It was a windy day in March when Mannix boarded the plane as a condemned man hikes the steps to the gallows. He’d been unhappy out of work. Loath though he was to admit it, he found himself more unhappy in it. Shackled to his mortgage arrears, he had little choice.
If only his new boss weren’t such a pimply teenage prick. The bigger tragedy was that Mannix was sure that he and Spike would make an excellent team at the nightclub, but Kate was having none of that. So it was back to the suits and ties. Back to the strategy meetings and the leadership conferences and the vision statements and the career planning and all that bullshit.
There were few plus sides to this trip, but if he finished early some evening, he might catch up with some rowing buddies from his early twenties. Danno and Mental George had gone to Boston after college and never returned. He doubted they ever would. As illegals they couldn’t afford the risk.
Mannix secured his bottle of Jameson in the overhead locker and settled himself into the window seat over the wing. Gone were the days of traveling business class. He’d have to earn his stripes again. Wedging his novel into the sleeve in front, he put on headphones, hoping to doze off. He hoped to Christ some pain in the arse didn’t sit next to him wanting to talk.
“What the . . . !”
“I’m so very sorry! I can’t believe I did that.”
Scalded awake, he grabbed his stinging arm. The hot caramel liquid seeped into the pale blue shirtsleeve that Kate had ironed earlier.
“No problem, I’ll live,” he muttered as graciously as he could.
The woman beside him tried to dab his arm, to soak up the already absorbed coffee. Her nails were shiny red.
“Thank you. I’m fine,” he said.
She smiled apologetically.
Mannix looked at his watch. He must have been asleep for more than an hour. Streaks of rain were lashing against the tiny window and the wingtips shivered in the sky. It was bumpy.
“I guess I missed the drinks trolley, then?” He tried to smooth over the embarrassment.
“The steward didn’t want to wake you.” The woman paused. “You were snoring . . .”
There was a hint of mischief in her voice. It was Mannix’s turn to be embarrassed.
“Mannix O’Brien.” He held out his hand.
“Joanne Collins.”
Her hand felt small and smooth. She wore no rings.
“And this is Grace.”
She leaned back in her seat to introduce the child beside her.
“Hello, Grace,” he said.
“Hi,” said the child, looking up from her crossword. She was a miniature version of her mother. Small chin, dark eyebrows.
“Any empties?” interrupted a steward.
Mannix watched as Joanne Collins daintily handed the steward her empty tray. She fastened the tabletop and, leaning back, rested her hands on her lap. She didn’t speak again and he was grateful for that.
Resting his head against the window, he stared out at the shuddering wingtip. How had he ended up here? he wondered. In this life? In this job? He was lucky to have the job, he supposed. His hometown had become a wasteland, tumbleweeds rolling through the industrial parks. No one seemed to care. Politicians, government agencies, local agencies. There was nothing doing. They cared about the other cities in the country. But no one seemed to care about his. Mannix woke up most mornings with a feeling of despondency, queasily making his way through the day. He was forty-three on his next birthday at the end of August, in six months’ time. Christ! Forty-three already.
As a teenager, he’d imagined a different life. He’d work a few months of the year and travel the rest. He’d work as an illustrator or as a photographer for National Geographic. He might teach diving in the Red Sea. Or he might even go into the casinos with his dad. He’d never thought about a wife and kids.
Mannix sighed. Things were equally miserable on the home front. Some space apart might not hurt. He was doing his best, squeezing and contorting himself into the rigid box that was now his life. Still, it wasn’t enough for Kate. He’d seen her disappointed many times, but the anger, that cold brittle anger—that was new. In the last few months, Mannix found it hard to recognize the scorched and barren landscape of their marriage. Kate harbored vast reserves of resentment, of that he was sure. For the most part Mannix kept out of her way. And for Kate’s part, she raised no objection.
“Have you figured out who did it yet?”
“I’m sorry?”
Pulling his book from the sleeve in front, Mannix had settled himself for a read. He was flattening out the dog-ear.
“Was it the spurned wife or the guy in the wheelchair?”
Joanne Collins held up a copy of the exact same thriller.
“Neither.” Mannix laughed at the coincidence. “My money’s on the daughter. With this guy, trust me, it’s always the least likely character.”
