I CONFESS
Alex Barclay

Copyright

HarperCollinsPublishers

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Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

Copyright © Alex Barclay 2019

Cover design layout © HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

Cover photographs © Hayden Verry/Arcangel Images

Alex Barclay asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books

Source ISBN: 9780008273002

Ebook Edition © AUGUST 2019 ISBN: 9780008273026

Version: 2020-03-25

Praise for Alex Barclay:

‘Gripping, stylish, convincing’

Sunday Times

‘The rising star of the hard-boiled crime fiction world, combining wild characters, surprising plots and massive backdrops with a touch of dry humour’

Mirror

‘Tense, no-punches-pulled thriller that will have you on the edge of your deckchair’

Woman and Home

‘Explosive’

Company

‘Compelling’

Glamour

‘Excellent summer reading … Barclay has the confidence to move her story along slowly, and deftly explores the relationships between her characters’

Sunday Telegraph

‘The thriller of the summer’

Irish Independent

‘If you haven’t discovered Alex Barclay, it’s time to jump on the bandwagon’

Image Magazine

Dedication

To OMGP This is what it feels like to be seen.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise for Alex Barclay:

Dedication

Pilgrim Point: Beara Peninsula, Cork, Ireland

Chapter 1: Edie

Chapter 2

Chapter 3: Edie

Chapter 4

Chapter 5: Jessie

Chapter 6

Chapter 7: Murph

Chapter 8

Chapter 9: Patrick

Chapter 10

Chapter 11: Laura

Chapter 12

Chapter 13: Patrick

Chapter 14

Chapter 15: Helen

Chapter 16

Chapter 17: Dylan

Chapter 18

Chapter 19: Johnny

Chapter 20

Chapter 21: Patrick

Chapter 22

Chapter 23: Murph

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37: Edie

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44: Clare

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48: Mrs Lynch

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55: Helen

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59: Sister Consolata

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Ten Months Later

Chapter 63

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by Alex Barclay

About the Publisher

Pilgrim Point
Beara Peninsula, Cork, Ireland

Darkness had travelled loyally with Pilgrim Point through all its incarnations, as if passed in the handshake between each fleeing owner and the hopeful successor whose eye he could barely meet. This anvil-shaped promontory on the south-west coast of Ireland had once been a battleground, and at various times in the centuries that followed, had been fought over, lost, regained, or relinquished.

The sufferings of each owner – and there were many – would at first be borne privately, but the anguish of their aggregate would eventually sound like an alarm, travelling east to Castletown, where it would turn to whispers at a retreating back. Pilgrim Point, now empty of life, would release into the silence a siren cry that would always be answered. Deep and discordant, it called to those of a darker persuasion. The greater surprise was the fine gold thread of its lighter melody and how its gleam, though rare, could attract to Pilgrim Point, in equal measures, those of more noble intent.

Perhaps its grounds had swallowed the consequences of so many sins that, under the feet of sinners, it felt like home and under the feet of the righteous, like a summoning. This despite stories of strange apparitions and untimely occurrences. There was also the curious fertility of its grass – stark against the dark stones of the ruins that marked it. This trick of nature kindled even the faintest hope of triumph, when it was doubtless nothing more than a pleasing cover for what lay beneath – the roots of sin itself. From under this vibrant green bed, it released a pale malevolence that rose like smoke to disappear into the late-evening mist.

Were you to pass through the black gates of Pilgrim Point now, you would find yourself on land cloven by a bitter feud between brothers. The path you must take marks the dead centre, its course as unbending as the will of the men who occasioned it. As you follow this path, you will feel as though the landscape is unfurling around you, ahead of you, and for you – in time with the fall of your foot or the galloping hooves of your mount. You will be rewarded, then, at the cliff edge with such astonishing natural beauty; this anvil pointing towards nothing but sky and wild Atlantic. Turn left or right and you will catch glimpses of lesser headlands, like runners that have fallen behind in a race. You have won. Or so you think. You won’t know yet that, in fact, you have been won. Through the powerful sweep of the wind and the steady crash of the waves, you won’t hear the voice of the true winner:

‘I am Pilgrim Point, host of rulers and battles, victors and vanquished, the rich, the poor, the faithful, the lost. Who are you? And what will I make of you?’

For what does an anvil do but allow a thing to be hammered and moulded? And what confusion comes when it plays blacksmith too.

I should know.

I once lived there. And, I now believe, died.

In a Manor of Silence

Lord Henry Rathbrook, 1886

1
EDIE
Pilgrim Point, Beara Peninsula
4 August 2015

‘If you have a rich imagination you will never be poor.’

Edie’s mother, Madeleine, had heard that from her starving-artist parents throughout her childhood, so although she grew up in a home blessed with the freedom of passionate creativity, it was caged, in her mind, by penury. Madeleine mentally rejected the advice, never realizing that she had, in fact, taken it – she married a rich man, having fallen in love with a version of him she had used her rich imagination to create. Before they married, she had brought Edward home to meet her parents, and Edward, weary of the constraints of his upper-class upbringing, had been charmed by her parents and their ramshackle home. He came alive in their company and expected their daughter would bring out the same spirit in him. It wasn’t long after they married that he realized they were both running towards the life the other wanted to leave behind. Edie’s mother was happy with her beautiful home and her beautiful things, and a husband who travelled for business and left her to enjoy them. When he returned from his trips, she seemed as disappointed by the reality of him as he was by the sense that she might pick him up, look around, and try to find a suitable place to put him.

It was only when Edie was born that her father’s dormant spirit and warmth found a home. He poured all his love into her, gave her all his attention. There was never any disappointment on Edie’s face. She loved him just the way he was.

When Edie was eight years old, he brought the family to Beara on holiday. He had spent his most magical childhood summer there and had told Edie stories about fishing at sea or from the rocks on a pebble beach so secluded he used to pretend that it was his, that he had won it from a pirate in a game of cards. He told her about hiking mountains and hills, swimming in lakes and waterfalls, and diving off piers into the freezing Atlantic Ocean. He told her about friendly locals, and warm welcomes, and nights filled with laughter, music, singing, and dancing.

He made sure that Edie’s first summer there was filled with all the same things, and for Edie, every day was like living in a fairy tale. Her father had spent the whole month of August with them, and by the end of it, had bought a beautiful house on a sheltered harbour. They called it Eventide. It had a boathouse and a summerhouse and a lawn that sloped down to a short rocky strand. By the following summer, she and her mother were living there full-time, and her father visited as often as he could.

He always stirred her sense of adventure, bringing her out to sea with him, or to storytelling nights in a candlelit cabin in Eyeries – a tiny village where all the houses were painted in different colours. He would leave books by her bedside, tapping their hardback covers, and saying, ‘You’d like this one, Edie,’ ‘You’d get a kick out of this!’

They used to drive by the gates of Pilgrim Point, in those days a convent, and she would always look out for the mismatched stone finials on the pillars – one a lion, the other an eagle. Her father told her it was once a manor built by two English brothers, the Rathbrooks, who fell out, accusing each other of all kinds of transgressions that led them into a series of stand-offs that began with the alleged theft of a finial at the gate and ran right down to the edge of the cliff where one brother accused the other of regularly appearing, ghost-like, to frighten him. Both men denied the accusations levelled at them, abandoned the manor, and died estranged.

‘Never be too proud, Edie!’ her father had said. ‘But don’t let anyone get the better of you, either!’

Edie’s mother, meanwhile, played only a bit part in Edie’s childhood adventures. Her role would come when Edie had outgrown them, when she could prime her to do as she had done: look beautiful and marry well.

And in the middle, torn between who she was and who each of them wanted her to be, was Edie. But there was one thing her parents did agree on – her beauty. That, she realized, was her safest ground. When the waters got choppy, that’s where she stood – fair-haired, smiling, long-limbed, and sunkissed – and that’s where Johnny Weston found her. She had first seen him when she was fourteen years old. It was the Saturday of the August Bank Holiday weekend – the beginning of what was officially called the Beara Festival of the Sea, but was only ever referred to as ‘Regatta’. It was the highlight of Beara’s social calendar, when the town was filled with people, and the harbour filled with boats.

Edie was in the crowd, watching from the pier as Johnny, in red shorts, bare-chested and muscular, was playing Pig on the Pole. He and his opponent were sitting on a greased-up pole high over the harbour, each trying to topple the other into the sea with the slam of a pillow. Johnny won. He always won.

The first time they met was the following summer after Edie was crowned Queen of the Sea. Johnny came up to her in the square that evening to congratulate her. She was fifteen, and sober, and he was twenty and so drunk that all he did was sway in front of her, in awe, until he was dragged away. They kissed the following Christmas, when Edie had just turned sixteen. Johnny, her crooked-smile charmer – her first love, her only love, the only man she had ever slept with, and, like her father, a man who could do no wrong.

They were married twenty years now, with a twelve-year-old son, Dylan. They had left Beara for San Francisco the year they got married, worked their way up in hospitality, moving around, making money in real estate and investments. Home for the past six years was the ski lodge they owned in Breckenridge, Colorado – a small, friendly resort town at the foot of the Rocky Mountains. They loved it there, but the plan had always been to buy and restore an old property and have their own luxury inn. They had no plans for an imminent move, nor had they considered Beara as a location – until Johnny arrived at breakfast one morning and told her the convent at Pilgrim Point was up for sale, rushing through talk of the view, and the architecture, the slashed guide price, and the years that had passed since they had been there.

She was watching him now from the balcony as he stood in the entrance hall below, picturing him welcoming their future guests. Johnny was a natural host, an entertainer, a storyteller rather than a conversationalist. He had a collection of anecdotes that Edie loved walking in and out of at parties, laughing at the punchlines and, over the years, chipping in her own lines.

He looked up at her, and his eyes brightened. ‘How did the solo expedition go? Did you find Consolata’s torture chamber?’

Edie shuddered. Sister Consolata had been the widely despised Vice Principal of the local secondary school when Edie was a student there. Sister Consolata had lived and worked at Pilgrim Point for forty years, and it was only after she died that it was revealed she had owned it, that it was not owned by the order, as everyone had assumed. A wealthy uncle, who had bought it from the Rathbrooks, skipped over her elder brother to bequeath it to her.

‘The only trace I found of her,’ said Edie, ‘was in every grim corner, and peeling wall, and threadbare carpet I looked at.’

Johnny jogged up the stairs to her. ‘Come on – let’s have on more look at the library.’

The library was on the first floor, at the rear of the convent, overlooking the sea.

‘You have to admit,’ said Johnny.

‘It is spectacular,’ said Edie.

Johnny walked over to the side window, and squinted through the stained-glass panel to a two-storey flat-roofed building nestled in the trees. ‘I might see if I can drive the bulldozer that day,’ he said.

Edie laughed.

‘I’m not sure how gracious the Sisters of Good Grace were if they were shoving their guests into that shithole,’ said Johnny. ‘But you’re right – it’s the perfect spot to build.’

Edie narrowed her eyes.

‘You did say that, didn’t you?’ said Johnny, frowning. ‘Did you not say something about razing that to the ground, so we could build the perfect family home, featuring everything you’ve ever dreamed of under one roof, including your handsome husband, and beloved son?’

‘You’re beloved too,’ said Edie. ‘Especially when you’re telling stories.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Johnny. ‘I’m sure that was exactly what you said earlier.’ He looked across to the other side of the property. ‘So, Consolata sold the acre with the Mass rock on it before she died. What was that about? Did she not trust the next owner not to make shit of it?’

‘Probably,’ said Edie.

