All the Rage

by Spencer Coleman

  After a long pause, he heard her familiar, daunting, voice.

  ‘Maggie Conlon. ’

  ‘It’s Michael, Michael Strange from London. ’

  There was a longer pause. Finally, she said, ‘What has Lauren got up to this time? ’

  He was not surprised by her remark. Her telephone number was issued to him only for emergency purposes. He and Maggie were hardly going to be best buddies.

  ‘She’s not answering my calls. Is she there with you? ’

  ‘No, Michael. ’

  ‘Have you spoken with her? ’

  ‘Not since we last visited our mother. Do you think there’s a problem? ’

  Michael prolonged his answer. ‘I don’t know, Maggie. We were together last week and she was in fantastic form. We spent the day at the farm and made some big plans for the future. Lauren was excited. Since then I’ve heard nothing from her. I wondered…’ He drifted into thought, hoping Maggie would interject.

  She did. ‘It’s not unusual for Lauren to simply go off into another world, Michael. I explained very carefully to you the complexities that exist in her mind. Do you not remember this? ’

  ‘Yes, but…’

  ‘Am I wasting my breath on you, Michael? ’ Her voice suddenly altered sharply, expressing annoyance. He sensed that she hesitated, closed a door and was now holding the telephone tightly to her ear. Her tone was guarded. ‘Michael, can you still hear me? Listen to what I have to tell you. ’ She waited once again, and then continued with the lecture, in a whisper this time. ‘Lauren is trouble, everything she touches is trouble. If she is up one day, she will be down the next. It is the nature of the beast. Did you not heed my warning when we last spoke? Jesus Mother Mary, I explained everything to you, in plain old-fashioned English. What exactly didn’t you understand? ’

  It was his opportunity to interrupt. ‘You told me everything? ’

  ‘Meaning? ’

  He took his time. ‘I was doing a little research, Maggie. It seems you weren’t totally honest with me in regard to your family history. It contains a few nasty skeletons in the cupboard, which you omitted to tell me about. ’

  Maggie’s discomfort was palpable. ‘Keep away, Mr Strange,’ she said. ‘Don’t go meddling in the affairs of other people. ’

  ‘It’s a little too late for that, Maggie. Telling me a pack of lies brings the worst out in me. ’

  Her anger erupted. ‘What can you possibly know about my family? Tell me, or God forbid, I’ll chase you down and show you precisely what the very worst in me is capable of. And believe me, the consequences of that will bring all the trouble you can handle. Is that something you can relate to, Mr Strange? Keep away from Lauren. Keep away from me. Are you still there, Mr Strange? Jesus, are you even listening to me? ’

  Michael slammed the telephone down and stood for a moment in the kitchen, taking in the force of her words. He found himself shaking. Even a large scotch on the rocks failed to abate the nervous tension raking every sinew in his body. Tomorrow was going to be a very long day. Raising the whisky bottle to the spotlight above him, he noted the generous level which remained. It was going to be a very long night too.

  ***

  The alarm went off at 6. 30am sharp. Kara stirred, then drifted her hand across the bed and found emptiness. The sheets were cold. She couldn’t actually remember if Marcus had come to bed: stubborn mule that he was, he had probably slept on the sofa, away from her. She was beginning to resent him for staying at her apartment, rent free, emotionally free and getting sex free. Why did men sulk? She wondered. Although the pair of them had skirted around the reason as to why he had ended up in hospital, things weren’t back to normal, which pained her. He was holding back, which stopped them going forward. Too tired to fight it, Kara slipped into the shower, dressed quietly and was out of the apartment in under an hour. Before leaving, she checked the sofa. He wasn’t there. Shit. Where was he? She couldn’t bring herself to even say his arsehole name. Men!

