Blood And Water (9 page)

“What a fucking team,” he huffed bitterly into the pillow. The pity of their combination of talents. What a waste. The warmth of their lips, the softness of Orla’s hands, the strength of Mark’s arms, the sinews of his thighs, the mass of his own body compounded by the deviant wild response to Orla’s touch and the volcanic force of their combined climax. Cormac’s skin hummed at the memory. It seemed real then, at the time, and even though he now knew otherwise it still felt real now.

What an asshole, he berated himself, balling his fists to drive them hard into the pillow, feeling his fingernails bite into the clenched palms of his hands.

He was duped all right. Well and truly beguiled by them. How thick was he not to see it? How arrogant? He searched his memory of what now felt like nothing more than a tawdry incident for something, anything that screamed
fake!
What had he missed?He couldn’t find it. Nothing. Even with the pictures from his phone he still found it hard to believe that the whole thing had been a set-up and he never guessed. How the hell was he to know he was being watched
and
filmed? How could he have known it was a full-scale hustle? How could he have known that the bastards had probably been planning the whole thing for months? He’d been set up and he had, so eagerly, devoured the bait.

He had tried to call Orla the minute he received the pictures. They were coming from her phone. Was it some kind of perverted joke, he wanted to ask, feeling the pit of his stomach pulse and grow heavy as he waited for her to answer. It had to be a joke, it couldn’t possibly be real. Things like this didn’t happen in real life – in the movies, yes – but not to him, not in his seemingly charmed life. But her phone rang out and the pictures kept coming one after the other and, when she’d sent through the last one and with it a polite financial demand, there was no denying he’d been deceived. He had so many questions but none more pressing than the simple ‘Why?’ Yes, he knew it was for the money, but why him? Why not someone else?

“Oh, for God’s sake, Cormac,” she said patronisingly when eventually they spoke. “Don’t be an idiot. Why do you think?” Her tone as cold and hard as ice.

“But, but,” he stammered like a broken-hearted horny schoolboy trying to make some sense of what was happening, “I don’t understand – what went wrong? I thought we had fun.”

“For Jesus’ sake,” she moaned, exasperated by him. “Get with the programme, would you? This was never about fun. It was all an act, a game we played, but you lost.”

It was as straightforward as that: he lost.

And so he stood like a moron, in the middle of his living room, wearing nothing but his boxer shorts and socks, his feet unable to move as she fired her words at him down the phone.

“Yes, it was fun. Yes, we had a laugh. But you know what, Cormac, you were easy prey. People talk, you know, and you do have a bit of a reputation. It wasn’t that hard. We had you weeks before you ever knew it.” She chuckled as if he should share her apparent sense of accomplishment.

He felt small and helpless. She had the upper hand and knew it.

“You bitch!”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” she responded, the laughter quickly disappearing from her voice, bored by him. “You’ve got a week.”

“And what if I decide not to play your shitty little game?”

“Well, then, they go live. All of them.”

“And what if I don’t care?”

“But you do, don’t you?”

The obvious sneer in her voice sent shivers up his spine.

“What guarantee do I have that you won’t come back for more?”

“You don’t.”

“Well, I’ll need more time than that – I don’t have that kind of money, I don’t even know where to start looking.”

“You’re a smart guy, you’ll figure something,” she scoffed. “But no more time. This day week. Ten a.m. sharp. Starbucks on the corner of Dame Street.”

The alluring lilt of her voice mid-climax that he remembered had been replaced by her hard-bitch routine. And it worked. To be fair to her, he thought, she was expert at both.

That call was five days ago and with only two days remaining he still hadn’t managed to pull the money together. No doubt he had blown his chances with Kathryn by running out on her after the family lunch. By not playing her game. Feeling physically ill, he hauled himself up and made his way to the kitchen, his feet making quiet suction noises on the polished wooden floor, leaving moist toe and heel prints in their wake.

Drenched in golden sunlight Cormac knew, ironically, that it was going to be another beautiful day.

So what if he had a healthy appetite for flesh? So what if he liked to mix it up a little, take a risk or two? He wasn’t harming anyone. They were all consenting adults; he was single with the capacity to entertain as well as pleasure. Why shouldn’t he be allowed to behave the way he wanted to? Most men, he reckoned, would love to have the balls to take the risks he did. The impression of the photographs once again came to the fore and made him blush.

