Twisted River

by Siobhan MacDonald

  “It’s no problem at all.” Kate took the bag.

  Once inside the lift she took a look. Du Bois had made her curious but it was only a book with a note stuck on the front:

  Mrs. Harvey,

  You left this in Viand last Thursday.

  Thought you might like it returned.

  Anita

  Back in the apartment, Kate offered to make a pot of tea. They had only an hour to spare before heading out again. Mannix had collapsed onto the sofa without even taking off his coat, hat, or scarf. He was surfing the TV channels with the remote. Every channel was carrying the same news story.

  “Snow, snow, snow. Yeah, we get it, guys,” he muttered.

  Kate listened to him muttering as she walked across the kitchen floor enjoying the cool feel of the marble floor on her bare and swollen feet. She put on the kettle to make tea.

  As she waited for the kettle, her eyes fell again on the Duane Reade bag. What did Hazel Harvey read? What kind of a person was she? Hazel Harvey had come across as personable but reserved in her e-mails and on Skype. It was difficult to tell what she was like, not having met her face-to-face. What did feel peculiar to Kate was that every time Hazel Harvey’s name came up, Du Bois bristled protectively. This woman was in Kate’s house in Ireland. Curiosity aroused, she took the book out of the bag and looked at it again.

  Oh, shit!

  She did a double take at first. She felt as if she’d been slapped. Shocked, she dropped the book onto the work surface, letting the cover slam shut. There had been nothing on the spine or the front cover to indicate what it was. Nothing to indicate its contents. Japanese lacquerwork. A gold ribbon acting as a placeholder. Nothing more. Tentatively, she picked it up again. She knew she shouldn’t. But she couldn’t help herself. Had she really read those words? She quickly fanned through the pages again. There it was. At the bottom of the page. She read the diary entry for a second time.

  September 4—I can still hear it. The hissing in my ear. The smell of garlic on his breath. You’re a cunt he hisses. A prize cunt. I find it hard to write. To see those words on paper. But I need to keep a record. Over and over he repeats it. His face contorted with rage. I am afraid.

  Kate felt herself go cold. This was not a conventional diary. No preprinted dates. It was more like a notebook with a mishmash of diary entries and scribblings. Her heart in her mouth, Kate turned the page.

  September 5—Met Elizabeth today. She agrees that it’s a good idea to record everything. She is angry with me too. All of a sudden it’s like everyone’s angry with me. Oscar, Elizabeth, even the kids.

  The writing was neat, written in blue pen. She read on.

  September 11—Getting flashbacks. It’s over a week ago now but I’m still trying to make sense of it. How it happened. I need to get it clear in my head. This time he accused me of showing him disrespect, that I do not value his opinion. I find myself wondering if I have been unfair in any way. I know I cannot let myself condone this behavior. Yet I’m trying to rationalize his response. Sometimes I think it’s my fault, I shouldn’t have laughed. He thought I was laughing at him, not laughing with him. I know things haven’t been easy for him. I’m confused. I feel powerless, like he’s the one controlling everything.

  September 12—Think he suspects I’ve been talking. He said if I told anyone, he wouldn’t stand for it. Told me it would be over. I try not to show my fear. As long as I stay composed and look like I’m in control, there is hope. I have been here before I say to myself. I can find a way through this.

  The writing became bigger, more uneven, no longer sticking to the confines of the pale-blue lines. As if the entries were made in haste. Kate wondered now if, like she was doing, Du Bois too had scanned through the pages. Could that explain his hesitation?

  September 13—We are going to Ireland. I can find a way through this. I could leave, I know that. But I cannot admit failure. I have invested too much.

  September 17—Flashbacks getting worse. I cannot sleep. Afraid to go to bed. I toy with the idea of telling Helen. And then I think the better of it. She knows we are going to Ireland but she doesn’t know why.

  “What happened to that tea?” called Mannix from the sofa.

  “Just coming!” Kate shouted back, her stomach feeling sick.

