The Magdalen Martyrs (10 page)

For a second, I thought he was going to launch into Don McLean’s song that goes “The Father, Son and Holy Ghost”. I tried to appear interested, asked,

“Who?”

“Charles Haughey and Eamonn Dunphy.”

“Strange bedfellows. I’d have thought St Francis would have got a peek.”

A car pulled up and he said,

“That’s my taxi.”

And he was gone.

All of this went through my mind as I rang Rita Monroe’s bell.
The house was neat, tidy, respectable. Two storey with fresh net curtains. From her laundry days, I thought. The door opened. A tall, thin woman with steel-grey hair, tied in a severe bun. I guessed her age at seventy, but she was very well preserved. An almost unlined face. She retained traces of an impressive beauty. Dressed all in white, she could have been a ward matron. She asked,

“Yes?”

“Rita Monroe?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Jack Taylor . . . I.”

“Are you a guard?”

“Yes.”

“Come in.”

Led me into a sparse living room. Bare, except for the books, thousands of them, neatly lined in every conceivable place. She said,

“I like to read.”

“Me, too.”

Gave me an odd look, and I said,

“Guards do read.”

She glanced at my brown paper bag, confused, asked,

“You brought your lunch?”

What the hell, I’d fly with the lie. Said,

“We have to grab a bite where we can.”

I’ve never actually met a marine drill sergeant, but I can catch the drift. She had the eyes of one, said,

“I thought they’d send a uniform.”

I had to pay attention. She thought I was a plainclothes. Decided to lean heavy on intuition, said,

“Mrs Monroe.”

“Ms.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The correct form of address for a lady of unknown marital status is Ms.”

As she said this, she appeared totally demented, and I nearly shouted,

“Spinster.”

With my best interested, nay concerned, expression, I asked,

“Ms Monroe, would you like to tell me . . . in your own words . . . why you called us?”

Deep sigh. The only other woman on earth who could pull this shit so convincingly was my mother. Truth to tell, I was having difficulty seeing this person as “the angel of the Magdalen”. Still, Bill had been adamant about her compassion. She said,

“This is the third time I’ve been broken into.”

Then she paused, said,

“Shouldn’t you be writing this down?”

Indeed.

I tapped my forehead, said,

“All goes in here.”

No way was she buying that, so I prompted,

“Three occasions?”

“Yes, once in broad daylight.”

She made a grimace of disgust, said,

“The most recent time . . . they relieved themselves on the carpets.”

Feeling the pills coast, I nearly said,

“You’re shitting me.”

Went with,

“Very disturbing. Any idea of the culprits?”

She clicked her teeth. A disconcerting noise, almost related to “giddy-up”. She said,

“From the estate no doubt.”

“Ms Monroe, there are so many estates, could you be more specific?”

Now impatience showed and she snapped,

“Really! As if there could be any other.”

“I see.”

If she wasn’t going to name it, then neither was I. I tried to appear thoughtful. As if I was weighing this.

I wasn’t.

I said,

“I shall submit a full report.”

She put her hands on her hips and smirked,

“In other words, you’ll do nothing.”

I stood up, thinking,

“The offer of tea would have helped.”

She put her hand to her forehead, said,

“Oh.”

And looked like she was going to faint. I steered her to a chair, got her sitting. She smelled of carbolic soap, like a harsh disinfectant. I asked,

“Can I get you something?”

“A little sherry. It’s in the kitchen, the press above the kettle.”

I went. The kitchen, too, was spotless. Demonically antiseptic. Found the sherry, got a water glass, poured a healthy measure, took a swig, thought,

“Jesus, that is sweet.”

Took another. Yeah, almost treacle.

Bought the glass in. She took it in both hands, sipped daintily, said,

“I do apologise. I’ve recently had a bereavement.”

If. . .

If I’d been paying attention, if I wasn’t awash in chemicals, if I was more of a guard, if my head hadn’t been up my arse . . .

I would have asked her about it. Maybe even heard the name and, oh God, what a ton of grief might have been averted.

Instead I asked,

“Are you OK?”

Her colour was returning. She said,

“You have been most kind.”

The tone was alien to her. Gratitude did not come easily and certainly not naturally.

“Will you be all right? Should I call somebody?”

“No, no there’s no one to call.”

You hear that, you usually feel for the person. But I couldn’t bring up that kind of feeling for her. If anything, she gave me a sense of revulsion. What I most wanted was to get the hell away from her. I blamed the sherry sloshing over the drugs, and that simply adds to my list of awful judgements. I said,

“I’ll be off then.”

Sounding like the Irish version of
Dixon of Dock Green.
She didn’t speak as I let myself out. I’d been half tempted to nick a few of the books but didn’t want to touch anything she owned.
As I walked down by the university, I could picture her, hunched in that chair, the lonely sherry beside her and not a sound in the house. A sense of triumph, at the very least a sense of relief of being now free of Bill Cassell, should have been happening.

It wasn’t.

What I most focused on was the pint of Guinness I was going to have in about five minutes tops.

“Should I call Peter Mailer? I think not. Ever since he was cured of
alcoholism he has acquired another compulsion. He stares deeply into your eyes
and even the most trivial conversational opener provokes him into orgies of
sincere nodding. I ascribe this to group therapy.”

