The Therapy House

by Julie Parsons

  Did the judge get a fright? Samuel remembered that first day, in the square, the dog running past him trailing his lead and the judge following. And how their eyes had met.

  ‘All those years gone by. And there’s the judge and then along comes you, well,’ and Mr Smith had laughed. ‘And the photos, had you seen them before? Did you know about them?’

  Samuel had shook his head.

  ‘So, tell me, Sammy, I can call you Sammy, can’t I?’ Mr Smith had given him a big wide smile. ‘What brought you to our lovely town? Was it the judge?’

  Samuel tried to remember. It seemed so long ago. His father had died and Sam had taken over the firm. And then there’d been all the trouble about the client accounts, and he’d gone to prison and when he was away his mother had died too. The old house where he’d grown up, the big square house in its own grounds, had been sold and the money from the sale had gone to pay back some of his debts. There was a box of things, papers and other stuff waiting for him when he got out. Sitting in the hostel, the address the probation service had given him, a miserable dump with the smell of cheap washing powder hanging in the corridors. And when he opened the box, he found all these documents, his original birth certificate, and a photograph. Such a pretty girl and so young. Only fifteen when she gave birth to him. Her name, Cecily Lane and the name and address of the children’s home in which she had lived. The Haven, Dun Laoghaire, Co. Dublin, Eire. He hadn’t known. He’d never suspected. Dudgeon wasn’t his name, not really. It was just a name he’d been lent. Until he could find his own name. William Dudgeon and Son. That wasn’t him. He wasn’t the son. Not William’s son. No wonder William had treated him with a mixture of despair and contempt.

  Samuel had gathered together all his strength. He had left the hostel. Walked as far as the tube station. Ealing Broadway it was. Took the central line to Oxford Circus, then changed to the Piccadilly line and got off at Euston. An old man with a plastic shopping bag, a few pounds in his pocket, he stood and stared up at the departures board. Got himself a cup of tea and a ham sandwich and sat and waited until the evening came and it was time to get on the train. Dozing in his seat, as they flew through the countryside. The stations flashing by, Crewe, Chester, Flint, Colwyn Bay, Llandudno Junction, Bangor and finally, Holyhead. He remembered Nellie, the washerwoman who came every Monday. She had told him about getting the boat home. She called it the mail boat. It went from somewhere called Holly Head to somewhere called Done Leery. She would always meet people she knew on the boat. And they’d go into the bar and have a drink or two and everyone would sing, they’d be so happy to be going home.

  ‘I know what you’ll sing,’ he’d say, ‘you’ll sing the song about the mountains, won’t you?’

  ‘The Mountains of Mourne?’

  ‘Yes you’ll sing that one, won’t you, Nellie?’

  And she’d give him a sweet then, a bulls eye maybe. And a hug too.

  It was close to midnight when he got on the boat. He was so tired. He found himself a chair and he put his head on his plastic bag and he slept and didn’t wake until someone shook him by the shoulder and said they were nearly there and he should get up. And he looked out the window and all he could see was grey sea and grey sky and the grey walls of the harbour and behind them a line of houses painted yellow and blue. Grey church spires too.

  Not sure where to go when he struggled ashore. Cold outside, a soft drizzle and a policeman watching the crowd disperse. A polite smile on his face as Samuel approached him, the piece of paper in his hand. Asking him, ‘Can you help me sir? Do you know where this is?’

  And the policeman taking it, reading it slowly then saying, his accent unlike any that Samuel had ever heard before, so Samuel had to listen carefully to understand, ‘The Haven? That’s long gone, long gone. Closed down years ago. It’s flats now, flats and offices. Nice old building, but not a children’s home.’

  Then looking at Samuel, noticing the way his face was crumpling, and with the exhaustion from the journey and the disappointment, a tear was sliding down his cheek, he said, ‘Listen, I’ll tell you what to do. I’ll give you a lift. There’s a Protestant church near here. The rector, he’s a nice guy. Here,’ and he pointed to the car parked behind him, ‘get in now and I’ll drop you round.’

  Samuel had sat beside Mr Smith on the sofa and Mr Smith had explained. His son, Ed, was in trouble. He owed lots of money. He’d got mixed up with a crowd who were dangerous.

  ‘Lucky I have the photos,’ Mr Smith said. ‘I knew they’d come in handy.’

