The Therapy House

by Julie Parsons

  Woke suddenly. His heart was thumping, something wet on his face. He lifted a hand to wipe it and was certain, for a moment, that it was blood. But it was tears, streaming down his cheeks. How long since he had last cried? He lay back on his pillow, taking long deep breaths. Then he sank into sleep once more. Until he woke again. This time slowly, stirring uneasily, something banging away in his head. A sound, repetitive, irritating. He rolled over. A shaft of light caught his eyes so he put his hand up to cover them. Checked his phone. Six a.m. As bright as mid-day now.

  He pulled himself up off the floor. Awkward, difficult, he’d have to see about getting something a bit more comfortable. He reached out to the windowsill for support and kneeled, looking into the garden. Just about to pull over the shutters but there was that sound. He stuck his head through the open window and listened. A dog barking. Christ, was he going to have to put up with this every morning? He listened again. Maybe it wasn’t that bad. If he closed the window he probably wouldn’t hear it. He didn’t want to get into a row with the old man. Not about the dog. He grabbed hold of the edge of the window and gave it a tug. It dropped down with a bang, so the glass rattled. Sash cords gone. Something else to be added to the list, the endless list. Maybe the project wasn’t such a good idea. He could have bought an apartment, brand new, walk-in condition, all mod cons.

  He closed the shutters and lay back on his mattress. He’d doze until eight and then he’d start the day. But sleep wouldn’t come. He tossed and turned. Dust rose from the floorboards beneath him. It made him sneeze and his eyes prickled and burned. Eventually he pulled himself upright and opened the shutters again. Light poured in. He stood, pulled on a pair of underpants and stepped out onto the landing. He looked around, then turned towards the room at the front. Once it had been large and spacious with high ceilings spanning the house. Now a plasterboard partition cut it in two. He padded in his bare feet across the threadbare carpet and pushed open the door to the second room. This was bigger, with the bay window giving more light. Yoga classes had been held here, so he had been told. The teacher was well known. He had a feeling that Janey might have come here for weekend workshops. She’d loved all that kind of thing. He remembered how happy they’d been when they first got married. But somewhere along the way it had all gone wrong. The miscarriages hadn’t helped. Every year, year after year, the same sequence. Hope, excitement, a future to be anticipated. And then the fear. Sudden pain, bleeding, a frantic phone call. Go to bed, he’d say, I’ll be home soon. But sometimes he wouldn’t make it in time. She’d already have gone to hospital. She’d be hooked up to the machines. And they’d watch for the foetal heartbeat. And then he’d go back to work again.

  He sighed. No point in dragging it all up. He hadn’t seen her for years. He didn’t even know where she was living now. Or what she was doing. Or who she was with.

  He stood with his feet together, then bent forward. He rested his fingertips on the floor, then stretched his legs back into a downward facing dog. He’d learned yoga too. Part of his pre-retirement course. It was much more difficult than it looked. Some of the other lads had sneered, but they were silenced by how much it took out of them. Dog, plank, pigeon, triangle, the warrior poses, the sun salutations.

  He worked his way through a simple sequence. As he stretched and moved from pose to pose his breathing deepened. He could feel sweat prickling his armpits and his forehead and the back of his neck was damp. He sank down, his legs and arms stretched out, then rolled over onto his back. And in the silence he heard the sound again. Muffled, faint, but unmistakeable. The bloody dog was still barking.

  He pulled on a T-shirt and jeans and shoved his feet into sandals, then went downstairs and out onto the footpath. He looked up at his neighbour’s house. He ran up the steps to the front door and rang the bell, then peered through the glass panel beside it. A polished floor, a rug, a large vase of flowers on a table. He waited for a few minutes. All he could hear was the dog barking.

