I Saw You

by Julie Parsons

  She held up the old tennis ball. The dog barked and sprang high. She threw it as hard as she could. They watched the little animal scrabble after it.

  ‘Anyway, we got through it. And I told you, didn’t I, how I got something for Vanessa?’

  ‘Yes, you did. The cottage in Wicklow she’ll inherit when she’s eighteen. And that’s soon, isn’t it?’ The dog had found the ball and was running back to them.

  ‘Next week. But Marina died almost within sight of it, and now I don’t want Vanessa to have anything to do with the place. I’d like her to sell it.’ The dog dropped the ball at her feet. He was panting loudly. Sally patted his head, then picked up the ball again. ‘In fact, we had a bit of a row about it last night. I said that to her and she got indignant. Said it was nothing to do with me. That I wasn’t a de Paor, so what did I know about anything?’ She smiled. ‘Funny, isn’t it, when your kids start telling you what’s what? So that’s the way it stands. She’s a de Paor. I’m not. I suppose she’s entitled to her membership of the family. That’s what Patrick would have said anyway. If he was here.’

  ‘You knew him well?’

  ‘Pretty well. I remember, when I first met him I didn’t like him. I thought he didn’t approve of me. He was always abrupt and brusque. But when I got to know him better I realized that was just his way. Underneath it all he was lovely. Of course, you probably wouldn’t agree.’

  Margaret stopped. She felt light-headed. The sun was very hot on the nape of her neck. ‘No, I liked him too. I knew him, as it happens, from a long time ago.’

  ‘Did you?’ Sally turned to look at her. ‘How?’

  ‘Oh, you know. We had friends in common.’ Friends who had invited her to a Christmas party. Somewhere out in County Meath. They had arranged a lift for her. Patrick arrived. He was on his own. He made it plain he wasn’t pleased to have a passenger imposed on him. He didn’t speak much as they drove out of the city and through the winter countryside. He didn’t speak much to her at the party either. She was relieved when she found some of her own friends. But somehow, later on, they danced. And when he held her it was as if no other man had ever touched her. And later on when he drove her home, he stopped the car and kissed her. And it was as if no other man had ever kissed her. And when he asked if he could see her again, she said yes without thinking that he was married, that he had a child. None of that mattered. And when she got pregnant with Mary all that mattered was that she had a part of him. And she would hold on to that part for ever.

  ‘So what did you think when you saw he was defending that man?’ Sally’s face was a mixture of curiosity and anguish.

  What did I think? I thought he would help me get justice my way. That’s what I thought. Margaret chewed her lip. ‘I thought he was doing his job, that’s all. I thought that justice is a legal concept. It has nothing to do with what you or I might consider to be justice. What the court considers to be justice is the evidence that can be brought and proven. That’s all it is, plain and simple. And anyone who expects anything else from the court is a fool.’ Her voice was bitter.

  ‘Is that really what you think?’

  ‘Yes, it is. You have to get your own justice in whatever way you can. You can’t expect the state to do it for you. The way the courts function, it’s a game that clever men play with other people’s lives. You must know that, Sally. You lived with a barrister. You must have seen what he did. How many of the men he defended had killed? And how many walked away from the court as free men?’

  Sally didn’t reply immediately. She stared at the water. Flotsam had piled up against the rocks. Plastic bottles and chunks of white polyboard. A doll’s head, the size and shape of a baby’s, floated beside a rotten orange. It gave her a start. She caught her breath. Then she spoke: ‘James was an honourable man,’ she said slowly. ‘He had beliefs and principles. I respected them. He made me think about this country in a different way. He made me understand the nature of the repression of Catholics in Northern Ireland. He cared deeply about those men who had been driven to violence. He didn’t judge or blame them. He considered that their actions were political. They were motivated by the desire for political change, by greed or selfishness or the pursuit of pleasure. And he, like Patrick, was determined that they should have the best defence possible.’

  Margaret didn’t reply. There was no reply she could make. She who had killed too. She who had not paid for her crime. She who was still alive, here in the sunshine, with the wind on her face and the smell of the sea in her nostrils. Jimmy Fitzsimons had suffered in agony, on his own, in the dark shed at Ballyknockan. She reached for Sally’s hand and squeezed it. Sally smiled at her and squeezed back. They walked on towards the railway line and the path home, the little dog running happily ahead.

