After the Silence

by Louise O'Neill

  Keelin wasn’t sure she wanted to know what the islanders were saying about her. It was odd, she supposed, given how eager she had been to leave this place after the murder, how hungry she’d been for a new world to call her own. She thought she could turn her back on her home and she wouldn’t give it a second thought. But leaving would have been her choice; it was an entirely different thing to be rejected by the people whose blood ran in her veins. I’m one of you, she wanted to say. I’m Tomás and Cáit Ó Mordha’s daughter. You can’t deny me my name, no matter how hard you try.

  ‘Noah is fine,’ Henry continued. ‘We don’t need to worry about Noah – he’s not exactly the brains of the operation here. He’s technically skilled, I’ll give him that, and I’m sure the footage will look beautiful, but I don’t think he has any great investigative abilities. Jake is the tricky one. I can’t figure him out and that, my darling, makes him dangerous. We need to be sure he’s on our side.’ He inched his fingers across her breasts, smiling as she gasped out loud. ‘You should spend more time with him, Keelin. Make sure our guest is settling into island life.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘But what?’ he said, removing his hand.

  ‘You seemed so annoyed the evening I had dinner there.’

  ‘Dinner where?’ Henry asked, confused. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘In Marigold Cottage, when Jake cooked for me. I was late home and you were really pissed off with me. You said—’

  ‘Keelin, you’re being ridiculous,’ he cut across her. ‘How exactly was I “pissed off”? Did I raise my voice? Did I scream at you?’

  ‘Of course not. You didn’t say anything, really, but it was the way you . . . the way you looked at me, I guess? And the tone of your voice? I can’t explain it. I could just tell you were angry with me.’

  ‘Keelin –’ he shook his head – ‘are you psychic now? You’ll give Ellen Tiernan and her second sight a run for her money yet.’

  ‘But what –’ Her mind went blank, as if she was an actress who had forgotten her lines on stage, looking desperately to the wings for a prompt. Think, Keelin. Think. ‘But what about my phone?’

  ‘What about your phone?’

  ‘Yes!’ she said in a rush of excitement. ‘My phone. You wouldn’t let me use it because I had stayed too long in Marigold Cottage that night.’

  ‘I wouldn’t “let” you use your phone?’ He frowned at her. ‘Keelin, I don’t know what you’re trying to imply here but it’s making me very uncomfortable. The passcode wouldn’t work – what on earth did I have to do with that?’ Henry reached down to the leather briefcase neatly tucked in behind the locker, fishing out her iPhone. ‘I brought it into the Vodafone store in Cork,’ he said, handing it to her. ‘The chap there said this kind of thing happens a lot – it’s a glitch in the system, apparently.’

  Keelin turned on her phone, typed her in her usual passcode with care, one number at a time. It worked perfectly.

  ‘A glitch.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘A glitch.’

  Chapter Twenty

  Henry and Keelin Kinsella

  Henry: My apologies that we couldn’t do this before now. I was away on business for a few days.

  Noah: You go to the mainland regularly, I hear. That’s what the ferryman told us.

  Henry: Did he indeed? You can’t do anything on this island without the ferryman knowing. Keelin did warn me when we decided to build Hawthorn House. Wave goodbye to any semblance of privacy, she said. Pity I didn’t listen.

  Noah: What takes you to the mainland so often?

  Henry: It depends. This time I visited my solicitor, and then I flew to London to meet up with some old friends I hadn’t seen in yonks, have lunch with my brother, that kind of thing. Someone even approached me at Cork airport, can you believe that? A complete stranger. He wanted to shake my hand and say he thought it was a travesty what happened to me. A miscarriage of justice, he said.

  Noah: That’s interesting.

  Henry: It’s the era we’re living in, you see. Trial by social media. Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty? There wasn’t a shred of evidence to connect me to this case – not that you’d know by the appalling manner in which the islanders have treated us. I was an easy target, you see. The Englishman up in the Big House. They’d much rather it was me who did this than have to grapple with the possibility it could be one of their own.

  Jake: It’s not quite true to say there wasn’t a shred of evidence to connect you to Nessa Crowley’s murder, is it, Henry?

  Henry: I beg your pardon?

