There’s no way I can run out on work again, so I carry Liam Kelly’s email with me for the rest of the afternoon while my head pounds with the weight of it. When I leave Trinity, I can’t face the bus home so I make my way on foot across the Liffey, through the north inner city to the open calm of the seafront promenade. It’s only here I feel a distance from Highfield’s shadow, as if the water separates not just Southside from Northside but also before from after. It’s far from the working-class estates of Ballybrack, this beautiful seaside suburb that I call home, and I breathe in the salty freedom of it.
The evening has lost its luster and a thin shadow of cloud rolls in over the gray-green sea. In the distance, the red and white stripes of the Poolbeg chimneys rise through a dusty haze and I focus on them, an anchor in this changing landscape. I remember a drunken summer’s evening on the other side of them, sharing a naggin of vodka in Blackrock Park with my best friend, Tina. The perfect flick of her eyeliner, the giddy rush of her laugh and the two of us with hardly a notion of what was out there, beyond our comprehension.
I remember when Tina told me she was joining the Highfield swimming club, I was so proud of her. There weren’t many kids round our way whose talent took them out of Ballybrack, and she inspired me to want that too. I dreamed of being a writer and Tina made me feel like it was possible. Afterward, she was remembered as a tragedy, that poor girl. She would have hated that.
ALEX IS HOME ALREADY, PREPARING dinner at the kitchen island in our minimal, open-plan extension. I’d been hoping for a bit of down time, but she hands me a bowl of pistachios and I dutifully shell them as the melancholic groove of Bicep’s “Glue” fills the space between us. She shaves Pecorino into a pasta dish and I’m afraid to ask why she’s making such an effort on a Tuesday evening.
I still haven’t managed to broach the subject of Highfield, as if it’s going to be any easier, the longer I wait. I thought if I slept on it, I’d wake up with a palatable way of introducing it into our lives, but Liam Kelly has killed any chance of that. Now, I’m so on edge I’m starting to wonder if someone has got to Alex already, if all this is just the calm before the storm. The music finishes and she seizes the silence.
“I’ve got some news,” she says.
It’s the coy half-smile that eases my fears, and I stop thinking about myself for a minute.
“Wait,” I say. “Did you get it? The license?”
“Yes!”
The joy that spreads across her face banishes all thoughts of Highfield and I skip around the island to wrap my arms around my brilliant wife. Alex is an independent festival and concert promoter, a tough gig in a market dominated for decades by the same two companies. But Alex saw a niche, an opportunity to curate events in existing urban spaces, and now she’s secured a license for a series of concerts in Trinity during the summer. She already has Sinéad O’Connor and Villagers lined up so I know it’s going to be a very big deal indeed.
“You fucking genius,” I say, and kiss her hard on the lips. “I knew you’d do it.”
“Well, I’m glad you were so sure because I have been shitting my pants for days.”
I realize with remorse that I hadn’t noticed. I can only hope she’s been distracted from my own shifty behavior.
“Never a doubt,” I say as I take a bottle of champagne from the wine rack and put it in the freezer.
“It will mean longer hours and more travel,” says Alex, twisting her auburn curls into a bun.
“I know that.”
“And I won’t be around for Katie so much anymore.”
Alex has been a second mother to Katie for the eight years we’ve lived together. She’s the voice of reason, the measured calm to my overprotective paranoia. She’s always had the distance to see clearly and, ten years my junior, she also has Katie’s ear. It was Alex who talked me down last night when I told her about the photos on Katie’s phone, when I couldn’t trust my own trauma not to force my hand. She convinced me that a confrontation would cut off all lines of communication, that we’d be better off keeping a close eye on her than risking the loss of her trust. And now it looks like I’m going to have to be the one to police that.
“Actually, I wanted to talk to you about her,” says Alex. “She came to me this morning.”
“And?”
“She wants to start swimming.”
“But she already does that.”
Katie’s new school has a pool, so swimming is part of the PE curriculum. It’s no different to hockey or netball, just a forty-five-minute class once a week.
“No, I mean she wants to join the swimming club.”
I freeze as the stench of chlorine floods the kitchen.
“She’s really good, Lou. She’s faster than girls who’ve been swimming for years.”
Of course she is. I always feared this day would come.
“You know,” continues Alex, “it’s a really big deal for her, putting herself out there. It’s the first thing she’s even asked about since she started in that school.”
If it was any other activity, I’d be thrilled, but this one comes with too much baggage. And Katie knows exactly why I won’t want her anywhere near a swimming club. We’ve never kept the basic facts from her, but there’s so much more out there online—truth, lies, opinion. I know what Alex will say—that we have to equip her to live in the world—but Alex’s childhood was on a different planet to mine. Not just the privilege of it, but the expectation of fairness and balance that is alien to me.
“Oh god,” I say as I put my hands to my face. “It’s all up to me, is it? That’s not fair, Alex.”
“I know. None of it is fair. But I’m not going to give her the go-ahead without your blessing.”
“Ah, Jesus. You know it’s … complicated.”
“Not for Katie,” says Alex. She smiles sweetly to show she’s not on the attack. Alex doesn’t make demands, just gently eases you in her preferred direction. It’s the reason she’s such a good promoter. She makes her clients feel they’re in control at all times while she carefully guides them down the path she’s already chosen for them. It’s a comfort, usually, to be with someone who knows exactly where they’re going.
