‘Not now, but then,’ Dom walked slowly back to the sofa, ‘then, being illegitimate was no joke.’
Silence for a while. Then Dom spoke.
‘That stuff about the plumber. That won’t go anywhere. She must be desperate to come up with a suspect.’
‘Yeah. It wasn’t a robbery gone wrong. The shooting, and the use of the hammer. Still,’ McLoughlin straightened up, ‘throw a stone in the pond and watch the ripples. You never know.’
Silence again. An ambulance siren cut through the quiet.
‘Hegarty, Dan that is. The term charismatic is over-used, but he was charismatic.’ Dom lifted his glass.
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah, the family, the dog family. They had what they called a proud “Old IRA” tradition. Guns hidden in the attic, grannies carrying them to the GPO in 1916. They had a photo of Hegarty, framed, in their little parlour. We all thought he was the man.’ Dom stretched his arms up, over his head. ‘I was a supporter. I remember Bloody Sunday. If someone had given me a gun I’d have gone over the border and taken out a few Brits.’
‘Yeah, well,’ McLoughlin reached for the bottle and topped up both their glasses. ‘You wouldn’t have been alone. We all felt like that.’ He sipped. ‘But the Provos wrecked it, for me anyway, when they started planting bombs and killing the way they did, well…’ his voice trailed off.
‘I hung on for a while.’ Dom spoke slowly, deliberately. ‘My generation of guards, a few years ahead of yours, we weren’t so certain about the Provos.’ Dom rubbed his face again. ‘There was that whole way of thinking. How we were taught our history, we couldn’t help but admire the hard men, the tough guys. We all hated the Unionists. The B Specials with their guns, the RUC beating the civil rights marchers, the discrimination, housing.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah, I wanted to believe, people like Hegarty and the others, they were noble, different, idealistic. But,’ he shrugged, ‘feathering their nests, they were. And all that shit that went on up North. After a while you had to ask yourself, what was it all about?’
They sat in silence. It was dark now.
‘You know.’ McLoughlin bent over and rubbed the sleeping dog’s flank. ‘That town, Bassano del Grappa, the place where I saw James Reynolds, there’s a mountain above it, Monte Grappa, it’s become a monument to the fallen of the First and Second World Wars. It’s a sacred place. Thousands of graves, thousands of people come to pay their respects. Families go there, have picnics, bring their children and grandchildren. Remember their dead.’ McLoughlin put down his glass. ‘And then there’s those poor fuckers, the Disappeared. Disappeared into the bog, into the sand, into the sea. No funeral. No respect. No monument. Nothing.’
There was silence. The fridge clicked on, a comforting background hum. McLoughlin drained his glass. He put it down on the floor. Dom lifted the bottle and held it out. McLoughlin shook his head.
‘Listen, there’s something…’ He got up and moved towards the windows.
Dom looked up at him. ‘At last, the something, what is it?’
McLoughlin walked around the room. Outside the lights were beginning to sparkle. He could see the long row on the pier, and further out across the bay, the lights on the road to Howth. ‘I’ve been asked to do something, something which I know, is not only unethical, but potentially illegal.’
‘Asked? Should I ask by whom?’
McLoughlin stopped and leaned against the glass. It was still warm. ‘The whom doesn’t matter so much. It’s more the why and the what if.’
Dom shifted again. He stretched out his legs. ‘Well I suppose the real question is what do you get out of it. If, as you say, it’s unethical and possibly, probably illegal, why would you even think about it?’
‘Well,’ McLoughlin moved again, this time towards the sliding doors, ‘that’s it. It has the potential to give me something that really matters. To me, that is. Really matters to me.’
Dom refilled his glass. He lay back against the cushions. ‘Something that really matters to you.’ He drank. ‘And that something I take it has to do with your father.’ He tilted his head back.
McLoughlin opened the doors and stepped outside. It was cool up here now. He looked down. The footpaths below were deserted. He stretched his arms out along the railings. He felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned towards Dom.
‘You know I spoke to Tom Donnelly. But.’ McLoughlin shrugged.
