That evening when James Keaveney stepped through the front door of his home, he registered a change in the atmosphere. For months he’d come back to find the place empty, or with half the lights on and his wife and son sequestered in some corner of the house. Tonight, there was movement and activity, brightness and warmth. He walked down the hallway and stopped at the kitchen door.
‘There you are,’ his wife said, passing with a bundle of placemats, throwing a smile in his direction. ‘Niall,’ she shouted.
James patted down his pockets, looking for his wallet or his keys or something he’d lost – he didn’t know. Realising he was still wearing his coat, he went to hang it under the stairs.
‘I got a few lamb chops from Breslin’s this afternoon,’ his wife said, and he followed the sound of her voice back into the kitchen, looked over to where his son was now seated at the table, swinging his legs back and forth and eyeing him suspiciously.
‘Oh, great,’ he said, and he could hear the forced enthusiasm in his voice. He took his seat at the head of the table.
A plate of food was placed in front of him – boiled potatoes neat as balls of soap, glistening green broccoli, lamb chops still sizzling from the pan.
‘Now,’ his wife said, taking her place at the table and laying a dishcloth across her lap.
And then she proceeded to talk, to confound him with chatter. She spoke of the people she had encountered while running her errands, the price of petrol, the news story about politicians accepting bribes.
‘Eat your dinner,’ she said. ‘It’ll get cold.’
He had not touched his food.
‘Oh God, it’s shocking,’ he said, taking up his fork, but he did not know what he was responding to.
‘Are you listening to me?’ she asked.
‘What?’
‘I said to Niall that we might have a weekend in Galway over his Easter holidays. What do you think about that?’
‘Oh, that’s a good idea,’ he said, as the potato burned the roof of his mouth and the food spilled out onto the plate.
‘Here you go,’ his wife said, handing him the dishcloth.
He wiped his chin and saw that his son was looking at their faces in turn, examining them. He felt something on the back of his hand and looked down to see his wife’s fingertips placed gently there.
‘It would do us good to get away,’ she said.
And then he remembered what it was he had been looking for. He lifted his head and saw, at the end of the table, the contract, one half sticking out of the envelope with his wife’s signature clearly visible.
He watched Izzy clearing away dishes, the studied, clean movements she made. She knew she was being watched, her eyes alert and fearful, like a single dropped fork could bring the house crashing down.
All that night James moved around his home slowly, carefully, like any sudden movement or misjudged step might disturb the deceit he found himself participating in. It was not until several hours later, when he pressed the button on the remote control and watched the image on the television disappear, and climbed the stairs to his bedroom, that he allowed himself to believe the turn of events his life had taken was in any way real. Sitting in front of her dressing table was Izzy, every object that had been moved to the spare room now returned to its rightful place. She was wearing a white sleeveless nightdress, rubbing lotion on her arms. She looked up at him with a vague smile. He sat on the end of the bed and caught her eye in the mirror. He felt his shoulders loosen and stared down at the floor. He pulled off his shoes, tossed them aside. He heard his wife’s soft footsteps, felt the mattress dip beside him.
* * *
In her bed that night Colette Crowley lay on her side, her knees drawn to her chest, moaning softly. She had had a lot to drink. Phrases she’d written that day lumbered in her stomach. Sometimes, a soft flutter would pass through her, like the gentle beat of a bird’s wings, and she’d allow one of these phrases to grow larger, more insistent, to quell her panic at the thought of the child growing inside her. But like a fog finding its way through some crevice in her mind, the knowledge that nearby there was someone who wished to do her harm would rise up and enshroud everything. In the morning she’d need to begin the process of packing up her life. But at some point the gabble in her head quietened and all became silence and blackness and she fell into a deeper sleep than she had experienced for months.
* * *
In her bed a few hours later, Dolores Mullen turned and woke. Six months pregnant, and neat as she was, the slightest movement roused her. She settled on her back and stared at the ceiling, trying to render her mind blank. She looked to the side and saw that her husband was not in bed with her and was overcome by a feeling of emptiness. But when she closed her eyes again, she heard him entering the room. He was panting. His footfall was soft and she realised he had taken off his boots. So often he dropped down on the bed and made a great performance of pulling off his boots and discarding them on the floor, huffing and puffing as he went. Tonight he had shown her this small consideration. She opened her eyes and saw him fumbling with the buttons on his shirt, becoming agitated, pursing his lips, trying not to sound his vexation. When he climbed into the bed and pulled the covers up over him, she could tell by the stillness of him that he was just lying there, stiff as an antenna, listening out for something. The child moved inside her. She felt a tightening in her chest.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.
He did not answer. And then even the moist rasp of his breathing evaporated. He was holding his breath. The silence was complete, and into that silence a low thrum entered and rose up around them. It was like an engine heard from a distance. Or a roar coming from a mouth with a hand clamped over it. The noise was not loud, but it was everywhere, as if they were inside it.
‘Donal – what’s that?’
‘Shut up and go to sleep,’ he said.
‘Donal – you need to go out and check what that is.’
She sat up, moved the bedclothes aside. She felt his hand grip her arm, his fingers digging into her flesh.
‘Stay where you are,’ he snarled.
He swung his legs out of the bed and slowly began to gather his clothes off the floor. Dolores felt a cold sweat prickle her back, the long T-shirt she wore clinging to her in patches. ‘Hurry up, will you, before the children wake,’ she said. But still he did not quicken his pace, buttoning his shirt with care and tightening his belt. And before he left the room he cast an eye at the window. The curtains were closed but when she looked over at them there seemed to be light leaking from the narrow slit where they almost met. She climbed out of the bed and walked towards the light and when she pulled one curtain aside the brightness stung her eyes. She squinted up at the cottage. The right side of it was ablaze, flames flowing down from the windowsill and black smoke rising up, absorbed by the night sky. Grey smoke blew from the kitchen window. She was hypnotised for a moment by the unreality of it, the purity of the flames and the way, like water, they appeared to lap and lick at the air so that the night seemed marbled with fire.
‘Donal!’ she screamed. ‘Donal – call the fire brigade.’ She ran down the hall and saw him standing before the living room window, bathed in light, staring up at the cottage with his hands on his hips. ‘Donal – what the fuck are you playing at? Call the fire brigade.’ But he did not move. She ran to the phone and was dialling the numbers when Donal grabbed the phone and pulled it from her.
‘Let me go up and check first,’ he said.
‘What are you talking about? The place’ll be a shell by the time they get there. Is she up there? Do you think she’s up there? Jesus Christ, what are we going to do?’
‘Don’t be getting fucking hysterical. I’ll go up and check.’
‘You’ll not get next or near the place. You’ll be burned alive.’
And when he opened the front door a waft of heat entered the hallway but even still she was shivering and her teeth were chattering and her mouth was emitting some sound, some garbled nonsense that was just pure fear, just her body’s response to the terror she felt – and then she realised she was praying.
She called after her husband, who was already some distance away, sidling down through the front garden. He stopped at the foot of the hill and tilted his head back to look up at the cottage. She lifted the receiver again but let it hang loosely in her hand. Her husband turned and looked at her and then began to stride back towards the house. When he reached the front door, his face was beaded with sweat.