  She quickly leafed through a few more pages. Some entries weren’t even dated. Lopsided scrawls that were hard to read. She tilted the journal, trying to decipher the letters. And then there was another spate of dated entries.

  October 10—Feel like I’m going mad.

  October 11—Went to the dog run today and pretended to read.

  October 13—Went to the dog run again. I think about going back to work.

  October 14—Had palpitations last night. Work not a good idea.

  “I’m dying of thirst in here,” Mannix shouted again.

  Snapping the cover shut, she dropped the journal on the table as if it had bitten her.

  “You okay?” Mannix took the mug from her. “You look a bit pale.”

  “No, I’m fine,” she replied, still in shock from what she’d read.

  “We don’t have to go out, you know. We don’t have to go to this show—I mean, if you’re withered from all the walking . . .”

  “God, no.” She couldn’t miss the show for Fergus. “Of course we’re going. I’m just a bit tired, that’s all. It’d be a sin to miss it. I just need to get off my feet a minute.”

  “Here, get them up next to me.” He patted the sofa. “Rest your weary little feet.”

  Leaving her mug of tea on the coffee table, she did as he said. She lay with her head against the armrest as Mannix rubbed her feet and calves. The gentle pressure of his fingers did little to stop the alarm bells ringing in her head.

  • • •

  In terms of a spectacle, War Horse lived up to expectations. The puppetry was on a scale Kate hadn’t seen before. Fergus was enchanted, and for long stretches at a time he even forgot about the foot tapping that usually beset him in the cinema or at a show. Izzy too drank it all in with her big dark eyes.

  Kate didn’t tell Mannix about the disturbing diary. She didn’t want to spoil their holiday. Hazel Harvey’s life was none of their business and Kate had inadvertently violated the woman’s privacy to no good end. There was nothing to be done, Kate told herself.

  Surprisingly, she slept well that night and woke to find Mannix in front of the television. The news was full of stories of the freak October snowstorm and power outages across the state and in New Jersey. Parts of Central Park were closed, as branches still in leaf and heavy with snow were breaking and falling to the ground. The Con Ed electricity company was working around the clock to restore power. Halloween trick-or-treating was in danger of being canceled.

  “We are still going to the Empire State, though, aren’t we?” Fergus was dressed and ready to go. Kate could almost see cartoon dust wheels spinning from his little heels.

  Barely an hour later, they were standing outside on Thirty-fourth Street. “So, Soldier, this is it!” Kate declared to Fergus as they shuffled in the roped-off queues. He trembled with excitement. As they exited the first lift, Kate could feel the subtle vibrations of the building as it swayed. Fergus surveyed the King Kong posters on the walls as they waited a full five minutes for the next lift up to the observation deck.

  As the lift doors opened and Kate walked toward the outdoor terrace, she experienced a momentary sensation of dizziness as her eyes adjusted to the scale of the panorama outside. “Hang on, just a minute, Soldier.” Mannix put a hand on Fergus’s shoulder, restraining him a moment. The wraparound terrace was wedged with tourists jostling for a viewing space. Mannix cut a path through the crowd and managed to corral the four of them into a corner next to a viewfinder. And for the next twenty minutes, Fergus remained frozen to the spot, with the lens of the viewfinder welded to
his face.

  Kate looked out west to New Jersey and then downtown to the tower blocks of the Financial District. She thought how vulnerable they looked, there on the very tip of the flat island. The iconic buildings, bastions of capitalism, screamed out to be noticed. She thought back to the events of 9/11 and imagined how surreal it must have been to see those planes as they fireballed into the World Trade Center. She shivered and said a quiet prayer for all the lost souls.

  Mannix kept shifting position to shield them from the icy blasts. How cozy and safe he made them feel. What a tight family unit they must look, thought Kate. But looks could be deceiving. Her thoughts slipped back to Hazel’s diary. What exactly was going on inside the Harveys’ marriage? What was happening in Kate’s house at Curragower Falls?

