For one last second, I saw Broken Harbor the way it should have been. The lawn mowers buzzing and the radios blasting sweet fast beats while men washed their cars in the drives, the little kids shrieking and swerving on scooters; the girls out jogging with their ponytails bouncing, the women leaning over the garden fences to swap news, the teenagers shoving and giggling and flirting on every corner; color exploding from geranium pots and new cars and children’s toys, smell of fresh paint and barbecue blowing on the sea wind. The image leapt out of the air, so strong that I saw it more clearly than all the rusting pipes and potholed dirt. I said, “That’s a shame.”
“It’s good riddance. It should’ve happened four years ago, before this place was ever built: burn the plans and walk away. Better late than never.”
I had got the hang of the estate: I got us to the Spains’ house on the first try, without asking Fiona for directions—she had vanished into her mind again, and I was happy to leave her there. When I parked the car and opened my door, the wind roared in, filling my ears and my eyes like cold water.
I said, “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Go through the motions of finding something in your pocket, just in case someone’s watching.” The Gogans’ curtains hadn’t moved, but it was only a matter of time. “If anyone comes over to you, don’t talk to them.” Fiona nodded, out the window.
The padlock was still in place: the souvenir hunters and ghouls were biding their time. I found the key I had taken off Dr. Dolittle. When I stepped inside out of the wind, the instant silence rang in my ears.
I rummaged through kitchen cupboards, not bothering to stay clear of the blood spatter, till I found a bin-liner. I took it upstairs and threw things into it, working fast—Sinéad Gogan was presumably glued to her front window by now, and would be happy to tell anyone who asked exactly how long I had spent in here. When I was done, I put on my gloves and opened Jenny’s jewelry box.
The charm bracelet was laid out in a little compartment all its own, ready to put on. The golden heart, the tiny golden house, glowing in the soft light drifting through the cream lampshade; the curly E, chips of diamond sparkling; the J, enameled in red; the diamond drop that must have been for Jenny’s twenty-first. There was plenty of room left on the chain, for all the wonderful things that had still been going to happen.
I left the bin-liner on the floor and took the bracelet into Emma’s room. I switched on the light—I wasn’t about to do this with the curtains open. The room was the way Richie and I had left it when we finished searching: tidy, full of thought and love and pink, only the stripped bed to tell you something had happened here. On the bedside table the monitor was flashing a warning: 12º. TOO COLD.
Emma’s hairbrush—pink, with a pony on the back—was on her chest of drawers. I picked out the hairs carefully, matching the lengths, holding them up—they were so fine and fair, at the wrong angle they vanished into the light—to find the ones with roots and skin tags still attached where a careless sweep of the brush had tugged too hard. In the end I had eight.
I smoothed them together into a tiny lock, held the roots between thumb and finger and wound the other end into the charm bracelet. It took me a few tries—on the chain, the clasp, the little gold heart—before it caught tightly enough, in the loop holding the enameled J, that a tug jerked the hairs free of my fingers and left them fluttering against the gold.
I put the bracelet around one hand and pulled till a link bent open. It left a red mark across my palm, but Jenny’s wrists had been covered with bruises and abrasions where Pat had tried to hold her off. Any one of them, blurred by the others, could have come from the bracelet.
Emma had fought; Cooper had told us that already. For a moment she had managed to pull the pillow off her head. As Jenny scrabbled to get it back into place, her bracelet had snagged in Emma’s whipping hair. Emma had grabbed hold of it, yanked till a weak link bent, then lost her grip; her hand had been trapped under the pillow again, nothing left in it but a few strands of her own hair.
The bracelet had stayed on Jenny’s wrist while she finished what she was doing. As she went downstairs to find Pat, the bent link had slipped loose.
Probably it wouldn’t be enough for a conviction. Emma’s hair could have snagged in the bracelet as Jenny brushed it before bed, that last evening; the link could have caught on a door handle as she rushed downstairs to see what the commotion was. The whole thing was dripping with reasonable doubt. But together with everything else, it would be enough to arrest her, charge her, to keep her on remand while she waited for trial.