  This was going to be a big day, with all sorts of possible repercussions. Although nervous, she kept cool and took the tube on the usual route, walked Piccadilly, and arrived outside the gallery, albeit earlier than normal. She installed herself in the café on the opposite side of the road and found a window seat, affording her a perfect view of the gallery entrance. A newspaper obscured her face from the passers-by. Coffee and croissants helped the minutes tick down. Ronald eventually appeared, fumbled for his keys and stepped into the porch. She watched as he hesitated, bent forward and appeared to be reading something that caught his eye. He then entered the darkened gallery, tore at a white card which was attached to the inside of the glass door, looked around sheepishly, and disappeared from view.

  Kara finished her coffee refill, paid, and swept out into the street, using her umbrella as a shield. It wasn’t raining, but needs must. She then planned her route to the British Museum. She had chosen this location because Ronald had once remarked that he went there as a young boy. His father took him. He was still an avid visitor. Kara also reasoned that in the hushed confines of a museum, it was the least likely place for him to create a ‘scene’ if things got a little heated between them. She had absolutely no idea how he would react to her message on the door. It would be a civilised affair though, she concluded hopefully.

  ***

  Michael, in the meantime, had travelled without hindrance, changing his plans at the last moment and flying directly to Dublin. Originally, his proposed trip had included a visit to Limerick. However, a confrontation with Maggie in her volatile frame of mind wasn’t a sound idea, on reflection. Besides, he did not want her to know his whereabouts. Instead, he arrived at the airport at just after eight-thirty. He took a taxi into the city and arrived at St Stephens Green thirty minutes later. Standing in the foyer of the Shelbourne Hotel, he booked into his suite at reception, took the stairs up to the second floor and unpacked in his room. It was a glorious day, with the sun streaming in through the windows. He then became aware of how hungry he was. The food on the flight had been abysmal. He headed for the downstairs restaurant without delay, a full English breakfast demanding his immediate attention.

  ***

  Ronald’s nerves jangled. The note on the door had thrown him totally off guard. He felt like a complete and utter wreck. Nothing like that had ever happened to him before. The message surely was directed clearly at him, or was it? Several weird incidents in the past few days made him deeply uncomfortable, to the point of paranoia. First, there was the argument between Michael and Kara, which he had overheard. In fact, the whole of London heard that one, he reckoned. Prior to that, he had discovered a DVD playing in Michael’s office which he found baffling. Add to this the fact that both his work colleagues were showing distinct signs of hysteria and the overall picture resembled the nightmarish portrayal of Heironymus Bosch’s painting depicting the descent into Hell. Not a pretty scenario. What was going on? Ever since Ronald got wind of the breakdown in Michael and Adele’s marriage, he was aware of a gradual deterioration in everything that he held dear to his heart. It was saddening.

  There was more. For several days he had noticed that the CCTV stationed across the road was actually fixed upon the entrance to the gallery. This spooked him. How was that possible? And yesterday, just as suddenly, the camera returned to its original position, monitoring the flow of traffic, as was the intended purpose. Amusingly, he had heard of people talking of Big Brother, but to him these were idle mutterings of conspiracy theories by lunatics. Utter bunkum. Not anymore. Here was the evidence. It made him decidedly uneasy.

  And now there was this sinister new development. He was at a loss as to what to do. The deadline of twelve-thirty was fast approaching, and the morning ticked by at an alarming speed. Whoever was behind the note on the door clearly meant business. It just had to be Michael, his boss: the fact that he was absent from t
he gallery pointed strongly to this. But then, he reasoned that this was not his style. Michael was the sort to simply confront him in the gallery, face to face. Why then the British Museum? It was as if by being forced to be present at the meeting was also by his very action a sign of complicity. But what else could he do? The alternative was police involvement, and that would be an intrusion too far. He was too old for all this nonsense.

  ***

  Michael’s first meeting was at 11am, in the coffee lounge on the ground floor of the hotel. The French windows were open, with several couples seated at tables on the sunlit terrace, shaded by parasols. A couple of businessmen toyed on their laptops. Searching around the unfamiliar faces, Michael found his intended target seated alone in a quiet leafy corner. He was a small man conservatively dressed in grey flannel suit. Unremarkable in every other way, he perched like a bird on the edge of his chair, his beady eyes scanning those around him. Even though he was in his late seventies, he was alert and watchful. He had clearly seen Michael before Michael had spotted him.

