The Convictions of John Delahunt

by Andrew Hughes

  But what then were her prospects? No suitor would seek the hand of a divorced twenty-year-old. And how would she spend her time? Would she re-enter salons hosted by her neighbours, accompanied by her mother, to become the subject of whispered slights and knowing glances? I pictured her sitting demurely in a splendid drawing room, wearing a fine silk dress, a cup and saucer held in her lap, surrounded by strident dames and their fashionable daughters, but with her head bowed.

  The judder of a chair-leg and muffled shouts between Mr and Mrs Lynch drifted from the floor below. I looked over at Helen’s empty pillow for several seconds, and recalled how we used to make fun of their arguments when we first moved in. Then I reached over to the pillow, plumped it up, and placed it beneath my own. There was no sense in it going idle.

  I didn’t attend college at all that week – with Helen absent there was no need to escape Grenville Street for part of the day. I rose late and read by the window, or took long walks through the city and meticulously planned my meals. During the evenings, I would go to the pubs around Gardiner Street and drink alone. The hours were beginning to drag. Whenever I stumbled back into the cold empty room, I would picture Helen as she was before her operation: sitting at her writing desk with one knee drawn up, smiling at me over her shoulder. I’d stand on the threshold for a moment, think about lighting the fire, then climb beneath the covers without removing my clothes.

  On the fourth day, I spent most of the afternoon looking down at the passers-by on Grenville Street. I began to check the face of every young woman, wondering if Helen might return of her own volition. I even rehearsed what I might say to her if she did appear. I’d hurry to my chair and pick up a book, only deigning to mark the page and set it aside a full minute after she’d entered the room. I’d listen to what she had to say, remain calm but stern throughout, and say that she was forgiven. We all make mistakes.

  I only thought such things because I wanted her back. More accurately, I wanted her as she was before she visited Mrs Redmond in Dominick Street. A few scenarios played out in my head. I could delay agreeing to an annulment until Helen was fully recovered, and then insist she be returned to me. Or perhaps it would be possible to conspire with her to go through with the divorce, so I could collect the money from Arthur. Then we could abscond to London, or even America, and start again. I had to say I liked this idea, though I thought it unlikely Helen would agree to betray her family for a second time.

  But even if Helen came back, I’d still need money in the meantime. The following morning, I shaved, changed into my cleanest shirt and brushed my jacket. Fownes Street lay just beyond College Green, so it was only a few minutes’ extra walk to get to Farrell’s office. The archivist was among the stacks, carrying out a survey of all the boxes, weeding out files of the dead. Farrell said he hated the stocktaking. It had to be done once a year and always took the best part of a week.

  I told him I had some information that he might like.

  ‘Oh? What’s that?’ He rummaged in an open box, checked an old folder against an index card, then placed it on a pile marked for destruction.

  ‘There’s a Repeal Association Society in Trinity College. They recently accepted me as a member.’

  Farrell didn’t seem to listen. He wrote a note on a sheet of paper with a neat hand.

  I said, ‘I’ll be able to give you the name of its secretary.’

  ‘You mean Corcoran?’ He brought the box back to its space on the shelf and pulled out the next. ‘Give us some credit, Delahunt. The only reason Trinity allows that club to meet is so the Castle can get the names of its members. I’m afraid that’s not worth anything.’

  ‘What about its newest members?’

  ‘Like you?’

  ‘I can get you the society’s roll book. It has all the names.’

  A crooked stack of files on the ground tipped over and spread across the floorboards. Farrell cursed and began to pick them up. ‘The last thing I need is more names.’

  I went to help gather some of the files but he stopped me. ‘You’re not allowed to touch those.’ I dropped the few folders I had already lifted. ‘Delahunt, I’m too busy for this. Just make sure what you give us is worth our while.’ He started to assemble a new stack. ‘Like the stuff you used to bring.’

