Jake: Tell us about when you started dating.
Henry: OK, er, well, I suppose by the year 2000 I was living between Inisrún and the house in London. It was time I took an interest in the family business, my father said, but Charlie was rather territorial – it was clear there would be no room for me at KHG headquarters with him there. We all agreed it was best for me to take over Misty Hill. It wasn’t as lucrative as the hotels but it was prestigious, even then; it was a huge boon to the Kinsella brand, and I was hungry to prove myself, to show I wasn’t just some spoilt playboy. Especially after everything that . . . anyway. I needed this venture to succeed. And it was a delicate balancing act, Misty Hill, it wasn’t the cushy number some people seemed to think it was. The artists were my main priority, naturally, but you had to keep the islanders onside too. There was a lot of champagne sent to local weddings and turning up to funerals to shake hands and offer condolences. That’s where I met Keelin again, at her mother’s funeral.
Jake: Not the most romantic of occasions, mate.
Henry: I suppose not. (laughs) But I couldn’t stop thinking about her afterwards – how brave she had looked standing by the coffin, all alone. I remember hoping I would be as strong if I were to find myself in similar circumstances. And suddenly, I don’t know how to explain it but it just made sense, me and Keelin. Of course, I needed to be with someone from the island. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t realised it earlier.
Noah: What did your family think?
Henry: My mother was delighted. An island girl, she said, just like herself. She found it rather thrilling, I think. And while my father was just happy to see me settling down, he was shrewd enough to know it couldn’t hurt Misty Hill if I married a native. And everyone adored Keelin once they got to know her. How could you not? She was quieter than other women I’d dated, but I’ve never met anyone who cared as much as Keelin did. She was never too busy for her friends, always there whenever they needed her, and she was utterly devoted to Alex. I remember this time, it must have been after one of our first dates, when we arrived back to the cottage and the boy was waiting up for her; he wouldn’t go to sleep until we came home, Johanna said. He had a joke he wanted to tell his mother. Keelin said, Hit me with it, kid. Alex couldn’t stop giggling, he could barely get the words out, and then Keelin started to laugh too, as if this was the funniest joke she’d ever heard in her life. And looking at the two of them together, I wanted . . . I wanted to be part of it, I guess, a part of their little family. I wanted Keelin to be the mother of my children too. (pause) Not that we didn’t face our own challenges.
Jake: What kind of challenges?
Henry: It took us longer than we had hoped to get pregnant and sadly, my wife struggled when our daughter was born – I’m sure she wouldn’t mind me telling you that. She refused to breastfeed, saying she was afraid she would hurt the baby. She would wake me in the middle of the night in a panic, listing all the things that could happen to Evie – she might drop her, she might hit Evie’s head against a door frame, she might roll over and smother the baby in her sleep. It didn’t matter how often I tried to comfort her, Keelin wouldn’t listen. I’d hear Evie screaming, and when I’d go to check on her, I would find my wife standing there, staring down at the Moses basket, just watching the baby cry. That was when I insisted we get a doctor. I was beginning to feel frightened.
Jake: Why were you frightened?
Henry: (silence)
Noah: Henry, were you worried Keelin would do something to hurt the baby?
Henry: It was better once the doctor came and prescribed the antidepressants. It wasn’t my wife’s fault, of course – post-natal depression is terribly common, and she’s been a marvellous mother to our daughter ever since. But the fear never leaves you, that’s what I’m trying to say. You never stop watching them, looking for signs, afraid it might happen again.
Chapter Fourteen
The journalists writing about the Misty Hill case would report that due to Storm Ida it had been two days before anyone could get on or get off the island. Everyone was stuck there – the locals, the party guests, the artists in residence. A dead body, and it was one of the Crowley Girls, the whispers began. Nessa. It was a head wound, they said. Had she fallen? Had she been pushed? Someone must know the truth, but no one was talking.
