Tana French: Faithful Place

“Makes sense,” I said. “Believe me, I know the feeling.”

“I’m sorry, Francis. I’m really, really sorry.”

Her voice sounded thin and desperate, frayed to the last thread. It would have taken an even bigger sonofabitch than me to make her feel worse. I said, “Shit happens, kid. This wasn’t your fault, any more than it was Holly’s.”

“It was, but. If I hadn’t brought her over to Mammy’s to begin with…”

“Or if I hadn’t brought her that specific day. Or, better yet, if Shay hadn’t… Well, there we go.” The rest of the sentence unraveled into the empty air between us. “You did your best; that’s all anyone can do. You go unmelt your head, babe. Take your time. Call me when you’re done.”

“I will. Honest to God, I will. And, Francis… you look after yourself, meanwhile. Seriously, now.”

“Will do. You too, honeybunch. See you out there.”

Just before Jackie hung up, I heard that fast, painful catch of breath again. I hoped she would go in to Gavin and let him hug her, instead of standing outside in the darkness, crying.

A few days later I went to the Jervis Centre and bought the kind of King Kong telly that you buy if the possibility of saving up for anything more substantial has never entered your universe. I felt it would take more than electronics, no matter how impressive, to stop Imelda from kicking me in the goolies, so I parked my car at the top of Hallows Lane and waited for Isabelle to get home from wherever she went all day.

It was a cold gray day, sky heavy with sleet or snow waiting to fall, thin skins of ice on the potholes. Isabelle came down Smith’s Road walking fast, with her head down and her thin fake-designer coat pulled tight against the slicing wind. She didn’t see me till I got out of the car and stepped in front of her.

I said, “Isabelle, yeah?”

She gave me a wary stare. “Who wants to know?”

“I’m the prick who smashed your telly. Nice to meet you.”

“Fuck off or I’ll scream.”

And a chip off the old block personality-wise, too. The kid gave me the warm fuzzies all over. I said, “Dial it down a notch there, Penelope Pitstop. This time I’m not here to give you hassle.”

“Then what d’you want?”

“I brought you a new telly. Happy Christmas.”

The suspicion on her face got deeper. “Why?”

“You’ve heard of a guilty conscience, yeah?”

Isabelle folded her arms and shot me the filthies. Up close, the resemblance to Imelda was still there, but not as strong. She had the round Hearne nub of a chin. “We don’t want your telly,” she informed me. “Thanks all the same.”

I said, “Maybe you don’t, but your ma might, or your sisters. Why don’t you try them and find out?”

“Yeah, right. How do we know that yoke wasn’t robbed two nights ago, and if we take it you’ll be round to arrest us this afternoon?”

“You’re overestimating my brainpower.”

Isabelle raised an eyebrow. “Or you’re underestimating mine. ’Cause I’m not thick enough to take anything off a cop who’s pissed off with my ma.”

“I’m not pissed off with her. We had a little difference of opinion, it’s been resolved, she’s got nothing to worry about from me.”

“Better not. My ma’s not scared of you.”

“Good. Believe it or not, I’m fond of her. We grew up together.”

Isabelle considered that. “Then what’d you smash our telly for?” she demanded.

“What does your ma say?”

“She won’t.”

“Then neither will I. A gentleman never divulges a lady’s confidences.”

She threw me a withering look to show that she wasn’t impressed by the fancy talk, but then she was at the age where nothing I did would have impressed her anyway. I tried to imagine what it was like, seeing your daughter with breasts and eyeliner and the legal right to get on a plane to anywhere she wanted. “Is that yoke meant to make sure she says the right thing in court? ’Cause she already gave her statement to that young fella, what-d’you-call-him, Ginger Pubes.”

A statement that she could and presumably would change several dozen times by the time the trial came along, but if I had felt the urge to bribe Imelda Tierney I wouldn’t have needed to blow the budget; I could have stuck with a couple of cartons of John Player Blue. I figured I was better off not sharing that with Isabelle. I said, “That’s nothing to do with me. Let’s get this much straight: I’ve got nothing to do with that case, or that young fella, and I don’t want anything off your ma. OK?”

“You’d be the first fella who didn’t. Seeing as you don’t want anything, can I go now, yeah?”

Nothing moved on Hallows Lane-no old ones out polishing their brasswork today, no yummy mummies in buggy wars, all the doors shut tight against the cold-but I could feel eyes in shadows behind the lace curtains. I said, “Can I ask you a question?”

“Whatever.”

“What do you work at?”

“What do you care?”

“I’m the nosy type. Why, is it classified?”

Isabelle rolled her eyes. “I’m taking a course to be a legal secretary. Is that all right with you, yeah?”

I said, “It’s great. Well done.”

“Thanks. Do I look bothered what you think of me?”

“Like I told you, I cared about your ma, back in the day. I like knowing she’s got a daughter making her proud and looking after her. Now let’s see you keep up the good work and bring her this bleeding telly.”

I flipped open the boot. Isabelle moved around to the back of the car-keeping her distance, in case I was planning to push her in there and sell her into slavery-and had a look. “ ’S not bad,” she said.

“It’s the pinnacle of modern technology. Do you want me to bring it to your place, or do you want to get a mate to give you a hand?”

Isabelle said, “We don’t want it. What bit of that are you not getting?”

“Look,” I said. “This yoke cost me good money. It’s not robbed, it doesn’t have anthrax on it and the government can’t watch you through the screen. So what’s the problem here? Is it just the cop cooties?”

Isabelle looked at me like she wondered how I managed to put on my boxers right way round. She said, “You grassed up your brother.”

And there we all were. I had been the big dumb sucker all over again, thinking it might not turn into public knowledge: if Shay had kept his mouth shut there was always the local ESP network, and if that had had an off day there had been nothing to stop Scorcher, in one of the follow-up interviews, from dropping just one tiny little hint. The Tierneys would happily have taken a telly that had fallen off the back of a lorry-probably they would have taken one off Deco the friendly neighborhood drug dealer, if he decided he owed them for whatever reason-but they wanted nothing to do with the likes of me. Even if I had felt like defending myself, to Isabelle Tierney or to the fascinated watchers or to every living soul in the Liberties, it would never have made one drop of difference. I could have put Shay in intensive care, maybe even in Glasnevin cemetery, and spent the next few weeks collecting approving nods and pats on the back; but nothing he had done was a good enough excuse for squealing on your own brother.

Isabelle glanced round, making sure there were people near and ready to come to the rescue, before she said-nice and loud, so those same people could hear her-“Take your telly and shove it up your hole.”

She jumped back, quick and agile as a cat, in case I went for her. Then she gave me the finger to make sure no one missed the message, spun on her spike heel and stalked off down Hallows Lane. I watched while she found her keys, vanished into the hive of old brick and lace curtains and watching eyes, and slammed the door behind her.