The Convictions of John Delahunt (8 page)

I looked down at my knees. My presence in the courtroom now seemed perilous, and I berated myself for sitting amidst the loved ones of those I’d condemned. The journalist gave me a dark look as I tried to squeeze by. He moved his satchel from the floor and swung his legs up to make room for me to pass, causing the bench to creak. I pulled at the double doors of the courtroom, first one and then the other, but neither budged. A tipstaff standing nearby said, ‘You have to push it.’ The main hallway was less crowded, but I didn’t stop. I made straight for the exit and stepped out on to the quays. A stiff breeze blew up from the bay, making the surface of the water shiver.

That evening, rain fell on Fitzwilliam Street in heavy showers. I sat with the parlour shutters drawn, sipping a bottle of wine from Meyler’s, and reading over Hamilton’s
Systems of Rays
. I thought back over the previous weeks. A few close shaves, but altogether I looked upon the experience with satisfaction. I had known few thrills in my life before then, and the reward money was enough to see me comfortably through the end of term. The most important thing now was to focus on college and attain my degree.

There was a soft rap on the front door. Miss Joyce had gone to bed. I put aside the volume and went into the hallway, repeating a law from Hamilton’s book, which I can still remember: ‘Rays which diverge from a luminous point compose one optical system, and after they reflect in a mirror, they compose another.’ The last grey light of evening showed through the semi-circular fanlight.

I opened the front door wide. The man with the yellow cravat stood on my steps. Small beads of water had gathered on his shoulders. Tufts of tawny hair circled his pate, and he had no beard except for a few days’ growth.

We regarded each other for a moment. I considered bluffing that I had three brothers upstairs, but he had probably observed the darkened house for hours.

‘John Delahunt.’ The soft tone of his voice surprised me.

‘Yes.’

‘Can I come in?’

The latch was cold against my fingers. I stepped backwards into the hall with my arm extended towards the parlour door. He walked into the room and shook rainwater from his coat. My book lay open beside a glass of wine, which glowed red in the candlelight. He took up the bottle to read the label, which was in French. ‘Not drinking in Nowlan’s this evening?’

‘Clearly not.’ I took the bottle from his hand, and brought it to the dresser. ‘Would you like a glass?’

His face darkened. ‘Do you think I came here for a drink?’

‘No, but there’s plenty of time to discuss what has to be done.’

I poured some wine and handed it to him, then pointed at the armchair in which I’d been studying, and invited him to sit. I brought my own glass to stand beside the hearth, and propped one elbow against the mantelpiece.

The man looked up at me from my chair. ‘If you sit down we can discuss your problem.’

‘I’d prefer to stand.’

He shifted to get comfortable. ‘It makes no difference.’ The frayed ends of his trousers hitched up over his shins, revealing worn boots, one with the sole drooping down at the toe. He wasn’t sure what to do with the wine. He placed his elbows on his knees, then changed his mind and sat upright.

I said, ‘I’m sorry about your friends.’

‘I never particularly liked them.’ The scrolled handle of a candlestick teetered over the lip of the table beside him. He pushed it in safely with his thumb, causing the flame to drag sideways. ‘They shouldn’t have lost their heads with that old man.’

I agreed, and said it was a terrible business.

He set aside his wine, then withdrew a copy of the proclamation announcing the twenty-pound reward and showed it to me; just as I had done with Devereaux in the Castle.

He said, ‘You’ll have to give me the blood money.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The reward you got for shopping Seanie and Fergie. Give it to me.’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘Because a word about this to my friends, and your life will become very uncomfortable.’

‘I’m under the protection of the Castle.’

He raised an eyebrow and looked around the quiet, dimly lit room. ‘You’re not at the moment.’

I put my glass down on the mantel, and gripped it lightly by the rim. ‘Why don’t we split it,’ I said. ‘Ten pounds each.’

‘No. You’re in no position to bargain.’

I was going to argue more, but he was right. It was my own fault for being spotted; a lesson to be learned.

‘I’ve spent some of it. I can only give you fifteen.’