‘It would have been a nice feature to show the guests as we’re guiding them down the jetty steps to their death. I mean, to our boat. I could tell them the story about our oppressors’ – he winked at Edie – ‘banning the poor Catholics from going to Mass, making them climb up the rocks and traipse across the fields to have a sneaky one.’

‘There’s no oppressing you, Johnny Weston.’

An hour later, Johnny and Edie stood, face to face, in the entrance hall.

‘I know exactly what I’d do here,’ said Edie, sweeping her slender hand around. ‘Dark walls – somewhere between French navy and Prussian blue – custom blend, obviously.’ She smiled. ‘Some teal in there, antique gold somewhere, and – don’t laugh – a deep raspberry, but subtle, like in an edging or maybe …’ She looked down. ‘Maybe the centre detail of the tiles. Gothic, encaustic, original design, but I don’t want it matching matching, so maybe a dusky black, a smoky grey as the main colour, a fine line of antique gold.’

Johnny took her hands.

‘Can you imagine,’ said Edie, ‘a grand opening, Regatta week, on the lawn …’

Johnny smiled his crooked smile and the scar on his chin went white.

‘So that’s a “yes”,’ he said.

‘Yes!’ said Edie. ‘Yes, it is!’

2
The Inn at Pilgrim Point
24 November 2018

As Edie approached the turn for the inn, she often thought of travelling the same road with her father when she was a little girl. She pictured the sun flickering through the bright leaves and across his face, the darker tan of his neck, his arms outstretched, the gleam of his wristwatch, his hands on the steering wheel, how he would turn to smile at her as she bounced beside him on the front seat, ready for adventure.

Today, a storm was raging across Beara. Edie’s head was pounding from the clash of the rain as it hit the roof and the windshield, startling her with loud, sporadic surges. She drove through the black entrance gates to the inn, past the stone falcons mounted on each side.

‘Daddy, I bought the manor! I changed the finials! They’re matching, Daddy! They’re like me and you!’

She drove towards the inn, picturing it through the eyes of her friends as they arrived for dinner later. It would be dark by then, and they would love the warm glow from the lights at the foot of the trees, and how the leaves made a canopy that softened the straight line of the drive. Everything had changed so much since they had all known it; she had made sure of that, because it had to change. She had walked the rooms and hallways on the day of the viewing, transforming them in her mind’s eye in a way that felt magical. It was as if, with a flick of her wrist, she was plucking paintings from the walls, whipping tiles off the floors, rolling up carpets and then, with a sweep of her arm, replacing them with her vision of the future.

She wished she could be with her friends as they saw its newest incarnation. They would feel differently about it now – it was beautiful.

Edie’s breath caught, and her hand went to her chest. She glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw, reflected back at her, the upward-tilted chin of her mother and the fastened joy in her eyes – the look that reminded Edie of things on shelves that, if you break them, you have to pay.

She felt a stab of anger at her blind faith in Johnny in the day of the viewing that, if he could see beyond the dark history of Pilgrim Point, then she could too. Johnny, who didn’t believe in dwelling on the past, yet, she now realized, still saw them the way the outside world saw them when they first met – she the beautiful, privileged daughter of a wealthy English businessman and his devoted homemaker wife; Johnny, the handsome privileged son of the local doctor.

It didn’t matter how absent Edie’s father was nor that his adoration appeared like seasonal blooms in a vast lonely landscape. It didn’t matter how remote Johnny’s father was or how desperately lonely his mother was, or that she had moulded her son into as close as he could be to the husband she really wanted, watching as her efforts were chipped away at by the husband she actually had. They saw what they wanted to see. And Johnny believed them.

As she came to the end of the drive, Edie caught sight of Johnny, standing in the conservatory with Terry Hyland, the contractor. Terry was a short, springy, gnarly-faced man – the same age as Johnny, but looked a decade older. Johnny, at six foot two, towered over him, clearly questioning something, clearly unhappy about it, which was his default setting when it came to Terry. Terry had his arms folded as Johnny spoke, then would unfold them and stab a finger at the ground when he was responding to him. They glanced up, and pretended that they hadn’t seen her. She guessed it was because they were both on a roll, and that if they could see her, that meant she could see them, which meant she might intervene.

She had no intention of intervening – there was too much to do before everyone arrived. The inn was closed for the season, and she hadn’t brought any staff in for the night – she wanted to do everything herself, and to keep their evening with friends a private one. Her parents’ dinner parties had been like that – hushed and behind closed doors … until they got rowdy and spilled out into rooms or hallways close enough that Edie could wake to the sound of their voices or the smell of their cigarettes.

She used to watch her mother prepare the house for guests, and she would always be given a job that, each time, she would carry out as if she didn’t know that at least some part of it would be taken away from her or redone. The older she got, the less it happened, and, by the time her mother sent her out in to the world, she was proud to. When Edie was asked in therapy to think of something she might thank her mother for, that was it.

When she was fifteen, Edie had sat with her father at the table by the rocky shore at the end of their garden and told him that she hated her mother. He raised an eyebrow, but let her talk.

‘You don’t know what it’s like when you’re not here, Daddy. She’s so strict. She has to control everything – what I eat, what I wear, who my friends are, what we do. She likes Helen. And she likes Jessie, but she never lets me go to her house. She hates Laura because she thinks she’s “unrefined”. And she thinks Murph’s a … what’s that word?’

‘Boor!’ said her father, laughing. ‘I like Murph! He’s a fun fellow, isn’t he? A bit rough around the edges, like all the best people.’

‘Yes!’ said Edie. ‘And his father is the sweetest, gentlest man.’ She paused. ‘What, Daddy?’

Her father frowned. ‘Nothing. He is, he is. He’s the stone chap, isn’t he? Built those marvellous stone walls.’

‘Daddy, you used to go fishing with him,’ said Edie. ‘Jerry Murphy.’

‘Ah, Jerry Murphy,’ said her father. ‘Of course, of course. It’s been a while.’

‘All he does is sit in the house and read about history now,’ said Edie. ‘But he drinks a lot, so Mummy doesn’t like that.’

Her father’s gaze drifted out over the water. ‘But he’s a heartbroken man, isn’t he?’ he said. ‘Lost his wife, lost his job.’ He let out a breath. ‘We’d give the man a pass for that, surely.’

It was the first time her father had crossed the united front he and her mother usually presented.

‘Oh, Mummy does like Clare,’ said Edie, ‘but I think that’s only because she’s rich too.’

Her father leaned back from Edie a fraction and that one small move made Edie’s stomach flip and the blood rush to her cheeks. She had never felt ashamed in his presence before.

‘I’m sure your mother and I have both failed you along the way,’ said her father, skipping past it, ‘and I’m sorry that we did. But my advice to you is this – think of the past as a great big sea. It has delicious things we can feast on, a pearl here or there if we’re lucky. There are other things that are best left there, though. And conditions are not always favourable – unseen currents, waves waiting to crash. It’s best to take a quick dip, never wallow there, and certainly don’t drown.’ And he had smiled.

Her father was a prescient man. Edie still dived into that childhood sea, and fed on those creatures until she was sick. She had wallowed in the waters, crying into them, stirring up waves. There had been times when she hoped they would drown her.

Edie looked up at the walls of the inn. The rain on the granite had always looked to her like an oily film that could fall away from it in a single sheet. She had woken that morning, heaving and sweating, having dreamt that it had, and that she had watched, helpless, as it slid to the ground and rippled across the gravel towards her, and that she had stood, rooted, as it wrapped around her like a cocoon, and that she hadn’t made a sound, even when it started to tighten around her neck. When she woke, she felt that she hadn’t shaken it – not that she was bound by it, but that it hung over her like a threat. Daddy, what was I thinking?

Tonight, she and Johnny would be welcoming five of her closest childhood friends – Murph and Helen and Clare and Laura and Patrick. She waited for the joy to fill her heart. Instead, a thought came in to sink it: Five friends. No sixth – no Jessie.

All she could think of then was: I am the Ghost of the Manor.

3
EDIE
The Sisters of Good Grace Convent, Pilgrim Point
31 October 1988

Murph, Helen, Edie, Laura, and Clare were gathered at midnight by the chapel gate.

‘Happy Hallowe’en!’ said Murph.

‘Where’s your mask?’ said Clare. ‘You were the one obsessed with us wearing masks.’

‘The elastic broke,’ said Murph.

‘The size of the head on him,’ said Laura. ‘As if they wouldn’t know you if they looked out. Consolata up there closing her curtains: “Surely, that’s not that six-foot-four Liam Murphy goon running across my lawn. If only I could see behind that tiny plastic circle on his face – then I’d definitely know.”

‘Have you seen the selection down in the shop?’ said Murph.

‘I think we have,’ said Clare, looking around. They were all holding green Frankenstein masks.

‘Monsters, the lot of us,’ said Murph. ‘Is there no sign of Jessie?’

‘I wouldn’t hold out much hope,’ said Laura. ‘She was down town earlier, pasted.’

‘Oh, no,’ said Helen. ‘On her own?’

Laura nodded. ‘Apparently, Consolata was at her again, the silly bitch.’

‘All the more reason for her to come,’ said Murph.

‘I told Jessie I’d meet her,’ said Helen. ‘I don’t know why she couldn’t have walked up with the rest of us.’

‘Leave her off,’ said Laura.

‘She needs to ease up a bit,’ said Helen.

Murph nodded. ‘She needs to get a grip … on these.’ He held up a bag of cans.

They all laughed, but Edie knew they were all thinking the same thing – Jessie shouldn’t be drinking, not as much as she did, not on her own, not at sixteen, not after everything she had been through.

Murph looked up the road. ‘Here she is now. A dog to a bone.’

‘Oh God,’ said Clare, turning to Laura. ‘You were right.’

Jessie waved with a can of cider as she swayed towards them, a white plastic Hallowe’en mask pushed up on top of her head.

‘She shouldn’t be climbing a wall in that state,’ said Helen.

‘Laura can heave her up one side,’ said Murph, ‘and I’ll catch her on the other.’

They all put their masks on.

‘Frankenfuckinglosers,’ said Jessie, spreading her arms wide. She pulled her mask down. ‘Boo!’ She stopped like a soldier in front of them. ‘But what’s even scarier is I’m out of cider.’

They climbed over the stone wall, and ran alongside it, then slipped through the trees, and came out by three flat-roofed buildings that were derelict now, but were once part of the industrial school run by the nuns in the sixties and seventies. Murph stopped at the long, narrow dormitory block, crouched down by the door, and pulled out a key from under a rock next to it. He stood up and flashed a smile at the others, then unlocked the door. They followed him into the pitch-black hallway. Clare closed the door behind her.

‘Ladies,’ said Murph, turning on a torch, ‘this way.’ He kept the beam low as he shone it on the door to the left. He pushed it open, then stood with one foot over the threshold. ‘The living quarters of whoever had to prowl the dorm at night,’ he said.

The others took a look inside. It was a make-shift storage room now, with a timber countertop that ran along three walls and was covered with broken electrical equipment, cardboard boxes, crates of empty bottles, containers, and paint cans. There were more stored under the counter, along with rolled-up carpets and paint-spattered sheets.

‘Now,’ said Murph, ‘can I ask you all to adjourn to the hallway for five minutes?’ He looked at them solemnly. ‘I need to prepare the room.’

When they came back in, there was a picnic blanket spread out on the concrete floor, with church candles on two sides, and three more on the counter above. Everybody sat down.

‘Right,’ said Murph. ‘Gather round.’

‘Story time!’ said Jessie, leaning sideways, steadying herself with her hand.

‘Take the candle away from her,’ said Laura.

‘I’m fine,’ said Jessie. ‘Relax.’

