Mary, Mary

by Julie Parsons

  The door opened. Finney came in with a tray with a metal teapot, mugs, and a plate of biscuits. He dumped it on the table. He poured tea, the colour of nicotine. McLoughlin sipped delicately. ‘Disgusting stuff,’ he said, putting his mug down. No one else spoke. He watched as the colour returned to the woman’s face. She would, he knew, sleep well tonight. As well as she would ever sleep, with triple locks on the door, and the sounds of the night a constant torment. Once you’ve felt real fear, he thought, the world is a very different place.

  26

  Whistling. His mouth pursed, his head flung back towards the ceiling. As if she wasn’t there. As if the only thing in the world was the sun pouring in through the stained-glass windows, the hollow throb of the traffic outside, the smell of floor polish and dust, and that wonderful feeling of power and control.

  He didn’t look at her. He didn’t need to. He knew she’d come. He had recorded her features, her mannerisms, her expressions. The receptors in his memory had soaked them up as the light-sensitive paper soaked up the images from the negative. Stored them so they could be taken out at night and played with. Imagined. In different settings, doing different things. Played games with them like the little Lego people he had when he was small. There now. This is the mammy and this is the daddy. And this is the big sister and I’m the little brother. Or should that be, this is the granddaddy and this is grandmammy, and this is the mammy and I am the son?

  Pictures to play with over and over, that was what he wanted. To lay them out like the cards in a game of patience. Contrasting colours and shapes. An elaborate hierarchy of desire. This one goes on top of that one. This one fits with this one. Or like a jigsaw puzzle. This hand matches that arm. This face goes with that body. Maybe, let’s try it another way. Let’s put mother’s head with daughter’s breast. Daughter’s leg with mother’s foot. Until the puzzle is completed, the game worked out, the end has come.

  He paused. Stopped. Listened. He had been in this church once before. A Sunday, how many weeks ago? He counted back. Three or four. Mary had brought him. They had been out driving. She loved sitting in the back. Protected by the silvered windows. Hidden.

  ‘Isn’t it great?’ she would say, snuggling into the cushions. ‘No one can see us. Drive on, my boy.’ That evening she had got him to go past her house. They had stopped outside. It was still light. The front door was open. A large black cat was sunning itself on the top step.

  ‘What’s your mother like?’ he asked.

  She didn’t answer for a while. She chewed her gum, then took it out and stuck in a piece of wrapper. She took a swig from the bottle of Coke mixed with vodka that he had cooling in the ice-box. Then she said, ‘She’s very beautiful. She’s very clever. She’s good at everything she does. She drives me fucking berserk.’

  ‘She must miss your father?’ he asked, as he reached out for the bottle.

  She shrugged. ‘Nah, he died a long time ago.’

  ‘No one else?’

  Again the shrug. ‘Who could she meet that would measure up to her high standards? Come on,’ she said, ‘let’s go,’ and she told him to drive to the church. She led him in and up the stairs to the gallery. Evening service was just finishing.

  ‘Isn’t this neat?’ she said. ‘I love it in here. It’s kind of mad. It reminds me of Alice in Wonderland or something like that. The towers like chessmen outside. I’d like to come back here,’ she whispered, ‘in the dead of night, when stars are weeping, when there’s no one else around. Wouldn’t you?’

  He began to whistle again. This time he leaned forward, looking down into the nave. He rested his head on one hand, gazing beneath him at the rows of empty pews and the chequered tiles of the central aisle, and then for the first time he turned and looked towards the gallery at the west end of the church. His heart fluttered like a butterfly trapped in a hand as he saw her there. She was standing, rigid, gripping the front rail. She was staring straight at him. She looked . . . He tried to find the words to describe her. She reminded him of the women in some pictures the photography teacher had shown him. They had been taken, so she said, during the Depression in the southern states of America. The women’s white angular faces held no expression as they gazed at the camera. It was the same with photographs he had seen of prisoners liberated from the death camps. There was a complete lack of curiosity in their look. He supposed that when you’ve lived on the edge of survival, curiosity becomes a luxury you can’t afford. But he wanted her to be curious about him, about what he’d done, what he was doing.

