Julie Parsons was born in New Zealand but has lived most of her adult life in Ireland. She was a radio and television producer with RTÉ for many years until the publication of her first novel, Mary, Mary, in 1998. Such was the success of the novel, both critically and commercially, that she became a full-time writer. Her subsequent novels, The Courtship Gift (1999), Eager To Please (2000), The Guilty Heart (2003), The Hourglass (2005) and I Saw You (2008) were all published internationally and translated into many languages. Her novella The Smoking Room (2004) was part of the Open Door series. She adapted The Guilty Heart for a five-part radio series for RTÉ and has written two plays, The Sweet Smell of Cigarette Smoke and The Serpent Beguiled Me, both for RTÉ radio. She is married and lives in Dun Laoghaire, Co. Dublin.
Praise for Mary, Mary
‘A beautifully written and harrowing first novel.’ Joyce Carol Oates
‘Julie Parsons takes the psychological suspense thriller to places it rarely dares to go in Mary, Mary, a first novel of astonishing emotional impact.’ The New York Times
‘An admirable, beautifully conceived work of a dark, compelling and original new voice.’ Sunday Independent
Praise for The Courtship Gift
‘The Courtship Gift superbly reinforces what has become obvious about Parsons’ talent: that she is one of those rare authors who can successfully combine psychological insight, literary style and heart stopping suspense. Haunting, evocative and compelling!’ Jeffrey Deaver, author of The Devil’s Teardrop
‘A mesmeric portrait of obsession and evil.’ Sunday Telegraph
‘A skilful, high-quality suspense thriller in the Ruth Rendell mode.’ The Times
‘A web of love, betrayal, deviancy and murder are interwoven in this slick, psychological thriller with its Pandora’s box of shocking twists and turns.’ RTÉ Guide
‘Parsons is a truly talented writer and this novel has real impact.’ Irish News
Praise for Eager to Please
‘Brilliant. A star in the making.’ Minette Walters
‘A classy, riveting psychological suspense by a writer who deserves to be with the big names in crime fiction.’ The Bookseller
‘Parsons refreshes the palate with her elegant and imaginative style.’ The Times
‘Masterful … the ending as bittersweet as it is satisfying.’ Sunday Times
Praise for The Guilty Heart
‘It is a remarkable book quite outside the usual run and ambitions of crime fiction.’ Sunday Telegraph
‘Parsons handles each character, each scene with characteristic tact and skill … engaging … poetic.’ The Irish Times
‘A mesmerising tale of obsessive love, harrowing loss and perverse appetites … skilful and compelling characterisation and evocative descriptions.’ Irish Independent
Praise for The Hourglass
‘Another great accomplishment, even more deftly written … it has a gripping, underlying menace that makes it a spell-binding read.’ Irish Independent
‘Here what lingers [is] the subtle atmosphere of threat the writer so deftly creates.’ The Irish Times
‘This is a dark, deeply disturbing read.’ The Examiner
Praise for I Saw You
‘Genuinely shocking, and definitely one for connoisseurs of crime fiction.’ Irish Independent
‘Tense filled pages and a spine-tingling story will keep you reading until the very end.’ RTÉ Guide
‘Here is a relentlessly dark psychological novel.’ Elle
The Therapy House
The Therapy House
Julie Parsons
THE THERAPY HOUSE
First published in 2017 by
New Island Books
16 Priory Office Park
Stillorgan
Co. Dublin
Ireland
www.newisland.ie
Copyright © Julie Parsons, 2017
The Author asserts her moral rights in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright and Related Rights Act, 2000.
Print ISBN: 978-1-84840-577-6
Epub ISBN: 978-1-84840-578-3
Mobi ISBN: 978-1-84840-579-0
All rights reserved. The material in this publication is protected by copyright law. Except as may be permitted by law, no part of the material may be reproduced (including by storage in a retrieval system) or transmitted in any form or by any means; adapted; rented or lent without the written permission of the copyright owner.
British Library Cataloguing Data.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
New Island received financial assistance from The Arts Council (An Chomhairle Ealaíon), 70 Merrion Square, Dublin 2, Ireland.
To us
The Beginning
It was a Sunday, the day Judge John Hegarty died.
Sunday, 7th July, 2013, to be precise. It was hot. Later the temperature would get up to twenty-six degrees, but even at nine in the morning, when the judge opened the heavy curtains in his bedroom, the sun was shining from a cloudless sky and he could already feel its warmth.
The judge needed to urinate. He stood at the toilet. He waited. The urine was a pathetic dribble with a faint colouring of blood. It was painful. His brother, Liam, younger by eight years, had told him to go to the doctor. He had ignored his advice.
He finished, flushed the toilet and turned to the basin to wash his hands. He scrutinised himself in the mirror above. He didn’t look bad for a man in his late seventies. He’d lost his hair, but so had most. He hadn’t put on much weight, unlike many. He still had his teeth, well, the ones that were visible. His mind was clear, about some things at least. He could, if asked, quote chapters, verbatim, from his old law books. He could still remember judgments he’d written. And of course he could recall testimonies, almost word for word, from the most important trials he’d conducted.
