Only We Know

by Karen Perry

  ‘Your mother would have been proud.’

  ‘Yeah, well …’

  We had reached the edge of the shore now, the water starting to turn back on itself. The tide comes in swiftly over the strand, and there are signs warning you to avoid being trapped. But we lingered for a moment, the sea lapping the toes of our shoes.

  ‘So what has you working on this story, Katie? I don’t give interviews to just anyone, you know,’ he said, in a jokey voice. ‘Did you beg the editor to let you have it? Wave our old connection in his face? Claw away the other slavering journos who were grasping for it?’

  I laughed, but it was a hollow sound, and he was waiting for an answer. It would have been so easy to make a joke of it, make some glib remark about a catfight in the board-room or sleeping with the editor. It was the kind of flippancy that came effortlessly to me. But instead, surprising myself, I told him the truth.

  ‘I didn’t want to do it, but it was foisted on me. I didn’t want to interview you, Luke. The thought of it scared me.’

  ‘Scared you?’

  I turned to him then. ‘I was scared of what it might stir up, afraid of waking old ghosts.’

  Maybe it was the way he was watching me as we paused at the edge of the water. The stillness that had come over his features and the softening in his voice. Maybe it was just that he had stopped talking about himself and his own concerns and was now focusing on mine. Whatever it was, I read it as an opening – a small, truthful space for me to slip into and for once speak plainly about my feelings. But I have never been very good at judging such moments. What I see as openings for honesty are often something else. And when I gazed up at Luke’s face that sunny morning, I saw something slip over it: a guardedness.

  He said, ‘Nothing to be afraid of,’ and something inside me seemed to plummet.

  I don’t know what I expected of him, but it was more than that. ‘Don’t you ever think of her? Don’t you ever think about what happened and wonder whether –’

  ‘No.’ He looked me full in the face, his mouth set in a stern line, anger in his eyes. ‘No, I don’t think about it, Katie. I don’t allow myself to think about it. That’s my choice. That’s how I get through my day. And if you’re wise – if you want to make something of yourself, do something with your life – then you’ll do the same. Stop dwelling on the past because thinking about it won’t change a thing. All it will achieve is your own destruction.’

  I was startled into silence, overwhelmed by the sudden change in him – his charm had fled, leaving in its wake that shell of a man cloaked in anger and fear.

  ‘What about Nick?’ I asked quietly, compelled somehow to press on. ‘Do you ever talk to him about it?’

  He laughed then, a small harsh burst that contained little amusement. ‘What would be the point, Katie? You know what he’s like.’

  I didn’t say anything after that, and neither did he, the two of us just standing at the water’s edge, taking in the ripples in the hard sand, bubbles gathering in the shallows. After a moment’s silence, he said: ‘We’d best turn back.’

  For the rest of the walk to the car park, I tried to push down the wave of disappointment that kept rising within me. Our conversation turned back to his business. In one way, I suppose, my opening up to him had seemed to produce a corresponding openness in him: on the way back to our cars, his comments took on a new candour. But there was no further mention of what had happened when we were kids or anything it might have stirred up, and for some reason, this seemed to crush me in a way I couldn’t begin to understand.

  He spoke about his father, how he had always been an inspiration and a guide when it came to economic matters. How when Ken had died, Luke had lost his father, but also a mentor.

  ‘It must have been such a shock,’ I said, remembering my own reaction to the news. A vehicle crash in the Wicklow hills. No one else involved.

  ‘It was. Even though it’s been years now, I still miss him.’

  I made some remark then about the accident, about the unfairness of such a death and about the treacherous way the road wends down into the Sally Gap. He focused on the sand in front of us, softening now where the marram grass sprouted in tufts, and his expression seemed to tighten. ‘Depends on the state of the driver, I should think,’ he said, distracted.

  Something in me held back from pressing him on it, but it had struck a discordant note in me, the suggestion of intent that cast a cool shadow over my memory of Ken Yates, sketchy as it was.

  He walked me to my car, and stood waiting while I unlocked the door and threw my bag onto the passenger seat.

