Jenny reckoned she knew why he’d done it. It was the stark realisation that his father had always wanted a son – just not him for a son.

  The family travelled to London when his body was discovered. Jenny’s parents couldn’t bring themselves to visit his apartment, but Joan and Jenny did. They found a mini shrine by his bedside comprising a framed picture of his mother, the gold miraculous medal she’d gifted him for his twenty-first and a box holding at least a dozen handwritten letters from Vera, each one nine or ten pages long. Flicking through them, it was evident that they were meandering missives declaring how much she missed Hugh and that she thought of him every minute of the day. Jenny had been stunned at the depth and focus of her mother’s adoration. Vera had never spoken to her in the tone of those letters. Postcards were all she’d ever got.

  After the funeral, Vera retreated for two months to a private ‘institution’ to recover. When she emerged, Vera examined the two remaining daughters on the family shelf, snatched down Joan and anointed her the new golden child – as if there had ever been a choice.

  After her brother’s death, Jenny returned to college and her great romance with Shane. But by the end of that first year, everything had changed utterly. She was pregnant. Jenny couldn’t tell Shane. He would want the baby, he would be happy, he would stick by her, he would do all the right things – which, for Jenny and her vision of the future, happened to be all the wrong things. She certainly couldn’t tell her parents. They would insist that she give up the rest of her life to mind it. As for Joan – her reaction would be just an intense bitch-fest over her immorality. For her sister, sex was a flame that belonged in a sacred fire grate, because if it got out of control it would burn the house down.

  The day before her flight to London for the abortion, her mother and Joan were waiting in the living room. They knew. Joan had read the scribbled notes on her desk. Joan had dialled the number underlined in black ink. Joan had figured it all out and told Vera.

  In the living room there was shouting and insults – all from Joan. Vera had simply cried before finally saying, ‘If you kill your child, you are finished with this family. I will be finished with you. Your father will be finished with you. When he gets back to Dublin… I don’t know what he’ll do.’

  By that stage, the eighteen-year-old Jenny felt so entombed, so fretful, that her dismissal from the family seemed a godsend. Locking herself in her room, she wrote two letters. The first, to Shane, was posted that day. The second was to her mother, warning that if she or Joan told Shane about her pregnancy, then she would ensure that the whole world knew of this messy business – the whole world being Vera’s church congregation, Vera’s deeply conservative relatives and Vera’s prissy social circle. The next day, she flew to London to terminate her pregnancy and somehow begin a new life.

  After going to London to have her abortion, Jenny moved to Canada. Over the next year, no one told her that her father’s bad back hadn’t healed after an operation. Or that his prostate hadn’t decalcified after taking all the meds. Or that his gut and thyroid were mortally worse despite constant monitoring.

  With Jenny exiled from Ireland, Lorcan and everyone who knew him resigned themselves to the fact that he would have an unfinished life. He suffered a massive heart attack a year into her stay in Toronto. Joan informed Jenny via a perfunctory message left on her condo’s answering machine. He was still alive, but in a critical condition.

  Jenny flew home and, not knowing which hospital he was in, and with no one answering her messages, went straight to the family home. Her mother brought her in, welcoming and pleasant, her lack of make-up and dark eyes the only signs of the forty-eight hours of crisis she’d endured.

  In the living room, they both faced Lorcan’s empty chair as if he was still in it. Vera said, ‘Your father isn’t with us anymore,’ making it sound like he was simply elsewhere and, therefore, might soon be coming back. After telling Jenny that she’d missed his passing by five hours, Vera calmly said, ‘I suppose, since you did what you did, he’d been rotting from within for quite a while. But a heart attack had the honours in the end.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum.’

  ‘It’s not enough. But you can ask the Monsignor at the funeral about forgiveness. He’s a man. One expects less from them.’

  Jenny cried while her mother sat opposite in her father’s chair. When she finally stopped, Vera said, ‘Of course, it’s totally understandable that you won’t be travelling to the funeral in the family limousine with the rest of us. That’s OK,’ as if it was Jenny, rather than Joan, who had decreed that fact. ‘But I insist that you sit in the front pew with me and your sister. Is that understood, Jennifer?’

