‘Sure.’ Shutting the door, she kicked off her shoes, sat on the side of the bed and, gulping a mouthful of Shiraz, texted Otto on Shane’s phone. The restored antique brass iron bed was the only piece of valuable furniture in the house that had not been owned by her father. All her jewels, letters and ‘things’ were stored here in the bedroom. It was her private vault. This was where she read, relaxed into a face mask and had sex.

  Opening the laptop, Jenny groaned; there were so many clients to get back to. The bottom corner of the screen said it was already 7.45 pm. Focusing on the most important email, she began typing at bunny rabbit speed, but changed her mind and flopped back onto the bed, her head falling onto the pillow. Looking at the ceiling, she wondered how many chins she had, how much her roots were showing, how dark her under eyes looked, because none of it mattered. She’d just been fucked. Jenny took her sex life seriously. It was important, like an ongoing rating system for her marriage.

  Screwing on the floor, it had been reminiscent of life in her flat. She thought of the night she’d brought Shane back from the club when they’d reunited. They’d still been so young. It hadn’t mattered that the paint on the walls had been like a skin disease, that the stench of stale tobacco remained from the previous inhabitants, or that the windows were layered with grime – they had made it the most consecrated sanctuary in the world.

  Stretching on the bed, Jenny relaxed for the first time that day. It felt so good to be putting it all behind her. It was over now. Her family was out of her life. The secret of her abortion would disappear back into the past with them. The price to pay was this house. It was worth it. It had to be. But she still deeply regretted losing the opportunity of Otto’s investment. She imagined a brick of hundred-euro bills. She imagined five, six, ten of them. Stop it. No regrets. You’ve got off easy. Looking across to the free-standing mirror, it was like seeing someone else. Not younger. But someone more awake.

  Her phone rang.

  The odds were high that it was a client or, since the launch and her media exposure over the weekend, a potentially big contract. Or could it be Vera? Taking the phone out of her trouser pocket, she looked at the screen. Unknown.

  Don’t answer.

  She answered.

  ‘Hi, Jenny.’

  ‘Erm, hi? Who’s this?’

  A deep cloudy voice said, ‘Three is the magic number, Jenny. We see it all the time out there in our culture, in our society. You know, instinctively, it’s important. It equates to some form of truth in our subconscious. It’s divine. Jesus rose on the third day. The Holy Trinity. Third time lucky. For you, Jenny, it’s three strikes and you’re out.’

  Jenny whispered, ‘Oh, no…’ as the bearded stranger’s face filled her brain.

  ‘Strike one was when we met this morning. I trust I ruined your big day? The photograph I’ve just sent you is strike two. Your husband should enjoy it, too. After I send it to him, you can kiss your marriage goodbye. Strike three – the big one – will come by nightfall.’

  ‘What photograph? What are you on about? How did you get my number?’

  ‘Remember what I told you; by the time the sun is gone… let’s call it 9.00 pm – as in ninety minutes from now – I will have destroyed everything you hold precious. I’m taking all that’s good in your life and I’m wrecking it.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ Jenny hissed into the narrow slice of plastic and metal in her fist. ‘Fuck you to hell, you fucking arsehole. It must feel good to play with someone, right? Because it only takes people, what? a few seconds to realise that you’re one of those losers who were always fucked around with when growing up and are out for revenge ever since.’

  ‘Finished?’

  ‘So, I’m the scapegoat? I’m the convenient one. You think I’m rich, so therefore I can’t possibly be innocent, and you can therefore randomly try and destroy my life without guilt.’

  ‘Randomly?’ He laughed. ‘You still have no idea.’

  ‘You want to make me pay for all those people who squashed you again and again in life because we’re all interchangeable. Right?’

  ‘Stop thinking, Jenny. You can’t work this. You can’t figure a way out. Nothing will make it better. There’s nothing you can give me or do for me that’ll make me go away. I’m like your mother. I’m like your sister. Vera. Joan. See – I know everything.’

  His laughter ricocheted down the line like machine-gun fire. The sound was triumphant. It was the last laugh. He hung up.

