by Eoghan Egan
I’m getting sick again.
Eilish twisted, embraced the toilet bowl and waited for the nausea to pass.
A week. Sweet dreams to shit reality in seven days.
‘Eilish? Tea’s on the table.’
Eilish’s stomach convulsed at the notion of food. ‘Be there in a jiffy, Mum.’ She got to her feet. The bathroom spun, and she fell back. When the woozy spell eased, she groped for her mobile and typed a text:
Ciara.
Call me back.
I need you.
-----
Adam Styne’s mind drifted back to Monday, June second, 1997.
The day his life changed. Revision mode for the Leaving Certificate exam. Seated near the rear of a classroom, reading a magazine article about a killer who’d terrorised early morning joggers in New York’s Central Park, and paying little attention to a classmate’s query to the biology teacher, Mr O’Sullivan: “Sir, can you clarify how genetics …?”
The journalist had made comparisons between these murders, and the Zodiac killer in San Francisco over twenty-five years earlier.
It’s not Zodiac; Zodiac sent cryptic messages. This is a sniper, shooting people in the back. Zodiac never did that. The modus operandi is different. Not a copycat.
The class discussion on genetics didn’t click until the following Friday night, sitting across from both parents at the dinner table. The television flashed pictures of people entering and exiting polling stations. His father, taciturn unless he’d swigged poitín, grumbled and criticised all politicians contesting the general election, and said it was a foregone conclusion Bertie Ahern would replace John Bruton as Taoiseach. Bored, his mother used the remote to switch channels, watching nothing. Flick, flick, flick.
Adam recalled O’Sullivan’s words: “… that’s the science of genetics. For example, earlobe attachments are an inherited trait. If both parents have attached earlobes, you’ll show the same characteristics. Parents with attached earlobes cannot give birth to offspring with the dominant unattached earlobe trait.”
Adam touched his unattached lobes. Why hadn’t he noticed before? How come it never registered? That implied … No, impossible. Somebody would’ve commented before now.
For three weeks, he’d fought to concentrate on exams while his imagination ran riot, torn between a belief that the teacher was mistaken, or else they’d adopted him. A search produced no documented evidence. He became surlier, defied his father and, for the first time, hit him back. He’d got his hair cut skinhead short and awaited a response. His father, cautious as a bully now, ignored him. His mother noticed but said nothing, wary of her son’s latent ire. Then Adam’s mind swayed to the other extreme. Styne senior would never agree to an adoption. Any child he raised, had to come from his own loins.
O’Sullivan was wrong.
June twenty-first, the day after his parent’s wedding anniversary. He’d taken a break from studying and was watching a film. His mother stormed in. They’d arranged to go for an anniversary meal, but some incident on the mud bowl they called a farm forced a change in plan, prompting a transformation in her temperament.
‘Adam. What exam have you tomorrow?’
‘Don’t have any. It’s—’
‘Upstairs. Now! Go. That’s enough rubbish.’ She unplugged the television.
‘It’s—’
‘Films won’t help you pass exams.’
‘I said I don’t have—’
‘We haven’t sacrificed everything for you to drool over half-dressed actresses. If you’ve got spare time, there’s lots of work outside. Move. Or I’ll call your father.’
‘Yeah? Go on then. Call him. You can both tell me who my actual parents are.’
‘What?’
Adam stared his mother down. ‘You aren’t my parents.’
The words triggered a stinging backhand across his face. ‘How. Dare you.’ Spittle flew from Mrs Styne’s mouth. A ring gashed his lip, and the taste of blood almost made him sick, but her expression told him he’d hit a nerve.
O’Sullivan was correct.
‘You’re my son,’ she said.
‘Your son?’
‘Our son.’
‘You’re a liar.’
His mother looked away. ‘What brought this on? You must believe—’
‘A two-faced, deceitful bitch.’
Mrs Styne’s body sagged. Tears rolled.
Sudden as Adam’s fury rose, it abated into a silent rage. Aloof, he waited for his mother to regain composure before the interrogation began.
‘Who’re my real parents? Why’d they let you adopt me? Where are they? How—?’
