With a heavy heart, Mannix put his mobile back in his pocket. He supposed he should be grateful that Kate was even answering his calls. If it weren’t for the kids, he suspected she’d let his calls ring out. He’d have to wait until tomorrow now to see the kids.
As he sat alone in his brother’s flat, he looked around. Mannix had been here three days already and he wasn’t due back at work until Monday. Is this what the future held for him now? How much longer would he have to stay here? A damp pair of jeans, a damp hoodie, and three pairs of underpants lay drying over chairs in front of the gas fire. A framed photo from Christmas two years ago sat on the mantelpiece. Izzy and Fergus on Spike’s knee. Spike was wearing a Santa hat. A fly buzzed over the empty plastic cartons from the Chinese they’d had last night.
He’d fancied some breakfast, but when Mannix opened the fridge, all he saw was a stack of single-portion macaroni and cheese ready meals and some dodgy-looking slices of corned beef. Last night’s whiskey had left him parched, and the milk was two weeks old, so he couldn’t even have a cup of tea. His head throbbed violently. He wasn’t sure if the hazy fug was due to his hangover or the lingering veil of cigarette smoke.
How did Spike ever get any woman to come up here?
Mannix shuddered at the state of the bathroom. But the evidence was all there. Obviously Spike managed to pull. The bathroom cabinet housed an open carton of condoms. A tube of lipstick and a clear blue bottle of eye-makeup remover sat on the toilet cistern along with a big bottle of toilet bleach. The seal on the bleach had not been broken.
He shouldn’t complain about his brother. Spike had been a shoulder to cry on over the last few days. How he wished he were at home, at his own breakfast table, watching Fergus pick the crusts off his toast, listening to Izzy’s dry remarks. Christ, how he wished he could turn the clock back.
Of course he knew he deserved no sympathy. Mannix knew all of this was his own doing. Yet he found it difficult to accept that the havoc that had been wreaked was solely down to his appalling judgment of character. Other guys got away with it.
If he’d had even the slightest sniff that Joanne Collins was this crazy, this out-of-her-tree, there was no way Mannix would have put his family in danger. No way he’d have put the Harvey family in danger either. There was no way in hell he’d have even touched her.
He’d been so stupid. It wasn’t even as if he’d held any affection for the woman—even before he realized she was completely off the reservation. It really, genuinely had been only the sex. But Mannix knew that as a defense, as an argument, that would not wash with Kate. Sex and love were too closely linked for her, whereas for him, they were two different things.
Mannix allowed himself to think about the infidelity, but he found it very difficult to think about what had happened to Hazel Harvey. It was almost too much for him to contemplate, the role he’d played in her death. There was no way he could distance himself from it. He knew that ultimately he was responsible for the death of another human being but he was having difficulty registering the enormity of such a charge.
“If I’d never met that woman, Hazel Harvey would be alive today.” He’d looked Spike in the eye last night as he openly acknowledged it for the first time.
“Top up?” Spike had asked as he poured himself another whiskey.
“What’s he like, Oscar Harvey?” Mannix indicated that he would have a small drop more.
“A nice guy.” Spike plopped another generous measure into the chipped mug. “Maybe a bit of a stiff, but, you know—a regular guy.”
Well, he wasn’t a regular guy anymore. He was anything but. The guy was now a widower. Mannix felt a massive stab of guilt.
“She was a nice woman, Hazel Harvey,” added Spike, unprompted. “Posh type of girl. I’d say she might have had problems with her nerves, though. A bit on the jittery side.”
“Jesus, Spike. Why in hell did I ever talk to Joanne Collins? I hate talking to people on planes. I never do it. Why did I just not stick to my book?”
Spike shrugged.
“What about the kids, Spike? What am I going to do about my kids? I don’t want to be a weekend dad. They deserve more than that.”
“The kids love you, Mannix. Kate won’t interfere in that. She’s a good woman. She wouldn’t turn them against you.”
“You’re talking like it’s all over, Spike. Like she’s never taking me back. Don’t you think she could forgive me? Give me another chance?”
“Straight up, Mannix? I really don’t know. She’s hurting. You can see that. You can certainly give it a go . . .”
Mannix felt morose but not quite numb enough for sleep.
“She has her mother with her now. That woman never liked me,” he said bitterly. “Never thought I was good enough.” He let another glug of whiskey burn the back of his throat. “Although, you know what, Spike? I guess I’ve proved her right. Haven’t I?”
Spike looked at the clock. It was 3:30 A.M. All was quiet downstairs now, the nightclub had shut an hour ago.
