‘Where will we go?’ Keelin asked, surprising herself with the hope in her voice. A fresh start, somewhere where no one knew them. Evie could make new friends, and Alex could go to university abroad, Paris, maybe, he had always been good at languages. That way, she could take care of her son, make sure he was safe, that he didn’t—
‘No,’ Henry said, moving behind Keelin, both hands on her shoulders. The smell of him straightened her spine, reminded her of the pact they had made. What she had promised him that night in the shadows. ‘We’re not going anywhere. Inisrún is our home.’
Jonathan spluttered but Olivia shushed him. ‘And what do you think of this, Keelin?’ the older woman asked. Henry increased the pressure on her shoulders, just enough so only she would notice it, and she smiled at her mother-in-law. ‘I am staying here too, where I belong,’ she said. ‘With Henry.’
She repeated the same line to Johanna, who begged Keelin to reconsider, and later to Seán, who waited until Henry had left for the mainland before arriving on the front porch of Hawthorn House. She opened the door just a crack, fearful of who might be there, what trouble they might have brought with them, but it was only Seán Crowley, in threadbare jeans that were far too big for him; he had lost an alarming amount of weight. ‘Leave him,’ he pleaded. ‘I don’t know what I’ll do if he hurts you too,’ and then he started to cry, tears running down his cheeks. Keelin looked him in the eye and she said, ‘I’m never going to leave Henry.’ She shoved the door closed, stuffing her fingertips into her ears to block out the sound of him calling her name, Keelin, Keelin . . . Johanna phoned a few hours later. ‘I heard Seán was round to see you today,’ she said, her voice stiff, ‘and you threw him out. After everything he’s been through, do you really think that was fair?’
‘He was getting upset.’
‘Of course he’s upset – his niece has been murdered. He’s fucking devastated. And your husband is a—’
‘My husband is what, exactly?’
‘I don’t . . .’ Jo’s voice quivered. ‘I don’t how much longer I can do this.’
I love you, Keelin thought. You are my favourite person in this world, Johanna Stein. ‘You don’t need to do anything,’ she said. ‘But don’t call me ever again, do you understand me? We are no longer friends.’ And she hung up the phone.
She told her best friends in the world to leave her alone and they did. She understood their reasons – it had become too difficult, being associated with Keelin Kinsella. You could only tell someone to leave so many times before you began to wonder why they’re staying. Maybe it’s what they want, these women in these marriages, you think. Maybe it’s their choice, you shrug, but what you’re really trying to say is, Maybe it’s their fault.
The seasons kept turning over on the island, the trees sprouting buds, blossoming green then shrivelling to rust, drifting off to leave the branches naked, shivering in the cold. ‘Many happy returns, darling,’ Henry said when she woke up on the morning of her thirty-eighth birthday. ‘Thank you,’ she said, pretending that she wasn’t thinking about Nessa today, the first anniversary of the murder. The weight of a stone in her hand, craving skin to break open. The scream of What have you done? A body on the grass, a life seeping away. Her birthday and Nessa’s death, bound together forever.
