by Rose Doyle
He sat very still, unable to look at her for the tears in his eyes. No one had ever told him they didn’t believe he was a murderer, not a single person since the night it all happened. Not even his mother. True, no one had actually called him a murderer either. Not exactly. They’d all just moved back, out of his life.
“Enough is enough,” was all his brother had said by way of explanation. Nothing more.
“Thank you, Julia,” Joe said when he felt able to trust his voice. “Thank you for that.”
Then, because he felt they’d talked enough about him, and also because he really wanted to know, he said, “Tell me about the men who were here last night. Who were they? Why did they frighten you so much? Will they be back?”
Julia Ryan left the table with the teapot. She busied herself emptying tea-bags and waiting for the kettle to boil. Her shoulders were very straight; rigid, in fact. She seemed terribly fragile.
“They came on behalf of my husband.” She spoke without turning around. “They’re not friends of his exactly, more like accomplices. They say there’s honour among thieves, don’t they?” She turned. “Kettle’s boiled. Would you like coffee this time, or will I make tea again?” She seemed distracted.
“Tea. Thank you. I have to say I didn’t notice any honour among the thieves I met in prison. Just plenty of lying and treachery.”
“I suppose you’d know.” She turned to make the tea. “But it does seem to me that there’s a sort of honour among George and his accomplices. They’re all thieves, every last one of them. George is the biggest thief of all.”
“George is your husband?” Joe asked.
She nodded and stood watching a cat cleaning itself on the wall behind the house. She had become very still again.
“Was he a thief when you married him?” Joe asked. He was becoming worried about her. She was too restrained by far. Another woman would have been angry, railing against a husband who had let her down and whose mates made threatening night-visits.
“He was always a thief, only I didn’t know it when I married him.” She spoke in a flat, thin voice. The cat moved off, eyeing a hungry bird. Julia brought the tea to the table and sat down. “We were married for two years when he was caught the first time. That was for a job on a jeweller’s shop. Angie was six when he got out of jail. She was ten when he went to jail again, for house burglary. He tied up an old man that time, so he got another four years. We moved here when Angie was seventeen. I don’t know where the money for the house came from and knew better than to ask. I live in fear of it being taken away from me.”
She began pouring the tea: first her own, then Joe’s.
“I told him if he ever went to jail again our marriage would be over. He was caught and put back inside just over a year ago. He got two years that time, but he’s getting out early for good behaviour. He’s had enough of jail.”
She lit a cigarette. Joe had never seen her smoke before. But the box was open when she took it from her dressing-gown pocket, so it wasn’t her first ever smoke.
“He’ll be home for Christmas.” She blew a smoke ring. “The messengers who came with the news last night were Leo Mahony and Charlie Owens. Faithful followers and dangerous when they have to be.” She pulled on the cigarette until Joe thought her cheeks would cave in.
“They tell me he’s coming here and that I have to take him in. They say it’ll be bad for me if I don’t. There’s money he stole in this house, hidden upstairs. They say he wants to lie low here for a while, that he has plans to make. Then he’ll take his money and be gone. That’s what they say, anyway. But I don’t want him staying here. He can take his money and go, now.”
She wasn’t rigid and controlled anymore. She was shaking from head to toe, her teeth chattering.
Chapter 7
Joe was out of the chair and kneeling with his arms about her before he could stop himself. Before she could stop him.
“You’re not alone,” he said. “And you don’t have to be afraid. I’m here and I’m not leaving. Just tell him he can’t stay. He’ll be on probation. He won’t want any trouble.”
Julia leaned her head on his shoulder. He patted her hair, awkwardly, suddenly afraid of how close they were, of Angie appearing, of his own loneliness.
“You’re on probation too.” Her voice was low and hopeless sounding. “You don’t want to get yourself into trouble either.” She lifted her head. “You’re a kind man, Joe Brown. I saw it in your face the day you arrived at my door.” Her eyes were red from crying and surrounded by fine lines he hadn’t noticed before. He felt a surge of protective care for her and a surge of wild fury at the unknown husband who had frightened her so.
