Page 20 of The Elements

When the storm comes, I am frightened. It streaks across the island like a banshee, and Bananas raises himself in the armchair, his claws gripping the frayed wool, turning to glare at me as if he holds me responsible for the weather.

I cannot get out for two days because the rain and wind are so strong that there’s a chance I might not even make it to the village in one piece, although I long to be in the warmth of either pub with the consolation of other voices around me.

I am careful with the food in the fridge, rationing my provisions as people must have done in Famine days.

When the squall hurls itself against the windows, I wonder how they don’t concede defeat and shatter inward, shredding me in the process.

Even the roof seems as if it’s only clinging onto the masonry out of good manners.

But who was it who told me that Peader Dooley’s cottage had been built from good bricks? Whoever it was, he was right.

Bananas is mewling at the door now, scraping his nails against it, and although I caution him that there is nothing but danger outside, he seems desperate to leave.

As comfortable as he is here, it seems that he would, inexplicably, prefer to be with that scourge Mrs. Duggan.

When I open the door, he flings himself outside, where the rain falls in sheets, and, in a moment, he has vanished from sight altogether.

I call his name, beseeching him to return, but he’s a braver soul than I and is surely running as fast as he can toward home.

Perhaps he would like to be wrapped up safely in Luke’s arms, a sentiment to which I can relate.

I remain in the doorway for a few moments, taking in the extraor dinary sights and sounds that greet me, warning me from going any further.

This is how I had imagined the island would be when I first studied it on a map and considered it for my exile.

Torrential rain. Inhabitants crouched in their houses, waiting for the eternal tempest to soften.

The fear of what might be happening to those on the water.

I shout into the wind, eager to hear my voice, to confirm that I still have one, but it’s lost in the gale, which howls back at me, impressed by my fortitude but demanding that I return inside.

I draw the latch across the woodwork, throw some more logs on the fire, and collapse on the sofa, laughing a little.

We never had weather like this in Dublin. It’s an experience, if nothing else.

My phone rings and I’m greeted by an unfamiliar number.

My first instinct is that someone from the village is calling to check on me.

Ifechi, perhaps. I want to be rescued but I’m loath to have my solitude disturbed and am uncertain whether to answer.

Curiosity takes hold of me, however, and, before it can ring out, I answer.

An automated voice tells me that a call has been placed to me from Midlands Prison. If I am willing to accept it, I should press “star” now. If I am not, I can simply hang up. Despite myself, I search for the “star” and do as instructed.

He says my name. My real name. Vanessa.

“Brendan,” I reply, uncertain how to react. “Is it you?”

“Who else would it be?”

“But how are you calling me?”

“We’re allowed calls,” he tells me. “I wanted to talk.”

I say nothing. In my head, I summon up images from American prison movies.

Brendan standing at a pay phone, one arm locked around it for privacy, while a group of impatient men stand behind him, ready to drag him away if he stays any longer than necessary.

I wonder is what we see in films anything like real life. Probably not.

“Talk about what?” I ask, and I wish I had received some warning of this call, that he had not ambushed me in this way.

There’s been so many times when I’ve imagined the things I would say if I was confronted by him—I’ve paced the cottage holding make-believe conversations aloud—but they’re all lost to me now with the surprise.

The last time we spoke was on the morning of his sentencing, when Rebecca and I arrived at the Four Courts and spotted him standing in a corner with his barrister.

He came toward us both, and while Rebecca turned on her heel and made her way quickly into the courtroom, I stood my ground while he told me that he was innocent, that the jury had made a mistake, that the whole thing was a kangaroo court, that the media had played a part in his conviction, that the girls who had accused him were filthy little things who’d shown an interest in him but he hadn’t reciprocated, that nothing was more important to him than our marriage, that he loved me, that he needed me to tell the reporters outside what a sham all this was, that he’d never survive in prison, that the judge would surely overturn the verdict, that he might have to sue his barrister, that he’d take this to the European Court of Human Rights if he had to, that—

He said more, I daresay, but it was all to my back.

