It’s a large room, big enough to act as both bedroom and study; about the floor space of a modern apartment. There’s a door in the corner and I suspect this leads to a bathroom. It’s the type of room you wouldn’t see built today and everything about it suggests another age, the time of the Big House and servants and upstairs and downstairs; it’s a gentleman’s room is what I think.
It was so late and so dark last night, and I was so tired, I barely noticed where the journey came to an end. The air smelt different – like a foreign country. I know I stepped out of the car on to a gravel driveway and someone – I don’t think it was the driver – led me up some steps and in through a heavy door. I remember the floor inside this place was laid out in stone flagging; I'm in a house that’s big enough and old enough to have a stone floor. Everything I noticed seemed to be down on the ground, as though I was still partially blindfolded or hooded and could peek beneath the cloth around my eyes. What type of place had they brought me to now? I wasn’t sure if this was freedom; it could have been just another trick.
I’m still not sure. The room is carpeted across the expanse of the floor and I know that if I were to swing my feet from the bed, the ground would be soft and comfortable to the touch. But I don’t trust that carpet yet; I know that prisons come in many different shapes and sizes.
Have they handed me back to the Irish? Given up on the problem case – here, if you want him you can have him. It doesn’t make sense to keep me in custody, but since when did any of this make any sense?
What did that guard say – that I must have some powerful friends?
But I don’t, do I? Unless Siobhan pulled some strings? No, I don’t think so; she might not want me locked up, but she wouldn’t lift a finger to help me get free.
Locked up where? I still don’t know where they kept me or how long for. I don’t know much, really, only that they took me in and chewed me up and now it seems they’ve spat me out. No longer a threat? Was I ever a threat? What did they think I might do – kill Blair? Who hasn’t thought of doing that? Before that I wanted to kill Thatcher. They can’t arrest everyone who ever had that thought cross their mind. Was I ever anything at all, other than a suspected vagrant, a traveller, an undesirable whom they’ve now managed to rid themselves of, back to Ireland?
I hear a heating system come on and pipes rattle somewhere as the water starts its circulation to the radiators across the room. Like everything else here, the radiators are old and heavy, yet well looked after, it seems. I realise I can’t see properly – no glasses, no lenses – and it’s the first time it’s bothered me since they took me in. Like all short-sighted people, I’m fine until I try to do something, and then I become frustrated. There’s a black bin bag on the floor across the room and I guess it might contain my things. I wonder if my glasses are inside.
I can hear birdsong, as though the heating system has woken up the birds outside, but there’s no movement elsewhere in the house. There are old-fashioned shutter blinds across the windows; big, heavy, wooden blinds that fold back in on themselves when they open, but shut out any daylight when they’re closed, as they are now.
Let me think – this is autumn and the birds are singing; dawn is just about to break. That makes it about six or maybe seven o’clock, depending on whether the clocks have been changed. I want to move from the bed. I want to look in that bag. I want to pull back those blinds. I want to know where I am. I want to look through those books on the shelves. But I don’t do any of these things. I go back to sleep; or, I lose consciousness again.
A knock at the door wakes me. I lay there, waiting to see if there’s another knock. There is.
“Mr. Loughlin,” a voice says, a woman’s voice.
Somebody knows my name.
Of course they know my name – they brought me here.
Somebody’s using my name. I had begun to doubt my own name.
“Mr. Loughlin, I’ve a pot of tea here for you.”
I listen for a clue; it could be a trick. I feel more confused and disorientated now than when I was awake earlier. The bedside lamp is still on but now I can see a tiny shaft of daylight shining into the room, through a gap beneath the wooden blinds. I hear whoever’s on the other side of my door place a tray of tea things down on the floor and walk away. If this is a prison, then it’s a very strange one.
