Twisted River (28 page)

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.