Islandbridge

by Brady, John

  Róisín lifted the baby and laughed. There, she had heard a little something, a gurgle of pleasure. Eimear felt that she was surrounded by love, and such concern and minding. She sometimes thought she should say it out loud, how grateful she was. Something stopped her at those times, and it had disturbed her. She should never, ever say to one of them that sometimes she felt suffocated by it all.

  What nobody had said, or hinted at, would never be said to her now either: that she had brought this on. It wasn’t about how Declan wanted to emigrate, and her so against it, not knowing. It was the stupid belief she had, and in her addled state couldn’t possibly have thought it out. She had shown them Declan’s letter from the tin. She remembered one of the two detectives, the man, asking for the loan of a spade.

  She’d sat with the woman, Marie, who turned out to be a sergeant, looking out the kitchen window, as a small mound grew bigger. Marie smiling, reaching out to pat her hand when she’d keep coming back to it: there was no other tin, just the one. The next day there had been a half-dozen men out digging. Still, even then as they dug up every square inch, she kept on thinking all the while that somehow, this would help.

  Weeks later, that Superintendent sitting across from her in the kitchen, asking her again; almost accusing her. What did they think? There was nothing she could say that’d persuade them. You can never prove you didn’t, she had realized. And in a smaller way, it would be the same with even her own. They wanted it behind them, to just move on. Proof of that, she supposed, was that her mother hadn’t been asking her why she wanted to go out and apply for a job now. Maybe she understood now, the need to change in Eimear, to reach toward a new start.

  She wondered again about the name. Surely to God they’d know now that she wasn’t trying to disown them or anything, or that she wasn’t gone cracked. It was the name she’d used when she was a little girl, for heaven’s sake – they’d remember that, at least. Symbolic, that was the proper word: that’s what she’d say.

  The baby’s giggles drew her out of her brooding. Róisín had a way with little ones and that was obvious: a real gift. Here she was now, with the baby and him laughing nearly, sputtering away.

  She smiled and held her arms out. For a moment it felt as if she were holding them out to the fields and woods, the hills and sky.

  “Here she is, your mammy,” cooed Róisín. “It’s your mammy. Isn’t she gorgeous, isn’t she?”

  He was gurgling with excitement, she saw. Róisín’s teeth gleamed as she laughed herself, and she brought him in a slow swing to her arms.

  “Here’s your mammy, Liam.”

  Chapter 15

  MALONE TOOK A CALL on his mobile at around four. Soon after, he gave the caller a howiya, he began to look Minogue’s way. He pointed to the phone with his other hand and lifted his eyebrows. Soon, his eyes glazed over.

  Minogue had been ready for some time to bale out of the interviews with Catherine Condon. Some of it was beyond depressing. Her regrets, her anger coursed through it all.

  “Thanks,” Malone said to his caller. “Listen. I’m sorry I said that about your sister. No hard feelings.”

  The occasional flicker at the edges of Malone’s mouth didn’t survive to become anything close to what Minogue could call a smile.

  Malone closed the phone, flipped open his notepad and scribbled a name, a number.

  “Joe Sinnott,” he said. “Immigration Bureau.”

  “Well, I didn’t see any Sinnott in the case files,” Minogue said. “Did I?”

  Malone looked over with a half-hearted scowl.

  “Well, do I really need to say it?”

  “If it makes you feel better.”

  “Okay then,” said Malone. “Someone should have bloody well talked to Joe Sinnott earlier, shouldn’t they?”

  “If they were serious about finding this woman at all, you’re telling me.”

  “Well, duh,” Malone said. He studied the name he had written for a few moments.

  “Anyway. It looks like we’re going to get fierce holy out of all this anyway.”

  “Father Coughlin? Is he back in the picture?”

  “Sister Foran. You know her? She’s a nun, like.”

  Minogue shook his head.

  “I thought all of yous country people knew every priest or nun from one end of the kip to another. She runs an outfit called Settlement House.”

  Minogue searched his foggy mind again, found something.

  “She was on the telly – no, the radio, a while ago?”