  Jenny agreed and felt that perhaps with this momentous occurrence – the death of a parent –her father’s end could somehow magic a new beginning for them all. How wrong she was. Her father’s death, instead, signified the moment that her family’s world, once and for all, fell out of love with love, when they all stopped even pretending to care.

  Jenny hoped that Shane would not be at the funeral. How could she face him after abandoning him, with no explanation but a brief letter, telling him that she was dropping out to travel? But when he didn’t show up, his absence was a new, acute wound.

  After the burial, Jenny returned to Toronto. For months, she cried a lot without realising that she was doing it. It was like having a scratch on her face that would bleed with no warning. It was her body expelling grief without her knowledge. Her whole body stung with it. It wrecked her appetite, her menstrual cycle, her sleep, her skin.

  After a few more months in Toronto, Jenny had had enough and moved back to Dublin. Short of funds, lacking qualifications, having no family support and with her old friends having moved on, Jenny found a job as a shop assistant selling first perfume and then cosmetics. By the time she was twenty-two she was also working weekends in bars. When she was twenty-five, she was managing a shop during the day and, on Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays, worked as a greeter in a members-only nightclub. From there, Jenny would post pictures to her blog of herself with movie and rock stars. A Dublin tabloid or an Irish women’s magazine would often purchase the photos for their social pages. She did this not simply for the attention, or to supplement her income, but also because Joan would inevitably show the pictures to her mother, and her mother would feel excluded, jealous and resentful – all those things that a normal mother was never meant to feel. There was drama and excitement around famous people. It would also have the effect of luring Vera into keeping in touch.

  It had all been exhausting as Jenny was also, on her free evenings, studying for a degree in interior design because, in the future, she fully intended to justify her position as her father’s favourite. And she knew exactly why she had been Lorcan’s preferred child. It was because, unlike his only son and his eldest daughter, Jenny had never been reality challenged. She’d always understood that life was simply a game of snakes and ladders. It consisted of unjust advantages and catastrophic falls. And as with any game that depended on pure luck, the only way to be absolutely sure of winning, was to cheat.

  30

  Now

  6.25 pm: Otto seemed totally relaxed, settled and still like a rock at the bottom of a pond. The top few buttons of his shirt had been ripped free and his body was stretched to such a degree that his chest muscles looked like the exoskeleton of an insect. Blood was smeared beneath his nose, while his lips drooped – making him appear harmless and badger-faced. He had pissed himself. The lap lake spread.

  His bearded persecutor towered above, staring down, half bored, half interested, as if he was gazing into a colourful fish tank. He had eyes that had seen everything; everything that humans can do to each other to elicit pleasure and pain. The eyes were deep brown and seemed to flicker as they processed thoughts and emotions. Otto felt as if he could read them. Dismiss, disdain, dismay – all the ‘dis’ words.

  The man finally spoke, his voice resonant and husky. ‘You don’t know why, do you?’

  Otto concentrated, and wondered what he’d done to deserve this. It was almost as if he recognised something in the bearded face of his oppressor, and felt that he should know exactly why he deserved this – but the answer was just out of reach.

  Otto thought of his favourite summer, the happiest time in his life. He was twelve and on holiday with his parents in Holland. Otto remembered his favourite cycle, down country pathways that were shortcuts between Berkhout and Avenhorn and then a flat empty road all the way to North Beemster where he had a secret meadow, where sheep would stare at him like members of a firing squad while he lay beneath the slow twirling paddle blades of a Bosman windmill.

  The man said, ‘You want to know who I am and why I’m here.’ He picked up Otto’s phone from the bedside table.

  Otto was sobbing. At what exactly, he didn’t know. Otto wished that he had the strength to roll over and crawl beneath the table, like a dying cat shunning daylight in preparation for perpetual darkness. He tried with all his might to focus on the reddening sky outside his window. Only those who loved him would help him now – and no one loved him.

