Darling Jim

by Christian Moerk

  I unzipped the pocket and stuck two fingers inside.

  What I felt was cold metal. I pulled out something golden and jangly that I’d seen a dead woman wear on the last night she drew a breath:

  Sarah McDonnell’s missing earring.

  I held it in my hands long enough to know for sure that my aunt’s new boyfriend, and the object of my fantasies, was a stone-cold killer. For the briefest moment, I considered slipping the gold hoop into my own pocket, but I knew Jim would notice it was gone. So as quietly as I could, I put it back, went back downstairs, and selected a smile appropriate for the occasion. Only Róisín read my blank expression and knew something ugly hid underneath.

  Later, when my sisters helped serve the coffee, I was finally alone with Jim.

  I stood with my back turned, putting spoons on saucers and trying to act normally, when I felt his breath on my neck. And I have to be honest with you. It was a toss-up between terror and thrill. Because, despite everything I knew, I couldn’t get that night on the floor out of my head.

  “You’re ungrateful, you know that?” he said, never raising his voice or even bothering to sound threatening. “We had a good business, me and old Tomo. And then you go and follow us up the shagging mountain and see what we do. Can you blame him for wanting to carve you up like a flank steak? I mean, honestly?”

  “Tomo killed Sarah McDonnell,” I said. “Killed her sure as rain. But you kept the trophy.”

  He leaned over my shoulder with those wolf’s teeth and didn’t listen to anything but the black music in his own head. “And I killed Tomo for your bright eyes, d’you know that? He was going to do you and your two sisters and leave you in a ditch somewhere. Wouldn’t be persuaded otherwise. I took a hammer to his face, don’t ask me why. Maybe I’m becoming a soft touch. Or you were a hair better than most with yer skirt off.”

  The smile widened and became warmer as the voice dripped nothing but honeydew.

  “But I make you this promise. I like hiding behind your Aunt Moira’s skirts, confounding the gardaí. Fuck up that snug arrangement, like talking to yer good friend Bronagh one more time, and one of you three won’t see the light of day.” He gave my neck an almost friendly, reassuring brush. “So relax. We can all have a lot of fun.”

  I was about to ask him how much fun Mrs. Holland had when he squeezed the life out of her, but Aunt Moira came in the kitchen just then, with empty plates and a short come-hither dress.

  “What are you two plotting?” she asked in jest, but still searched me with those radar eyes that remembered where Jim’s pecker had been shortly before it chose her.

  “Nothing but mayhem, darling,” he said, turning slowly and kissing her on the neck. I could feel her delighted shuddering from where I stood. “And how to keep other men away from you.”

  It was so blatant, so obviously fake, I was sure Aunt Moira must have seen what lay beneath the smooth voice and easy smile. Instead, she let herself be wrapped in his arms as I carried out the tray and served dessert. She was a true believer, even with evidence staring her in the face.

  I DIDN’T CARE about Jim’s threats. God forgive me, I didn’t, and I called down the wrath of all the most sinister demons on one of the two people I’ll soon die for. For two days, I thought of how to tell Bronagh about Jim in a way that wouldn’t make her lock me up right then and there, and also not arouse Jim’s suspicions.

  But he wasn’t done shoring up his defenses, oh, no. I told you he was always a step ahead. So when me and my sisters each got a phone call from our aunt to meet her for tea on a regular Sunday afternoon, we knew it wasn’t to discuss the menu for next week.

  Aunt Moira had dressed in her new come-hither best—a black dress with a leather sash—and wore heels that would have caused a nun to make the sign of the cross.

  On her finger, a diamond sparkled brighter than her eyes.

  “We wanted you three to be the first to know,” she said, lowering her voice to convey the idea that we were privy to a great announcement. “He’s asked me to marry him. Two weeks from today, down at Sacred Heart.” Moira looked at me and pursed her lips. “He especially asked that you be there, Fiona.”

  You bastard, I thought, not knowing what to answer, of course you did.

