The Therapy House
Page 16
‘Ah Patrick Brady, poor bloke.’ Harris swivelled in his chair.
‘What happens now?’ McLoughlin reached for another biscuit then withdrew his hand. He could feel his stomach pushing over the top of his waist band. It was a sensation he didn’t like.
‘Well,’ Harris poured more coffee, ‘when we’ve confirmed his identification he’ll be returned to his family and they can give him a decent burial. Unfortunately,’ he lifted his mug and wrapped both hands around it, ‘unfortunately his mother and father are both dead. But I’ve met his siblings. They’ll do right by him I’m sure.’
‘And the bullet? The evidence? The beating?’
‘Ah,’ Harris sat up straight. ‘Now that’s where it all gets a bit vague.’ He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a small plastic bag. He dropped it on the desk. It fell with a soft thud. ‘We’re not actually supposed to go digging around for things like that. The rules of the Commission.’
‘The Independent Commission for the Location of Victims’ Remains,’ McLoughlin swirled the coffee round in his mug. It was good stuff.
‘Well done, top of the class,’ Harris smiled at him as he pushed the small bag towards McLoughlin with the tip of his finger. ‘The ICLVR. Nice people, good people. All they want is the body so the family can have what’s known these days as closure.’ He picked up a biscuit and began to nibble the chocolate rim. ‘It’s a handy concept, closure. God forbid we might want to find anyone responsible. Or we might want justice not only done, but seen to be done.’ He paused and swallowed. ‘You know all about that, don’t you?’
McLoughlin nodded. Harris looked over at him.
‘Your trip to Venice, you didn’t tell me. How did it go?’
McLoughlin shrugged and sipped some coffee. ‘It was hot, it was wet, it was crowded, it was expensive.’
‘And?’ Harris lifted his mug. ‘A little bird tells me you went up country.’
‘I’m impressed,’ McLoughlin smiled and bowed, ‘what little bird would that be?’
Harris shrugged. ‘Well let’s just say, you know what the guards are like, fucking useless at keeping secrets.’ He finished off his biscuit with a flourish. ‘So James Reynolds, I presume?
McLoughlin nodded. ‘You presume right.’
‘You get anywhere with him? He didn’t make a dying declaration into your phone before you strangled him with your bare hands?’
McLoughlin looked away. So close he could see the pores in his skin, the broken veins in his cheeks, smell the cigarette smoke from his clothes.
‘But something’s happened, hasn’t it? Something’s changed.’ Harris took a sip of his coffee. McLoughlin looked at him, then looked away again. Harris put down his mug. ‘OK, don’t tell me, I don’t need to know.’
McLoughlin nodded. He swallowed. His throat felt tight. He took a breath, ‘The forensics from my father, the shot from the gun and all that, do you still have it?’
Harris swung from side to side. ‘We do. We have everything. Post-mortem reports, blood samples all that stuff.’ He paused. ‘You know, in the cases of the disappeared,’ he mimed the inverted commas with the index fingers of both hands, ‘we’re only supposed to make the formal identification, but,’ he shrugged, ‘old habits die hard.’ He swung again this time tipping backwards in the chair. ‘You open him up, you might as well go the whole hog.’ He swung forward again, the chair creaking and groaning. ‘So, this little bit of evidence.’ He tapped the bullet in the plastic bag. ‘I suppose I’ll just file it away, somewhere it won’t get lost. Along with all that stuff from your father’s case.’ He looked up at McLoughlin and smiled, a cheerless grin. ‘And you never know. Sometime in the future. Attitudes change. Priorities change. And if someone comes looking for that little piece of lead, I’ll still have it.’ He picked up the bag and opened the desk’s top drawer. He dropped it inside and pushed it shut again. ‘You know, I’m sorry in some ways he’s been found. At least when he was in the bog he was at peace. He couldn’t be used for propaganda.’
‘Yeah, I suppose so.’ McLoughlin drained his coffee. ‘Interesting companions down there in the dark. None of them came to a good end. Weren’t they all sacrificed? I went to the exhibition once in the National Museum. Ropes around their necks. Cuts to their bodies. Broken bones, ribs. Sounds a bit like poor Patrick Brady.’ McLoughlin stood up. He was conscious that he had left Ferdie in the car. He didn’t like to think of the poor dog. He’d be thirsty now.
