After the Silence

by Louise O'Neill

  ‘But you said you weren’t filming as much this week. I thought you were winding down in the run-up to Christmas.’

  ‘We’ve a few things we need to get done if we’re going to meet our deadline. We’re flying to England next week because we finally got a hold of Miles Darcy – he’s a tough man to pin down,’ Jake said with a laugh. Keelin nodded, trying not to look panicked at the mention of Miles, Henry’s friend from school. Gorgeous, irresistible Miles. What would he have to say about the night of the party? ‘But don’t worry,’ Jake reassured her. ‘I’ll be reviewing all the footage. You won’t be surprised by anything, OK? I’ve got you, Keelin.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She almost asked him about Johanna then, if her best friend had spoken to them on camera, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answer. Instead she took her fork and sliced down into the mince pie. It was cold and she looked at Cormac, wavering, but decided against asking him to heat it up, maybe add a dollop of brandy cream. He looked as if he was waiting for any excuse to throw her off the premises, and Keelin wasn’t supposed to eat pastry, not when tomorrow was weigh-in day. What the actual fuck? she imagined Johanna saying if she heard about this, but Jo wouldn’t understand, she’d always been so thin, able to eat whatever she wanted without gaining weight. Keelin was different – she needed Henry’s support with her diet. She couldn’t do this without him. She pictured his face when he jotted down the day’s number on the chart he kept tacked inside her closet, and how proud he would be if she maintained her weight. How good that would feel. ‘To be honest,’ she said, pushing the uneaten mince pie away, ‘this mystery with Alex is keeping me too occupied to think about much else. He keeps sneaking out at night-time and he’s . . . happy.’ It had been a long time since anyone had been happy in their house. ‘Are you sure you haven’t heard anything around the island? You must have interviewed every man, woman and child at this stage.’

  The door to the cafe opened, a tinny bell tinkling overhead, and Jake shivered as a gust of wind snuck in, a lick of frost in the air. ‘This weather can do one,’ he said, taking his coat from the back of his chair and pulling it on again. ‘I knew Ireland was going to be cold, but it’s the damp that kills me. It gets into your bones, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Jake?’

  ‘And where is the snow? It’s December – surely there should be snow.’

  ‘Jake.’

  ‘I’ve never seen snow before,’ he said. He took a bite of his pastry, the steam rising out of it. She cut a resentful glance at Cormac, smirking behind the counter. ‘I’m going to be upset if it doesn’t snow while I’m here.’

  ‘Jake,’ she said again, ‘why are you avoiding the question? Do you know something that I don’t?’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ he replied, slamming his tea cup down on the saucer, the teaspoon rattling. ‘I just don’t feel like talking about Alex right now, if that’s OK with you. We’re always talking about him.’

  ‘Are we?’ she asked in surprise. She couldn’t recall talking about Alex any more than any other subject, but he was her son; it was only natural she mention him occasionally.

  ‘Fucking oath we are. Alex, Alex, Alex . . . I’m sick of hearing about him.’ Jake’s voice spiked and the other customers looked over, startled. That was the last thing she needed, people taking note that Keelin Kinsella was having an argument with a man who was not her husband. What would Henry say if he heard about this? She was supposed to be keeping Jake onside; it was her one job.

  ‘There’s no need to raise your voice.’

  ‘I’m not raising my voice,’ he snapped. ‘But I don’t want to sit here with someone who is supposed to be my friend –’

  ‘I am your friend,’ she said, her own voice higher too. She didn’t want to fight with Jake. He wasn’t supposed to get angry with her, the way Henry and Alex did, constantly competing for her love and attention, neither man ever feeling he had gotten his fair due in the end. She couldn’t seem to keep them both happy, no matter how hard she tried.

  ‘– and then I’m forced to spend hours talking about some ungrateful idiot who doesn’t deserve your—’

  ‘Hey,’ Keelin said, sitting up straight. ‘Less of the “ungrateful idiot” business, please. That’s my son you’re talking about. And Alex has been through a lot, I thought you of all people would understand that.’

  He stared at her incredulously. ‘Are you actually comparing the two situations?’

  ‘Alex’s father was abusive as well, wasn’t he?’

  ‘You brought him back to the island when he was a toddler – he can’t even remember any of that. His life was a piece of piss compared to mine.’

