Blood Tears

by Michael J Malone

  Chapter 17

  Saturday night. I’m at the Chapel. How sad is that? Haven’t been for years. The booze didn’t keep the dreams at bay for long and the hangover wasn’t much of a trade-off. Nor were the women I kept bringing home with me doing anything for my sanity. Another one last night, but she got as far as my front door, before I emptied my stomach at her feet. The taxi-driver didn’t even get a chance to put his car into first gear before she returned to the front seat.

  So I thought I’d try religion.

  All of that brain-washing from my childhood surely wouldn’t be lost on me now. Surely something of the psyche of the boy remains? A few Our Fathers, a reading of the Gospel and the mismatched singing voices of the congregation will be enough to keep me calm for a few hours and dispel the pictures in my head.

  As the priest begins Mass from behind the altar, his words ring with familiarity. Despite the intervening years, I could chant along with him and match him word for word.

  When I left the seminary, I vowed I’d never step foot inside another church. And here I am, all but joining hands with the hypocrites. I can’t deny the good that’s been done over the years by the people who wear the cloth, but I’ve experienced too much of the dirt that is concealed within its folds.

  The congregation rushes into song. I pick up a hymn-book and join them. Emotion clogs my throat like thick phlegm. What is going on? I stop singing. Part of me wants to move closer to the altar and part of me wants to run into the street. I am simultaneously attracted and repelled. I can’t stand much more of this.

  The woman beside me looks up at me. The top of her black velour hat barely reaches my shoulder. Her eyes question me. ‘You all right, son?’

  There’s pity swimming in the brown of her iris. It’s almost more than I can stand. I brush past her and ignore the loud tuts as I make my way to the door. A question forms in my mind as I breathe in the cold air outside the large doors. ‘Where’s the nearest place I can buy cocktails?’

  I’m in bed and the alarm has just gone off. It’s Monday morning, 6:30 am. The resident band in my head is playing hard and they only have one tune: an extremely loud one that keeps perfect time with my heartbeat. Congratulations, McBain, you managed to get home in one piece.

  Sunday afternoon through Sunday night is a blur. The last thing I can remember is standing at the church door wondering where I could get a drink. Judging by the churn in my stomach, I managed to find one. Or two. Still, I can chalk another one up to the alcohol, no dreams and no dead bodies last night, thank you very much.

  Two things happen simultaneously. I become aware of the presence of another person and the quilt beside me rises as they cough. The cough I hear is harsh enough to dislodge a week’s worth of nasal production. She’s bound to be a stunner then.

  Well. That’s a result. A woman actually made it into my bedroom.

  The log-like shape beside me stirs some more. It makes a decent sized mound under the covers. Again, not promising. With more than a little trepidation, I poke a finger at the shoulder area.

  ‘Morning.’ I resist the urge to ask for a name at this point. Gallant to the last, me. Bleached blonde hair surfaces, then a pair of eyes thick with smudged mascara and sleep. She looks about ten years older than me. What is it with me and older women?

  ‘What kind of time’s this to go waking a girl then?’ She pushes herself back and up against the headboard. As she does this she takes the quilt with her to hide her bra.

  ‘Did we…?’

  ‘Nah, doll. By the time I got my clothes off, you were asleep.’ She grins, showing perfectly formed and dazzlingly white teeth. ‘And don’t think you’re getting any this morning. I’m strictly a night bird.’

  I almost make a pretence of being disappointed, but decide not to as she could easily see through it.

  ‘At least tell me we had a good time then?’

  ‘It was alright till you phoned up your bird’s husband and gave him an earful down the phone.’

  ‘I did what…?’ Shit. I was well and truly fucked. I need to be anywhere but here. I need to get some peace and quiet and try to think things through. I need to phone Theresa and assess the damage. ‘Can I give you a lift anywhere?’

  ‘If you drive anywhere the day, you’ll get the polis.’

  ‘I am the polis,’ escapes before my internal editor can silence it.

  ‘I know. Overheard you telling the husband. Detective Inspector. Very impressive.’

  ‘Shit. What did I say?’ My head is really hurting now. Fuck. What were you thinking, McBain? You can say goodbye to Theresa forever now, you fuckwit.

