Pa-trick HUTTON, back from the DEAD!
"'Beautiful!' Steno yells in my ear, and I'd swear there were tears in the fucker's eyes.
"'Parade Ring, come on,' he says, and we boot up there. Some courses have a separate winners' enclosure; at Leopardstown, the horses go back round to the parade ring they started in.
"There's a huge crowd gathering, and Steno brings me into the parade ring, maybe to keep me close, maybe to use as a shield. Means I get a perfect view of all that happens. There's TV reporters going around with those huge microphones and cameras and everything, and Hutton rides the horse in to great applause, and someone is talking to F.X., asking him about Hutton's return, and Hutton tips the hat to even greater cheers, and F.X. mutters something about there being much rejoicing for the one who was lost, and Hutton dismounts as the groom rushes to hold the horse, and as Hutton approaches F.X. a blond female reporter spots Father Vincent Tyrrell and draws him into the group of three for the camera and asks him about the parable of the prodigal son and Vincent Tyrrell says yes indeed, Luke chapter fifteen, but of course there are all manner of prodigals, why he and his brother, Francis, haven't spoken in ten years, not since the day Patrick Hutton disappeared.
"I can see Steno edging closer because Hutton is freaking out now, looking wildly around him, like a robot malfunctioning, whatever the plan was, this wasn't it, and Vincent Tyrrell is still talking, and someone to one side of the camera is signaling to the reporter to cut the interview dead, but the reporter won't, she seems mesmerized, so does everyone, and no wonder: while Hutton is shaking his head and blinking and F.X. is standing stock-still like he died ten years ago and forgot to tell anyone, Vincent Tyrrell is saying that the prodigal son is of course at root a story about the father, not the son, and he should know: Patrick Hutton is Father Vincent Tyrrell's son.
"Patrick Hutton is shaking his head, and suddenly he has a long knife in his hand, and the crowd in the ring turns to flee, and Hutton steps up to F. X. Tyrrell and the knife flashes in the light, but before he can use it, Vincent Tyrrell is in front of F.X., protecting him, and Hutton steps back and stares at them both for a moment, shaking his head some more, then Hutton brings the blade up and slashes a gulley deep across his own throat. Blood shoots from it, and there are screams everywhere, and Hutton topples to his knees and then to the ground, and Father Vincent Tyrrell goes down to him, and as the cries go out for doctors and ambulances, the priest who was his father whispers a last confession in his son's ear, and above them, like he's been turned to stone, in the parade ring at Leopardstown Racecourse in the shadow of the Dublin mountains on St. Stephen's Day stands Francis Xavier Tyrrell, the trainer of the winning horse."
TWENTY-NINE
The screen went black after Vincent Tyrrell's admission on live television that he was the father of the winning jockey of the 1:30 at Leopardstown. In their confusion, which they no doubt shared with the viewing public, RTE replaced the racing altogether with a concert of Christmas music from Vienna.
"Why did Vincent Tyrrell say that? What was he thinking of?" Miranda cried.
"What were you expecting Hutton to do? Kill F. X. Tyrrell live on air?" I said.
No sooner had I formed the words than I realized that yes, that was exactly what had been planned for Tyrrell. Miranda's phone rang, and she took the call out in the hall. When she came back in she was crying, but through her tears her words were hard with rage.
"That was Leo. Patrick is dead," she said. "He wanted to die. He killed himself. But for nothing. F.X. is still alive. Patrick went for F.X. and Vincent saved his life. No one can put an end to the Tyrrells. Oh God, poor Patrick."
She shook her tears away, apparently uncertain what to do next.
"The Guards will be coming, then," I said. "By now, F.X. will have told them Regina and Karen are being held hostage."
"Yes," Miranda said. "They'll be coming for me. There's not a lot of time left."
"You can say you were forced into it by Hutton and Steno," I said. "That's certainly how Vincent Tyrrell must see it. The victim. That's what you were. A tragic set of circumstances, the child of incest, an incestuous marriage, a child of your own who…nobody could have anything but sympathy for your plight, Miranda."
"You know that's not exactly how it happened. Real life kept intruding, getting in the way. I've never looked for anyone's sympathy. I've never been anybody's victim. And I'm not going to play the part now."
Miranda suddenly burrowed in the sports grip she had brought and produced a Stanley knife. With it, she cut the ties binding Regina to her chair and then cut mine. There had been no sound from Karen's room for a while. I assumed Regina would go to the child instantly. Instead, as if set free by the silence, Regina suddenly spoke in a voice that she had kept silent for a long time, a voice that seemed to come from a younger place within her, and what she said carried the intensity of a dream.
"It was in the stables," she said. "The last one, you could see the river from there. And the paddock with the trees, and the two ponies sometimes. There was always the rustle, but not of straw. Francis was an innovator there, straw could carry all manner of bugs and ticks and rot, parasites and spores that would cause the horses illness. Francis pioneered the use of shredded paper. It was so white there, the bright white that fills up a room, like when you wake up and it's been snowing, and everywhere there's soft bright light, like the first day. That's what it was like in all the stables, but most especially this one. There was a ledge above the door, and you could see the river from there. That winter, it snowed. A thick blanket. Makes the sound different in the air, as if you don't have to speak so clearly. As if everything was understood.
"I was always in love with Francis. He was my daddy and my brother, my protector and my friend. I would have done anything he wanted."
"Did he force you?" Miranda said, seemingly unable to bear Regina 's fond, elegiac tone applied to an event that was to have such devastating consequences for her.
Regina smiled, a sad smile that chilled me to the bone. She shook her head.
"No. No, he didn't force me. I'd like to say he did, because it would give you comfort, and me at least an excuse, and maybe a shred of dignity. Later, the other one did, or more accurately, they both did, but that's to jump ahead. No, Francis didn't force me. The reverse. It wasn't in his nature, I know, he wasn't disposed that way. But I kept after him. I had decided that he would be the first."
Miranda groaned in anguish and disgust.
"That's how I thought. And I kept it going, hints and caresses and invitations, I'd give him rubdowns after the day's work with the horses, so he'd see how well I could run things here, how I'd be a credit to him. And one day, in the snow, in the white of the stable, in the white of the snow…the rustle of the paper now, so soft in your ears…like music it was…"
It was Miranda's turn to retreat now; I could hear her trying to control her breath.
"A few months, that's all it was. A few days within a few months. He brought it to a close. We both knew it was wrong, but I didn't care. And then…and then I was pregnant. I never knew…the nuns in Scotland said they'd look after the child, but Francis insisted he knew the right family. I never dreamed for a second it would be the Harts at the Tyrrellscourt Arms. It was almost…it was almost like it amused him. Like it was a game for him. And of course, I suspected, everyone assumed it, for heaven's sake, are you two sisters, are you mother and daughter? But I didn't want to believe…couldn't let myself believe…"
"Why did he do that, Regina? Why did he place her so close to you?"
"To punish me. Just as I had punished him."