“It’s pretty formulaic, all right,” she agreed.
Joanne Collins was a tidy woman. Snug jeans, snug cotton sweater, shiny hair tied back in a ponytail. Her clothes smelled of fabric freshener. The kind that was supposed to make you think of the sea.
“Tell me,” she said, looking straight at him, “have you ever yet read a detective series where the detective didn’t have a drink problem?”
“Well, now, let me see . . . that depends,” Mannix considered. “Do you mean a drunk or an alcoholic?”
“Either, I guess.” She looked surprised. “What’s the difference?”
“That’s easy,” said Mannix. “The drunk doesn’t have to do the meetings.”
Her head fell back as she laughed. It was a nice sound. He noticed how perfect her teeth were. Unlike his, none of them was filled.
“I’m really sorry about your shirt,” she said again.
“Oh, don’t worry about it.” Mannix brushed it off.
“Work or pleasure?” he found himself asking.
“Oh, pleasure, definitely. On a stopover on our way to Disney, isn’t that right, Grace?” Joanne rubbed the child’s hand. “Grace has been such a brave girl in hospital, so this is her treat. We’re taking some time off school. Naughty, I know . . .”
“School can wait, you’ll have a super time,” Mannix said to the child. She seemed like a nice kid.
“And you?” Joanne asked. “Work or pleasure?”
“Work for me.” He pulled a face.
Joanne laughed.
“What is it that you do?” she asked.
“Fuck knows,” he said quietly. “I’m trying to figure it out . . .”
“Let me guess,” she said, “you’re an investment analyst or an accountant maybe?”
“Jesus, no.” An accountant? He knew it. He knew the suits and ties would do that to him someday. Flipping open his wallet, he fished through the wads of plastic and business cards. He found the newly printed business cards. Mannix O’Brien, IT Business Strategy and Project Support Analyst.
“Hold on to that,” he said to her sarcastically. “You never know when you might just need a business strategist or a project support analyst.”
She put a thinking finger up to her chin. “Come to think of it . . .”
“Is that your family?” Joanne Collins was looking at the laminated wallet photo of the four of them taken before last Christmas. Just before the cracks appeared. In it, they looked happy. Kate particularly so, her blond hair draping over Mannix’s shoulder where she rested her chin.
Mannix had surprised himself. Almost without his knowing, he’d struck up a rapport with this woman.
“She seems a good kid,” said Mannix, looking at her daughter. The child was watching a cartoon.
“She’s great,” said Joanne. “Just great. She’s had a tough time.” She sighed. “It can be pretty rough when you’re a single parent.”
“I’ll bet,” said Mannix.
Out of nowhere, the plane shuddered violently. The conversation dried up instantly and his companion went silent, gripping the armrest. An announcement advised that they were entering a spot of turbulence.
“Oh, that’s just great, just what I need,” Joanne muttered, eyes squeezed shut.
“Mummy doesn’t like airplanes,” said Grace in a strange sort of role reversal. The child patted her mother’s hand. Suddenly, the plane lurched forward and then dropped, making his stomach flutter.
“Ooops, that’s a bit of a drop . . .” Seeing the look on Joanne’s face, he let his hand rest on hers for comfort.
“Planes—they’re designed to take these conditions, you know.” Mannix tried to sound reassuring, feeling none too reassured himself. A bolt of lightning cracked across the sky.
“Oh, Jesus!”
Joanne’s hand fluttered to the pearl sitting in the hollow of her neck. Her other hand trembled underneath his palm.
“This is what’s supposed to happen, Mummy.” But Mummy was too petrified to reply.
For the next fifteen minutes, as the plane bounced through air pocket after air pocket, dodging lightning forks, both Mannix and the little girl tried to distract her mother. He and Grace chattered across Joanne about all manner of ridiculous things—anything to make light of the turbulence.
“Cabin crew, return to your seats.”
Grace’s eyes connected with his and she stared at her stricken mother. The announcement had made Joanne go more rigid. Mannix felt her stiffen.
“Uh-oh,” mouthed Mannix silently to Grace.
At the next violent jolt, all three leaned back, gluing their backs into the imaginary security of their upright chairs.