  The sound of water hissing from the en suite stopped. She opened the photograph that he had texted. Immediately, the colour drained from her vision as her eyes widened like a woman who had just woken from her worst nightmare to realise that it was all true after all.

  The picture. That picture. She remembered it being taken.

  As she stared down to what had been revealed, she actually stopped breathing. It was as if the harder she looked the more likely the image would disintegrate into something innocuous. The picture was of her world falling apart. How nice it would be to have religion. How she could do with her family’s high of believing what you cannot explain, knowing without understanding; without even having to try and understand. Jenny could then promise Him something in return for making the picture disappear – because her family’s god never stopped bargaining, making deals. But for Jenny, there was no god. This picture proved it.

  Jenny put the phone back in her pocket. It was over. Her marriage. Her future. She had not thought it was possible to feel worse than she had after leaving Vera’s. Yet here she was. There were always lower circles in hell.

  How did the bearded man get the picture? Something unbelievable began to suggest itself. The guy at the launch was not some sick stranger arbitrarily picking a woman to harass. This is all part of a plan. That was all meant to happen. How else could he have known of the picture’s existence? How and where did he find it? How would he have known its relevance? How could he know how dangerous it was? How could he know what it represents?

  Her stomach was so full of knots and tension, it felt like cramp. An even more frightening thought occurred; why was this happening today? She recalled her mother trying to tell her something. Could it all be connected? It was as if the bearded man was in everyone’s shadow. Was it merely a coincidence that everything that could go wrong had gone wrong in the same twelve hours? No. It’s a funny old world – but not that funny.

  Jenny had never before been in such a perilous position. Everything was out of control because everything was being controlled by out-of-control people. Could her family really have something to do with all of this? They’re not the fucking mafia. But she also knew that you can never be too paranoid with some people. You cannot think crazily enough.

  For a moment she considered calling Detective Murray. Let Murray hunt the bearded man down. Have him arrested. Press charges. Sue the bastard biblically. Alas, getting the police messed up with this would mean getting the police messed up with everything else too. They would want to know about the photograph; what it meant; why she was so scared of it. Worst of all, it would ensure that Shane found out.

  Jenny felt a great sadness about her relationship with Shane. She realised that these had been her golden years; that this had been as good as it was ever going to get. The stakes have been plain for Shane and me; we prosper until I’m caught out, and then I lose everything.

  If her husband saw the photograph, it was all over. The truth of a person was in their scars. If a person feared abandonment, then they had probably been once abandoned. Her father had abandoned her by dying. He had left her alone in the world with her narcissistic mother and her sister. I’m like Mum. I’m going to lose every significant male figure in my life.

  Jenny spun off the bed, grabbed Shane’s phone, put it on silent and jammed it under the mattress. Lying back across the bed, she watched as he emerged from the en suite.

  ‘Jenny… is there anything else? Like… you’ve told me everything, right?’

  ‘Of course. I’m just glad to be home. With you. There’s nothing else.’

  Even as she spoke, she was aware that her lies now had an expiration date. Today. Tonight. Any minute now. It wasn’t fair. How could some nobody just decide to ruin everything; to take Shane from her; to destroy her future? Shane and she – they belonged together like two clasped hands.

  Shane smiled and quickly put on boxers, black jeans and black T-shirt.

  Jenny, acting disinterested, tapped the odd key on her laptop, her face blued by the screen. Lazily, she said, ‘Your jacket is downstairs in the kitchen.’

  ‘Cool,’ he muttered and left the room.

  She breathed slowly and waited. A minute later his feet pounded on the stairs. Surging into the bedroom, he said, ‘My phone – where is it?’

  ‘Your phone?’

  ‘Yeah. Come on, I’m late. You used it to text Otto. Remember?’

  ‘Yeah. Of course. You took it just now, before going downstairs. I saw you. You just snapped it up. Are you mad? Check your pockets.’ It was a skill inherited by all the Donaldsons – the ability to effortlessly gaslight.

  ‘Fuck. It’s not in my pockets. Call it, will you?’

