Then comes the crash.
3
Susan
Tuesday night
Blood pounding in my ears, I bolt upright.Jesus Christ. It takes a second to process, but the noise, the crash—somehow, it came from inside the room. Adrenaline floods my body. I shout Jon’s name and jump out of bed, rushing to a wailing Bella, and it’s only when I have her safely in my arms that I start to understand what’s happened. Something’s hit the window. Something’ssmashedthe window.
Jon is up now too and yanking back the blind as Bella soothes in my arms, her crying dropping to a whimper. A spider’s web of cracks radiates from a hole at the center of the window. Jon waves me back, shouting about broken glass.Oh my god, did any of it hit Bella?Back by the bed, I switch on the lamp and check her over, then check again. She seems unharmed. But the glass could have landed anywhere. The stone or brick or whatever was thrown could have hit her. The whole window could have caved in.God. My throat is tight with what-might-have-beens and I pull her close. All the old feelings flare up. The fear that she’s in danger, that I’m a bad mother, that I’m the one who’ll hurt her. Tears threaten as Jon pulls the blind back further, trying to look out without getting too close tothe glass. We both hear it then—the sound of a car somewhere nearby. There’s nothing to see though. Maybe it’s gone from Oakpark already? Out to the main road?
Jon carefully lowers the base of the blind and neither of us speaks as he backs away from the window and bends to pick something up. A brick. Someone’s thrown a brick through our window. Making his way over to me, Jon checks the Ring doorbell app on his phone, but whoever smashed the window was too far back to pick up on the camera. Onscreen, it looks like a normal night in suburbia—dark, but with streetlights and security lights, never quite pitch black. Quiet. Safe. Until now.
I take Bella to the smaller guest room, a room that looks out on the back garden, and keep her in the bed with me while Jon calls Blackrock garda station to report what’s happened. His words filter in from the landing, low and urgent.
It was probably kids, he says in a whisper when he climbs into bed—teens from the school, friends of Nika or Cody, maybe. The guard he spoke with had given him an email address, in case we had any more trouble. More trouble—the idea makes me feel sick…I close my eyes, but all hope of sleep is gone.
• • •
On Wednesday morning, Jon calls a glazier and suggests he stay home to let me catch up on sleep. This catch-up-on-sleep offer is new, and very sweet, and also straight out of our last counseling session. Nobody else knows about the marriage counseling, and it’s not a big deal, not really, but there’s been a little distance between us since Bella came along. Distance is normal, my friends say; the baby is everything for a while. But coupled with my own problems when she was born, I got worried. So six weeks ago, I booked us in for marriage counseling. More of a multivitamin to help than a medicine to cure—that’s how I explained it to Jon. We tell my sisters it’s physio any time we need a babysitter. Physio for post-partumsomething or other—they glaze over and don’t ask. And to be honest, I wasn’t sure the counseling was really helping, but this offer to stay home today is definitely a step in the right direction.
Anyway, I tell him to go to work—Greta is calling around to keep me company while I wait for the glazier, and I wouldn’t sleep anyway, even if he did stay home. I can never sleep during the day—the whole “nap when baby naps” thing is wasted on me—and it’s particularly unlikely today after everything that’s happened. So Jon leaves, frowning at something on his phone, lost in the world of work already, just as Greta arrives.
• • •
Greta conveniently lives right next door in number 28 Oakpark, our childhood home. Our two houses couldn’t be more different though—Greta has fully modernized number 28, a world away from the pine-and-lino house in which we grew up. Now it’s all light-tiled floors, marble worktops, and bright white walls. Minimalist, practical, no frills—just like Greta. She lives alone and has turned my old room into a home gym and Leesa’s old room into an office. There’s still a guest room too, in case I ever need a break from Jon’s snoring, she sometimes says, with a grin. Jon has some flaws—putting butter-encrusted knives directly on the counter, leaving coffee cups lying around—but snoring, thankfully, is not one of them.
Our house, meanwhile, is a little shabbier around the edges than Greta’s. Good shabby, I think. Jon and I bought it from my old neighbors four years ago, and I was delighted to return to Oakpark. When we moved in, we stripped the carpets and sanded down the original floorboards, so throughout the house the floors are a yellowy, knotty oak that’s not in style but feels warm and homely. The walls are mostly dark blues and greens, with prints and tapestries from pre-baby trips to Bali and Thailand and Cape Town. The kitchen is teal-painted wood, with a row of battered copper pots hanging from the ceiling. The kitchen table is theone from my childhood, passed on to me by Greta when she replaced it a few years ago, the scratched wooden surface engraved by our childhood pens. That’s where we sit now, waiting for the glazier.
Greta is in her usual tracksuit bottoms and trainers, and a plain navy T-shirt with “Coach” in white letters across the back, her curly red hair tied in a high ponytail. Her cross-body bag clinks as she slings it over the back of a chair, bottles of supplements and tablets jostling inside. She reaches to take Bella from my arms and I brave switching on my phone.
Six new messages, all from people saying I shouldn’t be allowed to teach. Peoplelovea bit of outrage, even when they’ve no skin in the game. I’m half tempted to delete WhatsApp, but then I’d be cut off from Jon and my sisters and friends too, so I block the senders and close my phone just as the doorbell rings.
I get up to answer, but it isn’t the expected repairman, it’s Juliette Sullivan, who lives next door on the other side. My heart sinks. Juliette, who also happens to be BFFs with Celeste Geary.
“Susan!” she says. “Just checking you’re OK after”—gleaming white teeth dent her plump lower lip in performative hesitation—“well, after your message last night?”
I force a smile. “Absolutely fine, thanks for checking.”
“Good! And look, I’m sure loads of people don’t even know it was you.” She beams benevolently. “I mean, obviously,Ihave your number, so I knew. Poor Susan, I thought, and poor Celeste, of course.” A headshake. “And I suppose most people on this road would know it’s you, and people whose kids you teach might save down your number over the years, sothey’llknow. But honestly, I’m sure literally half or maybe a third of the people in the Oakpark group don’t know it was you. You’ll be fine!”
Oh god, she’s loving this. All I want to do is close the door in her face, but I’m in enough trouble already.
“Can I do anything?” she adds, tilting her head in faux sympathy.
“Unless you have a time machine, probably not…” Something strikesme then. “Actually, I don’t suppose you saw anything last night—someone smashed our window around half twelve?” I crane my neck and point at the wall that divides Juliette’s driveway from ours. “I reckon they took a loose brick from the top there, where it’s damaged.”
“Oh my goodness!” Her eyes gleam. “Ididhear a noise late last night—looked out and saw someone getting into a car.” She tucks a long, glossy strand of dark hair behind her ear. “I couldn’t make out any details though, too dark, and I didn’t think anything of it. Goodness. Someone broke your window? Do you think it was because of your message?”
“Probably kids messing.” I take a step back. “Right, I’d better get back to Bella.”
She puts her hand on the door jamb. “I’ll be seeing Celeste for dinner at hers on Sunday, I’ll be sure to check she’s OK and let her know how awful you feel. But don’t beat yourself up. It could happen toanyone.”
Her face says it absolutely couldnothappen to anyone, only an idiot like Susan O’Donnell. I nod and smile and shut the door.
When I return to the kitchen, Greta is staring at her phone, a worried look on her face.
“What is it?” I ask, sitting down again.