Keelin didn’t remember anything, she told the guards when they finally managed to get out to Inisrún. The state helicopter landing unsteadily, a furious wind caught in its blades, stern men in uniform climbing out. The first thing they did was take everyone’s names and phone numbers, explaining there would be more queries later, that all guests would have to make themselves available in the coming weeks and months. They wouldn’t allow Henry to be present for Keelin’s first interview – that’s not how this works, Mr Kinsella, they said to him – but her husband insisted that he accompany Alex into the television room, where the guards had set up shop for their initial enquiries. He’s a minor, Henry said, he’s only seventeen. Alex staring into space, his hands shaking. It can’t be true, the boy kept saying. Not Nessa.
The next afternoon, the guards asked Keelin and Henry to come to the station on the mainland for further questions. I’ve nothing else to tell you, Keelin said. She had been in a state of shock when she’d heard the news, she was distraught, and a guest at the party had produced a Xanax to help calm her down. She’d fallen asleep almost immediately.
– You slept for two days, Mrs Kinsella?
– No, of course not. I can’t . . . I wasn’t used to the tablets, I’d never taken them before. I didn’t know the sort of effect they’d have on me.
– And what about your children? Who minded them while you had taken to your bed?
– My husband. He is their father, you know.
This would be the first question people asked of Keelin, she soon discovered. And what about your children? Where were your children when all of this was happening? Funny, she thought. They never asked Henry that.
As the two of them left Hawthorn House with the guards, she hugged Alex, promising him that everything would be OK. You’re to go up to the Steins’ cottage, she said, and take care of your little sister, do you hear me? Her son looked as if he was submerged underwater and couldn’t quite hear what she was saying, blinking slowly in response. It’s OK, Alex, Henry whispered as he embraced her son. Just wait for us to come home and say nothing. Do you understand me? Nothing.
Getting off the ferry at Baltimore, Keelin’s flimsy ballet pumps slipping against the slime-covered concrete steps. She almost fell, but the female guard accompanying her steadied her. Be careful, Mrs Kinsella, the woman said, her hand in the small of Keelin’s back as she guided her towards the garda car. It was a Volvo, unmarked, and it smelled new, like the plastic wrapping had just been peeled off the seats. Henry wasn’t with her, and she opened her mouth to ask the woman where her husband was but she couldn’t seem to talk, the words turning to dust in her mouth. She stared out the window as they drove to the station, at the men in mud-spattered overalls, carving fallen trees in half so they could be moved out of harm’s way, the road littered with broken branches, bedsheets and knickers torn from someone’s washing line, brown water gurgling up from drains. It’s a mess, the guard said. She was young, her face round, the boxy uniform turning her body shapeless. So many homes still without power too, she said and Keelin had murmured, Yes, it’s terrible. The garda station was an ordinary two-storey house, pale green with yellow windowsills, and Keelin was brought into a room with a Formica dining table, four high-back plastic chairs around it, an unused fireplace stuffed up with yellowing newspapers in the corner. A young guard told Keelin that he was a distant relation of her father’s. I’m one of the Ballyvourney Ó Mordhas, he said, smiling at her, but he fell instantly quiet when Joseph O’Shaughnessy came into the room. The older man put his bottle of 7UP on the table, his eyes sharp as he introduced himself, explaining he was a
detective sergeant from the city. OK, Mrs Kinsella, he said, nodding at the younger man to start recording. Are we ready?
How long had you known Nessa Crowley? he asked. How would you characterise your relationship with Nessa? You must have been friendly, if she was at your birthday party. Can you remember what time the power went out? Where were you when it happened? Who were you with? What did you do then, Mrs Kinsella? When was the last time you saw Nessa Crowley alive? Did you speak to her? For how long? What about? How did she seem at that stage? Was she upset? Was she drunk? Had you much to drink yourself?
Keelin was there for hours, exhaustion creeping into her bones, turning her eyes bleary. The week leading up to the party smeared together, like running a finger down an oil painting before it had dried, smudging one colour into the next. She found her memories began to skip over one another, an hour from one day attaching itself to a completely different day, insisting that Keelin see them in chronological order even though she knew, logically, they could not possibly have occurred that way. What did you say to the guards, Keelin? Henry muttered on the boat home, one eye on the ferryman to ensure he wasn’t eavesdropping on their conversation. What did you say?
