Mary, Mary

by Julie Parsons

  She looked up, away from the photograph. An attendant was setting up a video screen. David Douglas was saying something about introducing video evidence. The young guard in the witness stand was explaining. Evidence taken from a television rental shop in George’s Street. Douglas pressed the button. It was Mary. She was looking straight at the camera. She was dancing, her mouth open, singing. She was smiling as she spun around on the footpath. The guard pointed to the numbers flicking at the top right of the screen. Date and time, he said. Behind her, cars and buses passed. Douglas took out the tape and inserted another one. Again he pressed the button. Mary again. Not as clear, taken from further away. The guard explained. Security camera at the traffic lights at the junction of Dame Street and Trinity Street. She was standing, waiting. Looking left, then right, then left again.

  ‘Hold hands, Mummy. This is the way to do it. No, Mummy, don’t run across the road. It’s dangerous. Teacher says. It’s not allowed.’

  Another tape. Security video. Again, the guard explained. From a camera inside the lobby of the Central Bank. She was standing on the steps outside the door. She had her back to the camera, but she was instantly identifiable. Curly hair, long legs, short skirt, skinny arms. A big bag slung over her shoulder. She looked at her watch. Then she began to hop. Up and down, down and up the marble steps. Playing the game. How many can you jump in one?

  ‘Come on, Mummy, you can do better than that. Don’t be such a scaredy pants. You won’t fall.’

  The time code on the tape said 23.15. She looked up. She waved, and ran. Jumped down the stairs and out of sight.

  The final tape. The traffic lights outside the Bank of Ireland in College Green. A car was stopped. Two people were sitting in the front. A young woman and a man. She was leaning over him. She was kissing him on the mouth. She sat back. It was Mary. The man was laughing.

  ‘So, Garda Byrne, can you tell the court. Can you identify the occupants of the car?’

  ‘I can, my lord.’

  ‘And they are?’

  ‘The young woman is the deceased, Miss Mary Mitchell, and the man is the accused, Mr Jimmy Fitzsimons.’

  The pain in her heart was worse now. A hand, turned into a fist, squeezing and squeezing. Squeezing the life out of her.

  46

  It rained again that night, and the wind blew from the east, dragging the sea up and over the wall, flinging it onto the road where it lay in puddles, which shimmered, black and orange, under the street lights. There had been a message for her when she got home. Scrawled in Nellie’s hand, with the stub of a pencil, on the back of an envelope. The estate agent had been to visit with a prospective buyer. They wanted to make an offer.

  She sat in front of the fire, too tired to do any more packing. The photographs were in a neat pile at her feet where Patrick had left them. She picked them up and sifted through them again. A couple were missing. One in particular she noticed. Mary on her eighteenth birthday. Wearing a party hat and a big grin. She had been born in July. Irish summer. New Zealand winter. In the photograph she was sitting on the floor, in front of the fire. Her legs were crossed, her head was resting on one hand. She was, Margaret remembered, a bit tipsy. There was to be a party, but they had drunk champagne together, on their own before all her friends arrived. Then she had left them to it. Stayed out of the way, gone to bed, read a book. Fallen asleep and woken hours later, the sound of music still pumping down the corridor to her room. She had got up warily, stepping across sleeping bodies, empty bottles and cans. Mary was lying on the sofa in the sitting room. She was crying. Margaret sat down beside her and stroked her hair.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I feel sad.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just do. I wish.’

  ‘Wish what?’

  ‘Wish I had a father. Wish he was here.’

  She had lain down on the sofa beside her, pulling her head onto her breast, murmuring words of love and comfort until Mary had fallen asleep, her breath coming out of her mouth in soft, alcohol-scented puffs.

  She had been so certain for so many years that she had been right. There was only one course of action open to her and she had taken it. She had been proud of her resolution, her hard work, her consistency. Nothing had been too much for her to do on her own. She had asked for help from no one. But now she no longer knew. She tried to trace back through her actions over the years. She had gone wrong somewhere. What had been her greatest sin? She supposed now that it was pride. She had been so proud of her success, her perfection, her ability to survive. But she had mistaken arrogance for strength.

