When you thought about it, life was only a succession of problems queuing up for your attention. Head of the queue now was Rory Rua. Assuming that there was no evidence of blackmail, even the most astute policeman would never guess why he should wish to murder him. After all he had been one of his best customers, a man with whom he had never exchanged a cross word. The thought came like a flow of oil, smoothing the ruffled surface of his mind. Perhaps the best self-defence lay in what you might call a strategy of postponement; not crossing bridges till you come to them; putting off until tomorrow what you need not do today. Clearly, there was well-tried wisdom in clichés. Wouldn’t it be funny if he found the seeds of his salvation in a bromide! It was the kind of nonsense that would make sense to Potter. He would be sure not to register surprise; he would contrive to give his usual impression of saying less than he might. His departure strategy would be interesting to observe. Crubog, Cor Mogaill and Gillespie had all promised to get up in time to see him off. He was one of those men who inspire goodwill wherever they go while remaining blithely unaware of the doing of it.
He went downstairs and breakfasted off a kipper before throwing the backbone to Allegro. With a momentary sense of luxury, he lingered over a second cup of coffee, pleased that Susan was busy polishing glasses in the bar. He had come within an ace of committing the perfect murder. For all he knew he might have committed two. It was a hollow achievement, however. Though he had so far escaped the retribution of the law, his life had changed irrevocably. He was no longer the Roarty he used to know; he was now an imposter posing as Roarty, a pretender people took for Roarty and in their insistence on the old nomenclature confirmed him in the illusion that he was indeed the true, never-changing, evergreen Roarty, good for a laugh and now and again a drink on the house if he was in a good humour and you were the only customer in the bar. All that was so much outward show. To be a successful murderer, you needed the temperament and constitution of an ox. He himself had always been strong of limb but strength of limb alone was not enough. His Achilles heel lay elsewhere; not in an over-tender conscience that brooded on a rooted sorrow but in an obsessive cast of mind that hadn’t given him a moment’s peace from either the blackmailer or McGing. His suffering was not a visitation from above but a constitutional flaw; the seeds of suffering had sprouted inside his skull.
Now he was faced with a war in two theatres simultaneously: a war of images in the head and a ground war in that flabby assemblage of anarchic parts called the body. Of the two, the war in the head was the one he feared. Compared with it, the war in the body was laughable in its banality. He would be going to Sligo Hospital for a check-up tomorrow, where he would be seen by men who lived in a universe of cause and effect and would discover nothing they had not already encountered in someone else’s body. The things of the spirit, the ghosts that kept him from sleeping at night, were not generic; they belonged in a universe that was unique to him, a universe beyond the bourn of what could confidently be asserted. There was only one Roarty, just as there was only one Lear.
Smiling at his folly, he told himself that he did not care anymore. His joy in life had shrivelled up. Each drink had become a wearisome turnstile through which he had to pass to reach the next. Cecily, once an angel, had left him, and he had nearly murdered the man whom he would like to have called a friend. Now he found his only pleasure in the touch of Susan’s skin. It was extraordinary, the effect it had on him, smooth and pale, almost white. He often wondered what it would be like to sit with her in the garden naked under a full moon on a warm summer night. The moonlight on those thighs, on that silken skin, just imagine. He’d thought of telling her about his fantasy once or twice but of course she’d never understand. She simply had no conception of her own ineffable glories, which was why she wasted her sweetness in the desert that was his bed. He had not forgotten her. He had seen his solicitor and made the necessary adjustments to his will.
The thought of having performed a good act sent a pleasant little frisson up his spine, almost sexual in its intimation of vernal renewal. Giving pleasure to her, even posthumously, brought an unexpected tear to his eye. It was strange to think that he was still capable of such goodness, and a shame that it all had happened too late. Before she came, he used to wonder where the old Roarty had gone, the Roarty he prized most, the reclusive would-be scholar who memorised whole articles in Britannica and listened to Schumann in the small hours. In her first week Susan revealed to him that he had not died entirely.
