Just then, two figures standing on elevated ground on the shoreline caught Frank’s eye. One was the driver of the hearse that was parked nearby, ready to remove the remains to the church, where the local priest had offered Frank the use of a room should he need it. The other was Coleman.
‘We should be able to get an approximate date fairly quickly from the style of the bag.’ Dr. McKenna seemed to be talking to the body now, addressing it like a doctor might a patient, gently explaining a procedure; what would happen next. Frank kept his eyes fixed on Coleman.
Then the doctor stood, and both Frank and Garda O’Dowd turned to him.
‘I’ve seen all I need to here. Let’s get her up to the sacristy, and I can get a better look at her. If needs be, we’ll get the lot up to Dublin tonight, or in the morning.’
‘Right.’ Frank noticed that Garda O’Dowd was looking at him in his needy way, waiting for direction.
‘Let the undertaker know the doctor is finished, Michael,’ he said. ‘They’re to bring her to the church. Father Francis is expecting her there.’
The doctor proceeded to put the tools he had been using back into a large leather bag. ‘They’re to take the remains as they are, in the sack,’ he said. ‘Make sure there is no interference with it. It’s to all go into the box. Keep that,’ he gestured to the camera Garda O’Dowd was still holding. ‘You’ll take two final pictures of the site when the remains are removed. ‘Now, Detective Sergeant. Perhaps we might find someone to make us a cup of tea in this Godforsaken place?’
Frank bristled at his tone, and then wondered immediately why he cared. He glanced at Michael who just nodded quickly at him. Then he took one last look at the body in the sand. Whatever peace the creature had had since being left here was being well and truly disturbed now. A third of the sand covering the shape was now pushed back, the sacking clear for all to see. A postbag containing the crumpled body of some poor person, some poor girl. Suddenly, a warm wind blew across the lake, apparently from nowhere, and he looked up to see the trees near the manor swaying, revealing the house more fully. Then he turned quickly and looked back up the shoreline.
But Coleman was gone.
TEN
By the time Carla appeared in the kitchen, groggy and dishevelled, Peggy had already been up and working for three hours. Two large pans of cottage pie were set out on the table and Peggy was standing at the sink, stripping cooking apples of their skins.
She looked up at her sister. ‘Morning.’
‘Meh.’ Carla lifted a kettle from where it sat on the range, letting it drop with a clatter. Overnight, she seemed to have morphed back into the teenager who used to haunt the kitchen late on Saturday mornings, in the very same dressing gown, now worn and bally, and inappropriate-looking somehow. Peggy had always been scared of that Carla in her youth, and she was no less wary now. Before the silence went on long enough to mean anything, Maura appeared at the door to the bar and saved her.
‘You’ve a few in here now, Peggy. Oh good morning, Carla.’ Maura opened the door more fully and came through into the kitchen. ‘Do you get up for a while every day to grace us with your presence?’
Peggy heard the softness cosseting Maura’s sarcasm, and she watched her pat Carla’s shoulder before going over to the kettle and giving it a rattle. Apparently forgetting all about the customers in the bar, Maura proceeded to spoon tea leaves from a brightly coloured tin into a mug.
‘And how are those Wexford brats treating you this weather?’
‘Badly,’ Carla said to her with a smile.
She wouldn’t smile at me, Peggy thought as she wiped her hands on her apron. ‘I’ll see to them inside, so,’ she said.
‘Good girl.’ Maura sat herself down at the table across from Carla.
Peggy sighed and left them to it. In the bar, two men were sitting at one of the tables, a large tackle box on the floor next to them.
‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ Peggy said. ‘What can I get you?’
‘Aye, lass. We’re just going to take the edge off before we go out. Two pints should do it. And maybe two small ones while you’re at it.’
Peggy nodded. The men had the look of a couple of naughty children left for the day without supervision. Which is what they were, she supposed. They’re all the same, she thought to herself, just as the front door opened and Frank walked in, accompanied by an older, grey-haired man, smartly dressed in a shirt and sleeveless jumper. The man looked vaguely familiar to Peggy, and then she remembered seeing his photograph in the newspaper. Frank smiled as he approached the bar. Peggy cursed her stomach for flipping as it did.
