Host of the Unforgiven

by G D Sheehen

  “The golden red streaks of dawn were now beginning to illuminate the horizon and Colm looked out to sea with a sense of trepidation and regret. Why had horseman sent them to save the woman? Surely he knew it was a trick to lure him in? Was he really on Colm’s side or was it all a game between deviant faeries of the night? So many questions, and he fully intended on getting answers the next time he would meet the horseman.”

  Philip looked up at a rapt Mr Richards to signal the end of the story.

  “For the love of angels and demons above us. That was some skilled storytelling,” said the man behind Philip.

  Rodge looked over and said, “That was mad, Philip. What happens to Padraig? Does he become a vampire? Maybe he can be a good Vampire.”

  “That’s for another day, Rodge,” said Mr Richards. “But now boys, let me formally introduce you to our guest of honour before initiating the next phase of our ceremony.”

  The mysterious man stepped forward and stood beside Mr Richards’ armchair. The boys followed his movement all the way.

  “Boys… gentlemen… members of our sacred covenant, this is one of my oldest, dearest friends. Tom Brophy.”

  Brophy gave an exaggerated tilted nod and the boys looked at each other in shock. Philip assumed Rodge was thinking the exact same thing. Wasn’t Tom Brophy supposed to be dead? Didn’t Mr Richards admit killing him?

  “Like I’ve told you, secrecy is the cornerstone of all meaningful societies. What you are about to witness and experience tonight, should go to the grave with you, boys. You don’t even talk about it amongst yourselves outside this house. Is that understood?” said Mr Richards.

  “Yes, sir,” said the boys in unison like they were replying to a command in the classroom.

  “Then, let’s drink from the sacred challis and proceed to the upstairs where the ladies of the house are lying in wait.”

  32

  Philip left the cliff behind him to make his walk along the country road towards home as he’d done a thousand times before. The moon was low in the sky, a murky brown from its proximity to earth on its current cycle. There were probably enthusiasts out all over the western hemisphere admiring its regal beauty but Philip could only cringe seeing how it lit up the Richards’ estate in the distance. Over the years snapshots of the things that happened there in his final year of primary school flashed through his mind. He could never tell which were real memories and which were images of an overactive and drug-addled, depraved mind.

  One thing he was sure of was that those days were the beginning of the chasm that formed between him and Rodge. Sure, they remained friends, then acquaintances, then congenial neighbours in the ensuing years through secondary school. Philip began experimenting early on, first finding mushrooms when he was thirteen years old that were rumoured to grow around the surrounding fields of school. Stories quickly spread around their small community about his odd behaviour and he became lost in a hectic daze of trying to scrounge together the money to get into Waterford City to score hash, LSD or ecstasy. This would be the normality of his teen years.

  When they did meet for a chat, Philip would only talk about his latest out-of-body experience whilst Rodge would bore him with the latest in a long line of relationships that ended in turmoil and heartache. Neither had an inkling of the other’s inner drama or so they believed at the time. Only now was Philip beginning to realise that they shared that drama, but reacted to it in opposing ways, driving a wedge between them that lasted until now. Philip was determined to have it out with Rodge, no matter what pain and anguish it brought up for either of them.

  He descended the gentle slope that brought him to the junction, one way leading home, the other to the Richards’ place. A jolt of panic shot through him as he stopped at the corner and was haunted by an image of Eve Richards that appeared from the depths of his repressed memories. Images of fear, loyalty and sensual pleasure inhabited her face all at once. He tried to remember what happened to her but could only recall being told she was sent to stay with relatives in England and was finishing her studies in boarding school. Had Rodge’s obsession with her caused trouble? Was it the very trouble that drove a wedge between him and Rodge?

  He turned onto the road that took him towards home and was soon lost in the moonlit shadows of the tree canopy that lined the old tarmac. After a few minutes of walking, all the time trying to search the recesses of his memory for answers about Eve, he came into view of his old house. The two cars were still in the driveway and the living room light was on, the curtains drawn.

  He took a moment to assess himself, his appearance, the stinking bandage on his hand, his filthy clothes and most likely the frazzled look in his eyes. That the first meeting between him and Julie and Rodge in years was under such circumstances made him sick with guilt. If only he’d come three days earlier, before everything with Dan and Ray. He was clean and fit and experiencing his first taste of happiness in many years with Sharon. Sharon? Jesus Christ. What had he done? Set those animals after that sweet loving girl, who should never have given him the time of day but took a gamble on him and made him fall hard for her. He had to stop them. But first things first. The longer he delayed the more danger he put her in.

  He pushed open the wooden farm gate. A new addition to the house that looked otherwise unchanged since his childhood. The pebbles scrunched under his feet and he swore his shaking knees were increasing the volume. The front door was lit by a black iron light shade with stained glass his father had made, a hobby of his that turned into a small earner in the few years before his passing. Philip was always awed by what his father could make with discarded household objects and wished that one day he could do the same. He would look on as his father talked to himself whilst making one of his impossible intricate creations.