  “I’d be honored,” I managed to croak, and took a deep swig of red wine. Our aunt smiled, thanked us, and left a generous tip before sashaying out the door. My sisters and I repaired to McSorley’s Bar afterward, trying to make sense of it all over several dirty pints of stout. I felt like Jim had fashioned a noose, made from equal parts charm, jealousy, and pure calculation, and was now strangling me in my own desires. And I still didn’t know how to walk just down the street to Bronagh and tell her about the earring. I had half a mind to pump two shells into that ugly shotgun of Aoife’s and finish the job myself.

  ONE MORNING, JUST as I was in the middle of basic Irish history, Finbar moved things along all by himself.

  “Where is she?” I could hear him yelling out in the school hallway, and even Mary Catherine looked startled. “Get your hands off! I want to talk to her. Fiona! You can’t hide from me!”

  The door banged open and I saw a version of my ex-boyfriend I’d never imagined.

  His shirt looked like he’d slept in it, and the tie was frayed as he wobbled into my classroom smelling of expensive whisky. While only Mary Catherine held her ground at the desk right in front of me, a spot she’d won through ruthless infighting, everybody else shrank to the back wall.

  “How could you do this to me?” he asked.

  “Finbar, I have no idea what you’re trying to—”

  “You let him move in with your aunt like that? Your tinker whore? And you still sit down and have dinner with him, calmly as you please? Have you any clue what people are whispering about me?” His voice stumbled over that last me and became a sob.

  “This has nothing to do with you,” I said. “Now, will you please leave. You’re scaring the children.”

  “I’m not scared,” said Mary Catherine, both hands grabbing her desk as if Finbar was about to make off with it. Her face was a defiant little dinner roll of anger.

  “Shut up, Mary Catherine,” I snapped, feeling glorious about finally saying it. I had taken my eyes off Finbar for just a second to do so, when I felt his fist in my eye. The force of the blow socked me clear across the room, where I tumbled in a heap amid upturned desks and screaming children.

  When Bronagh came with the other blue mice, I looked a fright. My cheek was swollen, little David was crying, and the entire school was in uproar.

  “You want to file a complaint?” asked Bronagh, feeling sorry for me for the first time since I could remember. I could see her grumpy sergeant holding Finbar by the arm and whispering something unpleasant in his ear. Finbar was sobbing and kept nodding his head, big drops of teary snot dripping onto his Italian shoes.

  “No, let it go,” I said, feeling guilty as hell.

  Bronagh seemed to like that decision, for she put her notebook away and again gave me that American-cop-show pat on the shoulder that meant I was all right. Mrs. Gately, into whose good graces I had recently hoped I could return, let me go home for the rest of the day. Her tight smile meant I had to start all over from the bottom, now that I had brought destruction to her tranquil school, loose woman that I was.

  I slept like the dead all afternoon. Aoife and Róisín were both supposed to be over for dinner, but only my goth sibling made it on time, carrying a bottle of cheap red wine like a baby she’d kidnapped from an evil orphanage. We drank it and puffed half a pack of ciggies while we cooked. But Aoife still hadn’t shown up by nine and didn’t answer her mobile.

  “I saw her car earlier,” said Rosie. “It’s been sitting up by her house all day long. She’s not out with a fare.”

  “She’ll be here,” I said, trying to taste the sauce but feeling dread well up in me like an underground volcano. “She’s probably just found herself a new boy.”

  “Probabl
y,” said Rosie, and looked sad. “I miss Evvie,” she added, pouting, “but she’s coming out next week.”

  When it was past midnight, even Rosie got worried. She’d texted Aoife all night and heard nothing, which had never happened before, even if our Taxi Driver had got lucky with someone. So up we went on our bikes, as skylarks twittered above us in the summer sky, pedaling faster than we ever had before, because both of us had a sense of foreboding we didn’t dare tell each other about. In the pit of my stomach, I had saved Jim’s warning like a black diamond that grew in size and frightening carat the more I thought about it.

  Thump-thump!

  I recognized the sound long before I saw the open door flapping in the wind.