  “She does work with aliens and that. Immigrants, those people.”

  Minogue had never figured out why the civil service had ever aped the American lingo so many years ago when the Aliens Office had been set up

  “Joe says she’s the business,” said Malone. “And he got us in there too. She says come over. She doesn’t do phone interviews with Guards. How do you like that?”

  “Don’t mess with nuns, Tommy. That’s all I know.”

  It was Malone who found the small sign, the size of a business card, taped to the inside of a window on Pearse Street.

  They had driven by in both directions, twice, without spotting numbers or names. Malone was working through his second layer of bad language by the time Minogue parked. They would walk this part of never-ending Pearse Street, starting at Grand Canal Street.

  “You would think the fu–”

  Then Malone spotted the small, grimy window by the electrical wholesalers.

  He hit a buzzer by a dented grille that covered a speaker.

  “Translate that thing, will you,” Malone muttered.

  “Why don’t you know your native language?”

  “Amnesia. I never thought much of a language being beat into me.”

  “All right. Teach Chúram.”

  “Say it again?”

  “Pronounce it Chock. Chock Coor-om.”

  “What’s it mean?”

  “It means Dublin people are wicked ignorant.”

  “Give over, will you.”

  “House of Care. House of taking care, I suppose.”

  Malone stuck his nose to the window and tried to look in. Then he stood back and looked up at the windows above.

  “Teacher’s pet,” he murmured. “That’s how you know that Irish stuff.”

  “Mallacht ort, a claidhaire,” said Minogue. 3

  “Yeah, yeah. Look up there. Smile”

  It wasn’t the box for an alarm system that Minogue’s eye first assumed.

  As Minogue eyed the closed-circuit camera, the speaker poured out a crackly woman’s voice. It was propelled by a strong country accent. It sounded like an invitation to dispute something, but also to be ready to get steamrolled trying.

  Malone announced they were Guards.

  “Joe Sinnott?”

  “A friend of his,” said Malone. The door release buzzed after several moments.

  There was a smell of soup, and some kind of vegetable. It grew stronger the moment they opened the second door. Cauliflower, Minogue realized, and it drew him back to childhood, and a Sunday dinner.

  Awaiting them was a woman who was taller than Minogue. Her steel-grey hair was cropped short. Her waistcoat and purple gansey underneath called up wise woman/whole health/vegetarian/tree lover/feminist to Minogue. Sure enough, there were sandals and slacks. He almost missed the small silver crucifix near her throat.

  Malone seemed to be paralyzed.

  “What,” the woman said. “Have you never seen someone tall before?”

  Minogue was first to shake hands. Bony, he registered, and with bumps where they shouldn’t be. He put Sister Imelda Foran at over sixty. Arthritic; regal. A bit of a witch into the bargain.

  “Come in, sit down,” she said.

  They passed a kitchen that also had two battered sofas and tourist posters with writing Minogue couldn’t figure out. Sister Foran’s office was tiny but organized enough for three chairs. Minogue caught a glimpse of a screen saver with mention of God
at the bottom of sea views and foresty scenes. He only managed a glance at the spines of some of the books. Merton, he saw, an Elaine Pagels book. And Germaine Greer?

  “So ye’re not in the same line as Joe,” she began. Minogue hadn’t missed her grimace as she sat.

  “No, Sister.”

  “No Sistering if you don’t mind. Imelda.”

  “Grand,” said Malone. “Yes. I mean no.”

  Imelda Foran leaned over the desk and fixed Malone with a stare.

  “Are you all right there?”

  “Tommy, Sis – Tommy Malone. Yes. I am. Thanks very much.”

  Minogue couldn’t remember seeing Tommy Malone like this.

  “I’m Matt Minogue.”

  He held out his card but she looked away.

  “Tell me, then, are ye going to be investigating the poor man who tried to immigrate the other day? The man in the plane?”

  Minogue doubted she was being sarcastic. It dawned on him that some of Malone’s unease had worked its way into him too.

  “We’re trying to locate a woman, Sister.”

