www.ariafiction.com
Nothing remains buried forever… What would you do to protect the ones you love?
When human remains are found on Fitzpatrick Estate, Detective Kelly is drawn deep into the complex web of Fitzpatrick family secrets as Timothy and his sister Rose, now in their sixties, are catapulted into the centre of the investigation.
When the pathology report identifies the remains as that of their uncle, Patrick Fitzpatrick, missing from Fitzpatrick Estate since 1970, they scramble to protect their past. What would you do to protect the ones you love?
Welcome Page
About Brothers & Sisters
Contents
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About Adele O’Neill
Become an Aria Addict
Copyright
For Marie and Curly:
To Marie, for showing me that I had something inside so strong,
And to Curly, for teaching me how to use it.
Detective Tony Kelly stretched his arms over his head and pressed his weary shoulders against the black mesh back on his new office chair. Every muscle in his body ached and the unshaven black bristles on his face were an indication of another night spent crouching, crawling and scraping for traces of answers, beside another rotting corpse.
‘Ergo-fecking-nomical, my arse!’ he said as the padded armrest gave way and clunked heavily to the floor. Nobody flinched, which surprised him, considering it made such a din. ‘Who the feck put these together?’ No one answered, the four other detectives that shared the incident room preferred not to, for peace sake. He stood and kicked the chair aside; not so forcibly as to attract a response but enough to satisfy his simmering temper. It spun and whizzed before it stopped abruptly, teetered momentarily, and then plonked heavily on its side on the worn carpet tiles.
‘Tony,’ Detective Louise Kennedy was probably the only detective in their unit that was brave enough to refer to him by his first name. Much like the way a mother would a child, if he was in trouble. ‘Do you need some coffee or something?’ Her teeth remained clenched as she forced the corners of her mouth upwards and bent her head ever so slightly to the side.
Detective Louise Kennedy’s piercing stare and sharp tone left him in no doubt that it was an instruction, as opposed to an offer, the kind of instruction that only a sarcastic friend might get away with.
‘No I don’t need any fecking coffee,’ he paused, ‘thank you.’ Kelly’s bluster was his trademark as were the dark tropical centipedes he had for eyebrows. ‘But a chair that worked would be nice.’ He kicked it again for good measure, not wanting to relinquish his higher ground just yet.
Louise narrowed her eyes at his sarcasm and shook her head at his childishness. In the seven years since she had first arrived to the station in Kilkenny, he hadn’t changed so much as his shirt, never mind his personality, and even though they were equal in rank, he had an unspoken seniority to her in years of service.
Kelly picked up his chair and placed it carefully back at his desk; every movement deliberate and silent. He needed to pull his horns in; he knew that, he just couldn’t bring himself to raise his gaze. He could feel her brown eyes boring holes in his head. He shut down his computer and placed his phone in his shirt pocket.
‘Maybe, coffee would be nice.’ He finally mustered the courage to look back at her, knowing she would not avert her gaze until he reciprocated. ‘Would you like one yourself?’ He paused for effect and plastered a deliberate false smile across his stubbly jaw. ‘Darling,’ he added. The sarcasm dripped like molasses from his gritted teeth and a snigger escaped from one of the other desks; Louise couldn’t identify which one.
She stood, almost by stealth and scanned the room. She was sick of their feeble joke attempts at her expense, and if the truth was known, she was offended for Kelly also. Being the only female in this division had its drawbacks; being the only other detective that Kelly trusted was an occupational hazard.
‘If one other person,’ her voice raised slightly, just enough so that no one could mistake the intention in her tone, ‘so much as thinks about calling me, “darling”, or refers to me as his “work wife”, again, I will personally hand you your balls in the same envelope as your P45.’ She paused triumphantly. ‘Clear?’ None of the three other detectives that hid behind their computers looked up, they knew not to. Detective Louise Kennedy was a force to be reckoned with; as headstrong as her male counterpart but infinitely more tactful and correct, she wouldn’t hesitate to follow through on her threat, and although she might not have literally handed them their balls, she would have made them feel as though she had, and therein lay her power.
‘I’ll join you,’ Louise said, glaring around the room, daring any one of the three to answer. They didn’t – not out loud anyhow. She led Kelly to the break room and closed the door behind them. ‘What the fuck?’ she hissed at him. ‘What’s with the hissy fit?’
‘Just tired.’ Kelly poured two cups from the coffee pot, scrambling for a better excuse to give her. He sipped slowly, buying some time. If he knew Louise Kennedy well enough, he knew that, if nothing else, she was relentless. He sighed heavily and continued, ‘I was up at Fitzpatrick Estate for most of the night. Forensics will be finished with the scene before lunch, they reckon.’
‘We only caught this case yesterday evening, give yourself a chance; Jesus, give me a chance, would you?’ Louise wasn’t the type to follow but somehow, since she was stationed at Kilkenny, she found herself content to be in his shadow, it helped that she was secretly in awe of his rebellious nature, even if he was the one who got on her nerves the most.
‘Mmm, maybe.’ Kelly wasn’t convinced. Something was niggling at him. He had stayed at the scene right through the night, accepting copious cups of tea, a wee dram of whiskey and a bellyfull of buns from Marie McGrath, one half of the couple who were the new owners of the Estate.
‘Who you interested in?’ Louise could tell he was grinding his theories hard to see what flavours remained.
