The Convictions of John Delahunt

by Andrew Hughes

  ‘I bet it would cut right through him.’ He seemed to relish the prospect.

  It had been a mistake to come so close to home, where any number of people might have recognized me. Back on the quays, I paid the penny toll and we went through the turnstiles to cross the metal footbridge. As we climbed the hill on Fownes Street, I glanced at the nondescript door of Farrell’s office, and the flicker of candlelight in the upper windows. The traffic was heavy on Dame Street, so I held Thomas’s hand as we dodged between carriages. We cut through stalls in the south city markets and emerged on to William Street beside the Powerscourt mansion. Thomas couldn’t believe that the townhouse was home to just one family. His gaze swept across its nine bay windows and he said, ‘They must keep getting lost in it.’

  A grey mongrel with long skinny legs approached him warily. It began to sniff at his pockets. The boy laughed and stooped to pat its head.

  We stood at the corner of Coppinger Row. I looked along its extent to the exterior of my sister’s house. The shutters in the parlour were closed and the only light came from the servants’ quarters in the top floor. I hadn’t seen Cecilia since taking the silver frame. Would she even allow me in if I called? She always had a forgiving nature. But I couldn’t knock now for she’d only ask questions about the boy.

  ‘Let’s keep moving,’ I said, looking down.

  Thomas no longer stood at my side. I surveyed the street and considered calling his name, but that would be too conspicuous. I hurried towards Mercer’s Hospital, my eye drawn into every gloomy shopfront. Any flash of blue made me start. At the crossroads before the hospital I looked about, bobbing to see past pedestrians and standing on tiptoes. A middle-aged woman stopped to ask if everything was all right.

  Without thinking I said, ‘I’ve lost a child.’

  She brought her hand to her mouth. ‘What’s he dressed like?’

  I described his blue cap and nankeen trousers, then stopped myself. ‘It’s all right. I’ll search for him alone.’

  ‘Look,’ she said. ‘There’s a policeman over there.’

  ‘Really, it’s fine. I think I know where he’s gone,’ and without saying anything more I hurried around the corner into King Street.

  I saw the dog rummaging in the refuse from an upturned bin. But there was still no sign of Thomas. The dog wagged its tail at my approach, and I scratched behind its ear. Up ahead the paths were thick with people crossing between Grafton Street and the corner of St Stephen’s Green. They crowded both sides of the pavement while waiting for a carriage to pass, then advanced on each other as if to join battle. I kept petting the dog, rhythmically tapping the top of its skull, which made its eyelids bat. An anxiety in my throat had eased, and a tension in my shoulders had disappeared. I said, ‘Maybe it’s just as well.’

  Then a deep voice called, ‘Delahunt.’ I turned to see Lyster walk towards me, leading Thomas gently by the hand. He smiled and pointed down at the boy. ‘Is this yours?’

  Thomas’s face lit up when he saw the dog. ‘You found him.’

  ‘I happened to see this chap wander from your side.’ Lyster let go and rubbed Thomas’s head, leaving his cap askew. His eyes lingered on my bruised cheek, as if gauging the force of the blow that had made it, and the time elapsed since the strike.

  I said, ‘I was just bringing him home.’

  ‘You’re taking a very scenic route.’

  ‘Thomas, I’m finished with you now. You can make your own way from here.’

  ‘But you still owe me thruppence.’

  ‘Just go.’

  ‘No,’ Lyster said quietly, placing his hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, Thomas. We’re not done with you yet. Wait here.’

  He took my elbow and walked a few yards up the street, then stopped in the doorway of a barber’s. When he looked into my face the corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement, then became serious.

  ‘What’s the plan?’

  I said there wasn’t one.

  ‘Where were you thinking of doing it?’

  Water dripped from the end of a red and white pole in a steady rhythm. The drops kept missing Lyster’s shoulder by inches.

  ‘Do you really think me capable of that?’

  ‘Who were you going to blame it on?’

  Thomas tapped his chest with both hands to get the dog to stand on its hind legs. The poor creature stared up at him with its head cocked.

  ‘His mother.’

