The Therapy House

by Julie Parsons

  ‘I think I know who you are,’ Millar rushed up towards Samuel and stopped arms lengths away from him. ‘You’re a mate of the old lady, aren’t you?’

  He took Samuel by the hand and began to pull him into the room. ‘Come on in,’ his voice was friendly, cajoling. ‘Come on in and join our little party. The more the merrier, that’s what I say.’

  McLoughlin wanted to cry out, wanted to tell Samuel to turn and run, as fast as he possibly could, as fast as his legs would carry him, down the stairs into the kitchen, out onto the deck, down the steps, into the garden, through the wooden gate into the judge’s house, or even better, through the front door, out into the square, shouting, calling for help. Help, help, help, help me please.

  But Samuel did nothing. He allowed himself to be drawn in. Allowed himself to be placed on the garden chair, holding the bag with both hands. As Millar took out his cigarette lighter again.

  ‘Now,’ he stood over Samuel, ‘what have we here,’ and he reached towards the shopping bag. Samuel pulled away, then pulled out his backgammon set. He held it up.

  ‘Very nice,’ Millar took it from him, sinking down on the floor and opening it out. ‘Beautiful piece of work. I never learned how to play.’ He picked up some of the pieces, handling them gently, and then the large doubling cube. ‘This now, this is interesting.’ He turned it over in his hand. ‘Two, four, eight, sixteen, thirty-two, sixty-four. Now,’ he threw it across the board. It landed with the number two upwards.

  ‘Where were we?’ He stood and walked past McLoughlin, kicking him, a savage flick into his knee cap. Elizabeth whimpered and shrank away. Millar turned and squatted beside her, holding the lighter close to her face. The smell of hair, burning, and she cried out.

  ‘Once,’ he moved the lighter towards her face, ‘twice.’

  Elizabeth screamed. Millar moved the flame and ran it down her forearm. Elizabeth screamed again and collapsed on the floor.

  ‘Now,’ Millar picked up the dice and again he threw it. This time it landed with the number eight showing. And McLoughlin saw, from the corner of his eye, a dark shape standing, his arms raised, the shape of the coat like the shape of a bat. Something in his hand, which shone in the light from the window and suddenly then, coming down, hard, with force, down, down, down. Slicing into Millar’s face, slicing through his forehead, his left eyebrow, knocking his glasses out of the way as he sliced across his eye and sinking deep into his cheekbone. So it was Millar now who screamed in agony, standing, turning towards Samuel, who before Millar could reach him had drawn back his arm and with a speed and a force which was unexpected, jammed the chisel deep into Millar’s stomach.

  ‘You fucker,’ the words bursting from Millar’s mouth as he lunged for Samuel, who again with surprising speed and agility, stepped sideways, turned, the chisel in one hand, the shopping bag in the other and began to run, towards the door, towards the landing, towards the stairs. And Millar after him, but slowing now, blood dripping from the gash in his stomach, slowing and as he reached the stairs, falling, falling, falling forward, the sound of his body hitting the floor, a scream and then silence.

  Silence, then the sound of footsteps on the stairs. The squeak of the floorboard, the persistent squeak and McLoughlin thinking, before the builders leave I must get them to look at that. It’s very irritating. And Samuel in the doorway, the chisel bloody in one hand and the bag in the other. He put them down and walked towards Elizabeth. He knelt beside her. He touched her face, then loosed her wrists and her ankles. He stood and walked to McLoughlin. He knelt behind him. McLoughlin could feel the jerks as he pulled at the ties. He heard Samuel move away. Tried to turn to look after him. Heard him going downstairs. Heard the front door open, then close.

  McLoughlin pushed himself to sitting.

  Phone, he mouthed to Elizabeth. Phone. She nodded, and felt in her trouser pocket. He watched as she pressed the buttons.

  ‘Please,’ her voice was trembling. ‘Please come, guards, ambulance. We’ve been hurt. Attacked. Come quickly.’ Spelling out the address.