  She got up stiffly. She walked down the hall, down the steps into the kitchen. She switched on the light. Her thin face and thinner body looked back at her from the reflection in the window. She sat down at the table and stared out into the darkness.

  Out in the darkness a car was parked, facing the sea. Music seeped faintly from it. Frank Sinatra swooping up and down the scale. McLoughlin sat behind the wheel, his coat collar turned up around his face. He reached forward and lit a match, holding the end of a cigar into the flame until it began to glow. He puffed hard, then let the smoke out in a long stream. Still his after-dinner treat. Not that he had had much of a dinner tonight. He had cooked it, as usual, at home on his own. Pasta with a tomato and anchovy sauce and a salad. But somehow his appetite had dulled, and he had scraped most of it into the bin. He had wondered should he keep it for Janey, but there didn’t seem to be much point. When he thought about it, he hadn’t actually spoken to her, face to face, for days. They left messages for each other on the answering machine and on scraps of paper anchored to the kitchen table with the salt cellar. I’ll be late. Don’t wait up. I’ll be late. Don’t cook. Don’t forget to feed the cat. Your mother phoned. Nothing important but ring her when you’ve a minute.

  He sometimes wondered if she had someone else. He’d tried the thought out for size, the odd time, waiting at traffic lights, standing in the queue in the canteen, sitting here now, wondering if she’d get home before him. He’d tried out the idea before, but it had never seemed to fit. Because he supposed he had been the unfaithful one, inconstant, unreliable. Always, it seemed, looking for something else. Even in Rome on their honeymoon. The day they had gone to the Spanish Steps and drunk strawberry milkshakes, frulati they were called. They’d sat too long in the sun at a little café near the Borghese Museum and Janey had felt sick, her pale skin reddening, the freckles on her bare arms standing out like crumbs of crusty bread.

  ‘I’ll go back to the hotel. You stay here.’ She had insisted. She didn’t want to spoil the day. He had walked with her, then kissed her goodbye at the iron door that led from the street. The nausea he could see had taken hold. Her face was as white as a St David’s lily. She waved him away, before turning quickly and running into the little lobby. And what was he to do? Except wander the streets, looking at the sights and the people, stopping in bars for cold drinks, until nightfall.

  ‘Per favore. Uno gin e tonic?’

  ‘Certamente, signore, gin-tonic.’

  Until he reached the Trevi Fountain, turned a corner and without ceremony it was there, in front of him, dolphins spouting, Poseidon with his trident, figures from a million postcards. Close enough to touch. And he remembered the scene from La Dolce Vita. Anita Ekberg in the water, her dress stuck to her like the skin of a ripe mango, and all the photographers scrambling to get the best shot.

  He sat on the low wall and threw coins, Irish pennies, and watched them spiralling down to add to the pile. There was a girl beside him doing the same thing. An English girl staying in the student hostel near by. A long tattered dress, light brown hair straggling down her back, arms and legs the colour of shiny bright autumn conkers. He had looked at her, and wanted her. Why? He didn’t know. He hadn’t done anything about it that time, but he had looked and wondered.

  He leaned forward and reached into the glove compartment. He pulled out a bottle. He unscrewed the top a
nd swallowed. He choked as the whiskey caught in his throat. It was time to talk to Janey. Properly, seriously, about the future. But now he heard above Sinatra’s plaint the sound of a car, slowly, passing him, and stopping. Right outside Margaret’s house. He held his wrist up into the pale glow of the streetlight. One a.m. He twisted round to look at the tall figure getting out. A man, carefully pushing open the creaking gate. Taking the front steps two at a time. Waiting for the door to open. Then ducking into the wedge of yellow light that poured out into the night.

