Host of the Unforgiven

by G D Sheehen

  Host

  of the

  Unforgiven

  An Irish horror story

  G.D. Sheehan

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and

  incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination

  or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons,

  living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by G.D. Sheehan

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced

  or used in any manner without written permission of the

  copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book

  review.

  First edition published August 2019

  Contents

  Chapter1

  Chapter2

  Chapter3

  Chapter4

  Chapter5

  Chapter6

  Chapter7

  Chapter8

  Chapter9

  Chapter10

  Chapter11

  Chapter12

  Chapter13

  Chapter14

  Chapter15

  Chapter16

  Chapter17

  Chapter18

  Chapter19

  Chapter20

  Chapter21

  Chapter22

  Chapter23

  Chapter24

  Chapter25

  Chapter26

  Chapter27

  Chapter28

  Chapter29

  Chapter30

  Chapter31

  Chapter32

  Chapter33

  Chapter34

  Chapter35

  Chapter36

  Chapter37

  Chapter38

  Sign up page

  Acknowledgements

  Hope and Memory have one daughter and her name is Art, and she has built her dwelling far from the desperate field where men hang out their garments upon forked boughs to be banners of battle. O beloved daughter of Hope and Memory, be with me for a little.

  W.B. Yeats, The Celtic Twilight, 1893

  Part One

  1

  The air in the processing room was heavy and damp, the light far too bright for someone who’s been deprived of sunshine for so long. He wasn’t too concerned. His release was imminent and, despite the onset of the kind of disorienting headache he was so used to, that’s all he cared about. This time things would be different. He’d hold down a job, find a place to live and make amends with Julie and Rodge.

  “Philip John Quinlan?”

  “Yes?”

  “Is that your name prisoner?” said the guard barely looking up from the form in front of her.

  “You know it is.”

  “This doesn’t have to be difficult. You should be familiar with this process and the sooner we get finished the sooner you can be on your way, alright?” said the guard, who even from a sitting position looked larger and more physically intimidating than the frail and gaunt Philip.

  Although broad-shouldered, his five foot ten frame was slightly hunched making him appear much smaller. His brown hair looked wispy in the early morning half-light.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t remember doing this the last time.”

  “Last registered address was at Saint Finbarr’s community home?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “That was nearly five years ago?”

  “I suppose so.”

  Philip gazed out the large window behind the guard and saw the rain-soaked street stretch out to his freedom. He couldn’t help but plot his route to the city centre where memories of possibility and his eventual downfall, awaited his arrival. He contemplated heading north on foot and walking along the Grand Canal or going towards Parnell Square and on to O’Connell Street.

  “You’ll be required to check in with your probation officer twice a week, and any other time arranged by him. Is that clear?”

  “Yes.”

  Philip thought momentarily about Benjamin Foyle, his last probation officer who rarely showed up, and when he did, stank of alcohol. He always thought Foyle was dabbling in something else, too.

  “Failure to do so will be a violation of your probation and will incur a summons to review it, possibly followed by more prison time. Is that understood?”

  “Yes. I remember that part. I’ll be there rain, hail or shine. I just hope he manages to show up.”

  The guard handed him a small manila envelope.

  “Here’s the appointment card for your therapist and the prescription for your medication. While you’re not legally required to attend these sessions, we highly recommend that you do. Should you land back in court, a character witness account from a therapist can be very useful.”

  “Is that the only reason I should see a therapist?” said Philip glaring at her uneasy reaction to his sarcastic tone.

  “Of course not.” She blushed a little. “If you’re serious about getting better, Mr Walsh has a very high success rate in treating people with your condition.”

  “I am serious about getting better. I never want to come back to this place again.”

  She looked and him reproachfully for some time, then softened her gaze.

  “I sincerely hope so, Mr Quinlan. We have a lot of dangerous people out there who we need to get off the streets. We don’t want cells taken up by non-violent addicts. I believe you have a job on a building site lined up, too?”

  “Ya. I start the day after tomorrow.”

  He half-smiled at the thought of having his own independence for the first time in a very long time. Before this spell in prison, he’d been on the streets of Dublin begging, and sometimes begging without the person’s knowledge, for what seemed like years. He was arrested repeatedly for minor offences and was eventually locked up after breaking into a primary school and smashing up the art room, before shooting up a massive dose, hoping not to reach the other side of that particular high.

  “You’ll need to collect your medication three times a week.”

  “Huh?”

  “We can’t have you with a full week’s dosage at one time. I’m sure you can understand.”

  “Okay. Fair enough.”

  “You need to collect it from the One Save Chemists' in Drumcondra. They have your file and will only provide it to you on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Have you any questions Mr Quinlan?”

  “Can I go now?”

  “Yes, Mr Quinlan. You’re free to go. Good luck.”

  She pressed a silent buzzer under the desk and another guard immediately entered the processing room. It was Mr Franklin, who Philip had met several times over the years when he was being processed in and out of Mountjoy Prison.

