Twisted River (16 page)

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.