  ‘I meant to get in touch with you,’ he said, ‘after Mum’s funeral. It was good of you to attend.’

  ‘That’s okay.’

  ‘It meant a lot to us – to me and Nick – that you were there. You should have stuck around afterwards, though. We never got to talk. You could have come back to the house.’

  ‘I didn’t want to intrude,’ I said, shy all of a sudden.

  It occurred to me then that, with Sally’s death, there was no one else who had been there that summer – only the three of us remained. Perhaps he thought it too, because he said next: ‘Are you in touch with Nick?’

  I shook my head: no.

  He nodded, his eyes passing over my face. ‘I don’t hear from him much myself,’ he admitted. ‘Not once since the funeral.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘You know how it is.’ He shrugged, then laughed, looking back towards the sea, but there was something sad about the way he had said it that got me thinking of the brothers and what might have happened between them.

  Then, just before we parted, he turned to me and I thought he was going to make some remark about old times, but a shadow crossed his face and he said: ‘You don’t really think they hate me, do you? Mulvey and them?’

  I laughed – I couldn’t help it. He seemed hurt or put out somehow, which was ridiculous. I’d only been winding him up.

  ‘Jesus, Luke. No. How the hell should I know what they think?’

  He nodded again briskly, then recovered himself, laughing even at his own seriousness. ‘Well, goodbye, Katie Walsh,’ he said, and leaned in towards me. I’d thought he was going to kiss my cheek, but instead he put his hands on my waist and pulled me to him and I felt his lips press against my own. He drew back and I stood there, too startled to say anything, watching him walk away from me.

  As I left the strand that day, heading back into the city, I kept thinking of that kiss – the surprise of it, the firmness of his mouth against mine, how purposeful it had felt. I was so busy thinking about it that I never stopped to consider what he had said just before it. Too distracted by all that was stirred up within me to remember how troubled he had seemed – the worry in his face – and all that it might mean.

  I think about him now and what he had said. Keeping my eyes trained on the line of the horizon, navy against the lavender grey of the evening sky, his words come back to me: Stop dwelling on the past because thinking about it won’t change a thing. For people like me and Luke the past is a closed door, a sliding bolt to contain that tentacled thing.

  My phone rings and my heart leaps in fright. My hand is shaking as I answer it.

  ‘Katie?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s me, Nick.’

  I suck in my breath and feel the fluttering in my chest cavity. ‘Nick. Is there news?’

  ‘No. He hasn’t turned up yet.’

  A sinking feeling then; the clamour of my heart quietens a little. I feel the strangeness of the silence between us.

  ‘You’re home, then,’ I say, trying to keep my voice level, hoping it doesn’t betray any of the myriad emotions that are pulsing through me right now because it’s strange hearing his voice after all this time, its soft timbre, the low, gravelled tones – pebbles under water.

  ‘Yes. We got in earlier today.’

  ‘Right. I heard you’re married. Congratulations.’ The word comes out
flat and I rest my forehead on the steering wheel, sick of myself and the tone of sarcasm that leaks into my conversation no matter what.

  ‘Listen,’ he goes on, like I haven’t mentioned anything, the same old Nick, always turning a blind eye. ‘I think we should have a talk. Can you meet me?’

  ‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Where?’

  ‘Grogan’s. I can be there in half an hour.’

  The arrangement made, I hang up, throwing my phone onto the passenger seat. In the fading light of the day, I breathe deeply, trying to collect my thoughts. Beyond the strand the headland of Shellybanks seems crushed by the weight of industry – cranes and chimneys and stacks of shipping containers all cast in a pinkish glow from the dying sunset. I watch the last of the evening walkers along the promenade and realize I’m looking for Luke among them, hopeful of catching a glimpse of him even though I know he’s not there. And when I think of his expression on the day we met, the word that comes to mind is ‘fearful’. That thought blots out any memory of the kiss, leaving a chill at the back of my neck as I start the engine and move my car away.

