Mary, Mary

by Julie Parsons

  A pair of tights, discarded, lay in a tangled heap on the dirty white tiles. Cold water dripped into a stained wash basin. A ventilator high up on the cobwebbed wall whirred fitfully, its white plastic louvres flicking erratically open and shut. Margaret stood in front of the smeared mirror. It was very quiet down here in the basement below the Round Hall. The ladies’ toilet was a decrepit comparison to the splendid formality of the rest of the building.

  She opened her bag and took out her hairbrush. She undid her hair from its clasp, and pulled the brush methodically through the dark strands. Then she smoothed her hair back from her forehead and fastened it again at the nape of her neck.

  There was the sound of water gushing from a cistern and the cubicle door behind her opened. Margaret watched in the mirror as a woman approached. She stood at the basin and held her hands under the tap. She carefully soaped her fingers, rubbing between them, and massaging her palms together. Then she held them under the tap again, the large diamond ring on her left hand scraping against the enamel. She turned away and dried her hands thoroughly on the damp roller towel. Then she turned back to the mirror. She opened her handbag and took out a lipstick. She pulled off its gold-coloured cap, and wound up its red, shining point. She leaned forward towards the mirror, shaping first her full upper lip with one careful movement, then wiping more colour across the lower one. She took a tissue out of her bag and blotted her mouth carefully. Then she put away the lipstick and the tissue. She stood back and looked at herself in the mirror, turning slightly from left to right to check her reflection. Jimmy’s bright blue eyes looked back at her. She smoothed down her tight black sweater over her heavy breasts, and straightened her short skirt. The Lycra in her stockings gleamed, stretching tight over her hard, fat legs. She ran her hands through her tousled blonde hair, pouting at herself in the glass. Then she opened her mouth wide again and stepped forward, baring her teeth, running her tongue over them. She looked for the first time in Margaret’s direction.

  ‘He didn’t do it, you know,’ she said.

  Margaret said nothing.

  ‘He didn’t. Really. The police framed him. They couldn’t find the real killer so they stuck it on our Jimmy. It’s complete rubbish. He wouldn’t hurt anyone. He’s a real sweetheart. Your daughter must have been going out with someone else. And that’s the person they should have been looking for, instead of intimidating our little boy. Keeping him in prison for all those months. Someone’s going to have to pay for this, you know.’

  Margaret looked at her in the mirror, the fleshy face, the heavy body. She gave off a strong smell of perfume. Musky, clinging. Margaret’s gorge rose. She backed away from the basin, and took three long strides into the toilet. She sank down on her haunches, grasping the seat as a stream of thin grey liquid poured from her, filling her mouth with its bitter burning. Tears poured from her eyes as she vomited until nothing more would come. She thought of that woman as a girl, her girl’s body grotesque with her pregnancy, her girl’s body split apart by the baby who forced his way out. Had she loved him with a mother’s love, the way Margaret had loved Mary? Instantly, completely, totally committed to this tiny little person, so new yet so familiar?

  She sank down on the dirty floor, oblivious to the stains on the tiles. She could see the woman’s feet, still in front of the mirror. She was wearing very high black shoes, which distorted her insteps, crushing them into shape. Margaret wiped her mouth with toilet paper and rested her head on her knees. She watched the black shoes, standing with the weight thrown first to one side then the other. Then they moved, one after the other, out of sight.

  Margaret was cold now. She could feel the chill of the tiles through her skirt. She got up slowly, stiffly. She went out to the basin again, and rinsed her face and her mouth, careless of the water running down the front of her blouse. She put her hand in her bag and felt for the photograph of Mary. She took it out and gently kissed the smooth surface. Her daughter smiled back at her, reassuring her. This was the Mary she knew, the Mary who liked making scones and fairy cakes. The Mary who loved Anne of Green Gables and The Wizard of Oz. The Mary who could sing her way right through The Sound of Musk. The Mary who could do sixteen fouettés and was trying for thirty-two.

  ‘Hold on, my love, it’s nearly over,’ she whispered. But there was no reply.

  48

  For the first few days after he was let out of prison he couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t possible, not at all, to lie down and close his eyes, shut out all the wonderful sights, colours, shapes, smells, tastes and sounds. Why would anyone choose oblivion, darkness, when the world was so beautiful, so rich, so exciting?

