Niamh and I know enough not to show our surprise. I take a sip of coffee, waiting for Carol-Ann’s next salvo.

  ‘Oh, don’t get me wrong,’ she immediately backtracks. ‘Vandra was a great friend and our boys were the same age. Rob was in school with Max, so we all spent a lot of time together.’

  ‘Right,’ nods Niamh, ‘and you’re a sailing coach in the club as well?’

  ‘Mostly retired from that. But yes, a few hours. And I like to help out with MaxSpirit when I can. Conleth does wonderful work for the underprivileged, you know. And he only has that girl Sally to help – she’s very young—’ She blinks away whatever she was going to say, her eyes falling on the long sideboard on which a treasure trove of awards is laid out. Trophies, plaques, framed photos in silver and crystal, a commemorative carriage clock – it’s like a shrine to sailing. In many of the photographs, a heavy-set boy with dark hair smiles self-consciously. I spot a photo which shows the same boy and, beside him, a young Max.

  I leave Niamh to do the approving nods for that one.

  ‘Is this your son?’ I pick up a silver-edged framed photo.

  She smiles.

  ‘That’s him. Rob.’ She indicates the frame. ‘He was twelve when that was taken. He’d just won gold in the regatta.’

  ‘Oh, and that’s Max Fitzgerald beside him, isn’t it?’ I tilt the frame so Niamh can see it too.

  ‘Did they used to sail together as well?’ says Niamh.

  ‘As well?’ she replies, her lips pursing. ‘They were partners first. Before Max and Conleth, the boys – it was Rob and Max who were a little dream team. I used to call them the terrible two.’

  ‘I see.’ Niamh nods, gesturing for me to hand her the photo and then passing it into Carol-Ann’s hand. ‘So, this is the pair just after they won?’

  Carol-Ann shakes her head then looks up, her eyes focusing at some distant point on the horizon.

  ‘I took them out – I brought Max and Rob out for their first ever trip in a dinghy. They were in First Class, so they can’t have been more than seven years old. I showed them the ropes – literally. Put them through their exams – there are exams, you know? I mean, it’s hard to believe now, but at one time my Rob was the better sailor. He was bigger – or at least, he was until Max had a growth spurt in his teens.’

  She places the photo on her lap, facing up. ‘Sorry. That’s not what you asked me. What did you say?’

  Niamh gestures towards the photo.

  ‘I was wondering if that’s – was that picture taken after they’d won a race together?’

  Carol-Ann presses her lips together.

  ‘Actually, no. Rob won the gold that time. They’d been competing in – they were sailing Topazes. Individually. And well, as I say, Rob was such a sturdy lad and, at that point, he had the upper hand. Max got the bronze.’

  She looks up. In her eyes, a slim layer of tears reflects the white glare from outside. She passes the photo back to me with a little nod, and the gesture shows me something of the teacher. It’s an instruction.

  ‘And who got the silver?’ Niamh probes.

  ‘Oh, Conleth, of course,’ she says. ‘Sorry, I should have explained all of this to start off with. You see, as their coach, I was in a position to – let’s just say, I understood the dynamics of the situation. Yes. Conleth appeared on the scene – at the sailing club, rather – for the very first time that summer. It was the year they all were starting secondary school. And Conleth – I mean, well, he didn’t come from a sailing family, if you get me.’

  She frowns.

  ‘I don’t mean – sorry. That sounds like I’m saying you have to, you know, have sailing in your blood. And I’m not. Not at all. Plenty of people do a course or go out with a friend and they’re bitten by the bug. It’s a passion.’

  She tilts her palm upwards, does a little sweep of the view, the room full of photos and memorabilia.

  ‘Sailing people literally live for the next event, for the next time they go out on the water. Petey – my late husband – and I, we met through sailing. We were married in the yacht club. And the Fitzgeralds were the same – Max and Rob, all of us, we literally spent every weekend and the long summers together, sailing.’

  ‘And Conleth?’ says Niamh, with a little side-eye at me. There’s something not exactly right here.

  ‘Conleth was, ah – less fortunate. He – he appeared one summer for a month-long sailing camp. I think John – Max’s father – had arranged it as a favour, because Conleth’s dad had been doing some work on the engine of the boat. Lovely people, the O’Haras. Salt of the earth, you know?’

