Bill brought up the photographs of Siobhán’s legs, and close-ups of her knees, which were swollen and lumpy and almost twice as wide as they should have been. ‘By the look of it, she was crushed by something fierce heavy. My opinion is that she was run over by a vehicle of some sort. The injuries are consistent with that.’
‘When will you be doing your scans?’
‘Sometime later today, hopefully. If not, tomorrow morning. She had a minor myocardial infarction shortly after Tyrone had examined her, and so we’re liaising with CUH. They have her on a heart monitor just at the moment.’
‘After what’s been done to her, I’m surprised she’s still living and breathing. But let me tell you about Dr Fitzgerald.’
When she had described why Dr Fitzgerald had been struck off, Bill sat back and let out a long, soft whistle.
‘Do you know, in a funny sort of a way, that doesn’t surprise me about him at all. Every time I talked to him I had the feeling that he considered himself superior to the rest of us poor mortals. He held up his hands to me once and said, “You see these? These have the power of life or death.” I’ll bet he thought that poor little baby with the Down’s syndrome could never expect the same quality of life as his son, so for him it was no contest. It wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest if he murdered her – maybe even took out her heart while she was still alive.’
‘We don’t know that, Bill, and we’ll never be able to prove it.’
‘I’m only saying that it wouldn’t surprise me. Any road – what are you going to do now? Arrest him?’
‘I’ll be sending a couple of officers up to his clinic to keep an eye on it, but I’m going to hold off lifting him until I’ve received the results of your MRIs. I want to have watertight evidence that Siobhán was wilfully maimed, and as far as possible that it was Dr Fitzgerald who did it. If her optic nerves have been severed without any obvious damage to her eyes, that would have taken a high degree of surgical skill, wouldn’t it? So unless there’s another surgeon working at St Giles’ Clinic that we’re not aware of, it must have been him.’
‘Okay, then. I’ve asked Dr Moran to call me as soon as Siobhán has recovered enough to be scanned. I’ve sent you all of these photos now, and as soon as Tyrone’s written up his report I’ll send you that too.’
Katie stood up and nodded at the MRI report that Bill had been looking through when she came in. ‘Is that the fellow in Crane Lane you’re reading about? Any idea what the cause of death was?’
‘Take your pick. Cirrhosis of the liver, ulcerated stomach lining, bowel tumour, kidney stones and deep vein thrombosis.’
‘No evidence of foul play, though?’
‘No,’ said Bill. ‘Just a foul life, that’s all.’
39
Although it was only 10:30 in the morning, Eoin was already drunk. He was sitting in the living-room in the same red check shirt that he had been wearing for the past three days, and the fly of his jeans was undone. His hair was matted and he was unshaved, and he smelled strongly of body odour.
He was staring at the television with the volume turned right down so that it was almost inaudible. In his right hand he was holding a cigarette with a long crooked ash on it. In his left hand he was holding an empty half-bottle of Paddy’s whiskey.
Cleona came in through the front door, wearing her long khaki raincoat and rushers. She took off her rushers in the hallway and then she came into the living-room, unbuttoning her coat.
‘Is that all you’re going to do all day?’ she asked Eoin. ‘Sit there like a zombie watching 1000 Heartbeats with the sound off?’
‘What the feck else is there do?’ Eoin retorted. ‘The kennels have gone down the tubes. If you can suggest some other line of work that I’m qualified for, then send me your suggestions on a postcard, please.’
‘We can rebuild the business, Eoin. We still have seven dogs to take care of, and we can advertise for more. It’ll take a little time, but maybe if we changed the name.’
‘To what? Dognappers’ Delight? Nobody’s going to trust us again. We might as well give those seven dogs back to their owners and close down for good and all.’
‘Eoin, look at the state of you. You haven’t shaved and there’s a smell of benjy off you. You’re totally wrecked. You have to pull yourself together for the love of God, otherwise we’re going to go bankrupt and find ourselves sleeping on the streets.’