  Later that morning, they walked about with no particular purpose in mind, past the New York Public Library and on until they reached an entrance to Central Park at Columbus Circle. As they entered the park, some paths were cordoned off with tape. Tree surgeons were busy dealing with branches that had split under the weight of snow. Fergus began to complain of hunger. Until now he had been happily silent, savoring the morning’s experience. Rounding the crest of a small hillock, they found themselves at a pagoda-style coffee shop, Le Pain Quotidien. Izzy was struggling to say it correctly.

  “What do you think about this Halloween Parade tomorrow?” asked Kate over lunch.

  “Sounds great. It’s in Greenwich Village, yeah? I definitely want to go there.”

  Kate knew they’d lose him for at least a couple of hours to the secondhand music stores.

  “Okay, so we’ll do that Circle Line cruise in the morning—the one that goes from Forty-second Street around the bottom of Manhattan and then head to Greenwich Village afterward?”

  “You’re the boss,” said Mannix.

  • • •

  “I think I’ll Skype the Harveys.”

  Back at Riverside Drive, Kate could no longer contain her unease.

  “Isn’t that a bit like checking up on them?” said Mannix. “They’d contact us if there was a problem.”

  “You know what? It’s six P.M. there now. I’ll Skype, and if they’re in, they’re in, and if they’re not, they’re not.”

  Kate set herself up at the screen on the pull-out console table in the kitchen. The call was answered within seconds.

  “Oh, hi there, Kate! How wonderful to see you in our home . . .” A jittery Hazel Harvey zoomed into view.

  It felt surreal to see Hazel in their study back at Curragower Falls. Kate went through some chitchat and apologized for borrowing a pair of Hazel’s shoes when her own had been soaked in the snow. Interpreting Hazel’s face and body language was difficult with the jerky video delay, but Kate felt her instincts had been right. Hazel Harvey looked upset.

  “I’m going to cut to the chase here, Kate. I’m afraid there’s been an accident.”

  Kate prickled with alarm. So she had been right.

  “Can you hold on just a minute?” said Hazel. “I just want to get something.”

  “Sure.”

  Hazel disappeared from view and Kate had the bizarre experience of staring at her own bookshelves from thousands of miles away. Where were Oscar Harvey and the children? A full minute or so went by before Hazel returned. She was holding on to something.

  “The kids were fooling around, Kate . . .” She looked nervous, apologetic. “And I’m very sorry but they broke this. I don’t know if it can be mended . . .”

  For a moment Kate couldn’t make out what it was. She tilted her head from side to side. It looked like tubing. And then it came to her. Hazel was holding on to Izzy’s cast. It was the cast of Izzy’s arm that Izzy and Kate had made on Take Your Child to Work Day, and it was broken.

  Relief washed over Kate. “Oh, Hazel, don’t you worry about that. We can always make another one. Izzy will understand.” She’d been expecting worse.

  “That’s so good of you, Kate. There’s just one other thing, though . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Something a little weird, I guess. This is what we found inside . . .”

  Kate was stunned. Stuck for words, she felt her stomach lurch.

  Hazel looked awkward. “I’m not sure what I should do with these? I’m not sure, Kate, but I think that could be blood.”

  In one hand, Hazel Harvey held a hammer. In the other, a bloodied pillowcase. A chill ran up Kate’s spine. It was the same flowery pillowcase that Mannix had the night he took Izzy to Girl Guides. The night that Frankie Flynn was injured. The night that Frankie ended up in hospital.

  Kate felt the blood drain from her face. “Oh, that’s all just part of Izzy’s project,” she improvised. “Honestly, Hazel, don’t worry at all. Just put the whole lot in a plastic bag in one of Izzy’s drawers.”

  “If you’re sure . . .”

  Kate inquired about the Harveys’ holiday. Did they do the cliff walk in Kilkee? What did they think of the café at the Diamond Rocks? She thought she sounded okay but felt a telltale rash spreading up her neck.

  “Everything good in the house?” she asked, anxious now to end the call.

  “You have a lovely home, Kate. Spike showed us where everything was. Oh, yes, and someone dropped by yesterday morning to read the gas meter.”

  “You mean the electricity meter?”

