"You've peed yourself," he remarked, without compassion. "Well that, my little merrow, is about as close as you'll ever get back to the briny."
"Please," she begged him. "My mam's going to be so worried about me."
"That's what mothers are for. They're never happy unless they're anxious."
He reached into the inside pocket of his black coat and produced a pair of wallpapering scissors, with blades almost ten inches long. He snipped them a few times, like the long red-legged scissorman inStruwwelpeter,and gave her a smile which made her shiver even more, because it was so benign.
"I told you what a man has to do to stop his merrow going back to the sea. He has to take her bright red feathery cap, hercohullen druith.And that's exactly what I'm going to do to you."
He stepped closer, and gripped her hair. She jerked her head wildly from side to side and tried to wrench herself out of the chair, but he pulled her hair viciously hard by the roots and said, "If you don't keep still, you little bitch, I may change my mind and snip your nipples off instead. It is a matter of total indifference to me."
Siobhan let out a moan of fear, and stopped struggling.
"That's better," he said, and he was so close that she could feel him breathing on her forehead. "There's nothing like a little cooperation, is there? A little cooperation makes the world a very much happier place."
He took hold of the front of her hair, and cut into it with a crunch. She closed her eyes, and hot tears began to pour down her cheeks. She was so terrified now that she was unable to speak-unable even to sob.
The man cut off more and more of her thick red hair, cropping it as close to the scalp as he could. Siobhan could feel it dropping onto her shoulders and onto her breasts. When he came round to cutting the back, she obediently bent her head forward and he cut it so close that the cold scissor blades were nicking her ears.
When he had finished he gathered up her fallen hair, brushing it off her stomach and her thighs, and he triumphantly lifted it up in front of her. "There no more swimming away foryoufor a while, my darling merrow. Now you'll have to stay here with me."
He took a rubber band out of his pocket and twisted it around her hair to keep it together. "What acohullen druiththis is what a souvenir of youth and beauty and the strange love between mermaids and men."
Without warning, he tugged down the zipper of his pants and took out his penis, which was already half erect. He trailed Siobhan's hair across it, from side to side, and gradually it rose harder and harder. Siobhan tried to turn her head away, but there was something so mesmerizing about what he was doing that she kept having to look back at him.
"Do you know what this feels like? It feels like being caressed by animals. It feels like being stroked by a woman who isn't even human."
He drew her hair one way, and then the other, and the gaping head of his penis grew a darker and angrier purple. At first he stroked it quite gently, but as he grew increasingly aroused, he began to whip at himself harder and harder. Soon he was lashing at himself in a controlled frenzy, his mouth clenched, his chest heaving, his whole body tense.
Suddenly he cried out, "Ahh!" and a thick white jet of sperm jumped out. Siobhan felt it loop against the side of her neck, while one drop of it dangled from her earlobe in a glutinous parody of a pearl earring. The man gave himself two or three luxurious squeezes, his eyes closed, and then he pushed his dwindling penis back into his trousers and zipped them up.
"Do you know how much you excite me?" the man breathed, opening his eyes, and giving her that same benign smile. "We're soclosenow so very, very close. You're going to change my life, Siobhan. You're going to give me pleasure beyond anything that you can think of."
Siobhan looked dully away. It wasn't his abuse that had degraded her, it was the cutting of her hair. She felt as if she weren't Siobhan anymore, as if she were nothing but a scarecrow. A tear ran out of her right eye and dripped onto her forearm. That, and the man's semen, were the only warm things that she had felt all day.
38
That evening, Katie made a point of cooking them a proper meal. She sliced potatoes and mushrooms and onions and interleaved them in a casserole dish with fresh marjoram, before adding pork chops and chicken stock and putting them into the oven.
Paul, watching television and playing with Sergeant's ears, said, "That smells good, pet. I'm starving."
"Sorry. It won't be ready till eight."
She sat down next to him and looked at him for a while without saying anything. His cheekbones were still covered with rainbow-colored bruises, and his split lip had a black crusty scab, but the swellings around his eyes had gone down.
"What are you going to do, Paul?" she asked him.
"What am I going to do about what?"
"Dave MacSweeny and his building materials, of course. I'm really worried that something's going to happen to you."
He poured himself another whiskey. "Can't you give me some Garda protection?" he asked, wryly.
"Seriously, I wish I could. But if I asked for police protection I'd have to explain why."
"You're a guard. Why can'tyouprotect me?"
"I've been trying to, believe me. But I can't watch you twenty-four hours of the day, can I? And there's no knowing what Dave MacSweeny will do next."
"What are you suggesting, then? That I do a Charlie Flynn and run off to Florida?"
"You could get out of Cork for a while."
"What good would that do? I couldn't stay away forever, and what would I do for money? Anyway, I'm a Corkman. I was born here and brought up here and this is my home, and I'm not going to be frightened away by some waste of space like Dave MacSweeny. I'll think of something. Something will turn up."
