Blood And Water (2 page)

Hilarious, she thought, watching as the coffin was lowered and somehow one of the inexperienced pallbearers managed to almost let slip his end of the pulley into the hole. She imagined William standing beside them, glaring at them, infuriated by their inability to co-ordinate and get it right. ‘
Why do you insist on being such idiots?’
she imagined him roar, always the perfectionist. Always himself imperfect.

“Our family,” she said aloud. She hadn’t meant to, but it had come out involuntarily, quiet but audible nonetheless. If the girls were surprised they didn’t show it. She knew they had heard: she felt them flinch. But they looked neither up nor at her.

She stole a glance at each of her children standing to her left, her right and directly in front of her across the grave. Silently this time she spoke to her dead husband.
Look at them,
she told him.
Our family, connected by blood, but divided by personalities. We were supposed to nurture them, to teach them how to experience each other, to tolerate and care for each other
. Outwardly she shook her head. This was the conversation she didn’t have the chance to have with him in person. These were the words she needed him to hear.
Look what we have done to them. Look what you have done to me
. Now she felt the tears that had been so obviously absent freefall down her cheeks. But they weren’t tears of grief, rather they were tears of frustration and shame. She had watched it happen and did nothing to stop it. She let it happen. Her body shook.

Ciara, of all people, put an arm around her shoulders and let her head rest against her shoulder. How ironic, Barbara mused, that this child should be the one to offer her comfort, their roles reversed, their lives changed. She felt the strangely welcome pressure of her fingers on her upper arm. She was free now to feel, as she should, waking finally from years of inertia, the sensation of Ciara’s embrace peculiarly exceptional.

His mouth was moving but she couldn’t hear the priest’s words. She watched him flick oil at the polished timber and bow solemnly but she wasn’t listening. Way over his head she watched the trees sway gently against the clear blue autumn sky, their leaves discolouring beautifully, just waiting to be carried to the ground to decay and complete their life cycle, just like the coffin that was without doubt a coffin fit for a king, now resting in the rectangular hole which was its final destination, primed to decay and rot. It was nature’s way.

“Mum,” Enya prompted from her left, waking her from her evanescent thoughts and nodding to the flower in her hand.

The lily: William’s least favourite flower. Barbara cast it from her hands and waited for its quiet, comical thump as it hit the wooden box below. If she could have chortled aloud and got away with it she would have, but it just wasn’t appropriate for the grieving widow to snigger at her husband’s funeral.

Around her, one by one, her children reached down to cast still-moist handfuls of clay on to the coffin. The organic, wet smell of it made her stomach lurch and her skin prickle. She didn’t need to look up to know how they appeared or how they would behave. In the silence of the past few days she had come to know them well: the distinguished leader, the careful diplomat, the amusing joker, the rebellious doer and the sensitive carer. The remaining line-up of her team.

Part One

Chapter 1

Three weeks earlier

Like a startled rabbit he jumped instinctively, alarmed by the feel of his brothers wife’s hand passing purposefully across his groin. He took a short gasping breath and checked himself. Did that
really
just happen? Watching her back as she moved about the kitchen like nothing out of the ordinary was going on, he wasn’t quite sure. Perhaps he’d imagined it. But when Kathryn looked over her shoulder to throw a wicked, sinful glance back at him he knew he hadn’t and she had meant it. Every provocative nerve-tickling nanosecond of it. He looked around, as if someone else might have noticed her move but, apart from himself and herself, they were completely alone in the expensive, solid and shiny red kitchen.

Cormac, spooked by the innuendo, swallowed nervously and tried to discreetly reposition himself out of her way, but it was pointless. Moving within her dominion she found a way to make contact each time she passed, which was without doubt unnecessarily frequent. Whatever he had been expecting from her, it wasn’t this.

“You alright?” she asked casually, busy chopping and mixing and stirring. “Be a pet,” she said with a wink, “and help me set the table.”