  They lay in the garden on deckchairs. A bottle of white wine, beaded with condensation, rested in a cooler. The dog drowsed in a pool of shade beneath the apple tree. His eyes were closed. His small paws twitched and he whined softly in his sleep. The smell of honeysuckle wafted down from the wall that bounded the garden. Margaret’s father had shown her how to suck nectar from the stamens when they had gone on holiday to West Cork. Wandering along country lanes, pulling honeysuckle from the hedgerows, bending his face to the roses as she twisted ripe blackberries from the briars, her fingers stained purple. It was years since she had eaten a blackberry. They were rooted out in Australia, poisoned, burned as a noxious weed. And she would not eat another, she thought. By the time they were ripe she would have made her choice and she would not be able to wander the fields and pick them.

  Sally stirred in her chair and refilled her glass. ‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘it was you, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Me? What do you mean?’ Margaret looked at her.

  ‘It was you Patrick had the affair with. James told me about it. Everyone, all his friends, knew there was someone, but no one was sure who it was.’ She smiled. ‘I can see it in your face when you mention his name. You must have loved him a lot.’

  Margaret picked up the bottle and topped up her own glass. ‘It was a long time ago. I was young. I didn’t know what I was getting into. I didn’t think about the consequences. For me or for anyone else.’ She drank some wine. It was very dry and very cold.

  ‘And what were the consequences?’

  Margaret didn’t reply immediately. ‘It was a long time ago,’ she repeated quietly. Consequences unimagined. And what was to come next? She felt a clutch of fear in her stomach. It had seemed so straightforward when she was in her house in Eumundi. Mary was dead. Jimmy Fitzsimons was dead. Patrick was dead. There was no one left who could be hurt. She had to face what she had done. She had to atone for her sin. She had to come back and face the consequences. But now? She pushed the fear back down into the darkness. She closed her eyes and turned her face to the sun. She felt its soothing warmth on her face. She lifted her glass. She drank.

  The afternoon passed slowly. They ate bread and cheese, small, juicy tomatoes and fat black olives. The dog woke and scratched, snapped at flies, then lapsed back into his dream-filled sleep.

  ‘Thanks for this,’ Sally said.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For letting me sit here with you. For not expecting anything from me. For allowing me to grieve without making any demands.’

  It was almost midnight by the time Sally left. Margaret walked with her past the Martello tower and up the steep hill to the main road. The dog snuffled in the ditches.

  ‘Thank you again,’ Sally said.

  ‘It’s my pleasure. It’s been a long time since I had some friendship in my life.’ Margaret smiled.

  Sally looked across the road towards the tall terrace of houses. ‘I hope Vanessa’s home. Of course, I feel neglectful of her now.’

  ‘Don’t. I think it’s about time Vanessa got back to teenage pursuits, don’t you?’ Margaret crossed her arms. She shivered. Tonight there was a chill in the air.

  ‘You’re probably right.’ Sally began to cross
the road. Then she turned back. ‘Just one thing I wanted to ask you. You know the man who killed your daughter?’

  Margaret nodded, her throat suddenly tight.

  ‘Well, I was wondering, what happened to him? They found his body, didn’t they, out near Blessington? But they never said how he died. Not really.’

  Margaret swallowed. Her mouth was dry. ‘He died of hunger and thirst. The most basic and simple way to die.’

  ‘But how?’ Sally’s expression was full of curiosity. ‘How did that happen?’

  ‘Someone locked him up. Someone made it impossible for him to eat or drink ever again.’

  ‘But who did it? Who would do such a thing? Who would want him to die like that?’

  Their eyes met. Then Margaret looked away. ‘Goodnight, Sally.’ She turned to walk home.

  ‘Wait. Wait a minute,’ Sally moved towards her. She kissed her on both cheeks, then took her head in her hands and kissed her forehead. ‘Goodnight, Margaret, goodnight.’ Her voice was gentle.

  Margaret nodded. No words would come.