  The door knocker was made from a polished stone set into a varnished ewe horn. It let out a rumbling thud as Philip rapped it against the black door. He took a step back and waited for someone to answer.

  Scrambling in his scattered mind for an appropriate thing to say when someone answered, his attempt at concentration was broken by the emergence of shadows from the kitchen door being pulled open down the hall. At first, looking through the floral-shaped side window of the front door, he was unsure whether the shadow belonged to one person or two.

  The bolt twisted with the familiar sound of his past and the door opened, the rubber weather strip rubbing off the carpet as always. There she stood, looking as kind and youthful as he’d remembered but with the pain of a thousand regrets sunken in her eyes. He was momentarily in shock at the sight of Walsh standing behind her looking relieved to see his lost patient.

  “Philip, look at you,” said Julie.

  In that instant, he hoped some of the health and vitality that had come over him in the preceding weeks was still visible in him but he knew it was unlikely.

  “I’m so sorry, Julie. I don’t know how you can ever forgive me.”

  She lunged forward, down from a low laying step and threw her arms around him almost knocking the both of them over. Philip just about maintained his balance, and held her, releasing years of anguish, the source of which eluded him.

  She pulled back and held him by the arms, lowering one hand down to hold up his injury.

  “What on earth happened?” she said sounding exactly like their mother always had when he arrived home with a play wound from ‘gallivanting around the countryside’.

  “I cut it climbing a fence. I’ve had a very strange couple of days.”

  “Well that’s nothing new, now, is it?”

  She spoke with such tenderness, as though she’d cast out all the hardships he’d put them through over the years. He wished he could be so forgiving of himself.

  “Come in and get cleaned up, and have something to eat. You look like you could use a feed,” she said again sounding so familiar and devastating.

  “I’m not sure if I can stay long. I just came to apologise for all I’ve put you through.”
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br />   “Don’t be daft, Philip. I haven’t seen you in seven years. Now, get in that door. We need to have a long talk.”

  “You should stay, Philip,” said Walsh moving slightly forward. “We’ve been talking and I think your sister can really help you fill in some missing pieces.”

  He contemplated the situation then Julie yanked him in and closed the door behind them. She hugged him once more and told him it was good to finally see him again. Worry often clouded her day thinking they would never see each other again.

  They went back to the kitchen-cum-dining room which was always warmer than the other rooms in the house. Their father had built the extension on to the house himself, fitting an old aga stove he’d picked up for next to nothing and restored to perfect working order. A new set of pine kitchen cabinets had been installed but everything else remained the same. The round dining table sat in the same position near the back window and two armchairs and a sofa were situated close to the aga where at one time in their lives they would all sit and listen to their mother’s, and later Philip’s, stories.

  “Sit down Philip. I’ll make some tea.”

  Memories flashed into his mind as he stood, stuck to the spot. Walsh put a hand on his shoulder and snapped him out of it. They took a seat on the two armchairs.

  “How did you know I’d come here?”

  “Why else would you be in Waterford? That was a close call today.” He glanced over at Julie then said softly, “I didn’t mention anything about it.”

  “I don’t know what’s happening to me. I keep thinking about things that happened here when I was eleven years old but I don’t know what it means.”

  “Julie can help you remember, but I should warn you to brace yourself for whatever she might have to say. Much of it won’t be easy to hear.”

  “Okay. But I need to know before I completely lose it.”

  “What are you two talking about?” she said and placed a cup of tea on the coffee table in the centre where there were already two cups, half full but still steaming. She sat on the sofa between the two men.

  “I told Julie about what I revealed to you earlier today, Philip. About your condition. And she wasn’t in the least bit surprised.”

  Philip’s whole body tensed up. She looked at him with pity and guilt.

  “I never knew how much it’d taken hold of you. It was difficult to say, you were so out of it all the time. We couldn’t separate the effects of the drugs from the symptoms.”

  “How did you know about it, Julie? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “We couldn’t say anything when dad was still alive.” This statement caused her eyes to glass over, a tear forming in the corner.

  “He was so devastated by how things had gone with you. I think it was better for him to think it was all down to the drugs. But he probably knew, all the same.”

  “What are you saying? I don’t understand.”

  “He had it too, Philip. All his life.”

  Philip felt his face contract into what must have looked like an expression of primal disbelief.

  “I never really knew the extent of it until near the end, when he was drinking more and more and leaving his guard down. You know how he was. Stoic as a brass statue.”

  “Oh my god. And I lost him at the end. I didn’t even know what he was going through.”

  “But you do know, Philip,” said Walsh. “You live it every day.”

  “He was so torn about your falling out,” said Julie. “He felt he should have done more the get you help. It’s all he talked about in his last days. I think he knew the heart attack was coming”.

