Shane’s body pulsed with a surge of renewed strength. He lunged and thumped Hugh in the stomach, driving all breath out. Then, he hit him one more time with a perfect right hook that resounded with a horrible crack. Hugh staggered in reverse, almost comically, as if being vanquished in slow motion. He fell backwards to the floor, his arms flopping outwards.

  Despite everything, Shane pitied him. It would be a long time before Hugh could look at his friends again without knowing exactly what they were thinking.

  But someone like that deserves to be on the floor after having the crap kicked out of him by a seventeen-year-old in front of all his rugby mates. Shane just wished he hadn’t been the one who had to put him there.

  As two barmen barged their way through the crowd, Shane, trying not to shake visibly, walked around Hugh towards the exit, very aware that what had just occurred was something he would remember for years to come.

  Of course, he had no idea just how much it would actually affect him. How it would affect his entire life, and Hugh’s.

  10

  Now

  2.39 pm: Jenny forced herself to stare back up at the man on the stairs. I’m not scared. The break-in will not change my life. Jenny had grown up when little girls could still cycle the streets alone. She felt sorry for young women these days, who sensed the need to pack rape whistles and mace in their bags along with lipstick and phones.

  Despite her secrets, despite what she was planning to do behind his back, Jenny wished that Shane was beside her now. She suddenly missed him terribly: his easy company, his unruffled demeanour, his ability to calm her with a nonchalant shrug that said, ‘It’s no biggie. We’ll deal with it.’ Sometimes, she regretted not having a baby with him. Sometimes, it felt like the biggest disappointment of her life.

  Recently she’d watched Shane sweep a crying child from the ground with one hand while he lifted her bike with the other. As he calmed her, Jenny had been overcome with a kind of ravenous hunger that had rooted deep in her abdomen. She’d had to lean against the wall in surprise.

  There was a tap on her shoulder. Jenny put her best face on, turned and smiled into the face of a glamorous brunette who was fighting fifty with Botox, fake eyelashes and a weekly spray-on tan. It was Sandra Gleeson, the TV presenter for the show Teatime Ireland.

  ‘You’re Jenny, the interior designer, yeah?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘You’re the one who was in the papers over the weekend with her husband, the writer?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Shane Smith. The Shane Smith,’ she repeated, making Jenny wonder if Sandra had a better idea who Shane was than she did. Sandra continued: ‘Look at you – after everything that happened and you are still, truly, the most beautiful woman in the room.’

  Jenny smiled and then she lied, too. ‘Love the cerise lipstick. Suits your complexion.’ Looking beyond Sandra to the man on the staircase, she stared up at him, to let him know that she was aware of his presence, that she knew he was looking, and that she wanted him to stop. However, instead of looking away, his head jutted forward, as if responding to a challenge that she had just laid down. He released the banister and straightened, demonstrating his full height, over six feet of it.

  Sandra noticed her noticing and asked, ‘Who’s that up there?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ Jenny muttered.

  ‘Well, he’s nobody then.’ Sandra clapped her hands. ‘Right, up for an interview?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Great. I thought Ellie wouldn’t want to contaminate the product with death and shit, but she ordered me in this direction. Now, remember, my audience love flash-flash glamorama. One of the biggest ball-aches I have to deal with is people spewing the official press release.’

  ‘No probs.’ Jenny looked back to the staircase. She’d intended to ignore him, but couldn’t. There was something about him so threatening and off, that she needed to know exactly where he was while she was in the same vicinity.

  As Sandra positioned her before a white wall beneath a modernist clock, Jenny thought, this is an important opportunity. Focus. Gazing into the cameraman’s lens, she explained: ‘I imported several Vablum ornamental antiques to hang above the kitchenware space. You know what a Vablum antique is?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Sandra.

  That was too bad, as Jenny longed to explain it to her on TV. ‘Well, good. So, the quartz clock I picked – hanging above my head – is beyond fashion. Notice the creaminess of the dial, the sweeping space between the Arabic numerals communicating that everything is easy and spacious and free. My father loved clocks and watches. He was the one who made me appreciate the significance of Vablum scarce goods, such as this one.’