  TWENTY-TWO

  The phone was ringing, shrill and insistent. McLoughlin buried his face in the pillow. He put his hands over his ears. Silence. He drifted back into sleep. Then the phone rang again. He turned on to his front and reached down beside the bed. His fingers scrabbled for the hard plastic. He dragged it up and peered blearily at the screen. But there was no vibration, no lights, nothing. He lifted his head from the pillow. He peered at the clock on the bedside table. It was bright outside, the sun edging around the curtains. It was late, nearly one o’clock. He yawned loudly, and heard the phone again. The sound was coming from the sitting room. He got up quickly, stumbling as he hurried from the bedroom along the corridor. Just as he went through the door the ringing stopped.

  ‘Shit, fuck it,’ he muttered, as he bumped into the coffee-table and cracked his knee on the corner. And then the phone beeped. Twice, loudly. And he saw it, on the desk beside the computer, its lights shining, then dimming. Marina’s phone. Where he had left it after he had rung the number and heard Dominic de Paor’s voice. He limped across the room and picked it up. There were three missed calls registered and the symbol for a message, the tiny closed envelope in the top left-hand corner of the screen. He carried it with him into the kitchen and put it down on the table as he filled the kettle with water. He plugged it in and switched it on, then picked up the phone, slid back the glass doors and stepped out on to the terrace. He slumped on to the bench. His mouth was dry and foul and he felt disoriented and weak. He pressed the numbers to get the message. He held the phone to his ear. He heard the voice.

  ‘I know it wasn’t Marina who phoned me. So who are you? And what do you want? Whoever you are, back off. Leave me alone.’

  He got up, went into the kitchen and made himself tea. He replayed the message. De Paor’s tone was angry and hostile. ‘Back off. Leave me alone,’ he said. But he had been wondering. Who had Marina’s phone? And why had they called him? He probably figured it was a random thing, McLoughlin thought. Some kid had got hold of the phone and was flicking through the numbers. Well, he was wrong. And perhaps it was about time McLoughlin went to see him. And told him. And told him a few other things too. Told him that he knew what had happened that night at the party. Told him how he had seen what had been done to Mark Porter and Marina. Asked him what he knew about Marina’s death. Asked him about his school days.

  He headed for the bathroom. He turned on the shower and stepped under the jet of water. He hadn’t got far with the weight loss. His body still made him cringe. And when he touched his skin it was as if it was covered with a thick unresponsive cuticle. He tried to remember what it was like to be touched by someone who loved him. And when was the last time he had touched someone he loved? Or thought he loved, perhaps. A long time ago. Shaking Margaret Mitchell’s hand when he said goodbye to her after the Jimmy Fitzsimons trial collapsed. Maybe that was it. That was the last time he’d had physical contact with her. Of course he had seen her after then. Saw her that night out in Ballyknockan. Watched her as she got out of the car that Jimmy was driving. Wanted to rush to help her. But stopped when he saw Patrick Holland. Realized he had no place in her life. And since then? She had come into his dreams at night, and filled his idle thoughts during the day. He remembered the shine of her dark hair, the grace of her stance, the timbre of her voice. Remembered how she lay in the deckchair in the garden in Brighton Vale. Made up stories about how they would meet again, what he would say, what she would say, what they would do.

  He stepped out on to the bathmat and pulled a towel from the rail. He flailed at his body. There had been a couple of others, brief encounters, one-night stands. The sex had been all right, but it had left him with a sense of guilt. Silly, really. He sat down on the toilet seat and dried between his toes. Margaret was gone. He would never see her again. And anyway, anyway, there could never be anything between them. Not since that night in Ballyknockan.

  ‘I saw you,’ he said the words out loud. ‘I saw you and what you did.’

  ‘I saw you.’ The same words that had been sent to Marina. What had she done? What had she been seen to do? Who had seen her? And what was the secret that those words threatened to reveal?

  He hung the towel on the rail to dry. And heard the phone ring again. This time it was his own ringtone. He hurried back into the bedroom and reached for it. And saw the name ‘Harris’ on the screen. ‘Hey, Johnny, how goes it? How’s my man?’ His tone was distinctly transatlantic.