They were alone in the bar at the time, when she said, ‘That Crubog has a lively eye’. At that moment he felt a quickening of the blood he had not felt in years. It was St Paul again on the road to Damascus and the beginning of his rebirth, looking forward all day to the night and to the jokey ways she had of recalling him to a life that was less than perfect for her, yet for him unique and therefore without equal. He’d never loved Florence in this unhurried, happy-go-lucky fashion; there was something derivative and predictable about the way she’d made him feel. Susan, on the other hand, was one of nature’s philosophers. She once ran her hand down the length of his penis and told him affectionately that half a loaf was better than no bread. In the warmth of her whisperings he found poetry, even a sense of afflatus. Once or twice she’d made him think he knew what it was like to be Catullus. That was absurd, of course. Perhaps it was only because she’d begun telling him one night about a lame sparrow she’d spotted in the garden.
The most important thing she’d taught him was that he’d been wrong all these years to judge women by their figures and faces. The surest sign was that summer-morning light you see in some women’s eyes no matter what their age, and of course that heart-quickening fizz in your blood as they put two seemingly simple words together in a way you’ve never heard before. These were things he did not know till he’d met Susan. If only he’d known them as a young man, what a feast his life would have been. Instead he had met Florence.
He washed his cup and saucer and went out to the bar to get himself a drink. It was still snowing. The morning went by slowly as he sat by the turf fire sipping well watered whiskey and reading the newspaper. At half-past eleven Crubog came in, stooping under the weight of two overcoats and complaining about how difficult walking in wellingtons had become since he was young. Shortly afterwards Cor Mogaill arrived with a drift of snow on his knapsack, which left a pool of water on the floor flags as it melted. The postman called at mid-day with a letter from Cecily. She was coming home for Christmas with her new boyfriend who, to judge by the accompanying photo, was an insubstantial wisp of a youth you’d blow off your fist and wonder where he’d gone. He would not prejudge him. He would wait and see if the deletion of Eales had been in vain. It was all too painful to contemplate. Life was so full of irony that he found himself asking if it was nothing more than a trick played on humanity by a Grand Illusionist with a black sense of humour.
*
Potter arrived at one and placed a pair of woollen gloves and a burgundy scarf on the counter. Having spent an hour with Nora, sitting in the car by the parochial house gate, he felt pleasantly detached from Roarty, Crubog and Cor Mogaill. The cards might be stacked, and the dice loaded, but he would never give up his seat at the gaming table. She’d told him she loved him, and that God never closed one door without opening another. He left her, feeling truly inspired. He would play a waiting game, in which life itself would be his invincible partner. If the worst came to the worst, he would not be found lacking in contrivance.
‘You’re for the road today?’ Roarty said, placing his Glenmorangie next to the scarf and gloves.
‘If I can make it out over the hill.’
‘The bus made it this morning. You won’t have any trouble in your car. No, that’s on the house.’
‘A deoch a’ dorais, as you say! Cheers everyone!’
‘Well, I hope you enjoyed yourself here,’ Roarty smiled.
‘It had its moments, I must confess, and I’m leaving as sound of limb as
when I came. Some might say I was lucky, I suppose.’
‘It’s a pity you didn’t discover enough barytes, Mr Potter,’ Crubog said with genuine regret.
‘No, it would have been the ruination of all of you. What is a pity is that you dropped the Anti-Limestone Society. I’d had great hopes for it.’
‘Sadly, it has now become one of the great ifs of ecclesiastical history,’ said Cor Mogaill from behind his newspaper.
‘As I see it, the only man with cause for satisfaction is the Canon,’ Potter reminded them. ‘He outwitted the whole bang lot of you.’
‘Once we had the Protestant ascendancy,’ Cor Mogaill said. ‘Now it’s the Catholic ascendancy. And they both rule with the same mixture of self-interest and cynicism. The Canon knew there would be no barytes but he also knew the power of avarice. He doesn’t make his living by the seven deadly sins for nothing.’