“Manny, do you mind if I head to bed? The sleeping bag is over there on the sofa for you.”
“Yeah, you head off, Spike. Sorry for boring the arse off you again . . .”
He didn’t even make it to the sofa, falling asleep where he was, drunk and uncomfortable. He’d never felt worse in his life.
It was midafternoon the next day before Mannix mustered up the will to shave himself. As he scraped the three-day-old stubble in the grimy mirror, he felt a vibration in the pocket of his cord jeans. A text. He wiped the foamy residue with the towel that hung under the basin. It smelled of perfume. He looked at himself in the mirror. Slightly more human. Only just.
Wriggling his hand into the taut pocket, he retrieved the mobile. The text was from a number he didn’t recognize. His hand still wet and slippery, he opened it.
Jesus Christ!
A shock wave sizzled through him. It took an instant to scan but in that instant his blood ran cold. He blinked and looked at it again. This simply could not be. It was a hoax. Was it someone’s sick idea of a practical joke?
“So sorry you had to wait this long. It could not be helped. Good things come to he who waits. The waiting is nearly over. The BITCH is alone. This time I shall not hesitate. We shall have what we deserve. All my love, J.”
Stunned, he read it again. It didn’t make any sense. O’Rourke had told him she was in custody. He hadn’t dreamed it up. Heard it with his own ears. She’d been picked up along with Grace Collins by the PSNI. And yet this had the terrifying ring of truth. The same syntax. The same crazy tone as the previous texts. Was this really Joanne? Was she still out there?
There was no time to procrastinate. He had to act. And fast. He couldn’t take any chances. He punched the keypad of his mobile. It was ringing.
Ring, ring. Ring, ring.
No answer.
It went to voice mail. “This is Kate O’Brien from Limerick School of Art and Design. I am currently on annual leave. For any urgent queries please contact department head Simon Walsh. Otherwise leave a message after the tone . . .”
Shit! Why was Kate not answering?
“Kate—it’s Mannix. Look, something’s turned up. Can you call me urgently, please? This is serious. Call me as soon as you get this, Kate. Please. Do it now.”
Mannix hung up.
Next, he rang the landline.
No answer.
Where the hell was Kate?
He had to get over to the house.
Now.
Christ alive! The thought that Joanne Collins could be on the loose . . . No—he couldn’t think like that. He couldn’t panic. He’d have to run. It was more than a mile away. How long would that take him? It was a long, long time since he’d managed a four-minute mile. Okay, so he could manage eight minutes tops if he really went for it. Hell for leather. But would he be in time? His head was pounding. His heart was pounding. That hangover was certainly kicking in—it was really vicious now.
Mannix grabbed the damp hoodie and quickly zipped it up. Where the fuck were his shoes? The flat was a tip. He couldn’t see them anywhere. No time. No time. He grabbed a pair of Spike’s white running shoes inside the front door.
Mannix is out on the street now, running as fast as he can. Onto Patrick Street . . . up past St. Mary’s Cathedral . . . acid and bile reach his throat . . . down Nicholas Street . . . his head throbs madly . . . down toward the castle . . . he gets a sharp pain across his chest. His body screams for him to stop. He can’t afford to stop. Terror keeps him going.
You’ve got to get there, Mannix. You’ve got to stop her!
Sweat is pouring out of him. He’s panting heavily. He can taste last night’s whiskey in his mouth. Whiskey and fear. He tries to find another number on his mobile as he runs. It’s hard to scroll and run. He can’t stop. No time to stop. Passersby look warily at him. He probably looks like a scumbag who’s just committed a robbery. Just another scumbag on the run.
Where the hell is that number? He knows he put it in his phone.
There!
He has it. O’Rourke. He dials the number.
O’Rourke answers. Thank Christ!
“Detective O’Rourke?” Mannix hardly has the breath to talk.
He doesn’t need to.
“A bit of a hiccup, Mr. O’Brien,” O’Rourke cuts in immediately.
Mannix keeps up the pace. He’s nearly at the castle now. It must be five minutes since he got the text.
“The two persons of interest detained by the PSNI, well, it appears that the young girl is Grace Collins, all right. But it appears the woman accompanying her was not her mother . . .”
Oh, God . . .
A massive surge of adrenaline rips through Mannix’s body.
“It appears that the woman accompanying her is her aunt, Sheila Collins. They were on their way to relatives in Glasgow. Are you there, Mr. O’Brien?”
“I’m listening,” Mannix answered, panting, blood roaring in his ears.