He frowned for a moment, but then nodded. ‘Fair enough. I’ll take it now.’

I went to a low bookcase in the corner and took an academic volume from the bottom shelf. I leafed through it, retrieving two hidden banknotes of five and ten pounds. When I turned, the man was already on his feet. He plucked the money from my outstretched hand and put it in his breast pocket.

‘Thank you.’

Then he seized my left wrist, turned me around and pushed me against the wall by the fireplace. He deliberately twisted my arm, before dragging it across my back towards my shoulder. His fingers laced through my hair, and pulled my head back so his mouth was just over my eye.

‘A month from today, I’ll return, and you’ll give me the same amount again.’ He pushed my head sharply against the wall for emphasis. ‘A month after that the same thing. I’ll be paying visits here so regular, we’ll soon be fast friends. If you breathe a word about this to anyone, I’ll tell all the dockers on Arran Quay what you’ve done, and then pieces of you would show up in every canal in the city.’

He asked if I understood. I couldn’t move my head but whispered a yes. The pressure on my arm increased. He seemed to feel his way towards its breaking point, and I was aware of the ease with which he held me pinioned, the potential force he hardly used. Then he kicked my ankles, and threw me down beside the hearth. He picked up the book from the floor, flicked through the pages to ensure no other money was hidden, and then tossed it down beside me. ‘A month from today.’

The corner of the hearthstone dug into my hip. Before me, three fire-irons lay aslant in their bow-legged stand. The handle of the poker was made of thick brass, moulded into the shape of a lion’s head. I reached across and gripped its blackened point.

He was almost at the door when I got to my feet. The noise made him turn, but I was upon him in a few steps. I swung the moulded end of the poker in a high downward arc, and it struck the top of his head, glancing down to crack into his right shoulder. His features briefly froze in an odd expression, like the aftermath of a sneeze, then his knees hit the floor, and he slumped forward without a sound.

I checked the handle of the poker to see if it was damaged; there wasn’t a scuff. Then I pulled the parlour door ajar. Nothing stirred on the landing above; there wasn’t a sound or glimmer of candlelight. I waited several seconds before closing the door again with a click.

The man lay face down. His stubbled cheek was squashed flat, and I could hear him breathe raggedly through clenched teeth. I could have roused the household and sent for help, but the police wouldn’t have kept him for long. As soon as he was released, he would track me down again. Also, he could identify me as an informer to his coal-heaving friends at any time.

I took up the fire-iron again and considered its weight. Just how much force would be necessary? I rehearsed a couple of swings to judge their likely impact; the shaft flashed and hummed through the air. Best to err on the side of caution, I decided, reasoning no killing blow was ever faulted for being too hard.

I allowed the thick handle to caress the back of his head, and picked a spot just above and behind his ear, where a small amount of blood from the first strike had already matted his hair. I stood with my legs apart and knees bent, as if I was about to take a shot in croquet, raised the poker, and mustered every ounce of strength.

A thought occurred. Too hard a hit would spatter gore all over the furniture and rug. I lowered my arms. It wouldn’t do for the man to bleed all over the place; removing the body was going to be tricky enough.

I grabbed his damp shoulder and rolled him on to his back, then fished in his breast pocket to reclaim my money. The cleanest kill would be to block his airways. My coat hung over the back of the armchair. Bundled up, it could do the job, but I didn’t want to get it dirty. Looking about the room, my eyes fell upon the only cushion resting on the sofa. It had a simple pattern of flowers in a wicker basket, which Cecilia had sewn when she was little. I can remember my mother and sister sitting by the chimney breast at their needlework. Mother sat beneath a plaid blanket beside the fire, even in summer. She would smile and praise Cecilia upon the completion of each flower, every one in a different colour thread.

I picked up the cushion and examined it. The threads had begun to unravel, and the colours were faded.

I knelt beside the man, placed the pillow firmly over his mouth and nose, and pressed down. He was motionless so I couldn’t tell if it had any effect. After a tense minute, I eased back and looked beneath. He was no longer breathing. His chest had stilled and his lips hung slack. I curled my index finger and placed it beneath his nose for several seconds. There wasn’t the slightest draught.