I try to lift my head off the pillows but it’s like a dead weight. My whole body is pressing down into the bed; my chest is bearing down on me, and I can’t move my arms and legs. The room is stuffy from the central heating; those old radiators are effective. I wish I’d tried harder to get out of bed when I was awake earlier. I don’t like the idea that people are up and about in this house, and I’m still here immobile; incapacitated, it seems. I hear the vaguest of sounds, possibly human voices, but they seem so far away as to not be in the same house.
Where am I? Have they put me away in some attic? Am I in some sort of an institution – is that it?
The idea of a cup of tea helps me move my legs to the side of the bed. There’s a duvet covering me, a good one that hugs my body, but I have to push it away; I have to get this thing off me. I manage to slowly move my arm so that my hand is resting on my chest and then I push the duvet up and away from me. The touch of the duvet hurts my hand, which I think is ridiculous until I look at the bruising across my knuckles, and I remember and I feel sick with the pain. This was their parting gift to me. I realise that it isn’t the weight of the duvet which is holding me down, but the beating they gave my ribs and back and upper arms and legs, and I see that most of me is a discoloured yellow and grey, and I remember when they did this to me and it hurt more then, so I’m not going to let it defeat me now.
I swing my legs over the bed and, just as I had thought, feel the soft depth of the carpet beneath my feet. I don’t give in to it; I know they could take it away at any moment.
I have some underwear on – my own underwear. I don’t remember dressing or undressing. I felt so naked for so long; even when I was wearing the overalls, I still felt naked and vulnerable.
Boy, do they love their orange jumpsuits. I remember being told to take mine off for the last time – like I’d want to keep it as a memento.
I try standing and it hurts. I’m weak and dizzy – too dizzy, so I sit down.
This room – it’s like something out of Brideshead Revisited. There are some clothes on an armchair, my clothes, and I stand up again to walk across the room. A T-shirt and some trousers; I must have worn these to travel across to Ireland last night. I pull on the T-shirt but I can’t attempt the trousers. I think I might fall over if I try.
I walk to the door and listen for any giveaway sounds, but there are none. I try the door and at first I think it’s locked – offering me tea but not allowing me to reach it – but it’s just the door handle that’s old and stiff to turn. The door is also difficult to pull back; it’s heavy and rubs against the depth of the pile in the carpet. True to her word, there’s a pot of tea outside the door. I look down the long corridor of a hallway, half-expecting someone to come rushing out now they’ve heard my door opening, but nothing happens. I can hear the voices clearer now, still muffled and far away, downstairs, I think, in some back kitchen perhaps. At the end of the hallway, there’s a large window with a view out on to some woodland and a lake. From what I can make out, it’s very picturesque, as though the house was deliberately designed with this in mind. It looks bright and crisp and clean out there, strong sunshine and deep shadows, some frost, a blue sky with no clouds. I’m not ready to face such a beautiful day.
I bend down to pick up the tray but almost topple over. I have to kneel down on one knee, and hold a dado rail running along the wall. I can’t pick up the tray, so I decide to drag it and myself back into the room. I lean back against the door to close it shut and sit back in relief. They’ll notice that I’ve taken the tray but I don’t want them to see me – and I don’t want to see them.
The tea is in a pot
that is covered to keep it warm. There’s a cup and a saucer, a teaspoon, a sugar bowl and a milk jug. There’s a little plate with three chocolate chip cookies on it and, like the view out on to the lake, I think the sight of this is going to break me. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, and then I open my eyes and pour a drop of milk into the cup. I take the cover off the teapot and pour out the tea. I drink it where I am, sitting with my back against the door.
If this is a trick, I think, or a trap, then they’ve got me.
“Mr. Loughlin.” It’s a male voice this time. The light coming into the room beneath the blinds has changed again – how long have I been sat here? I feel the vibration of his knock on the door in my back.
“Mr. Loughlin, is it okay if I come in?”
“One moment,” I say, and try to push myself away from the door. I have to use the door handle to stand up and I think, what the hell, and open the door a fraction. I lean over to the left, allowing the end of the bed to take my weight, and I work my way round to sit on the bed.