  Lyster’s mouth dipped down at both sides. ‘His mother? Jesus, Delahunt.’ He thought for a second. ‘But she’ll do. You know what she looks like?’

  I nodded. It was an odd relief to say it out. ‘She lives alone in Plunket Street, no husband. And she’s pregnant.’

  ‘Even better. She can plead the belly.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter though, Lyster. I’m not going through with it.’

  Before he could speak again, I turned and walked towards the corner of the Green. But Thomas saw me depart and ran to my side with the dog at his heel.

  ‘Go home, Thomas.’

  Lyster caught up and grabbed my arm. ‘It’ll get Sibthorpe off your back.’

  I pulled my hand free, and continued at the vanguard of our odd company.

  ‘Shop the mother and I’ll have a confession from her by noon tomorrow.’

  I frowned at Lyster for his loose talk. But Thomas paid no heed to what we said. The dog trotted up to a horse-trough, placed its front paws on the rim and tried to lower its head to drink, but couldn’t reach. Thomas sat on the lip, cupped his fingers and drew water from the fount, wincing because of the cold. He let the dog lap from his hands.

  Lyster looked along the extent of the Green. ‘There’s a spot beyond the canal. You know Pembroke Lane?’

  It wasn’t far from where I grew up. Alex and I used to play in it. ‘Yes.’

  ‘An empty field skirts the coach houses.’

  Thomas could no longer stand the touch of the freezing water. He shook his hands in the air, much to the dog’s confusion, then stuffed them under his arms.

  ‘People will see me bring him there.’

  Lyster ran his hand over his shaved head, then called out, ‘Thomas, come over.’

  The boy was blowing into his fingers as he approached. Lyster pulled a small notebook and pencil from a breast pocket. He opened it and began to write something, his features cast in a half-smile. When he was done he pocketed the pencil and tore out the page, folding it twice. ‘John and I need this message delivered to a friend of ours. Do you know of the canal beyond Baggot Street?’

  Thomas nodded.

  ‘Of course you do.’ But he gave the directions all the same. ‘Just keep to this side of the Green and go straight, straight, straight.’ He sliced the air three times. ‘Then go over the bridge and take the first road on your right. You’ll see a field, and that’s where our friend will be.’ He held up a finger. ‘If you arrive and he’s not there, wait for him. Speak to no one until you see him.’

  The boy’s face was solemn as he listened to these instructions.

  ‘Show me your right.’ Thomas held up the correct hand and Lyster placed the note within it. ‘We’ll give you the rest of the money when you return here with his reply. Do you understand?’

  Thomas looked at me, as if wondering why I wasn’t speaking. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, off you go.’

  Without another word, Thomas turned his back and was away. The dog tried to follow, but Lyster grabbed it by the scruff until it lost interest.

  ‘I’ll wait for you in the Winter Palace and we’ll get the story straight.’ He offered his hand for me to shake. I ignored it so he slapped my shoulder. ‘He’ll be as well out of this world as in it, Delahunt. Don’t keep him waiting.’

  Lyster clucked his tongue and the dog ambled to his side. He raised the collar of his coat, and after a few steps he looked like any other passer-by.

  The tall houses in Stephen’s Green had become indistinct in the gloaming. Lamplig
ht illuminated windows in the terrace in a random pattern, like dots in a row of dominoes. A governess stuck her head from a top-floor window and called for her charges to leave the garden and come home for tea. She said they knew they weren’t allowed out after dark.

  There were no street lights beyond the canal, where a small terrace of newly built houses ran to the first corner. The laneway on the right bounded a marshy field with stagnant pools that shivered in the breeze. Several posts were staked in the ground to mark plot outlines, and a few low outhouses and rubbish heaps were dotted about.

  Thomas sat on a kerb with his arms wrapped around his chest, rocking back and forth in the cold. He turned his head at the sound of my footfall, and began to run towards me, calling out, ‘Mister, I have a message for you.’ He recognized my features and stopped.

  ‘There was a change in plan,’ I said. ‘Our friend found us on the Green so there was no need to deliver the note. But I couldn’t let you stay out here when I knew that no one was going to come.’