“What’s that smell?” whispered Joanne in his ear. “I smell burning.” Her head was resting against Mannix’s arm. He couldn’t smell anything except her fabric conditioner and the smell of her hair. Her breath was warm on his ear.
“It’s nothing. You’re imagining it. There’s no smoke.”
The plane juddered again. Squeezing his hand, Joanne opened her eyes and looked up at him. “God, what am I like? Pathetic or what? I thought that I could do this flight thing. For Grace . . .”
“You’re doing just great.” Mannix squeezed her hand. “And you know what? I think the worst is over.”
“God, I could murder a whiskey,” she said.
“If it wasn’t so bumpy, I’d get my Jameson from the locker.”
“Thwarted at every turn.” She managed a laugh.
“You’re good with kids,” Joanne said shakily when the flight eventually resumed an even path.
Realizing she was feeling safer, he withdrew his hand before it became awkward.
“Practice,” he replied. “I’ve had plenty of practice.”
Was she attractive, Mannix wondered? He wasn’t sure. But she looked clever.
“Want one?” Grace was leaning across her mother with a tube of fruit pastilles.
“Any black ones in there?” he said.
“They’re my favorites as well,” said Grace. “Hang on . . .”
As Grace tried to extricate the lone black jelly, the tube fell apart, the jellies spraying into her mother’s lap. Embarrassed that his request had led to this mishap, Mannix reached to tidy the sweets in Joanne’s lap. Joanne looked at him with an amused expression, sensing his embarrassment. “Really, it’s okay . . .” she said in an odd replay of the coffee incident earlier.
When the trolley service arrived with dinner, they swapped food between the three of them, and in the companionable silence that followed, Mannix dozed off and came in to land the same way he had taken off, asleep. It was seven P.M. local time.
“How I wish I could be as relaxed as you,” said Joanne Collins. “I do hope the flight to Orlando tomorrow is okay. You don’t fancy coming and keeping us company?” There was a twinkle in her eye.
“I wish,” he replied. He leaned over to Grace. “Give my best to Minnie Mouse.”
“I will. I just can’t wait.”
The child had packed up her crosswords and her coloring. And in that moment, he couldn’t help but contrast the excitement that surrounded this child with the lot of his own children. Fergus’s struggles were all too obvious. And Izzy—well, on more occasions than he liked, his eldest child appeared detached and strangely joyless.
“Thanks for the hand to hold,” said Joanne as they were making their way out of the aircraft. She was ahead of him with Grace.
“One should never be without a hand to hold,” said Mannix.
“Isn’t there a song about that?” asked Joanne. “Yes—I have it, ‘May You Never’ by John Martyn.”
“The very man,” Mannix confirmed.
It was a song he used to sing to Kate in the early days.
• • •
Mannix hated staying in hotels. The blandness of this chain hotel did little to change his mind. The air in the room felt recycled and dried the inside of his nose. Just off the highway and close to the airport, it didn’t lend itself to exploration. He could see the continuous ribbon of car lights from his soundproofed window. With a little more imagination the admin staff could have put him somewhere more accessible. A car was coming for him in the morning to take him to the training course. But for now, he was trapped.
The room was big. He supposed it was a suite. One of the queen-size beds was out of sight in the short leg of the L-shaped room and the bathroom was enormous. Mannix didn’t want to go to bed just yet. There was nothing on TV but a succession of presenters with white teeth and big hair, so he changed into a fresh shirt and headed downstairs to the bar. He ordered a Miller and sat at the counter. The lounge chairs and sofas were occupied by suits with laptops.
The Hispanic bartender was extremely courteous. It occurred to Mannix that some of Spike’s staff could do with brushing up their hospitality skills. On second thought—with Spike’s clientele, that effort could be wasted.
What exactly was eating Spike, he wondered? On a few occasions lately, Mannix felt that Spike was going to let him in on what was bugging him. Mannix knocked back his beer. Sometimes ignorance and deniability were safer options. But Spike was his younger brother and Mannix felt a responsibility to look out for him, though only within reason.
