I Saw You

by Julie Parsons

  She got out of the car. He sat and watched as she pushed open the gate and walked quickly up the front path. He watched her open the door. She turned and waved, then disappeared inside. McLoughlin reached into his pocket and took out his notebook. He flipped it open and wrote. Then he started the car and turned it around.

  He was sober now, completely sober, and wide awake. He drove slowly out on to the main road. A bully. So that was what Marina had been. A nasty bully. He could see the photographs. The wide smile, the glossy dark hair, the dark eyes crinkled up against the sun, the high cheekbones and long limbs: that was what she had been like as an adult. But what was she like as a teenager? They bullied the boy until he tried to kill himself. They made his life so miserable that he preferred to end it. He stood on the landing and tied one end of the rope to the banister. He made the other end into a noose and slipped it over his head. Then he jumped. He must have thought his neck would break. He must have thought he would die immediately. But he didn’t. He dangled from the rope. Then he fell. A teacher heard him. Breathed life into his body. Shouted and screamed until help came. And the boy was saved.

  McLoughlin pushed the tape back into the machine and began to sing again. ‘God Bless the Child’. Good for Billie Holiday. She certainly knew how to sum it all up. Rich folks and poor folks and never the twain shall meet. Look at Marina. Out of her depth in more ways than one.

  He drove slowly and carefully back towards town, back towards Marina’s small, neat house. He was sure he had seen some old school photographs on the wall in her study. He wanted to look at them again. See if they could tell him anything more about her. ‘What were you up to?’ he asked quietly. Marina’s face smiled back at him from the windscreen. Her mouth was joyful, but her eyes were sad and wary.

  He turned into the narrow street and inched forward. Cars were parked bumper to bumper but there was a small spot he reckoned he could just about squeeze into. He stopped and put the car into reverse. He turned the steering-wheel hard. Then he saw. The lights were on in her house. Upstairs and downstairs. He got out of the car and checked the number on the wall. He took out her keys and checked the number on the label: 18 Mount Pleasant Mews. He put his hand on the garden gate. It squeaked loudly as he walked through. Lights and music poured from the front windows, upstairs and downstairs. He moved quickly to the door. He slipped the key into the Yale lock, but the door was already open. At his touch it swung back and he stepped forward into the house.

  FOURTEEN

  The lights from the kitchen spilled out through the open door into the garden. Margaret lay back in the deckchair, a book open on her lap and a glass of wine in her hand. It was still warm. She could feel the heat coming up from the stone flags beneath her. She supposed it was getting late and she should go inside and to bed. But somehow she couldn’t find the energy to move. Another day had passed. Another of the days until the time would come for her to decide what to do. How to live the rest of her life. Whether that might be short or long. She picked up her glass and took a sip. The wine was good. Too good. She would have to learn to live without it. She put the glass back on the ground and closed her eyes. She was tired. It had been a long day. It seemed like an age since the morning.

  It had become something of a habit. Every day when Margaret left the house the girl, Vanessa, would be outside on the wall, waiting. She would fall into step beside Margaret and the two of them would walk along the road towards the Martello tower. If the tide was low, they would go down on to the sand, and if it was high, they would take the concrete walkway as far as the railway bridge, then turn inland and go behind the sea wall with the track on their right as far as the West Pier. Sometimes Margaret would turn on to the pier and walk the mile and a half of its length, Dublin Bay wide and bright to her left, the harbour with its bobbing boats and the passage to and fro of the fishing trawlers and the ferries to her right. And Vanessa would walk with her. Other times Margaret would continue on towards the town and the shops. She would do whatever small amount of shopping she needed, then go down to the sea front and sit outside one of the new cafés across from the town hall. She would drink her coffee and eat her muffin or Danish pastry and read the paper, the sun warming her arms and shoulders, the breeze from the sea snatching at the crisp newsprint, and Vanessa would sit beside her, sucking orange juice through a straw, humming snatches of songs and occasionally making comments about people passing or the pigeons that searched for crumbs beside their feet. They didn’t speak much. But that seemed to be a state that satisfied both of them. Margaret didn’t want to talk. She wanted to absorb as much light and fresh air as she could. Her time was running out. It was already mid-July. The anniversary of Mary’s death was 8 August. And that was when she had to act.