“If you’re afraid to tell him, and his friends, that he’s not welcome then I’ll tell them,” Joe said. He got to his feet and stepped back, but not too far. He kept a hand on her shoulder. Even under the towelling robe he could feel the warmth of her skin.
“No, you will not say a thing to George or his henchmen.” Julia was surprisingly firm. She shook her head. “It would only provoke them. I’ll say whatever has to be said. I just have to work out what that should be.”
She frowned, concentrating. Joe waited silently. After a few minutes, Julia clicked her fingers in the air.
“Got it!” she said, excitedly. “I’ll tell him the truth! I’ve rented out the spare room and, naturally, he can’t sleep in my bed because I’m divorcing him.” Her face was flushed. She avoided looking at Joe. “He can’t argue with that, can he?”
Oh, yes he can, Joe thought. He sounds like just the kind of man to argue about another man being in his house. Aloud, he said, “If he’s wise he’ll stay away, avoid any more trouble with the guards.”
“I’ve thought of a way to make peace with him.” Julia left the chair and walked up and down, quickly, agitatedly. “I’ll ask him to dinner on Christmas Day. That’ll keep him quiet. Sort of. It’ll buy some peace, at least.” She stopped, a rueful expression on her face. “He’s still my husband, technically. And he’s Angie’s father. It seems to me the least I can do.”
Joe didn’t argue with her.
He didn’t go to work that morning. He left the house all right and, for the benefit of Julia who was waving goodbye from the door, headed in the direction of the library. He called in sick from the first phone box he came to. Then he headed straight for the park. Once there, he sat on a bench for several hours. He didn’t notice the cold. He was thinking, considering every angle of the morning’s events, working out what was best for him to do.
He was glad he hadn’t told Julia the whole truth. He knew she hadn’t told him the whole truth of her story either. People were never really honest with one another, in his experience. Not completely honest, anyway. He asked himself too why Julia hadn’t called the guards to remove her unwelcome visitors of the night before. The only answer he could come up with, and which he felt reasonably sure was right, was that Julia didn’t want trouble any more than he did. She’d clearly had enough grief and unhappiness to last her a lifetime.
As he had himself.
Christmas Day dawned bright and clear. Joe first woke at about six in the morning, aware of a presence in his room. Through half-open eyes, and with his brain half asleep, he saw his bedroom door close on a retreating, white-clad figure.
Julia had left a silver-wrapped “present from Santa Claus” at the foot of his bed. He opened it slowly. It was a long time, more than twenty-five years, since Santa, or anyone else, had left a Christmas present at the end of his bed. He came from the sort of family in which there was no place, as his mother liked to put it, “for life’s useless frills”.
The fine, dark-green wool jumper, in a nest of soft tissue inside the silver wrapping paper, was Italian and expensive. He’d never owned one like it.
He wore it going downstairs three hours later, when a flurry of movement assured him that Julia was up and moving about. Mother and daughter were in the kitchen drinking coffee when he arrived in. Angie
, dressed in black, gave him what for her was a bright, seasonal grin.
“Morning, Joseph,” she said. “A very Happy Christmas to you.” She raised her coffee mug in salute. “I like the jumper,” she added, her grin widening.
“I like it myself,” Joe said, looking at Julia. “Santa Claus has good taste.”
Julia flashed him the pale version of her smile that he’d grown used to in the weeks since the men’s visit.
“He got the colour right anyway,” she said. “It suits you. Happy Christmas, Joe.”
She was dressed quite drably herself. She was wearing a loose brown shirt over jeans. She still looked lovely, because she could not have looked otherwise, but she lacked the sparkle she used to have.
George Ryan, due at three that afternoon for dinner, had not been at all pleased by Julia’s refusal to allow him to stay in the house over Christmas. Julia had already told Joe how he had bullied and blustered when she’d telephoned him in prison the day before his release. He’d even threatened to arrive anyway.
But Joe, standing with an arm about her shoulder, had made sure her resolve didn’t weaken. At his bidding, Julia had also phoned the prison governor, telling him of her wishes. As a result, George Ryan had been told, on the day he left prison, that he could visit his wife by invitation only.
