The Therapy House

by Julie Parsons

‘And a mother obviously?’

  ‘That too, strangely enough,’ she smiled at him. ‘My daughter, Jess, Leah’s mother, my one and only.’

  Leah wriggled from the seat. The dog reached out and sniffed her sticky little hand.

  ‘Ferdie, come here,’ McLoughlin made a grab for his collar.

  ‘It’s all right, Leah’s good with dogs. She loves them. She’s a brave little thing. Intrepid really.’ Elizabeth’s face softened.

  The girl and the dog began to run together across the grass.

  ‘Funny,’ McLoughlin shifted on the seat. Elizabeth’s dark red trousers brushed against his jeans. ‘Somehow I’ve never put you down as a mother, or a grandmother for that matter. Sorry,’ he paused, ‘sorry, that sounds ridiculous. How would I know?’ He shook his head. He wiped his hands on his handkerchief and held it out to her. She took it, nodding her thanks. As she rubbed some of the ice cream from her fingers he noticed again her collection of silver rings. She held up her hand so they shone in the sun light.

  ‘None of them for a wedding, I’m afraid. I had the child, but I never managed the other bit.’

  He looked at her. She seemed wistful, sad, her face clouded.

  ‘Anyway,’ she smiled, ‘you can’t have everything.’

  ‘Yeah, I know what you mean.’ He sat back on the bench and folded his arms. ‘I had the marriage, for as long as it lasted, but we didn’t have children. That did for us really.’

  ‘Oh I’m sorry, that must have been terrible. Childlessness, well…’ her voice trailed away as the child and the dog came running back.

  ‘Look Biddy, look at me,’ and the little girl held up an old tennis ball. ‘Look what I found.’ And she flung it as hard as she could, up high in the air in a curving arc, so the dog jumped and ran after it.

  ‘Biddy? She calls you Biddy? Not Granny?’ McLoughlin turned towards Elizabeth as if to scrutinise her. ‘You don’t look like a Biddy to me.’

  ‘No? I don’t?’ Elizabeth scooped the child up on her knee. ‘What do you think Leah? Am I Biddy or am I Granny?’

  The child put her arms around her neck and planted a kiss full on her mouth. ‘You’re my Biddy Biddy,’ and she jumped down and began to skip away, singing loudly, ‘Biddy, Biddy, Biddy, Biddy.’

  Elizabeth smoothed her blouse. ‘When Jess had Leah I was so delighted to be a grandmother, I would have been quite happy to be called Granny or anything. But I’d been called Biddy when I was a child. And Jess sometimes used the name, actually to annoy me, and somehow or another Leah got hold of it and it stuck. So now I’m Biddy, to her anyway.’ She crossed her legs.

  ‘She’s a lovely little girl.’ McLoughlin watched as she chased the dog across the grass. ‘And she loves you, that’s for sure.’

  Elizabeth smiled again, ‘I look after her a couple of days a week. It’s the least I can do. Jess is having another baby soon. It’s wonderful,’ she paused and clasped and unclasped her hands, ‘I’m delighted for them, but, life these days, it’s hard.’ She began to get up, uncrossing her legs, reaching down to her big brown satchel. ‘I’ve a few things I need to leave in my room. I’m coming back this evening. So this is just a detour on the way to the playground in the park. Then home for an early dinner.’

  ‘Where do you live?’ McLoughlin suddenly realised he didn’t know. He had a moment of anxiety. Somehow it hadn’t occurred to him that Elizabeth had a life separate from Victoria Square.

  ‘Not far away, walking distance actually. Adelaide Street, just up from the seafront. Do you know it?’ She turned from him, waving to the little girl.

  ‘Yeah, near the entrance to the Maritime Museum?’

  ‘That’s right. I grew up there. I inherited the house when my parents died. That was why I came back from London, when they were getting old and couldn’t manage on their own.’ She slung her bag over her shoulder. ‘Come on Leah. I have to go inside.’

  ‘No,’ the child’s mouth turned down, ‘don’t want to, want to stay here and play with the doggie.’ She stamped her sandal on the grass.

  ‘You go,’ McLoughlin moved away from the bench, ‘get what you need. I’ll keep an eye on her.’

  ‘You sure?’ Elizabeth looked sceptical.