  I stood by the railing in Fitzwilliam Street and looked up at my old home, number thirty-five. The current owners had painted the front door a deep blue. The letter box and knocker were polished and gleaming, and a cracked pane in the stained-glass fanlight had been replaced. The window to the parlour was directly in front of me. Its drapes were open, and I could just about see the top of a yellow sofa. A scruffy Yorkshire terrier with fox-like ears jumped up. When he saw me standing so close, his head tilted to the side and he began to bark. He was joined on the couch by a young girl, who clambered on to the cushions. She put her hand on the dog’s head to quieten him, and we regarded each other for a few seconds.

  I took my hand from my pocket and waved at her. Her eyes followed the gesture, and she waved back without smiling. Then she turned into the room, causing her hair to swish about. She pointed at me through the glass while speaking to someone out of sight. I pulled down the brim of my hat and walked a little further up the street.

  The boy I’d been waiting for turned a corner and came running towards me. He was about nine or ten, wearing a dark jacket buttoned up to his chin. His trousers were tucked into the top of tightly laced boots, and his schoolboy cap had a soft peak. I’d only met him on the street ten minutes before, when I engaged him on an errand.

  I said, ‘Well?’

  ‘He’s not there, sir.’

  ‘You went to the right house, number sixty-eight?’

  ‘Yes, sir. The maid said Mr Stokes had gone to his club and wasn’t due back till the afternoon.’

  I pondered this for a second. It was plenty of time. ‘Very good. You did well.’

  When I tried to walk on, he stepped in front of me. ‘You said you’d give me sixpence.’

  I pushed past him and walked towards Merrion Square. I’d forgotten how genteel these buildings were. The houses in Grenville Street were of the same design – though on a smaller scale – but here, the pavements were level and no weeds grew between the flagstones, the railings bore no sign of rust, and the lawns in the park were neat and well kept.

  I walked up the steps of the Stokes house, banged the knocker twice and looked at the storeys above. Helen’s chamber faced out over the back yard, but she might have been in the front drawing room. Footsteps approached in the hall so I smoothed down my hair. A young maid opened the door. She half smiled and said, ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’d like to speak with Helen.’

  The smile disappeared, and her eyes dipped down to regard my clothes. Perhaps she’d been told to watch out for my arrival. ‘I’m afraid Miss Stokes isn’t well enough for visitors. But if you give me your card I can pass it on.’

  She had moved the door slightly, enough that her left shoulder was now behind it.

  I said, ‘Tell Miss Stokes that her husband wishes to discuss certain matters. I’ll remain here until I receive her reply.’

  Her cheeks became flushed, but she nodded once and hurriedly closed the door.

  I scolded myself. I should have barged in and waited in the hallway. Too late now. I took a few steps back to see if I could spot movement in any of the windows. A drape stirred on the third floor, but the window was open so it may have been a gust of wind. I went back to the top step, cocked each knee to regard the soles of my shoes, then cleaned them on the bootscraper. I put my fingertips against the door and gave a push in case it wasn’t secure on its latch.

  Several minutes passed. Perhaps they were willing to wait for me to become exasperated and leave of my own accord. I considered lifting the letter-box flap and calling Helen’s name. That didn’t seem becoming, or a good strategy when I was hoping to convince her to return. I could bang on the door. But that would also have to be judged correct
ly. Too many thuds with excessive force might come across as menacing and brutish. Surely, though, I was within my rights to knock again and seek a response to my enquiry.

  The door opened to reveal Nathan, the Stokes family’s coach driver. He was a burly man in his late forties, and his hair was tousled, as if he’d just been roused from his sleep. This was the first time he had spoken to me directly, so I was surprised by his forward tone. ‘You shouldn’t be here, John.’

  ‘I’ve just come to see my wife.’

  He shook his head. ‘But Miss Stokes doesn’t wish to see you.’

  ‘She said that?’

  He didn’t answer immediately. ‘Anything you have to discuss should go through Mr Stokes.’

  I looked past him into the hall. ‘This is ridiculous.’ Nathan’s frame took up most of the opening, but still I said, ‘I must see her,’ and tried to push my way in. He placed a thick hand on my shoulder. When I tried to twist away, he took hold of my collar, with a grip more used to restraining the bridles of stallions. I struggled in vain for a moment, then shouted Helen’s name over his shoulder.

