by Pat Mullan
“Why do you think they had something to do with Terry’s death?”
“And why not? Do you trust them any more? How many of them have been arrested lately for interfering with young boys? Perverts! And they’re supposed to be men of God! Setting a moral example for us. The Church is full of them. I hate to think of any of them putting their filthy hands on Terry! It makes my skin crawl!”
“Did Terry ever say anything to you?”
“No, never. But he could have been afraid to say anything, couldn’t he?”
“Have any of the priests at the school been accused of anything?”
“No, but there’s been rumours. There’re always rumours. Most people dismiss them, saying that everybody in the Church is getting tarred with the same brush these days. We were seriously thinking of moving Terry to another school. But he did like it there. And he was getting a good education. So we didn’t. Now we’ll regret that forever.”
The conversation had reached a dead end. Emmet excused himself and left. Joyce Motors was a hands-on business and he couldn’t afford to be away from it for too long.
After he left, Ed turned to Claire and said, “There’s a priest at the school I’d like to talk to. I went to secondary school with him. Haven’t seen him since. Used to chase the girls when I knew him. Never’d thought he’d become a priest. Name’s Michael Nugent. Do you know him?”
“No. I’ve only met the Dean and the President. It was all very formal. And, oh yes, that nice Father Cormack who teaches religion.”
“Maybe I’ll ask if I can see him too.”
“You should do that.”
Ed gave her a parting hug before leaving the room.
10
Detective Tom Buckley was a member of the Garda team investigating the death of Terry Joyce. He was surprised to learn that Ed Burke was back in Ireland. He knew Ed well, had grown up with him on the same street, knew the family, he’d played football with Ed after school. And he’d worked closely with Ed a year and a half ago after the Tanaiste’s wife, Pia, had been found dead in Ed’s bed. After Ed had been shot at Shannon he visited him in the hospital every day and he was there to see Ed and Maria fly out to the States. He never expected to see Ed back in Ireland again. But he understood. Terry Joyce was family and who better that Ed for the family to call on for help at such a time.
Tom knew that Ed was staying with Terry’s parents, Emmet and Claire. So he picked up the phone and called him.
They met at the promenade in Salthill. At midday the sun shone brightly and the waters sparkled in Galway Bay. It seemed that a cross-section of humanity paraded up and down the promenade: elderly couples, hand in hand; young lovers; driven young women walking briskly with their dogs; intense young men on their mobile phones; tourists of every nationality meandering at their leisure.
Ed parked his car and as he walked on to the promenade he saw Tom standing there, arms folded, looking out across Galway Bay. Tom spun around when he heard Ed’s voice, shook hands vigorously and instinctively gave him a hug.
“You look great! That Florida sunshine’s been good for you.”
“And Maria’s been good medicine as well.”
“You know, I never expected to see you back here again.”
“I hadn’t planned to come back. But when Emmet called and told me about Terry’s death, I had to come. They don’t believe it was an accident.”
“That’s why I wanted to talk to you. As I told you, I’m on the investigating team. Normally we wouldn’t be involved unless there was clear evidence or suspicion that a crime had been committed.”
“And you’re saying this is being treated differently.”
“Garda Superintendent Tim Quigley is a close friend of Emmet and Claire. He has no intention of indicting St. Curnan’s for something they didn’t do. But he wants to make sure that we do a thorough investigation. That we don’t miss anything.”
“And …?”
“I hate to disappoint Emmet and Claire. But, so far, it looks like an accident. Mind you, we’ve started and that’s only our first opinion. We’ll check out every single thing, every forensic detail before we reach any conclusion. That’ll take a while.”
“Will you keep me informed?”
“Why do you think I’m here? I’m not supposed to discuss it with anyone outside the team but there’s a lot of water under the bridge with you and me. I think you have a right to know what’s going on. And if we find any evidence that it wasn’t an accident, I’ll let you know.”
They walked the promenade for a while, reminiscing about the past, the good and the bad, and wondering if they might have run into bad times again.
11
With the inquest and autopsy completed, Terry’s body was released to the family a week later. Dr. Mona Kennedy confirmed her initial findings. Death resulted from massive head injury, torn liver and lungs, caused by an uncontrolled fall from the tower. No evidence was uncovered showing any injuries other than those caused by the fall. It would be up to the gardai to support a verdict of accidental death once their investigation had concluded.
The requiem mass for Terry was con-celebrated by the Dean, the President, and three other priests. Usually only two altar-boys served mass but all ten were on the altar for this one. Not all of them played active roles but they sat there, in their surpluses and soutanes, as a mark of respect to their deceased fellow student and altar-boy.
Terry’s coffin sat at the head of the centre aisle, directly in front of the altar. His family and close relatives occupied the first three pews. Ed Burke sat unobtrusively and unobserved, he hoped, at the end of the third pew. Close friends squeezed into the next three or four pews. All the boarding students filled the remaining pews to overflowing, and many stood solemnly at the rear of the chapel and on the side aisles.
