The Therapy House

by Julie Parsons

  Elizabeth picked up a large envelope which was on the tray with the bottle and glasses.

  ‘Here,’ she handed it to him, ‘this is from Jess.’

  ‘Oh,’ he put down his glass. ‘Thanks. What is it?’

  Jess sat up. ‘Mum was telling me, you were curious about the history of your house. So,’ she paused, ‘I work in the National Archives, so I had a rummage around, found the 1901 and 1911 censuses. They’re online now, but my mother said you had no internet. There’s lots of other stuff too. Quite a number of archives are available. It’s fun when you start piecing lives together.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he began to pull out the pages. The usual spidery hand writing. ‘My glasses,’ he patted his jacket pocket.

  ‘Oh,’ she flapped her hands. ‘You don’t need to look at them now. Take them home, save them for later.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said again. There was a silence, suddenly awkward. ‘Your mother,’ he rushed to fill it, ‘she’s told me about her time there, in the house, the therapists and all that.’

  ‘Yes,’ Jess clambered awkwardly to her feet. ‘She would.’

  McLoughlin got up to help her, but she brushed him away. As she stood her pregnancy was very apparent.

  ‘Are you all right, love?’ Elizabeth stood too.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Jess’s tone was cool. ‘We’ll go now.’ She took Leah by the hand. ‘Nice to meet you, Michael. Enjoy your dinner.’ They moved towards the house. Elizabeth made as if to follow. ‘It’s all right, Mum, you stay here,’ she called over her shoulder.

  ‘I’ll phone you tomorrow, and if you need anything this evening…’ Elizabeth’s voice trailed away.

  ‘Don’t fuss, I’m fine.’ Jess didn’t look back.

  ‘Bye bye Biddy,’ Leah waved her little hand as she trailed in her mother’s wake. They disappeared from sight into the darkness of the house. Elizabeth lifted the bottle.

  ‘You’ll have another,’ she poured. McLoughlin could see a shadow across her face.

  ‘Are you all right? Was it something I said?’ He looked at her closely. She was dressed this evening in black. A long tunic made of some kind of stretchy material which clung to her body. A thick rope of turquoise was around her neck. Gold bracelets clinked at her wrists. She was wearing sandals which reminded him of gladiators. Straps around her ankles and across her instep. She looked beautiful, exotic, unusual, and suddenly very sad.

  ‘No, it’s not you. It’s just that Jess and I have a difficult history. She blames me for, well…’ A tear dripped down her cheek. He reached over and brushed it away with his thumb.

  ‘But you’re so good to her, the way you look after Leah,’ he sipped his wine. The bubbles fizzed in his mouth.

  She shrugged. ‘I try, but there are some things, you know,’ she raised her glass, ‘anyway, to tonight.’

  He reached over and clinked his glass against hers.

  ‘Tonight.’

  They sat at a table by the window. The restaurant was full but not crowded. McLoughlin watched Elizabeth. She was sitting back in her chair. All the earlier tension and sadness gone from her face. She twirled her wine glass in her fingers, then drank.

  ‘This is lovely. You are clever. I’m useless at choosing from a wine list,’ she took another swallow, ‘this is truly delicious. What is it?’

  ‘It’s an Alto Adige from the north of Italy.’

  ‘Where you saw,’ she paused, ‘him, James Reynolds?’

  ‘Yes, not far from there,’ he sipped. ‘Now, here come our starters. Fantastic.’

  The waiter leaned down, a large platter in his hands. McLoughlin had ordered sardines. Grilled black, garnished with nothing but a wedge of lemon. He bent over them and sniffed.

  ‘Mmm, love that smell. Problem is they’re hard to cook at home. The smell clings to everything.’

  Elizabeth moved her napkin. The waiter laid a dish with half a dozen oysters in front of her. ‘Lovely. This is wonderful.’ She smiled at him, picked up the first one. He watched as she swallowed it down. He watched her throat.

  ‘Good?’ He cut into the fish.

  ‘Very good.’

  He picked a bone from his mouth.

  ‘If you don’t want to cook the sardines inside you should get a barbecue. If the weather stays like this, you’ll want to eat outside.’ She swallowed another oyster. ‘I have one. I don’t use it that often. I’m not much of a cook. You can have it.’

  ‘Really? That’s nice of you. But only,’ he paused, a forkful of fish suspended in front of him.