Whoever it is pushes the door open, against the carpet and against the tray of tea things on the floor. It’s a middle-aged man in an open neck shirt, sleeves rolled up, hairy arms – why am I noticing this shit? He looks at the tea stuff and then at me; whatever he sees doesn’t faze him. I guess he saw me last night.
“Mr. Loughlin, I’m Jack Reilly.” He reaches out a hand, but I show him my knuckles and shrug; there’s no way anybody’s going to shake my hand.
He walks over to the window blinds and opens one slightly; enough to let in some light but not enough to dazzle my eyes.
“How are you feeling?” he asks. “I see you had some tea – can I get you anything else?”
“Where am I?”
“You’re in Leitrim, not far from Manorhamilton.”
“And what is this place?”
“You’re on the Fitzgerald estate, in the main house. You’re here as a guest of Lord Fitzgerald.”
“And he is?”
“Well, he’s Lord Fitzgerald – he used to own the estate.”
“I didn’t think we still had Lords in Ireland?”
“Well, technically we don’t. He’s an English Lord, but he once owned everything hereabouts. He’s now bequeathed it for use by the State.”
“And who are you – Jack, yes?”
“I’m the Director of the Institute here – it’s a centre for artists and writers and so on. I presume Lord Fitzgerald thought it a suitable place to bring you.”
“Why would he bother?”
“Well, I don’t know for certain, but he asked and we agreed. He doesn’t ask for so much, when you consider all he’s done for us.”
“So he’s a benefactor?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“And I’m . . . he’s now my benefactor.”
“In a roundabout way, yes.”
“But you don’t know why?”
“Not really, no.”
“So where does that leave us?”
“Well, I obviously have to look after the interests of the Institute, but you’re very welcome here and I suggest we regard you as a paying guest until we learn more from Lord Fitzgerald.” He looks me in the face, and I see for the first time that there’s more substance to him than this front of bonhomie. “You’re going to need a couple of days to get yourself together – that’s okay, because everybody here is left fairly much alone. We have dinner together each evening at seven, but I suspect you’re not quite ready for that – am I right?”
I nod.
“Could you eat some food? Should I have something brought to your room – some soup, perhaps?”
Again, I nod. He looks at me again, taking in the bruising.
“Do you need a doctor? Would you like someone to come and give you the once-over?”
I shake my head. I don’t think I’m damaged internally – my piss had changed back to piss from blood before they let me go.
“Maybe in a few days?” he suggests. “I’ll see what I can find to have sent up to you.”
“Thanks,” I say, and make an attempt to get up when he stands to leave, but I’m going nowhere. “Jack?” I ask, as he reaches for the door.
“Yes?”
“Could you bring it in yourself? I don’t really want to see anyone right now, if that’s okay?” Or be seen by anyone, would be more to the point.
“Of course, yes.” He obviously considers this a good idea.
“Is that a bathroom over there?” I ask, indicating the door across the room.
“Yes – sorry, I should have said.”
“And was it you who helped me up here last night?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you.”
“Quite all right, quite all right. Get some rest, if you can.” He picks up the tea things and leaves.
I’m still sat on the side of the bed when Jack returns with a fresh tray. He places it on the desk across the room. I’m going to have to move if I want anything to eat.
“I’ll call in this evening,” he says. “See how you are then, okay?”
“What –” I was going to ask what time it was. “What day is it? Date, I mean?”
“It’s the first of October. It’s a Friday.”
“Thank you,” I say again and he leaves.
I push myself up to a standing position and make for the door in the corner. Halfway across, I lean on the desk for support, and I can see that he’s brought me a covered bowl of what I presume to be soup, along with a side plate of brown soda bread. There’s also a glass jug of iced water, with slices of lemon and orange added, and a glass for drinking. I push off again and reach the bathroom door; it’s easier to open than the heavy door out to the corridor. The bathroom is new, I can see, but cold – new fittings in an old house. The floor is tiled and I can feel the cold from the earth coming up through my feet. I lift the cover and sit down heavily on the toilet seat. I pee and my head droops with weariness as I sit there; it’s as though my body is emptying itself into the toilet.