“So, Mr. O’Brien, it would appear that Joanne Collins is still at large. I’m on my way back from Dublin, but Henry Street has been alerted to send a squad car down to Curragower Falls right away.”
Right away? Right away? Right away may still be too late . . .
“Oh Jesus . . . Oh sweet Jesus . . .” Mannix’s voice is rasping now, sweat dripping into his eyes as he crosses the road. “I’ve just had another text from Joanne Collins . . .”
O’Rourke goes silent.
Beads of sweat fall into Mannix’s eyes as he spots the gable end of his house coming into view.
“Don’t worry. We’re onto it,” says O’Rourke. The phone goes dead.
Mannix blisters a path up the strand. Thump, pound. Thump, pound. Spike’s shoes cut into the backs of his heels. A band of pressure tightens across his chest. He listens out for sirens. His eyes search for flashing lights. Strange. It looks like the street outside his house is empty. No flashing lights. Not a single squad car. Not a single garda. What the hell is going on? That dipstick O’Rourke had said that they were onto it.
Mannix snatches a look at the park across the road. It too is completely empty.
Should he wait for the guards? Or should he—
The front door to his house is open.
His sweat turns cold on his skin.
Sweet Jesus. Don’t say it’s too late. He cannot be too late. Fear snakes all around him. His heart in his mouth, he tears up the stairs.
A cry of terror! Mannix grips the banister. Another piercing cry—
Oh God! Mannix feels his blood is curdling. He stumbles at the top. His chest is about to explode. Now a muffled sound. What the hell? He lunges into the kitchen.
Jesus Christ!
He is winded. He can no longer move. He is paralyzed. His legs are heavy, rooted to the spot.
“Mannix!” she says softly, turning around.
Her eyes are glassy.
“I knew you’d come . . .”
She sounds spaced. Out of it.
He wants to go for her—to launch himself at her, to grab her wrist. But he stops himself. Too risky.
“Joanne?” He tries to sound calm, matter-of-fact.
“You didn’t doubt me, did you?” she says dreamily, almost trancelike.
He wonders if she’s been drinking.
What should he say? It could all be over in an instant. He has to think of something good to defuse this.
“Is this really the way you want us to start out, Joanne?” He is surprised at how he hides the panic. He sounds okay. “Do we really want this hanging over us?”
Her hand slips a little and she appears to think. He has her attention.
Kate.
Oh God! He can hardly bear to look at her.
Her eyes are wild with fear. She looks at him in terror, her nostrils flaring as she tries to breathe. She tries to shake her head.
“Stop, BITCH!” Joanne hisses suddenly.
Mannix recoils in shock.
Joanne is clamping Kate’s mouth with one hand. With the other, she points the bright steel of a serrated knife against Kate’s neck. It glints—flashes of light dancing in the gloom.
Christ! What has he unleashed? What the hell has he invited into their home?
Keep it together. He has to make this good. HE JUST HAS TO MAKE THIS RIGHT. Overwhelmed by a basic instinct to protect his wife, Mannix gulps and sucks for breath. He needs to get them out of this. He needs to talk this crazy woman down. The air in the room is crackling.
He can do this. He can do this. Just don’t look at Kate.
He will reason with Joanne.
“If you do this, they will take you from me—”
“No, Mannix, darling, you are—”
“They will take you away from me and Gracie and—”
“Stop it! Listen to me, Mannix!”
“We will never be together. Not the way you want, the way you deserve.”
“It’s the only way, Mannix. She has to go. Believe me, I’ve thought it through—” Joanne’s eyes have come into focus again. But there is steel in her voice.
A ghastly white has spread across Kate’s face.
Where the fuck were the gardaí? Where the fuck were those muppets?
“Don’t do this, Joanne. It’s wrong . . .” He’s pleading now. Mannix knows he sounds pathetic. He’s running out of ideas.
“But your children?” Joanne looks confused. “She needs to go, Mannix. If she stays, the bitch will take them from you . . .”
Kate wildly tries to shake her head.
“SHUT UP, BITCH!!” Joanne spits, her eyes flashing. “I’ve heard enough from you today. And it’s all fucking lies!”
Mannix stares in horror.
Slowly Joanne moves. Oh, so slowly, she punctures the skin, scoring a wavy red line down the side of Kate’s neck. Joanne moves in closer, staring at the jagged score mark, examining the minute detail of her handiwork.
“Mmmm . . .” she says to Mannix. She takes another look at the blood as it starts to soak into the white of Kate’s lace collar.
