The Therapy House

by Julie Parsons

  He turned around. The Grand Canal was in front of him, busy with boats of all sizes jostling for position at the landing stages. And on the other side, a low modern building, wide concrete steps leading up to it. Another glance at the guidebook confirmed it was the railway station, Stazione di Venezia, Santa Lucia. He moved down towards the water, looking for the bridge, turned to his right and crossed. He stood still, jostled and shoved by people with wheelie bags. Then he took a deep breath, slowly climbed the steps and pushed through the smudged glass doors.

  That trip to Venice. His first time. He stood in the railway station and looked up at the departures board. Saw the name he wanted. Bassano del Grappa. A name he’d heard years ago, told to him by an old friend in Special Branch, who had a friend in Interpol.

  ‘Bassano del Grappa,’ Dominic Hayes had said, ‘that’s where James Reynolds is. My friend says the Italian police have him spotted.’

  James Reynolds. A Thursday morning, 1975. A routine delivery of cash to a suburban post office. Children’s allowance day. The security van had made the drop and gone. No problem. But there was a car parked on the double yellow lines by the traffic lights. Sergeant Joe McLoughlin walked towards it. A shotgun blast. He died on the spot.

  James Reynolds. That was his name. The man who killed his father. All those headlines. For weeks after the funeral. After they’d sat at home and mourned him. After they were supposed to have moved on. But they hadn’t. No trial. No recompense. No justice. Because James Reynolds was gone.

  Bassano del Grappa, the name on the departures board. A small town at the foot of the Alps. Tourists in the summer, commerce in the winter. McLoughlin had got out his old school atlas. Found Venice, on the Adriatic, surrounded by water on all sides, then let his eyes move northwards from the green of the Veneto lowlands to the dull ochre of the higher ground closer to the Alps. And saw there, an inch and a half away, the name of the town. Would he go? Would he look for him? Would he have the nerve? Would he be brave? But somehow he never did. He put it off. He waited. For the right time.

  A train leaving in five minutes. A sudden clutch in his stomach, and sweat again, this time cold across his forehead. He shovelled euros into the ticket machine, found the platform, climbed aboard and sank into his seat.

  The flat countryside rolled past. Villages with their red-tiled roofs and gardens filled with tomato plants, lettuces, fig trees, the fruit not yet ripe, and vines, no sign of the luscious purple bunches of grapes that would soon festoon them. Flowers too, swags of bougainvillea, and fields with sunflowers, their yellow faces turning towards the sky. And in the distance, mountains dark grey topped with snow. The Italian Alps, he reckoned.

  When the train stopped he got off and headed into the town. It was damp and gloomy. He walked along a street with a row of trees, their branches pruned into odd umbrella shapes. ‘Il Viale dei Martiri’, the sign said. Screwed into each tree trunk was a small framed photograph. Young men, named, and the same date. 26.9.1944. He walked slowly, looking at the pictures, then turned away, down a steep hill, through a series of small squares, towards the river which rushed through in spate. ‘Il Fiume Brenta’, the sign by the wooden covered bridge which crossed it. A strange structure, McLoughlin thought as he stopped to look at the pictures displayed on huge billboards. A ruined bridge, a ruined town. Destroyed, he read, many times, but most recently during the Second World War. Hard to believe, he thought, that it could now look so pretty, quiet and friendly. All that violence, all that destruction, but somehow so quickly forgotten. Like the Troubles at home. In the past now; another country. And again the clutch in his stomach, the sweat on his forehead.

  Phone calls made regularly every year. Spoke to the superintendent in charge of the investigation.

  ‘We don’t forget our own, Mick. Your father, one of us. We’ll find the fucker sooner or later. Problem is,’ and there’d be a sigh, a pause, ‘we don’t have enough evidence. We couldn’t extradite him, we certainly couldn’t convict him. But,’ again the pause, and the voice now suddenly cheerful, ‘don’t you be worrying Mick. We’ll get him. Sooner or later.’

  He stood on the bridge. It was crowded, thronged. He scanned the faces of the passers-by. He recognised no one. He was hungry, his stomach rumbling, a long time since the cappuccino and pastry he’d had for breakfast, standing at the counter of a café just off Piazza San Marco. Now he felt light headed, out of sorts. Not sure what he was doing here.