  It had been raining that afternoon when he had walked from the Four Courts, but he had crossed from the shelter of the building to the footpath by the river and stood with his head back, and the raindrops sliding down his face. He had put out his tongue and tasted the water, bitter and cold, held out his hands and watched it collect in the cracks and crevices of his palms. And he felt so powerful. Now he could do anything. He had looked around for her. He wanted her to share in his triumph. But she was gone, driven away by the guards. Never mind. There was plenty of time. But the next day when he went out to Monkstown the house was empty. There was an estate agent’s board in the front garden, with the words ‘sale agreed’ stuck diagonally across it. He had nearly cried with disappointment. He had gone through the side gate to the garden and peered through all the windows. And although the house looked empty he forced the lock on the back door and went in.

  She had left nothing for him, except a pile of old newspapers in the kitchen and a couple of black plastic bags in the hall. He upended them and sifted through the contents. Nothing of interest. Rags, torn sheets, an old blanket with moth holes decorating it. There were dirty marks on all the walls, squares and rectangles, signifying absence and loss. He went up the stairs, slowly, running his hand along the banister, imagining that her hand was underneath his. In the small bedroom at the back of the house a lavender bag was hanging from a wire coat-hanger. It was tied on with a length of narrow pink ribbon, which he undid carefully, picking at the tiny knot with clumsy fingers. The lavender was encased in a piece of flimsy faded material. He held it to his nose and breathed deeply. But the smell only brought the daughter back to his memory. She had liked it, he remembered. There was that unusual bush of white lavender she had found that first day. But he didn’t want to think about any of that now except to learn from his mistakes. He had been so careless before, so much the amateur. If he had learned anything from his time in prison it was the value of planning and cunning.

  He wandered into the other, bigger bedroom upstairs. Here, a mattress and a couple of old pillows lay on the dusty floor. He sat down, with his back to the wall, and closed his eyes. He fell sideways and rolled onto his stomach. He buried his face in the pillow, and breathed deeply. It smelt stale and musty, but there was a hint of something, warm, living, deep down in the feathers. He rolled over on the mattress, and gazed up at the ceiling. He slipped his hand down into his trousers. Touch me, there and there and there, he whispered, keeping her face just where he wanted it. Right above him.

  He had looked straight at her at the moment when the judge had said he was free to go. Straight at her, not at anyone else. It was a wonderful moment. And he thought about it again and again and again. He wished that he could have had it on tape. He could have played it to her, the night that he phoned her in New Zealand, a week after she’d got back. His phone call must have been the last thing she was expecting. He thought that maybe she might have changed her phone number, that it wouldn’t still be the one he’d found in Mary’s address book, but she answered the phone herself, after just two rings. It was late there. About eleven o’clock, he calculated. She must have been in bed. Hallo, she said. Then again, Hallo. He didn’t speak. He lay back on his bed, looking at his photographs of her. Hallo, hallo, again and again. She was beginning to sound nervous. He blew her a kiss. Then she hung up. When he
tried the number again, a few minutes later, it was engaged. Silly woman, he thought. Phone off the hook. He supposed that she would get the number changed, but if New Zealand was anything like Ireland it would take a few days. He’d have a couple more scores before then, he was sure. And he could write to her too. There were a few things he wanted to send her. He would have to get out his negatives, print up a few good ones and put them in the post.

  He was surprised at how quickly life went back to its normal routine. His mother, the stupid cunt, had wanted him to move back home. She’d made him come and stay for a couple of nights after the trial was over. She’d had a celebration party. Not that there were many people at it. They’d invited Patrick Holland, but he declined the invitation. Didn’t give any explanation, just sent a note saying he couldn’t make it. Molly was there, as sweet and loving as ever. She’d been waiting for him in her usual place, sitting on the front steps, and she was bursting to tell him her news. I’m going to a new school, she said. And I have a friend. His name is Peter and he’s got black hair, and he has a dog called Fluffy. She was behaving, he noticed, with a certain sense of decorum. A new self-awareness. At first he wasn’t sure he liked it, that she didn’t fling herself onto his knee and cover his faces with kisses. There was something pricking at him, niggling. Jealousy, maybe, and for a moment he wanted to reach out and hurt her, make her realize that his love wasn’t unconditional. But he stopped himself. It wouldn’t be fair to do that to Molly. She wasn’t capable of understanding. Not like the others.