Murph pulled it towards him when Jessie wasn’t looking.

‘Right,’ he said, leaning in. He lowered his voice. ‘It was a bright sunny day—’

‘I thought this was a ghost story,’ said Laura.

‘I’m going for “contrast”,’ said Murph.

‘And bad things still happen on sunny days,’ said Jessie. She knocked back a mouthful of cider.

Everyone exchanged glances.

‘Relax,’ said Jessie, lowering her can. ‘I’m just wrecking you. You can hardly never mention sunny days again for the rest of your lives because of me!’

Murph let out a breath. ‘OK … I’m going traditional: it was a wild night in Beara – raging storm, high seas, trees toppling, roads cut off. Five girls: HELEN, CLARE, EDIE, JESSIE, AND LAURA—’

‘Noo!’ said Edie. ‘Not our real names! You’ll jinx us.’

Laura rolled her eyes. ‘Fuck’s sake.’

‘Leave her alone,’ said Helen.

‘And I want to star in this, if you don’t mind,’ said Clare.

‘Me too!’ said Jessie.

‘Fine, then,’ said Edie.

‘Five girls,’ said Murph. ‘HELEN, CLARE, JESSIE, LAURA, and BABY EDIE … were driving out of town when, right in front of them, a towering oak fell from the skies and landed inches from their car. Laura tried to reverse, but behind them the hedge over the ditch split wide open and a river of mud and branches and stones poured through it, filling the road. The girls were trapped! What were they going to do? They were exhausted and so far from home. Then lightning struck, and pointed, like the needle of a compass, to … Rathbrook Manor – no more than a mile from where they sat.

‘“Why don’t we stay there for the night?” said Laura. “There may be a boy inside that I haven’t kissed yet!”

‘“Nonsense!” said Clare. “There’s not a single boy in Beara that girl hasn’t kissed!”

‘“Yes – let’s stay at the manor!” said Jessie, cracking open her fifth can of cider, looking up at the spires of the manor, which were a total blur, and, in fact, a tree.

‘“No!” screamed Edie, screaming hysterically. “I’ll scream if you make me stay there!” she screamed. Hysterically.

‘“Don’t tell me you believe in the Ghost of the Manor!” said Laura.

‘“Of course I don’t believe in ghosts!” said Edie. ‘It’s just … I have nothing with me! How can I possibly wear the same outfit two days in a row?”

‘The girls agreed that the manor was NOT haunted and so they decided to stay there, and they set off to walk the mile to the door. When they arrived, the manor was all locked up and in total darkness. Edie screamed. Laura punched her in the face and they walked on through the grounds until they stumbled across a dormitory. They peered in the window and saw row after row of iron beds, all of them empty. As they approached the door, it creaked open, and they all walked in. They each took a bed, side by side, and after hours talking about some ride they knew called Murph, they finally drifted off to sleep.

‘In the middle of the night, Laura woke with a start to find herself staring silently at a ghost standing three feet from the end of her bed. Beside her, Helen woke with a start to find herself staring silently at a ghost that stood three feet from the end of her bed. The same happened to Clare, and then to Jessie. The last bed in the line was Edie’s. When she woke to find a ghost standing three feet from the end of her bed, she was instantly hysterical, and she screamed at the ghost: “Who are you?”

‘And the ghost replied: “I am the Ghost of the Manor. And I am yours.”

‘Edie turned slowly to her left, and realized that each friend had a different ghost at the end of her bed.

‘As each girl stared at the ghost before her, all five ghosts stepped forward into the silvery moonlight that slanted across the ends of the beds like the blade of a knife. Each ghost had died a different way: Laura’s was bruised and broken, its eyeballs dangling from their sockets; Helen’s was covered in tyre tracks, its limbs at odd angles; Clare’s had half its head missing; Jessie’s was pristine; and Edie’s was covered in burns.

‘The friends’ mouths opened wider than a mouth naturally should, and their screams emerged as though ripped by the claws of a bear from the centre of their soul. But the source of their terror was not simply the apparitions that stood before them, nor the horror of their wounds. It was because each girl’s ghost looked exactly like her, just … older – maybe ten years, maybe thirty, maybe fifty. But the likeness was unmistakable!

‘Across this group of friends rippled the same realization: they had been RIGHT: the manor was NOT haunted. And this would be proven when, after they left, wherever they went, their ghost would reappear … some would say “without warning”. But, of course, each ghost DID carry a warning, a GRAVE warning. For it was not the Ghost of the MANOR. It was the Ghost … of the … MANNER … of DEATH.

‘And on that first night, as the friends were faced with the terrifying spectacle of the death that would befall them at some point thereafter, they were all struck by one thing: EDIE’S ghost, despite the burns that marked it, looked … the YOUNGEST.’

Everyone gasped, then gasped again as smoke started to rise around Murph.

Edie pointed. ‘Oh my God – smoke!’

Murph was unperturbed. ‘What?’

‘I’m serious!’ said Edie. ‘There’s actual smoke!’

‘Where?’ said Murph.

‘All around you!’ said Edie.

‘There is!’ said Laura.

Murph turned and looked. ‘Oh Jesus, lads. I was warned! If you tell this story on Hallowe’en night, it’ll come true.’

‘What?’ said Edie, getting to her feet. ‘Why did you tell it? What do you mean, it’ll come true?’

‘Unless,’ said Murph, ‘we all say “Sister Cuntsolata” three times backwards.’

Everyone looked at him.

Murph burst out laughing. ‘It’s a smoke bomb. Special effects, lads. Special effects.’

‘You prick!’ said Laura. ‘Where did you get your hands on a smoke bomb?’

‘I made it!’ said Murph. ‘A bit of this, a bit of that.’

Jessie reached into Laura’s bag for another can. She turned to Murph. ‘Can I still say Sister Cuntsolata three times?’

‘You can, of course,’ said Murph. A rush of white smoke appeared behind him.

‘Right!’ said Clare. ‘Open the door, someone. I’ve seen my cousins with these – there’s a reason you’re only meant to use them outside.’

‘Jesus – I know,’ said Murph. ‘Relax. It was only for a minute. Then I was going to fuck it out across the grass. I even have my protective glove lined up.’

‘So you want to draw the nuns on us?’ said Laura. ‘Throwing it out across the grass? No fucking way.’

‘To create a distraction,’ said Murph.

Edie started to cough.

‘The drama,’ said Murph.

‘Can you just put the fucking thing out?’ said Laura.

‘It’s not on fire,’ said Murph. ‘It’s fine. It’s safe.’

‘I’m happy here with my cans,’ said Jessie, closing her eyes, smiling.

Helen and Laura exchanged glances. ‘Locked,’ Helen mouthed.

‘Probably better off,’ said Laura.

Murph was starting to disappear into a cloud of smoke. ‘Okaaay,’ he said, standing up. ‘Maybe open the door.’

‘Why are there flames, then?’ said Jessie, looking up at everyone.

‘What?’ said Edie, panicked.

‘If it’s not on fire,’ said Jessie. ‘Murph said it wasn’t on fire.’

‘I can’t see any flames,’ said Clare.

‘There really are flames,’ said Jessie. She pointed into the corner. ‘Are those not flames?’

Murph rolled his eyes, but then he turned around. ‘Oh shit.’

Edie ran for the door.

Murph pointed to the corner. ‘Laura! Throw me that sheet, and that brush.’

Laura grabbed them and flung them at him. He threw the sheet on to the flames and used the handle of the brush to poke at it. The smoke bomb was still smoking.

Edie cried out from the door. ‘OK – this isn’t funny! Murph!’

‘What’s wrong with you now?’ he said.

Edie was holding up the doorknob.

‘What’s that?’ said Murph. ‘Did that come off? I didn’t do that. I swear to God!’

Murph’s eyes were so filled with fear that Edie started to cry. ‘Oh, God! No! No! No!’ She turned to the door and started slapping her hands against it. ‘Help us! Help! Help! Help!’

‘Shut the fuck up!’ said Laura, lunging for her. ‘For fuck’s sake. We’re going to get caught! We’ll be fucked!’

‘We’re surely fucked if we can’t get out,’ said Murph, striding past Laura to the door. Clare and Helen followed.

‘Seriously – how are we supposed to get out?’ said Edie.

Behind them, Jessie stood up, swaying, holding her drink high, trying not to spill it.

Laura was pointing to the hole where the doorknob should have been. ‘Can you not just turn the thing inside it?’

‘You can’t,’ said Murph. ‘You have to slide something in between the door and the frame to knock the latch back.’

Edie was sobbing.

‘Shut up,’ said Laura. ‘It’s not like we’re not going to get out.’

‘And I don’t think that sheet worked,’ said Jessie.

The others turned around, and saw the flames crawling along it.

‘Jessie! Get up, for God’s sake!’ said Clare.

‘Get over here!’ said Laura.

‘Will I throw some cider on it?’ said Jessie.

‘No!’ said Laura. ‘Get the fuck away from it!’

‘Don’t throw anything on it except water,’ said Clare.

‘Lads – what’s in those bottles under the counter?’ said Laura. ‘Could any of them be water? Those ones look like camping bottles.’

Jessie bent, put down her can, and picked up a bottle.

‘No, no, no!’ said Clare. ‘Don’t let her near anything! Don’t!’

Jessie started unscrewing the lid. ‘I’m only smelling it.’ She put it too close to her mouth, and tipped some on to her lips. ‘Oh, God no,’ she said, recoiling. ‘That’s kerosene.’ She swung the bottle wide, and everyone watched, horrified, as it sent an arc of fuel across the room.

‘Nooo!’ said Edie, hammering on the door, screaming for help.

‘Get her, Murph!’ shouted Helen, pointing at Jessie.

Flames were starting to rise. Murph reached a hand towards Jessie. ‘Get the fuck over here now.’

‘I’m coming, I’m coming,’ said Jessie. ‘Relax.’ But she took a step sideways, leaned too far, and then staggered back to the other counter.

‘OK – don’t move,’ said Murph. ‘You’re OK, there’s no fire there, but as soon as I get this fucking door open, head for Laura – her jacket’s nice and white, grab the back of it, and go.’

Edie and Laura were slamming their hands against the door, screaming for help. Murph pushed in behind them and hammered at the door with the side of his fist.

They heard a shout from outside, ‘Hello? Hello?’ It was a boy’s voice.

They all screamed. ‘In here! In here! We’re trapped!’ They banged on the door again.

‘Hold on!’ he said. ‘I have a key. Hold on! Stop banging!’

‘It won’t work!’ shouted Murph. ‘The lock’s fucked. Who’s that? Is that Patrick?’

‘Yes!’

‘Help!’ Edie started screaming. ‘It’s Edie! Help!’

‘Thanks be to fuck, Patrick!’ said Murph. ‘Thanks be to fuck!’

‘OK – wait! Wait!’ he said. ‘I’ll get something.’

‘Hurry up!’ said Edie.

‘Hurry the fuck up!’ said Laura.

They could hear him rattling around outside. ‘OK, OK. Stand back a bit.’

‘Jesus, I don’t know if we want to do that,’ said Murph.

‘You’ve not much choice,’ Patrick said. They could hear the sound of metal in between the door and the door frame. ‘Get back!’

They all held hands, and took a small step back. They heard the bang of a hammer against the metal, and the ping as it slid off.

‘Come on t’fuck!’ said Murph. ‘Jesus Christ! Hurry the fuck up!’

‘Shhh!’ said Helen, elbowing him. ‘You’re doing a great job, Patrick!’ she shouted. ‘Keep going. Keep going! Keep your eyes on it, your hand out of the way, and go.’