‘I want to talk to Timothy Fitzpatrick, landlord extraordinaire.’ Kelly had been strategic in accepting the McGraths’ hospitality; people talked more over a country cup of tea, he had said to her. ‘The McGraths tell me they only bought the Estate four months ago, after years of putting in offers.’ He stood against the countertop with one hand lodged in his dark unwashed jeans and the other around his mug. ‘From this Timothy Fitzpatrick, one of the original owners, last in a long line of Fitzpatricks, apparently.’
‘Should we not be concentrating on the body, identifying that?’ Louise topped up her coffee and spooned in another lump of sugar; after the run she did that morning she needed the boost.
‘If anyone cared who the body was, we’d already know by now.’ Kelly shook his head. ‘We need to know how he got there. That’s where the key is.’
‘Maybe…’ Louise said but Kelly interrupted her.
‘And why, all of a sudden, after ten bloody years, was it time to finally sell the place – that’s why I want to talk to Timothy Fitzpatrick.’
‘I take it there’s no one on the Missing Persons Register that matches.
‘Haven’t found anyone yet.’ Kelly ran both hands through his black wavy hair and rubbed. Speckles of dandruff spilled onto his shoulders and disappeared like snowflakes landing on wet grass. ‘Won’t get the pathologist report till tomorrow either, but from the preliminary investigations, the pathologist thinks we should start our search back as far as 1970.’
‘I heard that, what’s that about?’ Louise’s frown made a thick line across her forehead, deep enough to do a tyre test with a ten cent coin. At thirty-five years of age, she was beginning to realise that she shouldn’t have dismissed her glamorous aunt’s advice on moisturiser.
‘Something to do with the acidity of the soil, or wetness,’ Kelly slurped and sighed as he downed the black coffee. ‘Something like that. The pathologist said the conditions…’ A waft of his own stale body odour exploded up his nose as he lifted his arms. He looked at Louise and hoped she hadn’t noticed. She was standing next to him cradling her mug in her hands. ‘The soil conditions sort of preserved the remains.’
‘Right, I’ll have another look.’ Louise dropped her nose into her scarf, creating a barrier between her and the stench. ‘Have you not been home yet then?’ She stood just to his left a bare sniff away.
‘No, not yet.’ Kelly’s cheeks flushed as he realised she had smelled him.
‘You need a shower, Kelly.’
‘I know, I know.’ His cheeks flushed even pinker.
‘Seriously, Tony, go take a bloody shower.’
‘If you keep talking to me like that, they’ll…’ he said quietly, motioning through the break room window at the detectives in the other room. ‘If you think “wife” is bad, wait till they start calling you my “mother”.’
‘More like your daughter. For fuck’s sake, I’m half your age,’ Louise said.
‘Cop on to yourself, fucking half my age.’ Kelly sniffed at her remarks, his pride a little dented. ‘You’re thirty-five, there’s a big difference between half my age and twenty years younger than me, or was maths not your strong point either?’ Kelly answered, half joking, whole in earnest.
‘Jesus, someone’s a little touchy,’ Louise answered, feigning innocence at her own remark. She was only too aware of Kelly’s sensitivity to his age, which was why she was getting such a kick out of tormenting him. ‘I was exaggerating for effect,’ she began to spell out her intentions, knowing full well that this would aggravate him even more. ‘Saying that, it would be more likely that I’d be your daughter, seeing as you are,’ she looked away from him, stifling the smirk that was edging her bowlike lips towards a toothy smile, ‘twenty years older than me.’ She continued as she walked towards the breakroom door, hiding the grin on her face.
He smiled in response, but not while she could see him.
‘I’ve been looking into the McGraths as well, Michael and Marie,’ Louise said as she returned to her desk. Kelly followed. ‘I’d love to know what possesses a couple in their forties, well, Michael McGrath is in his forties, the wife, Marie is in her thirties, to leave the big city lights and take over an old derelict estate two hours from Dublin. It just doesn’t make sense to me.’
‘Well, it wouldn’t,’ Kelly said.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Louise answered. Their exchanges, to anyone a safe enough distance away to observe, were like a tennis match in the Wimbledon singles final on centre court; each equally capable of winning but, more importantly, neither willing to lose.
‘You being a city chick and all that.’
The smirk on Kelly’s face as he said it bothered her. She could have settled as a beat cop and remained in Dublin with her family and friends close by but she was too ambitious not to pursue the promotion when it came up.
‘Says the man who thinks he needs a passport to go beyond the county boundary,’ Louise said. She had every intention of rising through the ranks and, unlike Kelly, she was prepared to relocate for her ambition, and besides, two hours south of Dublin to the medieval city of Kilkenny that was steeped in Irish history was hardly the other side of the world. ‘And by that token, the McGrath’s were city chicks too.’ Louise was quick to answer. ‘So that just adds to my point.’
‘Ah but, farming was in Michael McGrath’s blood. You don’t know what it’s like to want to come home to the land,’ Kelly said.
‘And neither do you, sure you never left.’ She smiled.
‘What about you, then?’ Kelly wasn’t about to let her away with that one. His reasons for staying in Kilkenny and passing up promotion opportunities over the years were his business and while he knew the general consensus amongst his peers was that he was unambitious or disinterested, it bothered him to think that Louise thought the same. ‘There was obviously a reason that you left Dublin,’ he said. ‘Perhaps something you wanted, that you couldn’t get there.’ Louise nodded. ‘Well then, can’t we use the same premise for the McGraths?’ he asked. ‘There was something in Kilkenny that they couldn’t get in Dublin, in their case, a farm, a return to Michael’s home place, his brother and a better life for their family than they would have had in Dublin.’ Kelly smiled smugly; as far as he was concerned, it was that simple.