Patrick was chosen to hold the paten for the Dean at communion time. The Dean stood at the bottom of the altar, positioned to give communion to Terry’s family. Patrick had never met Terry’s family but he could see the resemblance to his dad, who gently ushered Terry’s mother out of the pew. They approached the Dean who lifted a communion wafer over the paten held by Patrick and said, The body of Christ. Terry’s mother took time to compose herself and get the lump from her throat. Then she offered her tongue for the host and Patrick looked directly into her eyes. She must have seen something there because she stopped, host on tongue, almost as though she’d been paused like a frame from a video. Then she moved on. Patrick was startled by this and held the paten under Terry’s father’s chin, who was red-eyed from crying and seemingly oblivious to everything.
The rest of the mass passed in ritual fashion for Patrick. He sat near the front steps of the altar and imagined that Terry’s mother was looking right through him. Just my imagination, he told himself.
The cortege reached the family plot in the city cemetery. High on a hill, it commanded a magnificent view of the city and surrounding countryside. Almost created the illusion that all the souls resting here were somehow observing every move of the living. A feeling both comforting and unsettling, thought Patrick.
Patrick stood uncomfortably as the coffin was lowered into the grave and the Dean said the final prayers and sprinkled holy water on the coffin. At the end, relatives placed the wooden cover holding the floral wreaths over the grave. Then the Dean turned to the family to offer his condolences.
Mrs. Joyce accepted with thanks and then suddenly turned to Patrick , “Did you know my son? Did you know Terry well?”
Taken aback, Patrick stumbled over his words, “Yes. He was my room mate.”
“I knew it. What’s your name?”
“Patrick. Patrick Clarke.”
“Well, Patrick, one day I’d like to talk to you about Terry. You wouldn’t mind that, would you?”
“No, Mrs. Joyce.”
Ed gave her a hug as they left the graveside. As he did so, Claire said, “Did you see the boy that I was speaking to? I think you should see him.”
> “Who?”
“Patrick Clarke. He’s a student, a boarder. He was Terry’s roommate.”
“And how do you think he can help?”
“That’s just it. I don’t know. He looked at me, stared at me, at the funeral mass. There was something about that look. Like he knew something that nobody else did. That boy is afraid of something.”
“Could be your imagination. If he was Terry’s room-mate then I’m sure it would be very natural for him to be upset by Terry’s death. That could explain it.”
“No, I don’t think so. I felt that he couldn’t wait to get away from me. And it seemed like he wanted to say something but couldn’t. I can’t explain it.”
“OK. I’ll see if he’ll talk to me.”
After they had all dispersed Patrick sat in the car on the way back to the school and had the feeling of being cornered again. The same feeling he had when he and Terry were being chased by the two priests. Only this time he felt cornered by Terry’s mother.
12
Garda Superintendent Tim Quigley pulled into the Joyce’s driveway around seven pm. Terry Joyce’s parents were close friends. He had come to reassure Emmet and Claire Joyce that the gardai were conducting a thorough investigation into their son’s death.
Ed Burke stayed away. His last encounter with Superintendent Quigley was still fresh in his mind. When the Tanaiste's wife, Pia, has been murdered in Ed’s bed in St.Cleran's, Special Branch detectives had held him for questioning. Ed still remembered Tim Quigley, the tall, good looking, well groomed senior Garda officer who had entered the interview room. So he decided that it was best that he stay in the background for the present.
Claire Joyce opened the door, “Tim, thanks for coming.”
He reached out and hugged her, “Oh, Claire …,” but words failed him and he said no more.
Emmet Joyce stood in the hallway, sombre and sad. His eyes were still red-rimmed, evidence of continuous fits of crying. He shook Tim Quigley’s hand. Then they both ushered him into the front sitting room and Claire excused herself to get tea and biscuits.
Emmet looked at the Superintendent, “We know you can’t bring Terry back to us. But we want answers.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
Claire returned with a tray of tea and biscuits and busied herself pouring three cups. The Superintendent added milk and his usual teaspoon of sugar. Taking a sip and finding it to his taste, he put down the cup and turned towards them.
“I know you want answers. I know you want an explanation for your son’s death. I know that. I want answers too.”
“Did you know that Terry suffered from a fear of heights? He’d never have climbed that tower, not even in broad daylight! Never!” said Claire.
“That’s right. He was quiet, liked the books and the reading. He wasn’t into physical things. God, I tried often enough to get him to go fishing with me, get him to go to the rugby with me. But he wasn’t interested,” added Emmet.
“That’s what’s troubling us,” said Tim, “It seemed totally out of character for him to be missing from his room and outside on a terrible night like that. Never mind about climbing up scaffolding into that tower.”
“So what are you saying?” asked Emmet.
“I don’t know. It doesn’t add up. He died in a fall from that tower. Of that we’re certain. But what was he doing up there? What made him fall? Was he pushed?”
“You think somebody killed him? “ asked Claire.
“No, I didn’t mean it to come out like that. If he’d been out there on a dare with some other boys, he could have been pushed. But it could still have been an accident.”
“But he’d never have been out there doing things like that. I know he wouldn’t,” insisted Emmet.
“And if we don’t think he’d have done that, where does it leave us?” asked Claire.