  Philip stood up and paced around the room as if trying to walk off a ticking explosion that was trapped between his eyes. He put his hands on his head and shook in bewilderment at what was presented to him. That Julie would slam the door in his face or Rodge would physically kick him out is what he was expecting when he decided to come, but these new revelations were excruciating to fathom. Rodge?

  He stopped pacing and turned back to Julie and asked, “Where’s Rodge, Julie? Why isn’t he here?”

  She could hold the tears no longer and her cheeks became streams of stifling sadness.

  “Oh, Philip!” she cried. “Mr Walsh told me but I didn’t believe it was true.”

  “What is it, Jules?”

  “I can’t tell you this again.”

  “Julie?”

  She put her head in her hands and sobbed for a full minute. Then she raised her grief drenched eyes to meet his.

  “Rodge died seven years ago. When I was pregnant with Brendan.” She wiped the tears from her eyes.

  Walsh handed her a tissue from the box on the coffee table. Philip was utterly stunned, speechless and staring at her with all the loss of an innocent child who’s had everything, love and hope and future, ripped violently from his life.

  “What happened?” he managed to push through the choking sensation in his throat, the back of his head tightening and pulsing.

  “He hung himself… on the Richards’ estate.”

  This was the final blow to Philip and his legs softened and shrank under him. Just as he was about to lose his footing, the door behind them opened and in walked a small boy in his pyjamas. He held a small yellow blanked with an imprinted lion’s head, and struggled to open his eyes. He walked straight to his mother, into her arms.

  “What’s all the noise, Mammy? You woke me up. Who are these fellas?”

  Philip took a deep breath and tried his best to gather himself for the first meeting of his only nephew.

  “That’s your uncle Philip and his friend Paul. They’re down from Dublin to see us.”

  Brendan looked up at Philip and shot a quick smile his way.

  “You were best friends with my daddy, weren’t you?”

  “Yes, I was.”

  “Mammy told me someday you’d tell me all about him, what ye used to get up to when ye were young fellas.”

  Philip felt truly relieved by this, that Julie had kept the memory of him and his friendship with Rodge alive in the boy’s world.

  “I’d love to tell you all about it, Brendan. But maybe sometime your mam isn’t around. We don’t want to give anything away to her, now, do we?”

  Brendan chuckled and said, “No, I suppose we don’t.”

  “Hey, you two. That’s enough. C’mon now, you. Off to bed. You can talk tomorrow.”

  Brendan ran over to Philip and threw his arms around him. Unsettled at first, he soon reciprocated and gave his nephew a big squeeze.

  Julie left the room after telling Philip to sit down and stay put, giving Walsh a look that said don’t allow him to leave before I come back.

  “Have you taken any of the medication yet?” asked Walsh.

  Philip didn’t reply but his expression gave the answer.

  “I’ve seen the results of going on and off the meds, Philip, and it’s not pretty. It’s common that this runs in the family and now that you know where it came from, I think it should be easier to reconcile and deal with.”

  “How about you?” he said still trying to process everything he’d heard.

  “What do you mean?”

  “If this runs in the family, have you been affected? You told me your brother had it?”

  Walsh paused for some time then answered, “During my life, I’ve had a few minor episodes, but nothing major or prolonged.”

  “So, you’ve dealt with it without medication?”

  “It’ very different in my case. You have very severe symptoms. So much so, you can’t distinguish between reality and delusion sometimes.”

  “My father learnt to control it, too.”

  “Besides the severity of your symptoms, you’re also dealing with years of drug addiction and trauma.”

  “Trauma? What trauma?”

  “I’m not sure. But by the sounds of it, you’re close to finding out.”

  Before he could reply Julie re-entered and sat on the sofa again.

 
“Please, sit down, Philip.”

  He sat, never taking his eyes off her.

  “I know this must all be a shock to you, but at least you can start dealing with it. Mr Walsh told me you were doing really well in Dublin since you got out of jail. I’m so sorry I never came to visit you there. It was just after the last time we met-”

  “Don’t be sorry. I would never want you going to that place. What happened the last time we met?”

  You really don’t remember?”

  “No. There’s lots of things I can’t remember about my past.”

  “It was a few days after Rodge’s funeral. You appeared out of nowhere. We had a massive argument about why he did it? I was blaming myself. The guilt was crippling.”

  “No, Jules. It was nothing to do with you. I know how much he loved you.”

  “You were babbling about your stories and being at Mr Richards’ place when you were in sixth class. What happened to ye there?”

  Philip thought for a moment then realised his throat was as dry as a desert drought and took a drink of his tea.

  “Jesus, Philip. You look like you haven’t eaten in days. Let me fix something up for you.”

  “No, really. There’s no need…. I’m not sure what happened there but I know it’s what drove me and Rodge apart in the years that followed. It had something to do with Eve Richards, or maybe Mrs Richards and the stories. We used to go there to hear Mr Richards’ stories and I would tell mine an the-”

  “The what?” said Walsh.

  “I don’t know. But I think the answer might be in a story I wrote in those days. I have to go there and find out.”