  Why do I keep mentioning Vablum goods? It’s teatime TV. You have to be of a certain net worth to even understand what that is. He’s still there, on the stairs. Go away. Go. The fuck. Away.

  ‘Aaaaand cut. Fabby! It’s a total smoke show, Jenny. And it’s amazing how you look all not damaged. Not traumatised. And that burglar… the… the… it was a girl! Wow. What a weekend you’ve had – Mercury must be in retrograde. Now, I’ll do an intro in the studio. Don’t worry, we won’t go full dark, no stars. It’ll be all how amazing you look despite the drams.’ Sandra and her camera guy were already walking away. ‘Bye, hun.’

  Jenny was looking for the leather-jacketed stranger. He was now at the bottom of the staircase, rubbing his beard. Jenny didn’t like how his shaved head towered over people and she didn’t like how she seemed to be the only thing on his mind. For Jenny, her own hammering heart was the loudest sound in the building. What in the world possesses you to be so stupid? – her mother’s favourite scold, whisper-hot, in her ear.

  He was now crossing the shop floor, hurtling in a straight line towards Jenny, like a stone released from a catapult.

  11

  2.55 pm: Shane stepped away from the window. Otto had gone and no one else was out there; specifically, the guy with the beard and the shaved head. He looked down at the last message on his phone – DON’T TRUST HIM. ‘Jesus,’ he said forcefully, as if by disbelieving hard enough, the letters would rearrange and say something else. His palms grew clammy. I shouldn’t have called the number. Now they know I’m reading their crap. He flicked through the phone’s options, looking for ‘block caller’.

  Three days ago, on Friday morning, he’d woken up as a youngish man, bustling through the first half of his life. Now, suddenly, just like that, Shane was firmly ensconced in his life’s second act. There had been no gradual realisation, no slow adjustment. Instead, it had happened as quickly as walking from one room into another. Without warning, so many good things were ending – the avoidance of his in-laws, financial security, the assumption that his marriage was indestructible.

  The doorbell sounded.

  Shane rose so quickly, it was like he was levitating. He checked his watch. He’d been sitting, ruminating, for over ten minutes. Where’s the day going? Opening the front door, he instantly retreated two feet as if a gust of wind had smacked into him. A slight brunette stood in the porch. Clearly underweight, her tailored navy suit jacket was fastened by a single button across her tiny waist like a punishment. It was hard to tell her age because of the Ray-Bans. They were statement shades, favoured by those who wanted to appear aloof and important.

  ‘Shane.’ She spoke his name like it was an incurable medical condition.

  ‘Joan. Hallo. How are you?’ He adopted a loose chatty manner, as if he were making small talk at a party, beer in hand, as he reckoned it had the potential to irritate her the most.

  ‘Where is she?’ The jacket pulled uncomfortably tight across her shoulders.

  ‘She’s not in – regardless of how hard you knock.’

  ‘Mom’s so hurt. Why does she treat her own mother so cruelly? What’s the matter with you? You’re happy that Jenny is doing this?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  Joan placed her hand on the doorframe. ‘Mom has been calling her all morning. But Jenny won’t answer.’

  ‘That sounds like a you problem. Not a me problem.’ The mere fact that she had her fingers on the inside of his house felt unpleasant, like a territorial violation.

  ‘And you sound just like Jenny. Cause a mess and then expect everyone else to clean it up after you. Just like her disaster twenty-five years ago. “Not my problem – it’s yours now.”’

  ‘What disaster twenty-five years ago? What are you talking about?’

  ‘Oh, my God – you really don’t know?’

  ‘Don’t know what?’ He didn’t like the way she was examining him. It was as if she was peeling back his face.

  ‘Wow.’ Joan laughed – excessively. ‘You’re telling the truth. She never told you. And here’s the world thinking we had the perfect couple. Oh, that’s just brilliant. Faaaaantastic.’ She clapped her hands. ‘Christ, I actually feel sorry for you. I… feel sorry… for you? It’s bloody farcical.’

