Like you,’ he said to Henry.

  ‘We get that quite a bit,’ her husband said. Alex was tall, around the same height as Henry, with a similar aquiline nose and well-defined jawline. ‘He may not be my biological son –’ he reached across to rub the back of Keelin’s neck – ‘but I love him as if he was my own. Don’t I, darling?’

  ‘You do,’ Keelin replied, for it was the truth. He had been amazing with Alex from the very beginning, despite her son’s dogged resistance. Henry was the first boyfriend Keelin had ever brought home and Alex refused to acknowledge him, he wouldn’t even look at the man, but Henry had been patient, giving her son enough space and time to adjust, reassuring the child that he wasn’t trying to replace his father, or steal his mother away. He just wanted to be a part of their lives, in whatever way possible.

  ‘And where is Alex? He still lives on the island, doesn’t he?’ Noah asked.

  ‘He does indeed,’ Henry said. ‘It’s a difficult time for young people, isn’t it? Almost impossible to get a mortgage, or so we hear from friends on the mainland. Alex is luckier than most. Ordinarily, he lives in Marigold Cottage where you will be staying—’ He waved away Noah’s apology. ‘Don’t be silly,’ Henry said. ‘He’ll be fine. We converted the attic into a self-contained apartment for Evie a few years ago because my wife says it’s important for young adults to have their independence. She’s the therapist, so I tend to bow to her superior knowledge.’ I’m not a therapist any more. Keelin pretended to smile at her husband. I’m nothing now. ‘Alex will stay in Evie’s studio while you’re filming,’ Henry finished.

  ‘But won’t your daughter be coming home for the summer holidays?’ Jake asked. ‘We’d like to include her in the doc, if we could.’

  ‘She’s spending the break with my parents in Scotland,’ Henry said, a tiny muscle pulsing in his neck, so faintly that only Keelin would have noticed. ‘And she’s still a minor. We wouldn’t sign any release forms for her participation, whether she wanted to take part or not. And I can assure you, she does not. She’s awfully stubborn.’ He started laughing. ‘I can’t think where she gets it.’

  ‘And what about Alex?’ Jake asked. ‘Is he happy to be interviewed?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Keelin said. ‘He’s not very good with new people, I’m afraid. It’s been difficult. These last ten years, you know. Since . . .’

  No one said anything, and Noah cleared his throat awkwardly. ‘Hold up – is that one of your wedding?’ he said, eyeing a small photograph almost hidden out of sight. Henry and Keelin on the steps of the registry office, their fingers intertwined. He was staring down at her, his mouth soft, but she was turning to say hello to a friend, her curly hair caught in a loose bun, her breasts spilling out of the dress’s sweetheart neckline. ‘I wouldn’t have recognised you, Keelin,’ Noah said.

  She glanced at the photo. She was twenty-nine on her wedding day, and happier than she had ever thought it was possible for her to be. Nothing bad could happen to her now, she’d thought, not with Henry Kinsella by her side.

  ‘That was a long time ago,’ she said.

  Chapter Five

  Declan Ó Gríofa, former resident of Inisrún island

  Declan: The papers said the Crowley Girls were almost identical but there were differences between them – you just had to be looking close enough to notice. And we were. (pause) Sinéad was the youngest, and she was shorter than her sisters; her hair was curlier too. She was the shy one, we decided, always hiding behind the others, happy enough to go along with whatever they wanted to do. She was easy, I guess you could say. Róisín was the middle sister, and the one who looked most like Nessa. The same height, the same build, but she had a gap between her front two teeth and she was conscious of it, we suspected; she didn’t smile as much as Nessa did, anyway. Róisín was serious – she always had her nose stuck in a schoolbook. Not that it mattered. Even with all that studying, she still didn’t do as well in her exams as Nessa did. None of us did.

  Jake: Tell us more about Nessa Crowley. What was she like?

  Declan: She was something special. And I’m not just saying that now because she’s dead, like. Even back then, we knew she was different. She was the most beautiful girl on the island, and when you put them toget
her, the Crowley Girls . . . It was like staring straight at an eclipse. They were all any of us could talk about – where we seen them, who they were with, what they were wearing. We seen them in the siopa with their mam, begging her to buy a Viennetta for dessert. There they were at Mass, genuflecting before the altar like butter wouldn’t melt. This one time, Róisín Crowley bent down to pick up her pencil case in class and Mikey Ó Súilleabháin swore he seen her bra, white lace he said it was, with a little pink ribbon in the middle. It’s hard to believe there was a time when that was the biggest news on the island, the colour of Róisín Crowley’s bra, but they had us driven demented, the three of them. (pause) Everything changed after the murder.

  Jake: In what way?

  Declan: In every way. All the doors were locked for months after, which was unheard of on the island; sure, most of us didn’t even know where our house keys were, half the time. Our parents wouldn’t let us out alone at night any more, especially the girls; we weren’t safe, they said. It was mad. Things like this didn’t happen here, not to people like us.

  Jake: Declan, what do you think happened the night of the murder?

  Noah: We’ve heard some, eh, let’s just say, interesting alternative theories.

  Declan: Let me guess. Nessa had an overdose and the Kinsellas tried to cover it up. Nessa was kicked in the head by a mad cow on a rampage. The party guests were all members of the illuminati and Nessa’s death was a sacrifice to appease their pagan gods. Have I missed anything, lads?

  Noah: (laughs) That’s about it, I reckon. Do you think any of them are true?