After a few month’s of dating, Keelin began to see that Henry understood her in ways she could never have imagined. He’d lost someone too, he told her, a girlfriend. Greta Ainsworth. A terrible car crash, he said, although he didn’t want to talk about it, it was too painful. But he knew what grief tasted like, how it seeped into everything, turning the world grey, like a mouthful of broken teeth. After Greta’s death, it was hard for him to open up, Henry said, he’d never thought he would feel this happy again, he couldn’t believe how lucky he was to have met someone like Keelin. He was good with her son too, patient and kind despite Alex’s obvious resentment of this man he saw as an interloper trying to steal his mother away. Henry read books about bereavement, the long shadows cast by trauma, and selective mutism in children, sharing them with Keelin and discussing what techniques they might use to help Alex recover. But he never put any pressure on the boy to speak, not until he was ready. Instead, Henry took her son to the mainland to see the latest Pixar movie or walked with him on the beach to collect seashells. He always arrived to the house with plates of delicious food wrapped in tinfoil, courtesy of the chefs at Misty Hill, to save Keelin from having to cook, and the two of them would stay up for hours, talking. Henry wanted to know everything about her. Not just about Mark – although she was comforted by Henry’s hissed revulsion when she told him what her first husband had done to her – but also Keelin’s likes and dislikes, her hobbies, what kind of music she was partial to, the movies she enjoyed. He really listened too, arriving with presents on their subsequent dates, small, thoughtful gifts, and they were exactly what she would have chosen for herself. A print by an artist she’d mentioned in passing, a pleated skirt with a cherry pattern, the fruit Keelin said she was particularly craving that summer, the latest Marian Keyes novel which had received rave reviews in the Sunday papers. I love traditional Irish music too, Henry said when he came to the house and found Keelin listening to Stockton’s Wing on the radio. He took her by the hand and they danced around the kitchen, Keelin leaning her head against his shoulder and biting her lip to stop herself from laughing out loud with the sheer, unexpected joy of it all. We’ll have to go fishing together, he said, when she told him she used to go out on her father’s boat as a child and that, to her, happiness smelled of oilskins and salt. There’s nothing better than fresh mackerel you’ve caught yourself, he said, and Keelin said yes, yes, for that was exactly how she felt herself. Henry seemed to see her so clearly and he accepted her unconditionally, and in doing so he made her feel truly loved and, for the first time in a long time, she felt safe.
He’s perfect, she told Johanna, and her friend hesitated. What is it? Keelin asked her. You know I think Henry is great, Jo said, but . . . just be careful, OK? It’s so soon after— Keelin cut her friend off. She didn’t want to talk about her mother’s death, not now. She just wanted to be happy. Ten months later, when Henry was kneeling in front of her holding the biggest diamond ring she’d ever seen in real life, she ignored the voice inside her wondering if this might be going too quickly and she said the only thing she could say in that moment – yes, Henry. Yes, I will marry you.
The wedding had been held in a Kinsella Hotel in Dublin, a large, ostentatious affair, and not really what Keelin would have wanted for herself, if she’d been given the choice, but she didn’t mind. Her parents were dead, and Olivia and Jonathan were paying for everything; it made sense that they would want to invite their friends, some important business associates too. All that mattered was that she and Henry were married, they belonged to each other now. She wasn’t alone any more. I’m the happiest man in the world, he said when they fell into the Presidential suite that night, half tipsy, and they made love slowly, gazing into one another’s eyes.