"Something like what?"
"I was talking to Ricky Deasy today. He wants me to invest in a housing project out near Carrigaline."
"How can you afford to invest in a housing project when you have to raise six hundred and fifty thousand euros to pay back Winthrop Developments?"
"I can't. But the land that Ricky Deasy wants to build on doesn't have planning permission, not at the moment."
"That doesn't sound like much of an investment to me."
"No - but it's going dirt-cheap as agricultural land and there could be a hefty EU subsidy for anyone who takes it on to farm it."
"You've lost me, Paul. You're thinking of taking upfarming?"
"Of course not. But Ricky's uncle is the deputy chairman of An Bórd Pleanála and once we've bought the land we could see about fixing a change of use. You know, a little sweetener for Jimmy's uncle and a couple of the other board members."
"Paul, you're desperate! You're just digging yourself in deeper and deeper!"
He put down his drink and took hold of her hand. "I have to do something big, Katie. I have to do something dramatic. Otherwise I'mnevergoing to get myself out of this mess, ever; and I'm going to have to spend the rest of my life watching my back for Dave MacSweeny."
Katie reached up and stroked his bruised and swollen cheek. "Tell me a joke," she said.
"What?"
"Tell me a joke, the way you used to, when we first went out together."
"I'm fighting for my very life here, Katie. This isn't any time to be telling jokes."
"I know. But just for me."
He looked into her eyes as if he were looking for evidence that she wasn't mocking him. Then he said, "There was this Kerryman who spent an hour staring at a carton of orange-juice because it said 'concentrate.'"
Katie gave him the faintest of smiles and kissed him. He still smelled the same as always, too much Boss after shave. But it was strangely reassuring, as if the past hadn't completely disappeared; as if yesterday were still lying in the chest-of-drawers upstairs, sleeping in the tissue-paper that Seamus' baby-clothes were wrapped in.
39
When she came into her office at 8:35 the next morning, Dermot O'Driscoll was waiting for her, along with a thin, serious-faced man in a dark business sui
t. Even Dermot looked tidier than usual: he had crammed his shirttails into his waistband and even made an attempt to straighten his livid green necktie.
"Katie, this is Patrick Goggin from the Department of Foreign Affairs in Dublin."
Katie held out her hand and Patrick Goggin gave her a soft, recessive handshake.
Dermot said, "Apparently we're having some trouble with your friend Jack Devitt about these disappearances in 1915."
"I never said that Jack Devitt was any friend of mine."
"Figure of speech. Jack Devitt's demanding that the British Ministry of Defense produce documentary evidence to show what happened to those women. Whether they were murdered on official orders, you see, or whether it was a renegade officer who took them, or whether it was just some fellow who was masquerading as a member of the Crown forces. The trouble is, Devitt's got official backing from Sinn Féin. Here in Cork, and in the Dáil, too. We could have a very embarrassing political situation here, unless we clear this up quick."
Patrick Goggin had a scrawny throat in which his Adam's apple rose and fell as he spoke, as if he were trying to regurgitate something unpleasant that he had eaten for breakfast. "Do you yet have any idea at all who might have abducted those women? Even an informed guess will do. There's another summit meeting at Stormont next week and the last thing we need is Sinn Féin making an issue out of something that happened more than eighty years ago."
Katie shook her head. "I'm afraid we haven't made much progress. I'm working closely with Dr. Reidy, the state pathologist, and also with an expert in Celtic mythology, Dr. Gerard O'Brien. But, you know, these things take time."
"Haven't you even got a theory about it? If the Crown forces really did order those women to be abducted and murdered, it's going to cause all manner of ructions. The Taoiseach is going to have to ask for an apology from the British government, and some form of compensation for their families, and the whole peace process is going to be knocked back months, or even years. Or evendecades,for the love of God."
Katie said, "I'm sorry, Mr. Goggin, but this is a very complex criminal investigation and I can't cut any corners for the sake of politics. I don't know who murdered those women and the chances are that I never will. As for the latest murder, we have a suspect in custody on the basis of very strong forensic evidence and that's all I can tell you."
Patrick Goggin rubbed his forehead with his fingertips, as if he had a headache. "I don't think you quite understand the position, Detective Superintendent. We have to know for certain who murdered those women in 1915, and if itwasa British soldier, acting on official orders, we have to find a way-well, let me put this the only way I can-we have to find a way of showing that itwasn't. A rogue officer, we can deal with that, politically. A psychopath who dressed up in British Army uniform, that would be even better. I'm sure that I can count on you to come up with some kind of evidence that will exonerate the British army of any direct culpability."
Katie said, coldly, "Evidence is evidence, sir. Facts are facts. If the British Army murdered these women deliberately, then I'm certainly not going to pretend that they didn't."