  He was, after all, intensely curious about her. He knew what size dresses she wore, what fruit she liked, what books she read, what music she listened to. He knew the little things, like the colour of her toothbrush, how she liked her eggs boiled, that she took sugar in her coffee but not in her tea. And he knew the big things, that she had never been in love since her husband died, that she didn’t love her mother the way she had loved her father. He knew all these things because Mary had told him.

  He felt suddenly tired. He had planned this for a long time and now that it was here it was a bit like Christmas when he was a kid. He was worn out with the anticipation. He lay back on the pew and closed his eyes. He would rest for a while and then he would do what had to be done. He patted his pocket to reassure himself that he still had the knife. It was funny to see how people changed when you showed it to them. You’d expect them to respond as if it was a gun, but in some ways he suspected that a knife was more frightening. Guns could, and did, miss. But up close with a knife?

  He opened his eyes. The church was suddenly dark. High above its slated roof towers of brilliant white, ice crystals gleaming, hung in the dark blue sky. Cloud piled upon gleaming cloud, drops of moisture freezing, melting and refreezing, layer upon layer, until hard and dense as golf balls they crashed with a huge burst of energy towards the ground. He was cold now. He sat up. She was still standing in the same place, but her eyes were fixed on the altar directly before her. He walked to the end of the row. She didn’t move. He turned and went up to the back of the gallery to the stairs that led down into the nave. He looked over his shoulder towards her. Still she didn’t move. He walked quickly down the stairs and came out at the north door. He tried the large handle. It was locked. He walked around behind the rows of pews, keeping out of her sight, to the front door. A heavy iron bar was propped against the wall. He picked it up and slotted it into place. He stopped to listen. The hailstones were beating an intricate dance rhythm against the windows. There was no sound from above. His heart began to beat faster, faster. He put his hand to his throat. He could feel the pulse jumping, evenly. He looked up at the ceiling, imagining her standing above him. What was she wearing? He had only seen from the waist up, but it looked like it was a long white skirt, with a plain navy blouse. Short-sleeved, round-necked. Was it buttoned up the back?

  He moved down the nave and looked up. Now he was directly beneath her again. He began to walk backwards towards the chancel, step by step, arms open wide, head up.

  Now she began to move. She turned and walked towards the stairs. She disappeared from view. He waited. The double doors from the porch opened. She came down the aisle towards him. When she was within four feet she stopped. She was smaller than he had remembered, smaller than her daughter. More delicate. She stood in front of him. Her white skirt hung like a drooping lily almost to her feet. He began to move towards her.

  ‘Don’t!’ Her voice cut through the empty church, echoing, harsh, strong. ‘Don’t you dare touch me.’

  He stepped back involuntarily, suddenly anxious. She lifted her head and straightened her back. And then she spat. She drew mucus from deep in her chest and flung it out towards him. It landed on his chest and hung glistening, yellow on his clean white shirt.

  ‘Just tell me one thing,’ she said, ‘just one thing. The only thing I want to know. What did she say before she died?’

  He took a handkerchief from his pocket and carefully wiped his shirt clean.
He screwed it up and dropped it on the ground. Her gaze followed it to the floor. She bent down and picked it up. Neat red letters, embroidered on one corner. David Anthony Mitchell. She looked up at him. He smiled.

  ‘What did she say before she died?’ He repeated the words slowly, each one separate from the next. Then he put his hand in his pocket and took out his knife.

  ‘That’s for me to know and you to find out.’ And he reached out and hooked one finger round the neck of her blouse and pulled it taut and with his other hand slid the knife down through the linen. She screamed then, a shriek that filled the church with its anger. He rocked backwards and forwards, laughter bursting out through his open mouth. Then he walked past her, one shoulder brushing against her arm as he moved And he sang as he walked.

  ‘I’m a little tea-pot

  Short and stout.’

  He twirled and faced her again, one hand on his hip and the other above his head, fingers slanting in a parody of elegance towards the floor. And then he was gone.