Spike and Mannix had grown up in the smoky backrooms of their dad’s casino watching punters on the slot machines. And Spike could smell the victims and the vultures. The bloodsuckers waiting for those without a criminal record, like a teacher or a tradesman gambling it all, then stepping neatly in. Debts paid off for favors in return. A simple car journey to Dublin in clean number plates, an apartment to stash some gear in, a request to courier goods from one city to another. Spike had seen it all. He knew whom to talk to and whom to avoid. Spike was big and bold enough to sort things out for himself.
If only Mannix could sort out his own life. He had sent Kate a quick text when the plane touched down in Logan. “Landed.” She came back with a curt “Ok.” Though he knew she’d be in bed, he’d intended to send a lengthier message when he got to his hotel. But the brevity of her reply had left him feeling flat. He wouldn’t bother.
“Another?” asked the barman as Mannix finished the second Miller.
“No, thanks.”
Back on the fourth floor, he stopped at the vending machine. He was sure he’d wake up thirsty during the night. Gatorade would do the trick. Like a disgruntled teenager he shuffled down the corridor toward his room. Discarded room-service trays and shoe-shine machines were lined up against the walls. Looking for the key card in his wallet, he suddenly noticed his brown loafers. They were scuffed and dusty. They had seen better times. Or had they? They were his funeral shoes, his interview shoes, his work shoes. Better times? Maybe not. But they could certainly do with a shine.
Mannix went back to the nearest shoe-shine machine. He swigged his Gatorade as he watched the brushes whir over his three-year-old shoes. The corridor was empty. Again he thought on how soulless the place was.
A door clicked open behind him and he turned around. Someone in a bathrobe and towel turban bent to dispose of a tray. He turned back and took another swig.
“Mannix?”
Startled, he swung around. He stared for a second or two.
“Joanne?”
It was her, wasn’t it? The woman from the plane. In bare feet she looked smaller, more girlish. But the clever eyes, the small chin, those he recognized.
“So this is where you’re staying?” Joanne looked equally surprised. She tried to secure the turban, which was in danger of toppling over. Wet hair escaped underneath.
“Three or four doors up.” He pointed with the bottle.
“Good Lord, what a coincidence!”
“Yup!” He found himself grinning.
They looked at each other a moment without saying anything, marveling at the strange turn of events.
“Is that Gatorade? You like that stuff?” She turned her nose up.
“Love it,” Mannix replied. Next thing, he heard himself say, “Hey, you don’t fancy that whiskey, do you? The one you wanted to murder on the plane? I have some Jameson.”
“Oh, I don’t know . . . Grace, you know?” Joanne paused and indicated the open bedroom door. “Unless, of course, you want to come inside? Grace is sleeping. You’ll have to be quiet.”
“Yeah, sure. Why not?”
“All right, then.” She smiled. “I’ll just pull on a sweater. You get the whiskey.”
If he had thought it through, he might have done things differently. But he didn’t. He didn’t think it through at all. He just reacted.
“Got the goods,” he whispered minutes later, rounding the door to room 4166.
Her room was exactly the same as his. He spotted Grace asleep in the second bed around the corner, the outline of her small body visible under the covers.
“I’ll just rinse these.”
Joanne held two tumblers, cloudy with the remains of milk. Her hair was loose but she was still in her bathrobe, and he was surprised to see she hadn’t changed into a sweater. He should have given her more time.
Unscrewing the bottle, he followed her into the bathroom.
“Just a small one for me, we’ve got an early start.”
“A small one it is,” he replied.
He watched as she wiped the tumbler with a paper napkin and handed it to him. Then, turning to the sink again, she leaned over to wash the second tumbler. He wasn’t sure exactly how it happened but he became aware that he was staring. He stood transfixed as he watched the folds of her bathrobe slowly part. The toweling fabric gently slid over her shoulders to where it was tied at the waist.
Wordless, he held on to the bottle and the tumbler. Joanne herself did not move but stared at him now in the mirror. At ease with her naked body, she made no attempt to cover herself. There was no hint of embarrassment.
“Well?” she said.
And he took it in the only way it could be meant—an invitation.
Slowly and deliberately he put down the bottle and the tumbler on the glass shelf behind the bath.
“What about Grace?” he asked softly, his breath now catching in his throat.
“Grace is asleep.”