  The phrase gleams between us like a beacon. It’s like something Justy would say, and I know exactly what she’s telling me. Conleth was from a different social class – well, in her book anyway.

  ‘But he was instantly – I mean, he was a natural. And of course, you’ve seen him? I mean, even now, he’s a terrific athlete. And so, when we started training the kids for racing the Lazers, suddenly Conleth was in demand. They race the Lazers and 49ers in pairs, you know?’

  We both murmur our agreement.

  ‘And at that point, you see – well, it could have been a different story, is all I’ll say. Because straightaway it was Rob and Conleth who were paired together. Whereas Max – I mean, he hadn’t had his growth spurt, so I don’t think he could have expected any different. I don’t think he was upset or anything. You have to choose your teams according to talent, after all. But what I’m saying is that for almost three years, Rob and Conleth were the ones sailing together. But the Fitzgeralds—’ She breaks off, and it’s as if she wakes from a bit of a trance. She shakes her head.

  ‘What about the Fitzgeralds?’ says Niamh, her earlier patience forgotten.

  ‘Look, Vandra was a dear friend,’ she says, ‘and I really don’t want to speak ill of the dead, but—’

  ‘Are you saying that Max’s mum interfered—’

  A new burst of energy and a kind of righteous indignation comes over Carol-Ann.

  ‘I don’t know if either of you has children,’ she says, with a little shuffling movement of her shoulders like a laying hen, ‘but if and when you do, you’ll understand – look. You’d do anything to make them happy. That’s what I’m saying. And Vandra—’

  We both wait. Niamh is nodding and keeping a quiet chorus of uh-huhs going.

  ‘Oh, I completely understand,’ I chip in. ‘I have two at home. You’d – you’re right. You’d literally do anything to keep the peace, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘You’re only as happy as your unhappiest child,’ Niamh trots out, and it’s all I can do not to stare at her. But it works.

  Carol-Ann relaxes.

  ‘Exactly. And look – I don’t blame her. And they were in a position to do this for Conleth – well, for Max really. And later, when we heard about the tragedy – well, you know his parents died in a fire, don’t you? Well, afterwards, Vandra and John, they were wonderful. It was a very kind thing to do.’

  ‘What did they do?’ I say, wishing she’d spell it out.

  ‘Oh, sorry. I thought you’d know this. It was an open secret. The Fitzgeralds became like a second family to Conleth. They – when his parents died, it was like they adopted him, and they bought a brand-new 49er for Max. Conleth changed schools. The school offered him a full scholarship, which I know for certain would have been funded by John Fitzgerald, so that he could be in the same form as Max. He stayed with them at weekends and during the holidays and then, later, when they went to college, they shared a flat in Rathmines.’

  ‘And they did this because—’ Niamh lets the question hang in the air.

  ‘Look, I’m not saying that Max wasn’t a brilliant sailor. He was. But so was Rob. And competitive sailing is pretty cut-throat, especially if you have any ambition for the Olympics. Conleth’s loyalties shifted to the Fitzgerald family. We couldn’t – we couldn’t compete financially.’ She pauses, and I wonder just how much money the Fitzgeralds must have had if she considers herself poor by comparison.

  ‘And – oh, I don’t know,’ she continues. ‘It seems so obvious now. Those Fitzgerald children got everything they ever wanted. Conleth and Max dropped Rob like a hot brick in Third Year. Rob still sailed, and he crewed with a cousin, but they didn’t have the same bond. Plus, it was just so difficult for him to watch what was happening for Conleth and Max. It was almost like the end of a love affair. In a few months, it went from being Rob and Conleth to Conleth and Max. Rob was broken-hearted.’

  She shifts in her seat, doing a little shake of her shoulders. The body language tells me there’s something more. A pronouncement.

  ‘In the end, mind you, they did him a favour. He didn’t need any favours from the golden boy. He’s an ENT consultant now,’ she adds. ‘Rob gave up the sailing and threw himself into his studies. So, you see, it wasn’t the worst thing to happen for him.’

  She sits back in her chair, tilting her chin upwards as she fishes in her sleeve for a hanky. She dabs at her eyes, though the tears have long dried.