  Tina had been there, too, with her fat husband Bill. Jimmy had sat on the sofa, a beer in his hand, and watched the two of them. Tina was sitting in an armchair, her legs crossed, her skirt halfway up her thighs, and Bill was perched on the arm. He had his hand around her, his fat fingers gripping her shoulder, Jimmy knew he was just waiting for the moment when he could slide his hand down and grab her big tits and squeeze them. Jimmy wanted to do that too. Squeeze them so hard that his fingers would leave black marks that would take days to fade.

  And work was fine. Eventually. It took a while. To begin with there was a lot of talk, about him, not to him, but then people began to forget and soon the bookings started coming in again. It should be good through the summer. Lots of trips to Dromoland and Ashford Castle. Plenty of parties of rich Yanks coming over to play golf at Mount Juliet and the K Club. And he’d even had a couple of ageing rock stars hire him for a week at a time. That was fun. Those guys knew how to live. And they weren’t snobs. They always included the hired help. But none of it had been as good as those few weeks last summer. The only time in his life when he really knew what it was all about. He was so excited all the time. He didn’t want to sleep or to eat. He just wanted to be and to do. He’d been looking around to see what to do next. But he had to be careful. He’d seen that fucker McLoughlin a few times. Bumped into him, casually, in town. Not enough to constitute harassment, but it made him a wee bit worried. He’d toyed with the idea of going to New Zealand. He’d even gone into a travel agent to find out about planes, and prices and timetables. But he wasn’t going to make any hasty decisions. Planning and cunning. That was what he needed to remember.

  He looked at his watch. It was eleven-fifteen. Saturday night. The girl in the agency had been very specific in her instructions.

  ‘Jimmy,’ she said, ‘listen, this is a good job. They’ve offered big bucks. They want you for the next ten days. Beginning late on Saturday night. It’s an around Ireland trip. Just the two of them. You’re to pick up the wife from outside Bloom’s Hotel at eleven fifteen and take her to Wexford, where she’s meeting her husband. They’re staying the night there with some friends. Then next day you’re to carry on with them to Cork. She’ll give you all your instructions when she meets you. They’re paying top rates. And a bit extra. So be on your best behaviour. OK? The name? Let’s see. Mr and Mrs Blake. OK?’

  He had driven in from the canal, along Leeson Street, the road slick and shiny. Then spun around the Green and along South King Street. The crowd from the Gaiety was spilling out in front of the traffic. The usual happy Saturday-night bunch, women who looked like his mother, costume jewellery and smudged lipstick. He blew his horn at a couple who were wandering down the white line. The man turned around and gave him two fingers. He was tempted to put his foot down and show him. But he contented himself with rolling down the window and shouting. When he pulled up in Anglesea Street, though, it was quiet, only the muffled boom of a nearby disco to tell that it was the weekend.

  He reached into the glove compartment and took out Molly’s shell. Funny, really, how things work out. He’d been so angry with Molly when he discovered she’d taken it from the car, but it had been just as well. When the cops searched his house and the car all they found were hairs and fibres. He could have said that Mary had given him the shell, but that just might have raised more questions about where her bag had got to, and he didn’t want that. He’d had to bribe Molly with an extra large box of chocolates to give it back when he came home. He held it to his ear and listened. The song of the sea whispered to him.

  He looked at his watch again. Eleven-twenty. Come on, come on. He fiddled with the radio, switching from station to station. He wanted to get going. He liked the idea of driving through the dark with a woman he didn’t know. He looked in his rear-view mirror. A woman was approaching the car. She was small and slight, her face in darkness shrouded by a long, light shawl, which was looped about her head. She stopped and he got out and went around to the passenger side. She turned to face him. His heart leaped in his chest and blood surged through his eardrums, blocking out all the other night-time sounds.

  ‘Hallo, Jimmy,’ she said. ‘Open the door.’

  49

  So it has come to this.