‘I suppose,’ Louise answered. She decided to bank the thinly veiled insult about Dublin for later. Even though there were so many similarities between the cities, it was a one-upmanship that they bantered about frequently. Whose city had the bigger castle? Which city attracted the most tourists? Where was the best nightlife? They could tit-for-tat for days about it. Sometimes she suspected that Kelly might be a descendant of Strongbow himself when it came to the passion he displayed for Kilkenny and his reluctance to leave it.
‘Did you know that they leased the farm before they bought it in January?’ Kelly said.
‘Yeah, I did, they’ve been there ten years apparently,’ Louise answered.
Kelly wheeled another chair from an empty desk and pushed the new broken one aside. Nobody commented.
‘Apparently Michael’s a local. He left years ago.’ Kelly was cautious as he dragged the new chair towards his desk; he checked the armrests twice. Louise couldn’t help but smile. The bolts seemed secure. For the first time, he considered that maybe the bolts on the last chair were tampered with deliberately. He threw a glance around the room. ‘He was lecturing in University College Dublin.’ He checked his notes. ‘Agricultural Science, no less. Came home then, when he had himself a wife and children.’
‘And what about the Fitzpatricks?’ Louise had brought her coffee back to her desk. She wet her thumb and wiped the droplets from the outside of her mug. Had she been at home, she would have licked them directly off.
‘There’s Timothy Fitzpatrick, in his sixties, living in Dublin since the seventies. Fitzpatrick Estate was in his and his sister’s name up until January this year.’ Kelly concentrated on his scrawl in his black notebook, ‘There’s the sister, Rose Fitzpatrick, now O’Reilly, who’d also be in her sixties, also living in Dublin, and then there’s both of their parents up in St. Peter’s cemetery.’ Kelly had walked the cemetery himself with the intention of reading every headstone until he had found them. Trusting his hunch, he had checked the more ostentatious plots first. There was no way a family with an estate the size of Fitzpatricks’ wouldn’t have a plot to match it. As usual, his instincts were right. ‘There were only the two of them buried up there.’ Louise listened. ‘Maeve and Liam Fitzpatrick buried within a year of each other, 1986 and 87.’ Kelly double-checked the years in his notebook.
Louise scratched a line through the first item on the list in front of her.
‘Although, you’d think by the size of the plot, they’d have breed, seed and a generation of Fitzpatricks up there with them,’ Kelly added as he leafed through his pages.
‘Sure, how else were they going to let people know that they were better than everyone else?’ Louise said, watching his hands as they turned the well-crumpled pages. She imagined a tumbling tower of old battered notebooks stacked in chronological order beside his bed with every case he had ever caught, documented in his scrawl; starting with his first notebook thirty years ago and ending with this one he had in his hands. ‘There was another Fitzpatrick, you know,’ Louise added, realising now that Kelly hadn’t discovered it yet. He didn’t answer. ‘According to the locals, there was a “Patrick”, or “Pat Fitzpatrick”,’ Louise looked across from her notes at his expression. ‘Never married, he may have left for Liverpool, in the seventies, I’m told,’ Louise added.
‘How did I not know that?’ Kelly said, raising his eyebrows in disbelief. ‘How’d you find that out?’
‘I have my ways.’ Louise grinned, delighted to get ahead of him. She hadn’t verified her information yet, but the old fellas in the local pub were as much an information source as a government census form; small towns with generations of families living in them was one thing that her Dublin City didn’t have, but she wasn’t about to tell Kelly that. ‘Would have been an uncle to your, Timothy Fitzpatrick?’ Louise waited for him to reply. She tried her best to suppress a smile that was forming as she watched his notebook ritual of straightening up loose pages, smoothing down the crumples and stretching the frayed elastic band around its middle.
‘Well, if he was still alive he would,’ Kelly answered. He calculated quickly in his head. ‘He’d be in his late nineties. I’ll do deaths register, first here and then Liverpool,’ Kelly said.
‘He’s not buried up in the plot?’ Louise questioned. She knew Kelly would have been thorough, but when he didn’t know he was looking for the uncle, he might have overlooked it.
‘He wasn’t in the family plot.’ Kelly answered. ‘Nor anywhere close,’ he added. ‘I have Timothy Fitzpatrick coming down this morning. I might get a few answers out of him.’
‘Right,’ Louise said. Every new investigation started for her like a new book. Shiny covers, fascinating blurb and surprising endings, promising gripping detail with twists and turns. She couldn’t wait to delve in, crack the spine and devour the clues.
‘Grand, I’m going to grab a shower at home and then head back up to the estate,’ Kelly said.
Louise pulled back her black hair into a tight ponytail and drained the remainder of her coffee, she rubbed her nose, remembering the body odour from moments earlier.
‘You do that,’ Louise said.
‘Tell me again why I never came to Kilkenny with you before.’ Robert admired the rolling patchwork fields as they rounded the last few roads on their journey.