  Today she was going to the library in Dun Laoghaire. ‘Do you want to come with me?’ she asked Vanessa, as they walked up the hill from the harbour towards the railway bridge.

  Vanessa shrugged. ‘Might as well,’ she said. ‘Nothing else to do.’

  ‘What does your mother think about how you spend your days?’ Margaret stopped and turned towards her.

  Vanessa shrugged again. Today her face was sad, her mouth downturned, and there were dark smudges like bruises under her eyes. ‘She doesn’t notice. She’s too sad. She doesn’t sleep much and at night I hear her walking around the house. She keeps me awake too.’

  ‘It’s hard. I know what she’s going through. It was a long time before I could sleep and even now I go through periods of insomnia.’ Margaret started walking again.

  Vanessa sighed, and the sigh turned into a yawn. ‘She’s worse than she was in the beginning. Then the doctor gave her sleeping pills, but she stopped taking them because she said she couldn’t think. Now she still can’t think but that’s because she’s so tired. She’s like a political prisoner who’s been sleep-deprived. You know, they go mad.’ Vanessa’s clogs clip-clopped on the footpath like the hoofs of a trotting pony.

  Margaret smiled at her. ‘I know how she feels. I’d like to be able to suggest a treatment but unless she’ll take the pills there’s not much she can do.’ They stopped at the traffic-lights and waited.

  Vanessa jigged up and down. ‘And she was so excited when Janet, her old school friend, said she’d get a cop she knows to see if he could find something out about how Marina died. But she hasn’t heard anything much from him.’

  The lights changed and they went across the road towards the red-brick building on the corner.

  ‘I thought he was sort of nice,’ Vanessa continued, ‘but Mum had such high hopes. She thought he’d instantly come back to her and say he knew what had happened to Marina. But he didn’t inspire her with much confidence. He’s retired, you know, so he’s a bit ancient and past it, I’d say.’

  They walked up the library steps and in through the open doors. The lobby was cool and dark. Vanessa stopped to look at the noticeboard.

  ‘So has he found out anything?’ Margaret asked.

  ‘Not really. He asked her about the suicide note. Of course, Mum doesn’t think it is a suicide note. I don’t think she was very helpful, really. But that was a couple of days ago and she’d hasn’t heard from him since. I told her she should phone him. But she won’t. She says she’ll wait for him to ring her. She’s like a girl waiting for a boy she fancies to call. She’s nuts, really.’

  Margaret said nothing. She knew how Vanessa’s mother was feeling. She moved towards the swing doors. ‘I’m going to look at some micro-film. It’s kind of slow and boring.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ Vanessa said, ‘I like this library. I’ve been coming here since I was little. I know all the books really well. I’ll sit down and read.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure.’ Margaret fanned her face with a hand. ‘You don’t have to come with me, you know, if there’s something else you want to do . . .’ Her voice trailed away.

  Vanessa shook her head vigorously. ‘No, it’s better here. If I go home Mum will be going on and on about thi
s policeman, this McLoughlin man, trying to figure out what to do, and I can’t bear it any longer.’

  ‘McLoughlin, is that his name?’ Margaret looked at her.

  ‘Mm, Michael McLoughlin. Nice name, don’t you think? I like the Ms. I just wish he’d phone Mum or do something, but I told her it’s probably because he’s busy. But she said . . .’ she paused ‘. . . oh, I don’t know what she said. I don’t care any longer.’ She pushed past Margaret. ‘I’m going to find something nice to read.’