  “Imelda. Yes, Joe told me. But he didn’t tell me much. Joe’s good fun you know, but he’s still a Guard. Plays his cards right close to his chest.”

  “A busy man,” said Minogue.

  “As are we all. Why do you want to locate her?”

  Minogue made a fair effort to return her gaze. He decided she must have been a principal. He recalled from childhood one of these severe faces, boxed in with the huge nun’s hat like some mad, white bird of prey.

  “She may be able to assist us in our investigations.”

  At this, Sister Imelda raised an eyebrow and then sat back.

  “And if she can do so, or after she has done so, what would happen to her?”

  “I don’t follow,” said Minogue.

  “You’re here to see me as a last resort. If I am to help you, if she is to help you, then you’d be able to see her status here. Whether she has a permit and that. What if she were here without that?”

  “I don’t think that concerns us, er . . .”

  “Well, it concerns me.”

  And there it was, Minogue saw. This lioness had flexed.

  “If she needs protection, we’re here to help her.”

  “Protection, fine. Do you mean condoms, is it?”

  Minogue sat back then.

  “Don’t be upset,” said Sister Imelda. “You’ll appreciate the world I work in. The niceties don’t often apply.”

  Minogue saw that she was fingering her chain now. He couldn’t remember what the books on body language said about that, but there was probably zero about how she stopped at the crucifix and held it.

  “You’ll excuse me so,” she said. “But I’m expecting some people.”

  “Look, Sister. I can’t break the laws of the land here.”

  “What land is that? Brussels, is it? I respect the law now – Mike–”

  “Matt.”

  “But there are human needs that cry out for justice.”

  “Break the law to uphold the law, is it?”

  She didn’t answer but looked over at Malone instead.

  “Do I know you?”

  Malone nodded.

  “Aren’t you . . . ? Wait a minute, it couldn’t be.”

  Malone didn’t look up when he spoke.

  “It was my brother,” he said.

  “Sister Imelda,” said Minogue after a mouthful of tea, “you should have been a Guard.”

  “My father was, God rest him. No, I got the vocation. Little did I know then it’d get me into such trouble.”

  She looked up from the drawer of her desk.

  “I was a right blackguard growing up,” she said. “I don’t mind telling you.”

  “Fond memories,” said Minogue.

  “Well, I’ll tell you one thing: it made me well able to hold me own in the dealings I’ve been in. Sure my God, the nuns were nothing like this when I joined up.”

  “How did ye manage to terrify half the country, so?”

  She made a small, conciliatory smile.

  “Well, you might have something there. All I know is this: God is everywhere – just like we used to believe before. . . . Well, I supposed I’d better be delicate here.”

  “Before the Roman . . . ?”

  She winked back at him. He offered his own smile now.

  “It’s the men,” he said. “We’re great for handing out orders, I suppose.”

  “You’re a blackguard yourself,” she said. “You should come and work for us.”

  She pulled open a drawer and drew out three manila file folders.

  “These are my only chances,” she said. Minogue didn’t get a chance to ask her what that meant.There was a knock on the door and it opened.

  “Come in, Charity, come in.”

  The lustrous eyes against the dark skin were not as striking to Minogue as the teeth that appeared when the arrival smiled.

  “I am sorry, Imelda.”

  “Don’t be sorry. They’re only Guards. Harmless, they are. I hope. Charity Nkeme, meet Mike and Terry.”

  “Matt.”

  “Tommy.”

  “That’s right,” said Sister Imelda. She took another envelope from her drawer.

  “Charity is from Botswana. And her sister is with us. Patience.”

  Sister Imelda looked up.

  “God, I love saying those names of yours, Charity. It puts me in a right good frame of mind.”

  The women enjoyed this greatly. Do all Africans, black Africans, laugh this way Minogue wondered, and he replayed Charity Nkeme’s pronunciations again. Ee Meldah. Soh-rree.

  “Missionary nuns to Ireland,” said Sister Imelda as the other closed the door behind her. “Just in the nick of time in this godless island, I’m thinking some days.”