But she couldn’t remember.
When they got back to the island, they found Hawthorn House had been cordoned off for further investigation. We can’t let you in, the stony-faced guard said, ignoring Henry’s attempts to cajole him, before threatening legal action if he was not allowed into his own bloody house. Henry went to his parents’ holiday home to make some phone calls – I’m calling the solicitor, he said. This is ludicrous. They can’t expect us to put up with this nonsense – and Keelin walked up to Johanna’s parents’ cottage to pick up the children. Oskar and Lena Stein, ashen, reaching out to hold her close. We are worried for Alex, Oskar said. We heard him crying last night. They were in love, ja? He and the Crowley Girl? Lena shushed him, wiping tears away from her eyes. Alex is heartbroken, the older woman said. We all are. Keelin thanked them for taking care of the kids, shaking her head when they asked her in for coffee. She waited until they had said their goodbyes before talking to her children.
Are you OK? she asked her son. He looked shattered, his eyes red and swollen, his skin mottled from lack of sleep. He turned away, as if he couldn’t bear to look at her, and he walked down the hill to the pier. Keelin stood there, watching him leave, and she wondered where on earth she would go now. What would the autopsy show? Would Nessa’s death be ruled accidental or . . . Keelin’s breath drew short at the thought of a murder investigation, and what the guards might find if they looked too closely. She imagined them taking handfuls of her secrets, scattering them to the wind like ashes. She would never be able to find them all again and put them back where they belonged.
Evie was tugging at her sleeve. Mummy, she said, what’s happening? Why’s Alex so sad? and Keelin felt a rush of fury, pushing her away and shouting at the little girl to stop whining. Evie burst into tears and Keelin knew she should apologise, reassure her daughter everything would be all right, but how could she do that when her ribs were tightening into her chest, pressing her lungs together, and she couldn’t seem to catch her breath? The guards had taken over Hawthorn House and they would find the porn she and Henry kept in their bedroom, women in full restraints, screaming for mercy as men did whatever they wanted to their helpless bodies. Unwilling flesh forced to do terrible acts of depravity. You like this, Henry said when they first watched the videos together, reaching down to touch her, inhaling sharply at how wet she was. She had been equally surprised. Up until that point, Keelin’s sex life had been unremarkable. She’d lost her virginity to Mark Delaney when she was nineteen, and while she didn’t come, it hadn’t hurt either, which seemed about as much as she could ask for. After their marriage broke down and Keelin limped home to the island, she had dated a few other men before Henry. They were safe, decent men, men she knew she would never fall in love with and therefore presented no threat to her new life. But from the first time she slept with Henry, Keelin understood this man was different to the others. There was a knife edge of violence to the way he took her, threw her on the bed, wrapped a hand around her throat and held her down until he was finished with her. She and Henry still fucked at least once a day, if not more. He would arrive home in the evening and she would be waiting for him, begging him to do whatever he wanted with her. They couldn’t get enough of one other, testing each other’s boundaries, seeing how far the other would go before they admitted defeat and gave in. As Keelin thought of what the detectives would find in their room, vomit forced its way up her throat. Soon, she thought, everyone would know what kind of person she really was.
Keelin needn’t have been worried. The detectives found the porn, yes, they found the restraints and the harnesses, holding them up with half-smirks and lewd remarks, Look at this lads, wha’?
But they discovered the photo too. And that became the only thing anyone ever talked about.
Chapter Fifteen
The Crowley Girl
‘Oh, hello,’ Keelin said when she arrived home to find Nessa Crowley in her kitchen yet again. The girl was leaning against the Aga, those endless legs in frayed cut-off jeans despite the autumn chill. Keelin lifted her shopping bags onto the marble island and began to unpack the groceries. ‘We weren’t expecting to see you so soon, Nessa,’ she said, gesturing at her son to move out of the way so she could put the sliced pan in the bread bin. ‘I thought Alex’s grind wasn’t until eight.’
