Jenny had not spoken to him, but she’d noticed him noticing her. It seemed as if Shane had come from nowhere. When one of the guys had asked him where he’d gone to school, he’d said, ‘city centre’, as if that was an answer. Though Jenny knew where he’d gone to school and, most importantly, she knew who he’d fought with last year. Everyone did.

  By making it obvious that he didn’t appreciate being waist deep in rich kids, it had impressed Jenny how coolly Shane absorbed the awkward silences that he caused at will. Many people claimed that they didn’t care what people thought of them, but Shane was the only one whom she could believe. He was smart, too; the type who, when the lecture was over and the teacher asked if there were any more questions, actually had more questions.

  Lorcan Donaldson, Jenny’s father, entered the room, phone to ear, glass of Merlot in hand, pinstripe suit unbuttoned to reveal a businessman’s bountiful belly. ‘That’s Ted for ya – in for a penny, in for twenty million.’ At seventy-four, Lorcan remained the irremovable chairman of Dublin’s most historically sacrosanct, but fogeyish, pensions brokerage.

  ‘Keep it down, Dad. My gosh,’ Jenny said, though she enjoyed the sound of her father’s good cheer that had, so far, lasted all the way through Christmas and four or five weeks beyond.

  ‘You got it, sweetie,’ Lorcan acquiesced but continued talking at only a slightly lowered volume. ‘Sorry, John. Where were we?’

  The doorbell rang.

  Her brother’s eyes didn’t move from the television, from which he was hypnotised by some fat American kid going berserk with excitement. ‘Get it, Jen.’

  Jenny looked up at her father and he looked down at his daughter. They both shrugged. Then Lorcan walked out into the foyer-like hallway, still talking on the phone. ‘When the other one isn’t around, I can always depend on Jenny to be the boss of me…’

  By ‘other one’, Lorcan meant Joan and not his wife. With Jenny’s parents it was the typical case of finally packing the youngest – Jenny – off to secondary school and then having the time to face up to the reality that they actually hated each other and had done so for years. Her father despised Vera more than she despised him – but he disguised it better. Now, Lorcan just avoided her; the house was big enough to make that possible. But Vera would often search him out with her unwanted presence, enjoying the discomfort she caused, revelling in her power to be destructive just by being there. Normal people would’ve called it a day shortly after Jenny was born. But her family were into the kind of old-school Catholicism that was – to most people, even in Jenny’s youth – disconcertingly antiquated and would later become glibly irrelevant to the point of being considered superstitious gibberish.

  A few moments later, the living room door opened. It was Shane. He was dressed in the same clothes he’d worn that day in college – black jeans, oxblood Doc Martens and his Less Talk – More Rocks logo-blaring T-shirt. The dimmed light from the many lamps embroidered his matinee idol good looks and he moved into the room with a shoulder sway that told Jenny, ‘This guy can dance’.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he asked.

  Jenny, still sitting on the floor with arms outstretched clutching barbells, repeated, ‘What’s going on?’

  Her brother, who had picked up his phone and was looking over the bright display, suddenly leapt to his feet, legs spread in something like a sparring pose.

  Calmly, Shane said, ‘Hugh, I apologise for what happened in that bar last year. I didn’t want to fight and I’m sure you didn’t mean to—’

  Hugh said, ‘What the fuck are you doing in my house?’

  ‘What am I doing in your house?’

  ‘I said it loudly enough.’

  Jenny dropped the barbells to the floor. They landed with dull thuds.

  Hugh said, ‘You are not fucking welcome here. You understand?’

  Shane didn’t redden or look away.

  Hugh said, ‘Why don’t you say it loud, just so we’re clear.’

  ‘I’m here to see Jenny and—’

  ‘Out. Get out!’

  In one fluid yoga-like movement, Jenny rose to her feet and was just about to speak when a smiling Shane said, ‘Chill, man. You and me – that’s all over. A year ago. Can’t I—’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ Hugh marched towards Shane, but just when it looked like he was going to shoulder him, he squeezed his body tight so that his arm barely nudged Shane’s, and he kept on going into the hall.

