‘Samuel, what’s wrong?’
The woman with the pale thin face, the white hair, the white blouse, the print shawl around her shoulders, half stood too. Samuel was beginning to panic. He couldn’t let Nellie go. He grabbed his bag and headed for the door pushing through the queue which had formed at the counter.
‘Samuel,’ he heard the voice behind him. Who was she? Was she Mummy? Mummy didn’t like him sitting on Nellie’s knee, eating Nellie’s scones, singing along with Nellie’s old Irish songs. He opened the door and stepped outside. He began to run.
Gwen watched Samuel. She was surprised he could move so quickly. He cut an ungainly figure. The heavy tweed coat, the wide brimmed hat, the gloved hands, the shopping bag banging against his knee. He turned abruptly and disappeared behind a dense row of cypress trees. She pushed a stray lock of hair back and slowly began to follow. She found him not far away. He was sitting on a stone seat. She could hear him humming. She sat beside him. He turned. He smiled.
‘Look,’ he pointed towards a new grave. Earth was piled high and the clods of clay were covered with wreaths of flowers, their colours fading.
‘Look,’ Samuel repeated the word and again he pointed. A small wooden cross had been placed at the foot of the grave. On it was a polished brass plate. Gwen leaned forward. She read out loud.
‘John Hegarty, 1933 – 2013. RIP.’
Beside it was a large black granite monument. At its base someone had placed a laurel wreath, the Irish colours, green, white and orange, twisted through it. The lettering on the grave was in Irish. Ó h-Éigeartaigh, it said. And the names beneath it Domhnall, Máire. Daniel Hegarty. Gwen could see him in her mind’s eye. Tall and handsome as he strode around the square. Didn’t have much time for her and her kind.
They sat in the sun. Samuel’s head drooped. His eyes were closed but he could see. Beneath the earth piled high, the fading flowers, the judge’s face. Smashed, destroyed, ruined. The judge’s eyes were open. They stared up at the coffin lid. Samuel whimpered.
Eventually Gwen got to her feet.
‘Time to go home,’ she reached down and took hold of Samuel’s arm. They walked slowly towards the high gates.
That day, when she had come here with the judge, Damien had parked the taxi close to the Hegarty monument. He had carried her bouquet of flowers and waited while she tidied her parents’ grave. Then he had taken her arm and helped her back towards the judge. She could see him standing, in the distance, leaning on his stick, his head bowed as if in prayer. But he was not alone. A man was with him, his head bowed too, his mouth close to the judge’s ear. And the judge looked smaller, diminished somehow.
Damien had dropped her arm and hurried on ahead. The man turned towards him. Gwen was too far away to hear what they were saying. But she could see their expressions. Damien stepped close to the judge. His manner was protective. He put his arm around him and began to guide him down the path towards the car. The other man turned away and broke into a brisk trot. Gwen had heard stories about robberies, muggings, assaults here among the dead. Her hands began to shake. Damien opened the car door. He pushed the judge inside. He gestured to Gwen to get in too. The judge was pale, sweat beading his forehead. Damien sat into the driver’s seat. The locks on the doors clicked into place. He looked into his rear-view mirror.
‘Yous all right back there?’
The judge leaned against the headrest. He closed his eyes.
‘Martin fucking Millar.’ Damien put the car in gear. They moved slowly through the gates and out onto the road. ‘Martin fucking Millar,’ he repeated the words. ‘Who the fuck does he think he is?’
‘Are you all right, Sam?’ Gwen put her arm around his shoulders.
‘I’m fine, Gwen, just a bit tired. Time to go home I think.’ He smiled at her and together they walked slowly towards the bus stop.
McLoughlin sat on the front steps. What exactly had he seen last night as he stood in the darkness with the dog? A group of men, together. A group of men who knew each other very well. Who knew the judge, well. A group of men, alike, but unlike him.
He reached for the mug of coffee at his side. Behind him in the house he could hear the usual hammering and crashing and every now and then the screech of a saw. The new wood for his kitchen had arrived first thing this morning. It was stacked high in the hall. He could smell its tangy scent as he squeezed past. A bit of a relief to feel that they were making progress, that it wasn’t just destruction, that soon his new home would be taking shape.