He assumed he had prostate cancer. After all, most men succumb to it sooner or later. But he had no intention of subjecting himself to the indignities of the rectal examination. He didn’t want some overpaid urologist half his age poking and prodding, and not just his rectum and his penis. He knew the kinds of questions he would be asked, and he had no intention of answering them. No one’s business how he was leading the final phase of his life. He could look after himself, for the time being at least.
He dressed carefully, as was his habit. Everything clean today; yesterday’s clothes dropped into the linen basket. Mrs Maguire would deal with his washing on Monday. A white vest, and over it a navy blue linen shirt. He put on his favourite cream cotton trousers, a pair of light grey socks and his new Camper runners. They gave his sagging arches support, but without the ugly bulkiness of so many of the cheaper brands. He looked at himself in the pier glass in the bedroom and tightened his plaited leather belt one more notch. He’d lost weight. Who could eat in this weather? And he would not eat this morning. He was old- fashioned that way. Like his grandmother whose house he now owned. No food before Mass. Nothing in his stomach before Holy Communion. He could hear the church bell calling. He didn’t want to be late.
He walked downstairs. The walls were lined with paintings. Liam had a good eye. In this regard the judge had taken his advice. He had bought prudently, Irish artists, twentieth century. They had all increased in value, even if they had taken a bit of a knock in the crash. He stopped for a moment to straighten a large abstract by Felim Egan. He had moved it to cover the space left when he sold the small Jack Yeats. A cash buyer. No questions aske
d. The money would solve the problem which had arisen recently. An indiscretion from his past. The judge wasn’t too concerned. He had learned through the years that money solved most problems.
Ferdie, his black poodle, was waiting by the front door. The judge picked up his lead and clicked it onto the dog’s collar. He checked the time on the grandfather clock’s decorated face. The clock ticked slowly, steadily. He took his straw hat from the hall table, checked his pockets for keys, wallet, phone, glasses. Picked up his silver-topped cane and together, he and the dog walked out into the sunshine.
He’d gone to this same church when he was a boy, when he used to stay with his grandmother at weekends and during the summer holidays. Since he’d come back to live here again he’d been a daily communicant. The dog would wait outside, his lead slipped over the railings. The judge would go to his usual pew, five rows from the front. He’d genuflect before the altar. He’d sit, kneel, stand. He’d pray, receive the host, and leave the church, blessed, sanctified, forgiven.
Breakfast then in his favourite café and wine bar in the row of shops just down the road. Anthony, the owner, would smile and wave him to his table at the back. A large cappuccino and a pain au chocolat. A bowl of water for Ferdie. The judge would eat and drink with pleasure. He would read the Sunday papers. He would watch the other customers come and go. They would nod and smile and he would nod and smile in return. He would hear the whispers.
‘You know who he is, don’t you? Senior counsel, Special Criminal Court, Supreme Court, retired now of course. Wonderful man.’
Before he left the wine bar, he’d buy a bottle of sherry. Today the judge chose Manzanilla. His neighbour, Gwen Gibbon and their mutual friend, Samuel Dudgeon, were coming for an early evening drink. Gwen loved her sherry. Samuel would take whatever was put in front of him. He and the judge would play backgammon. Samuel would win. Samuel always won. But the judge didn’t mind. They would bet as they played. Small amounts. Samuel would pile up his winnings and put them in his pocket. The judge didn’t mind that either.
They strolled then, the judge and Ferdie, along the sea front. The judge was tired. He had a nagging pain in his side. He turned for home. He would lie down and doze. It was quiet today. The house next door had recently been sold. Builders had moved in. During the week it was noisy. His sleep was disturbed, Ferdie was upset. But on Sundays peace was restored. He would lie down, dream and remember. He would enjoy. And later on the bell would ring. He would get up and walk downstairs. He would open the front door. And his life would come to an end.
Eventually Michael McLoughlin got the house for way below its asking price. The estate agent had said there were lots of other people interested and there were lots of people at the Saturday viewings. But even he could see that most weren’t that bothered. They clustered in groups admiring the white marble fireplaces and elaborate cornices. But he spotted them tut-tutting over the lack of a decent kitchen, the rising damp in the basement and the spreading water marks on the attic ceilings. And weighing up how much it would cost to take down the plasterboard partitions which had divided up the large Victorian rooms, making the house feel institutional.
And there were some who came just to wander around, stopping to sit in the low chairs, their eyes blank, their bodies relaxed, their gestures unconscious. The Therapy House was the name on the brass plate fixed to the wall beside the black-painted front door. The same group of therapists and analysts had practiced here for years. And for years and years the depressed, the paranoid, the lonely, the heartbroken had come to them for help and healing. And now they came to say goodbye.
