Twisted River

by Siobhan MacDonald

  “I have,” she answered.

  “So that’s a relief, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Mannix. More than you will ever know . . .”

  “Kate, I’m sorry I put you through this. If I’d had any idea.”

  “Let’s not go over old ground, Mannix. It’s over. They have her. I’m okay. The kids are okay too.”

  “Can I come over? I’d love to see them. I really miss them.”

  Kate thought a moment.

  “You know what? Okay. They need to see you too. But not today. Mum is here just now. Come tomorrow. Come tomorrow for lunch.”

  Mannix sighed but he sounded grateful.

  “Okay, Kate. See you tomorrow. About one.”

  “Fine.” She hung up.

  Kate went out to the garden, where her mother was busy hanging out socks.

  “Oh, don’t bother with that, Mum. I put them in the tumble dryer.”

  “A bit of fresh air is lovely, though, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose. Listen, that was Mannix on the phone. He’s coming over for lunch tomorrow.”

  “That’s fine, pet. I’ll make myself scarce. In fact I may go home in a while. I’d better check my post.”

  “Of course, Mum. Absolutely. You do that.”

  “By the way, did you make that phone call last night?”

  “Oh, I did, Mum.” Kate smiled now, remembering.

  “And what did he say?”

  “He said that they hadn’t had any luck with their recruitment campaign, and no, they hadn’t appointed an assistant head of department yet.”

  “So the job’s yours, then?” her mother said excitedly.

  “On one condition.” Kate smiled again.

  “What’s that, then?”

  “That I join him for a steak and a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape!”

  “That’s wonderful news, Kate.”

  For the second time that morning, her mother threw her arms around her.

  An hour later, Kate waved off her mom, who was accompanied by Fergus and Izzy. They were looking forward to playing with the old train set in the attic of their granny’s Ennis Road house. A warm feeling came over Kate as she watched the three of them leave. Kate had been to hell and back. But she had her kids. It looked like she had a new, if more demanding, job. Her mother would help out with Fergus and Izzy. It might all just work out.

  Kate had another brain wave. She knew exactly what she was going to do with Izzy. Exactly how she’d teach her the lesson the child so desperately needed. With Alice Kennedy’s help it was all falling into place. It was the ideal way to teach Izzy that actions had consequences. As Kate went back upstairs to the study, her step felt lighter on the stairs. Things might just turn out okay.

  • • •

  It was early afternoon before Kate cleared her in-box of all the e-mail that had piled up in her absence. Even though Kate wasn’t due back in the Art College until Monday, she wanted to have a clean slate before starting her new job. She also sent a few e-mails to Simon Walsh to show him that she was already thinking about her new position. As far as Kate knew, Simon wasn’t aware of the recent upheaval and tragedy that had visited her. He certainly hadn’t mentioned anything. Kate wasn’t surprised in the slightest. Simon lived in a dilapidated Georgian house by the river in Castleconnell with his Irish wolfhound. He brewed his own heavy-duty beer, listened to classical music, and liked his own company.

  Looking up from the desk, Kate rubbed her eyes, and noticed that a gentle rain had started to fall outside. Better get that washing that her mother had pegged on the line. Running down the stairs, she stopped off at the tall cupboard in the hall to grab the washing basket. She jammed the door open with the doorstop, so it wouldn’t slam behind her in the wind.

  The wind had really picked up and Kate thought the better of pairing the socks as they came off the line. She could do that later. There were Fergus’s T-shirts with the transfers of the Empire State. Izzy’s Hollister sweater. And so many sheets! Where had her mother found all these sheets to wash? As she dragged the Manchester United duvet cover off the line, a stray gust of wind caught the fabric and it billowed over her head. Kate wrestled with the yards of fabric, flailing to free herself. She eventually managed to drape it into a manageable rectangle over her arm before laying it on top of the basket.

  A pocket of dry and shriveled leaves had blown into the hallway as she entered the house again. And there on the stairs were more leaves. And also smudges of mud going up the stairs. How did they get there?