Eoin let the ash from his cigarette drop on to the carpet. ‘Pull myself together? I’ve lost twenty-six valuable dogs and the insurance are quibbling because the alarms weren’t switched on. I’m still on police bail for blowing that scumbag’s head off. I was forced to watch my wife being shagged right in front of me by some lowlife, and I can’t get the picture of it out of my head. And you want me to pull myself together? Get real, Cleona, for feck’s sake. We’re finished here. And we’re finished too. You and me.’
Cleona sat down beside him and put her hand on his shoulder, but he pushed it off.
‘What do you mean, we’re finished? We can get over this, Eoin. All we have to do is be strong.’
‘You’re codding me, aren’t you? Every time you take off your clothes, all I can see is that bastard sticking his disgusting micky into you. All right, you’ve told me, you’ve washed and you’ve washed and you’ve washed any trace of him away, but you can’t wash my brain, girl. All the soap in the whole fecking world is never going to wash that picture out of my head.’
‘Eoin, give it time. You’re still suffering from shock. But maybe a shock is what you and me both needed. Things haven’t been going well between us for a long time now, have they? I mean, admit it. Even before this happened, we hardly ever made love any more, did we? And we were always having ructions about the smallest things.’
Eoin thought for a while, and then he tried to stand up. He promptly sat down again, but then he held on to the arm of the couch and managed to pull himself upright. He stood swaying for a while, and belched, and then he started to make his way towards the door.
‘Where are you going?’ Cleona asked him.
‘I’m going to drain the main vein, if you must know. Then I’m going into Ballinspittle to buy myself a couple more bottles of forgetting juice.’
‘You’re not driving, the state you’re in.’
‘What’s it to you? Why don’t you go find that scumbag who shagged you and beg him for some more?’
With that, he staggered across the hallway to the toilet, crashing into the door before he managed to turn the handle. Once he was inside, he started to urinate loudly and at great length, and Cleona could hear that most of it was clattering on to the floor. She got up and quickly tiptoed into the kitchen. She took the car keys down from the hook beside the door and dropped them into the drawer where she kept all her cooking utensils.
By the time Eoin came out of the toilet she was back in the living-room. She hadn’t turned up the television or switched channels, because she knew that Eoin would only throw a rabie if she did, as if he wasn’t going to throw enough of a rabie when he found that the car keys were gone.
He struggled into his black waterproof jacket and then he went into the kitchen. She heard him scuffling around and muttering to himself, and then he came back into the living-room.
‘Where’s the car keys, Clee?’
‘How should I know? You were the last one to drive it.’
‘I hung them up on the hook. I always hang them up on the hook. Where the feck are they?’
‘I don’t know, Eoin. Up in Nelly’s room behind the wallpaper, I expect.’
‘Don’t get fecking funny with me, girl. You’ve hid them, haven’t you? You’ve fecking hid them. Well, I’m giving you three, and then I want them right here in my hand.’
‘I don’t have them, Eoin, and in any case you’re not fit to ride a kiddie’s scooter, let alone drive a car. If you don’t kill yourself you’ll kill somebody else, and then you’ll really be in trouble with the law.’
&nb
sp; Eoin came up to her chair, seized hold of her wrists, and pulled her up on to her feet.
‘Eoin! You’re hurting me! Let go!’
He stared at her with red-rimmed eyes. His breath smelled like rotten chicken.
‘Where are the fecking car keys, Clee? This is the last time I’m asking you nicely, because if I have to ask you again, I’ll have to slap you. You understand me?’
‘Eion, I have no notion at all where they are. Now let go of my wrists, will you? You’re going to be giving me bruises.’
‘Bruises?’ spat Eoin. ‘What do you think you’ve given me? Nothing but fecking grief, ever since we started this business. Always fecking nag, nag, nag.’
‘I’ve never nagged you. It’s all been too much for you, that’s all. I always told you that we needed help but you never listened. You’ve been running yourself into the ground.’
Eoin closed his eyes for a few seconds. Then he opened them again and screeched out, ‘Where – are – the – fecking – keys?’
‘For the last time, Eoin, I have no idea,’ said Cleona, trying to stay calm. ‘Now why don’t you sit down and I’ll make you a good strong mug of coffee and you can sober yourself up?’