  Detective Inspector Michael McLoughlin. He had sat in the garden and talked to her. He had told her he would find the man who killed her daughter. He had made her think of a large sad bear. She had treated him with disdain and contempt and he had not taken offence. He had understood the way she felt. There was that day when he and the younger policeman had taken her to identify Mary’s body. They had stood on either side of the trolley. The thing between them was covered with dark green. McLoughlin had pulled it away. And Margaret hadn’t known what she was looking at. The thing revealed had shorn hair. The whiteness of the scalp was visible. The face was bruised and battered. The eyes were blackened and swollen and the nose was bent to one side. Margaret had reached down to touch her daughter and the younger man had put out his hand to ward her off. But McLoughlin had pushed him away. She had touched what was left of Mary’s hair. A tightly sprung coil released itself from the rest and curled around her finger. It reminded her of sweet-pea tendrils, which cling to the trellis supporting the flowering shoots. She had shouted then at the policemen to leave her alone and McLoughlin had pushed the younger man in front of him out of the door. And Margaret had stripped her daughter’s body so she could look at it from the top of her head to her toes. So she could see what the man had done. So she could count the knife slashes, the bruises, the bitemarks. So she could see how he had made her suffer before she died.

  ‘Can I help you?’ The young man behind the counter leaned towards her. Margaret realized that a queue had built up behind her.

  ‘Oh, sorry, um, yes, I was wondering if I could look at the Irish Times.’ She swallowed hard. ‘The date is April 2000. You have it on micro-film, I think.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right. Take a seat at the micro-film reader and I’ll get it for you.’ He jerked his head at the row of machines. She moved out of the way and sat down. Detective Inspector Michael McLoughlin, the man with the well-worn face and the kind smile. He had been so upset when Jimmy Fitzsimons got off. She had watched him walk away from the court, his head down, his hands in his pockets. He hadn’t known what she would do. He had thought she would be filled with despair. She had been, but it had been a despair that had driven her onwards. Driven her to kill.

  ‘You all right, Margaret?’ Vanessa bent down over her. ‘You’re looking really upset.’ Her arms were filled with books. Big picture books.

  Margaret smiled up at her. ‘I’m fine. I have to wait a while. What have you got there?’

  ‘Oh, lots of lovely things. All my favourites from when I was little. Look.’ There was an illustrated Alice in Wonderland, Where the Wild Things Are, Orlando, the Marmalade Cat, and a lovely copy of Charlotte’s Web. ‘I’m going to sit over there,’ she indicated the low tables in the children’s section, ‘and read them all.’ Then she asked again, ‘Are you all right?’

  Margaret nodded, as the young man from behind the counter appeared with two reels of film in his hand.

  ‘These are the ones you want. Do you know how to use the machine?’ He put them down beside her.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine, thanks.’ She threaded the first reel through the keepers. She switched on the light and spun the wheel. The days of April flashed by. She slowed down and saw the report of the finding of Jimmy’s body, the post-mortem, the police investigation. She saw the photograph of Michael McLoughlin and the one of Mary. She saw her own face, the picture taken at the funeral, and the picture of Jimmy. But she wasn’t looking for that. She spooled on through the days and found the death notices. She slowed down and read them carefully. And found the one she wanted.

  Fitzsimons, James, Killiney, Co. Dublin. Son of the late Brendan and Eileen. Funeral tomorrow after 10 o’clock Mass in the Church of St Matthias, Killiney, to Dean’s Grange Cemetery. No flowers please.

  There would be no flowers for Jimmy Fitzsimons. No swathes of lilies. No heaped bouquets on the mound of earth below which his coffin rested. Would there be mourners? She remembered his family in the courtroom. His mother with her lips tightly drawn together. His sister, the girl with Down’s syndrome, who cried and tried to go to him. And the woman Margaret had met in the ladies’ toilet, with her smeared lipstick and her laddered tights who had shouted abuse at her, insisted that her brother was innocent. Where were they now? Margaret wondered, as she spooled on to the next day and the day after. And there was another photograph of the coffin being carried from the hearse into the church. She recognized them all. Jimmy’s mother, her face pale, without expression. The young girl, bigger now, overweight, holding a handbag tightly with both hands, and the other woman, with her back to the rest of the group and a cigarette halfway to her lips. She read the report that went with the photograph.