  McLoughlin moved. Pain everywhere, his face, his broken ribs, his ankle, a pain deep inside. He coughed. Blood in his mouth. He crawled towards the door. Slowly, painfully, onto the landing. Millar was lying head first near the bottom of the stairs. McLoughlin couldn’t see. Was he alive? Dead? Conscious? Unconscious? He propped himself against the banisters. And saw Millar’s face and his eyes, wide open. One a bloody mess where the chisel had sliced through it; the other filled with tears. And as McLoughlin shrank back Millar tried to turn, to push himself up, blood soaking his shirt. And then the bang on the front door, the sound of the lock splintering, and a voice shouting, ‘Gardaí.’

  Samuel walked slowly along the road. He was tired. He wasn’t sure what had happened. He had gone to the door. He had rung the bell. He had waited. He had pushed the door and it opened. He walked in. He knew this place. It smelt right. But Elizabeth wasn’t to be seen. And then he heard, something, what was it? Something which drew him out into the garden, up the steps, into the house, one step in front of the other.

  He wasn’t sure where he was going, but his feet seemed to know the way. One step after the other. He held the photographs in his hand. He dropped one. He counted his paces. When he got to twenty he dropped another. When he got to forty he dropped another. He walked along the road in the sunshine. Everywhere people, eating ice creams, with their children, holding hands, smiling, happy. And the man with the wide-brimmed hat, the heavy tweed coat and the trail of photographs, behind him.

  McLoughlin waited for the vaporetto at the San Marco stop on the Grand Canal. Fifteen minutes later he was in the railway station. He scanned the departures screen, bought his ticket, found the binario, climbed on board the train, closed his eyes and tried to doze. Unsuccessfully. He watched the flat countryside rolling past. It was December, the fields empty now, the harvest in, the land waiting for the plough. And the sign on the station as they slowed, then stopped: Bassano del Grappa. The mountains above swathed in heavy mist and a chill in the air. He checked his bag into a left luggage locker, buttoned his coat tightly and put on his gloves as he walked through the town. Along the road called Viale dei Martiri, underneath the trees, each one with a photograph of the partisan who once had hung from it. Down through the squares, down to the river which foamed as it rushed through the valley beneath the wooden bridge. Where now he stopped, leaned over the railings and looked down. A long way below the river roiled, the colour changing as it crashed over the rocks. Glassy brown, glossy black, ominous ochre, the crests of the small waves gleaming white. The sound from the river was a low, sullen roar. He leaned over and watched, then straightened and looked around. The bridge was busy today. Saturday, market day. Shoppers, locals, not visitors. A different feel to the place in the middle of winter. A small-town feel, the tourists all gone home, the tourist menus, the lasagne, carbonara, bolognese, put away until spring.

  He leaned with his back to the railings and watched the people as they came and went. It was cold, a brisk wind ruffling his hair and making his nose run. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped it. Then he turned and began to walk, slowly, deliberately, across the bridge.

  It was afternoon. The light was beginning to slip away. He hunched into his coat. The area on the far side of the bridge was familiar. He could see the café with the museum on one side of the road. But he turned, heading down along the river’s embankment. A low stone wall ran beside the footpath. There was a sense of dereliction, abandonment. A few warehouses, old buildings, closed and shuttered. No one around, hardly any traffic. But still the river, the water at this level appearing colder and greener.

  He stopped and leaned over the wall. The ground dropped steeply. The summer growth had died back. A few hardy perennials clung to the bank. Something which looked like thyme or sage perhaps. Nothing much else that he could recognise. Nothing that l
ooked substantial enough to grasp. And the wall, crumbling here, the capping stones loose, the mortar dead. As he leaned over a stone became dislodged. It began to roll, slowly at first, down the steep slope, then picking up speed and bouncing from rock to rock towards the water’s edge. It disappeared with an inaudible splash. Just the faintest puff of spray as it broke the surface.

  McLoughlin moved away. He pulled out his phone. A text message from Elizabeth. She was at a conference in London. Psychotherapy in the twenty-first century. He had insisted she go. He would be fine without her and it would be good for her too. Her hands no longer shook, she had begun to sleep again and the scar on her forearm was fading. He read her message. All well here. Hope you OK. Lots of love.