‘Yeah,’ Dom stood beside him. He looked out towards the sea. ‘Yeah, that great big but.’ He sipped from his glass. ‘I’m not sure what I can say to you, Mick. But the one thing I know is this. You owe nothing to no one. You served your time. You did your bit. You’re on your own now. You know that. I know that. So, whatever it takes. My advice, for what it’s worth: whatever it takes.’
It was late when McLoughlin left Dom’s apartment. He had initially refused, then accepted a glass of brandy. And another one. Knew he shouldn’t have and could feel how unsteady he was as the lift door opened and he and Ferdie pushed through the heavy street door, turned away from the apartment towards the traffic lights. The dog stood by his side as they waited for the green man to shine. And then, suddenly, Ferdie took off, rushing across the road, his nose down, his tail up. Rushing ahead, disappearing into patches of darkness, then reappearing in the lights from the shops and cafés along the seafront. McLoughlin cupped his hands around his mouth and called, repeatedly. But the dog ignored him and soon he could barely see him. He waited for the screech of brakes or the yelp of injury, but all was quiet. He crossed the road towards the park which ran along the seafront. No one around, just the murmuring of the waves as they slipped over the shingle at the base of the wall.
He called again and whistled, but the dog had disappeared from sight. He walked on, towards a little grove of trees, much darker here, no street or house lights to brighten anything up. Just the sudden flare of a cigarette lighter cutting through the night. A face illuminated as someone bent into the flame, then pulled back. A scattering of benches among the shrubs and the outline of the building which used to be a public toilet, but now as far as McLoughlin knew, was closed and virtually derelict.
And suddenly the dog at his feet. His tail wagging excitedly as he jumped up, his pink tongue lolling from his mouth, his claws scraping against McLoughlin’s knee. Then stepping back and turning and rushing off into the shadows. And a figure appearing. A man, with another man behind him. And another and another and another, more and more men, standing facing McLoughlin. He couldn’t see their features, just the outlines of their bodies. Some were tall, some small. Some slim, some well-built. The dog yapping as he sniffed their shoes, his tail wagging with delight, his little body wriggling, as he rubbed himself against their legs. And one man standing apart from the others.
‘Ferdie,’ McLoughlin clicked his fingers. The dog did not respond. He sat, leaning against the man’s knee, then he lay down, his head on his paws.
The man bent to pat him, then straightened. He took a step closer. Beside him another man lit up. And McLoughlin could see now. A strong face. High cheekbones, a long nose. Dark hair. Slicked back. A silver earring in one ear.
‘Nice to see Ferdie again.’ The man bent down again and scratched the dog behind the ears. ‘We’ve missed him.’ He looked up at McLoughlin. His face was blank, expressionless. ‘You looking after him? You a friend of the judge’s?’
‘A neighbour. I bought the house next door.’ McLoughlin felt tense, anxious. He was conscious that his voice was slurring just a little bit.
‘A neighbour.’ The man stood straight. ‘Of course, the house next door, the one with the builders.’ He looked around at the others. ‘The judge told us about them, didn’t he?’ He sniggered.
Behind him the others were coming closer. Five, six, seven. Standing shoulder to shoulder.
‘Wha
t was it he told us about you?’ The man put his head on one side, his index finger to his top lip. ‘Let me see if I can remember.’ Beside and behind him the other men copied his actions. Head to one side, finger to top lip. ‘Ah yes, now I remember. Former cop, straight as a die. Dull, oh so dull.’ He dropped his hand to his belt. There was silence for a moment. ‘So, Mr Plod, time for you to go I do believe. Unless, of course,’ he held his arms out wide, embracing the man beside him, small, plump, bald, a grin on his round face, ‘I can interest you in a bit of, what will we call it?’ His fingertips slid down the man’s abdomen and rested on his thigh. ‘You’d like that, Mr Plod, wouldn’t you? And as for Davy here, well Davy, what would you think?’ He pressed his lips to Davy’s ear and whispered. Davy smirked, then giggled.
‘The dog,’ McLoughlin held out his hand, ‘I’ll take the dog.’
‘You will, will you?’ The man pulled away and looked down at Ferdie who was still pressed against his leg. ‘What will it be Ferdie, fun, fun, fun with us, or bor-ing.’