  Franklin looked old and beat down by life but treated the prisoners with respect and humanity, and Philip was glad to be walked out by him. Franklin led him down a dim grey brick corridor and opened a bulky cast-iron door Philip hoped would be the last one he ever saw. They went through a reception area and Franklin opened the famous blue wooden door that brought Philip out to the street he was dragged in from eighteen months before.

  “Best of luck to you now, son,” he said in thick Dublin accent. “Don’t let me see yous back here again. You’re not like the rest of them in here, so get yourself together. Meet a nice bird, and enjoy life.”

  “Thanks, Mr Franklin. I’ll do my best.”

  The blue door shut behind him and he briskly headed down the quiet street. He was eager to get to the end of the street as it was flanked by foreboding prison buildings and he wouldn’t feel truly free until he broke loose at the other end and found himself on the North Circular Road.

  The traffic and pedestrians overwhelmed him, at first, and it took him a
few minutes to orient himself. He took a deep breath and began to feel he belonged in the land of the living. The halfway house was only a ten-minute walk away in Drumcondra, but he wanted to walk through the city before checking in, to soak up the sights and the sounds of the place he loved and hated with equal zeal. He went past the Mater Hospital and turned onto Dorset Street, random thoughts of settling down and one day having a family, filling his head with optimism.

  The March morning was skin wrinkling cold but the sun shone immaculately in a sapphire sky and bathed his calm face, bringing him back to summer days on the beach in Dunmahon. Lazy, endless summer days when he would while away the hours with his sister Julie and his best friend, Rodge. What had become of them, he could hardly remember, but he knew they weren’t talking to him anymore. One of his main goals this time around was to make amends with Julie and Rodge, who now had a kid together, Philip’s nephew, who he hadn’t even seen yet. What age was he now? Four, five, six?

  He turned onto Parnell Square North and stopped outside the Dublin Writer’s Museum, an 18th-century terraced mansion with black iron railings, adjoined to the Abbey Presbyterian Church, its two towering grey steeples standing guard on the historic street. All of his heroes flashed before him, Beckett, Joyce, Yeats and O’Connor, their romanticising of this city and beyond, recalling his own boyhood dream of being a storyteller. When did the dream die? He promised himself he would visit the museum after receiving his first paycheck from his job labouring on a building site.

  Increasingly energised, he took a walk through the Garden of Remembrance and admired the sunken cruciform water-feature, bringing him to the steps leading up to the Children of Lir sculpture, depicting the four siblings whose jealous stepmother cast a spell on them, turning them into white swans, banished to three lakes for nine hundred years. One of many stories of Irish lore that consumed his imagination in his youth. He then made his way down Parnell Square East, past the Gate Theatre and onto O’Connell Street, the main artery of the city. It was heaving and pulsing as ever, tourists and commuters, junkies and scumbags, all vying for a jolt of its energy. He felt alive, optimistic, urges to relapse abandoned, and did a full lap of O’Connell Street’s great expanse, passing souvenir shops, arcades, fast-food establishments and hotels. He stopped off in Supermac’s for the biggest, greasiest hamburger he could find. Beginning to feel tired, he decided to double back towards Drumcondra and pick up his medication before checking in at the halfway house for a rest.

  Now laboured strides brought him across the eight-lane thoroughfare and down Cathal Brugah Street. Aches and pains began coursing through his body and he realised he’d overdone it. A year and a half of being cooped up in a cell for twenty hours a day didn’t do any favours to one’s stamina. A staleness slowly filled the air around him and he began to notice some of the dereliction and waste the city also had to offer. As he approached the turn off onto Marlborough Street, an addict stumbled out of a shadowed doorway and almost knocked Philip off his feet.

  “Hey, bud. You wouldn’t have a loan of two euro so I can get a bus back to me little one? I’ll pay ya back, I swear. She’s at home all on her lonesome.”

  Philip stepped back and ruffled through the small wad of notes he’d received upon his release. He handed the addict a five euro note and sidestepped him as the addict’s jaw dropped in appreciation. Philip’s step now developed a twitch that caused him to double step and nearly fall over as he took the corner.

  “Haha! Look at the state of yer man,” said a girl standing in another doorway with a male companion who was cooking up a shot.

  “What a spanner,” he said, never flickering his eyes away from the spoon.

  Philip raced to the end of the street and felt the sky begin to darken, the calm blue being subsumed by a penetrating grey, like crude oil flowing unstoppably over a helpless patch of sea. His jeans and jumper scrunched and sliced into his skin. A few minutes later he flopped down onto a bench in Mountjoy Square Park and tried to regain his composure. A mother with two young children, who were playing on the grass in front of him, nervously pulled them away. Although offended, he was too shaken up to give it much thought. He took a few deep breaths and attempted to put his mind in a better place; Dunmahon beach, his family home as a child, Rodge’s farm. The panic was now being taken over by the onset of a cold sweat and numbness. A shot would take away this horrible feeling as fast as a wave crashes and dissolves into a sandy shore. He would be blissfully unaware within a minutes. He struggled to his feet and proceeded north as fast as his jellied legs would take him. Crossing the North Circular Road, he caught a glimpse of the prison, the burger now churning relentlessly in his stomach. He raced to the Grand Canal and emptied the contents of his stomach, passersby avoiding him in disgust. Just minutes away from the Chemist’s and halfway house he felt a slight easing of the tension within.