“God, I dunno. I just dunno. I believe Terry was frightened that night. I can’t prove it. I just have a sense of it.”
“Frightened of what? Of who?” Claire’s voice now had a pronounced tremor.
“Again, I don’t know. We’re examining everything. I have people going over that tower with a fine tooth comb. Looking for any scrap that might help us. We’ll also be talking to all the teachers and many of the students. That’ll take days, probably weeks.”
“You don’t seem very hopeful,” said Emmet.
“Emmet, I won’t promise you anything. There’s no evidence that your son died from anything other than the fall from that tower. No evidence at all. If we can’t prove that he was not alone on the night, then ‘no’, I won’t be hopeful. And his death will remain a mystery. That’s not very satisfactory. For you or for me.”
“Somebody must know something,” said Claire.
“That’s where my hope lies. That we’ll discover something during the interviews. Or that somebody will come forward and tell us something. And I’ll make you a promise here tonight. I won’t give up!”
He rose to leave, shook Emmet’s hand, and gave Claire another hug.
They thanked him and then stood at the door and watched him drive away. Then they returned to the sitting room and sat quietly togetheruntil Emmet broke the silence.
“There’s something wrong at that school. I know Tim is good at his job. But when the Church clams up, he’ll get nowhere!”
“You don’t think the priests had anything to do with Terry’s death, do you?”
“I don’t know what I think. Why shouldn’t I suspect them?”
They sat, side by side, in silence for the longest time. Finally, Emmet put his arm around Claire and said, almost in a whisper. “ Ed’ll know what to do.”
“But, Emmet, he almost died when he got shot at Shannon. And that’s only nine months ago. He can’t be well enough, can he?”
“You’ve seen him. He’s never looked better. That girl, what’s her name? Maria Lane. She’s been with him in Florida. And I think she’s good for him.”
Emmet held her even closer and kissed her. They sat again in silence.
13
Patrick Clarke did not sleep well. He tossed and turned, his mind in turmoil. Violent dreams invaded his mind every time he dozed off: Terry’s dead body, broken and bloody, lay in bed looking at him accusingly. A dream so real that when it woke him, he sat up and looked over at Terry’s bed to convince himself that the bed was empty. At four thirty in the morning, he’d had enough. He couldn’t sleep any more. In the next bed Dermot was sleeping, oblivious. So Patrick turned on his bedside lamp and tried to read. But he couldn’t concentrate. Too tired and too distraught.
The gardai were interviewing everyone about Terry and his appointment was scheduled for ten am. Four days since Terry’s funeral and his fear was still as strong. Terry’s camera remained hidden in the sacristy. He didn’t know what to do with it. He couldn’t turn it over to the school. He didn’t trust anyone, even the President. He’d thought about turning it over to the gardai in the morning but realized that he didn’t trust them either. He didn’t want to get involved. If he turned over the camera to the gardai, he’d have to tell them that he was with Terry the night he died. Maybe he’d get blamed for Terry’s death. He was too afraid.
But he had already made one decision. He had decided not to destroy the photos in the camera.
14
John Carty couldn’t live with himself. And he couldn’t face the world. He’d been with Father Roland Cormack the night that Terry Joyce took the photos with his mobile phone. Terry ran away and Father Roland ran after him. He’d been living in fear ever since. Now Terry was dead and he knew they’d find the photos. He couldn’t live with that. He’d never be able to go home again.
He had made his decision, accepted his fate, and now went numbly through the motions.
It was dark outside. He sneaked out after supper and made his way to the groundskeeper’s shed. Old Tom, the groundskeeper, had invited him into the shed one day because he’d seen John always looking at him when h
e was mowing the lawn or clipping a hedge.
So John knew where things were kept. The door was always left unlocked. He pushed it open and edged inside. He tripped over a lawnmower as he felt his way to the back wall where the various tools and equipment hung. It didn’t take him long to find the rope.
He straddled the big thick branch, the one overlooking the path close to the school entrance. Taking the rope from around his body, he looped it three times around the branch and double knotted it. Then he looped the other end around his neck and knotted it tightly. Since he’d made his decision, he didn’t hesitate. It was the only way out. He convinced himself that it would be quick. He swung his left leg back over the branch so that he sat facing the college. He could see lights in some of the windows, the brightest in the President’s office which looked out over the front lawn and the trees where he sat.
He imagined the President watching him. He felt nothing, only emptiness. He slid to the edge of the branch and let go.
15
Even at sixty, Father Flaherty, the Irish teacher, was athletic and virile with the body of a man twenty years younger. While others read their morning breviary in their rooms, he donned a pair of runners and read his as he fast walked around the perimeter of the college grounds.
The light morning mist began to lift as he reached the stand of oak trees. He lifted his head to enjoy the beginning of a new day. But the sight ahead brought him to a sudden stop.
He stood, transfixed, clenching his breviary until his knuckles started to hurt. Shaking himself, he took the final few steps until he stood directly under the body that hung from the tree: a boy in the school blazer, short grey trousers, socks, no shoes. His neck twisted grotesquely out of the make-shift noose and his swollen tongue protruded from his mouth, gobs of saliva and mucous forming a trail down the front of his blazer.