Dermot lifted his hand and said, "Katie-"
But Katie said, "No, sir. I need to know what happened to those eleven women because it has a direct relevance to the Fiona Kelly murder case. They may have died eighty years ago, but they still deserve our respect, and our conscientious efforts to find out how they really died. They were women, sir. They were living, breathing women."
"Holy Mother of Jesus," said Patrick Goggin. "Now we have feminist solidarity rearing its ugly head. An Garda Síochána is the guardian of the nation's interests, Detective Superintendent, not the front line of the PC brigade."
"With all respect, sir-" Katie began, but Dermot, behind Patrick Goggin's back, shook his head and mouthed the word "no." She knew what he was telling her. It wasn't worth it. Politicians come and go, but police personnel stay on for years and years-hopefully to collect their pensions, and cook their favorite recipes in peace.
"Yes?" said Patrick Goggin. "You were saying?"
"I was simply saying that we'll do everything we can to find out who abducted those women, sir, and how they died. And when we have we'll let you know. Of course. And as soon as we possibly can."
Patrick Goggin smiled. "That's what I wanted to hear. That'sexactlywhat I wanted to hear." He took out his wallet and produced a card. "There," he said. "That's my private number. If you want to discuss this case any further, or any other Garda business well"-and here he raised one eyebrow and gave her an extraordinary cherubic smile-"you will let me know, won't you?"
He shook Katie's hand and gave Dermot a mock garda salute. Then he left Katie's office and walked along the corridor with squeaking rubber shoes.
He hadn't reached the top of the stairs before Dermot burst into an explosion of laughter, and Katie shook her head in amazement.
"Hefanciesyou!" said Dermot. "After all that, he only fecking fancies you!"
It was teeming with a fine, chilly rain when they arrived at Meagher's Farm at Knocknadeenly. Mr. and Mrs. Kelly climbed out of the back of the car and stood looking around at the drab farm buildings and the churned-up mud and the naked poplar trees as if they couldn't believe that anywhere so dreary could exist outside a movie set.
"Jesus," said Mr. Kelly. "What a place to die."
"Actually, Fiona didn't die here," said Katie, gently. She opened a large golf umbrella so that she and Mrs. Kelly could shelter under it. "She was killed quite a few miles away, and her remains were brought here for a very special reason. We're fairly convinced that it was part of a pagan ritual."
"Jesus," Mr. Kelly repeated. He seemed overwhelmed.
Lucy Quinn had been waiting in the front passenger seat for a while, her eyes concealed behind her purple-lensed spectacles, but at last she decided to get out. She was wearing a black raincoat, a black cashmere scarf, and long black-leather boots. Her bright red lipstick was the only spot of color in the whole gray morning, like the little girl's coat inSchindler's List.
"I want to thank you for allowing me to bring Professor Quinn along," Katie told the Kellys.
"Not at all," said Mr. Kelly. He took out his handkerchief and blew his nose. "Anybody who can help you know."
At that moment, John Meagher came out of the farmhouse, wearing a tweed cap and a tweed jacket with the collar turned up against the rain. He came up to Mr. and Mrs. Kelly and shook their hands in silence.
Katie said, "John-this is Professor Lucy Quinn from UC Berkeley. She's something of an expert in ancient rituals."
"You know what happened here?" John asked.
"Yes," said Lucy. "What can I say? It's a tragedy."
John looked tired and he sounded as if he were going down with a very bad cold. "This is the last thing I need. I've had a hell of a year and now this. I tried to sell three milk cows yesterday and nobody wanted to touch them. The local farmers seem to think I'm in league with Satan. They practically cross themselves whenever I walk into the pub."
"Do you mind if I see the place where you discovered the first eleven women?" asked Lucy.
Katie turned to Mr. and Mrs. Kelly. "You can wait here for a while if you want to. Then we'll walk to the place where they found Fiona."
Both Mr. and Mrs. Kelly were in tears. "That's all right. You do whatever you have to do."
Katie followed John and Lucy to the back of the farmhouse, where the feed store had already been completely demolished, and brick foundations laid. Lucy circled around the foundations for a while, stepping long-legged over the rubble, and then she stopped, and frowned, and looked left and right, as if she could sense a disturbance in the air. In the distance, a flock of hooded crows rose over the trees, not cawing, but circling, and eventually settling back on the branches.
"This is where the bones were found? All mixed up?"
"That's right."
"I doubt if this was where their bodies were originally laid out, after they were killed
. I would guess that their bodies were originally spread out in the same place where Fiona Kelly was found. When the birds and the animals had eaten their flesh, their bones were buried here to conceal the evidence."
They trudged up the deeply furrowed field, with the Kellys close behind them, to look at the place where John had discovered Fiona's remains. The drizzle was so intense that they could barely see the farmhouse, or Iollan's Wood behind them.
"I think we could observe a minute's silence here," Katie suggested, and the four of them stood in the field with the rain sifting down, and remembered Fiona, and all children who die before their parents. Katie crossed herself.
A Terrible Beauty Page 22