When finally McLoughlin got the keys, after all the months of wrangling and negotiating, as the cherry tree in the neat front garden flowered, lost its flowers, got its leaves, got its fruit, he stood in the hall listening to the house. Creaks, clicks, gentle sighs, a fly buzzing against a window, a tap dripping somewhere upstairs and the low hum of memories. All those stories. Loss, rejection, anger, hurt. Tears flowing. Voices raised. And then the gentle balm of understanding. The salve of acceptance and self-knowledge.
He looked around. He liked the feeling of the house. It was calm and warm. It was peaceful and protective. It would be a good place to live. The row of Victorian houses, the green in front, scattered with wooden benches and a small grove of silver birches at either end.
A project, that was what he needed now he was retired. Something practical. He’d restore the old house. It would be an investment as well as a home. And when he got too old for it, he’d move into the basement and rent out the rest.
He closed the front door and walked down the front steps. He turned and looked back. The sun glinted off the glass, a large bay window, with a smaller one beside it on the top floor and another at hall level. It was so hot today. Strange to feel the heat after the long cold winter which had lasted well into May, so that nothing had grown. Even the large lawn around his old house in Stepaside had been lifeless. When he got out the mower to give it a final cut before the For Sale sign went up, he barely filled one plastic sack with grass. Selling one house, buying another, he’d expected it to be a nightmare but it wasn’t too bad. His neighbour with the riding school had been only too happy to swallow up his garden. A residential equestrian centre, that was what she wanted now. His house would be perfect. She paid the price up front. Cash. There must be money in horses, he thought. All those stallion fees, tax free. And as for this house, he’d spotted it in The Irish Times property section. He’d cut out the photograph and phoned the agent immediately. He’d offered low. They’d held out for more, but he was a cash buyer too. And these were straitened times.
He jiggled the keys in his hand. He locked the doors, the black painted one at the top of the granite steps, and the smaller red one, tucked in at the side, leading to the basement. He pulled the front gate to. It squeaked loudly and the latch clanged as he slotted it into place. He checked his watch. Just time to get to the airport, to catch the flight to Venice. He put his bag into the car boot. Turned for one last look at the house. Then drove away.
That trip to Venice. His first time. No one ever told him it could rain so much. St Mark’s Square flooded, his feet wet, tiptoeing across the raised wooden walkways. In pursuit of an errant husband and his girlfriend. McLoughlin followed them around from four star hotel to swanky café to restaurant, leaning over canal bridges to watch them cuddling in a gondola. One good thing: everyone in Venice had a camera or a phone. Click, click, snap, snap. A thousand photos of the canals, the bridges, the squares, the pigeons. Nothing suspicious as he caught them in action. Hugging and kissing as they drank their cocktails.
McLoughlin could understand the attraction of the younger woman. The aggrieved wife was well into her fifties. Giving birth to five children had thickened her waist, dragged down her ample breasts, padded her large bottom. Worrying about the kids and her husband’s expanding property business had carved deep lines across her forehead and around her mouth and eyes. Anger and resentment had given her voice an embittered tone.
‘The bastard,’ she said to McLoughlin when they met to discuss the job. ‘The fucking bastard. She’s not the first. But she’s the youngest. I’ve had it, up to here.’ And she drew a line above her thinning hair. ‘I want out. Now. Before he goes bust. He’s going bust, I know he is. I can still read a balance sheet. So I want what’s mine before it all goes down the Swanee.’
But, Venice, well, McLoughlin was bored. After day one he’d got all the evidence he needed. But the wife had paid him to stay for the duration. Three days and four nights. There was more rain. The husband and his girlfriend disappeared into their hotel. McLoughlin brooded as he hung around outside. If only he’d known about the wet he’d have brought his wellies. He contemplated buying a pair but the damage to his shoes was already done and he was offended by the price the street traders were asking. That was another thing. No one had told him about the rip-off factor. S
ure, the city was beautiful. Sure, it was unique. Sure, it was all those things. But it was also unbelievably expensive.
He wandered aimlessly, ducking into doorways to avoid the heaviest of the showers. He couldn’t get a hang of the place. There was no logic, no rhyme or reason to its layout. Narrow streets and walkways twisted and turned back upon themselves. Slivers of canal appeared and disappeared and little bridges suddenly reared up in front of him with awkward flights of steps and stairs. Not a good place to be wheelchair-bound, he thought sourly as he rounded a corner and found himself in a square, with a large church, beautiful against the grey sky. He was tempted to go in, but there was a queue, a crowd of American teenagers, all iPhones and gleaming white teeth, so he kept going.
The rain had stopped and now it was hot. Sweat dripped down his back. He crossed a small canal, little more than a ditch, the stone of the bridge, ornate and carved. The streets here were narrow. High brick walls with greenery hanging over them. Metal gates which gave intriguing glimpses of courtyards, washing drying, a child’s scooter, a cat sleeping in a patch of sunlight. And then another church. He looked down at his guidebook, and found its name. San Simeone Piccolo, a large green-coloured dome, copper he presumed, stone steps up to a portico supported by what the book described as Corinthian columns. He picked his way slowly towards the tall wooden doors, past the other tourists who were lounging in the shade cast by the building. But the doors were closed tight.
The Therapy House Page 1