  “No, I think it was the gas, Kate. No, in fact I’m sure. It was the gas.”

  Kate’s stomach lurched again. The rash was spreading down her arms. She felt herself go clammy.

  Agreeing to touch base later in the week, she cut the conversation short.

  Kate was truly shaken. But what could she have said? How could she tell Hazel Harvey the house at Curragower Falls had never been fitted with a gas supply? That they’d never been connected? But she couldn’t dwell on that just now. There was something even more urgent Kate had to see to first.

  She stood up and walked into the living room.

  “Look at me, Mannix.”

  He didn’t move.

  “Turn around and bloody well look at me!” she shouted.

  “Jesus, Kate, what is it?” He swung around.

  “What the hell did you do to Frankie Flynn?”

  “What are you talking about, Kate?”

  “Frankie Flynn! I can’t bloody well believe that you could be so bloody stupid, Mannix! It was you, wasn’t it? It was you who attacked him and landed him in hospital. You’re the one who attacked him with a hammer!”

  “Kate, this is ridiculous. Where did you get all this?”

  “The Harveys found the evidence. Today. Hidden inside the cast in Izzy’s room! The missing hammer wrapped in the bloodied pillowcase. The same one you left the house with. I saw it, Mannix. Don’t deny it. I’m sick to death of all the lies!”

  “Stop! Stop it now, please, Mum!”

  Kate spun around. Christ, they’d woken the kids. How much had Izzy heard?

  “Please stop shouting at Dad.”

  Poor Izzy. Always rushing to her father’s defense.

  “Go back to bed, Izzy,” Kate said wearily.

  “No, Mum. I heard what you were talking about. And there’s something I must tell you.” Izzy paused.

  “What is it, Izzy?”

  “You see, Mum, it wasn’t Dad that went for Frankie Flynn.”

  “And how do you know that, Izzy?”

  “I know that, Mum, because it was me.”

  Mannix

  It was a windy day in March when Mannix boarded the plane as a condemned man hikes the steps to the gallows. He’d been unhappy out of work. Loath though he was to admit it, he found himself more unhappy in it. Shackled to his mortgage arrears, he had little choice.

  If only his new boss weren’t such a pimply teenage prick. The bigger tragedy was that Mannix was sure that he
and Spike would make an excellent team at the nightclub, but Kate was having none of that. So it was back to the suits and ties. Back to the strategy meetings and the leadership conferences and the vision statements and the career planning and all that bullshit.

  There were few plus sides to this trip, but if he finished early some evening, he might catch up with some rowing buddies from his early twenties. Danno and Mental George had gone to Boston after college and never returned. He doubted they ever would. As illegals they couldn’t afford the risk.

  Mannix secured his bottle of Jameson in the overhead locker and settled himself into the window seat over the wing. Gone were the days of traveling business class. He’d have to earn his stripes again. Wedging his novel into the sleeve in front, he put on headphones, hoping to doze off. He hoped to Christ some pain in the arse didn’t sit next to him wanting to talk.

  “What the . . . !”

  “I’m so very sorry! I can’t believe I did that.”

  Scalded awake, he grabbed his stinging arm. The hot caramel liquid seeped into the pale blue shirtsleeve that Kate had ironed earlier.

  “No problem, I’ll live,” he muttered as graciously as he could.

  The woman beside him tried to dab his arm, to soak up the already absorbed coffee. Her nails were shiny red.

  “Thank you. I’m fine,” he said.

  She smiled apologetically.

  Mannix looked at his watch. He must have been asleep for more than an hour. Streaks of rain were lashing against the tiny window and the wingtips shivered in the sky. It was bumpy.

  “I guess I missed the drinks trolley, then?” He tried to smooth over the embarrassment.

  “The steward didn’t want to wake you.” The woman paused. “You were snoring . . .”

  There was a hint of mischief in her voice. It was Mannix’s turn to be embarrassed.

  “Mannix O’Brien.” He held out his hand.

  “Joanne Collins.”

  Her hand felt small and smooth. She wore no rings.