  He tapped out his reply. Love you too. I’ll call later. Xxx. Then he turned from the river and walked quickly back up the road towards the main street. His injuries were improving. His ribs and ankle had healed. His jaw had been wired for weeks and when the wire came off the work had begun on his teeth. They didn’t look bad now. Kidneys and other internal organs were fine. Only his head from time to time caused problems. And he missed Ferdie. Sometimes he thought he could hear the rattle of the dog’s claws on the floorboards. He still expected him to burst open the sitting room door. His tail wagging, and giving voice to little whines of pleasure.

  As he reached the main road he saw the Museo degli Alpini, then just past it, the turn to right and the Shamrock Bar, the same dancing girls, dressed in green, thatched cottages and donkeys and carts decorating the windows. He pushed through the door, his footsteps loud on the wooden floor. The woman was behind the bar, her back to him, and she turned, a professional smile on her attractive face, her makeup immaculate, lips red, teeth white, eye lashes long and luxuriant. As she recognised her customer, her smile died. She reached beneath the counter. He looked above her head and saw the camera. He waved, a broad grin, showing his teeth, then winked, and looked back at her.

  ‘Buon giorno, signora.’ His voice was loud.

  She didn’t reply.

  ‘Come stai?’

  Again no reply.

  ‘Would you prefer it in Irish? How about, dia dhuit?’ He could hear footsteps. The door behind the bar opened. James Reynolds came in. He didn’t look well. He had lost weight. His face was thin and haggard. He needed to shave.

  ‘Well, what do we have here?’ McLoughlin shifted from one foot to the other. ‘Are you not going to offer me a drink? A cup of tea, or maybe a glass of whiskey? Last time you were so friendly, you couldn’t do enough.’

  The woman’s face was without expression. She took a step towards him. ‘Get out. We don’t want your kind here.’

  ‘It’s all right, Monica, I’ll deal with this.’ Reynolds put his hand on her arm and pushed her back.

  ‘Monica, of course,’ McLoughlin smiled. ‘Monica Di Spina, from the famous family. Who’d have thought, the two of you, a marriage made, well,’ he moved forward and rested both his hands on the countertop, ‘made somewhere.’

  ‘What do you want?’ Monica’s voice was calm and cool.

  ‘Nothing from you. Although,’ McLoughlin remembered what Harris had told him. The injuries inflicted on Theresa Ryan and her son. The cat, slit from chin to tail. ‘Well, I’d be interested to know…’ his voice trailed away.

  ‘To know?’ She moved again, this time closer to her husband.

  ‘The Ryans,’ he swallowed hard.

  ‘Look,’ Reynolds held out his hands in a gesture of supplication. ‘Look,’ he repeated the words, ‘we’ve nothing to say about that or anything else.’ He lifted the countertop. McLoughlin began to back away, then stopped. He would not allow himself to be intimidated.

  ‘No? I wonder why.’ McLoughlin could feel his heart beginning to race. ‘You don’t want to talk about that, but I want to talk to you about my father.’ At last he had said it. ‘Come for a walk with me, indulge me. I’ve been waiting a long time for this. Truth and reconciliation, isn’t that what you call it?’

  Reynolds looked at his wife. She shook her head. He walked to the coat rack behind the door and took a scarf and leather jacket from it. He put them on. McLoughlin could see the way he patted the pockets.

  ‘I won’t be long.’ He leaned back over the counter and kissed her on both cheeks.

  And together McLoughlin and Reynolds walked out into the cold November afternoon.

  He got home to Dublin on Sunday afternoon. Home in time to have a bit of a sleep, then cook dinner for Elizabeth. She’d be arriving around six in the evening. He’d meet her off the air coach in the town. They’d walk to his house together. And together they’d eat in his beautiful new kitchen. She’d got used to his house at last. She still didn’t like being there on her own, but time was exorcising the ghosts of that terrible afternoon. He knew that she could still see Martin Millar in the big room upstairs. And the body of the dog, his mouth and eyes open. Even though McLoughlin had ripped up the floorboards, replaced them with clean, unblemished wood. Painted the walls so there wasn’t the slightest hint of blood anywhere. Bright colours, yellows and greens. Cheerful colours which banished all thoughts of darkness. But still, she liked to go home to sleep in her own bed, within her own walls. And he didn’t mind. As long as she was happy that he would come with her.