‘So why was he sacrificed?’ Harris looked up at him. ‘The archaeologists say the bog bodies were kings who outlived their usefulness. Their magic wasn’t working anymore so they were done away with. But you know,’ Harris stood too, ‘it’s all completely speculative. We’ve no evidence about those times, thousands of years ago. Those blokes in the bog, they were never meant to be dug up. They weren’t like the Egyptian kings, mummified, ready to take their place in the next world. It was pure chance that the bog bodies survived. Who’s to say they weren’t just gangsters, murderers, rapists, thieves. Chased out of their miserable little villages. Hunted to death, then their bodies dumped, the way Patrick Brady’s body was dumped. A handy place, easy digging in the bog, not like most of the stony soil. Handy, wet, soggy. Get rid of them. Out of sight. And out of mind.’ He shoved his hands in the pockets of his baggy corduroy trousers. ‘Death, pointless, as always.’
Silence for a moment.
‘What’s up, Michael?’ Johnny’s voice was warm and sympathetic.
‘I wanted to ask you.’ McLoughlin paused. ‘It’s kind of awkward.’
‘Well, you know how best to deal with awkward, among friends that is. Cut to the chase as they say in all my favourite TV series.’
McLoughlin took a deep breath. He told him. The evening with Dominic Hayes, leaving the apartment, and the dog, running on ahead, running towards the grove of trees, the men coming forward. The way they responded to the dog. The way they responded to him. When he’d finished he looked away. There was silence. It seemed to last forever.
‘So,’ Harris swung back in his chair. ‘Cutting to the chase. You’re asking me, what exactly?’
‘Well, exactly as you put it. I’m asking if you might know the man with the earring. The man who seemed to know the dog so well.’ McLoughlin could feel his palms sweating, his heart racing. He didn’t like having this conversation with his old friend.
‘And why, exactly do you want to know this?’ Harris steepled his fingers. His expression was severe. His customary smile had vanished.
‘I can’t tell you Johnny. Not now, not yet. I’m asking you to trust me. I’ve been presented with an opportunity to make something right. Something that really matters. Not just to me, but to many people.’ McLoughlin got to his feet.
‘The man with the earring. The man in the trees. The man who knew the dog so well. The man who,’ Harris stopped. ‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll make a few phone calls. I’ll help you if I can.’ He pushed back his chair and stood. ‘We’ve been friends for a long time. I’ve never doubted your integrity. I hope I won’t have cause to doubt it now.’ He put out his hand and rested it on McLoughlin’s shoulder. ‘You go home, I’ll call you later.’
It was later. No phone call. McLoughlin sat at the top of the wooden steps, his back against the kitchen door, a glass of white wine in his hand. Coming up to five o’clock in the afternoon and the shadows cast by the tall sycamores across the end of the garden were crisp and black. He watched Ferdie running up and down the rough patch of lawn. He was chasing a butterfly, a Peacock, its beautiful iridescent eyes on show. From where McLoughlin was sitting he could see the judge’s garden next door. Huge red and orange poppies fell out of their beds across the paths. The judge’s roses too were flowering. Albertine in a pale pink swathe across the far wall, and dotted around the garden splashes of white, yellow and a deep red.
He stood up to get a better look at the flowers, then walked down the steps and over to the door between the two gardens. He stepped through. He could smell the evening scent. It was from the stock which trailed along the edge of the beds.
The door to the dining room opened. A voice called out. He turned around. A woman was standing on the top step. She was small and plump, her hair, iron grey, cut short. A flowery apron was wrapped around her ample waist. She was holding a duster in her hand and shaking it vigorously.
‘Hey, you.’ She waved the duster towards him, and picked up the mop at her side.
‘Sorry, I’m sorry,’ he turned to face her. ‘I live next door. I’m Michael McLoughlin.’ He took a few steps, away from the flowers as Ferdie appeared. When he saw the woman his tail began to wag and he gave voice to his repertoire of whines.
‘Ferdie, there’s a good boy,’ the woman came down, carefully, one step at a time. She held out her hand and the dog rubbed his head against her legs, wriggling with pleasure.