‘I … it wasn’t … Calm down. You’re hysterical, Adam. I’d … everybody has relationship problems. We got engaged. Planned to marry in June but broke up after St Patrick’s Day … Too much drink. We were together again within a few weeks, and our marriage went ahead. John … I … I was afraid to tell him the … terrified he’d leave. What could I do? It was a different era, for God’s sake. Decades ago. It was a fling.’
Adam’s heart flipped. ‘You … got pregnant? And all these years you’ve pretended I was—?’
‘It was a once-off. I wasn’t sure if—’
‘He’s beaten me black and blue. Treats me like shit—’
‘Everything we do is for your good.’
Enraged, he’d leapt up. ‘You’re a whore.’
Shaken by the sudden, brutal way her son had exposed her past, Mrs Styne tried to pacify and plead with Adam not to divulge the secret she’d concealed for two decades. ‘I’d no one, nobody to talk to, or confide in. No parents, relatives or close friends nearby to call on for advice. I wanted to tell John. Umpteen times. I drove myself crazy with worry. After a while, it became easier to forget … no, I don’t mean forget, that’s impossible. It became simpler over the years to leave bad memories behind. Please, Adam, let this rest.’
He couldn’t.
Instead, he’d pumped his mother for more information, showing neither sympathy nor mercy. ‘So you’ve lived a lie? Forced him to rear your bastard?’
‘I wanted you to have the best. A child requires both parents, Adam. I had to keep the … it to myself. I convinced myself you were John’s son.’
‘Liar. You knew.’
‘Of course, I … Adam, can’t you understand? I’m a mother. I chose to give you the best opportunities—’
‘For yourself, you mean. You’ve destroyed two lives—’
‘I couldn’t bear for John to work himself into a state every time he’d look at you and see another man’s image in your features.’
Her words propelled Adam into a frenzy. A blinding headache pierced his skull. He’d grabbed his mother and throttled her. She’d clawed the air, and he’d squeezed until her eyes bulged. As her struggles abated, realisation dawned that his mother was more useful alive. Adam relaxed his grip, watched her fight for breath. He was back in control. These people were dead to him. First, though, they’d pay. Then he’d get out.
From that day, Adam ensured a gauze of guilt shrouded his mother. He’d confronted, criticised and condemned, dangled the secret like the sword of Damocles, not satisfied till he’d crushed Mrs Styne’s will. The more fear she displayed, the more bullish and unrelenting her son became, weaving a tapestry of terror, and threatening to expose the closet skeletons if she didn’t satisfy his demands. He didn’t ask about his real father.
Didn’t care.
He demanded nicer accommodation. Holidays. He’d no idea how she’d swayed John to hand over the money.
Didn’t care.
His mother’s lifelong concern of too much body fat became a non-issue. She lost weight and became stooped, round-shouldered in defeat. Some weekends, he worked alongside John, and this calculated action left Mrs Styne in a state of frantic ambiguity, making her more receptive to requests.
She’d started drinking.
Adam monitored the steady increase in alcohol consumption, unconcerned. H
is relentless barrage persisted, despite his mother telling him she wished for death. When she’d nothing more to give, Adam told John the truth. Two days later, John smashed his car into a tree. Authorities deemed it a drunk-driving accident, but Adam knew. He secured the farm in his own name.
Mrs Styne suffered prolonged bouts of depression, abetted by an enlarged appetite for whiskey and painkillers. The weight of the guilty conscience she carried for a quarter-century, and exacerbated by her son’s censure, inflicted irreparable emotional damage. Mrs Styne lived each day in a drink-induced stupor. Drugs and mental torture kept her compliant—a virtual house prisoner. She became a submissive victim.
A month before his wedding, Adam decided it could have a grave effect on his long-term plans if the Hattingers met his drunken embarrassment of a mother.
No alternative.
He’d called her upstairs. Pissed, as usual, Mrs Styne huffed her way to the landing, and a push sent her backwards. Brittle bones broke as she crashed thirteen steps. Unlucky for some. One little thrust for a greater good.