  The man rubbed his beard and said, ‘I thought you’d know by now. But it’s too late. That’s disappointing.’

  Otto closed his eyes. Life was very easy to give up on. It was strange how much fuss he’d made about it for fifty-three years. Soon, someone will knock on the front door. Then the banging will begin, when it doesn’t open. Then the shouting. And then – finally – the screaming.

  31

  6.30 pm: As Jenny left her childhood road, she sank into a depression so deep it was tranquilising. A corpse-pale light had already begun to seep into the air as the sun disappeared behind the city buildings. The day’s end was approaching.

  Across the street, the low wall demarcated the lush green of the small city park behind it. Shane and Jenny had spent many afternoons there. In winter, it would be speckled with people the world didn’t want: the elderly, the unemployed, the sick, anyone who didn’t make money. But now, in the full glory of summer, the lovers had all returned and Jenny scanned the men in case one of them had a beard and shaved head.

  As Jenny approached Clareville, thoughts were gnawing at her; the types of thoughts she’d managed to banish from her conscience for decades. Shane would’ve been a great father. He would have been the best of fathers.

  She’d taken that away from him.

  What was it she’d said to Otto, earlier that day? ‘Do you think I ever gave one moment’s thought as to whether I was right for Shane? Of course not. He was right for me. The end.’

  It’s OK. It’s OK. It’s OK. She could handle this. When facing the loss of everything, she realised that the only real thing that mattered was Shane. She couldn’t – mustn’t – lose him. It wasn’t over yet. Fine, she was losing the house. But there were positives, too. She no longer needed to have any ties with her toxic family. She could finally cut them off. Totally. Forever. Just like Shane had always wanted. Just like she should’ve done twenty-four years ago, when they tried to stop her abortion. With her family conclusively out of her life, her secret would remain safe. Therefore, Shane would never know, and he would not leave her, and they would live happily ever after. Yes, it’s all good.

  Yet, no matter how hard she tried to spin them, things just wouldn’t sit right for her. She looked up beyond the rooftops. Like a current, the rouge of evening spilled across the sky, and she thought of the bearded man’s promise: ‘By sunset today, I will have destroyed everything you hold precious. I’m taking all that’s good in your life and I’m wrecking it.’ For the first time in her life, Jenny felt the icy reality that everything might not be alright in the end.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ she muttered. ‘And what do you want from me?’

  As if somebody had just flicked on a light switch, Venus appeared low on the western skyline. Jenny slowed as she approached the gate to her house. How wonderful it would be to return to Clareville, open the front door and hear nothing but the tap-tap-tapping of Shane’s fingers on the keyboard as he continued hammering words onto the page like vermin flattened to country roads.

  Would anything be normal again?

  Opening the gate, she gazed up at the house’s façade. What is Mum doing with Clareville? She doesn’t need the money. And if she was giving it to Joan or her children, then she would’ve told me. Mum doesn’t do delayed gratification.

  Jenny entered the hall and froze. Shane was sitting on the bottom step of the stairs.

  ‘You’re back,’ he said, rising.

  ‘Yes. Did you see Otto? Is it sorted?’

  ‘No and no. He wasn’t there. But I’ve called and left messages.’

  ‘Good.’

  There was a measured silence and then Shane said, ‘Good?’

  ‘Good that you’re sorting it.’ Fearing that silence would smother them again, Jenny blustered, ‘I’m sorry. Really sorry. About everything you said earlier… you’re right.’ She tried to ignore the wretched truth that, like most confessions, hers was blatantly self-serving.

  Shane opened the study door and gestured for her to enter. ‘Where were you?’

  ‘Mum’s.’

  He followed her inside. ‘Oh God. Why?’

  ‘Just wanted to make it clear that no matter how urgent the message, Mum was to put her faith in phones or pop in herself, and not send Joan around. It went fine. No drama.’

  Shane looked at the wine stains on his bookcase. ‘Joan is pathetic.’

  Jenny thought of her sister’s penthouse apartment, the holidays with her kids, even the groceries – all paid for by Vera. ‘Joan’s not as pathetic as people think.’