His heart was beating double time and, in the absence of any better ideas, he did as he was told. Having found what he thought was the right moment to talk to her again about his predicament, this wasn’t the anticipated response. And now, distracted by her unexpected but not inexplicable behaviour, he couldn’t think straight. And while he may have been temporarily stunned, he wasn’t completely stupid: he had a pretty good idea what was happening – he just wished he were wrong. Perhaps he had misunderstood, maybe he was misreading her constant skimming. Maybe it would be different with everyone around? But he needed her alone.

Frustrated by a situation slipping out of his control, he stopped trying and allowed himself to become her stooge for the afternoon and prayed for a moment to organically arise where he could talk to her properly.

“Be a doll and check the spuds.”

“Do me a favour and get the serviettes from the top drawer.”

“Reach in there and grab the opener for me, would you?”

“You wouldn’t mind shining up the glasses, would you?”

“Be a pet and fill up the salt cellar for me?”

Attending to her every beck and call, hoping to win her favour, he did as he was asked and scurried around her while one by one the family arrived to take their places at the now beautifully set lunchtime table.

On the plus side, he consoled himself as he navigated between tasks, his activity served to legitimately remove him from the mindless, bullshit conversations around the table. He never understood why they did this to themselves: these ‘first of the month’ Sunday lunches were a form of self-inflicted torture that he and his siblings forced upon themselves in the desperate hope of actually becoming the close-knit family everyone in their acquaintance had them down as. Why and to whom it was so important he couldn’t remember anymore.

His father was, as always, being difficult, finding fault with his younger daughter on her unannounced return from abroad while his mother, as usual, remained silent but pissed. Rian was indulging in excruciating displays of affection with his newly announced fiancée Martha while Seb and Ciara verbally scratched at each other like children.

Lunch at last served, Cormac could no longer avoid taking his seat in the dining room, where he silently celebrated another average Bertram Sunday lunch: whoopee. His knee hopped under the table in anticipation of the meal’s end. He had no idea what was on his plate or how much of it he eventually ate – all he knew was that when the end came he eagerly sought the opportunity to follow Kathryn into the kitchen.

“I’ll clear,” he announced, leaping from his seat to pile the plates one on top of the other.

“What’s up, Bro?” Enya asked, catching the wineglass that he accidentally tipped with the edge of a plate. “You look a bit pasty – you feeling all right?”

Cormac, lost in his thoughts, was unresponsive.

“Cormac?” she repeated and, placing her hand on his arm, asked, “What’s up?”

Disrupted from his trance, he looked at her, confused and distant. “What? Sorry … I’m grand, really. Just a bit off. Must have eaten too much.” He gathered whatever else he could carry in his already overladen hands and hurried into the kitchen.

He had done his best so far not to react to Kathryn’s unusually tactile behaviour, but now he was unable to control his body’s instinct to jerk as if electrocuted when, holding him from behind, she pushed herself against him. Was she laughing at him? He pulled himself away and turned to face her.

“Oh for God’s sake, Cormac, don’t go all innocent on me,” she mocked. “I’ve seen the way you watch me. I’m not shy, I’m open to it. We’re both too long in the tooth to play games. How old are you – forty-one, isn’t it? Don’t deny you fancy me.”

She was a very attractive woman, there was no denying it, but she was his brother’s wife.

“Don’t be ridiculous. What about Seb?”

“What about him?”

“What about him? Are you serious? He’s your husband for Christ’s sake and my brother!”

“Is that all that’s stopping you?” she asked, moving towards him.

“Don’t,” he begged, unable to trust himself.

“Well,” she told him, “now you know what I want.”

“What?” he asked incredulously, amazed that she had managed to translate his predicament into a salacious come-on. “When I came to your office the other day I asked for your help, that’s all.”

“And I said I would think about it, didn’t I?”

“So what’s with all this – this stuff?” he asked with a quiet shriek, prodding the air with a pointed finger.

“Well,” she replied with a sigh, “let’s just say I’m testing the water.” Then, smiling sweetly at him, she turned to fix the coffee cups on the tray.

“Kathryn, for God’s sake!”

Picking up the tray she shimmied past, keeping her back to him, moving slowly, enjoying their close proximity and making sure her curves connected fully with his groin as she passed.

“Why did you come to me?” she asked when she’d reached the door.