  At the far side of the bridge was a bar, built so it was part of the embankment which dropped steeply to the river below. He peered in through the window. It looked fine, quiet, empty. He was served by a white-haired man with a brown leather apron. A glass of local beer, dark bread with a plate of salame, sausage and cheese which tasted smoked. He ate quickly. And noticed a black arrow stencilled on the wall, pointing down narrow stairs and the words ‘Museo degli Alpini’ neatly printed beside it. He stood, wiping his mouth, and gestured to the waiter and pointed to the sign.

  ‘Sì, sì signore. Il museo, molto interessante, sì,’ the waiter nodded encouragingly.

  Downstairs was molto interessante. If you were interested in war, which McLoughlin was. If you were especially interested in the awfulness that men could visit upon each other. Which McLoughlin especially was. The history of the Alpine Regiment was displayed in grainy black and white photos stuck haphazardly on the walls. McLoughlin leaned forward to get a better view. There were bodies hanging from trees along a road. I partizani, the caption read. McLoughlin recognised the place. He had seen it this morning. The trees, the photos, the names. And beside these photos more of gli Alpini with their comrades, German soldiers, on the Russian front.

  He worked his way around the small room. Below the windows the river slithered like a huge green snake, light reflected from its surface playing across the ceiling. Uniforms, faded khaki trousers and shirts, belts and holsters, guns, bayonets, grenades were displayed on the walls. A series of tableaux of wartime scenes. Models of nurses tending the wounded in a field hospital, and soldiers in a trench. And music too. Songs sung by strong male voices. He stopped to listen. He couldn’t make out the words, but the sentiments were clearly expressed. We’re all in it together. We’re fighting for faith and fatherland and in the end we’ll beat the buggers.

  ‘Interessante, no?’ The waiter from upstairs. He stood in the doorway, a duster in his hand.

  ‘Sì, yes, very interesting,’ McLoughlin pointed to the photographs of the soldiers in Russia. His guidebook Italian was exhausted. ‘The Italian soldiers. They fight with the Germans?’

  ‘Yes, allies then.’ The man shrugged. ‘Then we support Mussolini. But some people, no. The partisans, they hide in the mountains around the town and the Germans, they capture them, bring them down and they kill them, leave them hanging from the trees. Leave them there as a warning.’ He pointed towards the photo. Then to another board. ‘And some people are even more brave. See, look.’

  McLoughlin moved closer. A photograph of a young man, handsome, strong, wearing the distinctive peaked Alpine hat with its feather, and beneath the picture a certificate from Yad Vashem. Benedetto a Beni, it said, had been honoured as one of the righteous of the nations for his bravery in saving persecuted Jews during the Holocaust period.

  ‘Thank you,’ he smiled at the man, ‘it’s very good for me to see all this. I come from Ireland. We didn’t take part in the Second World War. We were, what was called neutral.’

  ‘Yes,’ the man nodded, ‘I think you Irish. Your voice, you know.’ The man turned towards the stairs. ‘Come up. I give you special drink.’

  The lights turned off automatically as they left the basement. Upstairs the sun had come out and the rain had stopped. The barman fiddled with a number of bottles.

  ‘Here,’ he pushed one forward. ‘This, grappa. Very special. It has flavour. Fruit flavour. You try?’

  ‘Very strong
, forte, fortissimo,’ McLoughlin could see the words on the sheet music on the old piano at home.

  ‘Sì, fortissimo, but we drink only little. Not like you Irish and your whiskey.’ He poured a measure into a small glass. McLoughlin picked it up gingerly.

  ‘Taste. You like. My friend, my Irish friend, he like.’ The barman smiled encouragingly. McLoughlin sipped. It was smooth on his tongue.

  He nodded, ‘It’s a bit like the drink we make at home.’

  ‘Poo-cheen.’ The barman pronounced it carefully. ‘Very nice. Jimmy, my friend, sometimes his friends bring him some.’ The man topped up his glass. ‘You know Jimmy?’

  McLoughlin shook his head. He sipped again. He felt suddenly sick.

  ‘Look, here,’ The barman pulled a photo out from behind the row of bottles. ‘His friends come here last summer. Very important people. They bring peace to Ireland.’

  He slid the picture across the counter. McLoughlin leaned forward. He reached into his breast pocket and fumbled with his glasses. He hated wearing them, tried to forget he needed them, tried to pretend he could read without them. But now he put them on. The faces were familiar. He knew who they were. Everyone knew who they were and what they had done. Some had called them freedom fighters; others called them criminals. Now they were respected. Politicians. Leaders of the peace process.