‘Where is Gillespie?’ Potter asked, looking round.
‘He’s probably busy writing a purple passage about you for next week’s notes,’ Roarty said reassuringly.
Cor Mogall banged his palm twice against the wall and emitted a long, high-pitched sound not unlike a horse’s whinny. ‘Gimp has done it again,’ he shrieked, holding up his copy of the Donegal Dispatch. ‘Listen to this:
“Householders in Glenkeel are mounting watchful vigil on their flocks of hens, geese and turkeys from now until Christmas, fearful that their fattening fowls may be in dire danger from turkey rustlers who raid the pens in search of prize birds for the lucrative yuletide trade.”
He’s put in that paragraph every year since someone stole Crubog’s pet turkey for a joke nearly a decade ago. But listen to this as well, will you:
“During the past week the Gardaí under the energetic leadership of Sergeant McGing have been raiding the homes of poteen-makers, many of whom are busier than farmers should be in winter. The raids were described by one seasoned poteen-maker as the most intensive in the long history of the still. It is reported reliably that as much as a hundred gallons of wash and as many pounds worth of equipment have been impounded.”’
‘The man is nuts,’ said Cor Mogaill.
‘He was in fine form over dinner last night, reeling off poetry by the yard,’ Potter said. ‘I couldn’t keep up with him.’
‘Poetry!’ said Cor Mogaill. ‘Didn’t I tell you he’s nuts.’
‘We were just beginning to wonder if you were snowed in,’ Roarty said as McGing’s overcoated form filled the doorway. ‘A black-and-tan?’
‘The very thing.’
Just then a black cat with white paws came in and looked all round the bar.
‘That’s Andante!’ Cor Mogaill said. ‘I’d know him anywhere.’
Roarty in his astonishment allowed McGing’s pint to overflow.
‘That cat’s been on the tiles or in the wars,’ Potter said seriously. ‘Look at his face and fur.’
‘He’s a shagged cat,’ Crubog agreed. ‘He’s barely able to walk.’
‘It is Andante,’ McGing said. ‘You couldn’t mistake those white paws. Where on earth can he have been?’
‘Obviously with Eales, to Hades and back,’ Cor Mogaill said, going to the window. ‘Would you believe it, here he is. If Andante comes, can Eales be far behind?’
‘It isn’t funny, Cor Mogaill,’ McGing reprimanded, going to the window to look out, nevertheless.
‘Poor Andante, you look famished.’ Roarty chucked the cat under the chin. ‘I’ll go and get you a bite of breakfast.’
He felt rattled. Unexpectedly, things had veered out of control. He could only do his best to behave normally but didn’t quite know how. Absentmindedly, he opened a tin of sardines in the kitchen and put them on a plate, though on an ordinary day he wouldn’t dream of giving good sardines to a cat. He poured a drop of milk into a bowl and laid both the plate and the bowl on the floor of the bar in front of Andante. The cat lapped up the milk with dainty appreciation, sniffed at the sardines, and turned his back on them.
‘Isn’t he the pernickety wee devil, the feline replica of Eales himself?’ Cor Mogaill said.
They all watched as Andante crossed the floor to scratch his neck against the cuff of McGing’s trousers.
‘He’s taken a shine to you, Sergeant. He’s trying to tell you something,’ Cor Mogaill explained. ‘If that bucko could talk, his amorous adventures would be worth a fortune.’
Allegro wandered in from the kitchen and raised a friendly paw, as if in salute. He went straight to Andante and began licking his wounded face.
‘Tomcats are funny,’ Cor Mogaill mused. ‘Now if two men began licking each other’s faces, you’d say they were taking things a bit far.’
Impatient of Cor Mogaill’s attempts at humour, Potter put on his gloves and picked up his scarf.