  He returned to his own house and walked through to the back door, down the steps and into the garden. Again he scanned his neighbour’s windows. Nothing here either, but the sound of barking was louder now. He moved along the wall between the two gardens. On his side thick ivy had cloaked the granite. A dense mass of leaves and twisted tendrils as thick as his fist. Nettles here too, and he winced as he brushed against them. He turned to the wall and stood with his hands on the top. He lifted one leg to try and get purchase and felt something. Wooden, not stone like the rest of it. He pulled at the ivy, dragging it away and revealed a door, old and rotten and as he shoved it with his shoulder it gave way. He stumbled through, cursing softly as he lost his footing and slipped and fell, catching himself on the thorns of a rose. Shit, he’d made a mess. Crashed into a row of pretty bedding plants. He moved his feet off the flower bed and straightened up. Felt suddenly an intruder. Hoped no one was watching. Wasn’t sure how he would explain his presence. But now he was here he’d better go and apologise. Maybe tell the judge he was a former garda. Remind him of the trials they’d both taken part in. A few he remembered in particular. When Hegarty was on the bench in the Special Criminal Court.

  He moved quickly through the garden towards the house. A birdbath with a stone bird sipping the water was placed in the middle of the lawn, and a bronze sundial was framed by a clipped box hedge. And there were the same wooden steps, like his, leading towards a door. He took a deep breath and climbed them. A French window led into what was obviously the dining room. He could see a long mahogany table and a matching sideboard. Paintings hanging on the walls.

  He leaned forward. He would knock, softly at first, hoping that the judge might be up and about. But as he touched the door it swung open. He took a step and called out.

  ‘Hallo? Anyone home?’

  He waited. No human sound, just the dog, his yap more high-pitched.

  ‘Hallo, it’s just me, your neighbour.’ McLoughlin moved slowly into the room. He stood by the table. He dropped a hand to stroke its shiny surface. Again he called out.

  ‘Hallo?’ This time a question in his voice. But the only answer was coming from the dog, somewhere above.

  McLoughlin walked through the dining room and into the hall. He turned towards the stairs. He called again. But again all he heard was the insistent yapping. He moved towards the sound. The stairs curled up ahead. A Persian-style runner covered them and the walls were hung, like the dining room, with paintings. Light poured from a skylight.

  He reached the second landing. More doors, all closed. The noise was still coming from above. Another set of stairs, one door opening into a bedroom, and another shut tight. He opened it and the dog rushed out. Yapping, jumping, his short tail wagging furiously. McLoughlin opened the door further. A small bathroom, a strong smell, the floor filthy and awash with urine. He closed it quickly and turned back. The dog had disappeared but he could hear him still. Whining now, a fretful, anxious sound. Jumping up, his claws scrabbling against the door to the big room at the front of the house, hitting the round crystal handle so it swung open and he disappeared into the darkness inside.

  ‘Here, come here Ferdie,’ McLoughlin stood waiting on the threshold as the dog appeared again. He bent down and held out his hand. The dog rushed towards him. McLoughlin clicked his fingers and the dog sat. He clicked his fingers again and the dog put up his paw. McLoughlin reached out. It felt wet and sticky. All that mess in the bathroom. He put his hand in his pocket for a handkerchief and wiped his fingers. And saw. The handkerchief was covered in red streaks. He made a lunge for the dog’s collar but the dog jumped away, twisting, turning, yapping as he darted back. McLoughlin followed him. The room was dark, shafts of sunlight coming from around the edges of the closed shutters. One shone across a chair, overturned on the floor. McLoughlin stretched out his hand, reaching his fingertips across the raised flock of the wall paper. He felt the smooth metal, the light switch. He pressed
down. Instantly the darkness disappeared and he saw, beside the chair, a man, lying, legs together, a bloody mess where his head should have been, and a dark spatter across the pale green carpet. And the dog, now whining, nudging the man with his nose, then running off, red paw prints decorating the floor, then running back again, sniffing the man’s head, whining, then running away, twisting in a circle, and everywhere those red, sticky prints.

  McLoughlin reached out for Ferdie, grabbing a handful of his curly coat. The dog yelped in pain and tried to twist away but McLoughlin lifted him up, holding him tightly. As Ferdie’s head turned, he sank his teeth into McLoughlin’s hand, just below his thumb.

