Twisted River (15 page)

“Kate, this is ridiculous. Where did you get all this?”

“The Harveys found the evidence. Today. Hidden inside the cast
in Izzy's room! The missing hammer wrapped in the bloodied pillowcase. The same one you left the house with. I saw it, Mannix. Don't deny it. I'm sick to death of all the lies!”

“
Stop!
Stop it now,
please, Mum!”

Kate spun around. Christ, they'd woken the kids. How much had Izzy heard?

“Please stop shouting at Dad.”

Poor Izzy. Always rushing to her father's defense.

“Go back to bed, Izzy,” Kate said wearily.

“No, Mum. I heard what you were talking about. And there's something I must tell you.” Izzy paused.

“What is it, Izzy?”

“You see, Mum, it wasn't Dad that went for Frankie Flynn.”

“And how do you know that, Izzy?”

“I know that, Mum, because it was me.”

I
t 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.