  ‘Only?’ She held out her glass for more.

  ‘Only if you’ll come and eat with me. It’s no fun on your own.’

  ‘On your own?’ She sat back and looked at him. ‘You must have lots of friends.’

  He shook his head. ‘Not really. Guards, you know, they’ve plenty of acquaintances, people they’ve worked with, spent time with, in all kinds of difficult situations. But,’ he put down his knife and fork, ‘when you leave that world, you walk away. And if you look back over your shoulder, it’s gone.’ He lifted the bottle. ‘So it would be good to cook for you. And I promise, I’ll lay down, isn’t that what they call it? I’ll lay down a supply of this.’

  ‘Done,’ she clinked her glass against his. ‘Again, lovely, thank you.’

  McLoughlin sat back in his chair. The room had a high ceiling and long windows which looked out now towards the harbour. And he saw, as he sat, the glass in his hand, the way it had been all those years ago. When it was the railway station. Throngs of people coming up the wide granite steps, through the open doors, queuing for tickets at the counter which was now the bar. And a woman, dressed in black, her face pinched and drawn, her belly swollen with pregnancy and a cluster of children at her side.

  It was dark by the time they left the restaurant. They’d both had steak, with skinny French fries and a salad. McLoughlin had skipped dessert. Elizabeth chose the lemon tart with vanilla ice cream. He watched her eat. The methodical way she cut it in pieces with the edge of her fork, then picked up the few crumbs left over with the tip of her index finger. She looked happy, relaxed, at ease.

  They walked across the road, towards the row of bars along the seafront, lights strung in a bright ribbon above the tables.

  ‘Here,’ McLoughlin gestured. ‘We’ll have a nightcap, what do you say?’

  She smiled and nodded. They sat down. McLoughlin ordered, coffee and brandy.

  ‘I shouldn’t,’ she smiled at him, ‘but you know what? I will.’

  McLoughlin felt in his inside pocket for his wallet. He pulled out the envelope Jess had given him. He laid it on the table. He tapped it with his hand.

  ‘Nice of your daughter to do this for me.’

  Elizabeth nodded. ‘You can get a lot of that information online, but I told her how you were in the middle of renovations.’ She picked up her coffee cup. ‘That house, it means a lot to so many people. It has quite a history.’ She sipped.

  ‘Yes, I was talking to the old lady who lives across the square today.’

  ‘Gwen Gibbon?’

  ‘Yes, we had quite a chat. She told me an extraordinary story. About the man who was murdered by the IRA, back in 1921.’ He looked around. It was busy here still, even though it was nearly midnight. All the tables were crammed with people. A jazz quartet had set up under an umbrella. The music drifted towards them.

  ‘Richard Lane? She told you the story of Richard Lane?’ Elizabeth crossed her legs, jiggling her feet to the rhythm.

  ‘Yes, I didn’t know about him.’ He leaned towards her. He slipped one arm across the back of her chair. ‘But now, it’s as if when I’m in the house or wandering around,’ he gestured, ‘through the town, I feel as if I can see him and his wife and children.’

  She took his hand. ‘
I’m sure you don’t believe in ghosts, but there are many ways of being haunted.’ Her touch was warm.

  He smiled. ‘It’s an odd kind of coincidence. My father murdered by the IRA, and the family from my house, the same kind of tragedy visited on them too.’

  She put down the glass. ‘Our history, you’d wonder if we’ll ever really move on.’ She squeezed his hand. He moved closer and his lips brushed her cheek. As he heard his name being called, and a shadow falling over their table. He looked up. Liam Hegarty was standing beside them.

  ‘I thought it was you,’ Hegarty’s voice was suddenly loud. ‘I’ve called you a number of times today.’

  Elizabeth pulled away. McLoughlin sat back in his chair.

  ‘Ms Fannin,’ Hegarty made a formal bow. ‘I see you’ve met our new neighbour.’

  She nodded.

  ‘You’re a good judge of character. Used to peeling back the layers and seeing the essence of a man. So, what do you make of him?’ Hegarty swayed gently. And the woman at his side, not his wife, McLoughlin noted, grabbed hold of him.

  ‘Liam, we should go.’ Her voice slurred, just enough to be noticed.

  ‘Yes,’ McLoughlin stood up. ‘You should go. I’ve told you. I’ll be in touch when I’m ready.’