  ‘Something along the lines of his wife was in love with you and if he wanted to take issue with it, he should pop along to Pitt Street and look for the office with DI McBain on the door.’

  Fuck. I’d throw myself back on to the bed but it would take a week for the waves of pain to die down. I need some space.

  ‘So, can I take you home? Phone you a taxi?’

  ‘Give a girl a chance to waken up before you go sorting her out.’

  Shit. I’ll never be able to get rid of her.

  ‘And don’t worry, I’ll be out of your hair as soon as I’ve had my morning fag and a coffee.’

  ‘Right.’

  She looks at me. ‘You’re a bit slow in the morning, son. That’s a gentle hint for you to do the gentlemanly thing. Find me my fags and fetch me a coffee, then when you’re out of the room, I can make myself decent.’

  ‘Right.’ With the covers over my lap, I try to locate the presence of a bathrobe or trousers. Anything I can use to protect my own dignity. It occurs to me I’m not sure which body part I’d rather cover up. My belly or my genitals?

  ‘How come I’m naked, if we didn’t do anything?’ I ask.

  ‘You stripped and fell into bed before I could stop you and, as I already told you, there was no way I was sleeping on that excuse for a settee. Two-seaters are the work of Satan, if you ask me. Another example of how unsociable we are becoming. Can’t even ask people over for an innocent wee sleepover nowadays.’

  My clothes are hanging over the chair at the other side of the bed, so I’m forced to perform a strange pantomime crouch around the side of the bed, like I’m the back of the horse, but I forgot my costume. In this strange position, I shuffle along the side of the bed and along its foot to the chair, while offering nothing to her view but my ample arse. Trousers and a shirt on, I turn to face her. She’s not doing a very good job of stifling a grin.

  ‘You got a bad hip?’ she asks with a squashed smile.

  ‘Piss off,’ I smile and blush at my idiocy. ‘How does madam like her coffee?’

  ‘With a generous portion of brandy, topped up with thick, whipped cream,’ she says languorously, ‘But I’ll settle for milk and two sugars. And a fag.’

  While the kettle boils, I make for the toilet and take a piss. I self-consciously aim my stream at the wall of the pan rather than straight into the water. My face is pinched and pale in the mirror. The flesh looks jaundiced and the folds under my eyes are getting pronounced enough to conceal my nail clippings. The sink supports my weight nicely as I lean into the mirror.

  I tug at the skin under my right eye and view the engorged lacing of red capillaries that feed my eye. Attractive.

  As I perform this inventory of my ongoing dilapidation I’m trying to recall my erstwhile bed-partner’s name. Nothing. Last night has left nothing in my mind. Well, that’s a result of sorts. But can I just go back there and hope she inadvertently reminds me? I hear her moving about the flat. Probably having a nosy to see what’s worth stealing. This thought galvanises me to leave the bathroom.

  She’s opening a kitchen drawer.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she offers, ‘I’m trying to find a teaspoon.’

  ‘Over here,’ I squeeze past her in the small space, trying my utmost not to touch her with any part of my body. Ah, the joy of one-night stands. ‘There.’ I open the drawer and pull one ou
t.

  ‘I’ll just go and sit in the other room. Sorry.’ She’s a little shyer outside of the bedroom. It’s as if while we were in the bedroom there remained a little of the companionship we were both looking for last night, but here in the kitchen where life has a different rhythm, our lack of real intimacy is highlighted.

  ‘Right, you go through to the living room and I’ll bring your coffee in to you.’ God this is awkward. If I’d known her name I could have slipped it in there. Its absence worried at me, like I would be less of a reprobate if I could remember it, and more of a gentleman. I should stop thinking, my head hurts too much.

  We’re at either end of the sofa.

  ‘Nice coffee.’ She’s got a nice smile and I can see why I was attracted to her. ‘Lovely place too. The polis must pay nearly as much as being an entrepreneur.’

  ‘I wish.’ My mouth is at the lip of the mug and I’m breathing in the aroma like it’s menthol and I’m trying to clear my tubes. What is her name? Better get showered and dressed after this. After my coffee.