‘Good morning, Peggy,’ he said.
‘Detective Sergeant. You’re in early.’
‘Yes, well,’ he eyed the two half-pulled pints in Peggy’s hands. ‘Not for one of those, unfortunately. We’ve been down at the lake.’ He gestured over to where the other gentleman was settling himself at a small table. ‘I was wondering if it might be possible to get tea or coffee for Dr. McKenna. He drove up very early from Cork, and I don’t think he’s had breakfast. We’re just waiting on the hearse to move the body up to the church.’
‘Of course,’ Peggy smiled, ‘just give me a second and I’ll be out with a tray.’
She set the two pints down in front of the fishermen, stealing a glance at Dr. McKenna as she did, and went through to the kitchen. Five minutes later she returned with a pot of tea, a pot of coffee, two china mugs, and a plate of buttered brown bread.
‘Will this do the Doctor?’ she asked, setting the tray on the table in front of them.
‘That’s great, Peggy.’ Frank smiled. ‘Thank you.’
The doctor ignored her. He lifted the lids on the pots, sniffing through a turned-up nose at the steam released. Peggy nodded at Frank and left them alone. As she walked away, she thought she heard someone, somewhere, singing loudly. Just then, there was a banging on the front door, and after a few failed attempts, it opened heavily, to reveal a fresh-faced Jerome, carrying a large, cardboard box that made him stumble and sway. He was singing as he came in, and when his eyes fell on Peggy, he increased the volume.
‘Oh I’ll have bad times, and you’ll have good times. Doin’ things that I don’t understand.’ He grinned at her over the top of the box. When he got as far as the first bar room table, he set it down, slowly, carefully. ‘But if you love me, you’ll, forgive me.’ He spread his arms wide, and beamed at Peggy as if he might be expecting a round of applause.
‘Well?’ He tipped his head towards his prize. ‘Who’s your favourite brother now? Come on, don’t be shy. You can tell me. Am I amazing? Or what?’ He gestured to the box with both hands. ‘You’re thinking; he’s fantastic? The best brother a girl could have? Come on, Peg. Put it here. Gimme some lovin’.’ He held out his arms wide for her.
Standing there in the bar, clad in his blue bell-bottoms and floral shirt, it was difficult not to smile, but Peggy tried hard not to. Instead she went to investigate the box. She was afraid to hope.
‘Is it?’
‘It is.’
She moved her hand over the cardboard as though it might have been mink.
‘And is it really … ’
‘Colour. Yes. Nothing but the best for Casey’s Bar. And for my beloved sister. Of course.’
Peggy clapped her hands together. ‘Oh Jer!’ She spun around and almost toppled him with the hug. ‘I forgive you for abandoning me every other week, and for leaving me to deal with all the shite here. You’re not really the neglectful arse everyone says you are.’
‘Like who?’ Jerome pulled back from her slightly. ‘Who says that?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Carla.’
‘Ah, there’s a surprise.’
‘And Maura.’
‘Maura would never say such a thing.’ He disengaged himself from Peggy, and straightened the enormous collar of his shirt, beaming to himself. ‘Maura loves me like her own.’
‘Yeah,’ Peggy said, but she was no longer r
eally listening. She was looking from the cardboard box to the space in the corner up near the ceiling where she had envisaged the television going. ‘Do ya think it’ll fit okay?’
‘Ah, yeah. I’ll sort it out later. Right now, my stomach’s back in Ballyknock. I’m going inside to get a sandwich.’
He lifted the box once more and brought it over to a small table in the corner of the bar. Peggy followed him, guiding the precious goods all the way. She couldn’t believe it was finally here. A television. A colour television.
Jerome jerked his head. ‘Who are the two women drinking tea in the corner?’
Peggy swung around to see if someone had joined Frank’s table, but it was just Frank and the doctor there still. She waited until Jerome had settled the box safely, before whacking him hard over the shoulder.
‘Have a bit of respect, boy,’ she whispered. ‘That is Detective Sergeant Frank Ryan from Dublin, and the man with him is only the State Pathologist, Dr. Aloysius McKenna. You may not be aware, but while you were up in Dublin enjoying yourself, some drama has been unfolding here.’