  He sat and waited. Half an hour, forty-five minutes, an hour. He got out. A gust of wind blew water in his face. He took his handkerchief from his trouser pocket and wiped his eyes. He crossed the road and walked past all the other houses. He opened the gate quietly. He walked up the path, careful not to trip on the uneven slabs. The curtains in the sitting room were open. He took hold of the iron banister and walked up the steps. When he reached the top, he paused and leaned out as far as he could towards the window. He craned his neck to see inside. He could hear two voices. One light and high, the other deeper. A glow came from the room. Red and yellow. Shifting and changing. He put one leg over the railing, then the other, and holding on tight with his arms stretched behind him he leaned forward as far as he could. Two bodies dark against the fire. The steady ripple of conversation. The high and the low threaded through each other, punctuated with a gentle beading of laughter.

  His arms ached. He pulled himself back. He tiptoed down the steps again. He felt sick.

  47

  ‘You’re sure, aren’t you, Dave? The statement, there’s no problem with it, because you know, it all really stands or falls around the statement. Everything else is circumstantial. Finger-pointing at best. The forensics are fairly useless. So, we found evidence of her in his house. So what? He doesn’t deny that he knew her. So, we found skin under her fingernails? Again, so what? They had a sexual relationship. People do all kinds of things when they’re at it. The skin, even the bruises and bites, mean fuck-all without the statement. You did observe all the procedures, didn’t you, Dave?’

  They were sitting in Bewley’s in Westmoreland Street. It was coming up to nine o’clock. Finney was due in court at ten. McLoughlin had stood in the queue and ordered sausages, black and white pudding, rashers, hash browns and two rounds of toast. But he had barely been able to eat any of it. Last night’s whiskey had coated his mouth and turned his stomach into a sludge of bile.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Finney paused, his laden fork midway between his plate and his mouth. ‘Not hungry?’

  McLoughlin shrugged and pushed the plate out of his line of sight.

  ‘Well, I’ll eat it, then.’ He leaned over and helped himself, mopping up the grease with a piece of brown bread.

  ‘You’re OK about all of this, Dave?’

  Finney gulped down a mouthful of tea and gazed calmly at him. ‘What’s your problem? I’ve told you. And, anyway, you know the DPP wouldn’t have gone ahead with the charges if they were dubious about any of it.’ He buttered another piece of bread, and smeared it with marmalade. ‘You don’t look so good today. What were you up to last night?’

  He didn’t tell him. How he had sat outside her house, drinking from the bottle. Waiting. How he had been going to wait until whoever he was had gone, and then he was going to knock on her door and tell her. But he hadn’t. He’d fallen asleep instead, and woken with a stiff neck and foul headache and a uniformed guard from the Blackrock station banging on the window.

  They walked up the river together. It was another cold day, the sky a nervous and uncertain blue, wisps of dark cloud skipping from horizon to horizon. Monkstown had been yellow this morning, full of forsythia, thrusting its new growth, laden with astringent flowers, over the tops of granite walls, and pushing through dull privet hedges. And laburnum, golden pendants sweeping down onto the footpaths, shedding their petals in a gleaming shower. But the city here was grey and green, slick and shiny, even the river water giving off a metallic sheen.

  The court seemed more crowded today than before. More journalists, more casual observers. Margaret was squeezed into her usual place. He paused to ask her how she was, noticing the dark shadows under her eyes, but although she smiled politely, he could see that she was completely distracted, her attention somewhere else altogether. He took his place as usual at the back of the room, and waited for the prosecuting counsel to call Finney to the stand. It would be all right. He had checked everything that had happened that night in the station, taken care of the details.

  But now he could see it beginning to unravel. In front of his eyes.

  Dave Finney walked up to the stand. He stated his name and rank and took the oath. He began to lay out the evidence. He testified that they had called to Fitz-simons’ house for the second time on Wednesday, 30 August at 7.45 a.m. They had a search warrant. It took four hours for the technical team to complete their job. Fitzsimons was present the whole time. At 11.07 a.m. the accused was arrested and cautioned. He was then driven to Swan’s Nest for questioning. They arrived at the station at 11.50 a.m. They questioned the accused until 17.07, including an hour’s meal break. Superintendent Finucane renewed the detention order. They continued questioning the accused. At 22.05 he indicated that he was prepared to make a statement. He did not finish his statement until 23.45.