  Kate’s pulse quickened as she continued up the stairs. Was Mannix back? Why could the man not wait until tomorrow, like she’d asked?

  The sound of the radio came from the kitchen. Her mother had left it on. And Kate could hear the sound of the kitchen clock as she stood outside the kitchen door. But nothing else. Slowly, she walked in, tightly gripping the plastic washing basket.

  The cane swing chair. Someone was in the cane swing chair in the window.

  Swinging back and forth.

  Back and forth.

  Kate’s breath stopped in her throat. It was someone with her back to her. Someone in a long coat and jeans. Kate could see a ponytail and a woolly hat. A long sleek ponytail.

  Slowly the chair twisted around.

  It was her.

  “Hello, Kate,” she said.

  Kate could no longer hold the washing basket. She felt it slip. She heard a thud as it hit the floor and turned over.

  It was her.

  The woman from before.

  She had something in her hand and she was smiling.

  Mannix

  With a heavy heart, Mannix put his mobile back in his pocket. He supposed he should be grateful that Kate was even answering his calls. If it weren’t for the kids, he suspected she’d let his calls ring out. He’d have to wait until tomorrow now to see the kids.

  As he sat alone in his brother’s flat, he looked around. Mannix had been here three days already and he wasn’t due back at work until Monday. Is this what the future held for him now? How much longer would he have to stay here? A damp pair of jeans, a damp hoodie, and three pairs of underpants lay drying over chairs in front of the gas fire. A framed photo from Christmas two years ago sat on the mantelpiece. Izzy and Fergus on Spike’s knee. Spike was wearing a Santa hat. A fly buzzed over the empty plastic cartons from the Chinese they’d had last night.

  He’d fancied some breakfast, but when Mannix opened the fridge, all he saw was a stack of single-portion macaroni and cheese ready meals and some dodgy-looking slices of corned beef. Last night’s whiskey had left him parched, and the milk was two weeks old, so he couldn’t even have a cup of tea. His head throbbed violently. He wasn’t sure if the hazy fug was due to his hangover or the lingering veil of cigarette smoke.

  How did Spike ever get any woman to come up here?

  Mannix shuddered at the state of the bathroom. But the evidence was all there. Obviously Spike managed to pull. The bathroom cabinet housed an open carton of condoms. A tube of lipstick and a clear blue bottle of eye-makeup remover sat on the toilet cistern along with a big bottle of toilet bleach. The seal on the bleach had not been broken.

  He shouldn’t complain about his brother. Spike had been a shoulder to cry on over the last few days. How he wished he were at home, at his own breakfast table, watching Fergus pick the crusts off his toast, listening to Izzy’s dry remarks. Christ, how he wished he could turn the clock back.

  Of course he knew he deserved no sympathy. Mannix knew all of this was his own doing. Yet he found it difficult to accept that the havoc that had been wreaked was solely down to his appalling judgment of character. Other guys got away with it.

  If he’d had even the slightest sniff that Joanne Collins was this crazy, this out-of-her-tree, there was no way Mannix would have put his family in danger. No
way he’d have put the Harvey family in danger either. There was no way in hell he’d have even touched her.

  He’d been so stupid. It wasn’t even as if he’d held any affection for the woman—even before he realized she was completely off the reservation. It really, genuinely had been only the sex. But Mannix knew that as a defense, as an argument, that would not wash with Kate. Sex and love were too closely linked for her, whereas for him, they were two different things.

  Mannix allowed himself to think about the infidelity, but he found it very difficult to think about what had happened to Hazel Harvey. It was almost too much for him to contemplate, the role he’d played in her death. There was no way he could distance himself from it. He knew that ultimately he was responsible for the death of another human being but he was having difficulty registering the enormity of such a charge.

  “If I’d never met that woman, Hazel Harvey would be alive today.” He’d looked Spike in the eye last night as he openly acknowledged it for the first time.

  “Top up?” Spike had asked as he poured himself another whiskey.

  “What’s he like, Oscar Harvey?” Mannix indicated that he would have a small drop more.

  “A nice guy.” Spike plopped another generous measure into the chipped mug. “Maybe a bit of a stiff, but, you know—a regular guy.”