  ‘You can’t have your money back.’

  ‘Keep it. You’ve earned every penny.’

  He began to turn away so I held up a hand. ‘I’m going to be collected in a jaunting car in a few minutes. I can give you a lift back to your home.’

  He shook his head and said it was all right. He would run back.

  I tried to keep my voice from shaking. ‘It’s too dark for you to return alone. I shouldn’t have made you come all this way. Really, the car will be here any minute.’

  I rummaged in my pocket and took hold of the knife.

  ‘Maybe.’ He looked towards Baggot Street, then back at me. My hand had stilled. ‘Maybe I will ride in the car. Thank you.’ With that he walked a little into the field and sat down on a heap of broken terracotta tiles.

  ‘Good.’ I rotated the knife so the blade faced down. ‘It won’t be a moment.’ I stood awkwardly with my elbow protruding, lifted my chin and pursed my lips as if there was some faint sound on the breeze.

  The boy began to pick up small pebbles from the heap and toss them towards a muddy puddle. I could hear the water splash as each stone submerged.

  I paced up and down on the verge, my palm slick against the mother-of-pearl handle. Thomas had drawn his knees up to his chest, his calloused soles resting on the broken masonry. He looked up sharply at the junction, and I twisted my head expecting to see someone approach, but the road was empty.

  I tutted. ‘My friend seems to have been delayed.’

  ‘If I’m not coming home soon my mother will beat me.’

  ‘I’m sure it won’t be long.’

  When I looked at him again, he held a long twig horizontally in front of his face. Even in the dusk I could see a spider crawl along its crooked length towards the tip. At one point it moved down to walk along the underside. The boy kept his head and hand still, and followed the creature’s progress with his eyes.

  When the spider got to the end of the stick it fell off, but saved itself with a gossamer thread. It hung there, suspended from the tip, and swayed in the breeze. Thomas laughed briefly. He brought the stick to the side, with the spider still tethered like the bait on a fishing rod, and laid it gently on a broken block. He rotated the stick to snap the thread, then lifted it away like a conductor’s baton, leaving the creature undisturbed on the ground.

  I withdrew my hand, leaving the blade where it was, and turned to sit on the pavement with my boots in the gutter. I put my head in my hands. The brim of my hat pushed back from my brow.

  The boy got up. His bare feet made no sound on the grass, and when he came on to the pavement I could hear soft scuffs on the uneven stone. Then he sat down beside me. I turned my head towards him. His feet were crossed beneath the frayed ends of his yellow trousers. He said, ‘Maybe he’s forgotten about you.’

  He brought both hands up to his mouth and coughed into them for a few seconds, then wiped his palms against his bib.

  ‘That sounds bad,’ I said, and he shrugged.

  ‘Stand up, Thomas.’

  We both got to our feet.

  ‘Do you have any lumps in your throat?’

  He placed his hand against his neck and frowned.

  ‘Let me feel.’

  I pressed my fingers against the smooth skin around his gullet and felt along his small jawbone. I had to move aside his mother’s green scarf.

  I stepped behind him. He raised his head, at first I thought to look back towards me, but he did so for me to examine him more easily. I felt his throat with my left hand, then pressed my palm against his brow and pushed his head back against my stomach. He didn’t resist. My right hand dipped into my pocket and came out with the knife.

  I held it down by my side so Thomas couldn’t see. He tried to shift his head, probably from discomfort, but I kept him steady and took a breath. Just draw it across, as straight as possible. Don’t let blood get on your sleeve. I could feel his eyebrows twitch beneath my fingers. The handle was slick. Quick and smooth like the bow of a cello. Still lowered, the haft began to slip between my fingers. It was thicker and rounded at its base, and I felt the bump ease past my little finger, then the ring, then the middle. Thomas reached up and took hold of my wrist. The knife hung suspended between my thumb and knuckle. I sensed it slide further, like the fingertip of someone falling from a precipice. Then the blade clicked against the ground.

  Thomas was squirming now beneath my grip. I said, ‘I’m sorry,’ and shoved him away.