As Joanne made to go through to the bedroom, he gently tugged at her toweling belt.
“Wait,” he said, not wanting to be in the same room as her child.
Firmly, he shut the bathroom door. Completely naked now, she turned to him and suddenly he realized how much he wanted her. It had been months and months. He could wait no more. The guilt could come later. He pulled his shirt over his head while she swiftly unbuckled his belt.
Bending down to kiss her, he caught his fingers in her still damp hair. The feeling of flesh on flesh excited him. She was enjoying it too. She wanted him just as much. In the mirror, he saw her red fingernails dig into the skin of his back as he slipped himself inside her. And when he came, it was sudden. It was sudden and furious and forbidden.
“Mummy, Mummy, where are you?” came a cry from the bedroom.
“Jesus, she’s awake . . .” said Mannix.
“Just a minute,” Joanne called out.
“I’d better go,” said Mannix, his lust sated and feeling ridiculous with his pants around his ankles.
“I think that would be best,” said Joanne.
Covered again, she reached up on her toes to kiss him. “Thank you,” she whispered.
What was he supposed to say? “You’re welcome”? He wasn’t sure what one said in this situation. He tried to think what Spike might say. Thinking about it, it struck him that’s exactly what Spike might say.
“Enjoy your holiday,” he said lamely, feeling the situation had now become surreal.
“I will. Now.”
She smiled.
“Good night.” She shielded him at the doorway so Grace couldn’t see him leave, and Mannix went back to his room with the unopened bottle of Jameson, wondering just exactly what he’d done.
• • •
Back in the office in Ireland, Mannix did his best to immerse himself in his job. He tried coming in early. He tried staying late. All to create a good impression. But he soon realized that no matter how early or late he managed, there was always some sickener there before or after him. Some younger blood with an MBA and/or a PhD under his belt.
He tried not to be cynical. He tried not to sneer. In fact, lately he found himself worrying about the bitterness now seeping into his life. Yet there was something in the eagerness of his colleagues, their zealousness to please, that he found unseemly.
“Hey, Mannix. How’s tricks?”
It was his line manager. He plonked his pimply chin over the cubicle wall.
“Yeah, good, thanks. You?”
“You got those PowerPoints for the budget planning this afternoon?”
“Let me see . . .” Mannix checked his out-box. “You should have them already, Brendan. In fact, I actually sent them to you at seven last night.”
“You did? Marvelous. Marvelous stuff. Sure, you can’t keep a good man down,” he quipped.
Praise from someone he didn’t rate did nothing but grate on his nerves.
He smiled. “Now you said it, Brendan. Now you said it.”
Maybe it was him. Maybe Mannix himself was the problem. Brendan was only doing his job. It was Mannix who didn’t fit. He looked around the cubicle walls. He’d found himself unable to personalize it in any way. He didn’t want to lend it any air of permanence. Thinking of himself as transient went some distance to preserving his sanity. As he sat tapping at the keyboard he wondered if this was how salmon felt in cages in a salmon farm.
“For you, O’Brien!”
Jim, the building maintenance intern, handed him a card.
“Less of the O’Brien, thanks, I’m old enough to be your dad.” He stood up from his desk to take the card.
What on earth . . . ?
He stared at the card. His tongue went dry and his heart skipped a beat. It was Mickey and Minnie Mouse—holding hands. He turned it over. “Hello from Mickey Mouse,” it read in a neat but childish hand. It was signed, “Grace.” He looked at the date stamp. It had been posted from Orlando more than a week ago. Two days before he got back.
Feeling a stab of guilt, Mannix scanned the open office floor. Had anyone seen the card delivered? Anyone who would know him? Get a grip, he told himself, narrowly missing the swivel chair as he sat down again. Colleagues got holiday postcards all the time.
But how had she known where to send it? And then he remembered. Of course, she had his business card with all his details. He’d made her take one as he joked about his job. Shaken now, he looked again at the postcard, wondering exactly what to do with it. Tear it up? Put it in a drawer? He opted for the latter.
Alarm bells were jangling in his head. Surely this contravened the rules of a one-night stand? What was in Joanne Collins’s head when she allowed or possibly even encouraged her child to send that postcard? He felt nervous.