  Well, he wasn’t a regular guy anymore. He was anything but. The guy was now a widower. Mannix felt a massive stab of guilt.

  “She was a nice woman, Hazel Harvey,” added Spike, unprompted. “Posh type of girl. I’d say she might have had problems with her nerves, though. A bit on the jittery side.”

  “Jesus, Spike. Why in hell did I ever talk to Joanne Collins? I hate talking to people on planes. I never do it. Why did I just not stick to my book?”

  Spike shrugged.

  “What about the kids, Spike? What am I going to do about my kids? I don’t want to be a weekend dad. They deserve more than that.”

  “The kids love you, Mannix. Kate won’t interfere in that. She’s a good woman. She wouldn’t turn them against you.”

  “You’re talking like it’s all over, Spike. Like she’s never taking me back. Don’t you think she could forgive me? Give me another chance?”

  “Straight up, Mannix? I really don’t know. She’s hurting. You can see that. You can certainly give it a go . . .”

  Mannix felt morose but not quite numb enough for sleep.

  “She has her mother with her now. That woman never liked me,” he said bitterly. “Never thought I was good enough.” He let another glug of whiskey burn the back of his throat. “Although, you know what, Spike? I guess I’ve proved her right. Haven’t I?”

  Spike looked at the clock. It was 3:30 A.M. All was quiet downstairs now, the nightclub had shut an hour ago.

  “Manny, do you mind if I head to bed? The sleeping bag is over there on the sofa for you.”

  “Yeah, you head off, Spike. Sorry for boring the arse off you again . . .”

  He didn’t even make it to the sofa, falling asleep where he was, drunk and uncomfortable. He’d never felt worse in his life.

  It was midafternoon the next day before Mannix mustered up the will to shave himself. As he scraped the three-day-old stubble in the grimy mirror, he felt a vibration in the pocket of his cord jeans. A text. He wiped the foamy residue with the towel that hung under the basin. It smelled of perfume. He looked at himself in the mirror. Slightly more human. Only just.

  Wriggling his hand into the taut pocket, he retrieved the mobile. The text was from a number he didn’t recognize. His hand still wet and slippery, he opened it.

  Jesus Christ!

  A shock wave sizzled through him. It took an instant to scan but in that instant his blood ran cold. He blinked and looked at it again. This simply could not be. It was a hoax. Was it someone’s sick idea of a practical joke?

  “So sorry you had to wait this long. It could not be helped. Good things come to he who waits. The waiting is nearly over. The BITCH is alone. This time I shall not hesitate. We shall have what we deserve. All my love, J.”

  Stunned, he read it again. It didn’t make any sense. O’Rourke had told him she was in custody. He hadn’t dreamed it up. Heard it with his own ears. She’d been picked up along with Grace Collins by the PSNI. And yet this had the terrifying ring of truth. The same syntax. The same crazy tone as the previous texts. Was this really Joanne? Was she still out there?

  There was no time to procrastinate. He had to act. And fast. He couldn’t take any chances. He punched the keypad of his mobile. It was ringing.

  Ring, ring. Ring, ring.

  No answer.

  It went to voice mail. “This is Kate O’Brien from Limerick School of Art and Design. I am currently on annual leave. For any urgent queries please contact department head Simon Walsh. Otherwise leave a message after the tone . . .”

  Shit! Why was Kate not answering?

  “Kate—it’s Mannix. Look, something’s turned up. Can you call me urgently, please? This is serious. Call me as soon as you get this, Kate. Please. Do it now.”

  Mannix hung up.

  Next, he rang the landline.

  No answer.

  Where the hell was Kate?

  He had to get over to the house.

  Now.

  Christ alive! The thought that Joanne Collins could be on the loose . . . No—he couldn’t think like that. He couldn’t panic. He’d have to run. It was more than a mile away. How long would that take him? It was a long, long time since he’d managed a four-minute mile. Okay, so he could manage eight minutes tops if he really went for it. Hell for leather. But would he be in time? His head was pounding. His heart was pounding. That hangover was certainly kicking in—it was really vicious now.