‘I honestly don’t know.’ Tim liked to be honest, but when it came to Kilkenny, Fitzpatrick Estate and anything to do with his past there, it was safer to be silent. That was how it was. There were far too many things left unsaid, and those that were said, hurt deeply. He had never actually told his father or his mother that he was gay, he didn’t need to, his father’s cutting remarks about his fanciful city ways demolished any chance of acceptance and consequently his visits home were brief and infrequent when his parents were alive. ‘It’s been quite a while since I’ve been here myself.’ His shoulders stiffened and his hands gripped the steering wheel, almost a little too tightly; Robert noticed. Tim shuffled in his seat and stretched forward over the steering wheel to stretch his back. Long journeys played havoc with his sciatica. ‘I really don’t like the sound of this Detective Kelly fella,’ Tim said. Robert hadn’t needed the explanation. ‘The message he left was a little…’ Tim struggled to articulate what he was feeling; the words he wanted to use were much more vulgar than he would care to admit. ‘A little smug, or something, you know?’ he added. ‘As though, this dead body is something to do with me.’
‘They have to talk to everyone, I suppose.’ Robert felt for him, he couldn’t remember ever seeing Tim this agitated. That first day that Tim had walked into his office, all those years ago, he had known that they were kindred spirits, two peas in a pod. It helped of course that Tim, the young budding architect, needed Robert, the young budding engineer, to make his design work and, for the past forty years, that was pretty much how their relationship had continued to work. ‘You know, to rule you either in or out.’
‘Mmm,’ Tim answered, opting for silence as his response. ‘Every year for the past five years…’ He stalled at a junction two miles from the estate, while he considered which road he would take. Nothing looked familiar. ‘Jesus, everything looks a whole lot different, I’m not sure if it’s this crossroads,’ he swung his head from left to right, searching for familiarity, inching the car forward, ‘or the next, for my left turn. I don’t remember any houses being on these roads.’
‘Doesn’t surprise me,’ Robert said, fumbling for his phone. Urban sprawl was one of his pet hates. ‘I’ll do Google Maps, just to be sure.’
‘No, no need,’ Tim said. ‘It’s the next junction I think.’ He edged across the road, unsure with his decision but reluctant to rely on a map to get him to his home place. ‘What was I saying?’
‘You were saying something about the past five years.’ Robert was holding his phone at arm’s length. ‘It really is a sign of old age when your arm isn’t long enough to read your phone.’ Robert chuckled at his own joke, Tim joined him, albeit tentatively.
‘I was saying, these are the tenants, or should I say, the new owners, that have emailed me for the past five years asking me to sell and it was a lot easier to ignore all those emails, knowing that I would never have to meet them,’ Tim said. ‘You know, this place is cursed. Nothing good has ever come of it.’ Tim shook his head, partly to show his disappointment and partly to shake away the memories. ‘The last thing I thought I’d be doing when I finally signed the papers to sell the place a couple of months ago was being summoned back here to answer questions about a discovery of human remains. I mean seriously, talk about rotten luck.’ Impatiently Tim increased his speed.
‘Do you think they’ll want to speak to Rose?’ Robert asked.
‘I hope not, but,’ Tim paused, ‘I mean, if she has to come back down, she will, I just hope she doesn’t have to.’ He paused again. ‘And what’s worse is,’ his annoyance danced from his mouth, ‘this, Detective Kelly, said in his message to meet him up at the farmhouse, I would have much preferred meeting him in the station. So it looks like I have no choice but to meet the new owners,’ Tim paused and drew a deep breath. ‘And see the old house,’ Tim added, his face darkened at the thought of it. ‘The charm of Fitzpatrick Farm,’ he sighed.
‘You’ve got that face again. Are you all right?’ Robert paused. ‘Actually don’t answer that platitude. I know you’re not.’ Robert was sympathetic. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ Try as he did, Robert knew that there were some things that Tim could never articulate. Tim’s loyalty to his sister, Rose was immeasurable and Robert had accepted that it wasn’t Tim’s story to tell, whatever the story was. His curiosity through the years had never bettered him, even though he had his suspicions, and today of all days he wasn’t going to change that. ‘That’ll do for now.’ Robert rubbed his shoulder. ‘We’ll be back on the road before you know it; we might even call into Rose on the way back home,’ Robert said, trying to appease him.
‘That’s the start of the land there now.’ Tim was relieved he had found his way. Their silver Passat swallowed up the remainder of the road as they reached the next junction, the junction Tim was hoping to meet, O’Connor’s Corner. Four police vehicles lined the ditch that bordered the land and a Garda checkpoint flagged them down.
‘I’m to meet Detective Kelly at Fitzpatrick Estate,’ Tim volunteered the information as the Garda approached.
‘What’s the name?’ The Garda placed his hand on the roof and bent towards Tim’s open window.
‘Timothy Fitzpatrick.’
‘Is that so?’ One of the Garda’s eyebrows raised slightly higher than the other one, Sean Connery style. ‘I suppose, you’ll know where you’re going so.’
Tim pressed his automatic window to close and drove through the junction under the watchful eyes of uniformed people in high visibility jackets. Rounding the bend, Tim was surprised by the beautifully crafted iron gates swooping from the tall pillars. A large metal plaque with ‘Fitzpatrick Estate’ engraved, hung from metal rings. It hadn’t looked like that in his day.
‘Impressive,’ Robert stated, as the gates slowly opened to a curvy drive that was bordered by an impeccably groomed, waist-height hedge.