Mannix had been doing his best to forget that night. The guilt was compounded by the fact that Kate was making more of an effort ever since he’d arrived back from Boston. Maybe the old adage was true—absence makes the heart grow fonder. Conjugal relations were still at an impasse, however. He wasn’t sure, but he thought she’d spooned her body into his in bed last night. Half asleep, he’d turned around to face her, wondering if she was up for more. But she’d quickly turned away and shimmied over to her side of the bed.
Mannix had gone for a pint in the Curragower Bar with Spike after the rugby match at the weekend. He had been tempted to tell Spike then, but it felt even more of a disservice to Kate to do so. He’d decided to keep his mouth shut. But now this? What on earth did this mean?
Picking up his “teamwork” mug, he made his way to the tiny office kitchen. He needed coffee. Splashing the instant granules into the mug, it occurred to him that the mug really needed a good scrub. A caffeine scum had stained the white insides.
Shit. He really felt unsettled now. It’s only a postcard, he said to himself. What harm can a postcard do? Making his way back to his desk, he left a trail of splash marks all over the floor. He had ten minutes before the budgets meeting. Ten minutes for something mind numbing and calming. He’d clear out his e-mail.
Junking unopened e-mail into the trash felt great. There were lots of e-mails he should respond to but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He kept repeating the same mouse actions over and over again. And suddenly he stopped and looked again. Was he seeing things now?
Mug in hand, he missed his mouth. Coffee splattered all over his trousers. Jesus! What was going on? There, in his junk mail, was a name that struck fear in his heart. Not in his in-box, but shunted off to his junk mail somehow. “Subject: Hi there! From: Joanne Collins.” Received three days ago. Heart pounding, he opened the e-mail. He could hear his heart thumping in his ears.
She wanted to meet him. Christ! The woman wanted to meet him. Why? For God’s sake, why? Why would she want to meet him? She knew that he was married. Mannix tried to think it through. Fearful of what might happen if he ignored the e-mail, or just said no, he found himself nervously typing a quick response. He’d have to head her off at the pass. Before she could do any damage. There was nothing else for it.
He was going to have to meet her.
• • •
Joanne Collins greeted him at the door wearing tights and leg warmers. Mannix left the car at the rowing club after training. He wasn’t taking any chances. The walk to the red-brick Georgian buildings in Pery Square took only ten minutes and it was dark. Joanne’s directions were accurate. He spotted the solicitor’s brass nameplate and took the steps to the basement flat underneath.
“You found us, then,” she said airily. “Come in. I’m a bit behind—the class ran late. I’m just in myself.”
“A dance class, I presume?” he asked, trying to sound casual—as if they were old friends.
The floorboards squeaked and his voice echoed down the long hallway. A colored Chinese paper lantern lit the hall. A school bag leaned against a rubber plant.
“That’s right. Contemporary dance out at the university. I teach there on a Wednesday night.”
Like a slap it struck him how bizarre this situation was. This woman he’d had sex with, he’d never even asked her what she’d worked at. He felt uncomfortable.
“I’m making a grilled cheese sandwich, if you fancy it?”
Mannix followed her into the kitchen.
“No, thanks, I’ve eaten.” He didn’t want to stay any longer than was necessary.
“Sure? I can just as easily make two . . .”
“You look after yourself,” he said.
“You’ll have a coffee, then?”
“Coffee’s fine.”
He might as well be civil.
It was an old-fashioned kitchen, with a stripped oak table and a black French stove recessed into the back wall. It was surprisingly cozy for a high-ceilinged basement flat. Underwear hung on a clotheshorse next to the stove. Mannix looked away but Joanne had already spotted him looking.
“I’m not much of a housekeeper.”
She set the cafetière on the table. In her dance tunic she looked shapely, curves in all the right places. With flashbacks to their brief encounter, he tried to ignore the images whizzing through his head.
“You wanted to see me?”
Mannix felt sick with trepidation.
“Yeah, yeah, I did. I found your business card when I was clearing out my purse. I thought it might be nice to meet.”
Mannix wondered where this was leading. He trod carefully.
“You do know I’m married, Joanne?”
“Of course I do.”