  “Aoife?” I called out, but got no answer. I looked at Rosie, who seemed unsure of what to do for the first time in years. The house was dark, and the hallway with all the dried hippie flowers on the wall was empty. A handful of leaves danced by themselves on the tiled floor, whipped around by the wind. Me and Rosie entered slowly, hearing nothing but the sound of our own thoughts.

  “Aoif, are you here?” whispered Rosie, scaring herself, I could tell.

  When we reached the living room, my fingers fumbled for the light switch and finally found it.

  And now it became clear what had happened.

  Both her comfy couches had been cut up like cattle, with woolen tufts hanging out of ragged gashes. Glass shards lay everywhere, along with Aoife’s favorite books, which had been torn to bits. White wine still pooled in eddies near the door, which meant this had happened recently.

  We were so stunned we didn’t notice right away that we weren’t alone.

  A figure sat in the corner, huddled in a blanket and cradling herself. She looked ancient, her eyes glazed over and staring inward at something horrible. Not a sound escaped her throat.

  “Aoife!” screamed Rosie, leaping over and taking her twin in her arms. Very gently, we removed the blanket and saw the beating she’d got. Red welts covered her arms and chest, and the polka-dotted dress had been torn to rags. She didn’t react to the sound of her name. For hours, we just sat there, huddled together like red Indians at camp, trying to forget the gruesome raid visited upon us by white cavalry and listening to the sound of our sister’s beating heart.

  When dawn came up, Aoife turned her head to me and said, “He told me it was your fault.” Her voice had been run through a filter that removed all emotion.

  It was Jim. Of course it was.

  While I made tea and tried to get Aoife to at least sip some of it, she told us how he’d come by under the guise of having to tell her a secret. As soon as the door had closed behind him, however, he had wiped the floor with her, torn her clothing, and raped her for hours.

  “He said the only reason he didn’t kill me this time is that Aunt Moira was expecting him home for dinner,” said Aoife, in that graveyard voice. “But he promised he’d be back.”

  I’ve told you before that the three of us became murderers, and that early morning is when we took our vows. While Aoife finally slept in my arms, I noticed Róisín picking out the sharpest knife in the kitchen and putting it in her bag.

  “Time to shut that fucker down,” she said, in the tone of voice that left no doubt she meant it.

  BUT WAIT.

  I hear my darling aunt downstairs again. Remember how I told you, when you first picked up this book, that I wasn’t sure how much time we’d have together? Well, we just ran out. So if you’ve read this far, say a prayer for us and hope that me and Rosie’s diaries find their way out of here somehow. Mine may make its way to the post office, and hers will be sent to where old Father Malloy, that old devil, can throw flowers on it. Perhaps I can hold off Moira long enough to keep her from hurting Rosie, but I’m not so sure. Maybe she’ll nail us both before I can get my licks in. All I’m begging for is one good chance to run her through. I won’t be seeing the pyramids now, so if you get the chance, take a picture of them for me.

  Here she comes. Easy, Rosie, easy. Don’t cry. Wait for it. I’ll protect you for as long as I can.

  And you, dear unknown reader, remember what I told you. Despite our faults, think kindly on my sisters and me. God bless you for turning the pages. Everything you’ve read is the truth, the good and the bad.

  Remember me.

  Remember us.

  And should you ever pass by our sainted aunt’s grave, feel free to spit on it.

  Part Two

  TRACKS

  OF THE WOLF

  • 4 •

  Niall rested his fingertips on the word grave for a long time and felt like he was drunk on a black exotic wine he would never be able to stop drinking.

  He could feel the blood thrumming in his ears and didn’t know which image from Fiona’s tale to hold up to the light for further inspection. Her first meeting with Jim? No, that was believable enough. The brief affair that changed her life, then? Should he reexamine the violent death she and her sister suffered along with their aunt, not a quarter mile from where Niall had sorted mail day after day? Impossible to choose. Disjointed, angry pictures raced through his head, both real and imagined, in which wolves and men in black skins pursued women up craggy hillsides and impenetrable forests. He touched that last page and felt as if he could see Jim, could almost reach out past the onionskin paper and touch his scruffy cheeks, to make sure he wasn’t just a creative figment of Fiona’s imagination. It impressed him that up until the final printed words, her handwriting hadn’t wavered or broken from fear. It was steady as a killer’s pistol eye right down to the last period. A fat line had been drawn underneath, like a final curtain. But what did it mean that Father Malloy “can throw flowers on it”?