  ‘It’s Maggie, by the way,’ she is still smiling, but her eyes have lost that mild flirtatious look. They’re now clothed in concern. ‘You all right?’ I’ve just noticed she has this annoying habit of answering a question just as it pops into my head.

  ‘Yeah.’ I lie. ‘A quick shower and a shave and I’ll be brand new.’

  ‘Okay,’ her tone says she doesn’t believe me. She’s looking at me as if she’s trying to… divine something. It’s as uncomfortable as hell to be the subject of her scrutiny.

  I stand up. ‘Bugger the shower. Let’s get you home.’

  We’ve made it to the car and we’re driving along that mecca of small shops, Great Western Road, towards the city centre. “Driving” is a bit of an exaggeration. “Parking and sliding forward” would be a more accurate description. Don’t you just love rush hour traffic? To avoid it would mean too much thought, and I’m not doing thought this morning.

  ‘You been in the police long?’

  ‘Too long.’

  ‘Sounds like you don’t enjoy it.’

  ‘Mmmm.’

  ‘Why don’t you leave?’

  ‘’Cos institutions are all I’ve known. Where else would I go?’ Whoa big guy. Where the fuck did that come from?

  ‘A hospital? That’s an institution. You could help people there.’

  ‘A mental hospital maybe.’

  ‘You’re not going mad, you know.’ Her voice is quiet. Serious.

  ‘What?’ I take my eyes from the traffic and face her.

  ‘You heard.’ She holds my gaze. I break contact first. The car in front of me has edged forward. Almost absently, I register a pain in the front of my lower leg, as it tires from the constant on and off pressure on the clutch. This traffic is doing my head in. What I would give for a siren right now.

  ‘Just who the hell are you?’

  ‘Do you think we met by chance last night?’

  Christ, she’s a loony. I’ve picked up my own personal stalker.

  ‘Everything happens for a reason, you know.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Now I know why the universe brought us together, Ray. I can help you.’ She looks the same, her eyes are pools of empathy, but the words coming out of her mouth are just not making any sense, and scaring the shit out of me.

  ‘Eh?’ I really do need to expand my vocabulary.

  ‘You were only a boy.’

  ‘What? Only a… What the fuck are you talking about?’

  ‘I can’t see it all, yet.’ She looks out of the window, but not at the traffic. ‘But I know that you were as much of a victim as he was.’

  ‘Get the fuck out of my car, you fucking witch.’

  The driver behind me jumps on his horn. Looking in the mirror I can see his hand wave wildly and his mouth is spewing what I’ve no doubt are obscenities. That is something I can handle. The car is in neutral and my hand is on the release button of my seat belt before I know it. She puts her hand on mine.

  ‘Don’t. It’s me you’re angry with.’

  ‘Get out the fucking car then.’

  ‘I’m going.’ She barely flinches at my rage. As she leaves the car she throws a small piece of card into the dashboard. ‘If you…’

  ‘Bye.’ The car is in gear and I’m moving before the door is shut. Maggie’s face flashes into my vision. Her face is scrubbed of make-up, her eyes are large with pity and with need. The need to help.

  In the car park at the station, I congratulate myself for making it into work without assaulting anyone. The way I’m feeling, that’s a result. And I doubt if it’s going to get any better. Theresa’s husband will have no doubt lodged his complaint, so depending on how she plays it, I could be in bother. Will she put her cosy lifestyle in jeopardy by telling the truth? Or will she let me be fed to the lions?

  I arrive at my office without being accosted. Hellos are exchanged with the usual people on the way. Is it my overworked imagination or are they more muted than normal? Jungle drums work just as well in police stations as they do in other offices, or perhaps even better, for we trade in information on a daily basis.

  The boss is sitting behind my desk, his expression as unreadable to me as a page of Hebrew.

  ‘We need to talk.’

  ‘So talk.’ I sit in the seat facing my desk and ignore the urge to cover up my ears.

  ‘Peters, come in.’ He shouts over my head. The door opens smartly and Peters walks in. He stands in front of me to the right of the desk.