  Jake: There was some evidence, wasn’t there? There were scratches on your face and your arms, compatible with the sort you would have gotten in a physical struggle. You had bruising under your eye as well, didn’t you? You could see why it might make people suspicious.

  Henry: That was Keelin’s doing, I’m afraid. She told the guards as much afterwards. Didn’t you, darling?

  Keelin: Yes. We had been fighting, but I shouldn’t have done it. Of all people, I ought to have known there’s no excuse for violence. But I lost my temper, and I –

  Henry: My wife’s engagement ring caught my eye – that was what caused the bruising. (silence) Look, they checked for DNA under Nessa Crowley’s fingernails and they didn’t find anyth—

  Jake: The body had been left outside in one of the worst storms to hit Ireland in forty years; a lot of the evidence would’ve been contaminated by the time the guards even got to the scene. (pause) There were reports you lit a bonfire, is that correct? Seems odd, if you ask me.

  Henry: It was tradition. We lit a bonfire at every party we threw on the island.

  Jake: Even during a thunderstorm? And you positioned it underneath the balcony, on the other side of the house from where Nessa Crowley’s body was found. That’s convenient.

  Henry: Is it?

  Jake: A witness said they saw you throwing items into the fire. A shirt, a book of some sort.

  Henry: You wouldn’t want to take that as gospel. Memories are not infallible things, you know, particularly when a great deal of alcohol has been taken. And I’m sure you’re aware the guards combed through the ashes and they didn’t find anything of note.

  Jake: You said you and Keelin had a fight the night of the party. Do you want to tell us more about that?

  Henry: The reasons are fairly well documented. I don’t see the point in bringing it all up again, do you?

  Jake: Given the circumstances, it was probably the most significant fight you and Keelin have ever had. I don’t think it’s unreasonable for people to ask about it.

  Henry: Married people argue, Jake. You’ll learn that yourself someday. And we’ve moved past that stage in our lives, haven’t we, darling? We’re stronger than ever now.

  Jake: Right. (pause) When the power cut, what happened?

  Henry: I went outside to switch on the generator and—

  Jake: But the guests said the power didn’t come back on until early the next morning.

  Henry: Yes, that’s right. I couldn’t seem to work the blasted thing. My father had been warning me for years to get it upgraded, he said we needed one like the hotels had. I never got around to it, I’m afraid.

  Noah: So, you went outside to find the generator. What did you do next?

  Henry: Keelin followed me and it was then we ran into Nessa. A friend of mine had made a drunken pass at her, and the girl was distressed.

  Noah: According to the police reports, that was when you told Nessa to go home, Keelin?

  Keelin: Yes . . . I shouldn’t have lashed out the way I did, but Nessa was always just there, in the house every time I turned around. Hanging off of Alex – and he was too young for her. He was so young then. I was tired and drunk and I told her to go home. She wasn’t welcome in our house any more. (silence) It was a mistake. I see t
hat now.

  Noah: What happened then?

  Henry: The girl was upset, naturally. She ran off and I tried to follow her. I wanted to make sure she was all right, but she was too quick for me. I couldn’t see properly, the rain was ghastly that night so I . . .

  Jake: You just let her go?

  Henry: Yes.

  Jake: You let a young woman run off in the middle of a storm by herself?

  Henry: She was from the island; she knew this place better than I did. I thought she would be . . . You think I haven’t regretted that every day since?

  Jake: You were the last person to see Nessa Crowley alive.

  Henry: Apart from her killer, obviously.

  Jake: And what about your old girlfriend? Greta Ainsworth? You dated for four years before her death in 1999, is that correct? Young women seem to die in mysterious circumstances around you more frequently than is usual, don’t they, Henry? Seems unfortunate.

  Henry: Excuse me? How dare you. Do not mention her name ever again. You don’t have a bloody clue what you’re talking about. That’s quite enough.

  Noah: Wait, please don’t go, Henry. He didn’t mean to—

  Henry: I said, that’s enough.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The Crowley Girl

  ‘Do you know something,’ Johanna said as she turned to face the sunroom, beams of light slashing through the thick glass walls. ‘I never get sick of that view, no matter how many times I sit in this kitchen.’