Patrick tried again and the door burst open. They all ran. When they were clear, Murph stood, bent over, his hands on his knees. ‘Jesus, sorry, lads. I’m so sorry. Fair play to you, Patrick. Fuck’s sake.’ He looked at the others. ‘Lads, – we need to get the fuck out of—’

‘Where’s Jessie?’ said Clare.

Everyone looked around.

‘What?’ said Patrick. ‘Was Jessie here?’

‘Yes!’ screamed Helen. ‘Yes! Oh my God!’

Patrick turned and ran back.

‘Edie – go!’ said Helen. ‘You’re the fastest. Go!’

Edie ran, quickly catching up with Patrick.

Murph looked at Laura. ‘Was she not hanging out of the back of you – Jessie?’

‘What are you on about?’ said Laura.

‘I told her hang on to your jacket,’ said Murph, ‘because it was white and she’d see it!’

‘I didn’t hear you!’ said Laura. ‘I didn’t hear anything about a jacket. I just thought she was coming out behind me!’

Edie and Patrick skidded to a stop at the side door to the dormitory as the wind tore a swathe from the black smoke billowing towards them. They froze. In the clearing, they saw Jessie standing, staring ahead, arms by her side. She was motionless, two steps from the exit, flames encroaching, high and loud and crackling. They screamed her name. She didn’t blink. They screamed again. Jessie closed her eyes, and they watched as she let the flames engulf her.

Edie grabbed for Patrick’s arm, clawing at it with desperate hands, her fingers digging into his flesh. They turned to each other, wild-eyed, mouths open, chests heaving. In the fractional moment their eyes met, they made an unspoken pact: they would never mention what they had seen to another soul.

Or maybe it was a shared granting of permission – to lose the memory to a confusion of smoke or shock.

4

Edie parked at the bottom of the steps to the inn. She glanced down at the folder on the passenger seat – research she had gathered on the history of Pilgrim Point. She wanted to be able to talk to the guests about it, or include interesting details on the website or in printed cards she would leave in the bedrooms. When she bumped into Murph the previous summer, she told him her plans, and the following day, when he was meeting Johnny in town, he transferred four boxes of his late father’s research into the boot of Johnny’s car.

Edie opened the folder and saw two pages, titled In a Manor of Silence. In all she had read about Pilgrim Point, the words of Henry Rathbrook were the ones that resonated the most – even when she learned that they were not an extract from the handwritten manuscript of a published book, but were among the scattered remains of patient files discovered in an abandoned asylum.

Edie pulled up the hood of her rain coat, tucked her hair inside, and made the short dash up the steps. She pushed through the front door, and let it close gently behind her. Look where my rich imagination got me, she thought. The hall was exactly how she had pictured it on the day of the viewing. But how it looked and how it felt were on two different frequencies. Did it matter that each beautiful choice she had made could light up the eyes of their guests if the pilot light in their heart had blown as soon as they walked through the door? She would watch their gaze as it moved across the floors and walls, up the stone staircase, along the ornate carvings of the cast iron balustrade, and higher again to the decorative cornices of the ceiling, the elaborate ceiling rose, and the sparkling Murano glass chandelier that hung from it. Then she would graciously accept the praise that always followed, pretending not to notice the small spark of panic in their eyes or the tremor in their smile.

It was as if a signal was being fired off inside them: no, we don’t smile at things like this, not in places like this, because something is not right. Something is wrong.

She would see some beautiful, eager young girl arriving with her young boyfriend who had spent a month’s wages on one weekend, and he would beam as her eyes lit up, but Edie would see the rest. She knew it wasn’t because this girl felt out of place – everyone was made to feel welcome at the inn because everyone was welcome. But sometimes Edie felt that the reason everyone was welcome was not because that was her job, not because the vast extravagance of the refurbishment had plunged them into an alarming amount of debt, not because a family has living expenses, and Dylan has to be put through college, but because she hoped that one day, someone would walk in and they would light up and it would be pure, there would be no strange aftertaste, and the spell would be broken.

Edie shook off her jacket and hung it on the carved oak hallstand. She paused as she heard the sound of a door slamming, and heavy footsteps echoing towards her.

‘Dad won’t let me go to Mally’s tonight!’ said Dylan, stomping half way across the hall. He stood with his hands on his hips, his face red, his chest heaving.

‘Dylan!’ said Edie. ‘Calm down, please.’

Johnny appeared behind Dylan.

‘And why does it even matter,’ said Dylan, glancing back at him, ‘when you’re all going to be here partying anyway?’

‘Partying?’ said Johnny. ‘It’s Helen’s forty-seventh birthday – we’re hardly going to be dancing the night away.’

Dylan looked at him, wide-eyed. ‘Oh my God! That is so mean!’

Johnny stared at him, bewildered.

‘Mom – did you hear that?’ said Dylan. ‘Just because Helen’s in a wheelchair.’

Johnny did a double take. ‘What?’ He looked at Edie, then back at Dylan. ‘Dylan – that had nothing to do with Helen being in a wheelchair. That was about us being so old that we don’t have the energy to dance.’

‘Well, that’s depressing,’ said Dylan.

Edie started to laugh.

‘Well, I’d rather depress you than be accused of making fun of Helen,’ said Johnny.

Helen was Dylan’s godmother, and he was fiercely protective of her.

Helen was diagnosed with MS ten years ago, and had been in a wheelchair for the past three years, and still, when Edie saw her, she could get hit with the unfairness of it. Even though Helen was such a part of their lives. Before the diagnosis, Helen had been fit, strong, the director of nursing in the local hospital, living with her partner, who left her as soon as her symptoms started to really show. She was still in the relapsing-remitting stage, but her condition was slowly deteriorating. She had an older sister in Cork, but they weren’t close, and apart from her friends from the hospital, Johnny Dylan and Edie were the ones who helped her out the most.

‘Jesus, Dylan,’ said Johnny, ‘you have to stop attacking people because of some assumption—’

‘Says the guy roaring at Terry earlier,’ said Dylan.

‘I wasn’t roaring at him,’ said Johnny. ‘We were having a … discussion.’

Dylan made air quotes.

Johnny turned to Edie. ‘All that was going on with Terry is I asked him to board up the chapel windows properly, with decent timber, so they wouldn’t look like an eyesore, and instead he throws up some bullshit with streaks of paint and black God-knows-what all over it. Do you want the lads arriving in and seeing that?’

‘It’ll be dark,’ said Dylan.

‘Not in the morning when they’re getting the tour,’ said Johnny. ‘And what’s with you defending Terry all of a sudden? Last week he was the worst in the world.’

‘Because he thinks I’m the person who smashed the windows!’ said Dylan. ‘Which, I’d like to repeat, I am not. Terry spots someone in jeans and a hoodie running away from the “scene” and it’s automatically me.’

Johnny gestured to Dylan’s jeans and hoodie, and shrugged.

‘Literally, everyone dresses like this,’ said Dylan.

‘But you can see where he’s coming from,’ said Johnny. ‘He calls me to say he’s caught you and Mally in the confession box in the chapel—’

Edie looked at Johnny. ‘Can we stop this—’

‘No,’ said Johnny. ‘He still hasn’t given us an explanation.’

‘Stop making it sound so creepy,’ said Dylan.

‘You were supposed to be in school!’ said Johnny. ‘The one day we’re in Cork trying to get stuff done—’

‘I don’t know why he had to call you,’ said Dylan.

‘Here’s why,’ said Johnny. ‘Health and safety. The chapel’s a building site, basically, you had no hard hats on you—’

‘Hard hats,’ said Dylan. He rolled his eyes. ‘Mally thought the whole thing was—’

‘Why would I care what Mally thinks?’ said Johnny.

Dylan looked at Edie. ‘Seriously, Mom … what is his problem with her?’

‘I don’t have a problem with Mally,’ said Johnny.

Dylan’s phone beeped. He took it out of his pocket, and read the WhatsApp message. ‘Well, I can’t not go now,’ he said. ‘Because Mally’s already on her way over here. In the rain. I can’t suddenly go “Oh sorry – go home. Oh – and I can’t come back with you later.”’

Edie turned to Johnny, her eyebrows raised. He gave her a resigned look.

‘So she’s going to be here for the day while your mother’s trying to get the place ready for tonight?’ said Johnny.

‘They’ll be over at the house,’ said Edie.

‘Obviously,’ said Dylan. He looked at Johnny. ‘Can I go now?’

‘Yes,’ said Edie.

‘And can I go over to Mally’s later?’ said Dylan.

‘Yes,’ said Edie.

‘Thanks, Mom.’ He walked across the hall and they waited for him to disappear down the stairs.

‘Why do you always have to do that?’ said Johnny.

‘Oh, good God,’ said Edie. ‘Grow up. What is your issue with him going over there, all of a sudden? I don’t want to have to deal with any meltdowns tonight, and if he’s over there—’

‘She’s a bad influence on him,’ said Johnny. ‘She always ’s just in your face. She’s … nosy. She’s …’

Edie gave him a patient look.

‘Look – I know she’s no fan of mine,’ said Johnny, ‘but that’s not the point. They’re always … whispering and skulking about the place.’

‘For God’s sake,’ said Edie. ‘They’re sixteen. Well …’

‘And that’s the other thing – why is a nineteen-year-old college girl hanging out with a sixteen-year-old boy? It’s weird.’

Edie raised an eyebrow. ‘From the twenty-one-year-old with his eye on the sixteen-year-old?’

‘That’s different. And … different times.’ He put his hands on his hips. ‘And what makes you think he’s going to have a meltdown?’

‘Look at him,’ said Edie. ‘He’s exhausted.’

‘Because he was up all night watching Netflix!’ said Johnny. ‘He knows this is a big night, it’s important to you, and—’

‘Well, I hope it’s important to you too—’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake. I said “you” because he doesn’t give a shit what I think. ‘He needs to get his head out of his arse!’

‘He’s sixteen,’ said Edie. ‘He’s cripped with—’

‘Oh God,’ said Johnny. ‘Anxiety – the Get Out of Jail card—’

Edie stared at him.

‘Sorry,’ said Johnny. ‘But if he really had no control over his emotions, how am I the one who gets Angry Dylan and you get sad face? Or “Hugs”?’

‘We’re not getting into—’

‘No,’ said Johnny. ‘But—’

Edie shook her head. ‘No—’

‘You know what you should do,’ said Johnny, ‘show him some of your “research” photos from the industrial school with those skinny little bastards running around out there – not a Netflick to their names.’

‘He’s already been rooting through my research,’ said Edie.

‘Jesus Christ. No wonder he has anxiety.’

‘Why do you have such a problem with it?’ said Edie.

‘Because it freaks you out,’ said Johnny.

‘It doesn’t freak me out,’ said Edie. ‘And I don’t have time for this. I have too much to do.’

‘I told you we should have got one of the chefs in,’ said Johnny. ‘We should have got staff in, full stop.’

‘We’re not going to get staff in when we’re closed for the season,’ said Edie. ‘And we’d have to pay them. But the main thing, I told you, was that I wanted to make an effort for my friends – which I still do. I just need time.’

‘Fine,’ said Johnny. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’ He turned to walk away.

‘Johnny – wait,’ said Edie.

He looked back. His eyes were bright with hope and Edie wondered what he thought she was going to say. ‘Just …’ she said. ‘Stop … waiting for him to change.’

Johnny frowned. ‘What?’

‘Dylan is all of what you see – the weight, the anxiety, the insecurity. But it’s Dylan – aged sixteen. It might not be Dylan at eighteen or twenty or twenty-five. But … what if it is? I’m saying – if you’re waiting for him to go back to being the happy little bunny … well …’ She paused. ‘Maybe that won’t happen.’