The cold is too much and I reach across for a towel from the rail to place under my feet. I’m shivering with the cold; this must be my body telling me something – to get some food inside me maybe? I stand and pull the cord on a heater fan attached to the wall. It’s not a nice heat, but it has an immediate effect and helps me control the shaking. I flush the toilet and turn to look in the bathroom mirror, shuffling my feet along to take the warmth of the towel with me.
It’s not a pretty sight. I look like Saddam Hussein, twitching eyes included; I guess every prisoner’s going to look like Saddam from now on. The growth of hair on my face is almost a full beard, patchy still in places, and white, I notice, down one side. My hair losing its colour on my face is somehow shocking, or maybe I’ve just got used to the gradual fade to grey on my head? It doesn’t look like me – the person I can see doesn’t look like me. Shaving off this beard, once I’m ready, will be a first step to regaining my sense of self.
But for now, I make do with a quick splash of cold water. I dab some water across my lips – I hadn’t realised how parched I was – and try to wash away some of the collected gunge in the corner of my eyes. A lot of the discolouring on my face is dried blood. My nose feels tender, but it doesn’t look too bad and I can breathe without a problem – perhaps it wasn’t broken? There’s a dirty mark left on the towel from my hands and face. I turn off the heater and return to the desk in the room.
I sit down at the desk and lift the cover off the bowl of soup. My stomach lurches at the smell, so I take my time; it’s still hot and I don’t know if my system is ready to digest anything. I pick up the spoon and scoop some soup from across the cooler surface. The first attempt to reach my mouth isn’t a success, what with my shaking hand and the fear of scalding my mouth. The beard, too, gets in the way, and I get more soup around my mouth than in it. There’s a linen napkin on the tray and I use it to wipe myself. Eventually, I get the hang of it and feel the soup warm me through in
side. I dip some of the bread into the soup. There’s butter for the bread but I can’t manage to use the knife; besides, it’s tasty enough without.
I replace the cover on the soup bowl and try to tidy the mess I’ve made of the tray, but then I leave it. I have to get back to the bed. I lie down and pull the duvet over me. Once again, I sleep.
When next I wake, it’s still daylight but there’s something different about the room. Whatever it is can wait, because I have to rush to the toilet. I’m dizzy again from moving too quickly, and for a second I fear I might pass out on the floor and soil myself, but I make it to the bathroom. The cold gets to me again and I reach to switch on the heater. There are so many things going on with my body – the shivering, the bruising, the aching, and my toilet – but funnily enough, I already feel as though I’m getting better. I’m weak, but I think I could begin to get stronger – just so long as no one starts beating me again.
I don’t bother with the full inventory in front of the bathroom mirror this time. I wash my hands, turn off the heater, and walk back – steadier now – through to the bedroom/study. The tray of soup and bread has been replaced by another tray of tea and milk and biscuits. I didn’t hear anybody – Jack, I presume – come back to my room. I wonder how long I’ve been sleeping. I take the cover off the teapot and feel for heat; it’s stone cold. It must have been here for hours – is this the next day? I’m hungry again, so I pick up a biscuit. It tastes stale but I don’t care. The chocolate chips rush in a wave of flavour to my forehead: my tongue, my teeth, the roof of my mouth and, finally, a spot just behind my eyes, all savour the sweet taste of the cookies. It’s not such a different sensation to almost passing out a few moments ago; the same light-headedness and the danger that I might keel over at any second.
I pour some milk into the cup and drink it down; it’s warm. I think I must have slept through another night. I can picture Jack leaving me to sleep, and then bringing me this tray of tea in the morning. The blind across the window is opened slightly, as it was the day before. I see a stone garden courtyard outside. I hadn’t realised I was on the ground floor; they must have placed me in some out of the way wing.
Dancing to the End of Love Page 11