Without hesitation, Eoin let go of her wrists and punched her on the left cheekbone. She dropped abruptly back into her chair, lifting her hand to her eye, but Eoin dragged her up on to her feet again, and punched her on the right breast, and then her stomach, and then her stomach again.
‘No!’ she screamed at him, shielding her stomach with both hands and backing away from him. ‘No, Eoin! Don’t! Don’t hit me again!’
But Eoin was mad with drink and adrenalin and he went for her again, punching her stomach so that she doubled up and fell awkwardly sideways on to the floor, hitting her head against the leg of the couch.
‘Eoin! No!’ she begged him, as he tried to heave her up on to her feet again. ‘I’m pregnant!’
Eoin lurched back, knocking the television off its table with a loud crash. There was a crackle and then its screen went blank.
‘What – what did you just say?’ Eoin demanded.
‘I’m pregnant, Eoin. I’m expecting a baby.’
‘How can you be pregnant? It isn’t possible! We haven’t—’
He stopped, and when he spoke again, his voice was very quiet and blurred, like somebody speaking through a thick woollen scarf. ‘We haven’t—’
Cleona grasped the arm of the couch and pulled herself up to sit on it. Her left eye was already swollen and closing, and she was holding her stomach in pain.
Eoin looked down at the television, and then he looked back at her. ‘It’s not mine, is it?’
Cleona wouldn’t answer.
‘It’s not mine, is it, you slut? Go on, admit it! It can’t be mine! So whose is it?’
‘You’ve hurt me, Eoin,’ said Cleona. ‘You’ve really, really hurt me.’
‘And you don’t think you deserve it? You slut! You fecking slut! You’re sitting there with another man’s wain inside of you, and you’re moaning that I’ve hurt you? Jesus Christ in Heaven, what do you think you’ve done to me?’
Cleona winced and closed her eyes, keeping her arms wrapped around her midriff. Eoin leaned over her and shouted in her ear, ‘Whose is it, Clee? Whose little bastard is it? How many other scumbags have you been poking? Jesus, what a deceitful whore you are! Whose is it?’
‘What difference does it make?’ whispered Cleona. ‘It’s a baby, it’s a new life, that’s all.’
‘What difference does it make? You’re fecking joking, aren’t you? What difference does it make? Don’t you remember the vow you made when we got married? “I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad?” Remember saying that, Clee? But you let some other scumbag poke you, and not only that, you’re expecting his baby! So whose baby is it? Come on, tell me who he is!’
Cleona gave him the smallest shake of her head. She was concentrating too much on the pain that she was feeling in her stomach, and suddenly she convulsed and brought up a handful of pale grey sick, half phlegm and half porridge.
‘Holy Mary Mother of God you fecking disgust me,’ said Eoin. ‘Are you going to tell me who the father is, or what? Or will I have to beat it out of you?’
Cleona wiped her hand on the cushion and started to sob. Eoin stood watching her for a moment with his mouth turned down in revulsion, and then he stalked stiff-legged out of the room, hitting his shoulder against the doorframe. He went out into the hallway and then Cleona heard him open the front door. A damp, chilly draught blew in from the yard outside, a draught that smelled of recent rain and dogs.
After a while she managed to stand up and shuffle to the kitchen. She bent over the sink, staring one-eyed at the plughole while her stomach tightened and she brought up more sick.
Please dear God let my baby be safe. Please calm Eoin down and make him understand how desperately I needed a man who made me feel young and attractive again. I know how much I’ve betrayed my marriage vow to him, dear God, but please make sure my baby hasn’t been hurt.
She was still leaning over the sink when she heard the front door slam so hard that the flower-vase on the windowsill beside it dropped on to the floor.
‘Clee?’ said Eoin, in a bloated voice. He was obviously looking into the living-room to see if she was there.
She didn’t answer, but eventually he came along the hallway and appeared in the kitchen door. She slowly stood up straight, with a cold sensation sliding down her spine, because he was carrying the long three-pronged pitchfork they used to spread out the straw.
‘Eoin?’ she said. ‘What’s that for?’