He hadn’t slept well. His ankle was still sore. Not sprained, just twisted enough so he winced when he put weight on it. He felt something else, was it embarrassment, shame, anger at the way they had chased him away? An outsider, an untouchable. For once the boot on the other foot, he thought.
Now he watched the comings and goings in the square. And saw Elizabeth Fannin wearing the saffron yellow today. Her head held high, her stride loose and long, her leather satchel hanging from her shoulder, as she walked towards him.
‘Hello,’ he heard her call and she waved. ‘Another lovely day.’
His phone rang. He glanced at the screen. It was Constance, his niece.
‘Hi Constance, what can I do for you?’ He watched Elizabeth until she disappeared from view. Sorry to have missed the opportunity for a conversation.
Constance was coming to the District Court in the town. It wouldn’t take long. Could she drop around afterwards and see his new house? Would there be the chance of a cup of coffee? He remembered he wanted to give her his mother’s jewellery box. It was somewhere in the front room, in the basement, with all his other possessions. He pulled himself upright and, taking care of his ankle, hobbled downstairs. Quiet here, cool, the light dim, Elizabeth’s door shut firmly. He found what he was looking for and returned to his seat in the sun and waited.
He hadn’t seen Constance for a while. She was looking very grown-up in her smart black suit, her laptop bag in one hand, her iPhone in the other.
‘Here, sit down, have a look at this and I’ll make you coffee.’
He handed her the jewellery box and went back into the house. When he returned a few minutes later, holding a mug and a plate of chocolate biscuits, she had emptied its contents onto her lap. A silver locket, some mismatched earrings, an array of bracelets and a gold ring, set with a small piece of jade.
She took a swallow of coffee and picked up the ring. ‘This is unusual.’
‘Put it on,’ McLoughlin took it from her. ‘Or here, let me.’
‘Right or left?’ She held out both hands.
McLoughlin screwed up his eyes. ‘Well I think Mammy wore it here.’ He touched the ring finger on her right hand. ‘I seem to remember that one of her old aunts gave it to her. It was,’ he paused, ‘I think it was Auntie Maeve, and there was a bit of a scandal attached to it.’ He slipped the ring over her knuckle.
Constance held it up and scrutinised it. ‘Nice, lovely, I love it. Thanks Uncle,’ and she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. And he realised. How long it had been since anyone had touched him like that. He pulled away quickly, but not too quickly. He picked up his coffee cup.
‘Yes, a bit of a scandal,’ he sipped.
‘Tell, do tell.’ Constance was sorting through the rest of the jewellery.
‘I don’t know all the details.’ She was, he could see, very pretty. White-blonde hair cut in a neat bob. From her father, he reckoned. Like the rest of her features. High cheekbones, a small chin with a dimple, and a neat rosebud of a mouth. Nothing like Clare, who shared with him and their mother a square jaw and a broad face. ‘But word in the family was that the ring came from a boyfriend who’d gone to India to work in the colonial service.’
‘Oh God,’ Constance’s wrists jingled as she slipped more and more bracelets onto them. ‘A colonial oppressor, who’d have thoug
ht.’
‘Yes, what they used to call a castle catholic.’ McLoughlin reached down and picked up the locket. He prised it open. ‘Look, here.’ He held it out.
Two photographs. Faded now and dulled. A young man and woman. Both wearing hats. Their features indistinct.
‘Ah,’ she took it from him, ‘how sweet. Young.’ She snapped it shut. ‘What happened? They didn’t marry?’
‘No,’ he leaned back against the steps. ‘He died. Something like cholera or yellow fever. She stayed at home and looked after the old folks. Anyway, we don’t have much in the way of family stuff. So take it, take it all.’
They sat in the sun. She talked about her work. It was tough making ends meet.
‘So, today, what was it? Something interesting?’
She shook her head. ‘Parking fines. The guy I was representing. Ridiculous. All he has to do is pay them when he gets a ticket. Or,’ she paused, ‘even better, pay for the bloody parking. Hey, look who’s that?’ She pointed. The dog was walking slowly across the grass. He stopped at the gate. He was panting, his mouth open, his tongue flopping.