  ‘Damn. Sorry, Jenny. I didn’t mean to cause a scene.’ Shane was leaning against the white wall as though he was propping up the entire building, and Jenny thought how horrified her mother would be, if she knew someone was touching her spotless paint. But Vera was upstairs in her bedroom suite and would not be seen until morning.

  Shane continued; ‘I just thought… well, we’re gonna be together for the year and the next two after that… and I like you, Jenny. I mean, I really like you… and I think that you like me… so, it would be cool if we could hang tonight. What d’you think?’ Like someone at a funeral, he joined his fingers before his groin.

  ‘Yeah, that’d be cool.’

  ‘Look, your brother and me… I didn’t mean to—’

  ‘Oh, my God, what kind of a host am I? Let me get you something.’ She glanced out into the hallway and was relieved to see that her brother wasn’t waiting. How embarrassing. She needed to move this along and see where it was going before it all blew up in their faces.

  Shane’s eyes widened at her refusal to acknowledge the drama that had just occurred. Was that how it worked in this big bright house? Act like everything is OK until everything is OK? ‘Erm… a beer would be nice. In fact, beer is necessary to my existence right now.’

  ‘Dad doesn’t like me drinking. In the house, that is. You know how it is.’

  Just then, Lorcan returned. He threaded his way across the thick cream carpet in his size ten Italian leather shoes and stopped in front of Shane. Sipping his wine, and without looking at his daughter, Lorcan asked, ‘Jen, where’s Hugh gone?’

  ‘Upstairs.’ She noticed that her hand was slightly shaking.

  ‘So, who is this?’

  ‘It’s Shane Smith. He’s my friend. From college.’

  Shane cleared his throat and said, ‘Mr Donaldson, pleased to meet you.’

  ‘Hugh seems annoyed.’

  Jenny blurted out, ‘Hugh doesn’t like Shane. A stupid boy-thing from ages ago. A silly argument over nothing. Shane apologised just now, but Hugh was having none of it. And Hugh is twenty-three – five years older than Shane! My gosh, you’d think it was the other way around the way Hugh had his little tantrum. He’s probably run upstairs to Mum.’

  Lorcan said, ‘Jen, that’s not fair,’ but didn’t seem to doubt the probability.

  Shane said, ‘Mr Donaldson, I’m just here because I was hoping your daughter would come with me tonight to an exhibit at the Irish Museum of Modern Art.’

  ‘Wow. Super amazing.’ Jenny’s hand rose to her mouth to block a squeal of delight.

  Lorcan kept Shane’s stare.

  Shane said, ‘Mr Donaldson, I decided that if I was to ask your daughter out, then I first needed to apologise to Hugh and I then needed to ask your permission. I don’t know Jenny that well. But I want to. I called in, because I thought it was the correct thing to do.’

  A door slammed somewhere upstairs. Hugh. He’s in Mum’s room, right now. Jenny envied the way their mother’s love came so easily to her brother.

  Lorcan drained his wine and said, ‘You’re an honourable lad, Shane. You did good coming here like that. Can’t have been easy. Shows guts. Shows class. Enjoy your night, kids.’ With a manly slap to Shane’s shoulder, Lorcan left the room.

  That was it. Shane was the only man under fifty she’d ever seen be unintimidated by her father.

  Until then, Jenny had thought about love as something captured by hearts and flowers. But from that moment, she knew the truth. Love was a bolt of lightning.

  14

  Now

  3.01 pm: The phone was ringing next to Jenny’s ear. She hadn’t realised she’d been holding it up to her head while passing beneath the exit portico. Detective Murray’s voicemail kicked in and when the tone sounded to leave a message, she disconnected. What can I say? ‘Someone was mean to me – please send in the SWAT team?’ Jesus, grow a pair, Jenny. He’s just a weirdo. The city’s full of them. The phone seemed fragile, as if her hand might crush it.

  Outside, Jenny approached one of the security team. ‘A big guy with a beard, tight haircut, mid-thirties, just exited. Where’d he go?’

  The bouncer shrugged, gesturing vaguely to the street where two limos were parked snout-to-snout. ‘Out there somewhere.’

