The day after Keelin had gone to the Crowleys’ house to beg Sinéad to have some sense, she had to watch her son leave her. Alex packed another bag, a larger one this time, shoving his favourite clothes and books into it roughly. He picked up a framed photo of him and Evie and wrapped it in a Superdry hoodie, placing it on top of his belongings, then zipped the case up. He took no other photos, not even the one from his first day at primary school, Alex resembling a miniature businessman in his shirt and tie, flanked by his mother and his grandmother, both women holding back their tears. He looked at the frame for a second, hesitating, then turned it face down on the bookshelf. Keelin tried not to be hurt by that.
‘Please,’ she said. She stood at the front door, her son halfway down the rose path, wheeling the suitcase behind him. ‘Alex.’ Her arms outstretched, reaching for him, for her baby, but he had gone too far from her. She couldn’t bring him home now.
Henry’s hand on her shoulder. ‘We have to trust him,’ he said, as she choked back a sob. ‘You have to let him go, darling.’
But she had lost so much, was it wrong that she didn’t want to lose Alex too? Evie rarely came home now, and it would only worsen when she went to university, when she started earning her own money and met a partner of her own. She would forge her own life, she would forget this island, and she would do so with frightening ease. All Keelin had ever wanted to do was to be a good mother, and it was clear she had failed with both her children.
Henry pulled her back inside the house and she tensed at the feel of his fingers on her skin. You’re dangerous, she thought. I don’t know what you are capable of. I am afraid of you.
But she said nothing. She let her son walk away. Alex would leave Inisrún that day and he would take the last Crowley Girl with him. Bríd and Brendan would be alone in that house, surrounded by photos of their dead daughter, nothing but their grief to sustain them. And it would be her fault, yet again.
As Henry led her into the kitchen, she thought about the Sunday morning after the party. The body had been found in their garden and Brendan Crowley was told to get there as fast as he could. Keelin never did find out who made that phone call. Perhaps it had been her, she thought afterwards; perhaps she had been the one to ring the Crowley house. There’s been an accident, she imagined herself saying. It’s an emergency. Brendan arrived within twenty minutes, running into the hall, his breathing laboured. Where is she? he shouted. He was wearing two different shoes, his hair sticking up at odd angles, his eyes wild. He looked around at the guests, the beautiful people shivering and crying, pale-faced. The debris of the night before around them, stale smoke, sticky floors, shards of broken glass glittering like diamonds. Where is my daughter? he said again, but quieter this time, as if he knew already what the answer would be. A woman raised a shaking hand and pointed outside. Henry tried to hold him back – he was a father himself, he would say to the guards later, he only did it to protect the man, he wouldn’t have wanted to see Evie in that condition if the roles were reversed – but Brendan pushed him off, forcing the double doors to the patio open, looking left, right, Where is she, where is she? And then he saw her.
No, no, Brendan said. He sank to his knees beside the body. Nessa.
There were no words after that. A noise came from the man and it was primal, gut deep, like an animal with its leg caught in a trap. His head pressing against the girl’s, her blood smearing across his forehead, like stripes of war paint. Daddy’s here now, he whispered. He scooped her up, cradling her limp body to his chest, but his legs buckled, giving way beneath him, and he fell to the ground, still carrying his daughter in his arms. He had only wanted to take her home, he would explain to the guards, when they asked why he had contaminated a potential crime scene in such a foolish manner. And he hadn’t known it was a crime scene then, Brendan told them. He had assumed it was an accident. All he’d wanted was to bring his daughter home, where she would be safe.
When it was over and Keelin could still hear that man screaming in her dreams, when she awoke, sweating, with the words ‘Nessa, Nessa’ heavy on her tongue, she would ask herself: was it worth it, what she had done?
Yes, she would whisper to herself, for she had to believe that it was.
It was worth it.