"What's this leading to, Liam?"
"I told you, Katie. Nothing at all."
"You know I went round to see Caitlin."
"Yes, I do."
"I was going to talk to you about this yesterday."
"That's right."
A long, tense pause stretched out between them. "Caitlin thinks you've changed. She feels that you're frustrated at work. That's why you can't keep your temper."
"I have my own feelings about things, Katie. But this is my private life you're talking about here, and what happens between me and Caitlin is frankly none of your business."
"You assaulted her, Liam."
"At least I didn't crucify her."
Katie didn't answer. It was quite clear, the position she was in. She carried the phone over to the sideboard and opened the vodka bottle one-handed, and poured herself a large measure in one of her heavy cut-crystal glasses.
"Any news of Siobhan Buckley?" she asked.
"Not much. Three eyewitnesses saw a white Lexus being driven erratically along the Lower Glanmire Road about five past nine in the morning. That was only shortly after Siobhan Buckley is supposed to have accepted a lift in a white Japanese-type saloon. There was a man and a girl in the Lexus, and the woman in the car behind them got the impression that they were struggling. The car was swerving from side to side. It struck the nearside curb and almost drove head-on into the oncoming traffic."
"Any sight of it after that?"
"None."
"I see. I think I need to talk to Tómas Ó Conaill again."
Liam said, "Listen, Katie however things are between us, you need some rest. I can talk to Ó Conaill tomorrow. I can also coordinate the search for Siobhan Buckley. You've just suffered a really traumatic experience, and you've got Paul to think of, too."
"Very compassionate of you, Liam. I just wish you'd show the same compassion to Caitlin. She's my friend, remember."
"Katie-"
"I'll be in tomorrow at nine. I want a report on today's accident on my desk waiting for me. I want an assessment of Dave MacSweeny's family and his remaining gang-who they are, where they live, and whether you think they're still likely to be dangerous."
"You're the boss."
Katie switched off her cell phone and put it down on the sideboard. Sergeant roved around her, snuffling and whining. "It's all right, boy. You'll have to do your business in the garden tonight. I don't think I've got the strength for a walk."
She took her drink upstairs to bed. She was too tired even for a shower. She undressed, put on her large blue-and-white-striped nightshirt, and climbed under the thick, chilly duvet. She fell asleep almost at once, with all the lights still on.
She had the Gray-Dolly nightmare again. She was walking across a wet, gritty yard toward the door of a factory building. High above the factory roof, black smoke was rolling out of tall brick chimneys, and she could hear the clanking of chains and heavy machinery, and despairing screams.
"Paul?"she said, stepping inside the door. "Paul, where are you?"
Around the corner, she heard the shriek of band saws, cutting through bone. She made her way around a huge heap of bloodied sacking, and then she saw the slaughter men in their bloodstained aprons and their strange muslin hats, cutting up lumps of dark maroon meat-legs and arms and partially dismembered torsos.
"Watch out for the Gray-Dolly Man!" somebody whispered, close to her ear. But she continued to walk toward the nearest of the slaughter men, even though she was chilly with fear. "Watch out for the Gray-Gray-Dolly Man!" The slaughter man was sawing up what looked like a woman's leg-Katie could even see the dimples in her knee-and tossing the bloody pieces into a sack.
Katie came right up behind him. "Armed garda," she tried to shout out, but her voice came out distorted and unintelligible, like the voice of somebody profoundly deaf. "Armed garda, you're under arrest."
The slaughter man didn't show any sign that he had heard her, so she cautiously reached out and laid her hand on his shoulder. He stiffened. Then he laid down his butcher's saw and turned around. His face was invisible behind his muslin veil. Her heart stopped, and thumped, and then stopped, and thumped. She felt fear hurrying down her back like wood lice.
Slowly, finger by finger, he tugged off his thick leather glove. He reached up and lifted the veil away from his face.Oh God, she tried to say, but she couldn't.
It was Dave MacSweeny, dead, with his eyes as white as a boiled cod's, his face gray, and filthy brown river water pouring out of the sides of his mouth.
She yelled,"No! Get away from me!"Downstairs, Sergeant heard her and let out a sharp bark. She opened her eyes and for a split second she didn't know where she was. But gradually her bedroom resolved itself, and the bedside lamp was still shining, and the alarm clock said 3:43, and a photograph of Paul was still smiling at her from the side of her dressing table. One eye looking in a slightly different direction, as if he could see something over her shoulder.
She went to the bathroom and brushed her teeth. She drank two glasses of water and then she went back to bed, switching off the lights. It took her another twenty minutes to fall asleep, but this time she dreamed only of running along a deserted seashore, running and running, hoping to run so fast that her footprints couldn't keep up with her.
42
Siobhan was woken by a blinding flashlight shining in her eyes. She whimpered in protest and tried to turn her face away. She was half covered by a grubby cellular wool blanket but she was still so cold that she could hardly feel her feet.