It was only after the honeymoon that Keelin noticed tiny cracks in Henry’s façade appearing. They were minor things, nothing she couldn’t forgive, and God knows it wasn’t as if she was an angel herself. She’d come into this marriage with enough baggage for the two of them, and Henry had shown her nothing but love and support – wasn’t it only fair that she do the same for him in return? When they were driving home from the airport, she popped her favourite Planxty cassette into the tape deck, and Henry had baulked. I can’t bear all that diddley-eye rubbish, he said, turning the radio dial until he found a classical-music station. I only told you I liked it to impress you, he said. Isn’t that what everyone does when they’re first dating? And Keelin supposed he was right; there was no point in making a fuss about it anyway. Then, he wanted to spend all his time with her, but it was the honeymoon period, it was only natural; she wanted to spend time with him as well; it was a two-way thing. But it didn’t take long for her to worry that her circle of friends was shrinking. It started with Seán Crowley – Henry wasn’t overly keen on him, but Keelin was sure she would have felt the same about the mysterious Greta Ainsworth, if she were still alive and calling herself Henry’s closest friend. And there’d been that awful incident with Helen, her therapist pal from Clonakilty, who made a pass at Henry after a particularly raucous party in Hawthorn House. He hadn’t wanted to tell Keelin – ‘But I hated the idea of keeping a secret from you, darling. It was nothing, the poor woman was blotto, she’ll be mortified if you bring it up’ – and Helen herself had been too drunk to remember the details of what had happened, just saying she was so, so sorry, and could Keelin ever forgive her? Keelin had said, Of course, let’s just forget it, but she found herself phoning Helen less and less, until their friendship was reduced to exchanging Christmas cards, the odd text on her birthday. That had left only Johanna, and Henry always suggested they meet Jo and her partner, Susan, in their favourite seafood restaurant in Ballydehob, rather than hosting dinner parties at home on the island, as Keelin would have preferred. Her husband would be as charming as ever, making the three women scream with laughter at his impressions of the celebrities who’d stayed at Misty Hill over the years, and Keelin would flush with pride when other people in the restaurant glanced over, wanting to know what the joke was. But dinner would be over too quickly, Henry insisting they go home to Inisrún that evening rather than crash in Jo’s spare bedroom. (I have a ferry chartered, he would say, resting his hands on her hips, grazing his thumbs against her hipbones in the way she liked. Let’s go home, darling.) It made sense, and Keelin was inevitably relieved when she woke up the next morning in her own bed, but it bothered her when evenings out with Henry’s friends turned into all-night affairs, yet another bottle of wine opened at four a.m. She couldn’t figure out a way to have this conversation with her husband without sounding petty, as if she was counting up the hours they spent with his friends versus hers, so she just decided to see Johanna on her own more often; what was stopping her from getting the ferry to the mainland on a Friday night? Yet whenever she was about to leave the house, red lipstick and high heels on, Henry would appear with champagne, saying he had forgotten she was supposed to go out and he’d planned a romantic night in, just the two of them. Jo will understand, he said, uncorking the Pol Roger. We’re newly-weds after all. The next time Keelin was due to meet Jo for dinner, it was a successful deal for Misty Hill that Henry wanted to celebrate; the time after that, he had a throat infection, although he begged her to go out anyway. You need to see your friends, Keelin. I don’t want to ruin your night. But what kind of a wife would she be if she abandoned him on his sick bed? Johanna’s voice on the phone when Keelin called her to cancel plans, again, her friend’s terse Fine.
If it had been a client telling Keelin this, alarm bells would have rung immediately. These are all the classic signs of a controlling partner, she’d have said, you need to be careful here. But somehow that description didn’t quite fit Henry. He was an inherently good man. He phoned his mother every day, sending presents for her birthday without expecting Keelin to remind him of the date. He was respectful to the Misty Hill employees, kicking any artists out of the centre if they were rude to the staff, and their Christmas bonu
ses were legendary. He made her laugh more than anyone else in the world, and the sex was a revelation; Keelin hadn’t known it was possible for her to feel pleasure like this. Their connection was electric, Henry knowing exactly what she wanted him to do to her without having to say a word. And, although she was ashamed to admit this, she found that she did enjoy the Kinsella money. After her mother had died, Keelin had been shocked to learn of the state of the family finances. All that’s left is the house, the solicitor told her, and the contract with the Kinsella Group stipulates it can’t be sold on to anyone who’s not currently living on Inisrún. She was broke, staring at the diminishing figure on her bank statements with a rising panic, wondering how she and Alex were going to survive until the next social welfare payment came in, attempting to eke out their meals as best she could to the end of the week. How could any woman who had ever been afraid she would have to choose between paying the heating bill and feeding her child not be dazzled by this new life that was somehow, inexplicably, now hers? The first-class flights to far-flung destinations, sipping champagne and snuggling under cashmere blankets to sleep in her private cabin until the airplane touched down. The luxurious suites in five-star hotels, the clothes from boutiques that she couldn’t have imagined she would ever step inside, the wardrobe full of designer labels she’d only seen in magazines. Her hair, expertly cut and coloured in the most exclusive salon in London, a swish of silk as she skipped out the door, leaving a generous tip behind her, because that’s what rich women did, she had learned. The Michelin-starred restaurants, heavy napkins placed on her lap by obsequious waiters, trying not to gasp when she saw the price of the wine that Henry had chosen; that was two social welfare payments, she thought. (For years, she would relate everything back to those payments. A Fendi handbag was seven welfare cheques, a romantic getaway to the Royal Mansour in Marrakech thirty-eight. It was a compulsion; she couldn’t seem to stop.) And then, of course, there was Hawthorn House. A mansion cut from glass and steel, a lighthouse of its own kind, and a reminder to every islander who saw it that Keelin Ní Mhordha had made a success of her life. It didn’t matter that her first marriage had fallen apart, leaving her a single parent, forced to limp back to Inisrún to her mother’s home for sanctuary. She was loved now, and by one of the Kinsella brothers no less.
There was only one more thing required to make their marriage complete, but it continued to allude them. For nearly a year after the wedding, Keelin’s period would arrive like clockwork, the stains on her underwear a punishment of sorts. She began counting the months by the blood moons and the new loss each one brought, Henry whispering to her, It’s OK, we’ll try again, I love you. But then, one month, her period did not come. I’m pregnant, she told him, and he fell to his knees, wrapping his arms around her waist and kissing her stomach. Hello, little one, he said. I’m your daddy.