  Keelin snorted, handing her a cup of tea. ‘Don’t be such a plámásar. You’d swear you weren’t from Rún yourself.’

  ‘To be fair, I don’t live here any more,’ her friend said. Keelin was the only one of the three of them who still lived on the island. Jo rented a place in Schull, near the school where she’d recently been made principal, and Seán was away fishing for months at a time, renting out his two-bed bungalow in Castletownbere to cover the mortgage while he was gone. ‘And there’s a difference to being from here and having a house like this,’ Jo said, gesturing at Keelin to pass the packet of biscuits. ‘Oh lovely,’ she muttered as she read the packaging. ‘Gluten- and dairy-free. I would have called to Mama and Papi for tea if I’d wanted this shite.’

  ‘Henry’s orders,’ Keelin said. She didn’t want to talk about this house, not with Johanna anyway. Jo had been her best friend since they were babies, growing from a skinny child into a skinny adult – you’d miss her if she turned sideways, Keelin’s mother used to say – with the same cropped black hair and buck teeth that were slightly too large for her mouth. They had been the only two girls born that year, and as they were both that rarefied thing on the island – the single child – they had become like sisters to one another. Keelin could not remember a time when Jo wasn’t part of her life.

  ‘A dairy-free diet doesn’t seem like Henry’s idea of a good time,’ Johanna said, taking one of the offending biscuits. ‘What’s brought this on?’

  ‘It’s a long story,’ she said. She didn’t want to tell her the truth; she knew her friend wouldn’t approve. Keelin had never dieted before now; her mother could remember rationing during The Emergency and had raised Keelin to believe that faddish eating was akin to a mortal sin: You’ll finish that plate of food right now, young lady. Think of all the starving children in Africa. None of Henry’s friends in London talked about diets either, it was considered terribly passé in their set. They ate butter and carbs, but the women still managed to be slender to the point of frailty, with spindly legs that looked as if they might break if they stood up straight. Keelin was the only woman who wore anything other than a size eight and although she wished it didn’t, it bothered her. She’d gone to Henry after the last party at the Darcys’ house in Norfolk, and asked for his help. I’m useless, she said to him, and I’ve no willpower whatsoever. Will you keep an eye on me? Call me a heifer when I’m reaching for a second slice of cake? He’d laughed, told her she was no such thing. But of course, her husband said. If you want me to help you, I will.

  ‘There are some benefits to living alone then,’ Johanna said, pulling a face. ‘At least I can buy whatever junk food I want.’ She pointed at the magazine rack on the floor. ‘I spy Heat mag. Gimme, please.’ She flicked through the pages, turning it around to show Keelin a photo of a boy band from a reality television show, fanning herself.

  ‘Not you too, Jo,’ Henry said, walking into the kitchen. He’d been out running and he was red-cheeked, his damp hair clinging to his skull. ‘They’re practically children.’

  ‘They’re very hot children,’ the other woman said, half standing to give Henry a hug before pretending to recoil at his sweat-stained T-shirt. ‘You know I’m mad about you, Kinsella,’ she said, backing away from him, ‘but not that much, I’m afraid.’

  ‘You win some, you lose some,’ he said, filling a glass with water from the Brita jug. ‘How are things with you, anyway?’ Henry sat opposite Johanna, reaching across her to grab a biscuit. ‘How’s the lovely Susan? Still devoted to me, I hope?’

  ‘But of course. She would leave me in a heartbeat if she knew you were available,’ she replied.

  Henry turned his hands up to the sky, as if in prayer. ‘And I really think me and Susan could be happy together,’ he said. ‘But unfortunately, I love this lady too much to ever look at another woman.’ He grabbed Keelin by the waist, and she squealed in protest. ‘I’m beginning to feel rather rejected,’ he said, pulling a pout as Keelin squirmed out of his embrace, complaining about how sweaty he was. ‘Come, Ms Stein. Tell us news of the outside world, you know we’re cut off from civilisation here.’

  ‘Hmm, let me think,’ Jo said. ‘Well, I was just telling Keelin that I’m looking for a substitute teacher because Ríona is going on maternity leave next year. I’m up to my eyes in application forms. Zero craic.’

  ‘That’s a pity. Didn’t she only start last September?’ Henry said.