  ‘Of course, go on, we’ll play chasing,’ he began to jog on the spot, and called out to the dog. ‘Here Ferdie, come on boy.’ Elizabeth turned away, hurrying across the road to the house. She disappeared through the side gate. And McLoughlin ran and chased the dog and the child, then all three collapsing in a heap on the ground beneath the trees.

  The mobile phone, the judge’s mobile phone. He stood and watched Elizabeth and Leah as they walked away across the green. The tall slim woman, her dark red clothes, and the child, hopping and skipping, her curls bouncing, her bright pink dress swirling out around her. And remembered, he had left the judge’s mobile phone attached to the charger, beside his mattress.

  He took the front steps two at a time, then up to his room, scrabbling around to find it. He sat down on the floor, and pressed the power button. The screen brightened. Enter PIN code, he was instructed. The code, what could it be? He tried a few combinations. One, two, three, four? Didn’t work. Two, four, six, eight? Again no joy. Three, six, nine, twelve? The same lack of response. There was a Chinese guy in the shopping centre. He’d be able to unlock it for him. Half an hour it would take, that was all.

  Half an hour and ten euros, that was all. He sat on the wall outside the church. He looked at the phone. He pressed the power button and put in the new PIN. The screen brightened. He selected Contacts. Only one number stored. No name to identify it, just the letter X. He took a deep breath. He pressed the call button. It rang and rang and rang. Voicemail. The factory settings. He breathed out. A sort of relief. Wasn’t sure he was able for whatever was to come.

  Beside him the dog got to his feet, sniffing the breeze from the sea. McLoughlin got to his feet. He picked up the phone and as he turned away it began to ring. He looked down. The caller was identified as X. He pressed the button to answer.

  ‘Hallo,’ he tried to keep his voice as calm and neutral as possible.

  ‘Who the fuck are you? Who the fuck is using this phone?’ The voice was gruff, deep, aggressive.

  ‘I could ask you the same question.’

  ‘Yeah? You could? And what kind of an answer do you think you’d get?’ The man on the line was breathing heavily.

  ‘You tell me. Who are you?’ McLoughlin moved away from the café, towards a bench on the footpath. He sat down, the dog jumping up beside him.

  ‘You don’t know. You don’t know me. But you must have known our mutual friend.’ The volume on the call was fading.

  ‘It’s why you knew him, that’s what I want to know.’ McLoughlin felt as if he was shouting now. He could hear the man breathing. And a noise in the background. Something familiar, but he couldn’t put his finger on what it was.

  ‘Well that, mate, is for me to know and you to find out.’ The voice was suddenly loud. McLoughlin held the phone away from his ear. There was silence.

  ‘Hallo? Hallo?’ He stood up and moved around, holding the phone out, then looking at it again. The screen was blank. The connection lost.

  ‘Shit,’ McLoughlin swore out loud. He pressed the call button. He waited. Again straight to voicemail.

  He took a deep breath. ‘Listen,’ he was trying to sound calm, reasonable, even friendly. ‘Call me again, will you? I’d like to talk to you. I’ve a feeling we got off on the wrong footing. OK? Thanks.’

  They walked home. He stopped at the corner shop, bought dry dog food, bread, butter, cheese and a few bottles of beer. He pulled the phone from his pocket. Silence. No further contact. He’d leave it for the time being. He’d try later.

  Ian and the guys were gone by the time he reached the house. All was peace and qui
et. At last it looked as if they were making progress. He hurried upstairs. The plaster had been stripped from the walls. The partitions which had divided the rooms on the top floor had been taken away. McLoughlin looked around. The original mouldings were visible now. The plasterwork was ornate, pretty, a decoration of leaves and small egg shapes. And ceiling roses of ornamental acanthus leaves, large with deep lobes. They’d moved his mattress from upstairs, down to the room at the front of the house. The plastering, rewiring all done, just waiting for the finishing touches.

  He walked downstairs. The kitchen was really coming on. The countertop was in and the sink unit installed. McLoughlin opened the bag of dog food and poured some onto the cool stone floor. The dog ate greedily. He took out the bread and made a couple of sandwiches, and opened a beer. Together he and the dog went out and sat on the back steps. It was still light, still warm. He ate and drank. He looked at his watch. Tried not to look again at the phone. Got up. He’d start moving some of his stuff upstairs. Boxes of books which he could sort through. Kitchen equipment. Household things. Anything to keep his mind off the phone.