When she started to bleed ten weeks later, she phoned him, screaming at him to come home, to help her, to make it stop. But this was the only thing Henry could not do; it was something not even the Kinsella money could fix. When it was over, he held Keelin while she cried herself to sleep. Please don’t leave me, she begged him, for what if she was damaged in some way? What if it had been more than her ribs that Mark Delaney had broken that day she lay on the kitchen floor in Carlow, the metallic tang of blood on her tongue? She knew Henry wanted children of his own but what if she couldn’t give them to him? Would he still love her, in spite of it all?
I wouldn’t know, Henry said, lying down on the bed beside her, one hand on her lower belly. You are my North Star, he said. You are my forever. I couldn’t live without you, Keelin.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Alex Delaney, Keelin’s son
Alex: She was an amazing mother. She was younger than all the other mams and she was just fun, you know? She always said yes when I asked her to play catch, or hide and seek, or just to lie on the grass and find shapes in the clouds – she was never too busy to spend time with me. When I was eight, I went through this phase of being obsessed with the Famous Five books, they were the only thing I read that summer, so one day she made a picnic for the two of us, jam tarts and sausages and ‘lashings’ of ginger ale because she couldn’t find ginger beer. (laughs) Sometimes it seemed like she was enjoying it more than I was.
Noah: Does your mother know you’re here today? She was adamant she didn’t want you involved in the doc when we first spoke to her.
Alex: No, she doesn’t know. Neither does Henry. (pause) But it’ll be fine.
Noah: It must have been hard for Keelin, coming back to the island after her first marriage broke down. What was your relationship with your father like after the divorce?
Alex: What relationship? Do you want to know what my first memory is? I was about three and my father was standing in the garden, shouting he was going to burn the house down with all of us in it. I heard Mam and my grandmother in the hall, and Mam started crying. I was scared then. Mams weren’t supposed to cry, you know? After the social worker got involved, she would take me to the mainland every Saturday, and she’d drop me at McDonald’s on Patrick’s Street to meet him. I’ll never forget her expression when she saw me walking towards her afterwards . . . The relief was written across her face. It was like she was afraid I wouldn’t come back at all.
Noah: How did the visits themselves go?
Alex: Ah, look. It was pretty obvious the man had no real interest in me, he just wanted to hurt Mam in whatever way he could. He hadn’t a notion how to talk to a kid – he’d get competitive with me over the stupidest shit. Like, if I said we’d painted leaves in school that week, he’d have to tell me that he was a brilliant artist, actually, his art teacher told him he could go professional if he wanted, but he’d never had enough support from his own father. And then he’d be off on a rant about how unfair his life had been, how he’d never had enough chances, how everyone had always been against him. Of course he was totally different when the social worker was there, even I could see that; he had that woman wrapped around his little finger. He’d be totally engaged then, down on the floor playing with me, there’d be no television, no fast food. She thought the sun shone out of his arse. (pause) It all dwindled after a while anyway. He didn’t even get in contact after everything with . . . I haven’t spoken to him since I was fourteen or fifteen.
Noah: How did you take it when Keelin married Henry? It must have been tough, having your family change so dramatically in such a short space of time. Your grandmother dying, a new stepfather, new house, new baby sister. How did you cope with that?
Alex: It was grand. Like, it was weird at the start, obviously. It had always been just me and Mam and I didn’t want to share her, I guess. But Henry made her happy. And I loved Evie from the minute she was born.
Noah: Alex, I’d like to ask you a few questions about the night of Nessa Crowley’s death, if that’s OK? Witnesses say you were drunk at the party . . . ?
Alex: I was seventeen, my tolerance for alcohol wasn’t exactly high. I’d been mixing drinks and I was puking my ring up by eleven o’clock. Mam had to put me to bed. I can’t remember anything after that.
Noah: The next day must have been rough. A blinding hangover and then you hear that your friend has died. Do you want to tell me about that? (silence) Some of the islanders say you were in love with Nessa Crowley. Were you?
Alex: I cared about her.
Noah: Was that all? (silence) OK, Alex. What do you think happened to Nessa the night of the party?
Alex: I don’t know.
Noah: Do you think your stepfather was involved?
Alex: Come on. Henry is the obvious choice, isn’t he? People just want to believe he’s the villain because it’s more palatable than it being an islander who did this.
Noah: Well, I don’t think that’s the only reason why people decided Henry is the—
Alex: I don’t want to talk about that.
Noah: I understand it’s difficult, mate, but we have to discuss the facts, and the facts are—
Alex: I don’t have to discuss anything with you, ‘mate’. You could never understand what it’s been like for me, these last ten years. I tried to go to college, I tried to get on with things, I tried to be normal and I just . . . I couldn’t do it.
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