She raised her chin, blinked and hoped Johnny wouldn’t notice she was fending off tears.

When she looked at him again, she could see the triumph in his eyes. He stabbed a finger at her. ‘Don’t you ever give me a hard time again for grieving over that.’

‘I’m giving you a hard time,’ said Edie, ‘for letting him see it.’

Johnny’s eyes widened. ‘Oh, and I’m the piece of shit? Because you can hide it better? These “feelings” everyone is supposed to be all open about?’

‘No one thinks you’re a piece of shit,’ said Edie.

‘Oh, I think we both know Dylan does.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Edie. ‘I’ve never got that from him.’

‘Well,’ said Johnny, ‘maybe he raises his acting game when he’s around a champ.’

Edie hated them both at this moment – individually, but mostly, as a couple.

The grandfather clock in the hall chimed four times. Edie closed the door to the bar behind her and stood with her back to it, pausing to release a breath into the dense silence. The storm had been building all afternoon, and she could feel the powerful push of the wind against the walls of the inn, like the shoulder of a fairytale giant who didn’t want them there, who would keep pushing until they were gone. She knew that in her own house, the wind would be whistling through every broken part, reminding her of every unmet promise. ‘Remember the monstrosity we said he’d raze to the ground? And replace with our dream home? Well, we live in it! And we’ve barely done a thing to it! But look at the beautiful fairy garden! You can see it from our bedroom! Look at the pretty lights! I go there when I’m losing my mind to try to make myself believe in magic again!’

She peeled herself away from the door and walked down the hallway. As she passed the dining room, a movement inside caught her eye, and she stopped. Mally was standing at the dinner table, taking a photograph with her phone.

Edie walked in. ‘Hello, Mally.’

‘Oh!’ said Mally, startled.

‘What are you up to?’ said Edie, smiling.

‘Just – I love what you’ve done!’ said Mally, looking around.

The room had been transformed from elegantly formal into elegantly mismatched. The dining table still had its white starched linen table cloth, but there was a brown tweed runner on top, covered with fresh greenery and a mix of squat cream pillar church candles on slices of polished woodcream taper candles in short brass candlesticks. The napkins were in muted blues and greens, with porcelain hummingbird napkin rings. The usual heavy silver cutlery was replaced with 1940s bone-handled knives, forks and spoons. The wine glasses were a collection of modern and antique – crystal, etched, gold filigree, all different, all beautiful.

Mally was staring at Edie, eyes bright. Edie sometimes wondered whether Mally was hopped up on ADD drugs. There was a wide-eyed, nervous intensity about her that could sometimes veer into something darker. And why would Mally be looking at place settings? She barely ran a hairbrush through her hair.

Edie’s gaze moved down to Mally’s hand. Edie had put a childhood photo at every setting, face down, peeping out from each napkin. Mally was holding Helen’s. In it, Helen was sitting at her kitchen table in a white dress, her tenth birthday cake in front of her, candles lit. She was beaming at the camera, chin up, eyes scrunched tight, a pink paper crown on her head. Clare was standing to Helen’s right, with her rosy red cheeks, looking like she was about to blow out the candles herself. Edie was in the back row, smiling serenely, her two arms neatly in front of her. Murph was standing sideways behind Clare, his arm up like a robot, but his head turned to the camera. His eyes were sparkling with mischief and he had three party blowers in his mouth. It looked like whoever had taken the photo had got distracted by him, because they hadn’t waited for Jessie – the birthday girl’s best friend – to make it into the frame. There was a glimpse of her at the edge – the end of her long black wavy pigtail, the sleeve of her bright pink dress.

Dylan appeared in the doorway. ‘Hey, Mom …’ He frowned when he saw Mally.

‘I was admiring your mom’s party styling,’ said Mally. She held up the photo. ‘Look at your godmother – she was so adorable!’

‘She really was,’ said Edie.

Edie smiled. She wondered would any of her friends realize how much effort had gone into the photo selection. She knew that Helen’s tenth birthday was her favourite, and among the few photos she found, she had chosen the only one where Jessie wasn’t right by her side. She hoped Helen wouldn’t notice the fraction of her, caught at the edge – she didn’t want to see the sting of a painful memory on her face.

‘Who’s this?’ said Mally, pointing to the picture. ‘Is this the girl who died in the fire?’

Edie’s eyes widened. ‘Yes … How did you know that?’

‘Just a guess,’ said Mally. She shrugged. ‘I mean not a total guess – I read about the fire online and saw a photo.’

Dylan frowned at Mally. ‘We have to go. It’s insane out there.’

‘I can give you a lift, if you want to wait,’ said Edie.

‘No,’ said Dylan. ‘What about your hair?’

‘How many teenage boys would ever think of something like that?’ said Edie.

‘Only the ones who want something from you,’ said Mally.

‘Shut up,’ said Dylan. ‘I don’t want anything, Mom.’ He went up to Edie and gave her a hug. ‘Have fun, tonight.’

‘You too,’ said Edie, kissing his cheek, before he pulled away. ‘Be back at midnight and not a minute later.’

Edie went to Helen’s place when they had left. She felt a stab of guilt that she was checking whether Mally had left a grubby fingerprint somewhere – Mally was never unclean, just dishevelled. She had left Helen’s photo upturned. Edie picked it up. Helen had never said why her tenth birthday was her favourite, but maybe it was because it was the last summer before they all found out that bad things can still happen on sunny days.

5
JESSIE
Castletownbere
Saturday, 30 July 1983

The truck was parked in the square, twenty feet long, the side folded down to make a stage. A banner with JUNIOR TALENT CONTEST! hung from the front, flapping only once since the crowd had gathered; a single breeze on the hottest day of the year.

Jessie Crossan, eleven years old, was standing at the bottom of the wooden steps at the side of the stage. The quietest boy in her class, Patrick Lynch – his eyes bright with panic – was slowly shrinking through a tuneless ‘Green Fields of France’. It was Jessie’s father’s party piece, and she knew all the words. She was singing them in her head to will Patrick along. She loved Patrick. He was so sweet, so shy. He brought jam sandwiches to school for his lunch, and something about that made her sad. When he had no lunch, she would make him take half of hers. He would never have asked. She wanted to come to his rescue now, too; to run up on to the stage, and sweep him away like a superhero. Then dance. She had been practising for weeks.

Jessie didn’t know any excitement like performing. She lived in a quiet house, with parents who didn’t say much to each other, but when they sat side by side on the sofa, listening to her sing, watching her dance, she knew that was when they were happiest. She was sad they weren’t there to watch her today – her mother was away, and her father wouldn’t be back from work until dinner time.

Patrick went suddenly quiet, his pale hands intertwined, his knuckles white. His spindly legs had been shaking as soon as he stood in front of the microphone, but now the shaking turned violent, and he held a hand to his thigh to steady it. An older boy in the crowd – Johnny – shot out a laugh, and Patrick’s head jerked towards the judges’ table. There was the parish priest – Father Owens, jacket off, dabbing a handkerchief to his brow; Sister Consolata, Vice Principal of the secondary school – hands folded on the table in front of her, head tilted, legs crossed at the ankles, and the Sergeant, Colm Hurley, playing MC for the day.

‘I forgot the words,’ Patrick muttered, his gaze back on the floor.

‘Do you want to go again, Patrick?’ said Father Owens. ‘Give it another blast?’

Patrick’s eyes filled with a desperation that presaged tears.

Father Owens paused, then gave a hearty clap. ‘Well, you did a great job, Patrick! That was a fine rendition!’

Patrick’s eyes widened a fraction.

‘Indeed, it was,’ said Colm joining in the applause. ‘Well done.’

‘Yes!’ said Jessie, louder than she meant to. She looked, full of hope, at Sister Consolata, who was staring up at Patrick with her tight smile and lifeless squint. Sister Consolata had a loud clap despite her tiny hands, and eventually threw two distinct ones into the fading applause. Jessie had worked out years earlier that this was Sister Consolata’s way of giving marks out of ten.

Patrick, his head dipped, left the stage, and ran down the steps past Jessie.

‘You were brilliant,’ she said, but he didn’t hear her.

Sergeant Colm had bounded up on to the stage from the front. He gave Jessie a warm smile. ‘Up you come!’ he said. ‘Here she is, ladies and gentlemen – eleven-year-old Jessie Crossan, who – by the rig-out and the tape recorder – I’m going to guess will be dancing for us today. Is that right?’

Jessie beamed. ‘Yes!’

She looked out at the crowd, and caught Sister Consolata running a chilling gaze up and down her body. She felt a spike of fear. Her parents loved her clothes, and loved her dancing, and so did all her friends. Instinctively, she searched the crowd for comfort, and found it in the smile of her best friend, Helen. Her next best friend, Laura, was beside her, with two thumbs up. Her other friends, Edie and Clare, were standing at the front, giving her matching ladylike waves. Murph was doing moves like a boxer. She tried not to laugh. She walked over to one of the speakers, and put the tape recorder on top.

‘All business – look at her!’ said Colm, and the crowd laughed.

Jessie gave him a nod.

‘Right,’ he said, ‘she’s got it all under control. In your own time.’

He jumped off the front of the stage, and jogged back to his seat.

Jessie hit Play on the tape recorder. She took to the centre of the stage. Then she knelt, one knee on the floor, one knee up, her head curled to her chest. The music started. And, at eleven years old, Jessie, with the innocence and enthusiasm of a girl whose parents were happy when they watched her dance, moved flawlessly through her own carefully choreographed routine to the song, Maneater.

She finished, arms in the air, joyful, expectant. She was met with silence. She was used to her parents’ instant applause. Some sound. Any sound. But the crowd had fallen under the spell of Sister Consolata, whose moods could ripple out like a black-ink gauze, floating slowly down, and settling, wrapping around people, bridling them.

Jessie eventually lowered her arms, and a few scattered claps broke out. Her confused eyes finally found Sister Consolata, who was rising from her seat and heading towards her. With a stiff arm and pointed finger, she directed Jessie to exit the stage. She waited for her at the bottom of the steps, then stooped to meet her at eye level.

‘That was a disgrace!’ she said. ‘An absolute disgrace.’

She stared Jessie down until she trembled.

That night, Jessie sat on her bed wearing just the loose pink cotton top of her summer pyjamas and a pair of underpants. Her diary was open, the tiny lock and key on the turned-down sheet beside her. She wrote the date at the top of the page, along with REGATTA!!!! She paused with the nib of the pen over the first line. After a while, she wrote:

Mammy is at a pilgrimidge in Knock. But she told Daddy I could open my parcel from Auntie Mona in Boston!!! I was so excited!!! It’s not even my birthday until Thursday!!! The reason was because it had an outfit for the talent contest in it!!!! It was a shiny leotard and leggings from a proper dance shop. I love it so much! (she also got me a packet of 3 underpantses which is so embarrising). The Talent Contest was at three o’clock in the Square. It was rosting. Patrick Lynch sang Green Fields of France. And I finally got to do my dance! Maneater! Watch out boy she’ll cheer you up! Everyone loved it!

I’m so tired, but tell you the rest tomorrow. Zzzzz.

She never wrote in the diary again. She never saw it again. The guards took it. They took her blankets too. They took her sheets, and her pyjama top, her pillow and her teddies, her hairband, and her book. They took her father too for a while.

6

Edie stood in the shadows of the balcony overlooking the hall. She was wearing a dark green silk dress with three-quarter-length sleeves that had a small gold button at the cuff. She wore matching dark-green patent heels, and had a dark green bracelet with fine gold edging on her right wrist. Her hair was down, to her shoulders, and tousled, her make-up subtle, eyes with a hint of gold shadow and a smoky edge.