He took a drunken step forwards, as if the floor were sloping like the deck of a ship. He held up the pitchfork and said, ‘Persuasion, that’s what it’s for.’
‘Eoin, you’re really scaring me. Please take that thing away. Please.’
Eoin stared at her intently but his eyes seemed to be unfocused. ‘It’s only to persuade you to tell me who the father is. Tell me who the father is and I’ll take it away.’
‘I told you. What difference does it make who the father is? And anyway, I don’t see him any more.’
‘How long was it going on for? And when? All those times I had to go away for the night, I suppose? Those times I had to go to Kerry and Galway, and that dog show in Killarney. Was that when you were shagging him? I bet it was. And I bet you and him, you were laughing your heads off that I didn’t know. Did you suck his micky? Have I been kissing your lips and all the time they were the same lips that sucked another man’s micky? Jesus, I’ll never be able to wash away the taste of him, will I? You whore.’
‘Eoin, please take that away. I’m hurting bad enough as it is. I think I might have to call for the doctor.’
Eoin levelled the pitchfork at her and took two steps nearer. Cleona backed away until she had reached the kitchen wall and could back away no further.
‘Tell me his name,’ said Eoin. He made a jabbing gesture with the pitchfork and shouted, ‘Tell me his fecking name, Cleona! Tell me his name!’
‘Lorcan!’ Cleona screamed at him. ‘It was Lorcan Fitzgerald!’
Eoin seemed to be stunned. He opened and closed his mouth, and then he said, ‘Lorcan Fitzgerald? That grey-haired feen who kept coming around and asking if we had any dogs for sale?’
Cleona nodded, too tearful to speak.
Eoin started to inhale deeply, his chest swelling up more and more every time he drew in breath. His face was bright red with rage and alcohol and he looked as if he could actually explode and spatter the kitchen walls with his flesh and blood, like a suicide bomber.
Without a word, though, he rammed the three prongs of the pitchfork into Cleona’s stomach, with one of them piercing the back of her right hand. He stabbed her with such force that the points of the prongs were only stopped by the kitchen wall behind her.
Cleona gasped, but that was the only sound she made. Eoin pulled out the pitchfork, although
he had jammed it into her stomach so hard that he had to tug it from side to side to get it completely free.
Cleona held out a hand for him to support her, but he backed away, and she dropped to her knees on the kitchen floor with blood flooding the front of her pale beige sweater.
‘My baby,’ she sobbed. ‘Oh, dear Christ. My baby.’
She fell forward and lay on the floor shivering. Again she stretched out one hand as if she wanted Eoin to take hold of it and help her, but again he backed away. After a few moments more, he walked out of the kitchen and threw the pitchfork down in the hallway. Then he went into the living-room and picked up the phone.
He dialled 112 and when the emergency operator answered, he said, ‘My name is Eoin Cassidy. My address is Sceolan Kennels, Ballinroe East.’
‘Yes, Eoin, thank you. But what’s your emergency?’
Eoin lifted his left hand and looked at his wedding-ring, turning it this way and that. Then he said, ‘I don’t know if you’d call it an emergency, exactly. But I’ve just killed another man’s child.’
40
Katie had a quick lunch with Conor upstairs at the Electric restaurant on South Mall Street. They sat by the window overlooking the river, with the spires of St Finbarr’s cathedral in the middle distance, and the sky filled with huge white cumulus clouds. She had wanted to come here because it was lively and busy and normal, although she still wasn’t very hungry.
Conor didn’t ask her how she was feeling, but then he didn’t have to. He had been to the Dog Unit’s kennels that morning to see the dogs that Sergeant Browne had rounded up for him, and he talked about them instead. He described them with such affection that he could have been talking about children that he was thinking of adopting.
‘Those bull terriers were so tough and aggressive and snarly, but as soon as you patted them and stroked them and gave him a Molly and Murphy dog biscuit they were the softest dogs you ever met.’
‘Well, you have a way with them, Conor. I’ve seen it for myself. It’s the same way you have with me, except I don’t think I fancy a dog biscuit.’
Living Death Page 39