  Shane was embarrassed and that made him resentful. He blamed Joan for bringing her mental frailties, her hysteria, her fixations and baggage, all the way to his house; for having once again spoilt his day with her neurotic presence.

  ‘Joan, I’ve had enough of your type of crazy. So, either tell me about this so-called disaster or get the hell away from my door.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll tell you all right. With the greatest of pleasure. But I won’t do it here on the doorstep to Mom’s property. I’ll tell you inside.’ She then spoke the next sentence carefully, as if the words were very precious and she might drop them and they’d break. ‘Because you’ll need to be sitting down when you hear it.’

  12

  2.56 pm: Jenny tensed up. He was twelve feet away. What did he want? What was he going to do? Up close she could see that it was not in fact an artfully distressed thin leather jacket, but rather the kind that had been slept on and had several former owners.

  Now he was eight feet away and she could already tell that there was something off about him, an aura of decay that was strange for a man in his thirties. His skin was like a spread of nicotine stain: the colour that her father had gone on the day he’d died. The top buttons of his shirt were open, and tattoos bloomed up from his chest – hieroglyphs as if to ward off bad energy. Yet he radiated so much of it, she needed to get away from him. But it was too late.

  Standing in front of her, his height was so pronounced that Jenny had to slightly tip her head back, as if looking at a sculpture. He was over six feet tall, and his upper body was clearly worked out, which, along with his beard and head, gave him a ruthless look.

  Sensing her alarm, he held up his hands, as if to show that he meant no harm – which just made her feel like he definitely did. A scar ran across his right palm. It was jagged, not clean; the kind that resulted from a knife wound. There was a story there. She noticed two more scars on his forehead. Even though they were small, they certainly gave him character – as if his body was a rich map of violent encounters with dangerous animals and brutal men.

  He smiled, bathing in her unease. Then, as if deciding to grant mercy, he said, ‘Nice to finally meet you.’ Cigarette tar coated his voice and he had an accent that she could not place. There was a North American inflection and something European, too – an international accent; the voice of a man who had lived in many places.

  Jenny offered the well-practised smile of someone who thought this man was not important enough for her to care who he was. ‘It’s always nice to meet me. Actually, how do you know me? I saw you staring from over there.’

  ‘Was I?’ He scratched his beard and his big hands reminded Jenny of her father’s.

  She said, ‘You know you were.’

  ‘Well, look at that – I’m afraid you’ve caught me out.’ His deep voice, now like a PA system, didn’t sound afraid at all. ‘See, your pictures are always filtered and so the real-life Jenny, while not a disappointment, is just too flesh-and-blood to be instantly recognisable.’

  Jenny considered his comment and then, having reached a decision, looked at him with penetrating curiosity. He had brown eyes, like her brother’s. She liked them, despite herself. ‘You’ve got my attention. What can I do for you?’

  He almost seemed disappointed to be finally bringing a point to the conversation. ‘Well, I was wondering how you feel, having witnessed death at such close quarters the other night.’

  She covered her mouth to cork the hole of outrage that had appeared. Then she said, ‘A person died. How do you think it makes me feel?’

  ‘Well, there’s not much I haven’t done…’ Interesting move, she thought. A boast disguised as a confession; or even a threat disguised as a confession. He continued: ‘So when a person dies, I feel that the person is dead.’ His eyes held hers. ‘People die all the time and when they do, most believe they’re leaving this world too soon.’

  She waved away the offer of champagne from a passing hostess. It was time to put a full stop to this. ‘Well, it’s good that we’ve made friends with each other. It’s been emotional.’

  ‘We’re not friends. You’re lying to me half the time and I’m lying to you all the time.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘You’re only talking to me because we have the same chemicals reacting against each other in our blood: shame, anger, greed. A need for revenge.’

  With his already impressive bulk almost taking up the width of the aisle, he stepped forward. His tattooed torso strained against his shirt. ‘You feel that?’ He was suddenly radiating such naked aggression, that even his tight haircut seemed a strategic choice so that his victims would have nothing to grab onto. ‘That’s chemistry.’