There was no question as to why he did it. He knew why, although he doubted many would understand if he had the will to explain. Some people smoked, others drank, some ran marathons and climbed mountains for kicks but he – he liked sex, loved sex. He loved the sight, the touch, the smell of it. It was his only real vice.

The drugs thing on the other hand, well, that was harder to put in plain words. Ordinarily he wasn’t a user, it never really did it for him, but in this instance it was part of the act. Orla was so hot for him to try it. It became part of their play: she poured his share across her breasts and offered him the tube. At the time he remembered thinking: Sure, why not? It would be rude to say no.

What a dick.

“Take it,” she offered, pulling him down to her. “Go on,” she encouraged, toying seductively with her powdered nipple, “take it!”

And so, unashamedly, he obliged and snorted it deep into his nostrils before licking her clean. It had no taste but hit him hard, its fast-forward pace thumping like a piston through his brain. Everything seemed quicker, more intense. He wanted it to slow down but he couldn’t and it wouldn’t. His brain fought against his body but he had no idea how to connect the two. They were acting independently of each other and, as the full effect of his white stardust took hold, he couldn’t have cared less.

His cheeks coloured as he remembered the scenario.

God, Cormac, you’re such a fool, he told himself, his heart sinking at his naive and foolish error. Yep. He’d been had. Good and proper.

From the bedroom he heard his phone tweet. Taking two Paracetamol, a glass of water and his coffee back to bed, he picked up the phone tentatively, dreading the words he was about to see. But it wasn’t Orla.

“Sorry for yesterday. Come see me my office tomorrow. Noon. Please. K”

Kathryn. His stomach lurched while his heart soared. A lifeline. She
was
going to help him? But at what cost?

Terrified but without hesitation he replied:
“OK. See you then.”

He checked his watch. He had time for a quick snooze, he decided, his spirits lifted and the throb in his head feeling more like an ache.

His phone tweeted at him again.

“Forget at your peril, Bro. Dinner at 6. Tomorrow. C&E”

He’d go see Kathryn and maybe he would pop in to Ciara’s, but not for dinner – maybe tea? He’d see how he felt once he’d seen Kathryn. It was going to be a good day. A better day. He could feel it in his bones.

Chapter 9

Enya put the phone back in the dashboard compartment, pleased with the masterful way she was handling Cormac. They’d get to the bottom of whatever was going on with him: He couldn’t keep a secret to save his life. Even as kids, one maybe two prods, not even hard ones, and he’d open like an envelope. She smiled to herself – he was putty in their hands!

“Sorry, Sis, what was that? I wasn’t listening.”

“I said I like her,” Ciara repeated, keeping her eyes on the road. “I think she’s nice.”

“Who’re we talking about again?”

“For God’s sake, Enya, concentrate. Martha. I like her.”

“Ah right. Martha. A little too intense, maybe?” Enya queried, back on track.

“How do you mean?”

“Well, do you not think she asks an awful lot of questions? She’s always looking, you know? What about this? What about that? Why? Why? Why?”

“Not really,” Ciara laughed. “Anyway, she makes Rian happy and that’s all that counts, right?”

“Yeah, I suppose.”

“Having said that, Kathryn says she thinks she’s a little odd.”

“Yeah, well, Kathryn would – she’s nothing but a spoilt bloody princess,” Enya replied sharply.

“Leave Kathryn alone, she’s been very good to me.” But, curious to know, she asked, “I take it you don’t like her then?”

“It’s not that I don’t like her. I’m sure, deep down,” Enya qualified with a smirk, “she’s lovely. I’m mean she’d want to be something special to put up with Seb, right?”

“Definitely!” laughed Enya, enjoying the moment with her sister and happy for the distraction, given where they were going.

“But she’s pretty superficial, happy to help, but only if it serves to make her feel good. Patronising, if that makes sense. You know, like she’s pulling you up on the one hand and looking down her nose at you on the other.”

“I never really looked at her like that.”

“Well, you wouldn’t,” Ciara teased. “You always see the best in everyone.”