Johnny’s voice drifted up from below. ‘I don’t know where Edie is.’

‘Agonizing over the details,’ Clare said.

‘Well, I hope so,’ said Murph. ‘I did my research, and I’m expecting a “soothing five-star experience”.’

Johnny laughed. ‘That was Condé Nast Traveller.’

‘Murph reading Condé Nast Traveller,’ said Clare.

‘What do you think I read?’ said Murph. ‘The Irish Field? Which is an excellent publication, but not the point.’

‘The place is amazing, lads,’ said Laura. ‘It’s like … I don’t know how ye did it.’

‘It’s magnificent,’ said Clare. ‘Helen – you must be used to it at this stage.’

‘No,’ said Helen. ‘Still impresses me every time. But we’re usually over at the house.’

‘Probably a shithole too, is it?’ said Murph.

They all laughed.

‘Speaking of shit,’ said Laura, ‘what was with the reviews on Trip Advisor?’

Edie closed her eyes.

‘Laura!’ said Clare.

‘What? I was disgusted,’ said Laura. ‘About the afternoon tea and the cream being off, and the whole thing being a rip-off? I’m saying it because I know there’s no way that’s true.’

‘It wasn’t,’ said Johnny. ‘But that’s a conversation for another time.’

Edie took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and walked to the top of the stairs. ‘Hello!’ she said, beaming. They all cheered.

‘Here she is now,’ said Murph. ‘Lady of the Manor.’

Edie laughed. ‘You’re all so welcome! I’m sorry I wasn’t here. What an appalling hostess! I had a few things to take care of.’ She looked at Helen. ‘Happy Birthday! You look stunning.’

‘It’s the blow-dry,’ said Helen, waving a hand at it. She had thick, shiny short brown hair that fell across one side of her face. It was an old-fashioned cut but it was perfect on her. She never wore much eye make-up and always wore a pair of glasses to complement whatever outfit she had on. Tonight, they were black. She was wearing a red wrap top and a long black taffeta skirt, and red shoes with a square gold buckle with pearls on the toes.

‘It’s not the blow-dry,’ said Edie. ‘It’s everything.’

‘And she’s got the tits out,’ said Murph. ‘Looking amazing.’

Clare hugged Edie. ‘I’m blown away.’

‘I can’t believe this is your first time here!’ said Edie.

‘Ours too,’ said Laura, pointing at herself and Murph.

‘Yeah, you ignorant bastards,’ said Murph.

‘We didn’t want to lower the tone,’ said Johnny.

‘Says your man,’ said Murph, tilting his head toward him. Then he looked at himself in the long mirror, and ran his hand down the sleeve of his navy jacket. ‘I think I scrub up very well.’

‘You do,’ said Edie, opening her arms wide. Murph gave her a huge hug, and lifted her off the ground. ‘I miss my Murph hugs,’ she said.

‘So, I heard Father Lynch is coming,’ said Murph when he put her down.

‘Please have some new jokes for tonight,’ said Laura.

‘He’ll always be Father Lynch to me,’ said Murph.

‘Yes – he’s coming,’ said Edie. ‘Helen bumped into him in Cork and said “Come on down”.’

Murph looked at Helen. ‘He still looks like a priest. I know he does.’

‘No,’ said Helen. ‘No, he does not.’

‘Is he still in the States?’ said Laura.

‘I thought he was in Dublin,’ said Clare.

‘He is,’ said Edie. ‘I think he was in New York before that.’ She looked at Helen. ‘Isn’t that what you said?’

Helen nodded.

‘Jesus,’ said Johnny. ‘I never thought I’d see such excitement over Patrick Lynch coming to something.’

‘It’s not excitement,’ said Edie. ‘It’s—’

‘Curiosity,’ said Clare. She looked at Johnny. ‘You were too old when Patrick was on the scene – you were off doing your Munster thing. You only remember him from when he was a child.’

‘I hope he’s had a shower,’ said Johnny.

‘Ah, Johnny,’ said Clare.

‘It’s not like I’m going to say it to his face,’ said Johnny.

‘Sure, no wonder he smelled,’ said Laura. ‘The child was a mobile sweatshop. And he couldn’t have been more than six. Polishing the church when he should have been out kicking a ball.’

‘I’m sure I saw him with his arm in a sling at one stage,’ said Clare.

‘Still at it?’ said Murph.

Clare nodded.

‘Imagine my two polishing a church,’ said Laura. ‘They’d be up taking a shit in the font.’

‘Laura!’ said Clare.

‘Don’t pretend you’re shocked,’ said Laura.

The doorbell rang. Murph’s eyes widened, then he mouthed, ‘Is that him? I hope he didn’t hear.’ He mimed a shower over his head.

Everyone laughed. Johnny walked over and opened the door. A blast of wind and rain swept in with Patrick. He had his head bowed against it, the hood of his black jacket up. He pushed it back and smiled at everyone.

‘Welcome!’ said Johnny, shaking his hand. ‘Let me take your jacket.’

‘Thank you,’ said Patrick.

Clare flashed a glance at Edie, her eyebrows raised. Laura was less subtle. Edie tried not to laugh. Patrick was six foot two, broad-shouldered and muscular. He was wearing a tight black long-sleeved sweater with three black buttons at the neck, and black trousers. He was fresh-faced, his teeth were perfect, his brown hair cut with a neat side-parting.

Even Murph and Johnny were staring at him.

‘Father Lynch,’ said Murph, extending his hand.

Laura rolled her eyes.

‘Mr Murphy – you haven’t changed a bit,’ said Patrick.

‘I wish I could say the same to you,’ said Murph. ‘You’re showing myself and Johnny up. The ladies can’t know this is possible at our age.’

Edie glanced at Johnny.

Patrick hugged everyone. ‘You smell divine!’ said Clare.

Laura stifled a laugh. Edie’s eyes widened.

‘Right,’ said Johnny. ‘To the bar.’

Murph and Patrick strode after him.

Clare turned to Edie.

‘I did not say that on purpose,’ she said.

‘I know you didn’t,’ said Edie. ‘Your face!’

Laura looked at Helen. ‘You dirty bitch. That’s why you invited him.’

‘Obviously,’ said Helen.

‘What’s his scoop?’ said Clare. ‘Is he married?’

‘We need a bit more time to start getting that info out of him,’ said Laura.

‘He looks single,’ said Clare.

‘“Looks single”,’ said Laura.

‘He doesn’t look like he has the weight of the world on his shoulders … that marriage brings,’ said Clare.

The others laughed.

‘What’s he up to, these days?’ said Laura.

‘He’s in hedge funds,’ said Clare.

‘What does that mean?’ said Laura.

‘That he’s rich enough to wear a jumper and hiking boots to a five-star establishment,’ said Helen.

Edie laughed. ‘As if I’d care.’

Clare raised her eyebrows. ‘I saw you giving a frowny look at his jumper.’

‘What?’ said Edie. ‘No, I did not.’

‘So, you’re telling me Patrick Lynch is rolling in it,’ said Laura.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Clare.

‘From nothing,’ said Laura. ‘Fair play to him.’

‘Murph made a huge effort,’ said Clare.

‘The navy jacket and shirt,’ said Edie. She nodded her approval.

‘Never thought I’d see the day – Murph in velvet,’ said Laura.

‘It suits him,’ said Helen.

‘God, when I think of him, the poor divil,’ said Clare, ‘going from one house to the next for his dinner, making everyone laugh, and how sad he’d look, heading off. And the worst part of it was it wasn’t like he was going home to some savage who was going to beat him.’

‘Heartbreaking,’ said Edie. ‘And Mum would never let him stay for dinner. It was so awkward. And she would have known what was going on.’

‘That time he was in our house and the packet of ham fell out from under his jumper,’ said Laura. ‘And Mam would have been happy to give it to him.’

‘Oh, no,’ said Helen. ‘I can just picture his little face.’

‘And remember,’ said Laura, ‘the time he—’

‘Let’s remember,’ said Helen, ‘that we all had that little face once.’

‘And,’ said Clare, ‘is there not some unspoken agreement that we forget each other’s childhood shame?’

7
MURPH
Castletownbere, 1981

Murph stood outside his mother’s bedroom. He hadn’t seen her for two days. He put his ear to the door. He could hear a man’s voice, but it wasn’t his father, because his father was at work. He could hear the voice coming closer to the door, so he bounced away, and took a few steps back down the hallway. When he heard the door open, he pretended he was walking towards it. Dr Weston appeared with his big leather bag, closing the door gently behind him.

‘Hello, Liam,’ he said. He gave a nod.

‘Can I go in to see Mammy?’ said Murph.

‘Not today,’ he said. ‘She needs to rest.’

Murph frowned. ‘She’s resting the whole time.’

Dr Weston started to walk down the stairs.

Murph came after him. ‘Can I not just go in for a little minute?’

Dr Weston gripped the banister. Murph froze. ‘What’s so important that it can’t wait ’til tomorrow?’

‘You said tomorrow the last time,’ said Murph.

‘Well, I’m saying it again, now.’ He gave a nod, and then he looked up at him. ‘Sure, you’re a big lad, now. Aren’t you able to look after yourself, and not be bothering your mammy?’

Murph’s face flushed. Dr Weston’s three sons were all big lads, rough and tough. Murph knew they were older than he was, but when they were his age they were the same. Johnny, the one who played rugby, was fourteen but he was a bit of a bully, and Murph wasn’t sure being tough was all it was cracked up to be.

Murph stayed where he was on the stairs until Dr Weston left. Then he turned and ran up to his mother’s room. He put his ear to the door again. There was no sound. He let out a sigh, then ran downstairs, and out into the front garden.

Jerry Murphy drove up to the house, and parked the van in the drive. He jumped out, and reached Murph in four strides, sweeping him off the ground, and throwing him up on his shoulders.

‘I’m too big, Daddy!’ said Murph.

Jerry held on to his son’s little calves, and walked him around the side of the house. ‘Do I look like a man who can’t carry a smallie like you on his back? Sure, amn’t I doing it right now?’ He slid his hands down to Murph’s ankles, and lifted them, tilting him back, making him grab for the back of his shirt collar to pull himself up. ‘Daddy!’ he said, tapping him on the head.

Jerry laughed. When they got around the back, he swung Murph down on to the ground beside a small pile of red timber slats. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘you and me are going to make a little house.’

‘What kind of a house?’ said Murph.

‘Ah, for one of your little cousins for her dolls. Now – grab me that hammer over there.’

He knelt down, and Murph stood smiling at the top of his head; his father was always helping people, and Murph loved helping him do it. And he loved hearing the things people always said about his father: ‘That’s a man you can rely on,’ ‘That’s a man who’d never let you down,’ ‘You could call Jerry Murphy any time, day or night,’ ‘Jerry Murphy’d give you the shirt off his back.’

When the little house was built, Murph stood back and put his hands on his hips.

‘I don’t know, Daddy, if she’s going to be mad about it.’

‘What?’ said Jerry. ‘What do you mean? After all our hard work.’

‘No – I know,’ said Murph. ‘But … are you going to be cutting holes in it later? For the windows?’

‘Jesus – I hadn’t thought of windows.’

‘And is it not supposed to have a floor in the middle to put furniture on?’ He glanced at his dad. ‘It looks funny.’

‘It looks funny, you think. What does it look like to you, so?’

Murph frowned. ‘I don’t want to be mean. I know you wanted to do a nice job on it. But it looks a bit … like a kennel.’