“So the bitch bleeds red just like the rest of us—”
Joanne cocks her head suddenly, as if listening to something, and abruptly she starts to sing:
“Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
Your mother was good-looking,
What happened to you?”
She throws back her head and laughs, still gripping on to the knife—a cruel, mirthless, mental laugh.
Mannix is terrified.
Reason with this woman?
He is cold to his core. It hits him with full force. Joanne Collins is completely out of it. Completely and totally disconnected from reality. Mannix doubts if she has even heard a thing that he said. Kate’s eyes are frantic now. All he needs is a couple of seconds to distract Joanne, just a couple of seconds.
“Gracie? Would Gracie like to see her mother like this?” It was a gamble.
“SHUT UP, MANNIX. You’re too soft on this little woman here, you’re just too—”
“I’m not, Joanne, I just want to do this right.”
He’s more petrified than he’s ever been in his life. She’s completely unhinged. How did he not notice before?
Right away. Right away, O’Rourke had said. Where were the bloody gardaí?
“She had her chance.” Joanne looks at Mannix coldly. She’s looking at him, at least. He needs to keep her focused on him.
“She doesn’t love you like I do . . .”
Mannix feels a rising panic. He cannot hold her off much longer. Now she turns to Kate.
“My turn now. Mine and Gracie’s. Grace deserves a father. And Mannix loves her. Don’t you, Mannix?” Joanne swings back to him. “You love Gracie, don’t you?”
“Of course I do. That’s why I want to do this right. This is not the way—”
“You know where my Gracie is now?” she interrupts.
Mannix shakes his head.
“With my sister. Visiting cousins in Glasgow. They’re gone to IKEA to pick out stuff for her new bedroom. I had Kate here give me a guided tour this time!”
How long had this woman been in his house? With his wife?
“It’s time.” Joanne’s tone changed. “Say good-bye to the BITCH, Mannix. Say good-bye to the little bitch . . .”
He cannot wait another second.
“NO!!” He lunges, reaching for Joanne’s wrist.
Startled, Joanne stumbles against the breakfast counter, but still she has the knife.
“It’s for us, Mannix!” she screams, righting herself, her face contorted with rage and disbelief. She lashes out, reaching again for Kate. But Kate is free! Kate darts away, grabbing the empty knife block as a weapon. Mannix grabs the glass paperweight that keeps the bills. He swings it high.
“Mannix?”
Joanne does not understand. He sees that now. He smells the alcohol.
“Drop the knife, Joanne!”
“YOU DON’T GET IT, DO YOU?” she is screaming. “It’s for us . . . you, me, and the children . . . because I love you.”
“But I don’t love you, Joanne. I never have.” He says it forcefully. “I love Kate. Joanne, stop this now, before anyone else gets hurt . . .”
Her eyes register disbelief.
“I don’t believe you . . .”
She really thinks he’s joking.
“Joanne, STOP IT now. You’re not well. You’ve been drinking . . .”
He can see Kate out of the corner of his eye, still brandishing the knife block. Her eyes still crazy with fear.
“I have NOT been drinking. YOU FUCKING BASTARD!! YOU FUCKING TWO-FACED BASTARD! You’re just like all the rest!”
Mannix feels it in his shoulder first. And then his arm. Short, sharp, agonizing jabs. He drops the paperweight. He feels the warmth and wet of blood.
“STOP! STOP IT!” Kate is screaming.
It was all too late. Too late now for the gardaí . . .
Joanne is slashing him now, moving too quickly for him to grab the knife. He reaches out again . . . she slashes . . . the pain is hot and searing.
THUD!!
Kate brings the knife block down hard across Joanne’s head. Mannix hears her groan. The air forced out of her. In slow motion, Joanne slumps and moans, facedown, the knife skittering and clattering across the floor.
The rush of feet pounding up the stairs!
Three uniformed gardaí rush into the room.
About fucking time!
No rush, lads.
A garda races over to Joanne. He braces his knee on her back. Roughly, he pulls her arms back, and deftly he slips a set of cuffs over her wrists. Two other gardaí are pulling Joanne to her feet. She is groaning now, blood coming from the gash on her head, trickling down the center of her forehead and down the length of her nose.
Mannix staggers against the breakfast counter, clutching his bleeding arm. He is gasping, reeling with the shock of what he invited into his home. Kate is ashen, she’s still clutching the knife block.
“You disappoint me, Mannix,” says Joanne as the gardaí bundle her toward the waiting car.
“You’re just like all the rest, Mannix,” she says softly. “You really let me down.”