  6. Nick

  The taxi pulls up outside our hotel and we are greeted by a liveried doorman, with a top hat, then ushered inside the revolving doors. Inside it’s all marble floors and mirrored walls, chandeliers suspended high above us. As we walk to Reception, I can see a drawing room to the right, soft carpeting, aproned staff, armfuls of flowers in oversize vases, the room populated with elegantly dressed women sipping tea. My wife is wearing flip-flops and torn jeans, the rucksack on her back her only luggage, and it hits home how conspicuous we are, like fish out of water.

  In the lift, we stand side by side. The air between us is prickly, and it’s only when I close the door of our bedroom behind us and Lauren dumps her bag on the floor that she breaks the silence.

  ‘Say it,’ she says, in a voice that is soft but challenging. ‘Go on. Say it, Nick.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This hotel. You hate it. You think I shouldn’t have booked it.’

  I feign ignorance, but we both know she’s hit the nail on the head. To me the hotel is too upmarket for what we’re doing, but I don’t want to say so to her. The last thing I want, right now, is to get into a fight. I move past her, put my bag on the low bench at the foot of the bed, and stroll to the window which opens onto the public park that is St Stephen’s Green.

  ‘You’d rather I’d booked something cheap and out of the way, right? Some hostel for backpackers where we could bunk in a dorm with half a dozen others? I mean, it’s supposed to be our fucking honeymoon!’

  ‘Lauren –’

  She sweeps past me, having worked herself up into a rage, goes into the bathroom and slams the door behind her. I collapse into an armchair and drop my head into my hands. From the bathroom comes the sound of water running, the hum and hiss of the shower. After a minute or two, I get up and find the mini-bar, pour myself a gin and tonic, and by the time it’s finished, my nerves have calmed and my irritation has died away. When my wife emerges from the bathroom wrapped in a white robe, she is flushed and sheepish.

  ‘Feel better?’ I ask gently.

  ‘Yeah. You?’

  I hold up my empty glass. ‘Much.’

  We smile at each other then, a kind of shyness between us, and not for the first time, I wonder how much there is that we still have to learn about one another, about how we behave together, the rhythm of our marriage having yet to establish itself.

  ‘Fix me one?’ she says, sitting on the bed, one leg drawn up underneath her, towel-drying her damp hair. ‘We can find somewhere else tomorrow,’ she says, in a conciliatory tone, taking her glass, but I put my hand to her chin, tipping her face up gently so we are eye to eye.

  ‘Lauren, this place is great.’

  She smiles and I lean in and kiss her, feeling a crackle of electricity in my lips as our mouths meet. Then I lie down on the bed beside her, clasping my hands behind my head and watch as she continues drying her hair, pausing to take occasional sips of her gin and tonic.

  ‘Do you think we should have stayed with her? Julia, I mean,’ she says.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I feel bad for her, knocking around inside that massive house, all alone.’

  ‘They have lots of friends. If she’s on her own, it’s because she must want to be.’

  She swirls the drink in her glass, then asks: ‘How come they don’t have kids?’

  ‘Lots of people don’t have kids, Lauren.’

  ‘True. But how long are they married?’

  ‘I dunno. Six, maybe seven years. Why?’

  ‘You’d think they’d have kids, that’s all. So what’s the deal? Can they not have them? Is that it?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s not the kind of thing you can ask.’

  ‘He’s your brother.’

  How to explain to her that there are many things Luke and I can’t discuss? ‘I just don’t think Luke was ever really interested in children of his own.’

  ‘What about you?’ Lauren asks. She has stopped drying her hair, and is sitting very still. ‘Do you want kids?’

  Outside, the light has faded. From my place on the bed, I can see purple clouds drawing in, the night sky coming on. I hear noises from the streets beyond and try to tune into them, the music the city makes, its own distinctive beat, but there is something wrong with my hearing – as if a bubble of air has caught inside my inner ear from the flight. The room has grown dim around us, making it hard to see her expression. But I can sense its concentrated intensity.

  ‘Not yet,’ I say softly, my heart beating slowly.