  “Where is it?” came the deep echoey voice from over his shoulder.

  He turned to see who had spoken but there was nobody there. The Chemists' was in sight so he sprinted the last fifty metres. A year and a half of inactivity made his legs collapse from under him on reaching the door. The chemist’s assistant came to help him up and he handed her the crumpled prescription without getting back to his feet. When she saw what was written on the paper she rushed inside and returned moments later with the chemist. A tall white-coated woman handed Philip three pills and an opened bottle of water.

  “Take these Mr Quinlan. You’ll be alright in a few minutes.”

  Philip swallowed back the pills and got to his feet slowly.

  “Thanks. I don’t know what happened me. I was fine and next minute the world crumbled in on top of me.”

  “Have you got somewhere to go?” asked the chemist.

  “Yes. I’ll be on my way in a minute. Sorry to trouble you.”

  “That’s fine. Take your time. Here’s the rest of your prescription. Come back on Friday and you’ll get more,” she said and handed him a small divided container. They went back into the shop leaving Philip to return to himself.

  2

  The halfway house was an old Georgian redbrick, three stories with a yellow door, the kind of house common to the area. Philip rapped the brass knocker and was soon greeted by a large tattooed man with a shaved head.

  “Ya. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m Philip Quinlan. I was sent here by Prison Services.”

  “Ya? Just out?”

  “Couple of hours ago.”

  “Why didn’t you come straight here?”

  “I wanted to have a walk around the city first. Get some exercise and fresh air. You know how it is?”

  He looked at Philip suspiciously. “You look a bit sheepish. I hope to fuck yous didn’t go into town to score.”

  “No fuckin’ way man. I just stuffed my face with burgers and walked too much. Puked my ring out.”

  He shot a darting laugh without an ounce of happiness. “Years on that prison slop will do that to yous alright. Ya have to settle your stomach back into it.”

  “Thanks for the tip.”

  “Have you got any stuff?” asked the man.

  “Just the clothes on my back.”

  “Well, come in. Let’s get you sorted out with a room and fill you in on the house rules. We’re strict here but if you follow the rules and don’t cause any trouble you’ll get on fine.”

  The man spoke with compassion in his voice like he’d been in the situation himself before. He led Philip through the narrow hall into a large living area where three tenants were sitting quietly, lost in their own worlds, one reading, one swiping the screen of his phone, and the other staring out the window with a book in his hand.

  “Everyone, this is Philip. He just got out of the Joy. He’ll be staying with us for a while. Please make him feel welcome.”

  The one reading raised his head. “Ya alright? What unit were ya in? I was in B block for a couple of years. What a fucking hellhole,” he said and glanced out the window be
fore settling his eyes back on Philip.

  “I was in the medical unit most of the time. Then in C block for a while.”

  “Alright, yeah. Full of mad bastards in there.” He returned his attention to his book.

  “Come upstairs. I’ll show you your room. My name’s Declan, by the way. I’ve been in this house for eight years and I plan on keeping the peace and harmony for a long time to come.”

  Declan plodded up the stairs breathing heavily, his wheezing clearly audible by Philip. They reached a small landing and then went up narrower stairs, bringing them to another landing. A sweat had broken on Declan’s brow. He swung open a door and ushered Philip in.

  “Here’s your penthouse with a view. Room service will not be available.”

  He laughed on cue as if he’d said the joke many times before. Philip peered in past Declan and was struck by the room’s similar dimensions to his prison cell.

  “There’s a shared bathroom on the floor below. Curfew is 10:30 pm. Don’t even bother trying to get in after that time. If you’re late you’ll need to stay at a shelter for the night. No visitors. Absolutely no drink or drugs. If you came back stoned or pissed, you’re out. If you're caught with smack or anything else of that nature here, your probation officer will be informed. Don’t fuck with me on this. Is that understood?”

  “No worries. Ten thirty, no drugs. What if I score a bird?”

  “Then you shag her at her place. Have you got any work lined up?

  “Ya. I start on a site on Friday. I’ve done a good bit of bricklaying.”

  “Good stuff, bud. Stick with it and you’ll be out of here in no time. Be able to afford your own place, you will. There’s a decent charity shop down the road if you want to pick up some clothes.”

  “Okay, thanks. I’ll have a look later.”

  “It’s not so bad here, Philip. Some of those lads would be back inside by now if it wasn’t for this place.”

  He drifted away contemplating his own situation and let Philip enter the room and have a proper look.