  He pulled down his hand, causing me to lean forward. ‘Don’t make a fool of yourself.’ Then he pushed me away. I stumbled over the top step, tottered down three more, and banged my hip against the side railing. Nathan looked concerned for a moment, as if he hadn’t meant to be so rough, but then his face darkened and he shut the door.

  Two middle-aged ladies were walking by, with feathered hats and clasped parasols. They regarded me slumped against the rails. One of them tutted. I straightened and moved directly towards them so they had to part to allow me to pass. I brushed shoulders with one and could hear their horrified gasps. Once across the road, I looked back at the house.

  A face appeared behind the curtain in a second-floor window. But it was only the maid.

  Burke’s pub stood on the corner of Amiens Street and Buckingham Street, a three-storey building with a narrow triangular front because of the acute angle of the crossroads. There was very little to recommend it. Its walls were bare except for a few stuffed terriers mounted on shelves, their coats as tattered as the peeling wallpaper. The chairs were uncomfortable, the clientele hardly spoke, and it was a ten-minute walk from Grenville Street. But that night, as I passed, I saw a chalkboard announcing that Burke’s was hosting a night of rat-killing. I knew gin was sold for next to nothing on such evenings in order to draw in the gamblers, so I stopped in.

  The second floor contained a low, wide room with four pillars in the centre supporting the ceiling. The pillars were about eight feet apart, and joined by vertical, chest-high boards, creating a large square pit. Inside the pit, the timbers and floorboards were painted a startling white, with a dark green trim along the top. A shelf went around the edge against which customers could crowd and lean their elbows. The only light came from a hanging gas-lamp, which made the pit very bright, but the corners of the room were cast in shadow.

  A mesh-pen in the corner contained the rats, a swarming black throng that smelled like the Liffey at low tide. As I took my seat I saw the arrival of a rat-catcher with a new batch in his own bird-house cage. He had a word with the owner, holding up the cage for inspection. Then the lid in the pen was opened and the new rats were tipped in. Mr Burke put a coin into the rat-catcher’s bandaged hand. The grimy fellow had to pass me on the way to the door. He gave me an appraising look as I sat with my glass of hot gin, and I nodded back to him.

  Some of the customers had dogs present, with their leashes tied to the table legs. The animals tended to be small and bowlegged – bulldogs and English terriers. Some sat calmly at their owners’ feet. Others strained at their leads with frantic excitement, their noses pointed at the rats in the corner.

  Just before the sport began, a teenaged boy donned a thick leather glove up to his elbow, reached into the cage and began tossing live rats into the pit. Most of the rats congregated in the corners; though some sat unconcerned in the middle on their haunches, rubbing their faces or nibbling at their tails.

  I took a seat by the window, and divided my time gazing over the rooftops and railway bridge towards the thicket of ships’ masts on the quays, and back in at the men leaning against the pit, waiting for the first match. They were mostly of the humbler classes: dockworkers and costermongers. A few were marked by finer clothes as professional men, and two soldiers stood at one corner with their red jackets opened at the neck.

  From the window I could also look down the extent of Montgomery Street. Young women stood beneath lamp-posts, their breath visible in the cold air. Others lounged in the doorways of the low terraced houses.

  The first dog was brought to the pen, a black bulldog with a white diamond on her face. Her master vaulted the enclosure with the dog held tight against his chest. He let her on to the floor, but kept a hold of the leash. This close to the rats, the dog growled and whined and strained to be set free. But her owner kept a firm grip as the odds were called and the bets made. Some thought she’d kill a dozen in the allotted two minutes. Others gambled on twenty. Burke and his underlings collected the stakes.

  I ignored them and watched the men outside who strolled through Montgomery Street. Some walked in groups of twos and threes, egging each other on with friendly shoves and expansive gestures. The girls became animated as they drew near, calling out to them and inviting them indoors. Others went through Montgomery Street alone, their hands deep in their pockets and their heads bowed.

