‘Hi, Alex,’ Sinéad said, flushing. ‘Hey,’ he replied, not even looking at the younger girl, his gaze firmly on Nessa. Keelin studied the girl with more interest. What was this? Did Nessa’s sister have a crush on her son?
‘Happy birthday, Nessa,’ Henry said, kissing her on the cheek. ‘What are the chances? Two Christmas babies. Let the Lord save us from “joint” presents, am I right?’ he said, pretending to bless himself, the three girls giggling easily.
‘Happy birthday to you too, Henry,’ Nessa replied, fiddling with a delicate gold charm on a fine chain. ‘I can’t believe I’m twenty-one, it’s mad. I’m a proper grown-up now.’
‘That’s a lovely necklace, Nessa,’ Keelin said, looking more closely at it. ‘Is that a—’
‘It’s a swallow,’ Sinéad piped up. ‘It was a birthday present from Alex. Isn’t that cool?’ Her voice was strained but she kept smiling anyway, as if determined to show she was happy for Nessa and didn’t mind that Alex Delaney was buying jewellery for her sister rather than for her.
‘Oh,’ Keelin said. ‘Of course. How nice.’
Her son had come to her at the beginning of the month and asked for three hundred euro. That’s a lot of money, she said, taken aback. What do you need it for? And he told her he had a special present to buy this year. Keelin had foolishly assumed he’d meant a present for her, to thank his mother for rescuing him from the boarding school where he had been so miserable. She’d been surprised, that morning, to open the box Alex had handed her and find a romance novel and a Lush bath bomb nestled in candy-pink crêpe paper. But now, looking at the beautiful necklace hanging around the Crowley girl’s neck, she knew where her money had gone. Was she actually jealous that Alex had bought jewellery for Nessa instead of her? Jesus Christ. If that was true, then she was behaving like a deranged harridan from a Hitchcock movie and she needed to get a grip before it was too late.
‘It was so nice of him,’ Nessa said, tucking the necklace underneath her jumper, hidden away from sight. ‘I love it so much. Did you help him pick it out, Keelin? You have great taste.’
Keelin smiled tightly in response as the organist started to play ‘Hark! The Herald Angels Sing’, the priest walking on to the altar, flanked by a small, chubby altar boy. ‘In the name of the Father . . .’ he began, and it was then she heard Sinéad Crowley say one more thing.
‘It’s to match her tattoo.’
‘What?’ Keelin turned around to make sure she had heard the girl correctly. ‘What did you say?’
‘The swallow tattoo Nessa got at college. It’s here.’ Sinéad gestured in the direction of her own ribs. Her guileless smile sliding off her face at Brendan Crowley’s stern excuse me followed by Nessa’s protestations that Sinéad was lying, she swore on Granny Crowley’s grave it wasn’t true, she didn’t know what her sister was on about.
‘A tattoo?’ Keelin asked, her voice sounding very far away. ‘Did you say that Nessa has a swallow tattoo?’
Chapter Thirty-Five
Bríd Crowley, Nessa’s mother
Bríd: I’ll always remember the day Nessa was born. I wasn’t due till the end of January, and everyone knew you went over with your first. I’d loads of time, I thought. It wasn’t until the afternoon that I started to have a bit of pain. We’d just finished our Christmas dinner so I didn’t pay much attention, it was probably indigestion, I said. But then my waters broke and it was all systems go – we were in such a tizzy, wondering if we should call Liam Óg, he was the ferryman then, and tell him we needed to go to the mainland but the baby was coming in such a hurry – which was pure Nessa, as it turned out; always in a hurry to be part of everything – so we had to phone the public health nurse, and, thank God, the woman was on the island for Christmas. Nessa Bláthnaid Crowley was born at six thirty-five on the 25th of December, and she was beautiful. I know everyone thinks that about their own child and, really, all you want is for them to have ten fingers and ten toes, but Nessa was something special.
Noah: What was she like as a child?