  Samuel had seen the man who came to visit. He was young and tall and thin, his glasses round and gold-rimmed. His shoes were always very shiny. Mr Smith was scared of him. He tried not to show it, but Samuel could smell his sweat, smell the way his little sitting room stank after the man had been to visit. After Mr Smith had handed over the cash.

  And there was a problem.

  ‘Not sure what I’m going to do, Sammy.’ Mr Smith lit a cigarette. Samuel felt sick, the smell of sweat and cigarettes mixed together. ‘That bastard Martin Millar. Ed should never have got involved with him. He’s a madman. He wants me to give him the photos. He wants to be able to deal directly with the judge. I’ve told him no, I won’t have it. But…’ he got up and went into the kitchen. He came back with a large glass of whiskey in his hand. ‘I’m not sure how long I can hang on. A mad bastard, you wouldn’t know what he’d do next.’

  And now Mr Smith had gone. Taken away by the ambulance. Samuel had thought he’d never see the photographs again. But here they were. He picked them up, gathered them together in his hand, shuffled and dealt them out. Vertical rows this time. The picture of the judge with the boy, the boy who had died, was at the top. He looked like a frightened rabbit. His body was thin and white. His eyes were big and round. The judge’s hand on his shoulder looked huge. Samuel wondered. What was the boy’s name? Was he a Joe or a Pete or a Jack or a Bob? When Samuel looked at him he wanted to scream and cry out, the way the judge screamed and cried out when the flagellant’s whip dug into his skin. The judge screamed and cried out. The judge turned his face away from his God. He turned his face to the wall. Samuel didn’t have a God to turn from. He had turned away from himself. He closed his eyes and dug his fingernails into his palms. He had made the boy to disappear. He existed now only in Samuel’s memory and only in the photograph. Samuel picked it up. He stroked the boy’s thin face.

  ‘I’m sorry boy, poor nameless boy,’ he muttered. He piled all the photographs together into a neat pile. He put them back into their snug envelope. He stood up. He walked into the hall. He pulled open the small cupboard. He got down onto his knees and lifted the loose board. He pulled out the shopping bag. Inside were his most treasured possessions. The picture of Cecily Lane and his original birth certificate. His favourite chisel, the wooden handle worn smooth. And the judge’s computer. He had opened it up. He had found more photos. In colour this time. More boys. Poor, poor boys. Then the battery had gone flat.

  Now he carefully placed the envelope in the bag, then he pushed it back and away. He replaced the board. They were all safe now. Safe and sound and out of sight.

  Sun pouring around the edges of the shutters as he stirred and stretched. And looked into Ferdie’s brown eyes. The little dog pawing at the duvet, as he turned away towards the door. Not happy that he’d been left in the house all day yesterday.

  ‘OK fella, you want out?’

  McLoughlin pushed back the duvet and scrambled upright. He picked up his phone. It was nearly nine. Ian would be here soon. And today they were to walk through the house, look at the progress, see what else needed to be done.

  He held up his phone, scrolled down through his contacts. Donnelly, Tom. He pressed the call button. Straight to voicemail. Saturday morning, Donnelly was probably on the golf course or maybe he was doing the supermarket shop with the missus.

 
; ‘Hi Tom, Michael McLoughlin here. Listen, I’ve got something for you. A witness to my father’s shooting. She’ll make a statement. She’ll go to court. Give me a call. I’d like you to go and see her, sooner, rather than later. Thanks.’

  Ferdie was scratching at the front door. McLoughlin opened it for him and together they walked out onto the front step. Already it was hot. Dom would want to know what happened. He was surprised he hadn’t phoned already. He tried his number. Again straight to voicemail. What was it, he wondered, about Saturdays? No point in leaving a message. He knew Dom never listened to them. He texted. Call me. Got on great in Waterford. Thanks for all the help.

  He sat down and watched Ferdie as he ran from tree to tree. A small group of children on the green this morning. One of the girls spotted the dog.

  ‘Yippee,’ she shouted, so Ferdie backed away and headed for the safety of the house again, scooting up the steps and rushing past McLoughlin.