  A man with a briefcase perused the women. As he approached one, his stride shortened and the brim of his hat tilted up. The girl stood straighter, placing a hand on her hip. When his head dipped down again, she relaxed, and slouched back against the lamp-post. He passed each girl like this, all the way to the end of the street without stopping. Perhaps he lost his nerve.

  Several shouts from the centre of the room meant the dog had been unleashed. Mr Burke stood at one corner of the pit, looking at his pocket watch in an exaggerated pose. The floor was already strewn with five or six dead rats. Most of the living had fled to one corner, and scrambled over each other to create a writhing hillock that reached halfway up the sides. It was easy for the dog to insert her snout and come away with a rat between her teeth. She then shook her head with a fierce growl until the rat went limp, and her owner called from the centre of the pen to drop it. The dead rat fell from the dog’s jaws, and she sought her next victim.

  Burke didn’t like that the rats had clumped together in the corner, so he directed one of his workers to pour hot water on them. This had the desired effect. The rats scattered across the white floorboards and the dog had to hunt them down in earnest. But she proved adept; snapping up any who strayed too close, gnawing on them until her owner yelled at her to stop. And the spectators cheered with every new kill.

  Near the end of her allotted time, the dog chased one rat into the corner. It scrabbled against the boards for half a second, then turned and sprang into the face of its pursuer, covering the dog’s face like a mask and biting her muzzle. She recoiled at first, then chomped on the rat’s hindquarters and whipped her head about. The men hooted at the spectacle.

  Burke held his watch in front of his face and called out, ‘Time! Time!’

  The dog’s owner tried to take hold of his pet, but she wouldn’t settle until the last rat perished, and its teeth were loosened from her face. When that was done, the owner held her up by the scruff in the middle of the pen, and the spectators gave a round of applause.

  It would take a few minutes for the dead rats to be counted and the final score tallied. I resumed my watch over Montgomery Street. A new girl had appeared at the lamp-post nearest the corner with Amiens Street. Even from a distance, I could tell it was the girl I had spoken with on the night I searched for Helen. I checked my watch. It had just gone eight o’clock.

  A man with a flat cap and wide moustache turned on to Montgomery Street and walked towards her. He spat into a puddle. Either he knew her, or he was willing to engage
the first prostitute he met. They spoke for a few seconds, and the man looked up at a window in the house behind her. He nodded, and she turned to lead him through the front door.

  One of Burke’s employees stood by my table. ‘Sir, would you like to place a bet for the next match? We’re offering evens on ten rats or more.’

  ‘No. Just bring me another gin.’

  He dipped his head and moved on to the next table, where a man was eating some mutton chops, with a napkin tucked in his collar.

  I kept an eye on the house as squeals, growls and cheers came from the rat pit. The latest dog didn’t perform so well, and the spectators became restless, whistling and jeering its owner. There were only eight clean kills; two other rats were still alive, but badly injured. Since many wagers had been placed on ten kills, the test was performed. Burke withdrew a piece of chalk tied to a length of string. He put the end of the string beneath his thumb and drew a white circle on the floorboards. The two injured creatures were taken from the pit and placed in the middle. Then a candle was brought close to their hindquarters, and the rats tried to crawl away from the singeing flame.

  The customers seemed to enjoy this new spectacle just as much. One rat made it out of the circle with relative ease. Burke stepped on it, producing a sound like cracking knuckles. The other stopped moving forwards after a few inches, though its eyes remained open and its nose twitched. The flame was brought closer. Wisps of smoke came up from its fur, but it wouldn’t budge.

  Burke called out, ‘Enough. The count stands at nine.’

  A wave of muttered curses went through the crowd.

  It didn’t take long for the man to come back out of the prostitute’s house. He held his coat shut with both hands in his pockets, and then walked towards the pub. I thought he might come in, but he passed beneath my window and disappeared up Buckingham Street.

  I checked my watch again. Five minutes later, the girl reemerged. She looked no different than before. I thought she might smooth her dress, or fix her hair, but she just took up her position beneath the gas-lamp.