  ‘He might not have been consciously aware,’ she said. ‘But it’s still an adverse childhood experience, and the research shows that—’

  ‘I don’t care what the research shows,’ Jake said. ‘That’s just an excuse for Alex to not get off his arse and make something of his life. He was allowed to stay on the island, living in a cottage he doesn’t pay a dollar for. He doesn’t need to worry about rent or bills or food. He—’

  ‘That’s not fair. He was traumatised. He found his grandmother dead in her bed. And . . . and he . . .’ She could hardly say the words. ‘Alex loved Nessa,’ she whispered. ‘What happened to her broke him. He’s never been the same since.’

  ‘Let me get this straight.’ Jake pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Are you asking me to feel sorry for Alex? A teenage boy tried to root some chick way out of his league and he got burnt. Boo-fucking-hoo.’

  ‘Nessa Crowley is dead, isn’t she? It’s not quite your usual teen drama.’

  ‘You know what else isn’t quite your usual teen drama, Keelin?’ he said her name very deliberately, his eyes narrowed, furious. ‘Waking up for school on a Tuesday morning and being told by your grandpa that he has some bad news, although “bad news” doesn’t quite cover hearing that your mother is dead and it was your father who did it, just like you were always afraid he would. He murdered your two sisters too, but in a more “humane” way, according to the media, by giving them a massive dose of sedatives before slitting their throats. That the reason your father sent you to stay with your grandparents wasn’t because he was worried about your grandma’s dementia, like he told you, but because he had been planning this fucking massacre for months, and he didn’t want his “only son” to be involved, at least that’s what he wrote in the suicide note. And then I had to sit back and watch the tabloids scramble to find a reason for Lucas Taylor’s actions. He had mental-health issues! He was depressed! He’d lost his job and his sense of manhood was threatened! Anything rather than just admitting the man was an evil, misogynistic piece of shit who thought his family were his fucking property and he could do what he wanted with us.’ Jake’s hands were trembling now, but when she went to take them in her own he pulled back from her, curling them into fists in his lap. ‘You can’t expect me to feel sorry for Alex,’ he said. ‘Alex who still has his mother and doesn’t even appreciate her. Alex doesn’t know how lucky he is.’

  Keelin could feel her eyes well up. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have compared you two – that was wrong of me. I don’t know what I was thinking.’

  ‘Just leave it,’ he said, pulling the sleeve of his jacket over the back of his hand and wiping his nose. ‘It’s just been . . . Noah says I should go home to Sydney, that this is bringing up too much stuff for me. But this is why I wanted to become a journalist in the first place. I wanted to tell these stories in the way they should be told, in a responsible way, not like what happened to my family. And the last doc was explicitly about domestic violence, much more than this one. I don’t know why it’s getting to me.’ He shifted in his chair. ‘Although,’ he said, not looking at Keelin, ‘I think it could be because you remind me a little of her.’

  ‘Of your mother?’ she said, surprised at how pleased she was by this. It made Jake’s prot
ectiveness of her easier to understand, as well as his dislike of Henry, his barely concealed jealousy of her son. But she had to admit that she hadn’t done anything to discourage Jake’s growing attachment to her, ordering books from Amazon she thought he would enjoy, sending him recipes she found online, quizzing him about his love life over too many glasses of wine at Marigold Cottage, the way she wished she could with her own son. She’d always assumed Alex would bring girlfriends home, cute, smart girls who would address her as Mrs Kinsella no matter how many times she insisted they call her Keelin – Please, Mrs Kinsella reminds me of my mother-in-law. Girls who would make small talk with her until Alex said, Enough, Mam, we’re heading out now. But her son had never been like that. He’d refused to talk to her about his feelings for Nessa, the pages of his diary the only insight she’d ever received into their relationship, and that had been something she had stolen from him; it wasn’t a confidence freely given. Even today, when she suspected there was a new romance in his life, she was afraid to ask Alex outright in case she scared him off. Instead it was Jake she asked questions of, Jake she teased, all the while pretending it was her son to whom she was talking.

  ‘What a compliment,’ Keelin said. ‘Your mother sounded like an amazing woman.’

  ‘She was.’

  He looked like he needed her to say something else, do something, but she wasn’t sure what it could be. Did he want Keelin to hug him? Would that be inappropriate? She took another sip of her tea, stalling.