  ‘So, I suppose Rob didn’t attend the party that night?’ says Niamh, not looking up from her notebook, and I know it’s so that I’ll study the effect of the question. ‘Max’s twenty-first?’

  She sits very still then reaches for her cup, taking a sip of what must be, by now, cold coffee. She frowns.

  ‘Of course he went to the party. We all did. You can’t let these things take over your life, you know.’ Again, that little shoulder shrug. ‘They were never as close, the boys, and yes, I suppose things were perhaps a bit stilted between our families, but, as I say – look at him now.’

  She points to the far wall, to the graduation photo. Then she seems to debate something. She has a finisher.

  ‘And at least it meant he never got mixed up in all the—’

  We wait. She’s dying to say it. With a sigh, she speaks.

  ‘The drug-taking. I know – I know you’ll say it’s everywhere, and maybe it is now. But you can take my word for it, back then Corrig Point was a wonderful, wholesome club. A family club. And it gives me no pleasure to speak ill of the dead, I promise you, but when I heard about Max, about his drug habit’ – she stresses the word, as though it’s alien to her – ‘I wasn’t the least bit surprised.’

  ‘And where or who did you hear that from?’

  She bristles. ‘Well, of course I kept it completely quiet at the time – confidentiality is a vital aspect of the club secretary’s job – but it was only natural that letters from the Olympic Committee would first pass through my hands. I was the first to know that they were withdrawing their offer because of failure to produce.’

  She draws her neat brows together in a frown. ‘And I had the unhappy task of breaking it to them.’

  @missymurfi: How r you bearing up, Gem? It must be desperate raking up all this pain again. Would you like any help at all with the funeral? I can make sandwiches. Did you not get your online shopping delivery this week?

  @nolimitsgrl: Can you talk to anyone? A professional?

  @theirishmammy: I can post names of therapists – someone you can talk to.

  @missymurfi: The gemstones are here for you @gemstone. I lit a candle for you and one for your brother.

  @unatracey5: Managed to bag the last two skincare sets. Tks, Gemma. Great discount!

  @missymurfi: I’m sure she’s too busy for this now. @unatracey5 presume you’ve heard the news?

  @unatracey5: Of course. Just saying thanks.

  37

  Gemma

  Conleth’s arm is around my shoulders, and he keeps pressing me against him and I know what that means. Another code. I can gauge the level of his anger, or the intensity of the warning I’m being given, by the pressure of the squeeze. I reckon the pressure is about ninety per cent. Maybe more. We stand on the steps of the yacht club and it’s like being in ancient Rome in the arena. The reporters and photographers and passers-by form a semicircle, like they’re the gladiators and we’re the prisoners. Above us the gulls wheel and cry. One bird spots a half-eaten sandwich in the gutter and it swoops to grab it, skimming the railings, startling a reporter into dropping her phone.

  I hold Ferdia’s hand – we collected him early from school; Conleth insisted – while Conleth’s squeezes my shoulders, and it looks like a cosy photo of the strong man comforting the little woman, supporting the family. Only I can feel how hard the squeeze is. Only I know what it means.

  I move closer, resting my head against his chest then looking up at him – in gratitude. Because that’s what it means. It means Get on board. He looks down at me, a sad smile like a scrape across his mouth. He’s a media dream, actually. Approaching forty, but only growing more chiselled, the jawline firm, the hair still intact though sprinkled with grey. He doesn’t look like a cruel man. He doesn’t look like a man who locks the pantry on a whim, depriving not just his wife but his own son of access to food. If anyone opened the kitchen cupboards, they’d find them pretty much bare. He has an online shop delivered once a week. It never varies and it’s not enough. He eats at the club or buys food for himself when he’s out. If I’ve been very good, he’ll bring something back. If I’m very good, I’m allowed a coffee – the ones you make with the sachet. I get an allowance and I can use my phone to tap and pay, but he keeps track of it on an app on his phone.

  ‘When’s the funeral, Gem?’ The shout is friendly, almost like the reporter was asking when’s the party.

  ‘How are you holding up?’ A female voice – she writes for one of the main papers.

  ‘She’s a trooper,’ he says, kissing the top of my head.

  He doesn’t look like a man who once scraped his leftovers on to a plate and said, ‘Now, come on, Mummy-dog,’ click-clicking his teeth as he put the plate on the floor, Ferdia’s eyes skittering left and right in panic.