‘I got my times mixed up.’ Nessa stood up straighter, pulling the shorts down her thighs. ‘I thought we said four. Alex was free so we just did it earlier.’ Her cheeks turned pink. ‘The grind, I mean.’
Keelin checked the Salvador Dalí melting clock on the opposite wall. It was six thirty p.m. now. ‘I’m sure you’ve better things to do than hang around here all evening though,’ Keelin tried, but Nessa shrugged and said she didn’t mind, with a side-glance at Alex that made Keelin’s jaw clench.
‘Where’s Henry?’ she asked, looking between the two of them. She wanted her husband here as a witness. I’m not being paranoid, am I? she would say to him. There’s something going on, right?
‘He went down to Bluebell and Foxglove.’ Her son folded his arms across his chest. ‘The Final Screams checked out yesterday and he wanted to get an estimation of the damage.’ He tilted his head at Nessa. ‘Punk group,’ he said casually, as if he were a band member himself. ‘Lots of drugs, crazy shit.’
‘I thought you were in charge of inspecting the cottages, Alex. That’s why we give you so much pocket money every month, remember?’ Keelin said, ignoring Nessa’s giggles.
‘Henry said he’d do it for me today. Because of the grind, like.’
‘And your sister?’ Keelin asked. ‘Where has she disappeared off to, may I ask?’
‘She’s in the playroom watching a DVD,’ Nessa said. ‘I bought her the new Narnia one. Henry mentioned he was reading the books to her so I thought she might like it.’
‘That was very kind of you,’ Keelin said, looking at the clock again, pointedly. There was a moment of silence, before Nessa grabbed her satchel and said she should be on her way. ‘Let’s do some trigonometry next time,’ she told Alex. ‘Have a go at last year’s exam paper and we’ll look at it together when I see you.’
‘Cool,’ he replied. ‘Thanks, Ness. I’ll walk you out.’
Keelin hovered at the back of the hall, hiding behind a bouquet of white roses, watching as the two said goodbye on the front porch. She couldn’t hear, but her son must have made a joke because Nessa threw her head back in laughter, hitting Alex playfully on the upper arm. They leaned in to hug and – Keelin’s heart beat slowing to a dull thud – she thought they might have kissed but she couldn’t be sure from this angle. Alex closed the door, leaning against it, his eyes half closed.
‘What?’ he said, when he saw his mother standing there, sta
ring at him.
‘Is something going on with you two?’ she asked.
‘No,’ he said. This was Alex’s reply to everything Keelin asked him these days. Did anything strange or startling happen in school today, mo stoirín? No. Do you want to go for a walk with me? No. Do you want to invite some friends over to the house? I could cook a pizza. No.
Separation was a natural part of adolescence, she reminded herself. It was an important step in her son’s psychological development. But they had always been so close, she and Alex. She hadn’t realised how much she’d liked it that way until Nessa Crowley had arrived into their lives and it became abundantly clear whom Alex preferred.
‘I’m not sure I feel comfortable with Nessa giving you grinds if there’s some kind of . . . romance happening between the two of you. That’s not what I’m paying her fifty euro an hour for, Alex.’
‘Mam,’ he snorted, ‘you sound about a hundred. Next you’ll be asking if we’re doing a line, or if I’m taking her out courting.’
‘Please don’t talk to me like that. I think I’m allowed to have some reservations about you dating a twenty-year-old woman, especially one I’m employing to help you study.’
‘Oh my God, Mam! She’s my friend. You were the one who was so anxious for me to make friends here, and now that I’ve found one, you don’t like it?’
‘Of course I want you to have friends.’ But not like this, she thought. Keelin wanted her son to hang out with boys his own age, a gang of lads sheepishly waving hello as they snuck cans of beer into the house. Friends who could see past Alex’s intense, awkward manner and appreciate how sweet he was, how funny he could be. She didn’t want him spending all his time with a college student, and a disconcertingly beautiful one at that. ‘I just . . .’ She paused. ‘I don’t want you to get hurt, Alex.’
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