  Jenny took out her phone. ‘Sure.’ She dialled his number and said, ‘It’s calling.’ Beneath her ass, was a very slight and silent vibration from under the mattress.

  He stood still, ear almost comically cocked. But there was no sound.

  She said, ‘Must be on silent downstairs somewhere. Just go without it. You’ll survive.’

  ‘Right,’ he muttered, taking one last scoot around the bedroom, lifting papers, kicking clothes. ‘I’ll take a taxi. Should be less than an hour.’ He kissed her on the cheek. ‘See ya.’

  Watching Shane leave, Jenny had an unaccountable feeling that she’d never see him again. It was so urgent, so powerful, that she had to bite her lip to stop from calling out for him to stop, to not go, to stay with her. But she needed Shane out of the house. She needed to remove the picture from his phone. She needed to make her plans.

  The front door closed.

  Jenny rolled over, curled up, jammed her face and mouth into the pillow to mute her scream. All she could do was delete the picture from his phone if it arrived while he was at Otto’s. Even then, the bearded man would just send it again and again, until he knew for certain that Shane had seen it. What else can I do?

  The doorbell sounded.

  Jenny climbed off the bed, checked herself in the mirror and went downstairs. Opening the door, she saw who it was and thought, how much reality can I stand?

  ‘May I come in?’ her mother asked.

  When Vera spoke softly, when she gazed at her, Jenny remembered what it was like when she believed that her mother was like all other mothers – fair, protective and supportive. She remembered how secure life had been. Whatever the problem was, Mum could fix it.

  Jenny leaned against the door. ‘I wasn’t expecting you.’

  ‘I can call in to my daughter, can’t I?’

  ‘You can. But you never do.’

  ‘I was out walking… taking some me time,’ Vera said, as if her time wasn’t 100% me time. ‘And I decided to pop in and visit.’

  ‘Mum, I really don’t care for your drama games. I have my own concerns.’

  ‘Which are…?’

  ‘None of your business. Look, I assume there were no comebacks from earlier?’

  ‘No comebacks? Now isn’t that a holy terror of a phrase.’ Vera’s voice wasn’t as clear and forceful as usual. Jenny squinted against the fading backlight of dusk sky. Vera was crying. That scared her. Her mother wasn’t the crying type.

  Jenny softened her voice. ‘What’s wrong, Mum? Why are you really here?’

  ‘I know everything,’ Vera said.

  The moment Jenny heard those words, she told herself that they had to be untrue. Surely no one could know everything about this?

  36

  7.53 pm: Settling into the back of the taxi for the short journey out to the coast road, it occurred to Shane that, so far, he had been assuming Otto would simply hand back the money. But what if he couldn’t? What if it was too late? What if he refused to? He needed to be prepared. Remember the words of Sun Tsu – ‘Victorious warriors win first and then go to war.’

  What did he know about Otto? He had broken Jenny into the interior design business. He did her accounts. He advised her. But why was he so eager to help her? Why was he always available? Most importantly, why did he feel the need to try and make Jenny an overnight fortune? There was nothing in it for him unless she was sleeping with him – and she definitely wasn’t doing that. It was as if Otto owed her for something. It was like he was deeply in her debt.

  Or maybe my opinion of Otto is coloured by what happened in that exam hall. The worst part of that twenty-four-year-old memory was not the being caught but afterwards – the conversation they had while walking to the dean’s office.

  Shane said, ‘I never looked at the notes. I got zero sleep last night, panicked this morning and just brought them in. Totally forgot about them till the end of the exam.’

  ‘That doesn’t get taken into account, I’m afraid.’

  ‘But it should be taken into account.’

  Otto did not appreciate Shane’s tone. ‘Fine, I’m now taking it into account.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And you cheated.’ Otto stared at Shane as if judging the depth and width of his deception. ‘This time, you were caught. What about previous exams? What about the other students’ results when compared to yours? What does any of it mean if your cheating is tolerated?’ Otto stopped walking and held up Shane’s exam script and packet of tissues. ‘What were you thinking? Shane, you were worth first-class honours. It was a pleasure teaching you. But alas, we must remember Feste’s warning; Cucullus non facit monachum.’