  Gone, gone. The rain driving against the windows and a black emptiness where her heart once had been.

  27

  ‘So. We have a name, and an address, and an occupation. A cause for celebration, wouldn’t you agree?’

  They were standing just inside the Garda station’s glass doors, waiting. Outside the rain washed across the main road, sheets of water drumming against the passing cars, rushing along the deep gutters and spilling over in streams that cascaded down the side roads towards Blackrock village.

  ‘Come on, we could be here all day, let’s run for it.’ McLoughlin pushed through the door, holding his briefcase over his head, and turned in the same direction as the torrent of muddy water.

  ‘Where ya going?’ shouted Finney, as he followed him.

  ‘O’Rourke’s. In the village. I told you, a cause for celebration.’

  ‘Ah, come on, boss. We don’t have time.’

  McLoughlin looked back at Finney standing on the footpath, the rain dripping down his forehead and staining the shoulders of his jacket black.

  ‘What’s your problem? It’s lunchtime. I’m hungry.’

  Finney caught up with him just as he had ordered his second pint and a plate of ham sandwiches.

  ‘Here.’ McLoughlin gestured to the stool beside him. ‘What’ll you have?’

  ‘Coffee,’ Finney grunted, as he pulled himself onto the seat, and began to mop his face with a paper napkin from the pile on the bar.

  McLoughlin waved at the barman, and then towards the sandwiches. ‘Have one, Dave. They’re the best in this part of town. Properly cooked ham, decent bread with butter not margarine, and here, try some of the mustard. It’s the real stuff. Dijon. Delicious.’

  Finney said nothing, his expression hostile.

  They ate in silence, McLoughlin swallowing slabs of dark pink ham spread liberally with the creamy yellow mustard.

  ‘So,’ he said, as he finished his pint and wiped the froth from his top lip, ‘what’s your problem?’

  ‘Look, boss, this isn’t a criticism of you, but do you not think . . .?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, this is the first break we’ve had so far. Up until now we’ve been beating our heads against a fucking brick wall. We’ve found nothing. No DNA, no prints, no real sightings apart from the video material. Hundreds of man-hours of questionnaires, questions, banging on doors. We’ve this crazy situation with the mother and the phone calls. I told you we should have brought her in as soon as we realized what was going on. All this hanging about, wild-goose-chasing all over the city after her. For what, eh? For some embarrassing hysterical scene in a fucking maternity hospital. How does that make us look? We’re practically reduced to getting in the clairvoyants. And then, out of the blue, this girl walks in, and gives us our first bit of real information. And.’

  ‘And what, Dave?’

  ‘And instead of getting over to his place immediately, and I mean immediately, you want to go boozing.’

  ‘Lunch, actually. Lunch.’

  ‘Yeah, well.’ Finney finished his coffee. ‘You know, boss. There’s a lot of talk about you these days. I’ve defended you. Every time.’

  ‘Ah, gossip, the mustard in the ham sandwich of our mundane little lives.’

  ‘You can see it like that if you like, but I’m telling you. The row you had with Finucane this morning, that’s only the tip of the iceberg.’

  Remember that one, McLoughlin thought. Never trust a subordinate. Ever. He stood up, put a heap of coins on the counter and picked up his briefcase.

  ‘You’ve said enough. I think if anyone was to examine the conduct of this case they would find that it has been impeccably handled. I think they’d find that the more experienced officers would stand completely behind me. On every count.’ He opened his briefcase and took out his mobile phone. He punched in a number, and waited for a couple of seconds. Then he spoke. ‘Hello, Bertie. How we doing? Any sign of life?’

  There was a pause. Then ‘Good. No, don’t do anything. Wait for us. We’ll be there in fifteen minutes. But if he should leave again, follow him and keep in touch.’

  Finney looked at him angrily.

  ‘That, dear boy, is why God invented mobile phones. So I could have my lunch while Bertie Lynch went on ahead to let me know if our suspect was at home. Now why don’t you wipe that sulky look off your face? We’ve got work to do.’