Jerry stood up, and laughed. He put his hands on his hips. ‘Jesus – you’re right.’ He started rubbing his face. ‘Amn’t I some eejit? Let me see if I have anything at all in the van, so we can sort something out.’ He disappeared around to the front of the house.

Murph heard a knock from the upstairs window. He took a few steps backwards so he could see properly. His mam was standing at her bedroom window with a big smile on her slender face, her eyes huge, her dressing gown up high around her neck. She waved at him, and he waved back. She pointed down at the little house, like she wanted to get a better look. Murph went over, and dragged it on to the grass where she could see it. She smiled.

‘I think I have something for that house!’ Jerry shouted.

When Murph looked up, Jerry was standing a distance away. Between his two boots was a little ball of fur that he let go as soon as Murph turned.

Murph jumped as a tiny black-and-white border collie pup shot towards him. By the time Murph crouched down, the dog was flinging himself into his chest, wriggling against him, trying to lick his neck. Murph stood up with him, hugging him tight, and they rubbed the sides of their faces together. Then Murph settled him into his arms, with his front paws up on his shoulders.

‘Daddy!’ said Murph. ‘I love him!’

He held the dog up to show his mam. She beamed down at him from the window.

Jerry laughed, and patted the back of Murph’s head. ‘Sure, you’re best pals already.’

‘Thank you, thank you, thank you,’ said Murph, and he looked up again, but his mam was gone. ‘And thank Mammy for me.’ He paused. ‘Or could I thank her myself later?’ His eyes were shining.

Jerry squeezed Murph’s shoulder. ‘You can, of course.’

Murph beamed.

‘So,’ said Jerry, ‘what are you going to call your new pal?’

Murph thought about it. ‘Rosco.’

Jerry laughed. ‘From the television? The lads that climb in the car through the window?’

Murph nodded. ‘Rosco P. Coltrane.’

Jerry patted the dog’s head. ‘Rosco P. Murphy, it is so.’

That night, Murph woke up to a terrible choking sound, his heart pounding. He got up, and went to the door, pressing the handle down slowly, and edging the door open. He heard the sound again, and it was coming from downstairs. His chest tightened. He wanted to go into his mammy and daddy’s room, but he wasn’t allowed. This time, he knew they wouldn’t, though, because he was scared. And his mammy always told him to come to her when he was scared. He crossed the hallway, and opened their door gently. He walked in on tiptoes, and up to the bed. His mother was asleep, and even though she was asleep, she looked tired, and he didn’t want to wake her. His daddy wasn’t there, so he thought maybe that was him downstairs.

He sneaked down and stuck his head in to the dining room. He saw his father inside, sitting in the dark, his back against the wall, his legs out in front of him, his chin to his chest. His arms were loose at his side, and he was sobbing and sobbing. A rush of fear swept over Murph. He’d never seen his father cry. He went up to him, then turned his head away for a moment from the smell of whiskey. He looked down and saw an empty bottle by the leg of the table. He had only ever seen his father have one glass, and not even finish it.

‘Daddy!’ he said. ‘Daddy!’ He patted his shoulder. ‘It’s OK … it’s OK. I’ll …’ He tried to think of what his mam would say to him when he was small and he was having a nightmare or he was worried about something and he couldn’t get to sleep.

‘It’s OK, Daddy,’ he said. ‘No one’s coming to get you.’

He knelt down beside him, looking at his shirt, soaked with tears. He was thinking of his mam again, and what she would say.

‘What is it, Daddy? Did someone say something to you?’

His father raised his head, confused. After a moment, he focused. ‘Liam.’ He tried to sit up. ‘Liam …’

‘Yes! Daddy – are you all right?’

Jerry shook his head slowly. ‘No, no … no, no.’ He started to sob again. Murph started crying too, because he didn’t know what was wrong, and that was even scarier. He thought again of what his mam would say. He knelt in close, and put his hand on his father’s shoulder.

‘If I find out,’ said Murph, ‘that anyone was being mean to my …’ And his mam would say ‘to my little man’, so Murph said, ‘If I find out that anyone was being mean to my … little dad …’

And his dad, all six foot four of him, with his big head, and his huge hands, and his broad shoulders, started to shake, and then Murph realized it was because he was laughing at the same time as he was crying, and Murph didn’t care what he was laughing at, because he was laughing, and his dad reached out and grabbed his face like it was a football, and he looked at Murph with such love in his eyes that Murph thought his heart would burst.

The next morning, nothing was mentioned at breakfast about what had happened. When Murph came home after school, he went out to play with Rosco in the garden. When his dad came home from work, he ran to him, and gave him the tightest hug.

‘Come on a way over with me,’ said Jerry, ‘and we’ll sit on the wall.’

His father turned to him when they sat down. ‘Liam,’ he said, ‘you know, now, the way Mammy’s not well …’

Murph nodded.

‘Not well at all.’

Murph nodded again.

Jerry put a hand to his chin. ‘Do you know something?’ he said. ‘I think that woman would hug you every minute of the day if she could.’

Murph smiled, and his shoulders went up to his ears.

‘But you know that’s a small bit harder for her, now she’s not well.’ He paused. ‘And that’s all that is. She’s a bit weak.’ He patted Murph on the head. ‘But you’ll always be her little man … no matter what.’

8

Johnny waited outside the bar until everyone had caught up. He pushed open the door and guided everyone through with a sweep of his arm. The room had a mix of mahogany panelling and slate-grey walls, thick carpet in charcoal grey, and small round tables with green leather chairs. A log fire burned and crackled drawing everyone’s attention until Murph boomed, ‘No way,’ and crossed to the opposite wall. Johnny, Edie, and Helen laughed.

Murph looked back at Johnny and Edie, his eyes gleaming. ‘Is that … is your drinks cabinet an actual confession box?’

‘Yes, it is,’ said Johnny.

Murph shook his head, smiling.

‘It’s a little kitsch,’ said Edie, ‘but we couldn’t resist.’

‘I love honesty bars,’ said Murph. ‘But I prefer lying, filthy, cheating bars.’

‘It’s superb,’ said Clare. ‘Is it from the chapel?’

Johnny nodded. ‘There were four of them, which was a bit much when you think of the size of it. We kept one where it was, ripped the other three out, and had this one restored.’

‘Look,’ said Murph. ‘It actually accepts sins.’ He pointed to a slot, and pulled out the drawer underneath. There were folded-up notes inside. He picked out three. ‘“Stole a bathrobe”, “Filled my purse with croissants at breakfast”, and “Had impure thoughts. Followed through.” Fair play to them. I hope the purse one was an American or she wouldn’t have got far.’

‘Is anyone weird about it?’ said Clare. ‘The sacrilege of it all.’

‘No one’s complained yet,’ said Edie. She put her hand on the small of Johnny’s back. ‘Well done, by the way.’ She gestured around the room. ‘He set this all up.’

‘He’s got the fire on, the candles, everything,’ said Laura. ‘Never thought I’d see the day.’

‘I do this all the time,’ said Johnny, frowning. ‘Why is everyone so surprised?’

‘Jesus – I don’t know,’ said Murph. ‘Maybe because of this.’ He pointed to the wall beside the confession box. ‘Johnny’s glory wall under a picture light, in case we might miss it.’ There were framed newspaper cuttings, Munster team photos, shots of Johnny on the pitch, at award ceremonies, with celebrities. Murph pointed to one: ‘New Zealand, 1989. You played some game.’

‘How you didn’t end up playing for Ireland is beyond me,’ said Clare.

‘I agree,’ said Edie.

‘Thank you, ladies,’ said Johnny. He walked over to the drinks. ‘Right – what are you having?’

‘The time of our lives,’ said Murph.

Everyone put in their orders, and Johnny started to make the drinks.

‘Speaking of time,’ said Clare, ‘this is very early for pre-dinner drinks. This could go horribly wrong.’

Johnny handed her a gin and tonic. ‘Starting now.’

‘That’s my fault,’ said Helen. ‘I can’t last very long in the evenings these days. So apologies to all of you for tomorrow’s hangovers.’

‘Who says I’m going to have a hangover?’ said Clare.

‘As Johnny hands everyone a massive drink,’ said Helen. ‘You’ll all be dying in the morning.’

‘Not me,’ said Patrick, pointing to his 7UP.

‘Do you not drink?’ said Laura.

‘No,’ said Patrick. ‘I gave up years ago.’

‘Why’s that?’ said Laura. ‘Health reasons?’

Patrick nodded. ‘I guess so. Stopped one January and never looked back.’

‘Hey – that’s Clare’s line,’ said Johnny. ‘“Never look back”.’

‘“Eyes ahead” is my line!’ said Clare.

‘It’s “eyes ahead”,’ said Murph at the same time.

‘Relax, the pair of you,’ said Johnny.

Clare looked around the room. ‘You’re all an appalling influence and I know I’m going to end up in some “District Court Judge in Drinking Shame” situation.’

‘We’re well tucked away here,’ said Johnny. ‘What happens in Pilgrim Point stays in Pilgrim Point.’

‘I’d say any fart I crack off tonight after a rake of pints will go well beyond the boundaries,’ said Murph.

‘Any development on the spa?’ said Clare.

‘Well, the plans are drawn up,’ said Edie, ‘but before we can put in for planning, we have to get an archaeological survey done. And there’s no point getting it done at this time of year, so we’re looking at March for that. And on and on.’

‘Ooh,’ said Murph, sucking in a breath, ‘Johnny fucked up there.’

‘What?’ said Edie. She flashed warning eyes at Murph. ‘No, he didn’t.’

‘Sorry,’ said Murph. ‘He just looked a little—’

‘Bored,’ said Edie.

Johnny frowned. ‘I’m not bored, I’m—’

‘I’m teasing,’ said Edie. ‘The chapel is Johnny’s thing.’

‘The chapel’s not “my thing”,’ said Johnny. ‘It’s—’

‘Jesus, lads,’ said Murph. ‘You’ve got visitors. Did your mammies not teach you anything?’

‘So, what are the plans for the chapel?’ said Patrick.

‘Well …’ said Johnny.

‘Well …’ said Edie.

‘What I think we should be doing,’ said Johnny, ‘is corporate events or yoga retreats or conferences or gigs or whatever. We’re in the perfect spot – away from it all, no mobile coverage unless you want to use WhatsApp, no distractions—’

‘And the views,’ said Clare. ‘And the Wild Atlantic Way.’

Murph turned to Edie. ‘And what do you think you should be doing with it?’

‘Not talking about it tonight,’ said Edie, giving him a bright smile.

‘And on and on it goes,’ said Edie. ‘That’s why it’s sort of … in limbo.’

‘Or “under renovation”, as I like to call it,’ said Johnny.

They fell into silence.

‘So,’ said Johnny, turning to Laura, ‘how are you? How are the kid … s?’

‘Good one,’ said Laura. ‘Yes, I’ve more than one. And they’re alive. After that … well, Mammy’s on the lash, isn’t she?’ She took a long sip of her drink.

Murph laughed. ‘Johnny’s like “thank fuck we got that out of the way”.’

‘I hate people banging on about their kids on a night out,’ said Laura.

‘It was a genuine question,’ said Johnny.

‘And have you any more question … s?’ said Murph.

‘Ah, give him a break,’ said Laura. ‘He’s had a fair few knocks to the head over the years. Children: Séamus, seven, Paddy, five: healthy, happy, and tapped.’

‘And the father?’ said Johnny. ‘Both Frank’s?’ He smiled.

‘Johnny!’ said Edie.

‘I see a lot of Brad Pitt in Séamus,’ said Laura.

Johnny turned to Clare. ‘What about your lot?’

Clare smiled. ‘Children: Ava, nineteen, Lucas, fourteen, Marco, twelve. Husband: Alan, forty-eight. Cuddly toy. Toaster. Microwave oven.’