  ‘After all that, I’ll take it you don’t know anything about Alex having a girlfriend,’ she joked, expecting Jake to laugh and change the subject. He would give out about how annoying Noah was, the other man’s refusal to cook, perhaps, or his inability to clean up after himself despite being almost thirty years of age. Or he might tell her about a new documentary he had watched on Netflix, his eyes shining as he explained how brilliant the director was, how provocative the storytelling, how important the subject matter, You have to watch it, Keelin – promise me you will. But he didn’t do any of those things. Instead he stood up, took out his wallet and threw a five-euro note onto the table, and he left without saying another word.

  ‘Jake,’ she called after him. ‘Jake, come on. I was only messing. I’m sor—’ But the door slammed shut, and he walked away, hunching his shoulders against the gusts of wind.

  ‘Fuck,’ she swore under her breath. She leaned her forehead against the window, listening to the patter of rain hitting the glass. Why did she always have to say the wrong thing?

  Someone was beside her now, clearing his throat. Cormac, cloth in hand, wanting to get rid of her. She ignored him and sat up straight, pulling the ends of her geansaí over her hands to wipe away the condensation on the window, and it was then she saw Noah. It couldn’t have been anyone else. His rain jacket was a wine-and-yellow paisley print, his skinny jeans tucked into wine Doc Martens; there was no other man on Inisrún who would possess such clothes, let alone go outside where the neighbours could see them. He was at the pier, flanked by three islanders, helping a stooped elderly woman with a walking stick down the steps, his Nikon bag slung over his shoulder. Where was Noah Wilson going with that camera of his? Jake said they weren’t going back to the mainland until next week. Cormac coughed again and she stood up, placing a twenty-euro note on top of what Jake had left already. ‘Keep the change,’ she said, knowing full well it would infuriate the man. He would tell the next customer who came into the cafe that Keelin Ní Mhordha was in earlier, bold as brass she was, and she left twenty-five euro for a ten-euro bill. Isn’t it fine for some, she imagined him saying to anyone who would listen, all the money in the world and Brendan and Bríd left in that house, their hearts broken, only two of the Crowley Girls left in this world?

  For once, Keelin didn’t care. Let them say what they wanted about her. None of them knew the truth anyway. There were so few people who knew exactly what had happened that night, and one of them was dead.

  Chapter Thirty

  Róisín Crowley, Nessa’s sister

  Róisín: I dream of her, still. The same dream every time. We’re dancing in a circle, Nessa and Sinéad and me, holding hands. We’re wearing white dresses, and we’ve red flowers in our hair, peonies, I think. They were Nessa’s favourite. Rock-a-bye baby, someone is singing, but it’s not one of us. It’s eerie, that voice is, like a tape stuck in the cassette player, warping. And then we all fall down, and when we get up, it’s only me and Sinéad left. At first I think Nessa is hiding, and it’s a game. Sinéad and I are laughing as we go look for her, but we can never find her. That’s when I wake up, crying. (pause) I must have Kyle driven demented.

  Noah: Kyle is your husband?

  Róisín: Yeah. I met him six months after I arrived here in Auckland. He’d never even been to Ireland, let alone heard of Inisrún.

  Noah: Was that a good thing?

  Róisín: You could say that.

  Jake: And Cooper – that’s your little boy, isn’t it? He’s a cute-looking kid.

  Róisín: Please don’t say that.

  Jake: I didn’t mean—

  Róisín: I just . . . I don’t want him to grow up hearing that stuff. It didn’t do any of us any good.

  Noah: Did Nessa grow up hearing things like that? (silence) OK, Róisín, do you want to tell us about your childhood? A lot of the reports from the Misty Hill story mentioned your relationship with your sisters. The three of you were extraordinarily close, locals said.

  Róisín: ‘Extraordinarily close’ – they always make it sound so weird, like we were in a cult or something. What other choice did we have? The boys at school would just stare at us like we were animals in the zoo, and the girls hated us, accusing us of trying to steal their boyfriends if we so much as said hello to them. As if we would have looked at them, Nessa would say. They were pathetic, the lot of them. No ambition, she said. I think that’s why she was drawn to Alex Delaney in the first place, he had plans to study in Dublin. Nessa liked that. (pause) I found it hard enough when she started at college, and then suddenly she was spending every weekend up in the Big House too, leaving me and Sinéad behind. We’d always been the Crowley Girls, the three of us together, and now she was . . .

  Noah: What was she doing?

  Róisín: It was like she was different to us, for the first time ever. It’s funny – it wasn’t until I came to New Zealand that I started to think about the idea of the ‘Crowley Girls’, and what that had meant for us, for me. It had become a sort of identity, in a way.