When he snorted inwards, I pulled my hand back as if I’d triggered a mousetrap. His breathing resumed with a gentle snore.

I inspected the cushion with a frown. Was it working at all? I held the clean side against my own face and attempted to breathe in. Air did come through at first; it was scant and thick with dust. When I pressed harder, it was indeed possible to prevent breathing. The method was sound. I just needed to be patient.

To apply more force I shifted my knee to straddle the man’s chest, then bore down on the cushion with all my weight. I could feel his nose and chin through the down. One of his arms was by his side and pinioned beneath my heel. The other still lay outstretched, pointing at the hearth.

Outside, the wind blew harder and rain rattled against the window frame. Gusts made the panelled doors creak. I continued to listen for any movement in the rooms above.

Suddenly, the man’s head pulled to the right, and his free hand swiped at my face. He tried to wrench his other arm from beneath my leg, so I clamped against it with my thigh. I squeezed down harder. I couldn’t understand why he wasn’t dying. The pillow slipped down from his brow, and his wide, frantic eyes looked into mine. One was bloodshot, to the extent that the whole white had turned a deep crimson. His other arm was coming loose; my leg seized with cramp as I tried to keep it restrained. At one point he managed to thrust his knee into my side, and I became furious. I dropped my weight on to his chest, and I could feel his strength begin to ebb. He gave up trying to pull his arm free, and after another moment his entire body shuddered.

I counted to ten, then slid on to the floor and lay panting. The cushion remained balanced on his face.

I crawled to the chair and poured some wine. But I couldn’t recall if that was the glass which he had used, so I drank from the bottle instead. I slouched with my head in the seat, the bottle in my lap, and I considered the body on my carpet.

The mechanics of corpse disposal was not something I had ever pondered. Of course, it couldn’t remain hidden in the house. May had been particularly warm, so if I stashed it in some forgotten room it would soon make its presence known.

I held the bottle against the candlelight to see how much wine was left.

The closest exit was the front door. Even in the dead of night one couldn’t lug a corpse into the street and hope to remain unseen. The rear entrance was via the basement, and it would have to be dragged there. But then what?

The only way I could personally carry the body from the property was in pieces: packages underarm to be dropped in the canal, and reassembled by the coroner in a grisly jigsaw. But the thought of dismembering it: cleaving and sawing, wide-eyed and grunting; the old iron tub in the scullery slick with viscera – I took another drink.

There was an old cart in the stables, and it could stay covered and hidden in there for at least a day or two before it became offensive. I’d find a horse from somewhere and haul it to the city limits, wrapped in a few coal sacks – apt shroud for the coal-porter. The stables also seemed like an attainable goal. In the small hours, I could take the body through the long back yard unnoticed.

The plan was set. I brought the candle into the hall to light the way. When I went back into the darkened parlour, it looked like some drunken friend had fallen asleep after a party. I gathered up his legs, one knee under each arm, and dragged him through the ground floor. I would feel backwards with my heel before taking a step, ensuring no collisions with furniture or skirting boards.

Once the body was far enough down the basement steps, I clambered up to shut the stairwell door. Then I had to pause and massage my sore shoulder. It was tempting simply to tip the corpse down the steps; only the fear of the noise it would make stopped me. In almost total darkness, I took up his legs once more and carefully drew him down. As the head cleared each lip, it fell with a dull knock to the step below, and I did my best to keep a steady rhythm.

When only halfway down, there came a noise from above: a soft, creaking footfall in the passages upstairs, which could only mean that Miss Joyce had heard some of the commotion and come to investigate. From my perspective, the faintest light appeared in the crack beneath the door above me. She was in the hallway. The glow from her candle crept up the doorjamb on each side to mark her approach.

What a scene awaited her if that door opened. I considered scrambling over the body to go up and cut her off, but it was too late for that. The light was now right against the door, and there was no other sound of movement. I expected her at any moment to appear: nightgown, candelabrum and horrified scream. Instead, the light wavered and began to dim. Miss Joyce retreated upstairs and I was left again in blackness.