She cut her grilled cheese sandwich into neat triangles. She offered him one. He shook his head.
“You have two kids and a pretty blond wife. I saw the picture, remember.” She tore a triangle in two and popped it into her mouth. Her nails were still red and perfectly polished.
“I don’t understand,” Mannix said.
She poured herself a coffee.
“What’s to understand? You’re married with kids. I get it. I have Grace. You get it. I just thought it might be nice to meet again . . .”
As he struggled with her logic, a second door slowly opened into the kitchen. He held his breath.
“Oh, hi . . .”
It was Grace in her pajamas.
“Hello, Grace,” he replied.
“You got my postcard? I sent you one from Disney on the last day.”
“I did. Thank you.”
What else could he say to the kid?
“You had a good time, then?”
“Absolutely awesome. You should have seen the rides but I was too small to go on the good ones. Maybe next time.”
“Off to bed now, Gracie, you know what the doctor said. You need your rest.”
“Good night, Mum.” Grace hugged her mother tight.
“’Night, ’night, Gracie,” said Joanne as Grace shut the door behind her.
“She looks a lot brighter,” said Mannix.
“She’s definitely on the mend,” said Joanne.
“I think I’d better get going,” said Mannix, looking at his watch. It was getting late. He needed to get out of here and he didn’t want Kate accusing him of sloping off for a drink with Spike again.
“Oh, if you’re sure . . .” She looked disappointed. “It’s not that late.”
She looked around at the clock above the stove. He noticed where tendrils of hair had escaped her ponytail and curled into the nape of her neck.
“I’m sure.”
Mannix got up to leave. He was heading for the door.
“Your collar, it’s crooked,” she said. “Let me . . .” As she reached up to straighten the collar of his waterproof anorak he smelled the closeness of her and his skin began to tingle. She smiled and looked at him, a question in her eyes. Without thinking, he leaned down and kissed her full on the mouth.
This time they made it as far as a darkened bedroom. Not as furtive or as furious as before, they took their time. And this time there were no interruptions from Grace.
“It’s okay, you know,” she said afterward, wrapped in a sheet. She was gathering together the tights and leotard and tunic scattered over the floor. She came back to the bed and ran a red fingernail down the hairline on his stomach. “Just now and again it might be nice to meet. Nothing regular. Just if we feel like it. I think we click, if you know what I mean.”
“I do,” said Mannix, his arms behind his head. She was easy company.
It was definitely late now. No matter what time Mannix returned, he was going to get a frosty reception. So he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. Mannix felt relaxed for the first time in ages. He’d stay awhile longer. And half an hour later, as if to cement their arrangement, they had sex again.
Later that night, Mannix walked back over the Condell bridge with a spring in his step. I can do this, he said to himself. As long as we’re both straight up with each other, there shouldn’t be a problem. No worries, I can definitely do this. No strings, no attachments. No one gets hurt.
Easy.
I’ve got it all under control.
• • •
It was the last day of October. Halloween. At Pier 83, Mannix, Kate, and the kids queued for their Circle Line boat trip around lower Manhattan. Conversation was strained. Fergus had borrowed Kate’s camera and was snapping photos of the Intrepid on the adjacent pier. A relic from World War II, it had been an aircraft carrier. It reminded Mannix of the Airfix models he used to paint as a kid. Fergus was the only happy camper this afternoon. He’d mentioned his visit to the Empire State at least ten times today already. Mannix envied him, having already fulfilled a life’s ambition at the tender age of eight. The child was happily oblivious to last night’s disturbing revelations about his sister and Frankie Flynn. As they shuffled in the queue, Mannix saw Kate snatching the odd glance at Izzy. She had so surprised them both, this child whom Kate later claimed in private not to recognize. This child they had somehow failed.
“Something’s wrong,” Kate had said on waking. “And it’s not just Izzy. It’s more than that.” She was leaning on the crook of her elbow now. Staring at him. That piercing stare. She was drilling into him. “There’s something else. I feel it. Don’t ask me how. I feel it—a sense of impending doom.”
“For God’s sake,” he groaned. “We’re on holiday! Don’t do this . . .”
“I can’t help it, Mannix,” she said softly. “Like my mother says—when you feel it in your bones . . .”