Bríd: She was a pure daddy’s girl, following him around, hanging on his every word. Whenever you looked at the two of them, Nessa would be sitting on Brendan’s knee, and he was so patient with her. People used to ask him if he was disappointed that we had the three girls, did he want a son, you know, and it annoyed Brendan because he loved those girls so much. He said he had everything he needed on this island. He had the school and me and Nessa and Róisín and Sinéad. What else could he want for?
Noah: I’m sorry Brendan couldn’t be with us today.
Bríd: Ah, he wouldn’t be able for this at all, at all. Not any more. He’s . . . he’s not been the same since everything happened.
Noah: How do you mean?
Bríd: It’s not my place to speak for my husband. I wouldn’t normally talk about this at all, we’re private people. We haven’t agreed to many interviews since Nessa died, but it’s ten years on and we still don’t have any kind of resolution. We still don’t know what happened and . . .
Noah: It’s OK, Bríd. Take your time.
Bríd: Thanks. (pause) It was Sunday before we heard anything. The electricity was gone but the landline was still working grand. Brendan picked it up when it rang, he was half asleep. Then he sat upright in the bed and I could hear him say, Just tell me she’s all right. Will you just tell me that for fuck’s sake? He turned to me then and he said there’s been an accident in the Big House, it’s Nessa. And he left to . . . I should have gone too – it wasn’t right to let him face that alone – but I just couldn’t. I couldn’t. I sat on that bed and I prayed harder than I ever had in my life. I begged God to make sure my daughter was safe. I would do anything, if only she would walk in that door alive.
Noah: There are some tissues beside you, Bríd. On the table there.
Bríd: Sorry. (sniffs) Yes. I . . . It all happened so fast after that. It was hard to understand what was going on – it felt as if someone had ripped my heart out with their bare hands, I couldn’t breathe with the pain. No one should have to bury their child, it’s not natural. A part of you dies and it never heals again, no matter how much time passes. It’s just . . . your twenty-one-year-old daughter goes to a party and you expect her to come home. She was supposed to come home.
Noah: Did Nessa tell you she was going to the Kinsellas’ party?
Bríd: Yes. I wasn’t delighted at the idea – those parties were always wild – but she was an adult. I couldn’t be telling her what to do any more.
Noah: How did you feel about her spending so much time in Hawthorn House before that?
Bríd: It was a bit awkward in the beginning. I didn’t have any issues with the Kinsellas myself, but Brendan had never liked Henry, said he was too smooth for his own good. It didn’t help that my husband never really settled into our new house either and he blamed the Kinsellas for that too.
Noah: This was the house you’d moved into when Misty Hill was set up?
Bríd: Yeah. The new houses were built on the far side of Rún, about fifty of them. It was the only part of the island with no sea views so they were of no use to the Kinsellas. The houses were comfortable – they had all the newest mod cons: a dishwasher and microwave and whatnot – but Brendan was heartbroken to see the old farmhouse knocked down. It had been our first house as a married couple, the place where we brought our babies home to, but I told him we couldn’t say no, not with the sort of money the Kinsellas were offering, and us with three girls to send to college. I think as well, Brendan felt he couldn’t complain, not with the support Jonathan Kinsella was giving the school and he the principal. He was against Nessa going to the Big House, but I said what was the harm? The Kinsellas would pay her well, and we trusted Keelin, she was practically family. (pause) Wasn’t I the bigger fool?
Noah: How has this affected your family?
Bríd: How do you think it’s affected us?
We’re broken. Sinéad tried to go to college but the first thing people asked when they heard she was from Inisrún was, Did you know Nessa Crowley? Everyone was fixated on the story, the way they are now with all these true-crime shows or what have you. Salivating over the details, play-acting like a bunch of Nancy Drews, as if there’s not real people involved, real families torn apart . . .
Noah: Did Sinéad ever try and go back to university?
Bríd: No. We should have encouraged her, but every time she went out the front door I was frightened she’d never come home. She’s all we have now. You’ve already interviewed Róisín in New Zealand, so you know she’s not likely to return any time soon, or bring Cooper to visit us. Isn’t that funny? You’ve met my grandson and I haven’t. We’ve never seen that baby outside of Skype. Ró keeps asking me to visit, but I can’t leave Brendan, not the way he is now. (pause) Sometimes I think about when we first met. He was one of the only men at the teaching college and he was so handsome, we were all swooning over him. I couldn’t believe it when he asked me to dance, of all the girls there. And then he asked me to marry him and he told me about this island. It was the perfect place to raise a family, he said.
