The Death of a Joyce Scholar

by Bartholomew Gill

  But the door opened then, and there was Ward, still wearing the shirt and tie he’d had on that morning, but with the collar and shoulder stained by what she guessed was blood. The side of his head was so swollen that his eye was nearly closed and the ear huge and unsightly. He was obviously having trouble focusing, and he raised his only good hand to block the light from the puffy eye. The other was in a cast held in place by a sling. “Yes?”

  “I’ve come to see how you are?”

  “Bernie send you?”

  “No, I came on my own.”

  Silently he turned away, and in stepping back into the shadows, his step faltered and his knee seemed to collapse and suddenly he was down, rolling agilely nevertheless to spare the wrist. Then he was on his back, looking up at her. “Christ.”

  Bresnahan closed the door and reached for the good arm, raised toward her. “You’re a bit dizzy, I suspect.”

  “I hope.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” She was surprised at both the strength in his small forearm and how readily she pulled him to his feet, and she imagined with what ease she might toss him around a bit. She blushed at the thought.

  “That my balance—” was all he managed before he began going down again.

  “Well, didn’t they test you for that in the hospital?” She wrapped a hand around his waist and buoyed him on her strong hip, her fingers curling about the tight muscles on his side. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him, she bet.

  “Not for a few days. The trauma—”

  “I’ll say. And where’s the bed?” She nearly gasped at having said that so easily. She wondered what was happening to her. What about her upbringing, her past? Could she forget it all in such a short time?

  With his good arm he pointed down the long room that had evidently once served as some type of factory facility; she moved him in that direction. The bed turned out to be an enormous round affair heaped in pillows and soft, downy comforters, and she wondered what extravagances of the flesh had occurred on its shiny surface that looked like gray, steely silk.

  She released Ward slowly, but once out of her grasp he fell roughly back and tried to scrabble some pillows under his head. Only after she had helped him arrange them did she look around.

  It was brilliant, really, what he had done with the place: dividers and screens, some made of hand-painted, translucent, Japanese-looking textiles, had been placed here and there to section off rooms. One was a kitchen, another a type of study, and there, as in a Victorian tea room, were an Oriental rug and two wing-back chairs, a long, bolstered sofa, a tea wagon and table, even an ornate brass samovar buffed to a sheen.

  Bresnahan turned back to Ward with even greater affection and concern, if such was possible. She could see herself forsaking everything she had ever known and living here with an abandon that made her head spin just to think of it.

  “Well, we must get you comfortable first,” she heard herself saying. “And then—a little tea and something to eat.” And then the goods should be examined. Her own mother had taught her that, forgive her the thought.

  Shoes came first. And first quality too. She couldn’t conceive how he managed it.

  “No—I can do that.”

  “Sure, but me the more easily. Rest your head. Relax. Do you know I studied nursing?” It was a lie, but she wondered how many unsuspecting girls he himself had lied to and debauched on that silken plane. Agreeably, she was convinced with no need of proof.

  “Years and years. Whole decades out in Kerry while waiting me higher calling of undressing Inspector Ward.” Did she see him smile? She thought she did, while she tugged at the knot of his tie.

  “Really—” he again complained, but he had raised his arms, and she had it off.

  Next came the buttons on his shirt. “Do you think they did it?”

  “Who?”

  The hair on his tanned chest was thick and tinged with blond. The muscles of his pectorals were firm, his stomach was ridged with muscles. “Them punks. The ones who—” She thought it best not to risk an unacceptable term.

  “How else did they get the hat? And the stick,” he added after a while. His brow furrowed.

  “But why?” Sliding one hand across his stomach, under the shirt, and then around him onto the small of his back, Bresnahan raised him; with the other hand she pulled the material up toward his shoulders. Drawing in a full chestful of the scent of his cologne or after-shave, something spicy or tangy, she let her breath out slowly and asked—no, begged—God in His mercy to aid her.