As time passed, she became increasingly frightened of slipping into the unknown dark where Brendan Crowley was waiting for her, screaming his daughter’s name. Sleep wasn’t for women like her, not any more. Sleep was for people who had nothing to fear in the night. She began to dread leaving the house too, weary of pretending she didn’t notice the other islanders, people she had known since she was a child, staring at her with undisguised contempt. We’ll build a gym, Henry suggested when he found her at the front door in her walking shoes, unable to go any further. We’ll get the hairdresser to come to you, he said when her roots were showing and she refused to get the ferry to the mainland for her appointment at the salon. You can Skype Alex every evening rather than travel to see him, he said. I’ll order the groceries online and have them delivered. Anything to make this easier for you, darling, he said. Her husband took such good care of her, finding more and more inventive ways to turn Hawthorn House into a haven, a cocoon within which Keelin could bury herself and never emerge. You won’t have to go outside these four walls ever again if you don’t want to, he promised her. The thought of what leaving would entail – getting out of bed, showering, blow-drying her hair, choosing an outfit – became too much for Keelin to even contemplate. She would stand in front of the mirror and look at herself, the bones picked out beneath her flesh, the bruise-like shadows under her eyes, and she thought she looked like a hag, a Cailleach come to steal children from their beds while they slept. Henry called a doctor, and then another one, continuing up the coast of west Cork until he found a practitioner willing to ignore the Kinsella name and make a house call to the island for a hefty fee. The doctor, a grim-faced man with a thick thatch of grey hair, spent less than two minutes with Keelin before he prescribed the same antidepressants Alex was taking to help him cope after Nessa’s death. And what about sleeping tablets? her husband asked. And maybe some Valium too, I think she could benefit from that. The doctor added both to the list, warning Henry to keep the medication out of harm’s way. His wife might be at risk of doing something ‘stupid’; she seemed the type, he said.
Don’t worry, darling, Henry said when the man left to catch the ferry. I’ll take care of you. Her husband doled out the tablets, asking to see her tongue afterwards to make sure she had swallowed them. He did extensive research on what foods would help ease her symptoms, deciding they should cut alcohol and sugar from her diet. He chose the time she was to take her sleeping tablet, and he set the alarm clock to wake her at an hour he deemed appropriate – we don’t want you staying in bed all day, he said. That wouldn’t be good, now, would it? He chose clothes for her, advised her on how she should wear her hair and her make-up. I think it’s important to make an effort, he said. You’ll feel worse if you hang around all day in your tracksuit, won’t you? And Keelin nodded and said yes, Yes, Henry, you’re right, Henry, because she didn’t want to have to think – thinking meant remembering; apple shampoo and swallow tattoos and blood smeared on hands and the weight of that stone in her hands and a voice screaming, What have you done? What have you done? – and she was grateful to Henry because he had taken away the need for her to think about anything any more. She just did what he told her to do.
‘I’m going insane,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘I’m losing my mind.’
‘Don’t worry, darling,’ he said. ‘I’ll take care of you.’
That was the beginning of it all, she would realise later, but by then, it was too late.
Chapter Forty-Nine
When the Tuatha Dé Danann came to Ireland, they stood on these shores and they looked at these lands and they thought, Yes, yes, we will take this place for our own. And they burned their ships and they set fire to their oars so there would be no turning back.
And so too did we bring flames to Misty Hill. We did so in the shadows, waiting until all eyes were closed and the last breath had settled for the night. The reporters had left our island by then, bored of the tragedy that had happened here. The artists had gone too, taking their money with them. All that was left on Inisrún was this cluster of empty cottages and the Crowley Girl’s bones rotting in the graveyard beyond. We were despairing and we were angry. And so, on the second anniversary of her death, we gathered.
Afterwards, none of us could remember who lit the first match, or, for that matter, who lit the first house.
It was none of us.
It was all of us.
In the end, it didn’t matter. We stood together in silence and we watched that cursed place burn to the ground. Ashes to ashes.
There would be no turning back.
Chapter Fifty
Barba
ra Phelan. CEO of Lighthouse Éire, a charity helping victims of domestic violence in Ireland
Barbara: I’ve been working with Lighthouse Éire for almost twenty-five years now. Our mission has always been the same, to make Ireland safer for women and children. Violence against women is a global epidemic, it affects one in three homes worldwide and—
Noah: We should probably acknowledge there are male victims too.
Barbara: Of course. I tend to use the pronouns ‘he’ for perpetrators and ‘she’ for victim because while women can, of course, be abusers, and violence also occurs in LGBTQI+ relationships, the statistics bear out that the majority of victims are female. In the twenty years since we started monitoring femicide in this country – that is the broadly accepted term for the killing of women and girls by men – one in every two victims is killed by a current or former male intimate partner. Failing to note the gendered aspect of these crimes does us a grave disservice. It prevents us from moving forward and finding solutions.