  McLoughlin sat in his kitchen by himself. He had opened a bottle of wine and drunk most of it. The remains of his dinner were congealing on his plate. Pork chops, mashed potato, and a salad. He had picked at it, then left it. He began to scrape the meat onto the cat’s dish on the floor, and then he remembered. There was no cat any longer. He had gone when Janey went three weeks ago.

  He had never got around to having that conversation with her. He thought back over those days and weeks, looking for the tell-tale signs, the clues, the gestures. But he could remember very little of anything other than the case, the dead girl, her mother and the trial. He picked up the bottle and poured the end of it into his glass. Drink was part of it, a big part of it if the truth was to be told. God knows what it had done to the structure of his brain. One thing, however, stuck in his throat. She hadn’t even told him to his face. He’d come home that terrible night after Fitzsimons had been released and there was a note. Just a fucking note. Written on a piece of lined paper torn from a spiral pad. It was lying open on the kitchen table, not even in an envelope. He’d sat down and picked it up, carefully pulling off the jagged scraps of paper along the top, and piling them into a little heap as he read. Two lines of Janey’s neat sloping writing. He tore it, first in half, then half again, and laid the pieces down on the table. He spent the next half-hour matching them up, Sellotaping them back into place. Then he pinned the patchwork paper up on the noticeboard, alongside all her flyers about evening classes and morning courses and weekend workshops. He’d walked around the house and looked to see what she’d taken. Not much. Her clothes, of course, and her books. Her old LPs. A few photographs. Not, he noticed, the one on the mantelpiece, the one taken on the pier. She’d lit the fire in the sitting room before she went. He sat down in front of it and warmed his hands, and in spite of himself he began to cry. He slept that night in the same place, curled up on the hearthrug with a couple of blankets wrapped around him.

  Later, he noticed other things she’d taken. The lawn-mower, for instance, and some, but not all of the tools in the toolbox. The electric drill and the box of bits, and a wood sander. She didn’t say in her note where she was going and he realized that he didn’t know who to ask. A week la
ter he got a letter from a solicitor, informing him that she wanted a legal separation. He kept waiting for the phone to ring. But it didn’t. So after a few more days he made his way to the women’s centre where she’d spent so much time.

  ‘McLoughlin, Jane McLoughlin?’ The woman behind the desk shook her head, her long bead earrings writhing sympathetically. ‘Doesn’t ring a bell.’

  ‘Well,’ McLoughlin paused for a moment, ‘perhaps she was using her maiden name, Reynolds. Jane Reynolds.’

  ‘No,’ she replied, with another vigorous head-shake. ‘Don’t know anyone by that name. What does she look like?’

  ‘She’s—’ McLoughlin stopped. He couldn’t describe her. The twenty-five-year-old Janey or even the thirty-five-year-old, yes, definitely, but the woman as she was now? He turned away, slowly. ‘It doesn’t matter. I’ve probably got the wrong place.’

  Funny, he thought. Here he was. A guard. Supposed to be able to find people, observe them, know what was going on, investigate their inner secrets, the dark and nasty things they keep under the stones of their everyday lives, and when it came to it he hadn’t even noticed what his own wife was doing. And now she was gone, he couldn’t even find her.

  The house was cold. A layer of dust covered all the hard surfaces. Sometimes when he sat down on the sofa he felt as if a puff of fine grey filament was floating out of the upholstery, hanging in the air for a moment then falling all over him. Like a picture in a children’s fairy story. Grey shards of cobweb drifting, then settling, holding him immobile, in place. Fixed. He tried to analyse what was happening, work out what was going on. He knew he hadn’t loved her for years. He’d spent most of them tormenting her, careless of her feelings, her desires. So he should be pleased that she was no longer here to annoy him, to shout at him, to get in his way. Christ, he groaned. Don’t tell me you’re suffering remorse, not that disgustingly hypocritical bullshit that you’ve seen so many others come out with when it gets too late. But it wasn’t that. He didn’t want her back. He had no illusions about his ability to live with her. It was just, it made him see what a waste it had all been. What had he been doing for all those years? He sat now in the evenings on the sofa by the unlit fire or at the table in the kitchen, always with a glass in his hand, and he didn’t know how he was going to put in the time.