“I’m sorry,” I say, “I’m scared…”
… of so many things I can’t explain. I’m scared Katie will bear the brunt of my mistakes, that she’ll be an easy target for bullies. I’m scared she’ll find out too much. And I’m scared that if this new case goes to trial I could lose them both.
“I know,” says Alex, reaching for my hand, “but please, just think about it.”
And I do. I think about the secrets I’ve told her and the ones I haven’t and I just can’t do it, not tonight. I force a smile instead and take two champagne flutes from the cupboard.
I’M STILL TIPSY WHEN RONAN calls, the sharp edges of the past softened by champagne and celebration. I jump up a little too quickly and mouth an apology at Alex as I skip out to the front room. The amber glow of a streetlight pulses outside as Ronan petitions me, detailing the bravery of his young client, Josh Blair, until I have no choice but to surrender.
“You know, he’s the one who sought me out after the DPP decided not to prosecute?” says Ronan. “Only fourteen years of age and he’s got more courage than the state.”
Ronan speaks with conviction, yet I still can’t work out if this is just another game to him, or if he really is after justice this time around.
“How is he?” I ask.
“I think he’s doing OK. He’s very upset not to be swimming, especially with the nationals coming up, but he’s got a lot of support from his family and he’s not afraid to talk about what happened. He told a friend fairly soon after it started so it could have been a lot worse.”
“How … bad was it?”
“I can’t really disclose that, but it wasn’t like back then.”
I breathe a sigh of relief for Josh, for the friends and family who were willing to listen, and I can only hope it’s because my generation has provided the support system we never had.
“But we don’t know how many other kids might be affected,” says Ronan. “Highfield had to suspend him—Damien Corrigan, that’s the bastard’s name—but they reinstated him when the case was dropped. Unfortunately, the DPP has sent out the message that there’s no point in speaking out, but if things go well for us, then hopefully any others will feel like they can come forward.”
“Why are you so sure you can win when the DPP thinks there’s a lack of evidence?”
“Because the burdens of proof are different,” says Ronan. “A criminal case has to be proven beyond reasonable doubt, but a civil case needs to succeed only on the balance of probabilities. In other words, which party is more likely to be telling the truth.”
“Oh, I see,” I say, and I wonder if a civil action could have saved any of us back then. Not that Tina or I had the money or the clout for anything like that.
“So that’s where you come in,” he says. “Because we’re suing Highfield’s board of management for negligence, anything that confirms a pattern of behavior will help our case. If we can show a systemic cover-up of abuse in the school and the swimming club over decades, it should tip the balance. Especially as they won’t want any of this getting out. Josh may not be a student at Highfield, but the school still runs the swimming club, so this is very much their responsibility.”
“Hold on a minute,” I say. “What do you mean, Highfield won’t want it getting out? Surely the media will be all over it?”
“Yeah, if it goes to trial. But none of us wants that. The plan is to make sure Corrigan never coaches again and to get a generous settlement for Josh.”
“So I won’t ever have to take the stand?”
My relief is audible, a physical release of the anguish of the last few days. Maybe I can do this, help that poor boy and keep my career and my family intact.
“Ah Lou, I can’t promise anything, but I’ve got Shauna and at least four other victims prepared to testify. You might remember Julie Gillespie and Paula Fletcher.”
I remember their bravery, how much they were prepared to risk to save me. Maybe it’s the champagne or Ronan’s easy sales patter but I don’t feel like I can let them down again.
“OK,” I say before I can change my mind. “I’ll write a statement.”
“Thank you, Lou,” says Ronan with the air of someone who’s just sealed the deal. “I really appreciate it. I know this can’t be easy for you, but it is the right thing to do.”
I want to ask about Shauna, how forthcoming she’s been with her own testimony. What she’s written about me. But I don’t want to alert Ronan to the can of worms he might not even know exists.
“I’ll set up a time for you to come in,” he continues, “and we’ll go through the statement and make sure it’s as tight as it can be. I’m confident it will help us get a swift and fair settlement.”
It’s only when I’ve hung up and caught my breath that I realize what I’ve done: Liam Kelly has every reason to come for me now.
THE VOICES OF NIGHT PULL me out of a thin sleep. The clack of pipes, the whisper of wind, the creak of these mortgaged walls. The rise and fall of Alex’s breath is a ticking clock, one that keeps pace with my nocturnal illusions.
In the blue light of my phone, I read the email over and over, probing and parsing it, trying to fit it into the cracks of my life like Tetris, as if there is some order to this chaos. I google Liam Kelly and Shauna, Ronan, Highfield, but there is nothing. It’s a common Irish name chosen for exactly that reason, a mask for someone who doesn’t want to be seen. He could be any one of the players so invested in Highfield’s reputation. I need to know why he’s so sure of himself, what proof might be out there apart from the memories Shauna and I have held close all these years.
I think of the photo, the one we hoped would lift the veil of secrecy that shrouded Highfield. But that was lost along with everything else that night.
I try to trace the email, find the sender’s IP address, but even with the help of several tech websites, the only IP I find points to a Google server in the States, one through which the email has been routed. It takes a further round of investigation before I finally accept the answer that no, it is not possible to trace a message sent from Gmail.
I can’t confront an enemy who is undeclared and elusive so I’ll have to do what he wants instead. I’ve got to make sure this case never goes to trial, for everyone’s sake. I need to go after Damien Corrigan myself.