Adam stared as her mouth opened and closed; a fish out of water. Blood pulsed from a gash on her arm, and he stepped across the body, ached to kick her twisted neck, but slipped outside, abandoning his mother at her hour of death. He’d delayed his return until he was confident she’d died. Sniffed her piss and blood when he’d returned, bracing himself for an Oscar winner’s performance. Thoughts of her gore-stained clothes and skin repulsed him, but he’d have to handle her; that’s what a devoted son was apt to do upon discovering his mother’s dead body. He’d left the overcoat on, called the ambulance, positioned himself in a way to contact the least amount of contamination, and cried. Could have wept all night, but calculated police may interpret anything over three hours as artificial. Gardaí tiptoed around as he cradled his mother. A post-mortem uncovered the years of alcohol and painkiller abuse, and the verdict of accidental death was a formality. Adam wasn’t questioned or asked for a statement. At the funeral, people shook their heads at the heartbreak of losing both parents in horrific accidents.
For years he continued to nurse a deep repulsion for his mother, and by default, all single mothers. He trained himself to compartmentalise and control these emotions, dedicating the next decade to building a stellar business reputation. Until Thursday, March twelfth, 2015, his mother’s anniversary.
The conference in Sligo dragged; his blinding headache, unbearable. He’d called into a pharmacy to buy painkillers, and his mother walked by. Identical shuffle. Same mulled wine-coloured coat with matching handbag. The woman stayed on Adelaide Street, paused to chat with two pensioners. Adam strolled on by Hawk’s Well Theatre. A quick glimpse behind him. The woman had disappeared. A flood of resentment bubbled in his brain. Now he knew why he was doing this.
He wanted to kill his mother again.
Doubled back to John Street. Passed a church. Glimpsed a red blur inside before the heavy door closed. He’d followed. Into the narthex, through another entrance into the nave, and looked around. A single aisle, with pews on either side.
Nothing changes in churches.
Dim. The warm smell of candle wax and incense. The woman in the red coat stood at a Regal Votive candle stand, positioned under an alabaster statue. She lit half-a-dozen candles, and the flickering light made Our Lady’s crown glow. He watched the woman genuflect and kneel in a pew, the rosary beads yo-yoing in her hand, each bead the size of a hazelnut shell. Her lips moved in silent prayer as she ticked off Hail Mary’s with a thumbnail.
Styne slipped into the seat behind the penitent in the pew, checked no one else was in the church. He’d reached forward, encircled an arm around her neck and pulled the woman back. Propped his knees for leverage, locked both arms and cranked. Right. Left. Right again. The woman’s back arched, fingernails tore and scraped skin from his wrists. The beads broke and slipped from her grasp. On the third twist, the cervical vertebrae dislodged. A loud crack, similar to the sound his mother’s neck made. The resonance rang around the cavernous church. He let go. The woman slumped forward, her forehead resting on the back crest of the bench in front.
A door slammed.
Styne’s heart stopped.
An old man, stiff with age, hobbled from the sacristy to the altar. Styne moved away from the woman and watched from behind a concrete column. The man moved around the chancel, stepped onto a ladder and draped a statue in an emerald green cloak.
Heart palpitating, hands slick with sweat, Adam darted for the exit. Stopped. Wavered. What if he’d left traces?
Should I hide the body? No, run.
Our Lady’s eyes seemed to glare in the candlelight.
He ran.
Drive around and collect the body. No. Too dangerous. Leave the body. No. Potential exposure. DNA. Forensics will pick up my traces from the woman’s clothes or skin. So what? My DNA isn’t on file. Better chance it, rather than risk getting caught. Or, if I park at the church gate and carry her out? Drape a coat around her? Fifteen seconds. Less. Ten seconds. No, too risky. Leave her.
Soaked with sweat, mind in a tizzy, he’d driven blind, lost in the one-way street system. Stopped at a pedestrian crossing on O’Connell Street. Gazed at a suitcase in a shop window.
Bag shop.
Destiny.
He’d parked on a double yellow line and run inside. The biggest suitcase, an eighty-two-centimetre aluminium Samsonite with a hard shell and frame, cost three hundred euro. Had to use a credit card, even though the transaction could get traced.