  ‘Ready? When you’re ready? What about me and what I need?’ Hegarty was beginning to shout.

  ‘Liam,’ the woman took his arm. She was young enough, McLoughlin noticed, to be Hegarty’s daughter. ‘Not here, not now.’ She looked around.

  ‘Not here, Mr Hegarty, not now. Your friend is right. I’ll be in touch.’ McLoughlin held out his hand and took Elizabeth’s. She stood and turned away. She pulled her hand free and began to walk. McLoughlin noticed faces, greedy under the lights, watching, listening. He moved after her. Then looked back. Hegarty and the woman had gone.

  ‘What was all that about?’ She stopped and turned to face him

  McLoughlin shrugged. ‘Just, something, just, I can’t really,’ he paused.

  ‘I think it’s time I was going home.’ Her voice was cool.

  ‘I’ll come with you.’ He felt sick, lost.

  ‘No, really, there’s no need. It’s not far.’

  ‘Please,’ he didn’t want to sound desperate. ‘I’d like to.’

  They stood at Elizabeth’s front door. She had opened it and stepped inside. He wasn’t sure whether to follow. He felt awkward, adolescent. He moved into the hall. He leaned forward and kissed her, first on her cheek, and then on her mouth. She pulled back. She put her hands against his chest.

  ‘I’ve had a bit too much to drink.’

  ‘Really?’ He smiled. ‘I have too, it’s great.’

  ‘Not for me. Not now. I’d like to ask you in, but,’ she moved away, ‘I’ve had a wonderful time. A really lovely time with you—’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry, that business with Liam Hegarty, it’s just,’ he interrupted.

  ‘It’s just,’ she shrugged and looked down, ‘don’t misconstrue what I’m saying. I like you very much, but.’

  ‘It’s OK Elizabeth, I know what you mean,’ he was trying not to show his disappointment. ‘I’ll go.’

  He turned away. And noticed. A small drawing. Framed. A child with curly hair.

  ‘Leah, I presume?’ He reached out to touch it. ‘Or is it her mother? Those curls are unmistakeable.’

  ‘Actually,’ Elizabeth’s face was unreadable, ‘it’s neither. It’s a drawing of Ben Bradish, when he was a child. He gave it to me many years ago.’

  ‘Oh,’ his hand dropped to his side. ‘I see.’

  ‘Yes, I think perhaps you do.’ She looked as if she was going to cry. He took her hand. It was cold. He squeezed it gently.

  ‘I’ll go, but I haven’t forgotten. Your offer of the barbecue. I’ll take you up on that.’ He needed another drink. As he walked down the front steps his phone began to vibrate in his pocket. He pulled it out and scanned the screen. Four missed calls from Dom Hayes. And Hayes calling him now.

  They sat as usual on Dom’s big leather sofa. Dom had poured him a beer. He drank as he watched the news. The RTÉ digital channel, which played and replayed over and over again.

  ‘I called you as soon as I saw it,’ Dom looked exhausted. His face was pale, his eyes bloodshot, dark circles beneath them. He picked up the remote and raised the volume. McLoughlin recognised the road, the high wooden gate, the house, the garden. Now it was filled with police, their white overalls gleaming in the afternoon sunshine.

  ‘How did they die? Did it say?’ He put down his glass. He felt sick.

  ‘Not on the news, but I got in touch with a mate in the area. Single shots to the back of the head. One thing though,’ Dom put down his glass and rubbed his face.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘They found a dead cat beside their bodies. Someone had disembowelled the poor creature.’

  McLoughlin could see the cat and the woman. Standing among the courgette plants. Silhouetted against the sun. The woman, like a scarecrow, the hat, the clothes hanging from her body, the cat rubbing itself against her legs.

  He listened to the voiceover. There was a description given of the two people who had been killed. And old black and white photographs. Theresa Ryan, MacFeeley as she was then. Young and pretty, long black hair down her back. Footage of her being led from the court in Belfast when she was convicted of terrorist offences. Holding up her handcuffed wrists, giving the black power salute. And photos of her son, a small boy at the beach. A bucket in one hand and a spade in the other. Interviews with her neighbours. A nice woman, they said, we’d see her at Mass and shopping in town. She got involved with fundraising for the local hospice after her husband had died there. Her son was a good worker. Small builder. Played for the local GAA team when he was younger.