Nigel Williams,
Fortysomething

The new day, mildly tranquillized, I crept into Nestor’s. Jeff
was on the phone, waved his hand. Was this . . . dismissal? . . . a barring order? . . . what? The sentry swirled his half empty glass, said,

“Second case of foot and mouth in the North.”

“Right.”

I didn’t want to lean on it so added nothing. Jeff finished the call, said,

“Jack, what can I get you?”

Very worrying.

When you’ve fucked up big time and the fucker is being nice, search for a weapon. I said,

“Coffee’s good.”

“One coffee coming up.”

It did.

He said,

“Grab a seat, I’ll bring it over.”

Ominous.

I sat, took out a virgin pack of reds, cranked up. Smoking as if I’d never stopped. Jeff came over, put the coffee down. As
usual, he was wearing black jeans, boots and black waistcoat over long-sleeved granddad shirt. He asked,

“You hear about the young student?”

“Which one?”

“Who got capped on Eyre Square?”

“What about him?”

“The funeral’s today.”

“Oh.”

“The reason I mention it is, we’ll catch the overflow, and I know you don’t do crowds too good.”

“You got that right.”

As I said, my head was up my ass. If I’d gone to the funeral, I’d have had all the answers.

I stood.

The speakers had kicked in and I’d vaguely registered a woman singing the blues. Not singing them as much as living them. I asked,

“Who’s that?”

“Eva Cassidy,
The Fields of Gold
album.”

“Ace, she ever comes to the Roisin, I’m there.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t?”

“Cancer took her out. She was thirty-eight.”

“Bummer.”

I finished the coffee and headed off.

The sun was out and spring was knocking on heaven’s door. A drinking school near the toilets, in chorus, shouted,

“Fucker.”

Me?

Near the statue of Padraic O Conaire, three teenage girls were sitting at the fountain. As usual, some wag had thrown
colour into the water, and a technical kaleidoscope rose above their heads. They were singing,

“You make me whole again.”

A number one for Atomic Kitten, at the top of the British charts.

The song finished and I joined the crowd in applause. A young girl tugged at my sleeve, hope bright in her eyes, asked,

“Are you Louis Walsh?”

“Me? No . . . sorry.”

She looked devastated. I asked,

“Why’d you think I was?”

“You look old.”

I
could have simply rung Bill, said,

“I found her. She’s at this address.”

Did I? Did I fuck?

If I had, perhaps the whole show would have been wrapped there and then.

Or . . . unravelled.

But I had a burn for Bill. It was a long time since any emotion had fuelled me. I fed the hatred with playback of the gun barrel against my forehead. My hands would clench till the nails gouged into the palms. My teeth hurt from clenching them.

Man, it felt good.

Love or hate, go the distance with either, and whatever else, you are fucking electric. Crank it up a notch and sparks light your brain. Course I know, the brighter the glow, the more spectacular the crash. Nothing lights the sky like those shooting stars. Sat in my room, polished the Heckler & Koch. It is true: a weapon is the great equaliser. Is it ever?

In my head was Psalm 137. Boney M had a massive hit with part of it, back when the guards were my reason for being. In
the psalm, the poet begs that he may be made happy by murdering the children of his enemies. Its music cries out with bloody restitution.

Course, if you’re still familiar with Boney M, you are too far gone for any serious treatment.

It was ridiculously easy to find Bill’s hired help, the guy who’d brought me to him and laughed at my degradation. I sat outside Sweeney’s and simply clocked the times he came in and out. He was fixed in a routine. All I had to do now was decide when I’d take him. Nev would be another day’s work. For him, I’d require time.

To celebrate the ease of this, I headed for a new pub, new to me at any rate, McSwiggan’s in Wood Quay. Even sounds like a decent place.

A tree grows in Brooklyn.

And also in McSwiggan’s.

Kidding I ain’t. Smack in the back bar, a lovely solid tree. Only in Ireland. Don’t cut the timber but do build the pub. I liked it already. Huge place. I settled near the tree.

Who wouldn’t?

Had two sips dug in my Guinness when a woman approached. I thought,

“What a pub.”

Then I clocked the neat tiny pearl earrings. Ban garda.

You don’t have to be a policewoman to wear them, but ban gardai have a certain style in their usage, that says,

“So OK, I’m a guard, but hey, I’m feminine, too.”

Her age was in that blurred over thirty area that makeup can disguise. A pretty face, very dark hair and steel in her jaw line. She said,

“Jack Taylor.”

Not a question, a statement. I said,

“Can I cop a plea?”

“May I sit down?”

“If you behave.”

Glimmer of a smile. She said,

“I’ve heard about your mouth.”

She spoke English like they do when they’ve been reared in the Gaeltacht. It is their second language. Never sits fully fluently. I said,

“Connemara?”

“Furbo.”

“And you heard about my mouth . . . from . . . let’s see . . . Superintendent Clancy?”

Frown, then shake of the head.

“No . . . others . . . but not him.”

Her clothes were good but not great. Navy sweater with white collar, dark blue jeans and freshly white trainers. None of it designer gear, more Penney’s than Gucci. They’d been given a lot of usage but were well maintained. Like her life, I surmised. She’d never rise above C-list status. She asked,