‘What’s he doing here?’ she straightened and rested for a moment on the mop. ‘I thought Róisín had him.’
‘He showed up a few days ago. He seems happy enough.’ He smiled and held out his hand. ‘You must be Mrs Maguire. Liam told me about you. He said you’d sort the house out.’
‘Right,’ she grimaced and shook her head, ‘the state of the place. I’ve cleaned everything, did the beds up lovely.’ She paused to gather breath. ‘And the poor man, poor Mr John, Lord have mercy on him, the blood all over his lovely carpet.’ She picked up the mop and with her large hands reddened by years of work, started to wring it out on the grass. ‘That lovely man, not a bother on him and then this.’
‘Here, let me do that.’ McLoughlin took it from her. He wrapped his hands around the soggy wet head and squeezed hard, watching the dirty water flow.
‘Now, look at you,’ she reached out and took the mop from him, ‘you’ll have to come into the house and have a bit of wash. I’ve the kettle on and Mr Liam left me a gorgeous tin of biscuits. Will we open it?’ And she squinted up at him, a broad grin on her round face.
They sat on tall wooden stools at the kitchen counter. Mrs Maguire poured tea. She offered him milk, which he took and sugar which he declined. He sipped. The tea was hot and strong.
‘That’s good.’ He scrutinised the biscuits, his hand hovering. ‘What do you recommend?’
She put her head on one side, looking for a moment like the plump child she once must have been. She pursed her lips.
‘Well,’ her hand closed over a Mikado, ‘I love the jam and the coconut.’ It disappeared in one gulp into her mouth and she reached again, and again.
‘Go on,’ she nodded towards the tin, ‘you’d want to get a move on. Every man for himself.’
She talked as she ate. She knew the Hegartys, seed, breed and generation. Knew them inside out.
‘My ma, you see, she worked for old Mrs Hegarty. The Hegartys needed a maid so my ma came here. Too many kids in her house, she was oldest, so she left home first. The Hegartys were very good to her. Mrs Hegarty, well, she was tough. She’d very high standards. You’d never have had your tea in the kitchen like this when she was alive. Tea was always at the big table. The silver pot and all the other stuff. She taught my mammy how to run a house.’ Mrs Maguire paused and munched, her hand automatically heading towards the tin.
‘So,’ McLoughlin reached over her and grabbed a lemon puff, ‘so who lived here? Dan was an only child wasn’t he?’
‘Yeah,’ Mrs Maguire nodded, ‘yeah, the one and only. The apple of his mammy’s eye. When he was a kid they lived in the basement. His da was dead and Mrs Hegarty went out charring for people. But then Dan did very well for himself. He bought her the house and she started taking in lodgers. That was when my mam came here.’ She looked around her. ‘Mammy got married when she was eighteen. And she and my da, Billy was his name, they lived here then for a few years until they got their own place. I was born here. In the attic. Up there was where Mammy and Daddy lived. And me too.’
McLoughlin sat and listened. Mrs Maguire, ‘Mags, call me Mags,’ she said, as she warmed to her subject. Dan got married and moved to Rathgar. Eventually she’d gone to work for him and his growing family. She was the same age as her mother had been. And the same age as John. She lived in and looked after them all. John and Liam and their sisters. While they were at school she was busy, picking up after them, washing and scrubbing and cooking. But she didn’t seem to resent it. As she talked about them her expression softened. John, McLoughlin could see, was her favourite. She described him lovingly. He was tall, he was strong, he was handsome, he was clever.
‘He was a lovely lad.’ She looked away. Tears filled her bright blue eyes. She smiled and McLoughlin could see the prettiness in her. ‘God love him. We were all so proud. I remember his gran, when he graduated, she went along to the college to see it.’ Her hand hovered over the biscuit tin. McLoughlin picked up the pot and refreshed their cups. ‘It was Trinity College he went to. He got the special thing from the Archbishop,’
‘The dispensation, he got the dispensation?’