Now, however, he is silent. Even though he’s the one who called me, he doesn’t seem to know what he wants to say. I can’t help myself. I fall into old ways and act the part of the dutiful wife.

“How are you getting on in there?” I ask, and I hear a deep sigh, followed by what sounds like a sob.

“It’s not easy, love,” he says.

“It’s not supposed to be.”

“I can’t do twelve years of it.”

“You probably won’t have to.”

Another long silence before he speaks again.

“How are things at home?” he asks, and I decide not to tell him that I have left Terenure, that our house is locked up for now.

“Quiet,” I tell him.

“Are the neighbors giving you a hard time?”

“Not too bad,” I say, even though most of them ignored me from the moment Brendan’s actions made the papers. People I’d known for decades. People I considered friends. “I’m thinking of taking a holiday,” I say, inventing this out of thin air.

“What?” he asks, surprised. “Where to?”

I search my brain for destinations far away. “Sydney, Australia,” I tell him. “I’ve never been.”

“And how will you pay for that?”

I frown. It can’t be that big a mystery to him. “From our savings,” I say.

“Don’t be digging into that too much,” he says. “I’ll need that for the appeal.”

“You can’t waste money on that,” I say.

“Why not?”

“Because it won’t change the verdict.”

I feel rather brave speaking to him in this way. I’m not sure I would have the courage if he was standing in front of me.

“The truth will out,” he insists.

“It already did.”

“No, it didn’t,” he snaps. “They’ve put me in here to cover their own backs. It’s a conspiracy, sure a blind man could see that.”

I sigh. I really don’t want to hear any more of his self-justifications or his lies.

“Have you made any friends at least?” I ask.

“You’re joking, aren’t you? Sure there’s rapists and murderers and all sorts in here.”

“But you’re a rapist,” I say calmly. “And you have blood on your hands.”

“I can’t make friends with the likes of them,” he continues, ignoring this. “I don’t have a fair shake of it on account of what they all think I did.”

“But you did do those things, Brendan,” I point out. “And more besides, I daresay.”

“I didn’t,” he insists, raising his voice. “Sure what do you take me for?”

“But you did,” I repeat. “And at some point you’ll have to face up to it and admit what you did. You’re a guilty man.”

A pause.

“You always thought the worst of me.”

“Brendan,” I say, and again my tone remains composed, despite the words that tumble from my mouth.

“It’s not just about the eight girls you abused, the eight that came forward, I mean.

It’s also about Emma. You abused her, you terrible man.

You violated her. I don’t know how long it went on for.

I don’t know how many times you did it. She tried to tell me once, you know, and I didn’t listen.

I should be in that prison alongside you for not listening.

I am, in a sense, although there are no locked doors.

” I recognize the irony of my words, for all Emma ever asked of me was for a locked door and I denied her it.

“You raped our daughter, Brendan. You raped her. Don’t you see that?

Will you not acknowledge it at least, out of respect for her memory?

And she killed herself because of it. She swam out as far as she could one dark night on Curracloe Beach, to a point where she knew there would be no way back.

Do you ever wonder what went through her mind at that moment, when all was lost?

Did she panic? Did she feel regret? Or was it relief, because she knew you couldn’t get your filthy hands on her ever again.

Does that not keep you awake at night, Brendan?

Because it does me. Our job was to protect her, to protect both of them.

Nothing else. But what I didn’t know when I married you was that you were a man of no conscience or moral character.

Quite honestly, my preference would be that you die in prison.

That’s the call I want to receive from Midlands Prison.

From the governor. Telling me that you’re in a box.

Not this nonsense from you, pleading innocence and talking about appeals. ”

I almost can’t believe that I’ve managed to say all this without stumbling over my words or having him interrupt, but there’s so much relief in having said them at last. When he eventually replies, his tone is hard and vicious.

“You’re as brainwashed as the rest of them,” he tells me. “You lived off for me for thirty years, you filthy bitch, and when I’m laid low, when I need you more than—”