  The words hang between us. If she senses my evasion, she doesn’t comment on it. There is so much that we haven’t talked about yet. I think of the commitment we have made to each other and feel a tingle of fear along my spine. The alcohol has gone straight to my head. I hadn’t expected such a confusion of emotions. Lauren leans closer to me. Her towel lies to one side, discarded, along with her empty glass. I feel her gaze dwelling on me, and a small smile drifts onto her face. I need to focus, I tell myself. I need to find out what has happened to my brother. She moves closer, lifting her body, and I can feel her breath on my neck, the glance and brush of her hair against my face.

  After we make love, she falls asleep. I feel the weight of her head resting on my arm, but I can’t close my eyes. Thoughts whirr in my head, words echoing along the corridors of my mind. I think of Luke’s study, the box of photographs and remember what Julia asked me: what did happen back then … in Kenya?

  Gently, so as not to wake her, I slip my arm out from under Lauren’s head and dress quietly in the dark. In the corridor outside, I make the call. Katie’s voice sounds strange – there’s a rasp to it that I don’t remember, as if she’s been chain-smoking Turkish cigarettes since we last met.

  ‘Can you meet me?’ I ask, and she says sure, although there’s frost in her voice.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Grogan’s,’ I tell her. ‘Half an hour.’

  I’m there before her, squeezing into a corner beneath a wall crowded with dubious artwork. The place is heaving with people and I feel lucky to have snatched a small space on a bench, hooking a stool with my foot for Katie. Despite the smoking ban, Grogan’s reeks of cigarettes and stale alcohol, as if it’s seeped into the upholstery and is trapped there for ever. The bartender’s hair falls long and limp down her back, past her hips. I’m kind of entranced by it, so much so that I don’t even notice Katie until she’s standing right in front of me.

  ‘Hello, you,’ she says, a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth.

  ‘Hey,’ I say, getting to my feet. We lean towards each other, kissing on the cheek, then draw apart, the air between us awkward and stiff.

  ‘I’ll get us a drink,’ she says, dumping her jacket on the stool. As she walks to the bar it’s as if the years have fallen away and we’re students again.

  At first glance she seems hardly to have changed. She wea
rs jeans and a tight T-shirt, her hair falling loosely to her shoulders – girlish, studenty, not the professional image I’d imagined she’d have cultivated. She holds herself with the same composure, the same self-possession, and it is only when she turns back to me, a pint in each hand, that I observe the dark shadows around her eyes, a tightness about her mouth.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, taking the pint, and waiting as she settles onto her stool, flicking her hair.

  ‘I suppose we should toast your marriage,’ she says, a smile on her face, ‘or is that inappropriate under the circumstances?’

  At first, I’m too stunned to reply. I’m so tired I’m not sure I can trust what I might say, but at the same time there seems to be an edge to her words, a hidden barb, that throws me.

  ‘Your health,’ I say.

  ‘Chin-chin,’ she replies.

  For a moment, neither of us says a word. I can’t think of how to begin this conversation. It’s been so long and I feel the gulf between us; perhaps she feels it too. She drums her fingers against her glass and jiggles a knee, casting glances at the door. It’s strange to see her again – awkward yet something of a relief: as if all our lives we have been revolving around each other, only now and then coming together before being propelled away again.

  ‘This is weird,’ she says at last.

  I can see the twitching of muscles in her jaw and the effort this is costing her. ‘I know.’

  ‘I can’t believe you got hitched … Where is she – your wife?’

  ‘She’s asleep at the hotel. Her name’s Lauren.’

  ‘Lauren,’ she says, smiling.

  I don’t know if there is a hint of jealousy in her smile, or a tinge of bitterness, as if she thinks my marriage is absurd. ‘She’s tired. It’s been a long day,’ I say.

  ‘When did you get home?’

  ‘This morning. We went straight out to see Julia.’

  ‘Julia …’ Her eyes widen.

  ‘I heard you’d been to visit.’ I let a silence drift around that, a silence that prickles with disapproval.

  She picks up on it straight away. Rolling her eyes, she lets out a sigh. ‘I was just trying to help.’