"What time is it?" she asked. Her mouth was so dry that she could barely speak.
"It's almost time for you to start on your journey, Siobhan," the man told her. "You've managed to get some shut-eye, that's good. You're going to need all the strength that your soft little body can muster."
"Please," she croaked.
He sat down next to her, balancing the flashlight on the arm of his chair. She could only see him as a dark outline. "It's strange, that," he said. "How people who are being mistreated are always sopolite. You'd think they'd get angry, wouldn't you? You'd think they'd rant and rage. You'd think they'd blaspheme, and rail against God. But they never do. They always say 'please' and 'thank you.' On the other hand, maybe I'm just lucky. Maybe I only ever abduct the meek and the courteous."
"I just want to go home," sobbed Siobhan.
The man put his hand out and caressed her prickly scalp. "Of course you want to go home. But the sad thing is that you can't. You have another destiny to fulfill. I've arranged a meeting for you-a rendezvous with Auntie Agony. She's going to take you into her arms and give you the most exquisite pain you've ever known."
"Please don't hurt me. I'll do anything."
"I know, I know. But that's not why you're here. You're here to open up the door for me-the door that was sealed so many hundreds of years ago. You're the one, Siobhan. The last of the thirteen, a seamstress with hair as red as any fire. Iamgoing to hurt you, I'm afraid. I'm going to hurt you very much. But it's part of the ritual. It's thepointof the ritual. And it will give you an experience that hardly anybody is privileged to enjoy. It will take you beyond yourself, to a place where you will understand that pain can be an end in itself, even more glorious than death."
"I just want to go home," wept Siobhan. "Please, please, I just want to go home."
"Would you like a painkiller, to begin with?" He sniffed, and stood up. "I think I've got some Disprin in the bathroom."
"I want to go home."
Without warning, the man tilted her chair right back so that she was sitting with her head against the floor, looking upward. She let out a mewl of helplessness and fear. Her wrists were already lashed tightly to the arms of the chair. Now he produced a length of nylon washing line and tied her ankles, pulling the knots so tight that she felt as if he were cutting her feet off.
"You're cold, that's good. Cold will help to numb the pain a little. But as you warm up again we
ll, that's when you'll really start to feel it."
"I don't-I can't-I can't bear it! I can't bear it! Please let me go! Please let me go!"
He caressed her bare knees. "You're a fashion student, Siobhan. Did you ever dream of being famous? Well, believe me,thisis going to make you famous. Your name will forever be associated with one of the greatest mythic events of the millennium. Whenever people think of the reemergence of Mor-Rioghain, which they surely will, for centuries to come, they will immediately think of Siobhan Buckley, too."
Siobhan lay on her back, her eyes blurred with tears, her nose clogged up with phlegm. The man was silent for a while, and she wondered if he'd gone away. But then she heard something like a case snapping shut, and a cough. Then-without any warning at all-she felt a terrible cold sliding sensation down the side of her right calf, all the way from her knee to her ankle. It happened again, exactly along the same line, much deeper, actually touching the bone, and this time she felt a flood of warmth and sticky wetness.
She tried to cry out "Ahh," but her throat was flooded with saliva. "Ahhgghlllghhh."
"Very good, Siobhan," he said, making a deep sideways incision directly below her right knee, so that she could feel him cutting through her tendons. In fact, she could actually feel the tendons shrivel, as their tension was released. "Very restrained, under the circumstances."
"AaaAAAAAAAAHHHH!" she screamed, as he continued the incision into her upper calf muscle.
"Do you want me to stop for a while?" he asked her. He coughed again, and said, "Pardon me. It's really much better to get it over with, all at once."
She was shaking with pain. "Don't" was all she could manage to say. "Don't."
"I'll carry on, then. And do feel free to scream if you want to. It's supposed to be cathartic."
Siobhan squeezed her eyes tight and said a prayer to the Sacred Mother to protect her, to take her away from this place, to ease the agonizing pain in her leg. The man sliced through the left side of her calf and she could feel her flesh opening up and the cold draft blowing against her naked muscle. She prayed to Jesus the Savior. She prayed to have her sins forgiven and her soul allowed into heaven.
But when she opened her eyes again she was still in hell. The man was still bent over her, cutting through her Achilles tendon and the extensor muscles around her ankles, and humming.
43
Katie called the Regional Hospital while her coffee was percolating. Paul's condition was stable and "giving no immediate cause for concern." He was breathing without the aid of a ventilator, but he was still deeply unconscious and so far he had shown no signs of response to any external stimuli. Outside the kitchen window it was raining hard, and water was gushing from the blocked guttering over the garage. The nurse said that Paul would be taken for a CAT scan later in the morning to see if he had suffered any physical brain damage.
