Twisted River (8 page)

“I'm serious about going home, Oscar,” she said in a small voice. “I want to go home to Ireland.”

OCTOBER

“O
nly nine more days, seven hours, and thirty minutes to go!”

Fergus had crossed off each day in alternate colors until the month of October now looked like a green and purple checkerboard. Brandishing a chubby crayon, he twirled round from the notice board next to the fridge. His pale face was animated and his blond curls were gelled up in spikes.

“That's right, Soldier—only nine more days to liftoff.”

Mannix suctioned a strand of spaghetti, splattering tomato sauce onto his chin as it whiplashed into his mouth.

Next to the notice board was the blackboard with Kate's to-do list. She was steadily getting through the tasks. Keys cut. Clean oven. Clean fridge. Defrost freezer. Hoover under beds. Dust tops of picture frames. Polish brass door knocker. Clean windows. And then there were those jobs that could be done only at the last minute before leaving the house. Change bed linen. Clean bathrooms. Drop the guinea pig to Izzy's friend to mind.

“Are we selling up and moving out altogether?” asked Mannix drily.

“I can't have guests arriving from America to a slovenly house, now, can I?” she retorted.

She was feeling fractious at all the tasks that were falling to her. It wasn't as if she didn't have a job as well.

“Well, delegate, then,” Mannix suggested, continuing to slurp his meal.

“Oh, I intend to, don't worry. Which reminds me—Fergus, can you tidy away all the models that are on the floor of your bedroom? And Izzy, you clear your floor as well, please. It's not as if you don't have a wardrobe. All your stuff—get it off the floor and into the wardrobe. Izzy?”

But Izzy wasn't listening. She was busy texting under the table.

“Izzy!”

“Jeez, Mum. Stop shouting.”

“What have I told you about texting at the dinner table?”

“Don't text at the dinner table?” She shrugged as if she were guessing.

Mannix burst out laughing. Kate shook her head. Sometimes she felt as if she were mother to three children and not two.

“Are you putting on my Manchester United duvet cover for the boy that's coming?” asked Fergus.

Kate paused a moment before answering. This could be a flashpoint. Fergus exerted strong ownership rights over his possessions and she knew he'd been ruminating about another child among his things.

“I might.” No definite commitment.

“Yeah. Yeah, I think the boy would like that,” said Fergus. “I think you should put my favorite duvet cover on. Because even though we won't be here to see him, he's still kind of a guest, isn't he?”

Mannix looked up from his plate, looked at Kate, and raised an eyebrow. Kate's heart went out to her child. Fergus was trying really hard and he'd obviously been giving the exchange a lot of thought. The whole idea of the house swap was working wonderfully well on so many levels. Suddenly, all Kate's gripes about domestic tasks melted into insignificance. This was all about Fergus. And already it was working.

“It's kind of weird, though, isn't it?” Izzy slipped her mobile back in her hoodie pocket.

“What's weird, sweetheart?” Mannix wiped his chin vigorously with a paper napkin.

“You know. The idea of someone you've never met sleeping in your bed, eating in your kitchen, sitting on your toilet.”

“Not particularly.” Mannix was shaking his head at his daughter and flashed a look at Fergus. “We'll be doing exactly the same in the Harveys' apartment,” he said.

Kate was surprised at Izzy's lack of tact. Normally Izzy was in tune with her brother's emotions. Although, if Kate were honest, she too found the idea of strangers in her bed and in her bathroom a bit uncomfortable. The idea of them being in the kitchen, or the sitting room, or upstairs in the study didn't bother her. But in the inner sanctum of the house—that was different.

Any niggling discomfort was a small price to pay for Fergus's improved standing in school. Word soon filtered through that Izzy and Fergus O'Brien were going to New York for the October school holidays. During the extravagance of the boom years, this wouldn't have caused a stir, but now there were reports of jealous looks and sighs. The injured Frankie Flynn had been forced to do some posturing.

“Frankie Flynn said more than likely, in fact, almost nearly definitely one hundred percent, that he's going to Spain for the midterm break,” Fergus had told them.

“Spain,
my arse
.” Mannix scoffed. “I doubt that, Ferg. But let me tell you, even if that loser does—there's no Empire State in Spain.”