  A small group of family members attended the funeral yesterday of Jimmy Fitzsimons whose body was found two weeks ago, five years after he mysteriously disappeared. Parish priest Father Eamonn O’Dwyer spoke of the peace that would now come to the family once the deceased was laid to rest. He spoke of the tragedy of Jimmy’s short life, and the healing power of prayer. He hoped that Jimmy’s family would find comfort in the sacraments. After the Mass a small group of mourners made their way to Dean’s Grange cemetery where Mr Fitzsimons was laid to rest. A representative of the Garda Síochána, Superintendent Finney, confirmed that the investigation into Mr Fitzsimons’s death was still active but so far they had not developed any further insights into how he died.

  Margaret pressed the print button and waited for the machine to disgorge the photocopy. She folded it and put it into her bag. She spooled the film back, took it out, then stood up and walked back to the counter. ‘Thanks very much,’ she said.

  ‘Did you get everything you needed?’ the young man behind the counter asked.

  ‘Yes, it was great, thank you.’

  She turned away and looked for Vanessa. She could see her red scarf, her head above the pile of books. She took a step towards her, then stopped. Vanessa was safe and happy here. Better here than where Margaret was going. She moved back behind the carousel of CDs, then walked quickly towards the heavy swing doors. She pushed them open. Bright sunshine shone into the lobby. She stood for a moment, feeling the warmth on her face. She would walk the couple of miles to Dean’s Grange. It would be good to get the exercise. Good to feel the sun on her head and the gentle breeze on her face.

  She settled into her stride. Her legs moved smoothly, her arms swung rhythmically. A van passed her, and the men inside leaned out the window, calling and whistling. She smiled, pleased and flattered by the attention. If they only knew, she thought, if they only knew what she had done, what she was capable of doing. If everyone knew what she was really like. What kind of a monster she had become. If Michael McLoughlin knew, what would he think of her? she wondered. He had been interested in her, that much was apparent. She could see it in the way he moved towards her whenever possible, the way he watched her when she spoke, the way he contrived to touch her. Brush against her hand, take her arm, lay his hand on the small of her back. She wondered if he had tried to contact her. She had heard from the letting agency that a man had called to the house, and she had expected to hear that the police had wanted to speak to her. But there had been no more word. No more interest.

  Now she could see the graveyard’s high grey wall and the tall gates. She stopped at the office. She gave the name of the grave. She followed the directions. She walked up and down the neat concrete paths. There were names here she recognized. Neighbours, women with whom her mother had played bridge and gossi
ped. Men who had worked in the civil service with her father, who had taken the train every morning from Seapoint station to Pearse Street and walked together through Merrion Square to government buildings. And among them all, among the slabs of marble, the angels and saints, the madonnas and crucifixes, was a small weedy plot, unmarked, unnamed. Just a wooden marker with a number painted crudely on it.

  She bent down to get a closer look and to compare it with the number written on the slip of paper in her hand. So this was Jimmy Fitzsimons’s final resting-place. The earth had settled unevenly and there was a small hollow at the head of the grave. Dandelions had flowered and now their nimbus of down waved delicately, waiting for the time to let the seeds fly. A tall bunch of thistles swayed from side to side, a butterfly resting on a fearsome leaf, its brightly coloured wings opening and closing slowly. Margaret held her breath as she watched. It was a peacock, the large false eyes on its wings glowing, almost iridescent blue. Its proboscis coiled and uncoiled like the spring of an old Swiss watch. Then, as Margaret watched, holding her breath, it lifted from the leaf and, with a languid flap, drifted away. She had a sudden image of Mary, walking down the front path, turning to say goodbye, a wave of her hand, her black curls lifting and bouncing, tumbling down the back of her dress. Her eyes were so blue, the bright blue of the peacock’s eyes. And she moved with such grace and ease. Her feet always seemed ready to leave the ground, so light was her tread. As if she had some kind of a spring in her instep, something that gave her bounce and levity.