  ‘She did,’ Johanna replied. ‘Good memory, my friend. But she’s been married two years and she’s in her mid-thirties so . . .’

  ‘It must be frustrating,’ Keelin said, pouring herself a cup of tea from the pot. ‘I know it’s not very politically correct of me to say this, but wouldn’t it just be easier to hire a male teacher? At least you won’t have to worry about a man going off on maternity leave.’

  Henry and Johanna stared at her, open-mouthed. ‘Keelin!’ Henry said. ‘Did I marry a Tory, unbeknownst to myself?’ He exchanged an outraged glance with Johanna. ‘We have a daughter, remember? Surely you wouldn’t want Evie to lose out on a job because she might need to take maternity leave some day? And you know how hard I’ve been trying to improve things here at Misty Hill. Jo, you’ll like this.’ He turned to her friend again. ‘I’ve made it our mission to achieve a completely gender-balanced ratio of artists at the retreat centre by at least—’

  ‘But you said the other day, you said, but, but, you said, Henry . . .’ Keelin stuttered. ‘You never stop complaining about how difficult that is.’ She could feel tears pricking her eyes; she always wanted to cry when she felt embarrassed. ‘You said loads of the female artists you invite here refuse to come because they have family commitments they can’t get out of, even if you offer them a bursary. You said that—’

  ‘Darling,’ Henry said, taking her hand in his. His voice became gentler. ‘We have to take into account how certain social structures make it more difficult for women to progress in their careers in the first place. No one seems to wonder why the fathers never have any issue with coming to Misty Hill for three months to finish their latest album or book or whatever.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Johanna said, pounding her fist on the table. ‘No one ever asks men who’s taking care of the children or how do they juggle it all. God, it’s all such bullshit and I fucking love that you can see that, Kinsella.’ She put her palm out to high-five him, Henry happily complying. ‘You’ve a good on
e here, Keels,’ her friend said. ‘He’s a keeper.’

  ‘Yes,’ she smiled tightly, putting her hand on the small of her husband’s back. ‘Do you want to have a shower, babe? You’ll catch your death.’

  He wavered, clearly hoping Johanna would object, demand he stay for longer. Henry had always felt like a fraud, he’d confided in Keelin one night after too much Scotch, ever since he was a child. The boy who was sent to the best schools but who knew he was different; his family’s wealth was too new, his surname too Irish. He knew he couldn’t be one of them so he had, instead, made himself the most – the most fun, the most interesting, the most attractive. The life and soul of every party, the one who could be depended upon to say yes to one more drink or line or dance, always the last to leave. Keelin could see something in her husband, and she recognised what it was because it was within her too. A desperation to belong, maybe, or a yearning to be loved. Since her parents had died, she’d had no family except Alex, so when Henry proposed to her all those years ago, she had said, You and I can belong to each another now, Henry. I’d like that very much, he’d replied, his voice thick.

  ‘I suppose I should probably . . .’ he began, pausing when he heard a knock on the door. Keelin could hear a female voice calling out, ‘Hello?’, footsteps on the wooden floor in the hall, and there she was, again.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind but the door was open,’ Nessa said. Her skin was glowing, even without make-up. Not for the Crowley Girls the blotchy complexion Keelin remembered from her own youth, the spots that would erupt around her chin and jawline when she was premenstrual. ‘I was just passing by so I thought I’d pop in,’ the girl said, plonking her cheap tan handbag onto the countertop. She had been ‘just passing by’ every day this summer, waving a quick hello before disappearing with Alex to his bedroom. They could be up there, alone, for hours. Keelin would walk past the closed door, listening for bedsprings, low moaning, but all she heard was music, low voices, the occasional peal of laughter. Keelin couldn’t stop thinking about what she had read in her son’s diary, but she couldn’t tell Henry about that, she couldn’t tell anyone what she had seen that day. She just said that she was unhappy about the situation, it wasn’t appropriate, and her husband advised her to stay calm. Things will go back to normal when autumn comes and Nessa returns to UCC, he said. She’ll be distracted by her friends in Cork and she’ll forget all about Alex. But it was September now and here Nessa Crowley was, just ‘passing by’ Hawthorn House for the umpteenth time.