  Sometimes, she wished that she could be like her mother. Insolence from doormen and waiters, even in homeopathic doses, was something Vera would not tolerate. But she didn’t have time to try and act like her mother. Anyway, he was gone and that was what mattered. As Jenny checked the time on her phone – 3.02 pm – it buzzed, and the screen notified her of an unknown caller. Answering, she said, ‘Finally. You were meant to meet me here already… Uh-huh… Is it nearby? … Good. See you there in five minutes.’

  Jenny walked on, blinking into the sunlight of the main road, and felt like an animal limping away, a lame rodent that needed its neck wrung. She felt punctured from allowing the world to seize and dispirit her so quickly. One word filled her brain – glum. It was another of Vera’s adjectives to describe her youngest. Jenny hated that word. To be glum was to be aggressively sad; to be dejected in a way that annoyed other people, particularly her mother.

  Jenny turned onto a smaller side street, with little footfall. She noticed what wasn’t there: neon signs, cafes and restaurants, the fur and diamonds of a big city. She leaned against a shop window to take a moment to clear her head. At her feet was an abandoned bottle of milk, next to the exit of a down pipe. The liquid had segregated into layers, like a sedimentary cliff face. She tried not to picture what her father must look like, after so many years of putrefaction. Jenny suddenly missed him terribly. A childish yearning within her assumed that if her father was still alive then that bearded man would not have dared try to intimidate her like he’d done.

  With no one around, Jenny was suddenly very aware of a fact, expediently ignored by most women, that if they were going somewhere unaccompanied or doing anything alone, they would be easy to hurt. Since the crash on Friday, she’d been feeling lucky; but she also knew that kind of luck had to be balanced out.

  Something bad is coming.

  Jenny pictured the young woman’s face, unveiled as she pulled off the balaclava. She remembered what the bearded stranger had said – ‘When a person dies, I feel that the person is dead.’ She thought of her mother selling her house and of Joan spending her money. Perspiration trickled under her arms. Jenny felt her pulse trending through her torso. Quickly, the palpitations combined with a tightness of the chest. The oxygen felt warm, stale and heavy. The pressure in her chest intensified as if elastic bands were compressing her ribs. She inhaled again and again, short sharp intakes. Jesus Christ. She concentrated on her lungs, reminding herself to breathe, to keep breathing, to never stop breathing. I work out three days a week. I don’t smoke. I eat sushi. I’m only forty-three. I’m female. Females have to grow old to die.

  Just like that, she was back in the street, calming down, regaining her breath. Welcome back Mister Panic Attack, my old friend. It’s been twenty-five years. It startled her, how familiar the sensation felt.

  Halfway down the road was a metal door, the breeze bouncing it against the frame. There was a sign saying Keep Out – Private Property; yet kaleidoscopic gang graffiti on the door demonstrated just how many hadn’t kept out. On the other side of the metal door was a second entrance – a wooden one. Jenny pushed it open and entered Cassidy’s Bar – not a pub destined to feature in any Beautiful Ireland Guide.

  A mute TV showed horse racing and the overweight barman gripped the edge of the counter while looking up at the screen. There was a blackboard above the cash till; white chalk listed upcoming football fixtures. A digital clock read 3.07 pm. Besides a single male perched on a stool at the bar, there was a handful of customers scattered about the lounge. Those that were talking did so with pre-dawn voices; most were shrunken or bent, shaped by that indomitable foe, age.

  She carried on up to the bar.

  Positioning half a buttock on a stool, she said, ‘Thank God you’re here. You wouldn’t believe what just—’

  ‘I told you I would be.’

  ‘I thought you’d change your mind.’

  ‘I don’t do that.’ Leaning across from his stool, Otto’s lips fell on hers.

  15

  3.25 pm: When dealing with his in-laws, Shane tried to employ the three Ds of pruning that his father had taught him: cut off anything that is diseased, decaying or damaged. Psychologically, Joan was all three. So, why am I bringing her into my home? He then heard his own self-punishing voice in his head, admonishing him; You took the bait again. You’ve stirred up more family drama.