  ‘Thought you’d like to know. Mark Porter . . .’ Harris said.

  ‘Yes, go on?’ McLoughlin cradled the phone between his ear and his shoulder.

  ‘Doesn’t seem to be much doubt. It was suicide. By hanging.’ His tone was matter-of-fact.

  ‘Anything strange about it? Anything about the rope?’ He pulled open the chest of drawers and rummaged one-handed for a clean T-shirt and underpants.

  ‘Well, it’s good-quality natural fibre. And he made a proper hangman’s noose. The right kind of knot and everything. Would he have been a sailor, do you think?’

  ‘Probably not. More likely a Scout.’ McLoughlin remembered what Gwen had told him. About the abuse.

  ‘Ah, that explains it.’ Harris sighed. ‘A knot for every occasion. Anyway, it’s a sad business. Suicide leaves a nasty aftermath. I kind of know the family, the Porters. Very stiff-upper-lip. Very private. They won’t like this one bit. Such a public death.’ He paused. ‘Do you fancy sailing tonight? I’m a bit short, crew-wise.’

  ‘I’m not sure. Johnny, I’ve a few things to do.’ He sat down on the bed, slipping his feet one at a time into his pants. ‘But listen, anything else about Rosie Webb?’

  ‘Not really. Doesn’t seem as if her death is suspicious. No signs of violence or force or anything like that. Anyway,’ his tone was brisk, business-like, ‘got to go. Things to do, people to see. Maybe we’ll catch up later.’

  ‘Sure thing, pal, sure thing.’ McLoughlin put the phone down and concentrated on dressing. Then he walked into the sitting room and sat at his computer. He checked his emails. There was the usual rubbish, but among the suggestions for stock investments, online drugs, special offers from the local supermarket, he saw the name ‘Tom Spencer’. He opened the email.

  Dear Michael McLoughlin,

  My mother said you might get in touch. It’s hard to find a bit of quiet here but you asked me a few questions so I’ll try to answer them, even though I don’t really see the point. Number one, you asked me if I was surprised that Marina took her own life. The simple answer is no. My sister was always deeply unhappy. Looking back, it seems to me that she never got over the death of our father. Marina was six when he died. I was four. They were very close. As the firstborn, she was special to both my parents. I can remember, even though I was very young, that she always seemed to be sitting on my father’s knee. Maybe it was because I was a boy but I don’t think he was ever as close to me. Anyway, whateve
r, I think that was her first and greatest loss. And her first meeting with death. Marina was always fascinated by death. I remember we talked about it a lot. She wanted to imagine what it would be like. And to imagine what dying would be like. She asked me once, when she was about twelve, if I would put a pillow over her head. Stupidly I did and I sat on it too. But then I got scared and I got up and took away the pillow. She was mad with me and said I should have carried on.

  Her second experience of loss was when my mother married James. Marina was very upset by that. She felt it was a betrayal. Of my father and of us. I tried to explain to her that our mother needed someone but Marina didn’t buy it. She didn’t like James at all. He was very different from anyone else we knew. We had always been close. We were a neat and tidy unit. But James broke our little family wide open. He was noisy and gregarious. He had lots of friends. He loved entertaining and the houses – the Lake House and his house in Leeson Park where we lived for a couple of years – were always full of people. And, of course, there was our stepbrother, Dominic. He and Marina were always fighting. He used to tease her. But she gave as good as she got. I sometimes thought it was a kind of a game going on between them. But to give him his due, James was pretty OK about it. He was good to Marina. He bought her that sailing dinghy. She took it from him and sneered behind his back. After his death she went to pieces. I remember she kept on saying it was her fault. She should have made him wear a life-jacket.

  And then there was all that stuff at school. I couldn’t understand what was going on. I tried to stay out of it. To be honest, I was embarrassed by Marina. The other kids were always sniggering about her. I don’t think I was very loyal. I suppose I couldn’t understand what was happening. Marina was never like that before. She came across all confident and in control but she wasn’t really. She badly wanted to be loved and, for whatever reason, she didn’t feel she was. I thought she was like one of those black holes in deep space. Gravity was always threatening to swallow her.