  ‘Fuck,’ McLoughlin shouted and nearly dropped the dog, but he clung on, bundling him out of the room, up the stairs and half threw him back into the bathroom, closing the door tightly. He looked down at himself. His white T-shirt was smeared with red. Blood dripped from the sickle-shaped wound in his hand. He wanted to go and wash it, but first things first. He wrapped the handkerchief clumsily around it, and ran back, towards the room at the front of the house.

  Upstairs, in the attic room Samuel sat up. The dog was barking, more loudly. He could hear another sound. A voice, shouting. A voice he didn’t recognise. He stood and pulled on his trousers. He shoved his feet into his shoes. The blood was dried now. He laced them tightly, then stood and put on his coat. He picked up the hammer, and pulled the laptop from beneath the pillow He opened the door and stepped quietly out onto the attic landing. He looked down. He couldn’t see anyone below.

  Then a man, holding the dog. The dog struggling, twisting and turning. The man shouting in pain. Throwing the dog into the bathroom. Turning away. Running into the judge’s drawing room.

  Samuel moved then. As quickly as he could. Down the stairs. Tiptoeing. Holding the hammer, the laptop, his coat pulled around him. Down to the kitchen, picking up the bin liner, then into the dining room. The door to the garden standing open. Closing it behind him. Then remembering. The judge always said, I’m giving you keys, Sam, but make sure to lock up. Locking up now. Then quickly, down the steps. Opening the door to the basement. Locking it behind him. Rushing into the kitchen. The painting, the chisel, the screwdriver, the hammer, the laptop. All in his shopping bag. Hurry, hurry, hurry. Out through the door to the front garden. Stopping to lock it. Keep everything safe. Then up the path to the road. And hurry, hurry, hurry. Hurry home.

  McLoughlin circled the man on the floor. It was the judge, no doubt about that. His hands were fastened behind his back with plastic ties. His feet too were locked together. McLoughlin knelt down to get a better view. Something like an entrance wound through the nape of his neck. There wasn’t much left of his face. Blood, bone and brain tissue on the carpet. He could see that rigor mortis had set in.

  He stood up and backed away, conscious that he was disturbing what was now a crime scene. He felt in his pocket for his phone. As he pressed the numbers 999, it occurred to him that he’d never used them before. A first time for everything, he thought, as he heard the voice say:

  ‘Which service please?’

  The guard was going from house to house. Gwen Gibbon sat on the wooden bench in her small front garden and watched. He had taken off his cap and his shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. A handsome young man, tall and fair, with a clipboard in one hand, and a pen in the other. Looking at him as he walked briskly up the steps to the front doors, she marvelled at the size of people these days. She remembered when she was a child living here in this same square, in this same house, must be back in the 1920s. So many of the people she would see in the streets of the town were small, undernourished, their legs bowed with rickets, teeth missing, hair shaved, signs of ringworm on their skinny white arms. But that was a long time ago. People didn’t look like that now.

  The word in the square was that the judge had been murdered on Sunday evening. The same evening that she and Samuel Dudgeon had been invited for sherry. She’d left home just after six. She’d walked across the grass but as she stepped onto the road she had tripped and fallen. Landed smack down on her knees, her head too, hitting the hard surface. She had cried. Couldn’t get up. Had lain, prone, shocked. And that nice lady, Elizabeth Fannin, one of the therapists from the house next door to the judge, had passed by, had stopped, knelt beside her, helped her to sit. Tried to staunch the flow of blood from her knees, her hands, her forehead. And said,

  ‘I’ll take you to hospital. I have my car here.’

  Gwen had protested. She was fine. She just needed to rest. But Elizabeth Fannin overruled her protests. She had driven her to A&E, stayed with her for hours until she was seen by a doctor, who checked that she wasn’t concussed, patched up her wounds, and sent her home.

  Now Gwen shifted awkwardly on the bench’s wooden slats. She should have got a cushion from the sofa. She was thin, even thinner than usual. She seemed to have lost her appetite. The heat of course, it was so hot these days. Unnaturally hot, although down in the basement where she lived it was cool, a chill which no amount of sun could banish. Back in the old days, the days when the children in the town had rickets and ringworm, Gwen and her father and mother, and her older brother William, had lived upstairs. Hall floor and first floor. Large, spacious rooms, warm and comfortable. A maid slept in the tiny box room at the back, beside the kitchen. There was a grand piano in the drawing room. And on days like this when the sun shone and the sky was cloudless Mummy would put a table in the back garden and they’d have tea there, the big silver pot, sandwiches with their crusts cut off, a jam sponge and a large bowl filled with strawberries, a jug of cream and sugar for sprinkling.