‘Pretentious, more like,’ Tim answered. ‘We only ever called it The Farm, never The Estate.’
‘Those who have money say they don’t, and those who don’t say they have,’ Robert teased.
The drive wound its way up to the gravelled courtyard and stopped at the entrance to the old farmhouse.
‘This hill was hell on a bike,’ Tim said softly as his engine revved in the wrong gear.
‘Bloody hell, it’s like Downton Abbey,’ Robert exclaimed as the tyres crunched to a standstill to the side of the imposing granite house.
‘Exaggerate much,’ Tim kidded at Robert.
‘Well, maybe not Downton, but you have to admit, it’s pretty impressive,’ Robert said.
‘It never looked like this when I was here, I can assure you.’ Tim scanned the surrounds looking for clues of his past, and even though he knew he shouldn’t, he scanned for clues of the present. His memory of the farm was far greyer than the technicolour picture that stood in its place.
‘Did it smell like this?’ Robert joked as the whiff of slurry poured through their open doors.
‘Worse,’ Tim said. ‘It looked and smelled much worse.’ His voice wasn’t jovial this time. His eyes darted to the side of the sheds. He couldn’t tell, with the hedges along the pathway grown, whether the cottage below still stood.
‘Hello.’ Tim quickly turned as Marie McGrath, the owner of the house, approached.
‘Timothy Fitzpatrick.’ He outstretched his hand.
‘Marie McGrath. It’s lovely to finally meet you.’ She ran her fingers through her greasy hair in an attempt to appear a little more presentable than she felt. The gentlemen that stood in front of her were so well-groomed and handsome, she felt somewhat inadequate in her jeans, fleece jumper and wellingtons. ‘You’ll have to forgive our appearance; it’s all hands on deck at the moment, we haven’t had much time for anything, since, well, since everything happened.’ She glanced in the direction of the bottom field, drawing Tim and Robert’s attention there also. ‘Michael is just out on the farm. He’ll be in shortly.’
‘I think they want to see me below.’ Tim was anxious to get closer to the scene. He had no intention of meeting Michael McGrath, if he could avoid it, and even less intention of stepping foot inside the old house, although there was a small spark of curiosity as to what it may have looked like inside.
‘Oh, they’ll know you are here.’ Marie waved towards the activity in the field below. ‘You may come in for a cup of tea first.’ Marie motioned them to follow her inside. ‘The state pathologist is still at the scene.’ She spoke as though it was a common occurrence in these parts. Detective Kelly isn’t down there yet either, and anyhow, he’ll call up here first,’ Marie said. Marie’s children, Jack and Eve appeared on the steps behind her.
‘Will you run down for Daddy, Jack?’ Marie pointed towards the sheds. ‘Evie, come and say hello.’ Both Marie’s children hovered around her.
‘Oh please, don’t interrupt him,’ Tim said awkwardly.
‘Nonsense.’ Marie had a relatively assertive but kind voice. A voice that was familiar with directing children. ‘We are delighted to have visitors, aren’t we Evie?’
Eve nodded in agreement as she flashed the guests a front toothless smile. Her long curly blonde hair bounced rebelliously across her eyes and with her pudgy hand she pushed it away.
‘If you are sure we are not imposing,’ Robert said as he threw Tim an uneasy look.
‘Not in the slightest, please, Michael is on his way.’
Reluctantly, Robert and Tim followed her as she ushered Evie ahead of her, Jack had run diligently in the direction of the sheds.
‘Your boots, Eve.’ Marie’s voice was firm. ‘Leave them outside.’
Eve stopped still. It wasn’t the first time she had to be reminded.
‘Oops, Mummy, I forgot.’ Her eyes were wide with amusement as she giggled at her mistake, then she turned and directed her next question at Tim. ‘Do you want to take off your shoes too?’ Eve shook her leg to dislodge the mucky boot as she waited for him to answer.
‘Oh you scamp.’ Marie laughed. ‘Our visitors haven’t been playing in the fields. Their shoes are perfectly fine.’ She mouthed sorry to Tim and led her visitors to the kitchen. ‘So, this is your first time back in a good number of years then,’ Marie said.
‘It is,’ Tim answered, resigning himself to the fact that he couldn’t avoid going inside. It had been decades since he last stepped over the threshold and his shoulders stiffened as he imagined himself, a teenager again. There had been a reason neither he nor Rose had any desire to be back. ‘There hasn’t been any need to come down; really, the management company have looked after everything,’ he said.
‘Well, it’s lovely to finally have you both here,’ she smiled at Robert, ‘even if it is in such bizarre circumstances.’ Marie paused, brushing her white shoulder-length hair from her eyes. She didn’t want to make a wrong impression, it had taken them numerous years to get Mr Fitzpatrick to agree to sell and she didn’t want him to leave, regretting his decision. ‘Eve, love, will you pop up and brush your teeth.’ She pulled out a kitchen chair and gestured for Tim and Robert to sit down. Robert sat at the head of the oak table and Tim took a chair beside him.
Eve wasn’t fooled; she knew her mother wanted to talk about adult things, so she stalled as long as she could.
‘How old are you?’ When standing, Eve’s elbows rested comfortably on the table top and she leaned her chin on her hand waiting for Tim to reply.
‘Eve!’ Marie exclaimed.
‘No it’s a fair question.’ Tim smiled at Eve across the table, she was beginning to remind him of his niece when she was younger. ‘I’m sixty-two, and Robert is sixty-five. How old are you?’