  Shane muttered, ‘Yeah. I don’t know what that means.’

  ‘“The hood does not make the monk”.’

  Otto’s condemnation had lingered about Shane for the next eight years. When he achieved anything – such as securing his TEFL certificate while working as a roofer – he felt sheepish, as if he had somehow hustled rather than earned it. When he had travelled to teach English, amassing glowing references wherever he went, the memory of Otto’s blunt appraisal left him feeling like an impostor. Then he wrote his first book, and that changed everything.

  Having finished a spell of teaching in Dubai, Shane took two months out to backpack in India. Drifting along the Goa coast, he hooked up with a faded Australian soap star called Lance Molko, who had set up a commune based on a kibbutz he had once stayed in.

  Shane had been there just a week when Lance stole money from his long-term disciples and fled to Las Vegas where, lodged in a penthouse suite above the main strip, he binged for forty-eight-hours on cocaine, call girls and lady-boys. Then, out of cash, he jumped from his balcony and fell thirty floors. Crashing through the glass dome of the hotel’s function room, Lance splattered his guts, eyeballs and brains all over a major oil company’s banquet table, causing a spectacular detonation of roast duck, caviar and human mulch. At that very moment, the Texan CEO had been toasting the future for a battery of photographers. Instead, they snapped the precise second when washed-up glamour collided with current ostentation as the ultra-privileged Texan gazed with dismay at a partly eviscerated soap-star-has-been.

  The news story went viral and within forty-eight-hours Lance’s suicide was hailed as a Christ-like sacrifice and his became the face on activist T-shirts, symbolising indignation at eco-destruction and ‘the 1%’. However, Lance’s sainthood was fleeting. Details emerged as to his thievery, his subsequent drugged-fuelled bisexual orgies and his complete obliviousness to the oil banquet thirty floors beneath him. Finally, it was revealed that his last – sobbed – words before jumping were, ‘I was somebody. Even Kylie sucked my dick.’

  Upon his return to Dublin, Shane rattled off his book in a bedsit paid for by the dole. His manuscript drew on the week he’d stayed in the kibbutz before offering a dramatic account of what really went down in Las Vegas. Shane wove a theme into the story concerning how, due to the then burgeoning internet, dropping out of the modern world was no longer possible unless one is clinically insane and can therefore drop out of reality itself.

  While waiting for it to come into print, he met Jenny in the nightclub, and they became a couple again. For both of them, the publication of his book was as if he had won the Pulitzer. In reality, it was issued by a small Irish company that printed up a few thousand copies with a shoddy cover. However, it was well reviewed with a media splash of zeitgeist baiting inquisitiveness and soon the international rights were snapped up for five figures.

  Shane had named it Cheating; officially because Lance Molko had cheated obscurity, cheated his disciples and finally cheated himself of his own principles. But Shane had really called it Cheating because, by publishing it, he had nullified his college expulsion and therefore duped his own destiny.

  *

  8.07 pm: After catching every red light on the way to Otto’s, the taxi turned onto the coast road that ran for miles ahead, visible due to the rows of orange, yellow and white street lights – urban pointillism. Here, each magnificent sea-view house and garden occupied as much real estate as a block of twenty houses on the estate in which Shane had grown up. These properties were owned by people for whom there was no magic number where you just stop. For them, there would never be enough luxury goods to buy, security to beef up, club memberships to amass and art to hang. In their worlds, you just kept dealing, earning, accumulating.

  The taxi pulled in and Shane took out a spool of bills to pay in cash. He always had a roll with him. It brought him back to when he’d worked on the roofs and, every Friday, he’d get a precious brown envelope. Cash reminded him of who he was.

  The taxi U-turned, leaving him alone on a broad, tree-lined street that seemed to have no houses on it. But every so often, large gates were implanted into twelve-foot-high walls. One of those gates was a wrought iron monstrosity of heft and industrial design. It blocked the way into Otto’s. There was a keypad to the left and Shane pressed the biggest button.