  ‘Dog mummy is so funny, isn’t she?’ He’d laughed as I bent to pick it up. ‘I’m only joking.’

  ‘We are hoping the coroner will release the body for burial any day now,’ he says now, his tone serious. ‘You’ll find details on RIP.ie. Thank you.’

  A squeeze.

  ‘Thank you,’ I echo.

  ‘Why haven’t you done that post yet?’ says Conleth as we pull up outside the house. Automatically, I look over my shoulder to make sure Ferdia is wearing his headphones. Things can escalate quickly. He cuts the engine and turns to face me, holding his hand out for my phone.

  Did I delete it? Shit – did I delete it? I think I did. I must have. There’s no way I’d be careless enough to leave that on.

  I pat my jeans pocket, then lean forward and reach into my handbag, my hair swinging down to hide what I’m doing. I rummage in the bag, playing for time and – thank God, thank God – he tsks in impatience and takes his own phone out, tapping into Instagram and searching the stories.

  ‘Here,’ he says, tilting it towards me. ‘That’s your last one. Where’s the one you did earlier this morning?’

  ‘Oh God, sorry!’ I say. ‘Yes – I couldn’t finish it. There was a problem with one of the outfits. The trousers were way too long, even with heels, and I—’

  He looks closely at me, frowning.

  ‘You were in there for long enough, for Christ’s sake. Anyway, it needs to be done today. I mean—’

  We both leap at a tap on the window. It’s the taller garda – Niamh. And in the rear-view mirror I spot Laura waving at Ferdia through the car window. We never even noticed them park behind us. I plaster a huge smile on my face and start getting out, ready to greet them. Before I can, Conleth hisses for me to look at him. He’s smiling, but his eyes are flat. His fingers twist in a small movement, thumb and first two fingers close together. The greeting dies on my lips. That gesture means Shut it.

  Niamh moves to hold the door to stop it swinging back against me, and it crosses my mind to grab her wrists, to whisper in her ear, Help me. Please help me. But I don’t. Conleth gets out of the car, all bonhomie and civility.

  ‘Ladies,’ he says. He leans to open the door for Ferdia, who clambers down and moves towards me. Conleth stops him, grabbing hold of his wrist, and I wait for the tears or, worse, the brave face. But instead, his face splits into an enormous grin and he looks from me to Laura, who is carrying a large, shiny, not-broken digger, almost identical to Ferdia’s, except both the bucket and the crane part are red, not yellow.

  ‘May I?’ she says to me, ignoring Conleth completely. ‘Don’t worry, I didn’t buy it!’ she says, with a laugh that sounds forced. She’s watching me. She bends down so she’s at Ferdia’s level.

  ‘This is for you, Ferdia,’ she says, ‘from my little boy. He doesn’t play with it so much now, and he said you could have it. He was very sad when he heard yours got broken. Would you like it?’

  Before Conleth can say anything, Ferdia pulls his hand free and grabs the digger, clutching it to his chest.

  ‘What do you say?’ says Conleth, his voice stretching to hold the smile. He’s not pleased. But he’s not going to say anything.

  ‘Ah, Jaysus,’ grins Niamh, watching Ferdia, who immediately starts talking to the toy. ‘Let him off. He’s made up.’

  I catch eyes with Laura, and I feel the threat of tears in mine.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say. She nods, her face serious.

  ‘Thought it might be a good distraction,’ she says, pointing towards the house. ‘While we talk. Something’s come up.’

  ‘Of course,’ says Conleth, gesturing towards the path. ‘Come in.’

  He steps aside to let us go ahead of him and it’s all I can do not to grab Ferdia and run. They know. I’m sure of it. And they don’t want to arrest me outside. Will they do it? They wouldn’t do it in front of Ferdia, surely? My heart – instead of thumping in panic, it feels like it’s slowed to nothing. Like suspended animation. And I don’t know how my legs are moving, but they keep walking. Conleth passes me the key to the front door and I know he wants us to enter that way, not through the side and into the kitchen directly. And I know why. If we come down the staircase, we go straight into the sitting room, which is immaculate. It should be. It was scrubbed with a toothbrush. I lead the way up the stone steps and, hands shaking, open the front door.

 

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