That can take a year or more. By then Jenny would have spent plenty of time with various psychiatrists and psychologists, who would shower her with meds and counseling and everything else that would give her a chance of stepping back from that windswept edge. If she changed her mind about dying, she would plead guilty: there was nothing else she needed to get out for, and a guilty plea would take the shadow off Pat and Conor both. If she didn’t change her mind, then someone would spot what she was planning—in spite of what some people think, most mental-health professionals know their job—and do what they could to keep her somewhere safe. I had told Fiona the truth: it wasn’t perfect, far from it, but there was no place left for perfect in this case.
Before I left Emma’s room I pulled back one of her curtains and stood at the window, looking out at the rows of half-houses and the beach beyond them. The winter was starting to draw in; it was barely three o’clock, but already the light was gathering that evening melancholy and the blue had leached out of the sea, leaving it a restless gray streaked with white foam. In Conor’s hide, the plastic sheeting thrummed with the wind; the houses around it threw crazy shadows on the unpaved road. The place looked like Pompeii, like some archaeological discovery preserved to let tourists wander through it—openmouthed and neck-craning, trying to picture the disaster that had wiped it bare of life—for a brief few years, until it collapsed to dust, until anthills grew up in the middle of kitchen floors and ivy twined around light fixtures.
I closed Emma’s door behind me, gently. On the landing floor, next to a coil of power cable running into the bathroom, Richie’s precious video camera pointed up at the attic hatch and blinked a tiny red eye to show that it was recording. A little gray spider had already built a hammock of web between the camera and the wall.
Up in the attic, the wind poured in at the hole under the eaves with a high fluttering wail like a fox or a banshee. I squinted up into the open hatch. For an instant I thought I saw something move—a shifting and coalescing of the black, a deliberate muscled ripple—but when I blinked, there was only darkness and the flood of cold air.
The next day, once the case was closed, I would send Richie’s tech back out to collect the camera, inspect every frame of the footage and write me a report in triplicate about anything he saw. There was no reason why I shouldn’t have flipped up the little built-in monitor and fast-forwarded through the footage myself, kneeling there on the landing, but I didn’t do it. I already knew there was nothing there.
* * *
Fiona was leaning against the passenger door, staring blankly at the skeleton house where we had talked to her that first day, with a cigarette sending up a thin thread of smoke between her fingers. As I reached her she threw the cigarette into a pothole half full of murky water.
“Here are your sister’s things,” I said, holding up the bin-liner. “Are these what you had in mind, or would you like anything different?”
“That stuff’s fine. Thanks.”
She hadn’t even glanced over. For a dizzy second I thought she had changed her mind. I said, “Are you all right?”
Fiona said, “Looking at the house reminded me. The day we found them—Jenny and Pat and the kids—I picked this up.”
She brought her hand out of her pocket, curled as if she were holding something. I held out my palm, cupped close around the bracelet to shield it from watchers and from the wind, and she opened her empty one ab
ove it.
I said, “You should touch it, just in case.”
She clasped her hand around the bracelet, tight, for a moment. Even through my gloves, I could feel the cold of her fingers.
I said, “Where did you get this?”
“When the policemen went in the house, that morning, I followed them. I wanted to know what was going on. I saw this at the bottom of the stairs, like right up against the bottom stair. I picked it up—Jenny wouldn’t want it getting kicked around the floor. I put it in my coat pocket. There’s a hole in my pocket; this went down into the lining. I forgot about it, till now.”
Her voice was thin and flat; the ceaseless roar of the wind scudded it away, into the raw concrete and rusted metal. “Thank you,” I said. “I’ll look into it.”
I went round to the driver’s side and opened the door. Fiona didn’t move. It wasn’t until I had put the bracelet into an evidence envelope, labeled it carefully and tucked it into my coat pocket that she straightened up and got into the car. She still didn’t look at me.