  ‘Had enough, have you?’ McLoughlin bent down and patted him, then walked into the kitchen. He stopped, amazed. He hadn’t realised how much Ian had done. It had been dark last night when he got in and he was so tired he’d gone straight to bed. But now, seeing it in daylight he was delighted. Sun shining in through the window. The double sink, its silky stainless steel, reflecting back the light. The five-burner gas hob and eye level oven in place. And the kitchen units, a mix of stainless steel and wood.

  A loud knock and Ian’s voice calling out as McLoughlin heard his key in the lock and the front door banging open.

  ‘I’m in here, I’ll just be a minute.’ He tucked his shirt into his trousers, put his phone in his pocket and shoved his feet into his sandals. Picked up his phone. Smoothed back his hair. Cleared his throat.

  ‘Hi, Ian, good to see you. The kitchen is fantastic. I’m really pleased.’

  They walked up the stairs. Everywhere was clean, ready for the painters, just about finished. A loud squeak from one of the floorboards on the landing. McLoughlin shifted from foot to foot. He looked at Ian.

  ‘Yeah, sorry about that. Sometimes they take a while to settle in. But if it doesn’t, I’ll get it seen to.’ Ian smiled nervously. They continued on up. The bathroom was particularly good. McLoughlin was delighted with the tiling, the shower with its big round head, the deep bath, the nicely oval basin. And of course the toilet with the self-closing lid.

  ‘I like that,’ McLoughlin chuckled. ‘It’s cool.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Ian nodded and smiled. ‘We’ll put one in downstairs too.’ He broke off as his phone burbled. He gestured apologies and stepped outside. McLoughlin could hear him. He was lining up his next job or maybe his job after that. A hard life being a builder. Always juggling what he was doing now with what was coming down the tracks.

  He walked up the small flight of stairs, up to the room at the top of the house. It was no longer small and cramped like the judge’s next door. The big window gave him a panoramic view out over the roofs towards Scotsman’s Bay. And as he leaned closer, he could get a bright blue wedge of sea. And a white sail. His desk was where he wanted it, a slab of wood, sanded and oiled. He’d need to get a chair. And bookshelves along the walls. But that could all wait. Later today, he thought, he’d go down to the basement and start to shift some of the boxes.

  ‘Mick, you there?’ He heard Ian taking the stairs two at a time. He ducked into the room. ‘What do you think? The desk, is it OK?’

  ‘Yeah it’s great. I really like it.’ McLoughlin grinned at him. ‘It’s just what I wanted. Now all that’s missing are the bookshelves. When are they going in?’

  Ian grimaced. ‘Well, not sure. I’m hoping to be out of here by the end of the week. I’ve another job waiting.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a pity. I really need them. All my books, the boxes in the basement,’ McLoughlin hoped he was looking suitably disappointed. So disappointed he might hold off on his last couple of payments. ‘I did mention them, a good few times, I’m sure you remember.’

  Again the grimace. ‘Yeah, well,’ Ian shifted awkwardly, ‘didn’t really budget for the extra time, you know?’

  McLoughlin said nothing. He stared fixedly at the floor. A beautiful floor, it had to be said. The same dark Iroko which was laid in all the other rooms. No sign now of where the iron bedstead had once stood.

  ‘Look, tell you what,’ Ian was shifting anxiously. ‘One of my guys, Maciek, you know him? The demon with the sledgehammer.’

  McLoughlin knew him all right.

  ‘He’s always looking for nixers, extra money to send home to the wife. I’ll tell him to talk to you. He’ll see you right.’ Ian winked in an exaggerated way. ‘OK?’

  They walked down through the house. Ian shoved his hand in his pocket and produced an invoice.

  ‘If you could pay me, that’d be great.’ He smiled, a charming smile. ‘Then we’ll only have the painting and the downstairs toilet to deal with.’

  They walked into the kitchen. McLoughlin pulled out his chequebook. Ian handed him a pen. He watched as McLoughlin began to write.

  ‘I’ll miss this old place. It’s been a nice job.’ Ian looked around. ‘Exciting too, not everywhere you work where there’s a murder next door. And you start helping the guards with their enquiries.’

  McLoughlin looked at him over his glasses.

  ‘Yeah, the lady cop was around the other day,’ Ian folded his arms.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah, she was asking about cars we might have seen and she’d a few photographs, mugshots, you could say.’

  McLoughlin nodded, signed his name and handed it to him. ‘So, were you able to tell her anything?’