  ‘Let’s not get carried away here.’

  Just like that, the sun came out on her face again. She laughed and it was as fake as his smile. But it felt like the ice was melting.

  He asked, ‘Are you happy?’

  Yes. No. Yes. No. She hated how vulnerable that question made her feel. ‘I am.’

  ‘But do I make you happy?’

  Her eyes widened. ‘Yes. Of course.’

  ‘It’s just that you seem… off. Like, I know you’ve stuff on your mind like the money and getting kicked out of the house soon but… something else. Was the launch OK?’

  ‘It was fine. Good, even. It’s nothing. Just tired. It’s been a crazy day. And I hate us fighting. Shane, I know you’re angry with me. I understand that. But—’

  ‘I’m not angry. Forget it.’ He took out his phone. ‘Hold on – a message.’ Shane looked at her. She couldn’t read his expression. He said, ‘It’s Otto. Finally, he texts back.’ Then, reluctantly, he read out the message:

  Shane, come to my house now. I’ll sort it all out in person. Don’t call me. Won’t be answering. Long story. But it’ll make sense when you’re here. Text me when you’re on your way.

  32

  6.44 pm: Jenny said, ‘That’s all a bit secret agent-ty. Even for Otto.’

  ‘The nerve of that guy. After everything that’s happened… after everything that is happening… then coming into my home earlier today, all smiles and giving me flowers, all the while lying to my face… I’d use a blowtorch on him, and my pulse wouldn’t change.’

  Jenny’s eyes widened. ‘That’s kind of extreme.’

  He stage-whispered, ‘That’s because you’re sensitive.’

  ‘Shane, what we were talking about before Otto’s text… You do forgive me? Like, properly? You, really, really, properly and truly, forgive me?’

  ‘Yes. Of course I do.’

  Jenny smiled and colour popped across her cheeks because she could see that Shane was telling the truth. ‘Thank you.’

  *

  6.45 pm: He’d lied. Shane wasn’t sure he could ever forgive her. Can we really recover from these lies? Is it too late? Are we now too old?

  But he certainly didn’t want to leave Jenny. Nietzsche had said that each man is entitled to as much truth as he can bear. Did he really need to know everything about his wife? Maybe Shane wasn’t seeking the truth. Maybe he was just seeking his own limits for tolerating it. So, while Shane would never forgive her, he could pretend to forget. That was what you did when you managed to get from life what you’d really wanted, and intended to keep it.

  Thus, instead of once again confronting his wife about her deception, what Shane really wanted to do was to tell Jenny everything about the creepy texts that he was receiving from someone who seemed to know where he was and what he was doing. He wanted to tell her that he thought the texts had come from the bearded guy hanging around outside their house earlier – a guy whom he also suspected of being the second burglar that no one but he believed existed. He especially wanted to tell her about seeing the same guy in the lobby of Otto’s building that afternoon.

  Shane had watched as the man plugged in his white earphones, put his rolled-up leather jacket under his arm and walked towards the exit. As Shane followed him across the concourse, he hadn’t known what he was going to do. Approach him and say… what? ‘I saw you walking through Clareville earlier’? The man disappeared into the revolving exit but, on the other side, there had been no sign of him on the pavement. Instead, a taxi had pulled out and executed a U-turn before speeding off towards Dublin Bay.

  However, Shane knew that telling Jenny all of that would just make things worse. All it would achieve would be to worry her. Then she’d make public his fear. She’d say in the daylight the type of things that should only be thought of late at night. Shane believed that if you have something to hide, then hide it.

  He felt the outline of the phone in his pocket – a phone loaded with menacing texts. It was like the weight of a lie. I’m not dishonest. I’m just withholding.

  Anyway, maybe it was all just nothing, wrong numbers or some other perfectly reasonable explanation. Perhaps Shane was being paranoid. You’re a writer. Doubt is your life. Another day, another doubt. All that had happened was that the man who had walked past his house that morning and looked in, had also been in the lobby of Otto’s building. Maybe he worked there. Maybe he was a courier. It is not that big a coincidence.