  He put a chicken in the oven to roast with seasonal root vegetables. Turnips, parsnips, red onions, some butternut squash and a couple of beetroot. He peeled potatoes for mash, made the way his mother had taught him, with an onion chopped through and plenty of salt, butter and milk. It was nearly time to go. He opened a bottle of red wine, the kind that Elizabeth liked, then switched on the TV to get the early evening news. And saw a familiar face. He sat down on the sofa to watch. He listened to the words of the newsreader.

  ‘Italian police are investigating the death of a former IRA member in the town of Bassano del Grappa, in the Veneto region north of Venice.’

  The report showed places he recognised. The Viale dei Martiri.

  ‘According to local sources, the man’s body was found around midnight last night. He was hanging from a tree. This particular area is known for an atrocity which took place during the Second World War when German troops hanged a number of partisans from these same trees. The man’s body was identified by his wife. His identity has not been officially confirmed but local sources have stated that he is James Reynolds, who was suspected to have been involved in the murder of Garda Joe McLoughlin in 1975. Sinn Féin have, so far, made no comment.’

  McLoughlin got up. He put on his coat, picked up his scarf, his keys, his phone, his wallet. He let himself out of the house, locking the door. He walked slowly down the steps. It was cold now. The sky was clear, the stars bright. The Plough hung low. It had hung low over Bassano yesterday evening as he and James Reynolds left the Shamrock Bar. They walked up the narrow street and stopped outside the little museum. Reynolds looked through the door, then moved away. ‘We’ll go somewhere else, I think.’

  They crossed the road, heading towards the bridge. Bright lights shone from a modern facade. Reynolds pushed the door open. He gestured, ‘Come in, have a drink with me, why don’t you?’

  Music was playing loudly from a jukebox. The walls were decorated with stills from American movies. Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Debbie Reynolds from Calamity Jane, James Dean in Rebel Without a Cause. They sat a small table covered with a red and white checked cloth. Reynolds ordered grappa. The barman chatted with him. Reynold’s Italian was fluent and effortless. They drank.

  ‘I knew you of course, that day. I recognised you immediately.’ Reynolds wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘When I went back into the bar I checked the CCTV. I could see the look on your face when Monica showed you the photograph.’

  ‘I wasn’t sure.’ McLoughlin drained his glass and gestured to the barman for a refill.

&nb
sp; ‘I thought there’d be trouble. I didn’t think you’d walk away. All the rest of that day I was waiting for you to come back. I went out to look for you. I asked in the railway station. I know most of the guys who work there. They’d seen you arrive and they saw you leave.’ Reynolds drummed his fingers on the table top. ‘Something about you. One of them asked, friend, enemy which is it?’

  The barman cleared away the empty glasses. Reynolds looked up at him and smiled. The man muttered something in Italian. Reynolds shook his head, put his hand on the man’s arm.

  ‘What’s he saying?’ McLoughlin watched the barman, the deliberate way he walked back behind the bar, poured more grappa.

  ‘Nothing much, just asking where you’re from. I told him, in patria, from home.’

  The barman came back to the table. A tray in one hand with the glasses and a couple of dishes of salted almonds and some olives, black and green. He slowly, carefully laid them out on the table. Again a muttered exchange.

  Reynolds picked up his glass. He gestured to McLoughlin to help himself. ‘I heard about the funeral. I could understand your anger. How you felt about me and what had happened.’

  McLoughlin looked at the dish of olives. He felt sick. ‘Why didn’t you come back then? You say you understand how I feel. Well if you do, then you could do something about it.’

  Reynolds sipped then looked towards the bar. ‘It’s not that easy. Not now. Monica and me, we’re in deep. We got ourselves mixed up in all kinds of shit. Dirty money in, clean money out. It’s a long, long way from the boys of the old brigade.’ He looked away again. ‘Monica has a lot of, what you could call, contacts. They’re very valuable. To a lot of people. And when you’re in, you stay in. You’ve no choice in the matter.’