‘Well what do you know?’ McLoughlin straightened up. ‘You’ve decided to come back, have you?’ He held out his hand. The dog walked carefully up the steps. He pressed himself against McLoughlin’s legs and whined.
‘I’d say he’s thirsty,’ Constance reached out and stroked his ears. ‘The judge’s dog, I take it.’
‘How did you know?’ McLoughlin got up.
‘A bit of chat about the judge, down at the court. Someone had figured that I was related to you. They seemed to think I’d have the inside story.’ She lifted her hand to push back her fringe and the bracelets jingled. ‘The dog was mentioned. Apparently the judge and the dog were a familiar sight around the town. Is he here to stay?’
McLoughlin nudged Ferdie with his foot. ‘I doubt it. He’s not the most loyal of four-legged friends. But for the time being,’ he leaned forward and patted his head, ‘we’re stuck with each other, aren’t we, little fella?’ He moved towards the door. ‘I’d better get him some water.’
‘You do that,’ Constance looked at her phone. ‘Reckon I’ve another few minutes before the next lot of unfortunates are lined up. Meanwhile I’ll just sit here in the sun. It’s a lovely place you’ve got, Uncle Michael. ‘
Ferdie slurped from the bowl. McLoughlin watched him, and wondered. The man with the earring, under the trees. Who was he?
Constance’s eyes were closed. ‘Peaceful here,’ she murmured. ‘I could get used to this.’ Then she sighed and looked around. ‘Better go.’ She pulled the bracelets from her wrists. ‘Doesn’t do to jangle too much in court.’
‘But you enjoy it.’ McLoughlin stood.
‘Yeah, I do, it’s kind of fun.’ She held out the jewellery. ‘You sure about this? About me having them all?’
‘Of course,’ McLoughlin handed her the box. ‘Take this too. Your grandmother would be delighted to know that her bits and pieces are going to a good home. Here, let me.’ He packed the jewellery away and turned the tiny key in the lock. ‘Here,’ he handed it to her. ‘Will it fit in the bag with your computer or will I get you something else?’
They walked across the green and down to the main street, Ferdie running ahead, then stopping and looking back. McLoughlin carried a shopping bag containing the jewellery box. Constance’s pace was brisk. He was hard pressed to keep up with her. He remembered from somewhere that her father had been a runner. They’d only met once or twice. Alexander was his name, Alexander Cameron. Clare and he had separated when Constance was a young teenager. McLoughlin had never really known what had happened between them.
‘Constance,’ he put his hand on her arm.
‘Yeah,’ she looked down at her phone. ‘Shit.’
‘What is it?’ McLoughlin stopped.
‘Oh nothing really. Just the eejit with the parking fines. He says he won’t pay up.’ She shook her head. ‘He’d want to be careful. He could wind up inside if he doesn’t do what he’s told. Some people,’ she sighed and smiled. Again a look of her mother. She held the phone to her ear. Silence for a minute, then she spoke, a detached tone to her voice. ‘Hi, Martin, I got your message. Listen, I’ll be with you in a couple of minutes. We should talk about this. OK?’ Pause. ‘I’ll see you soon.’ She turned. She reached up and kissed McLoughlin on both cheeks.
‘Bye, Uncle Michael. Thanks.’ She bent down and rubbed Ferdie between the ears. ‘And bye to you too.’ She turned away. He handed her the shopping bag. He watched her hurry up the road. He remembered when his life had been like hers. Full of urgency. Full of meaning. Always another crisis to be handled. He sighed. And his phone rang. He looked down at the screen.
‘Hi Johnny, how are you?’
McLoughlin leaned on the gallery rail and looked down. Harris was bending over a stainless steel table. A small group of students clustered around what must have once been a human being, living and breathing. Now it looked more like a piece of dried-up old leather. A torso and two arms, legs missing, but the shape of the skull, the skin stretched tight, unmistakeable. Scraps of clothing too. A belt with a rusted buckle and fragments of a shirt, the kind with press fasteners down the front, rusted too.
Harris was in full flight. McLoughlin listened intently. He was explaining the effect of bog water on skin, its preservative quality, its particular properties. Natural mummification was how he described it. Harris gently stroked the dead man’s leathery cheek. He bent closer to examine his right ear.