  ‘Ray, this gives me no pleasure…’

  ‘What the fuck is going on?’ This is much more serious than a reaction to an abusive phone call. Peters’ eyes go anywhere but my face. He is instrumental in this. He looks… embarrassed. Like he’s just shit on a fellow officer’s career.

  ‘We would like you to accompany us to an interview room.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘We would like to question you on your whereabouts…’

  ‘Boss, don’t do this. You’re making a huge mistake.’

  ‘…on the night of the Connelly murder.’

  Chapter 18

  Allessandra is shivering. The midday sun doesn’t quite heat this small room in Bethlehem House. The chill is thickened somewhat by Mother Superior sitting in front of her and looking, well, superior.

  ‘How would you describe the relationship between Ray McBain and Carole Devlin?’ Allessandra asks.

  The nun is nonplussed by the question. ‘Before I separated them, they were… very close. Too close.’

  ‘How so, Mother?’ Allessandra asks, dreading the answer.

  ‘Ray would have been about… ten or eleven? He still had rather a sweet soprano. Devlin I would guess was around fourteen. We tend to move the boys on before they reach puberty. Because then it gets really messy.’ As she speaks her eyes never left Allessandra’s. Her gaze is strong and says this is my domain. I am the mother lion and I will brook no dissent.

  Despite herself, Allessandra can feel herself being cowed by the force of the woman’s personality. ‘You have to remember that children are nothing but little animals. With all the… urges that animals have. Until we adults teach them better.’ She smiles and Allessandra feels she has to smile in return.

  ‘I caught them one day. Down behind the tennis courts. Fiddling with each other. Hormones are a terrible thing, DC Rossi. Especially in the very young.’ She wrings her hands in dread at the human race’s drive to carry on its genes. ‘The work of the devil, if you ask me.’

  ‘Surely such… experimentation, while not to be condoned, is to be expected?’ Allessandra is thinking that perhaps one isolated incident is not so bad. Perhaps they were equally forgettable to the other. Besides, if Ray was only eleven there wouldn’t have been much in the way of “fiddling” going on surely.

  ‘Maybe where you came from, my dear, but not in a house of the Lord.’ Before Allessandra can object, Mother continues. ‘That little event forced me to keep the
m apart, but there were other… things. You have to remember I have only one pair of eyes and I was looking after more than twenty children. Ray became fixated on Devlin. Followed her everywhere.’ Mother widens her mouth in a smile. ‘The modern idiom would be “stalker”.’

  A mug of black tea cools on the table before her. Allessandra has a teaspoon in her hand and is slowly stirring white sugar in a stainless steel bowl. Her seat is in the corner of the staff canteen and she is facing a window, in whose reflection she can see who is coming and going. She can also judge if anyone notices her and whether or not they were tempted to speak to her. So far no-one has as much as registered her presence.

  The long chrome-lined serving passage in front of the buffet is empty. A caterer bustles behind it, her face long with purpose and habit as she fills the various food containers.

  She’d had to do it. Boss or not, he has raised enough suspicion in her mind that she can’t ignore it. The records prove that Ray and Devlin had been in the convent at the same time. They must have known each other. So why did they both act as if they had never clapped eyes on each other? And Devlin did call him “Ray”.

  The records also show that Devlin was in her teens and that there were only seven boys in residence; she must have known him.

  Peters was in the room when she went to speak to Campbell. When she told them about the connection with Bethlehem House and DI McBain’s demand that she keep his name from the list there was a pause as the importance of what she said sank in.

  The look on Peters’ face stayed with her for hours.

  Allessandra stops stirring the sugar when she realises someone is standing over her.

  ‘Is this a private party or can anyone join in?’ It’s Daryl Drain.

  Allessandra shrugs and reaches for the handle of her mug. The tea is cold.

  ‘Can I freshen your tea up?’ asks Daryl.

  ‘Go on then,’ Allessandra says. Then adds a quiet thanks to his back as Daryl walks over to the counter. Soon he’s back holding two mugs, both very hot judging by the pained expression on his face. He places them on the table with relief. He blows on his hands before he turns a chair round and straddles it cowboy style.