  ‘Jesus. What’s the matter with you? We’re done here.’

  ‘No, we’re not.’ His hand landed on her shoulder. It weighed as much as a large steak.

  Shrugging him off, her wide eyes made it clear that she was about to cause a scene. She hated the fact that some men were so comfortable physically intimidating other men, women and animals. They did it too easily. It made her doubt herself, as if feminism was just a marketing strategy for women to buffer themselves in a man’s world.

  Calmly he said, ‘Think of everything you hold precious, Jenny. What are they?’

  My secrets. My husband. My house. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from his. Jenny had the uncomfortable sense that, when this man looked at her, he saw the things within her that she tried to hide.

  ‘By nightfall today, I will fucking destroy you. Understand?’ Then, with a smirk, he added, ‘Tick-tock, Clarice. That’s just six hours.’

  Jenny startled, as if she’d been punched in the throat. Into the chalice of her cupped hands, she muttered, ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Destroy,’ he repeated, drawing out the word for so long, Jenny felt it might break.

  As he walked away, her eyes began to well but, just as suddenly, she turned off the tears with sheer will. Jenny had always believed that over-emoting was a selfish trait. People cried in public because they wanted to be seen to cry.

  He was moving towards the main exit. Jenny began to move too. Who was he? Why her? What did I ever do to him?

  Her brain was suddenly throwing up memories of twenty-five years ago, like computer glitches. She wondered if she’d committed another terrible mistake. Was this the beginning of the unravelling? In years to come, would she look back and see this precise moment as the instant she threw everything away? And what was ‘everything’ anyway? ‘Everything’ was just one thing. ‘Everything’ was Shane. Wasn’t it?

  13

  Twenty-Five Years Ago

  Jenny was eighteen. It was a freezing February but, in her family home, full of the type of dazzling light that only money can radiate, there wasn’t a single draught. Soaking up the greenhouse heat of the living room, Jenny lay on the thick carpet, bare feet stretched out, spine propped up by the front of the L-shaped sofa. She gripped small barbells, flexing muscles which had already been worked out that morning, before college. She had been a member of the gym since the age of fourteen, her mother having encouraged her early to battle with the preordained.

  Her brother sat on the armchair, ignoring his sister but watching the same TV show. At twenty-three, he was good-looking in a dashing way. His relationship with his little sister mostly consisted of him barking a few commands at her during the day, and sometimes Jenny would obey and other times she wouldn’t. When she didn’t obey, he would look at her as if she was an idiot and say, ‘You bitch,’ and complain to their mother, who would purse her lips and put Jenny in her place. Jenny hated the way he said ‘bitch’; she felt it revealed aspects of his character she’d prefer not to know.

  Back then, her brother was Vera’s golden child. He was male, and that was all that Vera had ever wanted – boys. From the moment her brother was born, he was taught – by Vera – that he was special: smarter, holier, stronger and braver than everyone else. But the fact was, no teacher had ever called Vera after class to suggest that he had the slightest hint of any talent that would make him stand out, never mind to confirm her belief that her son was a gifted child.

  An American soap was on, and although Jenny was enjoying it, she felt somewhat ashamed because she no longer wanted to exude intellectual mediocrity. Her reading list, piled on her desk, was now full of Foucault, Postman and Lacan. She was intending to major in Economics but for the first year of her degree she was also taking The Psychology of Modern Literature. This attempt to expand her interests had impressed her father, who knew that most of her peers from her extraordinarily expensive secondary school were merely being groomed to become minor executives in their father’s company or competent, appealing wives to important men.

  In the business wing of the university, money and beauty were the prerequisites for popularity and Jenny had both. All the pretty girls and rugby jocks orbited around her, like leeches searching for a vein. But in the arts wing, the fundamentals were money and enigmatic talent. These rules seemed to apply to everyone except the one guy she really fancied – Shane Smith – who had talent but no money. Shane was also the one guy she shouldn’t fancy. In fact, he was the one guy that she was emphatically not allowed to fancy.