  As Michael approached, the man stood politely and extended a hand. Taking it, Michael introduced himself using his real name. Terence had obligingly organised the meeting, setting up the “interview” in which Michael would masquerade as a bona fide news reporter. He had been well briefed beforehand.

  ‘I’m Paddy McGuire, pleased to meet you. ’

  ‘Can I get you a Guinness, Paddy? ’

  ‘That would be a very fine thing, Michael. ’

  They sat and faced each other. A waiter took an order for duplicate drinks and departed.

  ‘Have you been to our fair city before, Michael? ’

  ‘Yes, particularly during the troubles north of the border. Although Belfast was my normal port of call, I had reason to visit Dublin on many an occasion. My wife also has family connections in Cork, so it is a landscape I know, with great affection I may add. ’

  ‘I’ve lived here all my life. Seventy-nine years in total, thirty-six of those in service. My wife and I celebrate our golden wedding anniversary next month. We’ll spend a few quiet days in Galway to celebrate, I reckon. ’

  The waiter brought the drinks.

  Michael raised his glass. ‘Congratulations, that’s a hard act to follow. ’

  ‘Are you not married yourself, Michael? ’

  ‘Separated. ’

  ‘My son lives in London. He is also going through a rather painful divorce. It is difficult to give advice. Angela – that’s my wife – and I, well, we count our blessings every day. ’ He shifted in his seat, pulling back from the glare of the sun. ‘I’ve seen and encountered many unpalatable things over the years, Michael, some of which still haunt me to this day. Marriage though, it’s what has kept me going. Without it, I would have been burnt out years ago. ’ He shrugged wearily. ‘Different times now, though. It seems even a blessed union has a shelf life. ’

  Michael remained silent, allowing Paddy centre stage.

  ‘My son asks me what the secret of a happy marriage is. That’s a big question. He should ask his dear mother, not me. ’ A twinkle sparked in his eye as he explained, ‘Now she would answer that we were only married for five minutes, not half a century! How come? Let me enlighten you. During all my years in the force, I only got to see her perhaps three times; such is the workload of a policeman! ’ He chuckled. ‘I was never around to get under her feet. That’s the recipe for an everlasting marriage, she would tell you. ’

  For the second time, Paddy’s austere features broke into a generous smile. He was an endearing man, Michael decided. He liked him a great deal.

  Paddy continued. ‘Your colleague, Terry, said you were writing an article on minors who commit murder, and the effect it has on their lives after they are released from prison. There have been many high profile instances of this, most notably the recent Bulger case in England springs to mind. What happens to the fate of the killers, is that your drift? ’

  Michael took up the thread. ‘A convicted criminal gets a new identity, a new beginning, but can the past really be erased? Is there genuine remorse on their part? Can the history of violence resurface? Why does society protect those who by their very actions are a threat to that same society? I want to explore how the victim has become a secondary issue, or concern, in crimes of violence. Equally, how does a convicted killer, even with the cloak of anonymity, merge into so-called ordinary life without behaving like a misfit? ’

  ‘And just how can I be of assistance, Michael? ’

  ‘Many years ago you were involved in one such case. ’

  ‘Ah, the Porter murder enquiry. Terry mentioned it. It’s all on record. ’

  ‘Indeed. ’ Michael wanted to appear to be world-weary on this, avoiding any emotion on the subject, for fear of betraying his real motives. Keep it flat, Terry advised him. ‘But you were there, from the beginning. This is a classic case for my article. Taken as a broad sweep, a young girl – a minor – kills her father. But what other choice did she have? Subjected to a daily life of habitual abuse, she lashed out after being cornered with no means of escape. She retaliated. That was her escape. But years later, how does society successfully integrate her so that she can lead a normal life, and put the past behind her? My question is: why do we owe her that privilege? I would like to understand your perspective on it, as you were on the frontline so to speak. ’

  Paddy McGuire consumed the last remains of his Guinness. He indicated to the waiter to bring more drinks. He lit a cigarette, and watched the smoke unfurl away from him.