  “For Coyle’s money, whatever he had. The hat, the blazer, the stick.” Again the pained expression. “For the hell of it, who knows? The bastards.”

  “Amen.” Unlinking each cuff, she worked the now ruined shirt off his shoulders and arms and again was pleased and somewhat frightened at how perfect was the confirmation of his muscles. She wondered how she had missed seeing him knock all those other men flat, which she would have enjoyed immensely. She would commence following sport, so she would, and view every boxing match she could. The telly, live. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what was happening to her? It was as though she had been seized by everything about her that was animal.

  “But how would that account for the murder weapon being found under the seat of Professor Flood’s wife’s Fiat Five Hundred?” she asked. She could read in Ward’s expression that he did not yet know about the discovery, and as she explained, she tugged at his belt, his hands falling to her wrists.

  “Don’t.”

  “Why not? I’m a nurse, remember?”

  He seemed to think for a moment, then loosened his grip.

  “You might think I was trying to take advantage of you,” she observed before continuing her account. Boxer shorts. She knew she would find them, but not the very same taupecocoa color of his shirt. The smoothie.

  And thighs; to raise himself up he had to push off on the bed, and they flexed like two powerful engines. She then turned and arranged the pleats of the trousers and looked for a closet to hang the shirt and jacket. “Or do you want me to take these ’round to a cleaners.”

  There was a pause, and then, “Would you, Rut’ie?”

  She liked that Rut’ie. That Rut’ie was very nice indeed, and if that was all that came of her efforts, she would be happy.

  And then she had seen enough, she had. Jesus, no wonder the women went mad over the little tyke. He was built like a miniature statue of some gladiator, he was a little Adonis, that was it. Or Pan.

  “Now then”—she turned back to pull a coverlet over him—“how about some nice hot tea and a cold cloth for your forehead?”

  “Ah, no. Really. You’ve been great. I can’t thank you enough.”

  But by then Bresnahan had reached the kitchen area with its butcher-block table, restaurant-quality cooker, an immense stainless-steel fridge and freezer, its blessed microwave oven. Could he be on the take? she wondered. Or did his parents have money? “And a bite of something to eat, just to get your strength back.” Oysters, she thought.

  “Well,” said Ward, “maybe I could take something.”

  And Bresnahan, opening the door of the fridge, was astounded by what she found. Some bachelor digs: every shelf was packed with interesting stuff (how would she ever keep her figure, which she mortified herself to contain, in such a place?), an entire selection of cheeses, a glass box of fresh vegetables and a second one of fruit, a plate of salmon steaks. An entire shelf was lined with nothing but bottles of white wine. Had he been expecting somebody? Of course. She had known about that from the start, which was something she’d have to put out of her mind. He was a bounder, a womanizer, a roué, and more, only because he hadn’t as yet met the right woman. Or, rather, been convinced of the right—“Some fish?” she asked.

  “Oh—the salmon. I nearly forgot. Well—it’d be a pity to let it spoil. And the parsley-boiled potatoes. You’ll find them in a plastic container all ready to go. The lettuce—”

  “I see the lettuce.”r />
  “The lemons are in the bin. For the salmon.”

  “I see them.”

  “Salad dressings—”

  “I see those too. I’d offer you wine, but you’re probably on medication.”

  There was a pause, and then, “Well—I don’t think a little would kill me.”

  Nor would a smash in the head with an ashplant stick, thought Bresnahan, carrying in a bowl of cold water and a washcloth she had discovered in the bath. The entire room—tile floors, tile walls, and dashed ceiling—were black. She wondered if, with his experience, he might have a social disease. Sitting beside him on the bed to cut his fish, she decided she didn’t care. Obviously he was a man who took pains to mind himself and everything he owned. He wouldn’t go out with just anybody.

  After washing up and before leaving, she pulled her Glock from her purse. “I’ll be back to see how you’re mending, but in the nonce you might feel better with this.” She placed the large, gray-green handgun in his lap. “Rough country, this,” She meant quayside Dublin. “You never know who might be coming through that door.”