Mannix later remarked in private that in the unlikely event that Frankie Flynn were indeed telling the truth, the only reason he'd be heading for Spain would be to one of his uncles, who was hiding out till the dust settled on some dodgy situation back home.

Kate tried not to think of Frankie Flynn. Ever since the decision was made to go to New York, there'd been a focus to their lives. Before this, Kate felt like they were all on a life raft taking in water. Bobbing along in the wake of the Celtic tiger, stunned, but still alive. Now the children were busy saving their meager pocket money. The holiday had given them all purpose.

“I could babysit to earn some more money. I'm old enough,” Izzy
had pleaded. Kate had no doubt, despite her youth, that Izzy was a responsible child. But a child, nonetheless. It was one thing leaving her watch over Fergus, but another person's child—she didn't think so.

“Oh, please, Mum. Think of all the Hollister I could buy. Please . . .”

But Kate would not relent. Even Mannix tried worming his way into Kate's affections, pressing her to forgo her reservations and let him do some weekend hours at the nightclub. “Kate, just think of all those outlets, all those bags and shoes that you could buy.” His eyes twinkled, his face creasing into a grin. Kate remained firm.

“The lady's not for turning, Mannix. Anyway, this visit to New York is a cultural visit,” she said. Kate didn't consider herself a consumer of high-street fashion, preferring instead to purchase pieces from fashion students at exhibitions or put together ensembles from charity shops.

She was grateful things had settled down with Mannix's new job. She should stop calling it his “new” job. He'd been there now since March, quite long enough to consider himself reasonably established. The calls and text messages that signaled many a hasty departure didn't happen anymore. Although Mannix was scathing about his boss and not enamored by the job, it paid the mortgage, and he seemed to be on top of things. He'd even gone back to circuit training with the rowing club, something he'd let slide earlier in the year.

Kate couldn't help thinking that since September, ever since New York was mentioned, their relationship had stuttered into calmer waters. It had been a while since they'd worked as a team, toward a common goal. The forces that had strained their relationship were receding, leaving behind a warm intimacy and a sense of rapprochement.

For the past few weeks, they'd been dog-earing pages from the Dorling Kindersley guide in bed at night, or printing off articles from the Web, and discussing them over a late-night glass of wine. Yes, she thought, as she filled the dishwasher after their meal, things had certainly taken a turn for the better.

And just as quickly, out of the blue, it all changed. It was two days later—when Spike turned up.

 • • • 

It sounded like an argument. No—
argument
was the wrong word. A heated exchange, then. She was in the kitchen, looking for a clear plastic bag to put toiletries in for her carry-on luggage. Mannix had offered to go downstairs and get the doorbell. Curious when he didn't return, she went to the doorway leading out to the small landing and the stairwell. They were deep in conversation, Spike leaning back against the handrail, one foot wedged against the opposite wall. Mannix sitting on the steps almost at eye level with his brother. His back was turned.

Anxious not to be seen, Kate edged back a little, ears cocked.

“No, Mannix. This is serious hassle.”

“Welcome to my world,” Mannix replied.

“I'm being threatened, Manny.”

“Well, that makes two of us,” Mannix said again.

“Fuck it, Mannix. This is serious shit. They mean business. You can't honestly say that you'd really like to trade places.”

“I suppose . . .”

“Anyway, I thought you had your situation under control
.
”

Spike was whispering.

“That's what I thought.”

“Look, they know where I am. I need to lie low for a while. They'll find another club. It's just that the way the Bolgers see it, it's time to return the favor.”

“Fuck sake, Spike. It was a few lousy packages. I thought they'd forgotten and it's hardly a fair trade anyway.”

Kate felt herself go cold.
The Bolgers
. A notorious criminal family. So Spike was involved with the Bolgers. Spike was gung-ho, but getting involved with
the Bolgers
—this was nothing short of insanity.

“Ask her, will you? For fuck sake, Manny. You're my brother!”

Ask who what? Kate held her breath.

“All right, all right!”
Mannix hissed. “I'll ask her. But she'll probably go completely mental. She's already up to ninety about cleaning the house. We're off in a few days, you know.”