‘I’m eight and Jack is eleven. My mum is twenty-one.’ She widened her eyes and lifted her eyebrows for effect; she had seen her daddy do it often. Marie shook her head and smiled and even though Eve’s charm was hard to deny, she threw a warning look at her daughter to finish up her questions and do what she was told. ‘Are you a grandad?’ Eve grabbed a freshly baked bun from the cooling rack beside the oven knowing by the look on her mother’s face she wasn’t going to get away with much more.
‘No.’ Robert caught Tim’s eye as he answered. ‘But we are both uncles.’
‘That’s cool. Where do you live?’ Eve sprayed some crumbs from her mouth as she blurted out her questions. She didn’t dare look in her mum’s direction but she could feel her stare from where she stood.
‘Dublin.’ Tim could see she was stalling for time and couldn’t help but go along with her. ‘I used to live here though, when I was your age.’ Tim anticipated her response: a wide smile; crumbs filling the gaps where her teeth should be.
‘No way!’ Eve exclaimed in disbelief. ‘In my house?’
‘Way,’ Tim answered. ‘But it wasn’t as pretty when I lived here.’ He glanced at Marie, hoping the compliment would reach her, as she carried a plate of baked fancies to the old oak table by the double doors. He cringed as he visualised the state of disrepair he had left the place in. He was sorry now. ‘You really have restored it so beautifully.’ Tim’s eyes wandered around the room. He couldn’t remember the kitchen ever having as much daylight in it before. ‘Was that window always there?’ A stream of white light flowed through the slatted blinds, creating dark angled stripes on the otherwise white porcelain floor.
‘That was one of the more modern features we installed.’ Marie was proud of how the house looked. ‘It’s such a pretty view from here.’ She looked out over the farm and down the hills to her brother-in-law’s, George McGrath’s farm below. The McGrath’s had lived in this part of Kilkenny for centuries. ‘That’s Michael’s homeplace down there’. She pointed down and across the fields to where George McGrath’s house stood. ‘We tried as best we could to keep as much of the original features, and married them with a bit of modern stuff as well.’ She continued to set the table. ‘Of course there’s still so much we want to do.’ She hoped that didn’t sound like a criticism to Tim of the state they had found the place in.
‘It really is unrecognisable,’ Tim said sheepishly. He wondered what she had thought of the place when she first saw it. ‘With living in Dublin, I, or I mean, we never really got down that much.’
Marie threw her daughter a final warning look and as Eve left the room, Marie poured some tea into Tim and Robert’s mugs, cleared her throat and began to speak. She could tell by the anticipation in Tim and Robert’s eyes that they were eager for more information.
‘Sorry you were bombarded with all those questions.’ She smiled, shutting the door behind her daughter. ‘I was waiting for her to leave so that I could tell you, Detective Kelly, he was here earlier this morning and just nipped back to the station for a few things, he said I’ve to give him a ring when you get here.’ She had learned the hard way not to have sensitive conversations in front of her chatty eight-year-old.
‘Marie,’ Tim was anxious to meet the detective and get back on the road to Dublin, ‘if you don’t mind, maybe you’ll give him a ring there now.’ And if he could avoid meeting Michael McGrath, all the better.
‘Of course.’ Marie patted her head for her glasses and slid them down to her nose. She scrolled through her recent calls and pressed connect when she found the station’s number. She smiled at Tim as she listened for the call to be connected. ‘Detective Kelly, please.’ Her tone was clear and concise, Tim noted as she spoke down the phone to whoever answered. She walked out of the kitchen to continue.
‘She seems nice.’ Robert spoke softly as the door closed behind her. ‘Crazy being back here after all these years, I’d say?’
Tim barely acknowledged his ramblings with a nod.
Robert watched him with sympathetic eyes. ‘You can see for miles from this window.’ Robert stood by the sink and turned on the tap to rinse his cup. Tim didn’t answer. He had never stopped to take in the view when he was a child; he was too busy ducking out of the way of his father’s fists. ‘Tim.’ Robert knew Tim’s thoughts were far from undulated hills and idyllic childhood memories. Tim still didn’t answer. ‘Tim.’ Robert spoke more firmly.
‘Yes.’ Tim shook his head as though trying to banish what was inside of it. ‘What, yes, the view, yes it’s lovely. Sorry, I was miles away.’ It was surreal to think that he, Timothy Fitzpatrick, was sitting in Fitzpatrick House, drinking tea once more, after all this time.
‘You know, I don’t think he ever forgave me.’
‘Who didn’t?’ Robert said. He glanced at the door, hoping neither Eve, nor Marie would return too soon. He was eager for Tim to speak to him, talk about how he was truly feeling and he knew that it was a hard thing for Tim to do.
‘My father, Liam, the man of the house.’ The words tasted like lemon on Tim’s lips.
‘But sure, what was there to forgive?’ Robert said.
‘For not being the man he wanted me to be. For letting everything…’ Tim paused.’ For everything that happened.’