• • •
It had taken a month for the puncture wounds in his forearm to heal, two months for the tendons around his thumb to knit back together properly, and nearly three months of repeated physiotherapy to get any decent mobility back in his shoulder.
His colleagues at work had looked at him with a mix of sympathy and curiosity. Even now, Mannix could still sense the nudging and the sidelong glances as he passed the rows of cubicles on his way to the watercooler or the kitchen. Brendan, his boss, seemed to treat him with a newfound caution.
No one knew exactly what had happened in the house at Curragower Falls. There were rumors, of course. But no one knew exactly. An American tourist on a home exchange had been murdered. Mannix and his wife had later been attacked by the suspected murderer. The woman was on remand in Limerick Prison awaiting trial. Mannix had certainly provided them with enough lunchtime gossip for quite some time to come.
Mannix was keeping his head low. It was time to knuckle down. He’d been responsible for enough heartache to last a lifetime. He’d had his walk on the wild side. After the gardaí had taken Joanne Collins away, Kate had collapsed, a sobbing wreck, shaking uncontrollably in his arms. And it had come to Mannix just how close he’d come to losing her forever. He would never forget that feeling.
These days, Mannix found himself nodding enthusiastically at strategy meetings. He found himself agreeing with Brendan and even making suggestions for the new vision statement for the department. He volunteered to go on a number of steering committees. He immersed himself entirely. He didn’t feel the need to rush home at night to Spike’s bachelor flat.
The guys were happy to see him back in the rowing club. It was nearly light enough now in the mornings to take his scull out on an early tide before heading into the plant in Raheen. Mannix started running again. And every now and then, he called in for a pint to the Curragower Bar. He found it hard, though. Not being able to walk home around the curve in the road afterward.
Christmas had been hard. He’d had fun with the kids and Spike. He’d shared a few laughs with Kate and thought himself perfectly civil and amiable to her mother. But after dinner and all the games of cards were over, he and Spike had to leave. Back to an undecorated flat with three Christmas cards on the mantelpiece.
Alice Kennedy walked his kids to school and walked them home again. Kate thought it best that Fergus adjust to a clear routine as soon as possible. So rather than popping in and out to see them unannounced, he saw them on Monday and Tuesday evenings, Saturday mornings or sometimes the whole day Saturday, and every time there was a Man U match.
Fergus still thought it was a temporary arrangement. It was taking a long time to sort out Uncle Spike’s flat, especially now that there’d been a fire. A month into his stay, Mannix put a waffle into the toaster and fell asleep, pissed, as it caught fire.
Izzy was philosophical.
“You’re not moving back ever, are you, Dad?”
She knew that what had happened had something to do with him. But she had stopped asking. They were feeding the swans outside St. Michael’s boat club. It was something they’d done together since Izzy was little. She felt she’d outgrown this pastime. But she indulged him. “It’s okay, Dad. I’m not Fergus. I can handle it. You and Mum are getting a divorce, right?”
It was a shock to hear her say it.
“Things are a bit complicated, Izzy.”
There had been no talk of divorce or even of a formal separation.
“Yeah, the standard adult response.” She threw another piece of crust. “Dad, I know you love me and Fergus. Fiona’s parents are divorced and she sees her dad all the time. So much that he annoys her!”
“Let’s just see what happens, Izzy.”
“Play it by ear, is that it, Dad?” She cocked her head and looked at him. “Isn’t that what you always say . . . ?”
“I guess so, Izzy. I guess so.” It seemed as good a strategy as any.
Mannix still held out some hope. Dum spiro, spero—While I breathe, I hope. He’d rarely listened in Latin class, but the old adage suddenly popped into his head. Unlike Oscar Harvey, Mannix at least had an outside chance of his wife coming back to him.
Mannix shuddered as he thought of Oscar Harvey. He would be forced to meet him face-to-face at the trial. But that was some way off. He wouldn’t think about that now. Neither did Mannix allow himself too much time to dwell on little Grace. He preferred to think the alleged affection she had for him was all in her mother’s twisted mind. Grace was better off with her mother out of the picture—she had an aunt who sounded like she cared for her.
“How’s Fergus doing?”
Sometimes it was easier to ask Izzy than Kate. Somehow his questions didn’t seem so loaded when he asked Izzy. And his daughter shot from the hip. She’d tell him straight.
“At school, you mean? Or in general?”
“At school, I guess.” In general, Fergus seemed okay.