  He finished eating, then went back into the house, and opened the front door. Walked down the steps and towards the basement. Let himself in. It was dark here, but he could see light showing from Elizabeth’s room at the end of the hall. He moved towards it. He could hear music playing softly, jazz. He cleared his throat loudly, and tapped on the door

  ‘Hi, Elizabeth? Are you there? Are you busy?’

  Her room was cool and the light was low. She was seated behind a desk made of pale wood, a pile of papers in front of her and a pen in her hand. There were two chairs, wooden frames, cushions of a deep turquoise on either side of the window, and a low leather couch pushed back against the opposite wall. The room was painted light grey. A multi-coloured rug brightened the floor. A number of large prints were hung on the walls. They were of trees and flowers. One was particularly striking, a lemon tree, its fruit hanging down.

  ‘Nice,’ he looked up at the picture.

  ‘Yes,’ she nodded, ‘I really like it. You almost feel you can reach up and pick one. Squeeze it, really juicy or a nice chunky slice for a gin and tonic.’

  ‘Now you’re talking.’ He could taste the sourness and the fizz on his tongue.

  ‘I’d offer you one, except, I don’t keep any drink here. Not really appropriate. Sit down.’ She gestured to one of the chairs.

  ‘Well,’ he shrugged, ‘thanks, if I’m not disturbing you.’ He sat back and looked around. ‘It’s nice here, comfortable, secure.’ He closed his eyes.

  ‘You’re tired. You’ve a lot on at the moment.’ Her voice was soothing.

  He opened his eyes and looked at her.

  ‘The house and all that goes with it. Very stressful.’

  He nodded. ‘Yeah, I’m beginning to wonder why I got involved at all. It seemed like a great idea at the time. Buy a fixer-upper. Fix it up. Sell it, make a few bob, move on, but you need a certain type of personality for all that.’ He shifted.

  ‘And what type of personality is that?’ She got up from behind the desk and came towards him, taking her place in the chair opposite. She crossed her legs. He noticed her feet were bare.

  ‘Oh, organised, meticulous, a great one for lists. I used to be a great one for lists, but I’ve lost the touch.’ He looked around again. ‘Getting old I suppose. It’s funny the way it hits you. You don’t have the energy any longer.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ she shifted and folded her arms, ‘but you have other qualities.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Sensitivity, empathy, understanding.’

  He smiled. ‘Perhaps. You now, I’d say you have all those qualities. I can imagine coming here, if I had something I wanted to get off my chest.’

  She smiled, and shifted, twisting one ankle around the other.

  ‘I went for counselling a couple of times, when I was still working. The guards provided it.’ He looked over at the lemon tree.

  ‘Did it help?’

  He looked down at his hands. ‘If I’m honest I don’t think so. I was looking for something to kill pain. I found whiskey more effective.’

  ‘Short term maybe,’ she fiddled with the rings on her fingers, ‘it does it short term, but pain is a sneaky little so and so. Always looking for breaches in the defence.’

  He looked away. She sat still. Outside he could hear a car alarm screeching.

  ‘Pain, yes, you’re right. Persistent. One thing,’ he leaned forward.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘People who enjoy pain.’ He could see the little whip, the knotted cords, the dried blood between the beads. ‘I don’t get it really.’

  ‘No?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Sometimes it’s just about the ability to feel. To feel alive,’ she moved again, her feet twisting on the rug.

  ‘And what about punishment?’

  ‘Well,’ she paused, ‘it can be using one pain to drive out another. One pain that’s more bearable, maybe more controllable.’ She looked down at her hands again. ‘And maybe the after-effects make it worthwhile.’ Silence for a moment. ‘People who self-harm. Often they’ll have a ritual. They can anticipate the knife, the razorblade, the scissors. And afterwards they feel such relief. Clean, better, almost perfect.’

  ‘I knew a girl once. A case I was involved in. She was raped,’ he could see Sorcha’s pinched, white face, ‘she stopped eating and she died. I’ve often tried to imagine what she went through.’

  ‘Yes, very hard. And what’s hardest to imagine, to understand, how the pain of her starvation was easier to bear than the pain, the shame, the humiliation of the rape.’ Elizabeth shifted in her chair. Silence again inside, the car alarm wailing outside. She looked away.

  ‘Maybe, some evening, if you’re not working,’ he felt awkward, adolescent. He stopped.