Jake: Yes, I agree. (pause) According to our research, Keelin Kinsella worked for your organisation for a number of years.
Barbara: She worked in the Cork branch, yes. She volunteered there when she was a student and she took a job as a support worker in 2001. After she was married, she remained with us but in a part-time capacity until 2009.
Jake: Did you know her well?
Barbara: Jane Maher was the coordinator of the Cork centre, but I did meet Keelin on a number of occasions. She came to Dublin for training sessions, conferences, et cetera. She disclosed to me her own experiences of domestic violence in her first marriage. She spoke very publicly about that, I should say, including giving a paper at a national summit on this issue. This isn’t a violation of her confidence.
Noah: Her ex-husband categorically denies any such abuse.
Barbara: Have you spoken to him?
Noah: Not on camera – he refused to talk with us. But he sent a strongly worded statement refuting Keelin’s allegations.
Barbara: I see.
Noah: You don’t believe him?
Barbara: I believe women, Mr Wilson. This is what we’re trying to fight here at Lighthouse Éire. We’re trying to dismantle the myths around domestic violence. That victims lie about being abused, for one. Or we assume it only affects a certain ‘type’ of person, which is deeply classist and, as a case such as Misty Hill proves, also incorrect. Domestic violence excludes no age, no socio-economic background, no race or religion. It is found in every stratum of society, and our organisation is working to shine a light on that. We want to eradicate intimate partner abuse for good.
Jake: How would you characterise Keelin’s relationship with Henry Kinsella?
Barbara: I’m not in a position to comment on that. It would be highly unethical of me to do so.
Chapter Fifty-One
Kimberly Singer, leading expert on intimate partner violence with Soul Spirit Sisters, Sedona
Kimberly: After reviewing the tapes you sent me, I must admit I was quite concerned by the dynamic of Henry and Keelin Kinsella’s relationship. I’ve never treated Keelin – that would be difficult, considering my practice is in Arizona! – but there were certain behaviours I found troubling. She’s hesitant to talk during the interviews; she often looks at her husband before speaking, as if to make sure she has ‘permission’ to do so; she’s palpably nervous around him.
Noah: She’s also on camera. That makes a lot of people nervous, especially if they’re not used to it.
Kimberly: True. But if a client came into my practice exhibiting those behaviours, I would see it as a red flag. In my expert opinion, these are typical signs of abuse.
Noah: We told Henry Kinsella that you had reviewed their tapes and we outlined your concerns, giving him the right to reply. He told us he’d never been violent with Keelin. He swore he had never raised a hand to a woman in his life. The idea made him feel ill, he said. (pause) You’re shaking your head at me, Kimberly. Have I said something you disagree with?
Kimberly: It’s a common mistake, presuming violence has to be physical. That’s why even the term we use, ‘domestic violence’, is so woefully inadequate.
Noah: What term would you use?
Kimberly: Intimate-partner terrorism is my preferred choice, although of course that does exclude the abuse of children in the home.
Noah: Terrorism? Isn’t that a bit well, dramatic?
Kimberly: Not for the women trapped in these relationships. When I started my practice, I would ask clients to share the worst thing that had ever happened to them. I was expecting to hear horrendous stories of physical violence, but do you know what they told me?
Noah: What did they tell you?
Kimberly: Each one of them swore that while the beatings were devastating, the mind games were worse. The manipulation, the isolation, the control – emotional, financial, sexual – the humiliation; these were the things that took women years to recover from, and yet these particular wounds left no visible scars; there was nothing to show to the world around them and say, ‘See, look what he did to me.’ Coercive control—
Noah: Coercive control is psychological abuse?
