Faithful Place by Tana French
“No,” I said. “Because I’d really, really like to go on a date with you.”
I could feel her still watching me, out of the shadows. Finally she said, “I’d like that too. Thank you for asking me.”
There was a tumbling split second when I almost moved towards her, almost reached out to do I don’t know what: grab her, crush her against me, go on my knees on the marble tiles and bury my face in her soft lap. I stopped myself by clenching my teeth so hard, I almost snapped my jaw. When I could move again, I took the tray out to the kitchen and left.
Olivia didn’t move. I let myself out; maybe I said good night, I don’t remember. All the way out to the car I could feel her behind me, the heat of her, like a clear white light burning steadily in the dark conservatory. It was the only thing that got me home.
23
I left my family alone while Stephen put together his case, and while he charged Shay with two counts of murder, and while the High Court turned Shay down for bail. George, God bless his cotton socks, let me come back to work without saying a word; he even threw me a new and insanely complicated operation, involving Lithuania and AK-47s and several interesting guys named Vytautas, on which I could easily work hundred-hour weeks if I felt the urge, which I did. Squad rumor claimed that Scorcher had filed an outraged complaint about my general lack of protocol, and that George had surfaced from his usual semicoma long enough to hit him with several years’ worth of nitpicky paperwork requesting further information in triplicate.
When I figured my family’s emotional pitch might have dropped a notch or two, I picked an evening and got home from work early, around ten o’clock. I put whatever was in the fridge between two slices of bread and ate it. Then I took a smoke and a glass of Jameson’s finest out onto the balcony, and phoned Jackie.
“Jaysus,” she said. She was at home, with the telly going in the background. Her voice was blank with surprise; I couldn’t tell what else was under there. To Gavin: “It’s Francis.”
An unintelligible mutter from Gav, and then the TV noise fading as Jackie moved away. She said, “Jaysus. I didn’t think . . . How’re you getting on, anyway?”
“Hanging in there. How about you?”
“Ah, sure. You know yourself.”
I said, “How’s Ma doing?”
A sigh. “Ah, she’s not great, Francis.”
“What way?”
“She’s looking a bit peaky, and she’s awful quiet—and you know yourself, that’s not like her. I’d be happier if she was giving out right and left.”
“I was afraid she’d have a heart attack on us.” I tried to make it sound like I was joking. “I should’ve known she wouldn’t give us the satisfaction.”
Jackie didn’t laugh. She said, “Carmel was telling me she was over there last night, herself and Darren, and Darren knocked over that porcelain yoke—you know the one of the little young fella with the flowers, on the shelf in the front room? Smashed it to bits. He was afraid for his life, but Mammy didn’t say a word, just swept it up and threw it in the bin.”
I said, “She’ll be all right in the long run. Ma’s tough. It’d take more than this to break her.”
“She is, yeah. Still, but.”
“I know. Still.”
I heard a door shutting, and wind catching at the phone: Jackie had taken this conversation outside, for privacy. She said, “The thing is, Da’s not the best either. He hasn’t got out of the bed, ever since . . .”
“Fuck him. Leave him there to rot.”
“I know, yeah, but that’s not the point. Mammy can’t manage on her own, not with him like that. I don’t know what they’re going to do. I do be over there as much as I can, and so does Carmel, but she’s got the kiddies and Trevor, and I’ve to work. Even when we’re over, sure, we’re not strong enough to lift him without hurting him; and anyway he doesn’t want us girls helping him out of the bath and all. Shay . . .”
Her voice trailed off. I said, “Shay used to do all that.”
“Yeah.”
I said, “Should I go over and give a hand?”
There was a startled instant of silence. “Should you . . . ? Ah, no; no, Francis. You’re all right.”
“I’ll get my arse down there tomorrow, if you think it’s a good idea. I’ve been staying clear because I figured I’d do more harm than good, but if I’m wrong . . .”
“Ah, no; I’d say you’re right. Not meaning that in a bad way, like; just . . .”
“No, I get you. That’s what I thought.”
Jackie said, “I’ll tell them you were asking after them.”
“You do that. And if anything changes down the road, just let me know, yeah?”
“I will, yeah. Thanks for the offer.”
I said, “What about Holly?”
“What d’you mean?”
“Is she going to be welcome over at Ma’s, from now on?”
“Do you want her to be? I thought for sure . . .”
“I don’t know, Jackie. I haven’t got that far yet. Probably not, no. But I do want to know exactly where she stands.”
Jackie sighed, a small sad flutter. “Sure, no one else knows that either. Not till . . . you know. Till things sort themselves out a bit.”
Till Shay had been tried and acquitted, or else convicted and put away for life twice over, either way due at least partly to what kind of job Holly did giving evidence against him. I said, “I can’t afford to wait that long, Jackie. And I can’t afford to have you being coy with me. This is my kid we’re talking about.”
Another sigh. “Being honest with you, Francis, if I was you I’d keep her away for a bit. For her own sake. Everyone’s a mess, everyone’s up to ninety, sooner or later someone’s going to say something that’ll hurt her feelings—not meaning to, but . . . Leave it for now. Do you think that’d be all right? It wouldn’t be too hard on her, like?”