  ‘Yes?’ she looked at him. And suddenly the shrill sound of a ring tone.

  ‘Sorry,’ he fumbled in his jeans. He pulled out his phone. He looked down. The screen was blank. But the sound still filled the room. He stood up. He felt in his shirt pocket. He pulled out the judge’s phone. The caller ID was X.

  ‘Sorry,’ he turned away, ‘sorry I have to take this.’

  He hurried through the door, pulling it shut behind him. He pressed the answer button.

  ‘Hullo,’ he said.

  The voice which answered was the same as earlier.

  ‘Your friend, the judge,’

  ‘My friend the judge?’

  ‘He owes me money.’

  ‘He’s dead, you know,’

  Pause.

  ‘He still owes me money. We had an agreement. The conditions still stand. A thousand a week or—’

  ‘Can you be more specific?’

  Pause. A sigh, a sniff. A clearing of the throat. Then silence. McLoughlin stood, the phone in his hand. The door opened. Elizabeth came out. Her bag was over her shoulder and he noticed she was wearing her shoes.

  ‘Sorry,’ he held up the phone. ‘Sorry about that. Rude of me I know. I hate when people, you know, just when you’re in the middle of a conversation.’

  ‘It’s OK. I have to go anyway.’ She walked towards him. She smiled. She had her keys in her hand. ‘Better, you know,’ she nodded towards the front door.

  ‘Yeah, of course, sorry, of course.’ He turned away. She followed him. He stepped outside. It was warm. Surprising to feel the heat at such a late hour. The sky beginning to pale and a crescent moon, hanging.

  ‘Look at that? Isn’t it incredible?’ He turned back to her. She finished locking up.

  ‘Yes, beautiful. Aren’t we lucky to be alive?’ She lifted her face towards the sky. He was aware of how close she was. He could smell her hair.

  ‘Yo
u mentioned gin and tonic. I think I could just about rustle one up, if you fancy.’

  She smiled again and took a step past him. ‘Thanks, but, a bit late and I’ve an early start.’ She opened the gate and moved towards the footpath.

  ‘Oh,’ he felt let down, ‘that’s a pity. Some other time?’

  She didn’t answer. She waved her hand as she walked away. And a small breeze shook the leaves of the birch trees.

  It was silver-polishing day. Gwen Gibbon sat at the round table, in her small basement sitting room. All her pieces of silver were laid out. She held a stained cloth in one hand, the tin of Silvo polish in the other. She sang as she worked. Hymns were her favourites.

  He who would valiant be,

  ‘gainst all disaster,

  let him in constancy,

  follow the master

  She selected the small round tea caddy. She pulled off the lid. One of her mother’s favourites. Once it had contained Earl Grey, aromatic, pungent. Now it was empty. She smeared the polish over its surface, then picked up the cloth and rubbed vigorously. It shone in the morning light. Her hand hovered over the other objects. Which would she clean next? The teapot, the milk jug and sugar bowl? The salt cellar? The collection of spoons big and small? The magnifying glass with its silver rim? The commemorative silver salver, her grandfather’s name engraved on it?

  Alexander Gibbon,

  on his appointment as Visiting Physician to the Royal City of Dublin Hospital

  with affectionate esteem from his colleagues.

  As she began to wipe away the film of polish there was a loud bang from above. The ceiling light shuddered. Voices, shouting, swearing, a child crying loudly. She dropped the cloth and put her hands over her ears. She closed her eyes for a moment, her shoulders hunched. Then she straightened. Mustn’t show weakness. These upstairs tenants were no better or worse than many she had endured through the years. They came. They went. They shouted and screamed. They threw things at each other. Their children fought and played. Their television sets, radios, CD players disturbed her dreams, kept her awake. Sometimes she befriended them. Sometimes she ignored them. Sometimes she was frightened by them. Not so much these days. The square was more benign now. It had gone through bad times. She had lain awake at night listening to footsteps tramping up the steps to the front door. The grass in the morning littered with used syringes, scraps of bloody cotton wool, spoons, burnt and blackened. And once a body. A huddle of what looked liked rags over in the corner underneath the trees. A young woman, stick thin, her jeans pulled down, a needle still hanging from the vein behind her knee. So, Gwen chided herself, a bit of banging and crashing upstairs wasn’t that bad.