  More than anything, he wanted to sit down with Fiona and just talk to her. He’d never met a girl like that, who dared to admit her faults and vulnerabilities while also making clear that her spine was made from some kind of rare, still undiscovered chromium steel. Would they have been friends? he wondered. Most likely she wouldn’t even have noticed he was there, like most girls he’d wanted to sit close enough to touch. He’d been past what people called “the murder house” on Strand Street a while ago and knew exactly where Fiona had swung that shovel, which didn’t quite cut off Moira’s head but secured her a headstone, all the same. Niall wasn’t going to go to Fiona’s grave and make some sentimental promise to see the pyramids, because he knew she would have rolled her eyes and called him an eejit for wasting his time with the dead.

  What to do, then?

  He turned the diary over in his hands, but differently this time, as if it were filled with liquid thoughts that could leak out if handled roughly. The guards, was it? Would he sit in a front office while some sergeant listened to how Niall had lifted the diary from the post office illegally and taken it home? Suppose as he tried to smile and extricate himself like a good Samaritan, that same fat-faced mucksavage put his sausage fingers to the keyboard and found out that one Niall Francis Cleary, only child to Martin and Sarah, had once barely escaped an assault charge?

  So what if it had happened when he was fifteen and had stood, back to the stone wall at school, while crazy Larry and his eager helper Charlie the rat had pelted him with rocks and called his mother a fucking cripple because she used a cane? So what if Charlie’s and Larry’s parents had withdrawn the charge only because Niall’s father had provided them with free plumbing and supplies and silent apologies for years afterward? They had never spoken of it at home. But whenever his mother made him dinner and asked him how it tasted, he could hear the gratitude in her voice.

  Sure. The cops would listen to him, wouldn’t they? Would they fuck.

  But the rest of what happened to Róisín and Aoife lay somewhere at the Sacred Heart Church in Castletownbere, if old Father Malloy was still there. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine who had managed to escape from the basement in Moira’s murder house. Was it Aoife and, if so, why hadn’t she been found? Could it have been the stalwart Evvie,
coming to the party late and leaving early? Or maybe poor Finbar had finally stopped crying and tried for a rescue but failed? It couldn’t possibly have been the town skeptic and brownnoser Bronagh, unless she’d begun doing actual police work instead of kissing up to her senior colleagues. Niall chose a fat elastic band from his desk and wrapped it around Fiona’s diary before stuffing it into his backpack. He was going to keep this accidental book of the dead to point him in the right direction whenever he needed some extra courage.

  This was one mystery he had to solve by himself.

  Brringg!

  Niall knew from the impatient intake of breath who it was before even hearing Mr. Raichoudhury’s overbearing voice.

  “It is half ten, Mr. Cleary,” said the most senior postperson in all of Ireland, whom Niall had forgotten about since opening the book and reading the first page. “Is one therefore to presume that you either have a terminal illness or that dastardly bandits stole into your abode last night and made off with all the clocks in the house? Because I expected you here at eight. Please, Mr. Cleary, be so kind as to enlighten me.”

  Jesus! Niall glanced out the salt-caked windows and saw the sun already hanging high above the construction cranes transforming the Mun into yuppie nirvana. Oscar glared at him and sprinted out into the kitchen rather than witness the impending humiliation. His orangeade-colored tail gave Niall a swat on its way out, just in case he’d forgotten who was boss.

  “I really apologize, Mr. Raichoudh—”

  “Am I to understand, then, that you aren’t missing a lung or some other vital organ? And that no intruders are holding you hostage to your duties, even now?”

  “I was reading a book, sir,” said Niall, running his fingertips over the black fibers again. He pretended he was speaking to Fiona on some divine two-way shortwave and tried tuning out the words of the little Napoleon.