  Douglas took him through it slowly, carefully. ‘And, Sergeant Finney, your legal detention of Mr Fitzsimons expired at exactly 23.07. Am I right?’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘But the accused continued with his statement until twenty-three forty-five until, as I understand it, he was happy with what he had said, he had read it over and he had signed it. Is this so?’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘And, Sergeant Finney, he was aware that his time of detention had come to an end, that he was free to go, but he chose, voluntarily, to finish making his statement, is that correct?’

  There was a moment’s silence. ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘So now, Sergeant Finney, if you would be so good as to read the statement that the accused made on the thirtieth of August, nineteen ninety-five.’

  And that was where it all started to go wrong. Holland, suddenly on his feet, objecting, asking for the jury to be removed, stating that the inculpatory statement had been obtained when his client was illegally detained. That his client had not been cautioned again, that he had not been told of his rights, that it appeared that Sergeant Finney had at best been economical with the truth and at worst had perjured himself, that his client Mr Fitzsimons had been placed in an appalling position that night, six months ago. Ignorant of the law, never having been in a Garda station before, harassed, threatened, offered inducements, bullied, blackmailed, threatened and finally, the greatest crime, lied to by this officer.

  And not only that, not only what had taken place within Swan’s Nest station, that night, but there was the whole question of the search that had taken place in the morning.

  ‘I would like to enquire of Sergeant Finney, my lord, exactly what was the nature of the request that Mr Fitzsimons remain present during this search. Let me put it to you that Mr Fitzsimons was not free to leave the premises, was not free to go, for example, to leave the country, leave the county, even leave the city. That in effect his detention began at precisely seven forty-five a.m. when the guards arrived on his doorstep, and that it expired at precisely seven forty-five p.m., and not as the officer has stated at eleven seven p.m. Therefore, my lord,’ Holland said, his voice booming around the packed courtroom, ‘it would be my respectful submission that this statement should be ruled inadmissible and on that basis I would apply to have these charges against my client dismissed on the grounds of denial of my client’s rights to liberty, which are upheld by our constitution.’

  McLoughlin looked at Finney. His face was pale, his expression a mixture of anger, guilt and confusion. He looked from Finney to Fitzsimons. A gleam of understanding was illuminating his face. He looked for
Margaret, seated in her usual place. She turned slightly towards him, gazing around the room, from policeman to accused, from judge to the row of journalists seated at right angles to her. Then she turned and looked back, over her shoulder, at him. She looked at him, then through him, and turned away from him again.

  The two barristers were still arguing, discussing, debating. Citing cases to be consulted. A game of legalistic ping-pong, he thought, and who would be the most nimble, the most fleet of foot, the most able to hang on by the fingernails to the tiny crevices where advantage, not truth, could be found.

  He turned on his heel and walked out into the Round Hall. He was sick of it all. Too much involvement. Too close to them all. Suffocated by the misery and the pain, the tiny nuances of all these lives, which filled his nostrils with their identifying stench.

  He walked down the steps, out into the lobby, and opened the door. Outside, the air was fresh and surprisingly clean. A flock of seagulls swooped low over the river, shrieking loudly, moving as one, dipping down towards the green water, then back up again, their wings flashing white against the grey of the building, climbing higher and higher into the sky, then wheeling, still together, over the bridge and away. He leaned against a pillar, pushing his back up against the stone. He was tired.

  Behind him a stream of people came from the court. Words and phrases floated his way.

  ‘Incredible, isn’t it?’

  ‘Bloody guards, I thought they’d given up on all those heavy-gang tactics.’

  ‘Game-playing, that’s what it is. Just a way of barristers making more money.’

  ‘Statements, always dodgy.’

  ‘Don’t need corroboration, not in a case like that.’

  ‘Guilty as sin, you just have to look at him.’

  To hell with the whole fucking lot, he thought, and he turned and walked away, his hands in his pockets, his head down, and a hollow in his stomach.