  A third man stood between them in the photograph. Not a household name like the others. Known only to those who could not forget. And now, here he was, in this pretty little town, north of Venice, below the Alps, by the river.

  McLoughlin took off his glasses. He gestured to the photo, pointing at Reynolds.

  ‘Jimmy?’ he asked.

  ‘Ahh,’ the man nodded and smiled ‘Jimmy, sì, Jimmy, molto gentile. He has the bar, the bar Irlandese. The Shamrock Bar.’ He pronounced the words carefully.

  The Shamrock Bar. McLoughlin had seen it advertised on the website where he booked his flight. Pints of Guinness and glasses of whiskey. Pool tables and darts. Live music every weekend. A photograph, a good-looking blonde woman standing in the doorway. The caption identified her. Monica Di Spina Reynolds. And a statement in English. ‘My husband is Irish and I am Italian. We are very happy to welcome everyone. We offer Irish hospitality with Italian style and service. Céad míle fáilte agus buon giorno.’

  He had written down the address in his notebook. Now he reached in his pocket and pulled it out, flicking through the pages.

  ‘Shamrock Bar, Via del Fiume. Is that near here?’

  ‘Sì, vicino,’ the man pointed. ‘Next turn, a destra.’

  McLoughlin picked up his glass, and drained it. He paid his bill. He fumbled with the coins, his hands not quite steady. He stepped out into the street. Next turn, a destra, to the right, and the sign, the big green shamrock hanging over the footpath. He walked towards it and stopped outside the window. It was decorated with tricolours, thatched cottages, hurleys and girls with long red ringlets and Irish dancing costumes painted splashily across the glass.

  The door to the bar stood open. He hesitated conscious that his heart had begun to race. He stepped away and rocked back and forth on the edge of the pavement. The street was noisy, traffic backed up. A woman approached. Small and blonde, dressed in jeans and a crisp white shirt. She smiled and gestured.

  ‘Buon giorno, signore, caffé? Una birra?’

  He noticed the logo above her right breast. The bright green shamrock embroidered above the name.

  ‘Per favore.’ She ushered him in. His footsteps were loud on the wooden floor. She ducked beneath the countertop. Dark mahogany, like the shelves behind. Decorated with old stout bottles and a jumble of bric-a-brac. Half-burnt candles in brass candlesticks, hardback books with faded covers, an assortment of mugs, biscuit tins, Jacob’s Fig Rolls and Mikado, postcards showing typical Irish scenes, donkeys on a bog with two red-haired children, mountains misty and blue, jaunting cars by the lakes of Killarney. And framed, in pride of place, those three familiar faces.

  McLoughlin stared at the photo. It had been taken here. They were leaning against the bar, pints of Guinness in their hands. All smiling. A happy scene. Old friends meeting up again. He couldn’t take his eyes from the picture. His face felt stiff, fixed, immobile. The blonde woman was watching him.

  ‘Irlandese? You from Ireland?

  ‘Yes, Irish,’ he nodded.

  ‘You know these people?’ she pointed. ‘Old friends of my husband.’ She reached up and tapped the glass with a long red nail.

  He looked away.

  She picked up a cloth and wiped the counter top.

  ‘You like a cup of tea? We have Lyons Green Label or maybe you like Barry’s? I put on the kettle.’ She flicked a switch on the wall. ‘My husband, he always say. First thing when you go in an Irish house they put on the kettle.’

  ‘Your husband?’ At last he was able to speak although his throat was tight and his mouth was dry.

  ‘Yes, here,’ she touched the glass on the photo. She busied herself with the tea. Gave it to him in a Belleek mug, pretty with its scattering of shamrocks. Offered him milk in a jug with the same pattern and sugar in a matching bowl. Put some biscuits on a plate. And chatted away, in English with a slight Dublin accent. About her husband, Jimmy, how they met in Spain, in Barcelona when he was teaching English and she was working in a bar. Summer job. How he had come back to Bassano with her. How they had a son, grown up, away at university in Rome.

  ‘And do you ever go to Dublin?’ he asked.