‘What drama?’ Jerome looked indignant, but he lowered his voice.
‘A body,’ Peggy whispered.
‘A what?’
‘Shh!’ Peggy glanced over her shoulder at Frank’s table, but the two men appeared to be taking no heed of them. ‘A body was found at the lake. Thursday. Some fishermen noticed it, and the Garda were called up from Dublin. And then the State Pathologist.’
‘Jesus.’
‘I know. Everyone just assumed it was very old. Well it was covered by the lake water until this summer. Anyway,’ she rubbed the top of the television box again with her finger, ‘they’re removing it to the church this morning. I suppose they’ll know more after that.’ She looked at Jerome, eyes wide, and lowered her voice even further. ‘I bet it’s an IRA informer. It could be, couldn’t it? Or something like that?’
‘Wow.’ Jerome looked genuinely shocked. ‘I don’t know, Peg. Maybe. Jaysus.’ He ran his fingers through his long, floppy hair. ‘Bodies aren’t the kind of thing you expect to be hearing about. Not around here.’
Just then Frank rose from his table and approached the two of them. He nodded at Jerome.
‘Thanks for that, Peggy. I’ll settle with you now, if that’s okay.’
‘Oh, not at all Frank. It was just tea. Please, take it with our compliments. As a thank you for, well for all you are doing. Frank,’ she turned to her brother but avoided his eyes; ‘this is my brother, Jerome.’
‘Frank Ryan,’ Frank extended his hand.
‘Detective Sergeant Frank Ryan,’ Peggy corrected.
‘Detective Sergeant.’
Peggy couldn’t be sure if Jerome’s tone was mocking, but she had an inkling it was.
‘Jerome Casey. I hear you’ve been busy down at the lake. Well, at least you’ve the weather for it. I don’t suppose yourself and your esteemed colleague will have a chance to go fishing while you’re here? It’s quite the spot for the pike.’
Peggy’s cheeks burned at Jerome’s conduct. She saw Frank observing, taking it all in; Jerome’s flamboyant clothes, his platform shoes, his glossy hair. She willed him to stop flicking it back over his shoulder as he did. The contrast between the two men was stark. There was probably less than five years between them, but they could not have been more different. Frank’s understated, fair, rugged appearance made Jerome’s dark, girlish looks even more pronounced, his hips more slender, his shirt more garish, his eyelashes longer.
Frank looked at Peggy. ‘Not this weekend,’ he said. ‘Thanks for the tea, Peggy. Maybe I’ll see you later in the day, depending how things pan out over at the church?’
‘Sure. Of course, Frank. If there’s anything we can do to help … ’ she glanced at her brother who was staring with open disdain at Frank.
Aloysius McKenna collected his things, and walked to the door ahead of Frank, without acknowledging either of them. The instant the door closed heavily behind them, Peggy turned on Jerome.
‘What the hell was that?’
Jerome was glowering at the shut door. ‘What the hell was what?’
Peggy clenched her fingers at her side. ‘Why were you being rude to Frank?’
‘What are you talking about?’ Jerome crossed his arms in front of him. ‘What’s he to you? He’s just a bloody Garda, same as all the other bloody Gardai. What do you care how I speak to him?’
Peggy was momentarily taken aback. Her usually relaxed, cheerful brother seemed to have been replaced by a bitter, resentful person she hardly recognized. She noticed the two fishermen stand from their seats and gather their equipment together. She tried to temper her voice.
‘It’s just; he’s done nothing to us. He’s only been doing his job down at the lake. And he’s been very … pleasant.’
Not for the first time, Peggy swore to herself that, if there were ever some operation to cure blushing, she would be first in the queue for it.
Jerome ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Oh Peggy, please don’t go falling for a bloody Garda.’ He shook his head at her. ‘That’s all this family needs. A bloody Garda. Holy Christ.’
He laughed a manic sort of a laugh, and turned his back on his sister.
‘Don’t walk away from me, Jerome. Jerome?’