‘One gold stud.’ He touched the lobe. He turned the head. ‘Left ear, the lobe split.’ He paused and looked around at the rapt faces. ‘Now, we’d better open Patrick Brady up and see what we can find.’
McLoughlin watched. He’d lost count of how many post-mortems he’d attended. He never quite got used to them. There was always that moment when nausea threatened, when dizziness hovered, when revulsion tapped him on the shoulder. He’d never actually vomited or fainted or had to leave the room. There were little tricks he’d use. He’d look away, find a spot on the floor and stare at it. He’d put his hands in his pockets and hold onto a coin or his wallet or handkerchief, rubbing the fabric between finger and thumb, distracting himself from what was in sight. There had been a few occasions, however, when his strategies failed. One in particular, he couldn’t forget. The case of Mary Mitchell. Years ago. She’d been tortured, murdered. Burnt with cigarettes, raped, then beaten over the head, died of a bleed to the brain. He remembered her. And her mother. And her mother’s grief.
Now he watched as Harris turned the body and pointed out the place where the bullet had entered. Just above the nape of the neck. His gloved fingers crept along the line of the jaw bone. Stopped.
‘Ah,’ he paused, ‘a break here. Fracture of the mandible.’
He picked up a small saw. He flicked the switch. He began to slice neatly through the bony plates of the skull. A terrible sound. McLoughlin could feel the hairs standing up on his arms. Harris removed a circular piece from the top of the dead man’s head. He placed it in a steel dish. Then he put both hands inside Patrick Brady’s head and pulled out his brain. It would be weighed and measured.
‘Now, look at this,’ Harris had a long tweezers in one hand. ‘Got it.’ He held up a bullet. ‘Perfect.’ He dropped it in another dish and began to slice through the leathery skin, pulling it back to expose the dead man’s rib cage and abdomen.
‘Here, look, seventh and tenth ribs fractured.’ He touched them with his gloved finger. McLoughlin leaned forward to get a better view.
‘And now, let’s take a gander at the internal organs.’
McLoughlin watched as Harris’s hands disappeared inside the body. There was hardly any smell, just the faintest odour of stagnant water. Out came the heart, kidneys, liver, pancreas, spleen, all measured, weighed, their cond
ition noted. Harris cut through the stomach wall and emptied out its contents. He pushed up his glasses and bent down to get a better look.
‘Hard to know,’ he glanced up at the gallery, ‘last meal of a condemned man. A few pints? Steak and chips? A cheese sandwich?’
The atmosphere in the room suddenly changed. McLoughlin sat down. He put his face in his hands. He was trembling. He could see it. Patrick Brady, beaten, jaw broken, ribs broken, the gold stud pulled away. Was he kneeling now? Was he blindfolded? Was his killer behind him or in front? How many other men were there too? Where was ‘there’? A house, the TV on, the smell of rashers frying and toast burning? A barn or a shed? Cold and damp? Breeze blocks and stone, a cement floor? His knees hurting as they pressed into the concrete. Or maybe he was killed outside. In a field. Beside the sea. In daytime or at night. Looking up, his last glimpse of the sky, blue and beautiful or dark, the stars pinpoints of light. Perhaps a full moon, its silvery sheen the last he ever saw. Patrick Brady, destined to be forgotten.
They sat in Harris’s office. It was, McLoughlin noticed, meticulously tidy. Nothing on the desk but an Apple laptop and a silver Parker pen. Everything filed away in brightly painted cabinets. It looked like an ad from a high-spec office furniture catalogue. Harris was busying himself with the coffee. He placed a full plunger pot on a tray. Two large white mugs, a jug of milk, a few sachets of sugar, and a plate of chocolate biscuits.
‘I like them, what are they?’ he looked back over his shoulder.
McLoughlin held up the packet. Leibniz chocolate thins. ‘My current favourites. I gave some to my niece this morning. I thought we could finish them off.’
Harris put the tray down on a small side table. He poured coffee, gestured to the milk and sugar. He picked up a biscuit and bit into it. They sat in silence. McLoughlin could still see the body, or what was left of it, on the table.
‘Patrick Brady,’ he swallowed some coffee.
The Therapy House Page 15