To which, knowing Ciara was right, Enya replied with raised eyebrows and a nod of her head.

A protective but nervous quiet filled the car as they neared the house. The radio was on but neither of them was listening. It was mere noise.

So close now, Enya let herself wonder if it still looked the same? The house. Their house. She wondered if she would feel that warm glow as they turned the last corner to speed up the hill and make the final part of her journey home. Home. What a concept. It wasn’t her home any longer. She didn’t have a home, not anymore. Enya fought hard to dismiss the bitter, sad cynic in her which depressed and smothered any positive emotion before it had the time to blossom. But all this anger, it was hard work, and more and more she found herself becoming increasingly tired of the constant rage, the never-ending resentment and unwavering hostility that appeared to have taken up permanent residence in her heart. Knowing these feelings to be anomalous, she longed for normality. And, although she knew she could never get back the
normal
that she once knew, she was ready to at least try to start again, from scratch, to find her ‘new’ normal. Her impending divorce seemed like an appropriate moment for that fresh beginning; she just hoped she had the strength to see it through. There was so much to forget but plenty that was important to remember. Segmenting them properly was the challenge: admitting honestly what had to go and what needed to stay. She needed to, had to, get beyond the fury and incessant blaming of everyone else for what happened.

She had returned home that day over four years ago, completely unsuspecting. A sick daughter was what she expected to see but what she found was a foreign body, literally, in her bed with her husband. She wasn’t sure which part of the ridiculous scenario was worse: the fact that Cathal laughed openly as she looked on aghast while his lover fled the room, or that he didn’t even bother to pack his things when she roared at him to leave. But a strong contender for the ‘
Worst Part’
accolade was how her own father had been the catalyst for this great reveal. He’d heard the salacious gossip about Cathal O’Neill and his rumoured affair and, irrespective of the destruction he knew it would cause, he went ahead and devised his long-awaited revenge. He wanted the damage, craved it, but even he couldn’t have predicted the ultimate tragic outcome. And that’s exactly how Enya perceived it for a long time after: a heart-breaking and unforgivable consequence of her father’s actions.

The last time she saw Cathal was at Lia’s funeral. He sat bandaged and bruised in the wheelchair, dry-eyed and vacant, his face devoid of expression. Enya, heavily sedated and propped up on either side by Cormac and Ciara, remembered very little of the day. It passed in a blur of sorry faces and handshakes and apologies. All she could recall were the clouds that passed overhead and birds that sang a mournful tribute in the trees beside them. In the immediate weeks after she berated herself out of frustration because she remembered so little and then it just became easier not to bother and to forget. Sometimes she pretended her little girl was still alive, and that it was Cathal who was thrown from the car. She imagined that beautiful smile that lit up her entire round and rosy little face and the urgency of her soft, plump arms wrapped tightly around her neck every morning for her hug. And her soft lips, the colour of a perfect pink cherry blossom that puckered so adorably to press hard against her cheek. How she missed that child with her scrunched-up smile and eyes that sparkled no more.

He was supposed to have her back by seven. He’d promised, but then, what was new? Cathal couldn’t keep a promise to save his life, or Lia’s as it transpired. It had rained hard all day, like someone had turned a hose on in the clouds and forgot to turn it off, making them slate-grey and plump with rain, litres and litres of it. So much water fell from the sky that day that the roads were slicker than a greased ice rink, all shiny and spewing up spray to blind and soak whatever trailed in its path. She knew he’d been driving fast. Too fast. He always did. Even when they were together, even before the gleam had vanished from the silver lining of their once-frantic romance, he still liked to show off. Like it made him feel more manly or perhaps it simply felt good to see her squirm in the passenger seat, a demonstration of his prowess, making her plead desperately for him to slow down. Power. He liked to have power, or at least think he did. But it never came naturally to him – he hankered after it more than he possessed it: that was the problem. In managing his natural inferiority, he behaved with an air of synthetic superiority that he just didn’t have the intelligence to cope with. Few people recognised it as such. What his friends experienced and admirers loved was a confidently arrogant, cheeky but charming socialite. But she knew him well enough to know that beneath the charm was nothing more than a selfish, ignorant and conceited manipulator.