  ‘Nah,’ Ian glanced down at the cheque, folded it and put it carefully in his top pocket. ‘Not much. One of the guys looked kind of familiar, chubby, red hair and freckles. And I definitely recognised one of the cars. A silver Toyota SUV. We had a bit of a run in, a few weeks ago, when you were in Italy.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah, we were expecting a skip one afternoon. Someone had parked in the space. Maciek went out to ask the driver to move. But he wasn’t there, so we’d all kinds of hassle.’ He turned to leave. McLoughlin followed him.

  ‘So, she got him from the car? Did you have the licence plate?’

  Ian shook his head. ‘Nah, we weren’t that organised. And after he left we were able to get the skip driver to come back. And that,’ Ian smiled, ‘was all we were worrying about.’

  She’d need more than a vehicle identification, McLoughlin thought as he waved good bye to Ian who sauntered away, whistling. He hoped for her sake she could stand up her evidence. He knew from bitter experience how bad it was to be found wanting. The case of Mary Mitchell, all those years ago. He’d made a mess of the investigation. Never fogotten it.

  He opened the front door and walked down the steps into the front garden and pulled out his keys to unlock the basement. Better get on with starting to move. All that stuff. He’d lived without it for months. He was beginning to wonder; did he need it any of it now?

  The front room was filled with boxes. He picked up one marked ‘kitchen stuff’. Half opened it. Saw inside a packet of coffee. He could hear Ferdie barking loudly. McLoughlin grabbed the coffee and pulled back the door. He stepped out into the sun. The old lady from across the square was standing by the gate. She was dressed for a cold day, with a heavy paisley shawl around her shoulders. McLoughlin noticed that her right hand, as she rested on the railings, was shaking badly, and her face looked even more pale than usual. She smiled as she saw him.

  ‘I’m feeling a little light-headed. Could I sit on your steps for a moment?’ Her voice was tremulous.

  He took her arm. ‘Why don’t you come in? You can be my first official visitor.’

  ‘Oh,’ she looked up at the house. ‘Is it finished?’

 
‘Just about. I’ve no proper furniture, but I do have some nice garden chairs.’ He picked up the box. ‘Take my arm and we’ll go up and have, what would you like? Tea or coffee?’

  ‘Thank you, coffee would be lovely,’ she smiled. ‘I don’t think we’ve met properly. My name is Gwen Gibbon. And you are Michael McLoughlin, aren’t you?’

  ‘Well done, you’re right.’

  They walked together through the kitchen. He opened the door to the deck and sat her down at the small table. She held onto his hand.

  He went back into kitchen and busied himself with kettle. His phone beeped. A text from Dom. In Vincent’s A&E with Joanne. She fell. Possible skull fracture. Good news re Waterford. Something else to tell you. Can’t talk now. I’ll try you later.

  ‘Now,’ McLoughlin spooned coffee into the glass jug, poured boiling water onto it and carried the jug, and mugs out onto the small table. ‘Sorry to take so long.’ He smiled down at her.

  ‘That’s fine. No need to apologise. I’m enjoying being here. I haven’t been in this house for many, many years.’

  He sat beside her. He poured coffee.

  ‘No milk I’m afraid.’

  She smiled. ‘I like it black. It makes me feel young. Sugar?’ she looked over at him.

  ‘Oh, sugar,’ he stood, ‘now, I think the builders may have a stash somewhere. Hold on while I go and look.’

  They sat on the garden chairs in the sun. Gwen had added two heaped spoons to her mug of coffee. She stirred it vigorously.

  ‘I know nowadays sugar’s considered to be some kind of poison, but,’ she delicately licked the corners of her lips, ‘I love it. When we were children most of our sweet things were homemade. My mother made fudge and toffee and as a special treat we were allowed to buy, can you imagine, buy, a piece of honeycomb.’

  ‘You’ve lived here for a long time, I take it?’

  She nodded. ‘Forever really. Forever and a day as the song says.’ She sipped her coffee. ‘Shopping in the town when I was young, it was wonderful. I remember, Saturday mornings, mornings like this, the sun shining, not a care in the world and going with my mother,’ she paused for a moment and wiped her lips with a small white handkerchief. ‘It really was the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker. You know, in those days they’d deliver. I remember a boy on a bicycle coming with a tin of pepper. ‘