The Magdalen Martyrs (4 page)

“Thank you, Mr Taylor, you won’t regret it.”

“I doubt that.”

Click.

The credits were rolling on
Angel.
I considered watching
Sky News
but felt fatigue come calling. In bed, for the first time in ages, I felt the faint glimmer of hope. If I could just hang on to this fragile feeling, I might struggle through. Not surprisingly, I dreamt of vampires. The thing was, they all wore the face of Bill Cassell. His usual minder was there, of course, the big guy, and a third man whom I couldn’t see. When I replayed the dream again, I thought of those lines from “The Waste Land”, the ones about “the third who walks always beside you”.

When I woke, I thought I smelled something odd, took me a time to identify it.

Juicy Fruit.

_______

I wore the Age Concern suit. No doubt, it had been a decent item once. I choose it for two reasons: because it was cheap and dark. Checked myself in the mirror. I looked like a corpse that the undertaker had failed to help. Wore a white shirt and wool tie. Only accentuated the lousy suit. When I entered the Brasserie, a gorgeous girl approached, asked,

“Table for one?”

“I dunno, I’m supposed to meet a Mr Boyle.”

Her face lit up and,

“Oh, Terence.”

My heart sank and she added,

“He’s at his usual table, over here.”

Led me to the centre, beamed,

“Voila.”

Terry Boyle stood up, smiled.

“Jack Taylor?”

“Yeah.”

I hoped my dourness showed. He put out his hand, said,

“Glad you could make it!”

“Yeah.”

He was well built, about six two, blond hair and a fresh complexion. Not good looking but what they call presentable. Dark grey suit that shouted money. His age was in the thirty zone. The first Irish generation to grow up without the spectre of unemployment and emigration, this had given them an ease, a self-confidence and natural assurance.

The opposite of everything I grew up with. They faced the world on equal footing. We’d sneaked into life with a trail of fear, inadequacy, resentment and yes . . . begrudgery My response was booze. His generation toyed with Hooches. He said,

“Take a seat.”

I did, resolving to burn my suit at the first chance. He asked,

“A drink?”

“Some water, maybe.”

He nodded and I asked,

“What?”

“I heard you had a . . . you know . . . a problem.”

Christ, was there anyone who hadn’t heard? I asked,

“You heard where?”

“Superintendent Clancy. He was a friend of the family.”

The waitress came, breezed,

“Ready to order, guys?”

“Jack, what would you like?”

“You seem to know the place, I’ll follow you.”

“The spaghetti is dynamite . . . that OK? Need a starter?”

I shook my head. The start I needed was a triple scotch. He poured water into glasses, said,

“The grub’s excellent. You’ll be pleased.”

“I can hardly wait.”

He gave me a searching look, checked over his shoulder, then back to me with,

“I’m gay”

I turned, shouted to the waitress,

“Glass of wine.”

Terence was shocked, stammered,

“Oh don’t, I didn’t mean to set you off.”

I laughed, repeated,

“Set me off! What a great expression. I know you all of two minutes, and you seriously think you can set me off”

Jesus, I was shouting. The waitress came with the drink. Placed it in the middle of the table, no man’s land. White wine
in a long-stemmed glass, beads of moisture clinging to the out-side, like precarious aspirations. Terence tried again.

“I didn’t mean to . . . blurt out my sexual orientation. But I’ve found it best to get it in the open from the beginning.”

I leaned over, close to his face, asked,

“What makes you think your sexual identity is of the slightest interest to anybody?”

He hung his head. At least I’d stopped shouting, for which we were all grateful. I said,

“You have the wine.”

He grabbed it, downed half in a second, said,

“Thank you . . . I mean, could we start over? I think we got off on the wrong foot.”

“Sure.”

The food came. I’m sure it was delicious, but I could only toy with it. Terence didn’t fare much better. I asked,

“Tell me what Clancy said about me.”

He pushed the food aside, began,

“It was the time of the teenage suicides, remember?”

As if I could ever forget. I nodded and he continued,

“The Superintendent used to golf with my dad. The suicides were the talk of the town. He said you’d solved it, despite being an almost chronic alcoholic. He said you could really have been something if drink hadn’t ruined you.”

I looked at him, asked,

“And what, you think that was some kind of recommendation?”

“I went to an agency, they wouldn’t touch the case.”

“What case?”

“My father was murdered.”

“Oh.”

“I know who did it.”

“Who?”

“His wife.”

“What?”

“My stepmother.”

“Aw, come on.”

“I’m serious. Please, will you just check her out, a preliminary investigation? I’ll pay well.”

“Books should be used with care.”

Alain de Botton,
The Consolations of Philosophy

I was now sitting on the steps outside the Augustinian church.
A
faint hint of sun was in the sky, and I felt I should acknowledge it. A Romanian woman, two kids in tow, asked me,

“Is this church Catholic?”

“It is.”

And they walked away, not looking back. On the wall beside me was a huge glass case. Our Mother of Perpetual Help used to reside there. Someone stole her.

Terence had given me a fat envelope stashed with cash. His stepmother’s name was Kirsten, and she lived at the family home in Taylor’s Hill. The father had been found dead in bed of a heart attack. I said,

“Nothing suspicious there.”