  He staggered a few yards and twisted around to look at me, his eyes wide with fright. ‘What were you …’

  ‘Nothing.’ I straightened my jacket, picked a blue thread from my cuff, then extended my hand as if we could shake on it and put the incident behind us.

  He backed away again and looked to be on the verge of tears.

  ‘No, don’t cry, Thomas.’ I lowered my arm. ‘Just go back home. Go back to your mother.’

  But I was blocking the path to the main street so he hesitated. He seemed very small, with his arms folded in front and head bowed. He began to sob quietly. Sometimes when I wept as a child, I’d stand in front of a mirror just to see what it looked like. I said sorry once more, and then walked away, back on to the main road, over the canal and through the gas-lit streets. I didn’t stop until I reached Grenville Street. I shuffled up the stairs of number six, crawled into bed and buried my face in the pillow, pulling the blanket over my head, so no part of me touched the air.

  It was still early in the evening. I could hear the clatter of traffic on the street and the ticking of the mantel clock. A coldness seeped through the cover, but I didn’t rise to light a fire.

  When I woke a few hours later the room was silent except for a breeze that whispered through cracks in the glass. It could have been any time. I pulled the blanket to my chin and could just make out the looming corners of the chimney piece and the outlines of the windows.

  The folds of the bedding formed a strange shadowy landscape of knolls and furrows. I could only see a couple of feet across the coarse woollen cover. But in the stillness, I pretended my perspective was different: that I stood on a lonely summit, and a path before me wound between black slanting hills. I studied each feature; imagined what might lie between the peaks; what was over the crest on each side; where the path went when it curved out of sight. Every time I rolled over, the landscape looked different.

  When I next woke, the window frames were visible against a grey, pre-dawn light. The wind outside had picked up, making the sashes shake and the door creak. I heard a chain from a horse’s bridle rattle on the street below. The temperature had dropped further, and no matter how I lay I couldn’t get warm.

  A crack of light appeared along the doorsill. I raised my head to look at it. Something shuffled on the landing, then the light crept up the jambs on both sides and a glowing spot appeared at the keyhole.

  A loud thump broke the stillness, and the door shook against its hinges. I had barely time to get to my elbow when ther
e came another. This time the door broke open, and collided with the side of the dresser. Two DMP men stood illuminated on the threshold, a battering ram held between them at the top of its swing. They dropped the ram and stood aside, allowing four others to rush in with cudgels raised. The light behind them cast long shifting shadows against the ceiling.

  The first brought his baton down on my shoulder, and only then did I think to protect my head. Arms covered in thick navy cloth dragged me from the bed. Another baton fell on my side and someone kicked me in the thigh, which was by far the most painful blow. A fat policeman stepped in front of me and told the others to hold me up. The strap of his round helmet dug into the flesh on his chin. He carefully gripped the end of his baton, his fingers closing over the handle in a wave, and brought his arm back.

  ‘Enough.’ An officer stood between the two door-breakers, who now held lanterns aloft. The officer was a slighter man, wearing a flat cap and neat moustache. His arms disappeared beneath an oilskin cape. I heard an infant cry below, and Mrs Lynch called to her husband to shut their door.

  The officer surveyed the room, then told the one who was going to beat me to search the dresser.

  The thwarted policeman held my eye as he slipped his baton into a loop on his belt. He went to the sideboard, which was in a bad state since I’d gutted it for firewood, and pulled out the only remaining drawer. He tilted the box and looked in, as if panning for gold, then brought it to the table. With a sweep of his arm he sent a mug and a few plates crashing to the floor, then upended the cutlery on to the tabletop.

  The officer approached and asked for a lantern to be brought near. He sifted through the knives and forks for a second, then reached into his coat and took out a white napkin parcel. He unfolded the cloth at each corner to reveal a knife.

  The point at the end of the blade had broken off. The steel was covered in translucent streaks of red, thicker and deeper along the serrated edge. The swirled bloodstains on the handle matched the mother-of-pearl so well it could have been part of its design.

  I wanted to touch it, to confirm it was real. I even reached across, but one of the policemen grabbed my wrist and pulled it behind my back.