  Gwen’s mouth watered as she thought about it. Of course strawberries tasted of something then, not like the insipid pink mush that she had bought in the supermarket the other day. Cheap they were, on special offer, piled up on the stand by the entrance, a large sign in luminous pink. 2 for 1. So she fumbled in her purse for her last few cents and splashed out. And regretted it when she poured them from their plastic punnet into a bowl. Half of them were mouldy and the other half were about to be. She tried to pull the green stalk from one and it squished between her fingers. Pale juice dribbled down her wrist. And when she lifted her arm and licked, there was no taste at all.

  Gwen closed her eyes. She didn’t sleep much. Death, it seemed, was hovering, waiting to snatch her away. A cold breath against her cheek. So she would sit up, her heart pounding with a sudden choking fear. Then she would chide herself, Silly old thing, you really are a silly old thing. Beginning to show all of your ninety-one years.

  Ninety-one years a Christian, that was what Mummy would have said. But Mummy was long gone. Lying in the family grave in Dean’s Grange cemetery with her husband, Thomas, who had died many years earlier. Gwen hadn’t visited the grave for a couple of months. It was too difficult. She would have to walk into the town to get the bus. Then get off at the crossroads and walk to the graveyard’s large wrought iron gate. The last time she went the judge had taken her. He had ordered a taxi and insisted on paying. She had gone to the Protestant section to put a big bunch of yellow chrysanthemums on her parents’ grave. The judge had turned in the opposite direction towards the monument to his father and the other men who had died in the struggle for Irish freedom. Laid a wreath of laurel with a green, white and orange ribbon that flapped in the cold breeze, whipping across the rows of headstones.

  Yesterday Gwen had stood outside the judge’s house and watched his coffin being manoeuvred down the steps and into the hearse. Hard to believe that the man she had known since he was a boy, when he would come to their house and her mother would teach him the piano, was inside that dark wooden box.

  A small crowd had gathered. Gwen knew most of them to see. Hardly any now to speak to. None of the old neighbours were still in the square. Gwen was the last of them. The house where she had lived all her life had been sold many times, most recently a
couple of years ago. The new owner, a young woman with bright lipstick and very high heels, had paid her a visit. Told her she wanted her out. She was going to renovate the basement. Turn it into two apartments. Rent them for many multiples, yes that was the what she said, many multiples of what Gwen was paying.

  ‘You can’t evict me,’ Gwen had stood. Tried to hide her trembling hands. ‘I’m a sitting tenant. My tenure is protected.’

  The young woman had shrugged. Picked up her large leather bag with its clanking gold handle. Fiddled with her phone.

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ she had replied. Left Gwen with her stomach in a knot. Her legs shaking. She had asked Samuel Dudgeon for advice. After all, he was a solicitor. But he shook his head. Said he wasn’t sure about Irish law, and anyway what did he know about anything? Now, after his years in prison. He suggested she speak to the judge. Of course, the judge, the obvious person. And the judge had reassured her. They sat in his beautiful drawing room, the portrait, the piano, the pale green carpet. The judge had given her tea in a porcelain cup and reassured her.

  ‘No one can touch you. You’re safe,’ he had said and handed her his clean white handkerchief as tears fell down her pale cheeks.

  And then the housing crash had come. The young woman had vanished. Life had returned to normal. However, Gwen didn’t like what she was reading in The Irish Times. There was talk of prices rising. She prayed. ‘Dear God, protect my home. Keep me safe until I am ready to come to you.’

  She had stood outside the judge’s house in the warm evening sun. Her knees were aching. She felt unsteady. Someone had started the rosary. Gwen bowed her head. The rosary wasn’t her prayer although she knew the words.