Julia was more frightened than reassured. George Ryan made a bad enemy, she said. He would not take being told what to do, and being forbidden the use of what was still legally his home, lying down. He would take revenge, somehow. They would have to be very careful, she said, to be alert and watchful at all times.
Joe wasn’t afraid. Not for himself. His concern for Julia was another matter. There were times when he felt fear on her behalf, and a great rage at George Ryan.
“I left presents under the tree,” Joe said shyly. Buying the presents had been both a joy and a trial.
Searching through the shops, just another person in the bustling Christmas throng, had been a joy. Wondering if he’d chosen correctly, having no one to confer with and being afraid to ask snooty sales assistants, had been the trial. He’d bought a long woollen scarf for Angie and for Julia a pair of leather gloves with fur trim. Safe enough presents, when you thought about it.
They loved them.
“Oh, Joe!” Julia gave him a quick hug. “You shouldn’t have spent so much of your money.”
Angie relaxed enough to give him a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks,” she said, wrapping the scarf about her neck. “I’ll wear it every day.”
They stood by the tree, close to the fire Julia had lit earlier, and had Irish coffees made by Joe. After a while they had breakfast. For the day that was in it, Julia had bought smoked salmon and Angie made scrambled eggs. By midday there was nothing for it but to begin preparing the Christmas dinner.
Chapter 8
Julia, making sure nothing could go wrong, had bought pre-cooked turkey, ham and potatoes. The pudding was from the local bakery. The brandy butter and trifle were from the supermarket. All they had to do was cook the vegetables and lay the table.
But, what with Julia taking time out for several nervous drinks and Angie constantly disappearing upstairs to make phone calls, things weren’t quite ready when George Ryan rang the doorbell, early, at ten minutes to three.
Angie answered it immediately. Her father stepped wordlessly inside and crossed briskly to the kitchen without taking off his coat.
“Very festive, Julia. Very festive indeed.” He smiled, without mirth, as he stood with his hands in his pockets and surveyed the table. George Ryan had his daughter’s dark colouring. But he wasn’t as big as Joe had feared. Best not to underestimate his slight frame though. The prison exercise regime would have made him fit and strong.
Prison couldn’t be held responsible for the cold, watchful eyes, thin lips and shark-like smile, however. Those features were all of George Ryan’s own making.
“You’re looking well, George.” Julia was cool. She kept her distance, standing with her back to the cooker. “Perhaps you would hang up your coat? You know where the cloakroom is in the hall.”
“I heard you had a house guest.” George spoke softly, his eyes on Joe. He made no attempt to remove his coat.
“I’m sure your bully-boys have kept you informed,” Julia said. “So you must also be aware that Joe is a paying guest.”
“He’ll be dining with us?” George Ryan didn’t raise his voice. Nor, not even for an instant, did he take his eyes off Joe.
“We’ll be having Christmas dinner together, yes.” Joe took a step forward and held out his hand. “Joe Brown,” he said.
George Ryan ignored him. “Not a family meal then?” he said, looking at Julia with an eyebrow raised. Joe dropped his hand.
“What would you like to drink, Dad?” Angie’s voice, from the doorway, broke the mounting tension.
“Get me a glass of whiskey, there’s my girl.” George Ryan turned sharply away from Joe and went with his daughter, arm about her shoulder, into the living-room.
Julia began putting the meal on the table at four o’clock, by which time George Ryan had had several large glasses of whiskey. A subdued Angie watched him cautiously. She kept out of his way as he paced the kitchen, waiting while Julia put the finishing touches to the meal.
“There now.” Julia lit the last of the candles and stepped back. “That’s everything. You can all take your places.”
“And where might my place be?” George asked. “Would you prefer me to sit at the head or foot of this Christmas charade you’ve prepared, Julia?”
“Sit wherever you like, George,” Julia said, shakily. “The table’s round so it’s all the same where you put yourself. Let’s just get started before the food goes cold.” She sat down, quickly, on the chair closest to where she’d been standing.