I said, “That I can deal with. But here’s the thing, Jackie. Holly’s flat-out positive that what happened to Shay is her fault, and that even if it isn’t, the whole family thinks it is. Keeping her away from Ma’s—not that I have any problem with that, believe me—is only going to leave her more convinced. Frankly, I don’t give a fuck if it’s one hundred percent true and everyone else in the family’s decided she’s a leper, but I need her to know that you’re the exception here. The kid is in pieces, and she’s already lost enough people to last her a lifetime. I need her to know that you’re still in her life, that you’ve got no intention of abandoning her, and that you don’t for one instant blame her for the anvil that’s after landing on all of our heads. Is any of that going to be a problem?”
Jackie was already making horrified sympathetic noises. “Ah, God love her, the poor little dote, how would I blame her—sure, she wasn’t even born when all this started! You give her a big hug from me and tell her I’ll be round to see her the second I get a chance.”
“Good. That’s what I figured. It doesn’t matter what I tell her, though: she needs to hear it from you. Can you give her a ring, set up a time to go hang out with her? Put the poor kid’s mind at ease. OK?”
“I will, of course. Come here, let me go do that now, I hate the thought of her sitting there getting herself all worried and upset—”
“Jackie,” I said. “Hang on a sec.”
“Yeah?”
I wanted to smack myself across the back of the head for asking, but it came out anyway. “Tell me something, while we’re on the subject. Am I going to be hearing from you again, too? Or is it just Holly?”
The pause only lasted a fraction of a second, but that was long enough. I said, “If that’s not on the cards, babe, I’m OK with it. I can see where you’d be having trouble here. I just like knowing what the story is; I find it saves time and hassle all round. Does that not sound fair enough?”
“Yeah. It does. Ah, God, Francis . . .” A quick catch of breath, almost a spasm, like she’d been gut-punched. “Course I’ll be back in touch. Course I will.
“Makes sense,” I said. “Believe me, I know the feeling.”
“I’m sorry, Francis. I’m really, really sorry.”
Her voice sounded thin and desperate, frayed to the last thread. It would have taken an even bigger sonofabitch than me to make her feel worse. I said, “Shit happens, kid. This wasn’t your fault, any more than it was Holly’s.”
“It was, but. If I hadn’t brought her over to Mammy’s to begin with . . .”
“Or if I hadn’t brought her that specific day. Or, better yet, if Shay hadn’t . . . Well, there we go.” The rest of the sentence unraveled into the empty air between us. “You did your best; that’s all anyone can do. You go unmelt your head, babe. Take your time. Call me when you’re done.”
“I will. Honest to God, I will. And, Francis . . . you look after yourself, meanwhile. Seriously, now.”
“Will do. You too, honeybunch. See you out there.”
Just before Jackie hung up, I heard that fast, painful catch of breath again. I hoped she would go in to Gavin and let him hug her, instead of standing outside in the darkness, crying.
A few days later I went to the Jervis Centre and bought the kind of King Kong telly that you buy if the possibility of saving up for anything more substantial has never entered your universe. I felt it would take more than electronics, no matter how impressive, to stop Imelda from kicking me in the goolies, so I parked my car at the top of Hallows Lane and waited for Isabelle to get home from wherever she went all day.
It was a cold gray day, sky heavy with sleet or snow waiting to fall, thin skins of ice on the potholes. Isabelle came down Smith’s Road walking fast, with her head down and her thin fake-designer coat pulled tight against the slicing wind. She didn’t see me till I got out of the car and stepped in front of her.
I said, “Isabelle, yeah?”
She gave me a wary stare. “Who wants to know?”
“I’m the prick who smashed your telly. Nice to meet you.”
“Fuck off or I’ll scream.”
And a chip off the old block personality-wise, too. The kid gave me the warm fuzzies all over. I said, “Dial it down a notch there, Penelope Pitstop. This time I’m not here to give you hassle.”
“Then what d’you want?”
“I brought you a new telly. Happy Christmas.”
The suspicion on her face got deeper. “Why?”
“You’ve heard of a guilty conscience, yeah?”
Isabelle folded her arms and shot me the filthies. Up close, the resemblance to Imelda was still there, but not as strong. She had the round Hearne nub of a chin. “We don’t want your telly,” she informed me. “Thanks all the same.”
I said, “Maybe you don’t, but your ma might, or your sisters. Why don’t you try them and find out?”
“Yeah, right. How do we know that yoke wasn’t robbed two nights ago, and if we take it you’ll be round to arrest us this afternoon?”
“You’re overestimating my brainpower.”
Isabelle raised an eyebrow. “Or you’re underestimating mine. ’Cause I’m not thick enough to take anything off a cop who’s pissed off with my ma.”
“I’m not pissed off with her. We had a little difference of opinion, it’s been resolved, she’s got nothing to worry about from me.”
“Better not. My ma’s not scared of you.”
