Chapter 48
Mallory
‘So?’ Ronan says, turning to us, eyes wide. ‘What did you think?’
We have sat through the first two episodes – a whole hour each. My brain hurts.
Netflix would have loved Slay.
‘Very tense,’ Mum says, now next to him on the couch. ‘Very real. The stabbing scene was horrendous.’
‘Thanks, Stace.’ He looks at me. ‘Mal?’
I have attempted to spend the last two hours keeping my face and body as still as possible.
How many people are called Mo? That could live around that area?
Surely more than one. Mo is a common enough name.
It really is. But Monty. Monty. ‘Yes, I thought it was brilliant,’ I say, trying to instil excitement into my voice.
‘Scary how real it was.’ He nods, a little stoically, contemplatively, as if he is thinking.
I hate it when he thinks. I can’t tell what he’s thinking about.
Is he thinking about the show, or whether my limited review has anything of worth to be considered.
I decide to dig deeper, to keep him from probing.
‘I love the way they paint the characters. The way the show drip feeds their back stories – it’s really great.
Keeps the audience guessing. I could learn from that. ’
His face relaxes. I’ve done enough to appease him.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘See, in the book – the characters were a little too naive to justify their actions. We felt we needed deeper back stories. That’s the problem with so many books these days.
Not enough from the characters’ pasts. We need to see their trauma. What motivates them. What drives them.’
‘Can’t wait to see what happens next,’ Mum says.
‘Me neither,’ I agree. ‘You should be really proud.’
‘There will be a meeting tomorrow about viewing figures. So I’d better look spritely.
I’m going to head to bed,’ Ronan says. He stands from the couch, stretching.
Swaying slightly. He’s drunk now. He isn’t slurring yet, but I can tell because his eyes are glazing over.
He begins to cross the room towards the door when Mum says, ‘Would you ever make Mal’s book into a show, since you love it so much? ’
He stops.
There is something in the way she says this that makes a pang of something bittersweet erupt in my stomach.
There is an edge to it. An edge of defensiveness that feels bold.
Daring. I haven’t heard from this side of Mum in a long time.
As Ronan turns to her, I see in his eyes a flash – a momentary flicker – of what is clearly annoyance.
She sees. He hasn’t been able to hide it.
It immediately sucks the air out of the room.
But Mum doesn’t move. She just keeps looking back at him, her hands folded on her lap, a little like she has been in church for the past two hours.
Where did that come from?
He stares at her.
She stares back.
Something passes between them.
Then, he smiles. But it is a little strained – effortful – like he is resisting something. ‘Stace,’ he says quietly. ‘Because Mal hasn’t been sleeping great, I thought it might be good for you to be somewhere more comfortable?’
She blinks. ‘Sorry?’
‘I was thinking – perhaps a hotel? I’d pay of course.’
‘Oh!’ She sounds surprised. She glances at me. I smile, because I do not know what else to do. Perhaps it would be best. Perhaps it would be best for her to be somewhere else. ‘Why?’
Ronan shrugs. ‘I think it’ll be best for Mal.’
‘Is that best for you?’ she says, looking at me.
‘I don’t mind, Mum. Let’s talk about it tomorrow.’
Ronan is on edge. ‘Don’t be late,’ he says to me, although he doesn’t meet my eyes.
‘I won’t,’ I reply. Then, ‘I’ll turn the kitchen off. Need to get my laptop.’
He nods and pulls the door shut behind him.
As my mother and I sit together in silence, we listen to the pad of his feet up the stairs – one flight, two flights – then the low thud of the attic bedroom door closing. We both stare at the television screen, paused on the credits of the TV show.
His name is there.
EXECUTIVE PRODUCER – RONAN MCSWEENY
‘Strange,’ I hear Mum say gently.
I turn to her. She is still in exactly the same position. ‘What is?’ I ask.
She looks up at me. ‘Hmm? Oh, nothing.’
‘Do you want some space?’
A beat. ‘Do you think that’s best?’
I feel like we are in some kind of meeting.
‘I don’t mind, Mum.’
‘Is he...’ She stops. ‘Where’s your phone?’
‘My phone?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s upstairs. Why do you ask?’
She bites her lip, then shakes her head. ‘No reason. Right, I’ll see you in the morning.’
As she stands, I hear her knees crack. ‘I liked that book you are writing, Mal. But you are better than that. I don’t mean that in a harsh way – it just doesn’t really feel like you.’
Jesus. Here we go. I nod. ‘Right.’
‘Yes,’ she says quietly. She picks up her empty cup of tea.
‘I’ll wash it, Mum,’ I say.
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure. See you tomorrow.’
And she leaves.
I wait to hear that she has gone into her room, sitting and staring at the Pooky lamp in the corner. I pick up her cup, turn off the lights and head into the kitchen. The candles are still lit, so it smells pleasantly of oranges.
I do love this kitchen. I inhale slowly and take the cup to the sink. Instead of putting it in the dishwasher, I add it to the half-submerged pile.
I pause for a moment, staring at the soap suds on my fingers.
Something is different.
Something in this room is different.
I turn to the island.
Where’s my laptop? Again? I swear—
‘Hey, Mandy.’
My body instantly freezes. At the far end of the room – stood in front of the Crittall-glass French doors – is the shadow of a man. He’s got my laptop in one hand and the Sakuto knife in the other.
‘Leo?’
He steps into the light. He looks awful.
Like he has been awake for a year. ‘Was gonna ask for your help, but then I found this’ – he thrusts the laptop forward – ‘last night.’ He keeps moving until he sits at one of the stools by the island.
‘I’ve been reading it. The whole thing. In the shed.
I like your shed.’ He places the laptop down on the counter, and I see next to it a half-empty bottle of vodka.
Grey Goose. Ronan’s. Leo points to the laptop screen with the knife.
Turns it to face me. I see the email chain from Stan, open.
‘It’s good news. You got the deal. They love it. They love the new ending.’
‘What?’
‘One-hundred-thousand-pound advance.’
‘Leo...’
‘I thought you wanted to help me.’ His eyes go black. ‘Is this really how you think it will end for me?’