“Well, all the messers want to hang out with Fergus at break time now. And there was a fight yesterday—about which team would have Fergus in goal, so I guess he’s okay.”
“I see . . .” Mannix wasn’t sure he wanted Fergus hanging out with the messers. But to be sought after as a goalie must be another dream come true for Fergus. His son had two left feet.
“And Frankie Flynn? Is that tosspot leaving him alone?”
“Yeah, Frankie . . .” Izzy looked puzzled for a second. “I don’t understand it, really. Fergus said Frankie offered him one of the Mars bars he robbed from the off-license his mother works in. It’s all a bit weird to me.”
But Mannix understood it perfectly. Having the gardaí outside the Curragower house hadn’t done Fergus’s reputation any harm at all. In certain circles it had been enhanced. Frankie Flynn was treading warily around Fergus now, no doubt thinking he hadn’t had the measure of him before. Fergus was the geeky posh kid whose family had drawn adverse national media attention, whose home had been a murder scene. Oh, yes. Mannix got it, all right. Despite being the geeky posh kid, Fergus had come through some unspoken rite of passage.
“And yourself, Izzy?” asked Mannix. “How did you get on in Dublin during the week?”
Izzy threw the last scrap of bread to the fast-approaching swans. Then slowly and deliberately she turned to Mannix and threw her eyes to heaven.
“Really, Dad. Did she really have to do that to me?”
“Well, yes, Izzy. I think she did. Your mother only wants what’s best for you.” Mannix thought it best that they both sing from the same hymn sheet.
“I know, but a young offenders’ institute? C’mon, Dad . . .”
Mannix knew where Kate was coming from. As she’d said herself, it would have been a wasted opportunity not to bring Izzy. Kate was going anyway to give a presentation on behalf of the Limerick School of Art and Design. Why not take Izzy and show her where the kids who took a wrong turn ended up?
“Izzy, I don’t think you realize how close you came to being there yourself. Just because Mum and I are the only ones who know what you did . . .” Mannix felt a bit of a hypocrite. Talk about the pot calling the kettle black, yet he knew he should back Kate up. Izzy looked at him, her dark eyes serious now.
“Dad, what I did was nothing. Not a patch on those hard-core kids. Some of them in there had actually killed people, for God’s sake! And they were staring at me like I was the one who was the freak!”
“Well, you know, Izzy. Things can so easily get out of hand. Some of these kids could have been just like you, where things didn’t turn out so well. The next thing they know their whole life is upside down and they find themselves in Oberstown.”
“Yeah, yeah. I hear you, Dad.” Izzy sighed theatrically. “Stop going on about it, please. It’s not going to happen again, okay. Ever.”
He believed her. From what Kate had said, she had been pretty damn silent on the journey home. The message had rung home loud and clear. A swan swaggered up the slipway, unhappy that all the bread was gone. It looked a touch aggressive. Time to go.
Mannix slung an arm around Izzy’s shoulder. “Come on, Izzy, let’s go. It’s getting dark. Mum wants us back in time for dinner.”
Tonight, it was just the four of them. Kate’s mother had gone to a bridge conference. And for a couple of happy hours he forgot that he no longer lived in the house. It was spaghetti Bolognese and cookie dough ice cream.
“The kids seem to be doing okay,” he said to Kate in the hallway.
Kate appeared to think.
“You know what, Mannix? I’ve come to realize something. I can’t wrap the kids in cotton wool. I can be a first line of defense but not a bulletproof shield. Sometimes those bullets are going to get through. And when they do, we’ll deal with it. That’s just something I’ll have to accept.”
“I’m here to help as well,” Mannix said lamely. He hated it when she spoke as if she were a single parent.
There was no response.
“Thanks for dinner,” Mannix said as she accompanied him down to the front door.
“My pleasure,” Kate said, smiling, as if the two of them were friends.
“See you on Saturday, then.” He hovered on the step, wondering if he could hazard more. The evening had gone well.
“Saturday it is,” she said. She was already closing the door.
Probably best to leave it.
He waved his hand in salute, and turning on his heel, he heard the door firmly click behind him. He walked down the driveway and out onto Clancy Strand. He turned left, passed the Treaty Stone, and turned right onto Thomond Bridge. A lone fisherman wrestled with his line.
“Are they biting tonight?” Mannix asked casually as he passed by.
“Had one a second ago,” came the reply. “You should have seen it! An absolute beauty. The catch of my life. I’ve just bloody gone and lost the catch of my life . . .”
Mannix shrugged and walked on.
“You and me both, pal,” he said. “You and me both.”