“Good. Believe it or not, I’m fond of her. We grew up together.”
Isabelle considered that. “Then what’d you smash our telly for?” she demanded.
“What does your ma say?”
“She won’t.”
“Then neither will I. A gentleman never divulges a lady’s confidences.”
She threw me a withering look to show that she wasn’t impressed by the fancy talk, but then she was at the age where nothing I did would have impressed her anyway. I tried to imagine what it was like, seeing your daughter with breasts and eyeliner and the legal right to get on a plane to anywhere she wanted. “Is that yoke meant to make sure she says the right thing in court? ’Cause she already gave her statement to that young fella, what-d’you-call-him, Ginger Pubes.”
A statement that she could and presumably would change several dozen times by the time the trial came along, but if I had felt the urge to bribe Imelda Tierney I wouldn’t have needed to blow the budget; I could have stuck with a couple of cartons of John Player Blue. I figured I was better off not sharing that with Isabelle. I said, “That’s nothing to do with me. Let’s get this much straight: I’ve got nothing to do with that case, or that young fella, and I don’t want anything off your ma. OK?”
“You’d be the first fella who didn’t. Seeing as you don’t want anything, can I go now, yeah?”
Nothing moved on Hallows Lane—no old ones out polishing their brasswork today, no yummy mummies in buggy wars, all the doors shut tight against the cold—but I could feel eyes in shadows behind the lace curtains. I said, “Can I ask you a question?”
“Whatever.”
“What do you work at?”
“What do you care?”
“I’m the nosy type. Why, is it classified?”
Isabelle rolled her eyes. “I’m taking a course to be a legal secretary. Is that all right with you, yeah?”
I said, “It’s great. Well done.”
“Thanks. Do I look bothered what you think of me?”
“Like I told you, I cared about your ma, back in the day. I like knowing she’s got a daughter making her proud and looking after her. Now let’s see you keep up the good work and bring her this bleeding telly.”
I flipped open the boot. Isabelle moved around to the back of the car—keeping her distance, in case I was planning to push her in there and sell her into slavery—and had a look. “ ’S not bad,” she said.
“It’s the pinnacle of modern technology. Do you want me to bring it to your place, or do you want to get a mate to give you a hand?”
Isabelle said, “We don’t want it. What bit of that are you not getting?”
“Look,” I said. “This yoke cost me good money. It’s not robbed, it doesn’t have anthrax on it and the government can’t watch you through the screen. So what’s the problem here? Is it just the cop cooties?”
Isabelle looked at me like she wondered how I managed to put on my boxers right way round. She said, “You grassed up your brother.”
And there we all were. I had been the big dumb sucker all over again, thinking it might not turn into public knowledge: if Shay had kept his mouth shut there was always the local ESP network, and if that had had an off day there had been nothing to stop Scorcher, in one of the follow-up interviews, from dropping just one tiny little hint. The Tierneys would happily have taken a telly that had fallen off the back of a lorry—probably they would have taken one off Deco the friendly neighborhood drug dealer, if he decided he owed them for whatever reason—but they wanted nothing to do with the likes of me. Even if I had felt like defending myself, to Isabelle Tierney or to the fascinated watchers or to every living soul in the Liberties, it would never have made one drop of difference. I could have put Shay in intensive care, maybe even in Glasnevin cemetery, and spent the next few weeks collecting approving nods and pats on the back; but nothing he had done was a good enough excuse for squealing on your own brother.
Isabelle glanced round, making sure there were people near and ready to come to the rescue, before she said—nice and loud, so those same people could hear her—“Take your telly and shove it up your hole.”
She jumped back, quick and agile as a cat, in case I went for her. Then she gave me the finger to make sure no one missed the message, spun on her spike heel and stalked off down Hallows Lane. I watched while she found her keys, vanished into the hive of old brick and lace curtains and watching eyes, and slammed the door behind her.
It was somewhere deep inside the night when I wound up at the top of Faithful Place. All the lights were out, just one Star of Bethlehem twinkling in Sallie Hearne’s front window. I stood in the shadows where I had stood to wait for Rosie, digging my hands into my pockets and watching the wind sweep graceful arcs of snowflakes through the yellow circle of lamplight. The Place looked cozy and peaceful as a Christmas card, tucked in for the winter, dreaming of sleigh bells and hot cocoa. On all the street there wasn’t a sound, only the shush of snow being blown against walls and the faraway notes of church bells ringing some quarter hour.
A light glimmered in the front room of Number 3, and the curtains slid open: Matt Daly, in his pajamas, dark against the faint glow of a table lamp. He leaned his hands on the windowsill and watched the snowflakes falling on cobblestones for a long time. Then his shoulders rose and fell on a deep breath, and he pulled the curtains closed. After a moment the light clicked out.
Even without him watching, I couldn’t make myself take that step into the Place. I went over the end wall, into the garden of Number 16.
My feet crunched on pebbles and frozen weeds still holding on in the dirt where Kevin had died. Down in Number 8, Shay’s windows were dark and hollow. No one had bothered to close his curtains.