Terence had sighed, answered,

“Speed, speed would have accelerated it. He had a history of coronary trouble.”

“Speed?”

“Kirsten’s drug of choice.”

“Wouldn’t an autopsy have shown this?”

“There was no autopsy.”

“Why didn’t you demand one?”

“I was in New York. When I got back, he was already cremated.”

I thought about that, admitted,

“That’s odd.”

“Wait till you meet Kirsten; you don’t know what odd means.”

“And I’m to see her how? . . . Just call and ask, ‘Did you kill your husband?’”

Terence let his irritation show, said,

“You’re the private eye. You’re supposed to be good at this.”

“Jeez, who’s that good?”

He indicated the envelope, said,

“It’s what you’re being paid for.”

I didn’t answer right off, let his tone hang between us, then,

“Terence, one time I’m going to mention this.”

“What?”

Like he was seriously irritated now. I said,

“Lose the attitude. Don’t ever talk to me like I’m the fucking hired help. You do and I’ll break your front teeth.”

Outside the restaurant, he’d given me his card. It had his name and three phone numbers. I asked,

“What do you do?”

“Software.”

“That’s an answer?”

“To my generation, the only one.”

I let him have that, said,

“OK, but I think this is a waste of your time and money.”

He gave me a small smile, said,

“See Kirsten, then we’ll talk.”

“Your money.”

“And don’t forget it.”

He was gone before I could react.

I’d walked towards Shop Street when I felt a tug on my arm.
Turned to face my mother. She is your original martyr and is blessed to have me as her drunkard son. The farther down the toilet I go, the better she appears. My father was a good man, and she treated him like dirt. When he died, she did her grieving on the grand scale.

Leaped into widow’s weeds and spent every hour available at the church or graveyard, publicly displaying her loss. Her type usually has a tame cleric in tow. Fr Malachy, a prize asshole, was her escort for the previous years. I wouldn’t have liked him under the best of circumstances, but as her hostage, I out and out despised him. My last encounter, he’d shouted,

“You’ll be the death of your mother.”

I waited a beat before,

“Can I have that in writing?”

His face went purple and he gasped,

“Yah pup yah. Hell won’t be hot enough till you’re in it.”

Who says the golden age of the clergy has passed?

My mother said,

“I saw you at the Augustinian. Were you at mass?”

“Hardly.”

Her eyes had the usual granite hue. Under that scrutiny, you knew mercy was not ever on the agenda. Sometimes, though, she could whine anew. Like now, she said,

“I never see you, son.”

“Ever wonder why?”

“I pray daily for you, offer you at mass.”

“Don’t bother.”

She strived to appear hurt, didn’t carry it off and snapped,

“You’re my flesh and blood.”

My turn to sigh; it was definitely infectious.

“Was there anything else, Mother?”

“You have a hard heart, Jack. Couldn’t we have a cup of tea, talk like civilised human beings?”

I looked at my watch, said,

“I’m late for an appointment. I better go.”

“I haven’t been well.”

“I believe that.”

“Do you, son?”

“Oh, yeah, you never had a well day your whole miserable life.”

Then I was walking away. No doubt, Fr Malachy would receive an earful later. My heart was pounding and I could feel a tremor in my hands. Had to stop and take a breath outside the Imperial Hotel.

A fellah I knew was on his way in, stopped, asked,

“Fancy a pint, Jack?”

There was nothing I wanted more, but I said,

“No thanks, some other time.”

“You sure?”

“I think so.”

_______

Next day, I ditched the suit. Went to the St Vincent de Paul shop and got a blazer, grey slacks and white shirts. Back at the hotel, I tried them on. Not bad and definitely a step up. In the lobby, Mrs Bailey said,

“My! You do look smart.”

“You think?”

“Definitely. A new woman?”

“In a way.”

“Wait a moment.”

She disappeared then returned with a dark knitted tie, said,

“It was my husband’s.”

“I couldn’t.”

“Course you could, now hold still.”

And she tied it for me, said,

“There, you are a handsome man.”

“Thank you.”

I caught a bus at the Square. It broke down before Dominic Street and I figured the hell with it, the walk will do me good.

At Nile Lodge, I checked the address Terence Boyle had given me and began the trek up Taylor’s Hill. No doubt about it, this was where the cash was. Past the Ardilaun Hotel and I came to Irish gates. A brass plate proclaimed, “St Anselm”.

Pushed them open and walked up a long, tree-lined drive. I was struck by the quiet. Like being in the country. Then the house, a three-storey mansion, ivy creeping along the windows. I stood at the front door, rang the bell.

A few minutes later, the door opened. A woman asked,

“Yes?”

English accent with an underlay of Irish. She was that
indeterminate age between thirty and forty. Dark hair to her shoulders and a face that should have been pretty but didn’t quite achieve it. Maybe because of the eyes, brown with an unnerving stare. Button nose and full mouth. She had the appearance of someone who’s recently lost a lot of weight. Not gaunt but definitely stretched. I asked,

“Mrs Boyle?”

She gave me a long focused look, said,

“Yes.”

“I’m a friend of your husband’s.”

“Were.”

“Excuse me?”