  She shook her head. ‘My husband’s family, they all gone now. Jimmy likes it here. He says life in Bassano is better than Dublin.’ She paused and shrugged. ‘And since things got so bad in Ireland. No more Celtic Tiger, so,’ she shrugged again. ‘And Jimmy gets visitors. From time to time old friends come to see him. He catches up with what he calls the gossip.’ She smiled as she took his mug and wiped down the counter. ‘You like more tea? Or maybe something a bit stronger. We have whiskey here.’ She stood on tiptoe to reach for a bottle of Jameson.

  ‘No, really, that’s fine. I have to go. A train,’ he took his phone from his pocket and checked the time. ‘I’ll be late. Thanks.’ He jingled money in his palm but she brushed it away.

  ‘No, no charge. Not for a Dubliner like you.’

  ‘A Dubliner?’ He looked at her

  ‘Of course, your accent. I know your accent. You sound like some of Jimmy’s mates.’ She pulled a rueful face, ‘Not like the others. They speak with that accent from Belfast.’

  He let her chatter on for a few more minutes, until he could bear it no longer. He looked again at his phone. Said goodbye and turned away. Pushed through the glass door into the fresh air. Outside he stopped for a moment and breathed in. It was hot now. He took off his jacket, slung it over his shoulder and turned abruptly. And found himself face to face. James Reynolds. Smaller than he seemed in the photos. Older now. His hair which had been black and curly was grey and thinning. The stubble on his cheeks and chin was grey too. But he still looked fit and strong. Broad shoulders in a tight denim shirt. No beer belly pushing over his belt buckle. And when he looked at McLoughlin his gaze was thoughtful and wary.

  Or was it? Did he even look at him? Did he even see him? Notice him? Their encounter lasted for no more than a few seconds. Just long enough for McLoughlin to say ‘scusi’, as he brushed past. And for Reynolds to nod, step aside and turn to go into the bar. What happened after that McLoughlin didn’t know. He didn’t stop. He didn’t look back. He didn’t turn and grab him by the throat. Pin him to the wall. Spit on him. Punch him. Headbutt him. Kick him in the balls. Break his arm. Drag him to the ground. Stamp on his face. Smash in his wind pipe. Kick his head until his eyes rolled back into their sockets. He didn’t do any of that. He just walked away.

  Bassano del Grappa. The perfect opportunity. Serendipity had brought him
here. And what had he done? He’d bottled it. He’d walked away, tears of shame blinding his eyes.

  Samuel Dudgeon crossed the green slowly. He was going to the judge’s house. He had arthritis in his hips, his knees and his spine. It hurt to walk. It hurt to do everything. He was wearing his heavy tweed coat. He cast a deep black shadow on the grass. He stopped to look at it. A hat, a coat, a bag, and the outline of a man.

  He was cold. He was always cold. He knew it was hot today because the people he passed as he walked through the town were all wearing, well, they were wearing virtually nothing. Young women in shorts and tiny little tops which barely covered their breasts and stomachs. Young men with huge naked arms and legs, decorated with strange shapes. Coloured spirals up and down and around their biceps and thighs.

  They looked at him. They laughed at him. Sometimes they shouted at him. He didn’t respond. He just pulled his coat more tightly around his small, shrivelled frame and clutched his shopping bag. The coat was too big. It hung off his shoulders and the sleeves trailed over his gloved hands. Well, it would be too big, wouldn’t it? It had belonged to the judge, but the judge had decided it was time to get a new one, and he had given it to Samuel.

  ‘Here,’ the judge said, one cold winter’s day when they were sitting in front of the fire in the upstairs drawing room, ‘here, Sam, you have this.’

  And he dropped the coat on the floor where it lay, like a body, headless but with arms outstretched.

  Today the judge had invited him to come for a drink. Sunday, early evening. Glasses of sherry. The backgammon board would be set up. There would be crackers and cheese, and perhaps a bowl of olives. The judge liked olives. Gwen Gibbon would be sitting as usual on the sofa. She would sip her sherry delicately and wipe her mouth on the small embroidered handkerchief she kept tucked up the left sleeve of her blouse.

  The judge would throw the dice to see who would go first. Not that it mattered. Samuel knew the dice would favour him. And even if they didn’t he could read the board so well he was at least two throws ahead every time. The judge would shout and roar, with pleasure or disappointment. He would bet, using the doubling cube. Samuel would bet too. He would watch the judge. He was still handsome. Not quite the way he had been when Samuel first met him, but the years had been kind to him.They had not been kind to Samuel.