‘Will you be having another?’ Roarty asked as McGing drained his glass. Everyone knew that McGing never had more than one, but the question was a matter of established practice like the Canon’s ‘My dearly beloved brethren’ as a signal to listen to a sermon.
‘Duty before pleasure.’ McGing gave the historic reply. ‘I’m about to arrest the most callous and perverted murderer in the history of Irish criminality.’
The silence was so sudden that it froze the air. Roarty picked up a towel, wary lest a single word should betray him. He was the only man who moved.
‘And who is it, may I ask?’ Potter put back his scarf on the counter.
‘Rory Rua. I’m on my way to arrest him for the murder of Eamonn Eales, itinerant barman, and for the attempted murder of Kenneth Potter, English gentleman.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ said Potter. ‘Rory Rua is one of nature’s gentlemen. Ever since I’ve had his cottage, he has given me more turnips, parsnips and carrots than I could eat, all for nothing.’
‘He was fattening you only to kill you,’ said Cor Mogaill.
‘He wasn’t at home this morning when I called with the key. His door was locked, and curiously enough there were no footprints in the snow.’
‘Rory Rua wouldn’t hurt a fly,’ Roarty said, recovering from the shock. ‘Do you have any evidence against him?’
‘As much as I need. I’ve brooded over it in the silent watches of the night, and I’ve put off the arrest until I could bear the certainty of his guilt no longer. You see, I must tread more carefully here than an inspector of the Yard. In the vastness of London a policeman can forget his mistakes, but not in the country where the relationship between the criminal and the lawman is keenest.’
‘I’m astounded,’ said Potter. ‘You still haven’t mentioned the nature of the evidence.’
‘It’s mainly circumstantial,’ McGing conceded. ‘But then most criminals are trapped by what a famous barrister once called “the probative force of circumstantial evidence”. The thing to remember if you are intent on crime is that most criminals confess when they need not.’
McGing, adopting his most upright bearing, wheeled with military precision and strode out of the bar. He had left his bicycle behind at the barracks. Roarty watched him turn at the crossroads and head up the fenceless road.
‘He means it,’ Roarty said. ‘He’s heading for Rory Rua’s.’
‘I’m sure he’s wrong,’ said Potter.
‘It can’t be Rory Rua,’ said Crubog. ‘He’s going to buy my farm.’
‘Right or wrong, he’s given us a grand topic of conversation for the winter nights,’ Cor Mogaill reminded them.
‘Sadly, I shan’t be able to enjoy your deliberations. I must make tracks before I’m served with a subpoena.’ Potter picked up his scarf again and wound it twice round his neck.
‘Give my regards to Churchill or whoever is your Taoiseach these days,’ Cor Mogaill smiled.
Ignoring him, Potter went with Roarty to the door.
It had stopped snowing and the sunlight was blinding. As they emerged from the porch, whiteness leaped at them from every side. The cold came down with the sunlight out of a windless
sky, nipping their ears and ankles and stiffening the roots of their beards. It was a day for reading a book or sitting by the fire with a drink. Further up the street a gang of workmen were unloading the new limestone altar outside the church. They were intent on the job in hand, and who would blame them? Work was work. Without it we’d be done for. It made the world go round. Potter looked down at the blank windows of the parochial house. He’d lost a battle against vanity and vacuity but not the war. That would go on; and if necessary, on and on.
‘What will you say when you get to London?’ Roarty asked in his facetious way.
‘I’ll say I went to Donegal for the winter and came back again, and it was very cold weather.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Is there something else?’ Potter looked reflective for a moment.
‘I’m sorry to be losing a good customer, not to mention a good friend. If you’re ever within striking distance of these parts again, be sure to look in. A welcome and a Glenmorangie will be waiting.’
‘No need to wax lyrical, I’ll be back. This morning for the first time I got the flavour of Cor Mogaill’s conversation. Not even Loftus at his most xenophobic can now keep me away.’
Bogmail Page 25