Kimberly: Yes. I’ve seen a massive increase in such behaviours reported by my clients over the last number of years. People have a better understanding today that physical violence is wrong; they don’t dismiss a neighbour beating his wife as a ‘private family matter’ the way they might have done in the past, so abusers have had to adapt their methods of torture. We call it terrorism because abusers turn their homes into a war zone, with the women and children as their hostages. They won’t let them go without a fight.
Noah: If they’re not in any immediate physical danger, why don’t these women just leave? If their partner isn’t hitting them or—
Kimberly: Don’t you think it’s interesting that we always ask ‘Why do these women stay?’ We never think to ask, ‘Why are these men violent?’ or ‘Why won’t these men stop terrorising their partners?’ (pause) OK, Mr Wilson. I’m going to ask you to do something for me.
Noah: Sure.
Kimberly: I want you to put a few things on the table. Your house keys to start. You got that? Now, your car keys. Your wallet containing all the money you have in the world, and every one of your credit cards. I want your passport and your driving licence too. And last of all, I want the shoes off your feet. We good?
Noah: Yes.
Kimberly: From here on out, these items belong to me. You can’t touch them again without asking for my permission. Is that clear?
Noah: Crystal.
Kimberly: Now tell me, Mr Wilson. Why don’t you just leave?
Chapter Fifty-Two
‘This is outrageous,’ Henry said to Keelin as the show broke for ads. They had been waiting for tonight to come ever since Channel Three’s publicity machine had swung into action; it’d been two weeks of long-form features in the Sunday papers, interviews with Jake and Noah on afternoon chat shows and feminist podcasts, debating the issues with shock jocks on national radio stations. Henry requested an early preview of the documentary, but all they’d received back was an oddly formal note from Noah, saying a preview wouldn’t be possible at this time but he hoped Henry would agree it was a fair representation. What does that mean? Keelin asked, but her husband shrugged. I don’t know, he said. We’ll have to wait until June to find out.
‘Don’t you think it’s outrageous?’ he asked now, waving his hand at the television.
Kimberly, she thought. It was so . . . American, but it suited that therapist, with her suspiciously wrinkle-free forehead and the oversized necklace she wore to disguise a crêpey décolletage. ‘I can’t believe she’s allowed to just say things like that,’ her husband seethed. ‘I’ve a good mind to phone my solicitor right now and tell her to start legal proceedings. It’s defamation, surely. That woman is impugning my goo
d character by implying I’m abusive.’
‘You’ll have a hard time suing her,’ Keelin said, ‘given she’s in the States. Free speech is enshrined in their constitution.’ She snuck a look at him. ‘When did Noah give you the right to reply? You never told me about that.’
‘Oh, he rang a couple of months ago, babbling about some American therapist, and I told him it was nonsense, obviously. Imagine, to be lumped in with men like your ex. I would never do anything like that.’
‘Well, Channel Three is covered then, legally, if they—’
‘What if Evie is watching?’ he said, ignoring her. ‘And hears that woman accuse her father of being an abuser?’
‘She’s not going to watch it. And she would never believe that of you anyway.’
Of course she wouldn’t, their daughter thought Henry was perfect. She always had done. She remembered when Evie had begged for a smartphone for her twelfth birthday; she was the only girl in her form who didn’t have one, she’d complained. Henry, disregarding Keelin’s misgivings, ordered the latest iPhone and had it delivered to the school in Scotland. Within hours their daughter had googled the Misty Hill case, even though she was strictly forbidden to do so, and discovered about the affair. But it had been her mother whom she had rung that day, screaming down the phone that she hated her, that this was all Keelin’s fault, she was pathetic and old and no wonder Daddy had gotten sick of her, she’d probably driven him into Nessa’s arms. She waited until her daughter’s voice went hoarse and the girl began to cry instead. It’s not true, is it, Mum? she said. Please tell me it’s not true. And Keelin told Evie not to believe everything she read. Her father loved her very much. It’s OK, pet, she had said. It’s all going to be fine.
After the Silence Page 28