The sound of a downstairs door opening.

“Oh, hi, Uncle Spike.”

It was Fergus.

Poor Fergus thought his uncle Spike was really cool. Time for Kate to make her presence felt. She went to the top of the stairs.

“Oh, hi there, Spike. Come on up.”

“On our way,” said Spike breezily. As he straightened up, he managed to knock a photo frame from the wall behind him, sending it sliding down the stairs.

“Leave it. I'll get it later.” She tried to hide her annoyance.

Back in the kitchen, Kate offered Spike a coffee. A beer and he'd be there for the rest of the night.

“So Spike, to what do we owe the pleasure?” She tried not to sound too catty.

“Just thought I'd call around and see what you wanted me to do for your American guests.” Spike was smiling broadly. “It's next Friday you're off, isn't it?”

God, he was smooth. She wasn't sure who was smoother—Mannix or Spike. She should really have listened to her mother.

“Only seven more days and eleven hours to go, Uncle Spike.” Fergus was cutting himself some cheese squares.

Kate would take him up on his offer. “Well, if you wouldn't mind showing them around the house, show them where the central heating controls are—that sort of thing. I've made out a list. It's on the notice board.”

Spike was smirking now. He thought her far too organized. Too uptight. “And what about keys? House keys, car keys?” He looked at her over the rim of his coffee mug. “I could drive out in your car to get them, and drive them back here to Curragower Falls.
Céad míle fáilte
and all that.”

“Well, if you're sure . . .” She hesitated.

“Consider it done.”

“Are you staying to watch the match, Uncle Spike?” asked Fergus.

“Man U?”

“Who else?” Fergus grinned.

“I've no electricity in my flat, so I'd love to.”

“No electricity, what happened?” Mannix asked.

“Dunno. Sparky says it could take a couple of days.”

“Well, you obviously can't stay there in the dark, now, can he, Kate?”

Jesus, they were some double act. Both looking at her now, innocently.

“Of course not.” Okay, she'd play their stupid game. “Of course you can stay, Spike,” she said through gritted teeth.

“You're some woman, Kate. Mannix is a lucky man,” said Spike.

Really, what chance did any unsuspecting woman have against Spike? He was utterly convincing. And just how many unknown little cousins did Fergus and Izzy have out there now, she wondered to herself. Kate left them to their match, Fergus wedged between his two idols, happy with his bowl of cheese squares.

Kate retreated to the stairwell and set about dusting the photo frames and rehanging the one that Spike had knocked over. It was the one of their wedding, with bridesmaid, best man, and her mother on the edge of the bridal party, trying her best to manage a smile.

Kate balanced the frame on the picture hook as she scowled at Spike's dimpled face grinning back at her. Unable to find the hammer, she'd tapped the nail as deeply into the wall as she could with a spanner. She hoped it would hold. There was no point in asking the men for help. They were busy bawling at the TV screen. Cries of “Send him off!” “The ref's a bollix!” “You absolute muppet!” and “Come on, Man U!” were coming thick and fast from upstairs.

As she worked, only one name kept going round Kate's head.
The
Bolgers
. Whatever was going on, Mannix was mixed up in it, and all evening she'd been asking herself, did she really want to know? What had she gained by eavesdropping? All she'd done was disturb her newfound calm. Whatever it was, the brothers could sort it out for themselves. This time, she was going to bury her head in the sand. But she wasn't going to be taken for a fool.

Later that night as she turned over to go to sleep, she looked at Mannix, who was poring over a New York guidebook.

“I'm not stupid, you know, Mannix.”

“I know you're not, Kate,” he replied.

 • • • 

Seven days later, at 2:30
P.M
. local time, Aer Lingus flight 102 touched down at JFK. It was Mannix's second transatlantic trip that year, having been in Boston on the training course in March. Kate had been as excited as the kids about the flight. The last time she'd been on a plane was three years ago when she and Mannix went to see the rugby in Rome. Her mother had moved in to look after Fergus and Izzy. Her mother didn't come to the house at Curragower Falls too often and she'd been glad of the opportunity to get to know her grandchildren.