  The crime reporter stood in front of the gate. The state pathologist, Dr John Harris, was expected soon, he said. He would make a preliminary examination at the scene and a post-mortem would take place at Waterford General Hospital.

  ‘You got in touch with Donnelly, I take it.’ Dom drained his glass and got up, heading for the kitchen. He pulled open the fridge, took out a couple more bottles, holding them up and gesturing.

  ‘I told him.’ McLoughlin lifted his glass and nodded. ‘He said he’d go and see her. He said it sounded good. For the first time he said, maybe they’d be able to proceed against Reynolds. Put together a strong enough case so they could apply for extradition. It’d take a while but, well, patience, a virtue and all that.’ He drank.

  ‘I can’t fucking believe it,’ he put down his glass, ‘after all these years.’ He covered his face with his hands. He wanted to cry, but no tears would come. There should be tears for Theresa and her son, he thought. He tried to put himself back there, the vegetable garden beautiful in the sunshine, the woman with the red hair and the cigarette between her fingers, the cat sleeping on her knee, and her son, sitting close, protecting his mother, pulling her to him. But unable to shield her from the horrors that lay ahead. McLoughlin couldn’t bring himself to imagine what they had suffered, but the pictures came unbidden.

  Dom padded slowly back to the sofa. He sat down heavily. He poured. Silence in the room. The sounds of the street audible now. McLoughlin waited for the beer to settle in the glass. Dom shifted beside him.

  ‘It makes sense. I couldn’t figure it out before but now it makes sense.’

  McLoughlin lifted his glass. ‘Make sense? What makes sense? Nothing makes sense to me.’

  Dom looked away. ‘So much going on with Joanne. I should have told you before, immediately,’ he drank

  ‘Immediately?’ McLoughlin looked at him.

  Dom sighed. ‘Get my laptop will you?’ He pointed to the table. ‘I’m so tired. I can’t move.’

  McLoughlin stood. He walked over
and picked up the computer. He sat down again on the sofa. Dom took it, and opened the lid. His hands moved over the keyboard.

  ‘You told me about the Irish bar in that little town. You described, if my memory serves me right, the woman you met, Reynold’s Italian wife. Well,’ Dom turned the screen towards McLoughlin, ‘this is her, right?’

  McLoughlin looked. The website he had seen before. Irish pubs in Italy. The Shamrock Bar, the street, the town. A photograph. The good looking blonde woman, standing outside, a glass of Guinness in her hand. Her name. Monica Di Spina Reynolds. A short statement in English. ‘My husband is Irish and I am Italian. We are very happy to welcome everyone to our bar. We offer Irish hospitality with Italian style and service. Céad míle fáilte agus buon giorno.’

  Dom clicked again. ‘And would you say that this is also the same woman?’

  McLoughlin looked again. The screen showed a series of articles about the Red Brigades. The scourge of Italy in the 1970s. They kidnapped and murdered the former prime minister, Aldo Moro. They caused havoc. Robberies, gun battles in the streets, anarchy. Eventually it all came to an end in the 1980s. Their top people went to prison, their ideology discredited. There were some photographs too. One of the leaders, Antonio Di Spina and his daughter Monica. Taken when he was released from prison in 1986.

  McLoughlin lifted his glass. ‘Would you look at that?’

  ‘So?’ Dom smiled at him. ‘What do you think? Where did she tell you she met Reynolds?’

  McLoughlin drank. ‘Barcelona she said. She chatted away. Made me a cup of tea. Talked about her husband and his friends from Ireland. Their son, studying in Rome. Very friendly, very open. Not a hint of secrecy.’

  ‘Hiding in plain sight, I’d say. Easier to keep the big secrets when you open up about the little things.’ There was silence for a moment. Outside a siren whooped, and there were shouts from night-time revellers in the street.

  ‘So,’ McLoughlin tapped the screen, ‘how come you found this? What made you have a look?’

  ‘Oh you know. Too much time on my hands. So I idle away clicking here, clicking there, following this link and that. And bingo.’ Dom closed the laptop and pushed it aside. ‘But what I really wanted to tell you, the really important thing I should have told you, would have told you if all this stuff with Joanne hadn’t kicked off,’ he pointed towards the balcony, the telescope. ‘The other evening, I’m sitting out there, Joanne’s watching Peppa, the boat’s just come in, so I’m scanning the crowd, not paying much attention and suddenly I see her.’