  Noah: How had it been your identity?

  Róisín: I don’t know, like. I’d always been the middle Crowley Girl and then, overnight, I was the eldest. On my twenty-second birthday I remember thinking that for the first time in my life I was older than Nessa, and that broke me. It felt like I’d stolen something from her.

  Jake: I’m sorry, Róisín.

  Róisín: When I moved to New Zealand, I thought I’d be glad of the anonymity here. I was so tired of being asked about Nessa and Misty Hill and the fecking Kinsellas, I couldn’t wait to be done with all of it. But after a while, I found myself wanting to tell people, ‘I’m a Crowley Girl, you know,’ like they would get it, or even care . . . The Crowley Girls of Inisrún island. We really thought that meant something.

  Noah: (coughs) We’re leaving for Ireland next week, you know. Do you have any tips for us?

  Róisín: Yeah, I have a tip for you all right.

  Jake: What’s that?

  Róisín: Don’t believe a word Keelin Kinsella tells you.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Keelin had been bewildered when she and Henry had started dating; she could see that now. Her parents were dead – I am nobody’s daughter now, she whispered to herself as she tried to fall asleep, I am alone in this world – and she was a single mother with a small child to care for, a boy who had become as silent as if Keelin had cut out his
tongue. She kept looking around for someone to come and fix this mess; an adult had to be on their way, surely. It took Keelin longer than it should have to grasp that she was the adult now. Seán and Johanna tried to help; they would come over to the house and find Keelin still in her dressing gown at four in the afternoon, lying prone on the sofa. Come on, they said. Up you get, a chailín. They insisted she shower, dragging her for a walk on the cliffs before accompanying her to pick up Alex from school, Johanna asking the teacher for updates on her son’s progress, whether he was mixing with the other kids more, if he was talking at all during class. Her friends cooked dinner, helped Alex with his homework, filled her cupboards with groceries, stayed until the early hours of the morning, drinking red wine and crying with her, for they had loved Tomás and Cáit too, they were also grieving the loss of her parents. But soon enough they had to return to their own lives. Johanna was teaching in the primary school in Schull by then – it wasn’t feasible for her to come to the island every afternoon to check on Keelin – and Seán had to go back out fishing. Jobs on the bigger boats were hard to come by; he couldn’t afford to put his spot in jeopardy. I’ll be back in eight weeks, he said, and he was. Seán had always been a man of his word. But a lot had changed in those eight weeks.

  Henry Kinsella? he asked in disbelief when he got in from Castletownbere port. You’re with one of the Kinsella brothers?

  Why not? she wanted to ask him. Why shouldn’t Keelin date one of the Kinsellas? He was making her life so much better. It was Henry paying for the child psychologist who had made such a difference to Alex’s behaviour; Keelin couldn’t have afforded the eye-wateringly expensive consultancy fees by herself. She’d confided in Henry that her ex-husband was kicking up a fuss again – Mark Delaney had long since married his second wife, but he was still determined to make Keelin’s life as difficult as possible, filing police reports saying she had stolen property from the house in Carlow, that she had physically assaulted his sister’s children on numerous occasions, that she’d a well-known paedophile minding Alex while she was off with strange men. Mark was also accusing Keelin of parental alienation because Alex was reluctant to spend time with his father, as well as demanding increased visitation rights despite paying little to no maintenance. There was a social worker involved, a middle-aged woman called Sandra, who repeatedly reminded Keelin that her ex-husband was a reformed character, he had a new family and two little girls who adored him, it wouldn’t be fair to deny Alex the same sort of relationship because of his mother’s ‘issues’. Sandra said Mark was a ‘broken man’ after what Keelin had done, taking his child away and abandoning the family home. Keelin had been tempted to tell Sandra to check the doctor’s reports to see what ‘broken’ actually looked like, but she knew there was no point. The courts didn’t care about that. Mark had never beaten Alex, and ‘a boy needs his father’, the social worker admonished her. Henry had listened to this and he told Keelin he would deal with the situation. A few phone calls later – and a substantial cheque, Keelin suspected but didn’t dare ask – Mark was much more amenable about custody arrangements. There’s no point in making this nasty, is there? he said. Let bygones be bygones. The weekly visits every Saturday became monthly visits became twice-yearly, and then it was just a phone call on Alex’s birthday, a card arriving in the post every Christmas, the handwriting on the envelope that of Mark’s new wife.