  ‘Do you smoke, Michael? ’ He gestured with the packet of Marlboroughs.

  Michael raised a hand. ‘No. ’

  ‘Good man. They’ll be the death of me, Angela says. But death reaches us all in the end. I’ve seen every kind, mind you. Death is always a shock, no matter how many times you witness it. ’ He continued to inhale with pleasure, saying nothing more as a waitress brought the drinks. He thanked her, remaining on guard until she departed. ‘It has always been said that policemen get hardened to violent crime over the years,’ Paddy continued. ‘Not so, if you consider the macabre roll call which we deal in: suicide, rape, murder, drug abuse, torture. Every case uniquely occupies a little corner of the brain. You convince yourself that you’ve seen it all. Nothing can further shock you. Eventually, the brain is full, then overflowing with inhuman debris. What is the final result to the immune system? Breakdown. Burn out. Of course we are affected. I still recall every minute detail of every case I’ve worked on. ’

  ‘A hazard of the job,’ Michael observed.

  Paddy shook his head slowly, ‘More a damnation of the soul, if you want the honest truth. ’

  They drank quietly for a few moments. Paddy lit another cigarette as the sun moved off the terrace.

  ‘Laura Porter. Was she a victim? ’ Michael prompted.

  ‘For sure,’ Paddy replied. ‘The whole family were. The father was a beast, well known in the area for his brutality. As with a lot of families, Saturday night was a ritual of drunkenness and violence. Laura and her sister were sitting targets as they reached their early teens. Maggie, the eldest, eventually left home. This isolation left Laura in a very precarious position, at the mercy of this low-life. She was defenceless, or so we thought. On one such day, after hours of physical and mental torture at the hands of her father, she reached for a poker from the fireplace and battered him to death. He was unrecognisable from the attack. The first two or three blows would have killed him, but it was the ferocious assault on the victim which ultimately turned against her in the courtroom. A plea of self-defence became a prima face case of manslaughter. ’

  ‘What happened to her? ’

  ‘Laura was twelve at the time of the conviction. She was hospitalised for the next four years in a secure unit where she underwent a strict monitoring process to determine her state of mind.
She was diagnosed as suffering from multiple personality disorder. Later, she was transferred to a psychiatric prison to serve her remaining sentence. Eventually, she was released under the protection of the law and gained a new identity. She now lives in Britain. ’

  ‘Did you keep in touch with the family? ’

  ‘I did for a long time. This is a small community. Delores, the mother, was a sick woman. She is now in a nursing home. The sister, who I’ve lost contact with, lives in Limerick, I believe. ’

  ‘There was a baby brother, I understand? ’

  ‘That would be Patrick. He died aged three or four, if I recall correctly. It was a very long time ago. The findings from the official enquiry indicated accidental death. He fell backwards from the top of the stairs and sustained multiple internal injuries. To this day I am of the opinion that the father was responsible, but nothing could prove his guilt. No one was spared his bullying. Even the family dog was kicked to death. ’

  ‘The police enquiry into the father’s death became headline news, both here and in England. Why did Laura need specialised medical help? ’

  ‘Firstly, she was a minor in the eyes of the law and secondly, because she perceived herself as the victim, there were serious concerns for her health, which was deteriorating rapidly. In hospital, she attempted suicide on several occasions. The magnitude of what happened had virtually destroyed her. You could ask: why was she on trial in the first place? According to Laura, she acted in self-defence. If she had not protected herself that day, she was convinced that he would have killed her. After being raped and then beaten, she snapped, having been taken to the limits of human endurance. It was not then surprising that Laura would need sensitive psychiatric help. She was a broken child after all, Michael. ’

  ‘As the senior police officer on the case, did you concur with all the legal findings which led to a guilty verdict? ’