‘Not a child to my name,’ said Murph. ‘Until the knocks on the door start.’

‘Not a child to my name, either,’ said Patrick.

‘Any woman on the scene?’ said Laura.

Patrick shook his head. ‘No.’

‘Man?’ said Clare.

Patrick smiled. ‘Also, no.’

‘And would you like to meet someone?’ said Clare.

‘I would, I suppose,’ said Patrick, ‘but it’s hard enough, these days. And I wouldn’t be one for internet dating.’

‘Multiple women on the go, here,’ said Murph. ‘No apologies.’

‘I hate to stop you mid-candid admission,’ said Clare, ‘but do you mind if we sit down?’

‘Of course,’ said Edie. ‘Sorry.’

‘No,’ said Clare, ‘it’s my shoes.’

‘Remember “don’t puke on my shoes”, “take off my shoes”,’ said Murph.

‘Oh, God,’ said Laura.

‘And the gas part was you were talking to yourself,’ said Murph. ‘Laura, pasted, forehead down on a white plastic table—’

‘That I had to climb under,’ said Helen, ‘so I could take off the shoes.’

‘Well, of course you did,’ said Murph.

There was a chorus from the others, ‘“I couldn’t say no!”’

‘Do I say that a lot?’ said Helen.

They all laughed. ‘Yes,’ said Edie.

‘Yes!’ said Murph. ‘It’s why we all love you.’ He turned to Laura. ‘There’s not many who’d risk climbing under a table when you’re gearing up.’

‘And she managed to have the wherewithal to tell me make sure the shoes were “out of splashing distance”,’ said Helen.

‘Ah, lads,’ said Laura. ‘Clare – you were right. We need to be allowed to forget this shit.’

‘Sure, that’s no craic,’ said Murph.

‘Right, everyone,’ said Johnny. ‘Go – sit. I have a few things to check on and I’ll be back.’

Helen let Johnny pass, and pulled Edie to one side as everyone else sat down.

‘Am I sensing tension?’ said Helen.

‘Where?’ said Edie.

‘Johnny and Patrick?’ said Helen.

Edie’s eyes widened. ‘What? Why do you say that?’

‘Do you really think Johnny believes I randomly bumped into Patrick last week, and just said, “Come on down for my birthday dinner”, given that the last time I laid eyes on him was when he came to say his goodbyes to Sister Consolata in the hospital – and she’s dead – what? Ten years?’

‘Why would Johnny not believe you?’ said Edie.

‘Apart from him or his wife usually being the people who drive me to Cork?’ said Helen. ‘For which I am eternally grateful, obviously.’

Edie smiled. ‘Pleasure. But – you could have been up there with anyone.’

‘I know – I told him I was with one of my nurse pals, but I’m just … questioning the wisdom of your plan. And I was wondering if you were too. Johnny looks on edge.’

‘Johnny always looks on edge,’ said Edie. She caught Helen’s expression. ‘Sorry – that’s awful. Just … you’re making it sound like I’m doing something terrible, when all I wanted was for Patrick to see the inn. That way, if the investment thing becomes a real issue, and Patrick is interested, it won’t be a bolt from the blue – he’ll have been here, seen what we’re doing.’

‘You don’t feel bad, lying to Johnny?’ said Helen.

‘No,’ said Edie. ‘No. The inn is … we need investment, Patrick has the means, he’s our friend.’

‘But the last time you saw him was three years ago. And that was because you needed a favour.’

‘Yes – about the inn,’ said Edie. ‘Because I knew he was in hedge funds, I knew how successful he was, and unlike anyone else I could have asked, he knows Beara. This was a big investment – you know that. Johnny and I were in the States at the time. Patrick was in New York. All I asked him to do was meet me for a chat. And he could have said “No” if he didn’t want to help. I’d have done the same for him. And he was the one who offered to view the place, so …’ She shrugged. ‘Look – he’s a nice guy.’

Helen nodded.

‘I couldn’t have approached just anyone, saying that I wasn’t sure whether or not my husband had a clue what he was doing,’ said Edie. ‘And I wouldn’t have known what a third party would need to be able to give me informed advice. Nor would I have known how to actually gather it all together without Johnny being on to me. I knew what Patrick did, he knows us both, and he knows the property, and after looking at everything, he said, “Go for it!” So he believed in it as a business, which – in my mind – makes him the most logical person to approach as an investor.’

‘No – I know,’ said Helen. ‘It makes sense – sorry. This is my issue. I think I’m feeling guilty because Johnny’s so good.’

‘He is good,’ said Edie, ‘which is the whole point of Patrick being a possible investor – to actually relieve Johnny of pressure.’

Helen glanced up at Edie. ‘Clare – incoming.’

‘What’s going on here, ladies?’ said Clare. ‘It all looks very serious.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘Are we setting Helen up with Patrick?’

Edie and Helen laughed. ‘No,’ said Edie.

Laura came up behind Clare. She glanced back at Patrick and Murph. ‘Murph’s on about horses.’

‘I was about to say that I’m not sure I believe Patrick Lynch that he’s single,’ said Clare.

‘Why would he lie about that?’ said Edie.

‘I don’t know,’ said Clare.

‘I totally believe he’s single,’ said Laura. ‘I’d say the mother frightened him off women for life. You look back and you think, was she well in the head at all?’ She paused. ‘In fairness, my two will probably think the same about me.’

‘Well, he’s made a success of himself,’ said Helen, ‘so she must have done something right.’

‘Whatever went on in that house,’ said Laura. ‘Good enough for her, the mother died before she could cash in.’

‘Laura!’ said Clare.

‘What?’ said Laura. ‘She was an oddball. Was she ever outside the door? Remember, you’d go by the house, and if the door was open, you’d see the Sacred Heart …’

‘Sure, every house had a Sacred Heart back then,’ said Helen.

‘They did not,’ said Laura. ‘And none were in your face like that.’

Edie glanced over at him. ‘Poor Patrick.’

‘Not any more,’ said Laura.

The others laughed.

‘Right,’ said Edie. ‘I’ll be back. I have a few last-minute bits to do.’

‘I’m mortified,’ said Helen, ‘Honestly. I don’t mind if we have spaghetti on toast.’

Laura rolled her eyes. ‘How about nuggets and chips? Would you eat them if she landed them up in front of you?’

‘Yes!’ said Helen.

‘You would, of course,’ said Laura. ‘Sure, you can’t say “no”!’

The others laughed.

‘What?’ said Helen.

‘Your catchphrase,’ said Clare. ‘“I couldn’t say “no”!”’

‘It is not,’ said Helen. ‘Is it? Did I say that a lot?’

Edie smiled. ‘You still do.’ She put her hand on Helen’s shoulder, and gave it a squeeze. ‘There are worse catchphrases to be known for.’

Edie did one last check of the dining table. She stopped at each place setting, turned the childhood photos right side up, and stood them against a wine glass. When she reached Patrick’s, there was the sound of paper crinkling underfoot. She stepped back and crouched down. There were two pages on the floor – lined, yellowed, ripped from a notebook, both rigid from where a red or black biro had moved back and forth across them with such force, it had broken through the page in places. Edie took them in her hand, and stood up. Her legs went weak, and she reached out for the back of the chair to steady herself. There were crude drawings of faces on each page – circles for heads, black Xs for eyes. The first had a crooked line for a mouth, and a jagged head wound, spurting blood. There was a hammer drawn beside it. The second had a large circle for a mouth, a noose around its neck and a rope that disappeared off the top of the page. HA HA HA HA HA was written to the right of it, and underneath: BYE BYE PATRICK LYNCH.

9
PATRICK
Castletownbere, 1981

Patrick was nine years old, standing in the kitchen doorway. His mother was at the sink, an empty chair beside her. She looked at him and nodded down at it.

Patrick shook into stillness. He knew he was to get up on the chair, but he didn’t know what he’d done. Nothing bad had happened in school that day. He always behaved himself. He was never late, he was always polite.

Mrs Lynch’s eyes widened. She moved towards him, reached into the pocket of her apron, and whipped out a piece of paper. She unfolded it and held it up. Before he had a chance to focus on it, she pushed it closer to his face. ‘What’s this nonsense?’ she said.

Patrick pulled his head back so he could see. It was a page she had ripped from his religion copy. On the top half was a picture he’d drawn of a boat, with a boy beside him. The sun was shining, the sky was a skinny blue strip at the top of the page, the birds were waiting for fish. What was causing the problem that his mother was pointing at now were the huge smiles on the boy and the man.

‘It’s not nonsense,’ said Patrick.

His mother turned the page around to face her. She read out loud what he had written on the lines underneath the picture – in the voice she used when she wanted him to hear himself: ‘“I am fishing with Daddy. We are on the boat. We are catching so much fish. We went to Dursey Island on the cable car. There was a sheep in it. It was so funny. We had a picnic. Then we went home.”’ She looked up at the title. ‘So that’s “My Best Day” by Patrick Lynch. Have you ever seen such nonsense in all your life?’

Patrick’s face burned, and the heat seemed to flush through his whole body. His mother was glaring at him, waiting for him to reply.

Patrick shrugged.

‘Don’t you shrug your shoulders at me!’ She shook the picture again. ‘And a big red tick beside it and a “VG, Patrick!” I’ll VG her when I see her.’

‘Don’t, Mammy! She’s so nice.’

‘Nice!’ said his mother. ‘Nice?’

‘What’s wrong with it?’ said Patrick, brave, tentative.

His mother looked at him, her face pinched, lines like arrows piercing the tight circle of her mouth.

‘What’s wrong with it?’ she mimicked.

‘Why don’t you like it?’ said Patrick.

‘Like it?’ she said. ‘This?’ She rattled the page again.

Patrick shook his head. ‘No.’ His eyes darted everywhere before they tried to settle on hers, but he couldn’t even manage that. ‘Why don’t you like it when things are nice?’

His mother stared at him. ‘Get up on that chair now this minute.’

Patrick walked towards the sink behind her, his heart hammering, his eyes never leaving the picture. She was holding it between her thumb and index finger like it was dirty. He just wanted it back. It was his favourite picture and it was his favourite imaginary day. He knelt up on the chair. She lowered her left hand into the sink, and he watched the page disappear after it.

Patrick let out a moan. ‘No, Mammy. Mammy, no!’

Mrs Lynch lifted her hand slowly from the water, and tossed the picture to one side, where it clung, briefly, to a bucket of potato skins.

The same hand went into the sink again, and she rattled the dishes around to make space. Patrick jumped at the speed her right hand came down on the back of his neck. She plunged his head under the water, and his forehead struck the edge of a thick glass tankard. His scream, reflexive, and submerged, sent a rush of bubbles from his nose and mouth.

‘Jesus Christ Almighty!’ said Mrs Lynch, yanking him up. ‘You could have split your head open on that!’

When she was angry, her sentences came in a low snarl with highs like sparks from embers. She plunged him under again.

He had time to taste the water, and it tasted of cabbage and fish and bleach. She pulled him out again, and he hung from her grip, gasping, and red-eyed. Then she gave him three hard shakes – his prompt.

‘Sorry, Mammy,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry! I’m sorry!’

She held him there, spluttering, his head bowed, a string of saliva hanging from his lip, until, eventually, her body relaxed.

Sorry was his mother’s drug. She needed to hear it for every transgression, real or concocted. She had never heard it from the husband she had kicked out. Not even on the last day she had seen him, when he left her to her insanity, and her fury, and their seven-year-old son, whose blond hair glowed red under the flickering bulb of a Sacred Heart light.

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