McLoughlin stepped back. He clicked his fingers. Ferdie didn’t respond.‘Go, little fella, go. Fly away, little guy. Bye bye, little bloke.’ The man lifted Davy’s hand and twined his fingers through it and kissed him hard on his mouth. Then rested his head on Davy’s fleshy shoulder, just for a moment. There was silence. McLoughlin shifted uneasily. The man lifted his head. He waved his arms and took a step forward. As behind him and around him the others too, their bodies moving together, their hands moving as one, stepped in his direction.
‘Go, little fella. Fly away, little guy. Bye bye, little bloke.’ Their voices, chanting the words, their voices low and soft to begin with, then louder and louder as they moved towards him. Out of the darkness, into the glow of the street lights. He saw their faces, their expressions cold and unforgiving. Advancing towards him, a phalanx of men. Reaching out, their arms extended, their fists balled, stamping their feet and chanting, ‘Go, little fella, go. Fly away, little guy, bye bye, little bloke.’ So he found himself walking backwards, pushed away by the force of their presence. Until he stumbled off the footpath onto the road, one ankle twisting beneath him and a cry of pain, as he sank down on it.
The men stopped for a moment, then began to retreat, chanting still, until once again they were swallowed up by the darkness beneath the trees. And all was quiet again. Just occasionally the hint of laughter, an indrawn breath, a sigh, as McLoughlin stood up, wincing and began to limp, slowly, away.
It had been Gwen’s idea, to go to the cemetery at Dean’s Grange. She had persuaded Samuel. It would be interesting. They would take the bus and then they would walk the rest of the way. It wouldn’t be too far, she’d promised.
‘But the last time you went, the judge took you, didn’t he?’ Samuel remembered the day. He had been doing some jobs in the house. A taxi had been called. The judge had stood on the top step. He was wearing his favourite Panama hat, his blue blazer, his linen trousers. A large pink rose in his buttonhole. The dog sat beside him, panting gently, then sprang up as the taxi slowed to a stop and the driver got out.
‘Where to boss?’ The driver leant against the car, a shiny black Mercedes. He swung his keys around in his muscled hand.
‘A minute, Damien, if you don’t mind,’ the judge had pointed towards the green. Gwen was approaching. She was dressed for the occasion. A long print skirt with a white blouse. A straw hat with a wide brim, a black ribbon trailing from it, and a bouquet of yellow flowers cradled in her arms. Samuel moved from the shelter of the front door out onto the step. He watched the judge and the dog as they got into the taxi, and the way the driver held the door open for Gwen. Then took his place behind the wheel and slowly pulled away from the curb.
Today they took the bus. Got off at the stop by the library. Gwen scanned the road, like a child. Look left, look right, look left again, then grabbed Samuel by the arm and tugged him across. They reached the other side of the road. Samuel could see the high grey wall of the graveyard ahead. It looked so far away.
‘The taxi, the judge always got the same taxi, didn’t he? That driver, what was his name?’
Gwen could see that Samuel’s resolve was slackening. She tightened her grip and began to walk with deliberation. ‘His name was Damien. He and the judge seemed to know each other well. They had quite a conversation.’
It was hot. She wanted to stop and rest, but she didn’t dare risk it. Besides, the flowers in Samuel’s bag would wilt if she didn’t get them into water soon.
‘Yes, quite a conversation. The judge was very interested to know.’ Samuel’s arm was heavy so she dropped it and took hold of his hand. The leather of his gloves was cool to the touch. ‘Who was where, and what was what. In prison, out of prison, gosh,’ she licked her lips. There was a bottle of water in Samuel’s bag too. Meant for the flowers but she would have a swallow first.
‘Clients, I suppose, of the judge’s. Would that be right?’ Samuel wanted to know more.
Gwen shrugged. ‘Possibly, probably, or perhaps people he’d sent down, isn’t that the expression?’
Sent down. The words sent a small chill along Samuel’s spine. He too had been sent down. The courtroom had been crowded. Most of the people from whom he had stolen were there. They had trusted him and he had taken their money. He had got away with it for years. Robbing Peter to pay Paul, that had been his strategy. Always just ahead of the pack.