He didn’t bother to answer. He wasn’t supposed to. It was a game. Her game. He had handed it to her.

“You think I don’t know what you want, Cormac?” She smiled while pushing the door with her backside. “I think you like me, and I think I’m intrigued by your . . .
frisky
little antics,” she whispered, punctuating her words with a slightly caustic smile. And, like a conquering diva, she swept herself from the room, leaving her lingering scent and a powerful emptiness behind.

Jesus Christ, the woman was stark raving mad. He had gone to her because he’d thought she’d understand – she was a psychologist after all. Ha! She’d understood the situation alright and now was taking advantage of him.

What the hell had he just done? His phone vibrated in his back pocket. He knew what it would be. This day was just getting better and better. Taking the slender, state-of-the-art device from his back pocket he swiped his thumb across its screen and waited for the message to appear.

Just like the last time the image made him blush: he recognised the bare freckled arms of Mark, the fine sweep of his leg and the beautiful curve of his behind. And despite his fear Cormac felt a perfunctory yearning stirring inside. Oh for God’s sake, he chastised himself, glancing down with repugnance at the bulge that had grown in his trousers.

The delicately patterned walls of the kitchen danced around him, closing in tight, their edges blurring dangerously as the enormity of his situation intensified.

He had just assumed Kathryn would help. She was the problem-solver, the rational one. He could have used any number of adjectives to describe his sister-in-law: organised, mature, solid, calm, serious, boring even. And now, it seemed, he could add horny to that list too.

“Bloody hell,” he sighed desperately, closing down the image and the words that goaded him:
“Two more sleeps. Don’t forget now!”

Forget? How could he possibly forget? It was a hundred grand they were looking for, not fifty cent. How the hell was he supposed to forget about that? He placed his phone carefully on the counter, wanting nothing more than to smash it. Bash it into smithereens. Past panic and knee-deep in trouble, his stomach churned as Kathryn’s fake cackle rattled through the door from the dining room.

“Cormac, pet, do me a favour and bring us through more cream from the fridge!” she called.

Bitch! He stood, feet apart, and putting his hands on the island he dipped his head deep between his outstretched arms. He was free-falling.

His gaze followed the hairline cracks on the expensive and expansive tiled floor, their chaotic pattern so much like himself: erratic, confused and going nowhere. A mess. He was a mess and his single best idea for a rescue was fast turning into his worst.

Well, she might still help him. But in return she intended to take advantage of him and his weakness. For a split second, he was almost flattered by her proposition: she wasn’t a bad-looking woman, fit for her age. But his ego was immediately subsumed in his fear and loathing.

“Oh, and bring in the brandy too!” she shouted from the dining room.

Cormac looked first at the door then at the bottle of expensively beautiful and utterly inebriating liquor, and he wondered what else he might do with it. The colour blanched from his knuckles as he gripped the marble top tight. Accepting he could fall no further, he felt an inner calm descend over him, beginning at his head, percolating all the way down to his Converse-clad toes. There was very little he could do now. He was well and truly snookered. Might as well just get on with it and accept the consequences.

Raucous laughter from Kathryn once again ripped through the room. He knew it was staged. Knew she wanted him to hear her. His family never laughed like that at these compulsory monthly lunches.

“Yep, I’m done,” he said to the still-echoing kitchen and, standing tall, took a fortifying breath before sweeping up the brandy bottle and walking out the back door into the early-afternoon sun.

He secured the bottle to the back carrier of his bicycle then stuffed his jean bottoms into the tops of his socks, swung his leg effortlessly over the crossbar and freewheeled along the side passage of the house, down the short gravel driveway and out onto the street.

Turning left, he pedalled his way down the tree-lined avenue, oblivious to the iridescent amber, yellow and rust autumnal colours that collided overhead to hide the sky beyond. This was such a beautiful street – as a child he always dreamed of living here, with his gorgeous but imaginary wife with big boobs and full hair. When Seb and Kathryn bought on this street, initially he was so pissed off: they had invaded his dream. This was his entitlement not theirs. Now he could never fulfil his ambition. The fact that he didn’t and probably never would earn enough to afford one of these detached mansions was irrelevant.