As she hung up the phone, Katie said a silent prayer to St. Teresa of Avila, the patron saint of the sick and the afflicted. The same prayer she had said for her mother, before she died. "God makes us suffer, and we worldlings do not understand why, but he chastises us for His own good purpose."
At 8:47 there was a toot outside the house and she looked out to see an unmarked squad car waiting for her. She shut Sergeant in the kitchen, put on her navy-blue squall jacket, and hurried outside.
"Nice soft day," the driver remarked, as they drove away. He was a gray-haired garda called Patrick Logan: friendly, reliable, unambitious, and close to retirement.
"Damn it," said Katie.
"What is it? Forgotten something? Want me to go back?"
"No I meant to leave the keys of my husband's car under one of the flowerpots. I was going to call the garage this morning to come and take a look at it."
"That Pajero? What's wrong with it?"
"Won't start, that's all. It was only serviced about a month ago, and it was running all right until yesterday morning."
"My son could take a look at that for you. He runs a mobile breakdown service. He'd charge you a lot less than your garage."
"That would be great, if he could. That's my husband's pride and joy, that thing."
"How is your husband, by the way?"
"Still unconscious. I'm just praying that there isn't any permanent brain damage."
"Please God," said Patrick Logan. Then, after driving in silence for a while, "And how areyou?"
"Okay," said Katie. "I'm okay, thanks for asking."
"You're not going to take a couple of days' rest?"
"Why should I?"
"Well, if you don't mind me being frank-"
"For God's sake, be frank."
"There's some of your fellow officers who think that perhaps you push yourself a little too hard. Because you're a woman, d'you know, and you seem to think you have to prove yourself."
"I see. Some of my fellow officers thinkthat, do they?"
"I'm sorry, ma'am. I didn't want to speak out of turn. But sometimes it's better to know what's going on behind your back before you get stabbed in it."
"As a matter of fact, Patrick, I'm quite aware that most of my colleagues think I push myself too hard. Even more to the point, they think that I pushthemtoo hard. But I wasn't promoted to detective superintendent because I hung around in the back bar at Counihan's all day, pretending that I was keeping my ear to the ground. I work hard because it's necessary and not because I feel the need to prove myself to my fellow officers or anybody else."
"No, ma'am. Sorry, ma'am."
"That's all right, Patrick. I know it was meant well. Look-I shall be home by half past one. If your son can come around then, I'd be very grateful indeed."
"Not a problem, ma'am."
There was a message waiting for her from Gerard O'Brien. He had called yesterday evening at 5:00P.M., as she had asked him to, but of course she had been at the Regional Hospital by then. He said, "Hallo? Katie? Gerard. I know you've made an arrest already, but this new research material I've got from Germany is very, very exciting. I definitely think it could help us to solve this Knocknadeenly business. I could come round to Anglesea Street if you like. Better still, why don't I buy you some lunch?"
Katie had a moment's thought and then she called Lucy at Jury's Inn. The phone rang for a long time before Lucy answered, and she sounded groggy.
"Lucy? It's Katie Maguire."
"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't sleep very well last night. Night terrors."
"You weren't the only one. Listen-I just wanted to let you know that Paul's still unconscious but he seems to be reasonably stable. As long as there's no brain damage, the doctor says that he's got a very fair chance."
"That's good news."
"Also, I wanted to ask if you were free for lunch today? There's somebody I'd like you to meet-Professor Gerard O'Brien from Cork University. He's been helping us look into the 1915 killings, and he says he has some exciting new research material from Germany.Hiswords, I hasten to add, but he's done well for us so far."
"I don't know, Katie I don't usually like to tread on another academic's toes."
"You wouldn't be. And who knows, the two of you together might come up with something that really cracks this whole case wide open."
"I'm not sure."
"Lucy, I'd really like to see you-mainly to thank you for yesterday, but I also want to hear more about this Jack Callwood character. Besides, you'd be doing me a personal favor. To put it diplomatically, Gerard O'Brien is a little sweet on me."
"I see. You need a bodyguard."
"I was thinking of 'chaperone,' but bodyguard will do. Why don't you meet us at Isaac's in MacCurtain Street at about one o'clock?"
"All right. You've twisted my arm."
Shortly after 10:00A.M., Patrick Goggin knocked on the door of her office. She was busy going through the detailed technical reports on the cottage where Fiona Kelly had been killed, and she wasn't particularly happy to see him.
He sniffed, sharply. "That's a very attractive perfume you're wearing,
Superintendent."
"Thank you. But I'm afraid I'm up to my eyes this morning."
"Of course," he swallowed. "But I just wanted to tell you that I've had a response from the Ministry of Defense in London relating to the disappearance of Irish women around North Cork between 1915 and '16."
"And?"
"They say that they've made a thorough search of the Public Records Office at Kew and it appears that all the daily dispatches relating to the period in question were destroyed by enemy action during World War II. Whatever happened to them, they're missing, and nobody can find them."
A Terrible Beauty Page 25