I’ve grown to hate coming home from school; I’d prefer to stay in the convent with that bitch of a nun, Sister Alphonsus. I still have welts on my left hand where she walloped me with the cane for writing with it. She says that only the devil’s children use their left hand and that good catholic girls should write with their right hand, like Jesus intended them to. She says it’s the only way that I’ll learn my lesson, that and by tying it tightly behind my back so I can’t use it. I hate the month of March most of all, mostly because it’s lambing season. The season when Tim is ordered out of school by father, even though it’s his exam year, and plonked slap, bang, right into the middle of the lambing field until all the lambs are born. He’s even made to sleep in the caravan up there, which leaves just me and my mother back here, at the house.
My mother enjoys March most, when my father is either out in the fields or down in the town, drinking. It allows her to pretend we don’t exist. Like she’s some pitiful widow living alone in the oversized farmhouse.
‘Is that you, Rose?’ My mother, indolent and dramatic, is only short of fanning herself with feathers and uttering ‘woe is me’ at the end of every sentence, and it really grates on my nerves. Her voice spills from the mahogany panelled room, scraping the black and white tiles of the hall as it travels towards me and staggers into the kitchen carrying the scent of musty perfumed talc, cigarette smoke and regrets. She would have watched me from her bed as I climbed the drive and rounded the house to enter through the heavy back door. I’m furious that she has asked, there is no one else it could have been. I’m furious that I have to answer her.
‘Yes.’ The scorn on my face is much braver than the politeness of my voice. It is just as well she cowers behind her door, fearful to be seen, not that she would have seen my face even if she had been standing in front of me. Unlike my father, who says that if I so much as look at him in that tone of voice, he’ll teach me how to be pleasant, with his belt, again. I always try my best not to answer him and for the most part it works. My father’s belt is like the convent’s Mother Superior. When you see her coming, you bow your head and shut your mouth and hope that she doesn’t notice you.
‘Bring Patrick’s dinner below.’ Mother’s voice wafts from inside her room and I don’t bother to answer her. Every word that I have to say to her hurts. She pauses, no doubt to swig the drain that was left in her glass. ‘And come straight back.’ She warns. I’m not sure what my mother ever did in the house, but whatever it was, she has given up doing it. Which leaves all the, so-called, women’s work to me. It’s been that way for two years now, since I turned twelve. She has taken the front drawing room as her own, telling my father that her legs can’t manage the stairs. It just so happens that the room she has moved into is closer to the drinks cabinet and further from my father’s bed but that doesn’t seem to matter to him. It’s hard to listen to her, not because she slurs and then overcompensates with a pretentious telephone voice, but because, no matter what she does, she just angers me.
I wrap a plate with cold ham, lettuce, tomato and yesterday’s bread. I open the back door again and cut across the yard with the tinfoiled plate. The path that joins our house to Patrick’s cottage snakes between the sheds and the end of our overgrown herb garden. Tim was ordered to plant hedge clippings along the route last week but they haven’t grown yet.
‘Is that you?’ my uncle says without turning from the sink. He’s stood slushing water underneath his armpits with a dirty brown dishcloth, dirty cups and bowls on the sideboard.
‘It’s me,’ I say quickly, embarrassed to see him without his shirt.
‘Good girl, what did your mother cook tonight?’ He knows well that my mother hasn’t cooked in years. I pull back the tinfoil and place his plate on his table. It’s easier to show him than to use my words.
‘Grand, now like a good girl will you make the tea to go with it, while I get out of these clothes.’ He starts to unbuckle his belt in the kitchen and I cringe. It only takes his long legs, three strides to reach his bedroom door. I lift the heavy kettle that has begun to whistle and pour the water into the teapot on the stove. The tea leaves swirl like a kaleidoscope and I have to force myself to close the lid.
‘Tea’s stewing,’ I call in to him as loudly as I can manage, which isn’t loud at all. My face is definitely louder than my words.
‘Wait a minute.’ The jumper he was pulling over his head muffles the sound as he talks to me from his bedroom next door.
‘Mother says I’ve to come straight back or my dinner will get cold.’ The hairs on my arm stand taller as though they feel a chill. The chill hasn’t reached the rest of me yet. I try to cover them but the sleeves on my school blouse are an inch too short.
‘It’s already cold,’ he says. ‘Salad.’ He smirks as he waves towards the plate as if he has figured out a maths problem that no one else could. I steal a look at him from under my fringe. ‘Anyway, you may wait for the plate.’ He settles at the table and so does the smell. I think of a smart remark, just like I did when Sister Alphonsus caned me, but I don’t say it. Sometimes it’s just not worth it.
‘Sit down.’ He points to the bench beside him. I do as I am told. My nostrils flare as the smell of him seeps inside of me, engulfing me in the rancid odour of the farm. ‘The salad is lovely, tell your mother.’ He slurps as he speaks, and spits of saliva land on the table in front of him. I’m not sure whether he is being sarcastic or not, but I am sure that the salad is not lovely. Discreetly, I cover my nose and my mouth and concentrate on the smell of the carbolic soap from my hands instead.
He pauses slurping and peers at me from the side. ‘You’re growing to be a lovely girl just like your mother.’ He picks up the chunk of ham in his filthy hands and tears a massive bite with his yellowed, unruly teeth, caveman-like. I wish he would use his fork. I take deep breaths, my stomach is about to chuck out the paltry soup I had at lunchtime in school. I hate having to wait for the plate. ‘She doesn’t come and see me anymore,’ he sneers. ‘Your mother,’ he clarifies, and even though it’s not a question, I know by the squinting of his eyes and the derision in his statement that he is waiting for a reply.
‘She’s not able,’ I say. My voice is weak, something I despise my mother for.