I started the car and drove us out of Broken Harbor, maneuvering around the potholes and the straggles of wire, with the wind still slamming against the windows like a wrecking ball. It was that easy.
* * *
The caravan site was farther up the beach than the Spains’ house, maybe a hundred yards to the north. When Richie and I had walked through the dark to Conor Brennan’s hide, and back again with him between us and our case all solved, we had probably crossed over the spot where my family’s caravan used to stand.
The last time I saw my mother was outside that caravan, on our last evening at Broken Harbor. My family had gone up to Whelan’s for a big farewell dinner; I had made myself a couple of quick ham sandwiches in our kitchenette and I was getting ready to go out, to meet the gang down at the beach. We had flagons of cider and packets of cigarettes stashed in the sand dunes, flagged by blue plastic bags tied in the marram grass; someone was going to bring a guitar; my parents had said I could stay out till midnight. The smell of Lynx Musk deodorant hanging in the caravan, the low rich light through the windows hitting the mirror so that I had to duck sideways to gel my hair into careful spikes; Geri’s case open and already half packed on her bunk, Dina’s little white hat and sunglasses thrown on hers. Somewhere kids were laughing and a mother was calling them in to dinner; a faraway radio was playing “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic” and I sang along, under my breath in my new deep voice, and thought of the way Amelia pushed back her hair.
Jeans jacket on, running down the caravan steps, and then I stopped. My mother was sitting outside, in one of the little folding chairs, her head tilted back to watch the sky turning peach and gold. Her nose was sunburned and her soft fair hair was falling out of its bun from a day of lying in the sun, building sand castles with Dina, walking by the waterline hand in hand with my father. The hem of her long skirt, pale-blue cotton dotted with white flowers, lifted and swirled in the breeze.
Mikey, she said, smiling up at me. You’re looking very handsome.
I thought you were up at the pub.
Too many people. That should have been my first clue. It’s so lovely here. So peaceful. Look.
I shot a token glance at the sky. Yeah. Pretty. I’m going down to the beach, remember I said? I’ll be—
Sit down here with me a minute. She reached out a hand, beckoning.
I’ve got to go. The lads are—
I know. Just a few minutes.
I should have known. But she had seemed so happy, all those two weeks. She was always happy at Broken Harbor. Those were the only two weeks of the year when I could be just a normal guy: nothing to guard against except saying something stupid in front of the lads, no secrets prowling the back of my mind except the thoughts of Amelia that turned me red at all the wrong moments, nothing to watch for except big Dean Gorry who fancied her too. I had relaxed into it. All year long, I had watched and worked so hard; I thought I deserved this. I had forgotten that God, or the world, or whatever carves the rules in stone, doesn’t give you time off for good behavior.
I sat on the edge of the other chair and tried not to jiggle. Mum leaned back and sighed, a contented, dreamy sound. Look at that, she said, and stretched out her arms towards the flirt and rush of the water. It was a soft evening, lavender waves lapping and the air sweet and salty as caramel, only a high thin haze in the sunset to say that the wind might turn on us and bite down sometime in the night. There’s nowhere like here, sure there isn’t. I wish I never had to go home. Don’t you?
Yeah. Probably. It’s nice.
Tell me something. That blond girl, the one with the nice dad who gave us milk that day we ran out. Is she your girlfriend?
Jesus! Mum! I was twisting with embarrassment.
She didn’t notice. Good. That’s good. Sometimes I worry that you don’t have girlfriends because… Another small sigh, as she brushed hair off her forehead. Ah, that’s good. She’s a lovely girl; she’s got a lovely smile.
Yeah. Amelia’s smile, the way her eyes came up sideways to meet mine; the curve of her lip that made me want to bite it. I guess.
Take good care of her. Your dad’s always taken good care of me. My mother smiled, reached across the gap between the chairs to pat my hand. So have you. I hope that girl knows how lucky she is.
We’ve only been going out a few days.
Are you going to keep on seeing each other?