“After you, Mr Brown.” George Ryan was exaggeratedly polite, bowing in Joe’s direction. “I wouldn’t want to take your place at the table.”
Joe, without a word, sat on the chair nearest him. Angie did the same. George Ryan remained standing.
“Help yourselves,” Julia said, taking her own advice and beginning to heap turkey slices onto her plate. Joe reached out to fork a piece of ham.
“Not so fast, my friend!” George Ryan moved so quickly that Joe didn’t even see the knife until it had pinned the sleeve of his new jumper to the table. Julia screamed.
“There’s no man going to feed his face at my table before me.” George Ryan leaned across the table and held hard onto the handle attached to the long stiletto blade. He hissed into Joe’s face. “Drop the meat, Mr Brown.”
“You’re tearing the sleeve of my jumper,” Joe said.
“So I am!” George Ryan affected surprise. “Such a fine garment too. Wouldn’t be a present from my wife, by any chance? Noticed it when I came in. She gave me one very like it a few Christmases ago. Dear Julia is not overburdened with imagination, I’m afraid.” Smiling his shark’s smile, he twisted the blade, deliberately and slowly, catching more of the sleeve, and made the tear bigger.
“Don’t, George. Please don’t do this.” Julia was crying, an edge of hysteria in her voice. “Joe hasn’t done you any harm. It’s Christmas, for God’s sake …”
“No harm?” George Ryan was suddenly shouting, his voice full of boiling rage. “He’s moved into my house. He’s living off my money. He’s very likely in my wife’s bed – and you say he’s done me no harm? How do you think the set-up here makes me look in front of my mates? In front of my own daughter?”
When he put his free hand on her shoulder, Angie gave a small scream and jerked herself free. She sat then with her head in her hands, shivering.
“Leave her alone, George.” Julia spoke quietly.
“How do you think this situation makes me feel, Julia?” her husband asked again.
Keeping the knife pinned firmly to Joe’s sleeve, he leaned across the table. His face, white with fury, was about a foot from Julia’s as he went on. “Did you t
hink at all about how I would feel about this clown being here? Did you?”
With his free hand he thumped on the table, too close to where a candle stood in its long silver holder. With a crash, and an arching flame, it toppled and smashed into Joe’s wineglass. The wine, a spreading, dark-red pool filled with shards of broken glass, held everyone’s silent, shocked attention.
It had covered a good third of the white tablecloth when Joe, enraged and suddenly maniacally strong, erupted from his chair. He grabbed George Ryan by the neck and held him tightly enough to make the other man give a strangled gasp and turn red. Then he lifted him off his feet and propelled him across the room. Pinning him against the wall, inches from the holly wreath hanging there, Joe hit George Ryan three times, hard. The third time Joe’s fist smashed into George Ryan’s face, blood sprayed from his broken mouth onto the holly leaves.
“Joe – no! Let him go!” Julia’s frantic cry came as she bundled Angie out of the kitchen and into the hallway. “That’s ENOUGH, Joe! Stop it!” Her scream, as she stood in the open doorway, carried a real and compelling force. Joe stepped away. George Ryan, propped up by the wall, rubbed a hand across his face before looking dazedly at the bloodied result on his palm.
That might have been it. That might have been all that was needed to end what became an unending tragedy for all concerned. It might have if George Ryan, face beginning to swell and eyes venomous, hadn’t turned to snarl at his wife. “You’ll pay for this, Julia.” He took a step in her direction. “I’ll get you if it’s the last thing I do –”
The sound made by Joe Brown was animal-like. The speed with which he moved back into the fray was inhuman. By the time George Ryan had raised his hands to defend himself it was too late.
Chapter 9
It took Joe and Julia two hours, working flat out, to clean the kitchen of blood.
It took another eight hours to drive George Ryan’s body, wrapped in heavy-duty plastic bags, to an isolated County Clare headland. James Mulberry had spent boyhood summers there. Remembering, Joe Brown decided the wintry Atlantic seas surrounding the area would be the ideal place to dispose of the body.