  Her eyes blazed with a sudden zeal.

  “Those two women, those sisters – they’ll save Ireland. Mark my words. And what sweet justice that’ll be. Maybe this poor man up in Malahide will save us too.”

  Minogue remembered the shrine on the street there, from the television news.

  “Now, these are my files,” she went on. “They stay with me. So before I answer any of your questions I want your word that you’ll do no harm to any girl, any woman, who might appear out of this.”

  “Harm, sister?”

  “I’m going to give you back something you fired at me a minute ago: Don’t break my law to keep your law. Do we understand one another, Mick?”

  Minogue nodded.

  “Okay, first the bad news. ‘Marina’ doesn’t mean much. It’s like ‘Paddy,’ the way they’d use it in England.”

  “Not her name?”

  “You can find that out yourselves. If she is trying to avoid deportation, if she is Russian or Ukrainian or Bulgarian or Moldovan or Byelorussian or Romanian or – you pick: it’s all ‘Russian’ here. That’s the first injury to these beautiful girls. Their names, their pasts, are all disregarded. They become a ‘Marina’ or ‘Natasha’ when they go into that world where they are injured each and every day. Injured in ways that should haunt you. Do you think it can’t happen in Ireland, our Island of Saints and Scholars?”

  “Well, a man told me not long ago that Ireland’s not an island at all.”

  “Right!” said Sister Imelda. “Good! Was it a priest said that?”

  “A cop. Sorry.”

  “Well, I don’t know what that means to you, but I’ll tell you what it means to us here. We build bridges. Do you know what I mean?”

  Minogue didn’t want to voice his weary contempt of clichés like this. They came out of every face on television these days. They were always a bit behind in the religion department, and then they thrashed things to death. Everyone was special now; it was all about sharing and validating, feeling comfortable, in the church stuff that Kathleen Minogue brought out from Mass to leave for her pagan husband to read. He hadn’t found a way to tell her that this only stoked his av
ersion.

  “That’s my vow: to help the Holy Family, however they appear. They were refugees, you know.”

  “Flea to Iijit, I thought they said when I was small,” said Minogue. “The way you learn words, you know?”

  “No harm,” said Sister Imelda. “Look. I spent a few years in a sister house in California years ago, trying to get over arthritis. I came back from there on fire. What I saw there. The money. The hate. And now we could end up like that here if we close our hearts, if we burn our bridges. So that’s my vow – did you ever play hurling? Do you know what camogie is?”

  “I have a fierce interest in hurling,” said Minogue. “As it relates to County Clare. But I have a sister played a lot of camogie.”

  “Well, now. It’s all gone to hockey now, the girls. At any rate, I brought my old camogie stick out to Tiburon with me. For luck. But do you see it up on the wall behind me?”

  “Hard to miss,” said Malone.

  “Ah, you woke up there. It’s here on account of our work and a second vow.”

  She looked over at Malone, now pretending to be checking something in his notebook. He looked up finally.

  “I made a vow that I’d use my camogie stick to beat the living hell out of any man – anyone, I should say – who would cause hurt to the Holy Families, everywhere. Dublin, Wicklow, Tiburon, Seattle. Wherever I live. So, have we an understanding, Mike?”

  “Have you had to use it yet?”

  She gave him a cool appraisal. Another warrior, Minogue thought, and smiled, more at Malone’s discomfort than at this happy scrapper disguised as a nun.

  “Here’s one,” Sister Imelda began. “It’s her real name. She came here on a one-year permit and got work at a hotel. Marina – she’s twenty-two now. She’s from the Ukraine – no, Moldova. Sorry, I haven’t got them completely sorted in my head yet. She lived then – before the nightmare started for her, I mean – at a flat on Dorset Street.”

  Minogue glanced over at Malone.

  “How does she come to be here,” he said, then. “In your files, like?”

  She looked at the two men as though they had landed from a spacecraft.

  “Did Garda Sinnott not tell you what we do here? Why we do it?”

  Minogue could guess. In a few seconds, she had become a different person. Was it being police, he wondered, or merely men.