  Turning his head so he could see her with his one good eye, he asked, “But what about you?”

  “I have another.”

  “Really? Do you collect guns?”

  “No. I collect tools.”

  Ward reached her his hand. “Thanks.” His grip was as firm as hers, and it lingered. “You’re a gem. Really. I don’t know how to thank you, Rut’ie.”

  Bresnahan had an astounding idea, though it could wait.

  There was no morning meeting.

  Before McGarr left his house in Rathmines, he got a call from McKeon saying that the sexton of St. Michan’s had phoned in a complaint that some young people had remained in the church after it was locked at night and had obviously spent the night there, sleeping in the pews. When he had approached to chuck them out, two had threatened him.

  The hair on the tops of their heads had been twisted into spikes; they were wearing denim and leather and metal. One was carrying a stout stick. Another had said he had a gun and pretended to reach for it under his jacket.

  By the time McGarr arrived, all exits from the church and the surrounding streets had been blocked off and uniformed police were having all they could do to keep the crowds back.

  It was perhaps the worst place in Dublin for any sort of confrontation. At one end of the narrow, shop-lined, laneway was Grafton Street, Dublin’s premier shopping district; at the other was Clarendon Street and Powerscourt, an arcade of shops and eateries. Now, in the summer, it was packed with tourists. Behind was Wicklow Street, another commercial artery, and it was into the curb there, where O’Shaughnessy stood, that McGarr swung his Cooper.

  He got out, since the superintendent was too tall and at sixty-four too old to be bending to the low car, and they spoke across its forest-green roof.

  “They’re still in there. Two girls and two boys.” O’Shaughnessy let go the last word hesitantly. “Having done who knows what the night long. Sexton says the place reeks of drink.” His clear blue eyes flickered up at the spires of the church. He was a profoundly conservative man, and a muscle was working on the side of his face.

  “Sexton locked them in and made the call. He says they’ve tried to break out and now he can hear them smashing things. Then, we’ve got Guards.” With his broad chin he indicated the cordon of blue uniforms at the end of the street. “I’d hate to…” Have to arrest them in the church, he meant. “But…” With the other police present, the sort of “interview” that both knew was necessary would be impossible in public, where there might be witnesses. “I’ve said they’re wanted for questioning in the Coyle case. And nobody will doubt…” They resisted arrest.

  McGarr stepped back from the Cooper’s open door. He removed his hat and his suit coat, which he folded neatly on the backseat. He slid his watch off his wrist. He reached below the driver’s seat for the weapon he kept there, and he tasted the gall that he had repressed since learning of the attack on Ward.

  Raising the Walther to pull back its slide and load the chamber, he saw nothing but its black matte barrel and the V of its sight. Nobody attacked one of his staff with impunity. Nobody could be excused for smashing in an ear or breaking a wrist or stealing a handgun or, for all he knew, committing murder.

  And then it had been Ward, whom in many ways he thought of as a kind of son, who had been assaulted, and McGarr’s anger was suddenly high. The thought of some smarmy bastard with a stick spinning around and waylaying a man who McGarr had seen knock men twice his size to the floor while on duty, and the best of Europe in the ring, augered down into the element of McGarr’s personality that he knew was a weakness: his temper. Which was fierce and explosive.

  But there was no help for it now. Blood pulsed behind his eyes and he felt a bit light-headed. The sky had gone grainy, and the buildings were a blur.

  Said O’Shaughnessy, “We could get lucky. They could put up a fight,” which didn’t help.

  A shout went up from the barricade at the end of the street and a man began running toward them, a camera raised before him. McGarr took no notice. He simply closed the car door gently, easily, hardly making it click (for control was now essential), and stepped around the Cooper.

  The man was being chased by two uniformed Guards, and McGarr didn’t notice him until he was directly in front of them, the camera pushed forward into McGarr’s face. The flash exploded in his eyes, and his hand, the one with the Walther, darted out and whacked the man on the side of his head, sending him into O’Shaughnessy, who snatched away the camera and with a foot launched the photographer into the Cooper. He caromed off its slick surface and fell roughly into the street. The two Guards snatched him up.