  Mannix grabbed the damp hoodie and quickly zipped it up. Where the fuck were his shoes? The flat was a tip. He couldn’t see them anywhere. No time. No time. He grabbed a pair of Spike’s white running shoes inside the front door.

  Mannix is out on the street now, running as fast as he can. Onto Patrick Street . . . up past St. Mary’s Cathedral . . . acid and bile reach his throat . . . down Nicholas Street . . . his head throbs madly . . . down toward the castle . . . he gets a sharp pain across his chest. His body screams for him to stop. He can’t afford to stop. Terror keeps him going.

  You’ve got to get there, Mannix. You’ve got to stop her!

  Sweat is pouring out of him. He’s panting heavily. He can taste last night’s whiskey in his mouth. Whiskey and fear. He tries to find another number on his mobile as he runs. It’s hard to scroll and run. He can’t stop. No time to stop. Passersby look warily at him. He probably looks like a scumbag who’s just committed a robbery. Just another scumbag on the run.

  Where the hell is that number? He knows he put it in his phone.

  There!

  He has it. O’Rourke. He dials the number.

  O’Rourke answers. Thank Christ!

  “Detective O’Rourke?” Mannix hardly has the breath to talk.

  He doesn’t need to.

  “A bit of a hiccup, Mr. O’Brien,” O’Rourke cuts in immediately.

  Mannix keeps up the pace. He’s nearly at the castle now. It must be five minutes since he got the text.

  “The two persons of interest detained by the PSNI, well, it appears that the young girl is Grace Collins, all right. But it appears the woman accompanying her was not her mother . . .”

  Oh, God . . .

  A massive surge of adrenaline rips through Mannix’s body.

  “It appears that the woman accompanying her is her aunt, Sheila Collins. They were on their way to relatives in Glasgow. Are you there, Mr. O’Brien?”

  “I’m listening,” Mannix answered, panting, blood roaring in his ears.

  “So, Mr. O’Brien, it would appear that Joanne Collins is still
at large. I’m on my way back from Dublin, but Henry Street has been alerted to send a squad car down to Curragower Falls right away.”

  Right away? Right away? Right away may still be too late . . .

  “Oh Jesus . . . Oh sweet Jesus . . .” Mannix’s voice is rasping now, sweat dripping into his eyes as he crosses the road. “I’ve just had another text from Joanne Collins . . .”

  O’Rourke goes silent.

  Beads of sweat fall into Mannix’s eyes as he spots the gable end of his house coming into view.

  “Don’t worry. We’re onto it,” says O’Rourke. The phone goes dead.

  Mannix blisters a path up the strand. Thump, pound. Thump, pound. Spike’s shoes cut into the backs of his heels. A band of pressure tightens across his chest. He listens out for sirens. His eyes search for flashing lights. Strange. It looks like the street outside his house is empty. No flashing lights. Not a single squad car. Not a single garda. What the hell is going on? That dipstick O’Rourke had said that they were onto it.

  Mannix snatches a look at the park across the road. It too is completely empty.

  Should he wait for the guards? Or should he—

  The front door to his house is open.

  His sweat turns cold on his skin.

  Sweet Jesus. Don’t say it’s too late. He cannot be too late. Fear snakes all around him. His heart in his mouth, he tears up the stairs.

  A cry of terror! Mannix grips the banister. Another piercing cry—

  Oh God! Mannix feels his blood is curdling. He stumbles at the top. His chest is about to explode. Now a muffled sound. What the hell? He lunges into the kitchen.

  Jesus Christ!

  He is winded. He can no longer move. He is paralyzed. His legs are heavy, rooted to the spot.

  “Mannix!” she says softly, turning around.

  Her eyes are glassy.

  “I knew you’d come . . .”

  She sounds spaced. Out of it.

  He wants to go for her—to launch himself at her, to grab her wrist. But he stops himself. Too risky.

  “Joanne?” He tries to sound calm, matter-of-fact.

  “You didn’t doubt me, did you?” she says dreamily, almost trancelike.