The Butchers
Page 24
In his speech, the mayor praised Goldsmith’s integral role in the formation of ‘Modern Ireland’. He quoted some figures to illustrate Goldsmith’s ongoing contribution to the nation’s economy. He didn’t mention the three-year tribunal nor the controversy when the judge somehow let the charges drop.
When he finally finds it, he cleans it and loads, twisting to get the focus right. He removes the paper, but before he puts it in the developer he takes one last look at her. He could still stop; could still tell her she has it wrong and he doesn’t have a clue what she is talking about.
He could pop a few pills and make the whole thing go away.
But something is propelling him forward – the prospect of finally sharing the secret that has festered all these years. He places the paper in the tray. There is science here and there is magic, every time. He rocks it back and forth like a baby in a cradle saying hush hush and lullaby, while she begins to crane her neck, curious as if there is indeed some infant splashing in the puddle below.
In the darkness, there is only the sound of his thudding heart. There is only a second left to turn back.
When Sol arrives, Ronan removes his hand from the developing tray, though still the liquid laps back and forth; still Úna cranes and still Goldsmith’s portrait watches down from on high. Ronan wonders if, from up there, the Bull can recognise his premises in the photograph. Ronan wonders how much about the incident he ever really knew.
The angle of the fall looks awkward in the picture, but there is no trace of blood or even bruise. Sol’s heart must have failed slowly enough for him to lower himself very carefully to the cold-store step. The eyes are not cold they are just wide; the eyes of a man who saw through death all his life. The boots on his feet are sturdy and in desperate need of a polish.
The laces were a nightmare to get off; three knots each for two manic hands.
‘I stumbled across him just after dawn.’ Between the closeness of the four walls, Ronan’s voice comes out far too loud. Some photographers listen to music in the darkroom. He has always been superstitious about silence. ‘I hadn’t slept – I was so wired after the fight in O’Connell’s, so I took something to calm me down. And then something else to bring me back up.’ The details are coming through, rising out of the liquid. The wisp of a grey eyebrow. The sag of a tired and doughy jaw. Ronan wants to reach in and rinse the picture off, but of course by now he cannot possibly move. ‘I was in a pretty fucked-up place back then. The project wasn’t working – I still hadn’t found my standout image. I photographed him like this, but I knew I could do so much better. Then I had an idea.’ He inhales, ready to say the same lines he has been saying for over two decades. He wonders how sick of them the darkness must be. ‘He was already dead. I didn’t … I checked his pulse, but he was definitely already dead.’ He looks at her to make sure she believes. She only has eyes for the photograph. ‘I dragged him inside and lowered the ropes. It wasn’t easy. It wasn’t personal. It was just …’ The last words are as pathetic as they are crucial. ‘It was just art.’
When he is finally finished, he takes a step back and instantly she fills the space. She bends over the tray to get the best view. The hum of the light turns her shoulders scarlet. While he waits for her to speak, Ronan looks again at the picture of Goldsmith; thinks of the tribunal that decided he had done nothing wrong – no MBM production, no tax fraud, no elaborate scams. Ronan has never realised it before, but the pair of them have something in common – two men carrying around a lifetime of sin.
After another minute, she still hasn’t spoken; hasn’t even acknowledged his confession. So he decides to try one final thing. He really does have nothing left to lose. ‘I’ve never shown the picture before – not to anyone. I figured that way they couldn’t figure out what I had done. But tell me, Úna, how did you know?’
At last she stands up straight and rolls her red shoulders back. Her hair is still tied in a ponytail. Her voice is not too loud, it is perfect. ‘My mother once told me that women know more about blood than men ever will.’
He nods, though he doesn’t have a clue what she means. Instead he waits, knowing there will be more, but when she moves again it is back out the door into the living room where the spotlights seem staggering by comparison.
‘Where are you going?’ He sees her reach for her coat on the back of the couch. ‘You have to stay,’ he blurts. ‘We have … There is so much to discuss.’ He can hear the desperation creeping in, but by now he cannot help it. ‘Please – another drink? Tell me about yourself. You never said what it is you do for a living?’ It is a stupid question – as if they are back to small talk instead of the biggest talk of his life. Or at least, it would be the biggest if she would only engage; would only acknowledge the burden he has just unloaded.
‘For a living?’ And yet, strangely, this is the thing that stops her. ‘The same as you,’ she says.
He doesn’t know if the fact makes any more or less sense. ‘You’re a photographer?’
She laughs. ‘No, I mean I also do the thing I always wanted to do. I also managed to prove my parents wrong.’
As he swallows the information he wonders how on earth he could have been so stupid not to suspect it from the start. ‘I thought the Butchers disbanded back in ninety-six?’
‘They did.’ She starts to approach. Her steps are heavy from the weight of her boots. ‘But I didn’t. You see …’ Her eyes meet his. They are greener than ever. ‘It was personal.’
Only when she is close, very close, does he notice she still isn’t wearing her coat. Instead she is holding something she must have just fished from its pocket. He watches as she turns it, very slowly, then she does it again, a little quicker, and then a third time in the direction of her heart.
___________
By dawn the worst of the snow has melted and the world is dripping again. The sun over the Hudson glows a clear and pallid green. A heron stands poised, patiently, then spears through the surface in a single flash, the scales of her prey catching the light like a newly minted coin.
Acknowledgements
Thanks first and foremost to Tipperary’s finest storyteller, Donal Comerford, who sparked the beginnings of The Butchers during a bank holiday road trip many years ago; to Anthony Good and Daniel Bennett for early feedback, and the wonderful Margaret Stead for delicious lunches and so much more. Thanks to Grace O’Connell for medical chats, John Connell for cow chats, Garett Carr for border chats, Gerry Blake for photography chats, Sinéad Brady and family for farm chats and visits; to the many researchers whose works I consulted, especially Maxime Schwartz, Christopher Booker and Fintan O’Toole.
Thanks to my agent Sophie Lambert for being so incredibly warm and determined; to James Roxburgh for the insanely intelligent edits; to Karen and the gang at Atlantic, and Masie and the gang at Tin House. Thanks to Luke Kennard and my wonderful colleagues at the University of Birmingham; to everyone at the MacDowell Colony and the Tyrone Guthrie Centre at Annaghmakerrig for weeks of inspirational solitude and glutinous cookery.
Thanks to my brother David for always providing the soundtrack; to my parents for getting even better with age; thanks to the Lovets for keeping me sane and, of course, to Debbie for keeping me close even though we are far apart.
Final thanks to Alex for key Euro ’96 advice – I cannot imagine what this book, or my life, would be without your spectacular football knowledge or your spectacular soul.
Note on the Author
Ruth Gilligan is an Irish novelist and journalist, and lectures at the University of Birmingham. She has written four novels, including the Irish bestsellers Forget and Nine Folds Make a Paper Swan, and she writes and reviews for the Irish Times, the Irish Independent, the TLS and the Guardian.
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