  “Liam!” McGarr roared—part curse, part plea—like some Homeric swimmer drowning in the sea of his own emotions. A surge of witless, uncontrollable, irrepressible anger made him think his starred eyes would burst.

  “We’ve got him. Don’t worry.” With all his force O’Shaughnessy chucked the camera into a brick wall that separated two shops. He bent and ripped the roll of film from its broken back. “Charge that son of a bitch with unlawful conduct, with assault, and with battery. And let that be a lesson to them all.” He glared at the other journalists, who were shouting now at the barricade.

  McGarr’s eyes cleared. He felt as he had years before, after the first hit on a rugby pitch—shocked out of any further concern for himself, and fearless. He would give as well as he got, but he would give first.

  There were four uniformed guards with shotguns waiting for him at the side entrance to the church. And the sexton, whose hands shook on the key ring as he asked, “Am I to leave the door open?”

  “And get yourself gone,” said the sergeant in command of the other three. “Back behind the barricade.”

  “Try not to bust things—”

  With a foot McGarr shoved open the heavy arched door; it squeaked on its hinges. Squatting down with his left arm extended and the weapon in the fist of his right, he scuttled into the shadows, keeping close to the wall. If they had a gun, it was the best place to be. If they had the stick too, or a knife, the raised arm could absorb a blow or a blade without him losing his weapon. O’Shaughnessy, quick for his age and size, followed behind McGarr with three of the Guards.

  But the transept was empty. As were the apse and sacristy, which they scoured. The church was cold and dark, and as they passed down the nave toward the choir, they were overwhelmed by the sour odor of damp stone, sweetened only by the altar flowers that had been strewn across the marble floor near the doors to the narthex.

  There were other smells there too as he approached the door: cheap sweet wine and cigarettes and urine. McGarr had to step around a wide puddle where someone had pissed. He turned to O’Shaughnessy and to one of the Guards, who wielded a shotgun; holding up three fingers, he counted mutely—one, two, three—before he and O’Shaughnessy, each on a side of the nave, kicked open a door
of the narthex and rushed in.

  The ashplant stick, falling like a guillotine from beside the door, glanced off McGarr’s back and struck the barrel of the Guard’s shotgun, which discharged with a deafening roar and splattered shot off the stone floor into the stone wall.

  The stick came up quickly and caught the Guard under the chin, knocking off his hat. The shotgun dropped from his hands and another shell went off, the load bucking through the wooden paneling of the vestibule. The guard fell back through the doors into the nave.

  The boy dropped the stick and was reaching for the shotgun when McGarr’s foot smacked into the side of his head, sending him sprawling. Somewhere a girl was shrieking, and McGarr’s other foot had just come down on another hand that was reaching for the stick when he was tackled from behind and driven into the tall church doors in front of him, which cracked under the force of both their bodies.

  He went down, rolling to get whoever it was off him and away from the Walther that four hands were now reaching for. His elbow went back again and again, pumping into something soft; the screaming grew louder.

  Feeling the grip on his arm loosening, he glanced up to see what looked like a witch—hair frazzled, wide red mouth open, the tongue pulsing with the effort of her scream—rushing toward him until she was brought up short by O’Shaughnessy. He reached out and snagged her hair. Her feet flew out from under her, and he swung her roughly down onto the marble floor. He held another one by the neck, and he threw her on top of the first.

  Still down, McGarr spun around and struck out with the butt of the Walther. It thwacked off the temple of the boy beneath him, whose head bounced back into the stone of the wall. Then McGarr was up again, quickly scanning the area to see O’Shaughnessy with his weapon out and pointed at the girls. With the barrel of a shotgun, one of the other Guards had pinned the second boy to the floor by the neck. He kicked the stick back into the shadows, where it clattered against the wall.