  She spread her ripped blouse on the kitchen table. It was soaked through, the dark blue linen almost black with water. When she left the church the rain had been coming down in heavy swollen drops which spread as they landed and saturated. She had been relieved that it was raining, that she had an excuse to run, that no one would look too closely at a woman clutching her clothes, her head bent low, her face wet, intent on getting home. She hadn’t stopped until she reached the front door. She was breathless, sucking air down her burning throat and into her lungs, as she fumbled in her pocket for her keys, her hands wet and trembling, the metal slipping through them so that she had to kneel and scrabble around on the top step to pick them up.

  The cat had appeared beside her, mewing insistently, rubbing himself around and through her legs, falling over her feet as she finally got the door open and stumbled inside. She had caught sight of herself in the hall mirror. Mad I look, completely mad, she thought, her hair hanging in wet hanks on her shoulders, her eyes wide open, her pupils dilated. She dropped her hands and the edges of the ripped blouse fell apart. She noticed for the first time that there was a fine line of red beginning just under her collarbone, where the knife must have nicked her. She hurried into the kitchen and took the bottle of whiskey from the dresser. The cat fretted and jumped up beside her, putting wet paws on her shoulder as she unscrewed the top and poured a large shot into a glass. She drank it down in one, gagging as the alcohol scorched her throat. She poured and drank again. Warmth spread though her body. She knelt and shovelled cat food from an open tin onto a plate. The cat whimpered his thanks and purred as he chewed, delicately pushing the lumps of meat into place with his black nose.

  She sat down at the kitchen table. Her breathing slowed. She picked up the blouse and began to tear it into thin strips. It tore easily, the threads already loosened by the knife. When she had finished she took the lengths of cloth and began to plait them into a piece of cord. This I would use on him, she thought. This I would use to make him suffer the way he made my daughter suffer. This I would use to end his life, the way he has ended mine. I would wrap it around his neck and twist it tight, using both hands. And I would watch as he began to realize that there was no more air making its way through his mouth into his lungs. No more air. No more life.

  She got up from the table, cold suddenly washing over her. She climbed the stairs to the bathroom, slowly, stopping after every step, the muscles in her legs shaking, her heart sore under her breast, her lungs sore under her ribs. She twisted the plaited rope around her right wrist, knotting it tight. She stripped off
her bra, her skirt and her pants and stood under the shower, closing her eyes and thinking of nothing but the comfort of the water, running in warm rivulets down her body.

  When she had dressed she went back down to the kitchen and sat again at the table, the bottle of whiskey in front of her. Today was 28 August. Twenty-three days since she had last spoken to Mary. She had tried to hang on to that final conversation, keep it intact, keep it safe. But even now, sometimes she couldn’t quite remember. Did I say goodbye first, or did she? Did she say she’d be home early or did I ask her not to be late? She kissed me, where? On which cheek, left or right? I didn’t watch her go, why not? I was reading a book. I didn’t look up. If I had, maybe I would have called her back, asked her to stay, begged her not to go. Why didn’t I? Why did I let down my guard? I always knew that motherhood made you vulnerable, weak, easily hurt. But I had begun to forget. To relax. Not to fear. Mary was twenty. She was almost an adult. She had talked about moving out when she went back to Auckland. Getting a flat with that friend of hers. The blonde one, Louisa. Getting a part-time job. Going to college. Maybe studying medicine. Giving up the ballet. It was my fault this happened. I was too complacent. I should have been more careful. Like Billy Montgomery, she thought. A patient she had treated years ago. Suffering from what the books called paranoid schizophrenia. Acutely agoraphobic. Convinced that disaster was waiting for him every minute of the day and night. Didn’t sleep at night in case he might die. Wouldn’t let anyone within three feet of him in case they were carriers of a fatal infectious disease. Margaret remembered the long conversations she had had with him. She was always surprised at how reasonable he sounded. Sometimes she came away and found herself looking at the world through his eyes. In many ways he was right. Danger lurked everywhere. Nothing was safe and certain. What was the saying? ‘You know not the day nor the hour.’