No choice.
Two left turns brought him to a side road beside the church. Adam wheeled the suitcase up the path, the rumble of the wheels smothered by the high-pitched whine of a hoover. The sexton vacuumed the altar steps, and along the side aisle, dragging the equipment after him. Adam crossed to the other aisle, blessed himself at the first Station of the Cross, and pretended to pray, prepared to kill the sexton too, if necessary.
The dust-catcher knocked against a confessional box. The sexton turned off the motor, squirted liquid polish on seats, gave them a vigorous rub, and nodded to the woman who appeared deep in prayer, or asleep. He glided the chamois leather along the confessional stall, struck out at, and missed, a cobweb that waved from an upper corner of the wood frame. Then, the man shambled back to the altar, unplugged the electric cord and reconnected it in a socket at the rear of the church, tugged the vacuum behind him, yanked the tube when it caught the side of the suitcase, crossed the aisle, repeated the process and cloth flick. Halfway up the aisle, he limped back, removed the plug from the socket, reconnected again near the altar …
Styne wanted to strangle him.
… then unfurled a green altar cloth in preparation for St Patrick’s Day.
Bang. A door closed. The noise, gunfire loud, made Adam jump. The sexton went into the sacristy.
Clear. Styne unlocked the suitcase, hauled the woman’s body into the aisle, doubled up her legs, packed her in and knelt on the lid. Zipped it shut. Done.
A middle-aged couple stepped aside at the church entrance to let him pass. Adam dipped his finger into a holy water font, blessed himself, and wheeled the corpse out.
The couple smiled.
With the suitcase in the car boot, his thoughts centred on getting rid of the body.
Where? Woods offer the best choice. More camouflage.
In a garden centre, he bought a spade, torch, canvas sack and a pickaxe, before driving in ever-increasing circles, seeking a suitable site. It took hours to find a well-trodden track at the foothill of Knocknarea. He strayed off-trail and started to dig in the fading light. An hour’s grunt work hardly dented the undergrowth. Friction tore skin off his hands when the pickaxe blade stuck in tree roots. He’d abandoned that site. Found another. Same result. He’d driven through Collooney and Castlebaldwin, wondering what to say if he got stopped at a checkpoint. His guilty face would give him away.
What possible explanation would work?
Lough Key sh
immered in the moonbeam.
Too exposed, but another of the lakes? Feasible.
He’d taken the N4 east from Boyle, aimed for Knockvicar. Spotted a dry sandstone wall, and prised several rocks loose, hefted them in next to the suitcase, and travelled another two kilometres to gain access to the water.
Isolated, this time of night.
A concrete platform, built for anglers, had several rowboats moored along its length. He unfolded the body, rolled it into the canvas sack, filled the remaining space with stones, and searched the car for twine or a piece of rope to seal the bag.
Nothing.
Panic.
Until the thin strip from a wire-bound notebook solved that problem. Tried, and botched an attempt to pitch the sack; knew he hadn’t the strength or momentum to heave it far enough. Rowing into deep water was his only choice. More heart-stopping moments when the extended water weeds hindered the half-submerged body, but it found a pathway, and its disappearance in a rush of air bubbles was a relief. Whatever length of time it took the sack to disintegrate and the fish to feed on her flesh, the weeds would keep the evidence submerged.
A week later, he’d read about Denise Alexander’s disappearance. A retired teacher. He’d burned the suitcase and handbag and felt inner peace once the fear of getting caught subsided. The demons were sated, but only until the next anniversary. Then he’d got the urge to kill again.
Styne opened the door and turned on the dimmer switch.
The single low-watt filament bulb bathed the windowless space in orange light. Cold and dank seeped from a bare cement floor, the room barren except for a chair and a rug. The air stank of mildew. He hadn’t been in here since the Isobel Stewart sanitation session. He threw the plastic ties in a corner, changed into farm clothes and left his phone on the kitchen table. Wouldn’t need it till afterwards. Now, manual labour was necessary to release pent-up energy.
Otherwise, I’ll get over-enthusiastic and kill Ciara McGuire too fast.