Noah: You’re very brave, Bríd.
Bríd: People always tell me that and I hate it. What other choice do I have now? We can’t both . . . Well, one of us has to get on with things.
Noah: Do you think Henry Kinsella was responsible for what happened to your daughter?
Bríd: Let me put it this way – I can understand why the other islanders think he was. The scratches on his face, throwing things on the bonfire, the way he disappeared after the power cut and neither he nor Nessa was seen again that night, or Keelin for that matter. It doesn’t look good, does it?
Noah: But do you believe it was him?
Bríd: I’m not sure, if I’m being honest. Brendan is convinced he did it, and Róisín too. It used to kill her seeing him around the place, brushing up against her in the siopa, acting like everything was fine. Why does he get to be happy? she’d ask me. When our lives have been destroyed? But people like the Kinsellas, they think their money gives them immunity, that they never have to take responsibility for their actions, and they’re right in a way, I suppose. Justice is only for the poor, my husband keeps saying. (snorts) We even got a cheque from Keelin for Nessa’s Memorial Fund, when we first set it up. Ten thousand euro. Can you believe that? The cheek of her.
Noah: What did you do with the cheque?
Bríd: I posted it right back. Along with every family photo she had been in over the years, and there were plenty. I couldn’t bear the sight of them.
Noah: Have you considered moving? I’m sure a lot of people would have left Inisrún by now.
Bríd: Nessa is buried here. She died alone – I can’t leave her in that graveyard alone too. (silence) You know what’s strange? A part of me hopes that it’s true, that it was Henry Kinsella who did it.
Noah: Why would you hope that, Bríd?
Bríd: Because no one could get onto the island that night, and no one could get off it either. It was someone here who did this, someone on Inisrún. If it wasn’t Henry Kinsella who killed my daughter, then who did?
Chapter Thirty-Six
Henry was at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for Keelin to join him. ‘Très chic,’ he said as she walked towards him, with an overly enunciated French accent, the same as he did when he bought croissants or macarons, something Keelin used to mock him about, before, when she and Henry still had fun together. Holy be to God, she would say, deliberately thickening her Cork brogue to amuse her husband. Did ya go to a fancy school or what, mister?
‘Thank you,’ she said, as he picked a piece of lint off her coat. It was the outfit he’d selected for her, a fur-trimmed parka from Mr&Mrs Italy, a maxi skirt from Margiela, Saint Laurent slouched suede boots, all in black; Henry thought women who dressed in black were more stylish. Sometimes she dreamed of the clothes she would buy if she was allowed use of her own credit card again, scarlet red and iris blue and buttercup yellow, clashing prints and patterns, shoes with diamanté adornment, all a-glitter. She would be a vision, she thought. ‘Where’s Alex?’
‘Táim anseo,’ her son said, standing in the doorway to the kitchen. It had been many years since Alex had come to the church with them on Christmas morning, ten to be exact. That last, awful Christmas before Nessa died. It’s to match her tattoo. The four of them walking back home after Mass that day, she and Henry and the children, Keelin talking too loudly, her voice trembling into the wind, trying to act as if nothing had happened. The words swallow tattoo, Nessa has a swallow tattoo, circling around her skull, nicking slivers of bone as it took the corners too sharply. I feel sick, she told Evie and Alex when they were back at the house, and she went straight to bed. Keelin, her husband said, turning the doorknob and finding she had locked herself inside their bedroom. Open the door, darling. My parents will be here any minute, and Charlie and the girls too. They’ll be expecting you for dinner. Please, Keels, don’t be like this. There’s a perfectly good explanation, I swear.
She had laid down on the bed, crying as quietly as she could so the children wouldn’t hear her. She would have to leave Henry, she supposed. She couldn’t stay with him now, not knowing what she did. The very thought made her heart crack inside her chest. She didn’t want to lose Henry. She loved him too much.