‘Yes,’ she nodded vigorously, ‘he got that, so he could go to a Protestant university. Old Mrs Hegarty was so proud. She told all the neighbours. ’Cause the neighbours, well a lot of them, not now, but then, a lot of them were Protestants,’ her fingers closed over a chocolate digestive, ‘all around here was Protestant, they all went to the Mariners’, the big church, you know, down by the sea. And they were all very, very snooty, terrible snobs and Mrs Hegarty, well she didn’t like them. And she always said they didn’t approve of her Dan and, I can tell you,’ and she pointed her index finger, smeared now with chocolate, ‘God help anyone who didn’t approve of her Dan.’ She popped the last of the biscuit in her mouth and chewed vigorously. McLoughlin picked up his cup and sipped his tea.
‘So the Hegartys had this house for years?’ He raised his cup in emphasis.
Mrs Maguire nodded. ‘Years and years. In fact Mrs Hegarty outlived most of the neighbours.’
‘The Protestant neighbours?’
‘The Protestant neighbours. That’s right. Hardly any of them left now.’ She wiped the corners of her mouth with a tissue extracted from the pocket of her apron.
‘So who lived in my house? Did you know them?’
‘Oh yes, of course, well,’ Mrs Maguire paused, ‘it was set out in flats, your house, some of them more like bedsits, rooms really.’
‘Really? Even then? I thought there would have been just one family, owner occupied.’ McLoughlin picked up his cup and swirled the tea around.
‘Oh no,’ Mrs Maguire shifted her weight on the stool, ‘Mammy told me, an awful state a lot of them houses were. But they always had the brasses on the front door nice and shiny. Old Mrs Hegarty now, she was a one for the polish. She knew all about elbow grease. She’d worked in a lot of the houses round here. Your house too, I remember Mammy telling me. She did for the people in your house. That would have been when Dan was a young lad.’
‘So,’ McLoughlin swayed on the stool. It wasn’t very stable. He put one foot down to steady himself. ‘So Mr Hegarty, Dan’s father, he was dead, you said.’
Mrs Maguire nodded. ‘Dead, years ago. She was a widow woman. And it was terrible in them days. No pension, no nothing.’
‘No family to help her?’
‘Not that I know of. She was from somewhere out in the west, Mayo I think, up the side of a mountain, Mammy said. Anyway in those days no one had any spare cash. No hand-outs in them days.’
No hand-outs in them days. A woman on her own. The photo in the polished silver frame on the mantelpiece in the front room. A big woman, solid. A strong face, almost masculine. McLoughlin leaned closer. Dan had inherited her nose, aquiline, and he’d passed it on to his children and their children too.
‘Terrible amount of polishing, all that silver.’ She leaned forward and inspected the gloss on a large cup. ‘They look lovely, though, they do.’
Everything lovingly cared for, a strong smell of Pledge rising from the mahogany furniture. But upstairs, despite the scrubbing, the bloodstain was still clearly visible. Mrs Maguire stood and stared down. ‘I tried everything, but it won’t budge.’
‘Yes, I’m afraid the carpet’s ruined.’ McLoughlin moved towards the piano, stepping over the hoover. ‘This is lovely though, isn’t it? I hear the judge was a great pianist.’
Mrs Maguire nodded. ‘Very musical. His father too. That piano now,’ and she pointed, ‘it came from the people who used to live in your house. Mammy told me. One winter, after their da died. They’d no money for fuel. There was talk of it going in the fire. So Mrs Hegarty swapped it for a few bags of coal.’ She walked slowly towards it. McLoughlin noticed she was limping, favouring her right leg. ‘It’s lovely having a piano in the house. I always wanted my kids to learn but they weren’t bothered.’ She took the duster from her pocket and wiped away a few specks from the piano’s shiny lid.
‘So when the judge moved back here?’ McLoughlin sat down on the stool.
‘He asked me if I’d come and keep the place clean. I’d stopped working really. I had the pension. But Mr John needed someone. He said I could be my own boss. Come in every day and tidy up. Do a bit of shopping. Cook his dinner. But no weekends. I made that clear. I don’t work weekends. He didn’t mind.’ She walked around the room, dusting as she went. ‘His wife had died, see? He’d been living in Ballsbridge, but he told me he wanted to come back here. He said to me, “Mags, this house is home to me.”’ She flicked the cloth over a small portrait by the door. ‘That’s Miriam. She was a beauty but she was cold. I didn’t like her.’