They reached the cemetery’s high wrought-iron gates. Samuel stopped. The bag was suddenly too heavy for him. The café was open. He peered through the windows. A plump blonde woman was arranging cupcakes on a plate. His mouth watered. But Gwen had the bit between her teeth.
‘After, we’ll go in after. Come on, it’s not far now.’ She tugged his sleeve and together they walked along the wide path. Old graves on either side. Tall headstones, some in the shape of Celtic crosses, intricate carving, spirals swirling. Most were abandoned, untended, but every now and then a sudden bright flash of colour. Geraniums in a tub, red and shocking pink. A vase stuffed with yellow roses. Plastic flowers, purple and white.
Samuel’s pace had slowed right down. He needed to rest.
‘Look, here,’ Gwen had moved ahead. She was standing, one foot on the marble rim of a grave, her head up close to the stone. ‘Here, Samuel, here they are, your grandparents.’
She turned and beckoned. Then took the bag from him, pulling out the flowers, a large jam jar and a litre bottle of water. She busied herself, arranging long spears of gladioli with feathery bunches of cosmos. She lifted the bottle high and took a sip. Water dribbled down her chin and she wiped it away with the back of her hand, then tipped the rest into the jar.
‘Now,’ she stood back. ‘What do you think?’ She reached out and took hold of his sleeve. Samuel moved forward. The writing on the stone was faded and blurred. He put his face up close. He read out loud.
In Loving Memory Richard James Lane, called Home, 9th July 1921.
And underneath it in smaller lettering.
And his wife Elsie, died 10th October, 1927.
And underneath again.
And their daughter Cecily Elizabeth Lane, died 6th May, 1947.
‘Now,’ Gwen patted him on the back. ‘See? You do have a family. Your grandfather and grandmother, Richard and Elsie, and your mother, Cecily. All here together.’
But Samuel felt nothing. He could feel Gwen looking at him. He knew she wanted emotion. Tears, anger, excitement, melancholy. Instead there was nothing.
‘I’m hungry,’ his voice had a plaintive quality. ‘Hungry, do you hear? I want something to eat.’
‘OK,’ Gwen stepped away. Her heart was behaving oddly. It seemed to be skipping beats, jumping, racing, then almost stopping. ‘You go to the café. My parents,’ she pointed to another grave, an irregular piece of stone with a small brass plaque screwed to it. ‘Just a minute with them and
I’ll join you.’
The café was almost empty. A woman with a small girl was at a table near the door. There was a strong smell of coffee and baking. Samuel stood at the counter. There was a choice. Lemon drizzle cake. Fruit scones with jam and cream. Chocolate cake too. He ordered a piece of everything and a pot of tea, and sat down by the window. He could see Gwen. She was bending over the grave and now she straightened and began to walk slowly towards him. He bit into his scone. It was delicious. Its taste reminded him of something. Perhaps it was those Monday mornings when Nellie the washerwoman came, singing ‘The Mountains of Mourne’, with scones bundled in a tea towel in her basket. She would set them on top of the Aga to warm. Then serve them with butter, melting, her home-made blackberry jam and a dollop of whipped cream.
Gwen sat down. Her face was pale and her hands not quite steady. She sipped her tea. Samuel held up the plate of cakes. She shook her head. Around them the café was filling up. Groups of people, some wearing black, others carrying flowers. Samuel munched. He was surprised by his appetite. He closed his eyes and breathed in. He opened his eyes. Nellie sat on the other side of the table. She smiled and opened her arms. He wanted to get up and crawl onto her lap. He wanted to bury his head in her soft bosom. He wanted to hear her voice as she sang her old songs. He reached across the table to take her hand. And saw another hand, a black leather claw, lying flat by the sugar bowl. He stared at it, then tried to poke it, to push it away. But now there were two hands, both the same. They moved, as he moved. They stopped as he stopped. And when he tried to hold up his hands to look at them, the black leather claws moved too. He leaned forward in his chair and whimpered.
‘Samuel, what is it?’
The woman on the other side of the table spoke to him. He lifted his eyes to look at her. Nellie had gone. He looked around. He half stood and peered out the window. Where was she? How had she gone so quickly? He pushed the table.
The Therapy House Page 14