And yet here they were, ten years later. Still married, still walking to Mass together on Christmas morning. Who would have thought it? ‘You look handsome,’ she said to Alex now, pulling out her phone to take a photo of him, ignoring his protests. Twenty-seven, she thought as she looked at him. How was it possible she had a son who was twenty-seven? ‘I’m glad you’re coming with us today,’ she whispered into his ear as she hugged him. ‘Things are getting better,’ he said. ‘I’m getting better, Mam.’
‘We need to get moving,’ Henry said, checking his watch, steering them towards the front door. ‘It’s a pity Evie isn’t here,’ he sighed as they walked down the hill towards the village. ‘It doesn’t feel like Christmas without her.’ He had phoned their daughter when he’d heard of her plans to spend the holidays with her grandparents in Scotland, first asking her to come home, promising her increasingly lavish presents, then insisting Evie couldn’t possibly impose on his parents for much longer, her grandfather was eighty-four now, for God’s sake, and then, finally, he booked her a flight to Cork on Christmas Eve and told her she’d better be on it if she knew what was good for her. He was shocked when his daughter steadfastly refused to comply. Not while those men are still on the island, she’d said. Henry raged for hours, telling Keelin that ‘her daughter’ was a brat, a spoilt little princess, and he couldn’t believe her impudence, he would never have treated his own parents like this, his generation had some respect for their elders. She waited until her husband calmed down, like a wind-up toy running out of steam, and then he sat on the bed, his head in his hands. I don’t want to lose Evie, he said. Like I’ve lost everyone else. Keelin sat next to him. You haven’t lost me, she said. I’m still here. I’ll always be here.
They passed the graveyard on the walk to the church, Keelin mouthing, Nollaig shona. She would go to the grave later, lay down the wreath made of holly and red ribbons, the one she knew her mother would have liked. Hopefully the ritual would be of some comfort to her. ‘Here we go,’ Alex muttered as they approached the church. She tightened her grip on Henry’s arm, telling herself to be brave. As always, there were a few people chatting outside, women in well-cut coats, men in woollen scarfs, a little girl in a pinafore dress and red loafers. Keelin counted – a DeBurca, two Ó Gríofas, a few Breathnachs, and the little girl had to be another deBurca, there was no mistaking that ginger hair – but no Crowleys that she could see. She let out a shaky breath, adrenaline skewering her legs like pins and needles. She didn’t want to see Bríd or Brendan Crowley. She didn’t want to be
ar witness to their despair, to see what ten years of grief had done to them.
‘A very merry Christmas to you all,’ Henry said. The group turned to face them, tight-lipped at the sight of the Kinsella family. One of the women took the child’s hand, pulling her inside the church. The others stood there, silent, their faces blank. Seóirse Breathnach, an emaciated man with a tarnished silver buckle on his belt, took a final drag of his cigarette, scrubbing it out underneath his boot. ‘Come on,’ he grunted at his wife, jerking his head towards the building, and the others followed close behind.
‘Oh, do hurry,’ Henry snapped when neither Keelin nor Alex moved. It was as if her husband had forgotten whose idea was this. She hadn’t wanted to go to Mass today; she would be happy if she never stepped foot inside that church for the rest of her life. But if we don’t go, Henry reminded her last night, it’ll look as if we have something to hide. ‘Let’s get this charade over and done with,’ he said grimly, pointing at the church door.
Mass was fine, after all that. They crept in behind Henry, who walked to the top of the church, his head held high. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, as he brushed past an elderly couple sitting together, gesturing at Alex and Keelin to follow him into the pew. He ignored the whispers, the nerve of him, the refusal of anyone to shake their hands during the sign of peace. After his sermon, the priest announced that the proceeds from the annual Saint Stephen’s Day charity walk would be going to the Nessa Crowley Memorial Fund, and there was a spontaneous round of applause in the church. Keelin stared at the ground, pretending she couldn’t feel dozens of eyes on her, watching to see if she flinched at the mention of the dead girl’s name.
After the Silence Page 20