This time he didn’t bother replying. There was little point. Up against his mother-in-law, he didn’t stand a chance. Alice Kennedy had never liked him. And without putting it into words, when they had moved to the house at Curragower Falls, he made it plain that she wasn’t welcome in his home if she was going to look down on him. From time to time, Kate would remark how it would be nice for the kids to see more of their granny. Instead, the woman wisely chose to stay away. That suited Mannix fine.
Once aboard the Circle Line cruise, the O’Briens opted for a bench outside in the sunshine, even though it was chilly. The boat chugged out into the Hudson and the commentary began. The voice was deep and rich and made Mannix think of an old cowboy. Moments later, their narrator came into view. Mannix smiled. He hadn’t been wide of the mark. As the boat rocked and chugged against the tide, their narrator pointed out the air-conditioning ducts for the Lincoln Tunnel between New York and New Jersey. He pointed out the bizarre driving range in lower Manhattan with its giant nets to catch the golf balls. And as they drew closer to the site of the Twin Towers, he recounted his harrowing experiences on 9/11.
Mannix became aware of a vibration in his pocket. He waited until they came closer to Ellis Island before he pulled the phone from his pocket again. It was from the same number. This time, he didn’t even read the text. Instead, he made the decision he should have made at the start of the trip. He powered the mobile off.
“We are now heading into the East River,” said their tour guide. “Of course, the East River is not a river at all,” he added. “It’s actually the Atlantic . . .”
“So now you know,” Mannix said, smiling at Kate.
She looked pretty in her burnt-orange coat, with a rosy glow in her cheeks. The sun was going down behind her. She smiled back and was about to say something but the wind took her breath. Mannix looked at Izzy and Fergus. Their cheeks were equally rosy. Life wasn’t perfect, he knew that, and they had their problems. But looking at his family, Mannix felt a deep pang of guilt at what he’d jeopardized.
“And here we have the heliport for the United Nations.” The white-haired tour guide passed by them. “This is where the U.S. president comes in to address the UN.”
“It looks different on the telly.” Kate laid her head on his shoulder.
But things were rarely as you imagine them to be. Mannix thought back over the last few months. He’d been so smug. So in control. Or so he’d thought. He could have his family and a bit on the side as well. He’d succeed where other men unraveled. On the face of it, things had been going smoothly all summer. He’d had the server problems at work as cover. There had been a few snatched hours here and there most weeks. Even when Kate had gone to Kilkee with the kids, he’d come back to Limerick to the flat in Pery Square. He and Joanne would sit out in the small cobbled garden at the rear of the Georgian basement and drink cold beers. Gracie had sat with them too, painting stones, or getting them to taste the multicolored ice pops she’d made.
But then his birthday came. That much dreaded forty-third birthday at the end of August. A shiver ran up his spine as he remembered it.
The day of his birthday, he’d promised to drop in to Joanne before going home after work. He’d left work early and made it to the Pery Square flat before six.
“You came!” said Joanne, opening the basement door in a long white cotton shirt and flip-flops.
“I said I would!” He planted a kiss on her cheek.
Gracie was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, smiling. Looking over her shoulder, Joanne caught sight of Grace. “Come out to the garden,” Joanne said, taking Mannix by the arm. “I know you can’t stay long. But we have a surprise for you, don’t we, Gracie?” She was looking at Grace conspiratorially.
“We sure do . . .” The child was beaming.
He’d followed them out into the tiny garden, hidden from view of office block windows by a covered trellis. Mannix had always felt safe and unseen here. The small round table was set with a flowery cloth. A fat matching teapot sat in the middle.
What he saw next struck fear deep in his heart. He stared hard at the table, trying to cope with the shock. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Grace but looked at her mother instead. Joanne was smiling. Seeing the look on his face, she raised an eyebrow, the smile glued into place.
“What’s the matter, Mannix? Don’t you like it?”
He didn’t reply. He couldn’t.
Turning on his heel, he’d made his way through the flat, exiting the hall door and climbing the stone steps hurriedly out onto the street outside. Something had to be done, and quickly. He knew that now. Things had gone too far. Way too far.
He only hoped it wasn’t too late.