‘So I hear.’ Patrick takes a crust of bread and wipes his plate clean. He folds the slice in four and places all of it in his mouth at once and I feel sorry for the bread. ‘Sure, you’re the woman of the house now.’ He hands me the empty plate, presumably to wash it. I slide from the bench as quietly as I can, as though by being quiet he might not notice me. He follows me to the sink and stretches over me with his mug. The smell of him does nothing to ease the nausea I’m feeling and my stomach turns over almost three times. His arm brushes across my chest and I freeze.
‘What are these?’ He turns me slightly with his large filthy hand on my shoulder and he flicks at the front of my blouse as though there is a stubborn insect resting on my front. I notice the black lines of dirt framing his fingernails as he points to my chest. My blouse is tight now around my chest and for the first time this year I regret not asking for a new one. I can’t breathe. My face must have told him so because my words couldn’t.
‘Ah don’t be shy, Rose. Come over here and sit beside me.’ He speaks every word slowly as though he is speaking to Mr Patel in the corner shop in town. I hear the floor groan as he retreats back across the tired floorboards. It doesn’t sound half as loud as the silent groan echoing inside of me. Instinctively, I shuffle my legs so I can turn the rest of the way. I don’t like the idea of him being behind me. My wellies squeal like captured piglets as they rub against each other and I keep my hand on the sink for balance. It’s time to leave, I decide and I manage to take the plate without looking him in the eye and stoically make for the back kitchen door. There is no way I am going to sit beside him like he wants me to.
‘Rose.’
I freeze with one foot on the threshold as he calls my name. I draw a breath deeply into my lungs and glare at him, ready to run.
‘I don’t think your father would like to know that his little girl, Rosie, is growing up, do you?’ He says. ‘He’ll take the belt to you.’
I watch him from behind my fringe and can see his beady eyes narrow menacingly. I can hear my heart beating inside my head. My lungs feel as though Sister Alphonsus has made us do twenty jumping jacks so that she doesn’t have to put the heating on. I am drenched in worry as a swell of panic washes over me. I don’t know which to dread more: my father’s belt or my uncle’s hands. I decide to take my chances with the belt and push my voice out in front of me.
‘He’ll take the belt to you more like.’ It turns out my voice is as brave as my face after all. I stand, poised to leave and hold the wet plate to my bosom as my shield. He remains at the table and suddenly the silence of the room is filled, decibel by climbing decibel, as his whimpering snigger transforms into a thundering laugh.
‘Well then, our meek and mild virgin, Rosie’s, got her brother’s balls.’ Patrick stands and the old oak table screeches as it scrapes across the sticky timber floor.
I edge closer to the door and have decided that I will throw the plate, if I have to.
His sinister grin stretches from one side of his face to the other and the malice inside of him drops like grains of gravel in the quarry. ‘Feisty,’ he says as he bites the side of his bottom lip and puts his hands in his trouser pockets.
‘What’s it to you?’ My voice cracks a little but my face doesn’t; it means business, even if I am terrified.
‘We’ll see how long you can be brave for, Rosie.’ I hate it when he calls me that. Tim is the only one allowed to call me Rosie. He pauses a moment and then retakes his seat but keeps his hands in his pockets. His feet stretch under the table and out the other side. I notice the kettle simmering on the stove and consider pouring it over him but I don’t. For some reason, I say in my head that a watched kettle never boils. ‘Your mother never fought back,’ he spits. His words drip with arrogance and gratification. I suspect his ego couldn’t help but tell me.
The handful of courage I had moments ago escapes through my small pale fingers and I clinch the damp plate closer to my body. It’s a minute before I realise the indentation it makes on my chest. My uncle is a long man with long lean muscles that stretch from his thick country neck to his bulky calves. The vessels in his neck pulsate like worms crawling underneath his skin. The shaking in my knees has migrated to my hands and my voice follows suit. My mind hurries to my departure and I’m afraid to use any more words.
‘That shut you up, you little prick-tease.’
I can feel him staring at me but don’t come out from behind my fringe. I steal a look in his direction when I know he has blinked. Beads of sweat leak from his hairline across his forehead and bring with it the day’s muck from his face in grey streaks. I wish he would take his hands from his pockets and wipe it away, but his eyes close momentarily and languish there before they flicker. Then his breathing quickens and deepens. I can see more beads of sweat escape from his upper lip and he lets out a quiet groan, slow and low like a bull. I run.
The plate is still wet and I rub it on my chest as I hurry across the mucky yard and up the path to the house. We have loads of these plates, big and small, cups, saucers, teapots and bowls; all neatly stacked in the dining room dresser. There was a girl from the village who used to do the housework for my mother, but even she doesn’t come here anymore. The plate looks fancy with rust-coloured swags and gold trimming along the edges. Fine cracks spread at funny angles from the centre. ‘Wait for the plate,’ I repeat in a deep mimicky voice. I want to march back to my uncle and throw the plate at him. Or better still, smash it over his head. I wish I had done it. I wish I was braver.
The March sky looks electrically orange and leaves just enough light for me to make out a shadow across the field. I concentrate hard to see if it’s the cattle, my father or Tim. My boots are heavy with wet sticky mud lodged in the grooves of the soles, refusing to scrape away. I hesitate on the spot as the shadow moves closer. It might be Tim but it might be my father, so I make for the house as quickly as the heavy boots allow.