  Joan strode through the hall, hips swaying with the click-click-clacking of her heels. She had the sort of absurd figure that was held up as an unrealistic example to young girls. When was the last time she ate? Joan left her shades on, as she always did, because she claimed to be sensitive to electric light; though Jenny said it was because she was always hungover. He’d seen Joan at family meals in the early days; and later at weddings and funerals – watching her drink was like watching a vampire feed. The more she had, the more alive she became. In that way, the smooth chicness of the shades was at odds with the sad story told by the lined and loose skin that surrounded them. Joan had been abandoned by her husband and dismissed by her children, leaving her with nothing in her life besides her seventy-five-year-old mother.

  When Shane had started dating Jenny, Hugh moved to London to start his super-stellar career in the UK outpost of his father’s firm. Thus, Shane could call in to see Jenny without fear of drama. When he did, he’d still dread being alone with Joan. She seemed to be a woman entirely claimed by her neurosis. Small talk and normal social skills were silly things that she didn’t bother with and, thus, two tense minutes in her company passed as fast as the ice age. Shane had wondered if Joan was actually depressed, but Jenny had laughed. ‘Joan? Depressed? She doesn’t have the attention span to be depressed. She just hates that I have a boyfriend and she doesn’t. And since Mum disapproves of you after what you did to her prince, Joan is required to hate you too. Fiercely.’

  As Joan examined the study, she blanked him so successfully, it felt like she was blind behind her shades. Finally, in her cut-glass, almost antique, accent, she said, ‘God, I know Mom’s given you your marching orders, but you should still make a bit of an effort to keep the place better. Papers everywhere. Stuff out of place. But look, it’s none of my business, I suppose. And I don’t want you convincing yourself that you’re all hurt and—’

  ‘Have you just come into my home to insult—’

  ‘Shane,’ Joan said, as though she was making a sad declaration of fact. ‘Let me explain things. Everything you have is my mother’s. Everything you have is from the generosity of my family. This house – it’s Mom’s. She allows you to stay here. She grants you that freedom. Well… for the rest of the year, anyway.’

  Shane’s confidence wobbled. She’d put him on the back foot and when people were on the back foot, they found silence awkward. He rubbed the back of his head. That tension and stiffness in his neck – it had been there since the crash. It was as if his anxiety had seized upon his muscle aches, found them to its liking and declared them permanent.

  Someone walked by on the road. Shane expected to see a bearded man. But it was just a guy in a suit. Everything’s OK. After the crash… the texts, the note with the flowers… and with Joan here now… I’m just getting paranoid. But Shane believed that the problem with the world was that there was a lot of darkness out there that could not be explained away with films, TV and books – specifically his books, no matter how hard he tried.

  Joan almost smiled. She could tell that her presence made him uncomfortable, and that type of knowledge was power. ‘Oh, there’s our chess set. Daddy had it carved in Uganda. See, the King’s crowns have our family crest.’ Joan always found ways to either enlighten or remind those in her presence of the stock she came from. Whenever she introduced herself, she never just gave her Christian name. Instead, she said, ‘Joan Donaldson.’ Even her children eventually took her surname instead of their father’s. Vera, no doubt, loved that.

  Shane’s patience was already at stretching point. First Otto and then Joan, who was almost fifty and still thought ‘normal’ was having a vault full of money; still thought ‘normal’ was getting what you want all the time.

  Joan picked up an A4 printed sheet from Shane’s desk and began reading aloud:

  Social media was Samantha’s real world; her day-to-day existence being just a rehearsal for her online fabulousness. Samantha’s life had been one big cuddly squeeze and her online persona just wanted to spread the warm ooze about.

  Looking at Shane, she said, ‘Sounds like you’re writing my sister’s biography.’ Joan then sniggered – and because she was too old to snigger, she appeared petty and childish.

  ‘Put. It. Down.’

  ‘Wow – where did that come from? I was just joking. People see you as a loyal, nice doggy. But it wouldn’t surprise me if underneath it all you can turn into a vicious Rottweiler. Relax.’ She released the sheet like it was a live grenade or a venomous snake, and it see-sawed to the desk. Shane gestured for her to move away from his desk and slammed the lid of his laptop down – though making sure to decelerate at the last second so that it actually closed somewhat gently.