Peggy nodded at the two fishermen as they passed her with their eyes on the floor, apparently eager to remove themselves from the premises. ‘Thank you. Thank you, gentlemen,’ she called after them. One of them glanced back at her as he tried to pull the front door behind himself. He looked a bit scared. She swung back around towards her brother as soon as the door banged shut.
‘Jerome?’
‘What Peggy? What? What is it?’ Jerome swivelled on his platform shoes. His eyes seemed as dark as his hair. Standing there in front of the counter, Peggy saw how ridiculous his clothes were, how out of place for The Angler’s Rest. He was like a tropical flower all alone in a field of winter barley. Peggy suddenly felt very sad.
‘What’s wrong with you, Jerome?’ she said. ‘Why are you so angry? What, is there something going on? Something wrong?’ Peggy could almost hear the unnatural silence in the room as her heart seemed to stop beating.
‘There’s nothing wrong with me, Peggy. Nothing at all. I’m fine.’ He spat his words out, although Peggy sensed that his anger was not directed at herself. ‘The problem is not with me. It’s other people.’ He looked down at his shoes. ‘And people like your pal Frank there,’ he nodded towards the empty table where the tea things still sat. ‘He’s the problem, Peggy. Not me. So,’ he turned towards the door leading to the kitchen, ‘I suggest you find someone else to moon over. Stay away from the Gardaí.’ He muttered something that sounded like ‘pigs’ under his breath as he walked away.
It took Peggy a moment to find her voice; such was her shock at Jerome’s tone.
‘Well he was a paying customer last night,’ she yelled at the door as it swung closed behind her brother. ‘Not that it might mean anything to you, Jerome Casey. But it does to me! I try not to insult them while their money is good!’
Her barrage echoed a little around the empty bar. She stood facing the counter, her mind’s eye seeing through into the kitchen where her siblings were. The anger that coloured her cheeks and closed her fists radiated out through her eyes and into that kitchen and the people in there. Why was this so bloody hard? She expected aggravation from Carla, but now Jerome too? What was his problem? Neither of them ever looked around the bar and said, ‘Nice job, Peggy’. ‘Thanks for all the hard work, Peggy. Or ‘Wow, Peggy, you were right about the food. Our bar could be just some hole in the middle of nowhere, but you have really put us on the map with the local tourist trade. Well done, Peggy. Daddy would have been proud.’ All she ever got was criticism and abuse. She was sick of the lot of them. Why did they bother coming back at the weekends when all they did was drive her mad? She would be better off employing one of the lads from the village to help he
r out. She could send them each a cheque for their share of the business every month and pay herself a proper salary. That’s what she should do. Carla could live in bloody Wexford and Jerome could get himself a flat in Dublin and stay there. Hugo was the only helpful one of the lot of them, and he only came home twice a year.
She directed an animated growl at the door from behind gritted teeth, and felt the better for it. She pulled out a stool and sat down with a sigh that was too big for a twenty-three-year-old’s lungs. Her eyes drifted over to the large cardboard box that sat quietly on the corner table, the sole witness to her frustrations. She looked up at the reflection of the empty bar in the mirror behind the till. Then she caught sight of her own reflection looking back at her. She sighed heavily again. For all she loved them, her family were the bane of her life. And that was a fact that was apparently never going to change.
ELEVEN
Frank hated churches. He hated everything about them: the beady-eyed statues, the crucifixes, the hard wooden hassocks, the sounds, the smells. Particularly the smells. Old wood and candle wax and musty garbs. And incense. Especially the incense. One sniff of the stuff, even from the last pew of the church during a funeral, and Frank was transported back to his youth, when he had reluctantly served as an altar boy every Sunday and most mornings during Lent. That smell was as powerful as any magic potion. And that’s what the lot of it was, in his opinion. Hocus pocus. He tried to respect other people and their traditions, but it meant nothing to him.
But that smell. Even here in the relatively secular surroundings of the church sacristy, his nose could pick up on a hint of frankincense and it made him jumpy. He noticed Dr. McKenna raising an eyebrow at him, not for the first time, and he stopped pacing the room and leaned heavily against an old wooden cupboard.
The Lake Page 7