I shrugged. Don’t know. She’s from Newry. In my head I was already sending Amelia mix tapes, writing out the address in my best handwriting, picturing the girl-bedroom where she would listen to them.
Stay in touch. You’d have beautiful children.
Mum! We’ve only known each other—
You never know. Something skimmed across her face, something swift and frail as the shadow of a bird on water. You never know, in this life.
Dean had a million little brothers and sisters, his parents didn’t care where he was; he would be down on the beach already, ready and waiting to leap on his chance. Mum, I have to go. OK? Can I?
I was half off my seat, legs braced ready to shoot me off through the dunes. Her hand reached across the gap again, caught hold of mine. Not yet. I don’t want to be on my own.
I glanced up the path towards Whelan’s, praying, but it was empty. Dad and the girls’ll be back any minute.
We both knew it would be longer than that. Whelan’s was where all the caravan-park families went: Dina would be running around playing catch and shrieking with the other little kids, Dad would get into a game of darts, Geri would sit on the wall outside flirting for just one more minute. Mum’s hand was still wrapped around mine. There are things I need to talk to you about. Things. It’s important.
My head was full up with Amelia, with Dean, with the wild sea-smell surging in my blood, with the whole cider-tasting world of night and laughter and mystery that was waiting for me in those dunes. I thought she wanted to talk about love, girls, maybe God forbid sex. Yeah, OK, just not now. Tomorrow, when we get home—just I have to go, Mum, seriously, I’m meeting Amelia—
She’ll wait for you. Stay with me. Don’t leave me on my own.
The first note of desperation rising through her voice, tainting the air like toxic smoke. I whipped my hand out from under hers as if it had burned me. Tomorrow at home I would have been ready for this, but not here, not now. The unfairness of it slashed like a whip across the face, left me stunned, outraged, blinded. Mum. Just don’t.
Her hand still outstretched towards mine, ready to clutch. Please, Mikey. I need you.
So what? It exploded out of me, took all my breath and left me panting. I wanted to punch her out of my way, out of my world. I’m so fucking sick of taking care of you! You’re the one who’s supposed to be taking care of me!
Her face, stricken, openmouthed. The sunset light gilding away the gray in her hair, turning her young and shimmering, ready to vanish into its blinding brightness. Oh, Mike. Oh, Mike, I
’m so sorry—
Yeah. I know. Me too. I was shifting on the chair, scarlet with shame and defiance and hideous embarrassment, dying to get out of there even more. Just forget it. I didn’t mean it.
You did. I know you did. And you’re right. You shouldn’t have to… Oh, God. Oh, love, I’m so sorry.
It’s OK. It’s fine. Bright flashes of color were moving in the dunes, long-legged shadows stretching in front of them as they ran towards the water. A girl laughed; I couldn’t tell whether it was Amelia. Can I go?
Yes. Of course. Go. Her hand twisting among the flowers of her skirt. Don’t worry, Mike, love. I won’t do this to you again. I promise. You have a gorgeous evening.
As I jumped up—already putting up a hand to gingerly triple-check my hair, running my tongue over my teeth to make sure they were clean—she caught me by the sleeve. Mum, I have to—
I know. Just a second. She pulled me down, pressed her hands to my cheeks and kissed my forehead. She smelled of coconut suntan oil, of salt, of summer, of my mother.
Afterwards people blamed my father. We had done a good job, he and I and Geri, of keeping our secret locked safe inside our own four walls; too good. No one had ever suspected the days when my mother couldn’t stop crying, the weeks when she lay in bed staring at the wall; but back then neighbors watched out for each other, or watched each other, I’m not sure which it was. The whole road knew there had been weeks when she didn’t come out of the house, days when she could only manage a faint hello or when she tucked her head down and scurried away from their curious eyes.
The adults tried to be subtle, but every condolence had a question swaying in the undercurrent; the guys in school didn’t even try, half the time. They all wanted to know the same things. When she kept her head down, was she hiding black eyes? When she stayed indoors, was she waiting for ribs to heal? When she went into the water, was it because my father had sent her there?