The Therapy House

by Julie Parsons

  He reached the house. The judge had given him keys. He let himself in to the basement. Inside it was cool and dark. He was early. It would be a while before he was expected upstairs to drink sherry and play backgammon.

  He walked along the corridor to the kitchen. There was that familiar smell. Damp and decay. Upstairs the house was elegant and beautiful, filled with light. Down here it was dark and cold, the way it had always been.

  Samuel stood in the doorway. Barred windows looked out into the judge’s back garden. A tap dripped into a large white sink, stained with a green smear from the water. Beside it was a coal-fired range. The slates on the floor were cracked and dirty. Cobwebs hung in swags from the ceiling.

  He moved towards the pine dresser which stood on the other side of the sink. Its shelves were bare, its drawers and small cupboards were open, emptied. He reached behind and pulled out a rectangular package. He placed it carefully on the square kitchen table whose surface was pitted by woodworm. He picked up his shopping bag. Inside were his tools. A chisel, a hammer, a screwdriver. He pulled the paper from the package. A woman’s face looked up at him from behind glass. He turned the painting over. The judge had told him. Take it out of its frame. Careful, mind, don’t do any damage. It’s worth a lot of money. Samuel turned it around in his hands. The woman was young and beautiful. She was wearing a pale blue hat which was decorated with cherries. Her expression was solemn. Worth a lot, the judge had said. Money, worth money.

  Samuel turned it over again and examined the frame. It was old and the joints were loose. They had been well made. The woodwork teacher in the prison where Samuel had spent so many years would have approved. He was a perfectionist. Samuel took off his gloves and picked up the chisel. It would be easy to prise the frame apart. And to do it without touching the pretty young woman with the pale blue hat. The judge would be pleased. He would pay him well.

  He began to sing as he worked. A song he remembered from his childhood in England. The washer woman who came every Monday, she sang it. Her name was Nellie and she was from Ireland. She taught him the words.

  Oh Mary, this London’s a wonderful sight

  With the people all working by day and by night.

  He couldn’t remember all of it now. Just snatches here and there.

  Ladies. Peaches and cream. Sip. Lip. Mountains of Mourne. Sweep. Sea.

  He concentrated carefully on what he was doing. His hands were bent and twisted. They didn’t work as well as they used to. He had to be careful. He leaned over the painting. Time passed. He hummed the song. Outside in the garden a blackbird sang. And then he heard another sound. He lifted his head. A voice from upstairs. Calling out. He put down his chisel.

  A voice from upstairs calling out. He moved quietly towards the steep stairs which led to the hall floor. He took one step, then another, then another. He stopped. He listened. The judge’s voice.

  Help me, help me, help me. Please

  And another. Loud and threatening. Frightening.

  Shut the fuck up. Who the fuck do you think you are, you fucking shit?

  And a bang, loud, echoing through the house, so Samuel turned away. Moved backwards, slowly, carefully, then dropped to his knees. Crawled under the table. Hands over his head, heart banging under his ribs, his mouth dry, sweat beginning to run down his face.

  The dog was barking, barking, yelping. Then there was silence. It seemed to last forever. Then footsteps on the stairs above. Running down. How far would he come? Samuel curled into a ball. Above him the front door closed, slammed shut. Then silence again.

  He waited. He crawled from beneath the table. He put on his leather gloves. It didn’t do to be without them for too long. His fingers would turn white with cold. He picked up his hammer and moved slowly towards the steep stairs again. Up and up, step by careful step. He walked out into the hall. Silence here, just the tick of the grandfather clock by the coat stand. He felt in his pocket for his keys. He locked the front door, the Chubb heavy in his hand. Then he turned. Up, up, up. Sunlight shining through the bay window in the drawing room, as he stood in the doorway. Sunlight falling across the body on the floor.

  Samuel took a couple of steps closer. The judge must have been kneeling. He had fallen forward on his face. His hands were fastened behind his back, his feet too, tied together with plastic. Samuel tried to squat but his knees and hips said no. He dropped his hammer and reached out. He pressed his index finger against the judge’s neck. There was no pulse. He stood and walked away from the judge and sat down on the sofa. He could hear the dog whining. He must be in the bathroom, he thought. Best to leave him there. Samuel didn’t like dogs. His mother had a Pekinese when he was a child. It snuffled and waddled. And it bit.

  He looked around. The room was just about the way it always was. But now the pale green carpet was stained and spattered with blood. The two chairs, covered with the same flowered material as the sofa, stood on either side of the fireplace. The grand piano was in the bay of the window. A vase filled with roses and peonies from the judge’s garden decorated it. And above the mantelpiece hung the painting, the man in uniform, peaked cap, dull green tunic, Sam Browne belt slung diagonally across. Gun in its holster, gloved hands clasped. The man’s eyes seemed to scan the room, to rest on his son’s body, the gaping wound in his neck.

  Samuel stood. He walked across to the portrait. He looked up at him. His name was Daniel Hegarty. He was famous. He was brave. He was a killer.

  ‘Look,’ he said. ‘Look at your son’. And he smiled and saluted.

  He moved back towards the judge. And saw the gun beside him. He recognised it. The famous gun. The same as the one in the portrait. Usually it was kept in the mahogany cabinet which stood against the wall by the door. With the peaked cap and the ammunition belt, the cigarette lighter, the pair of binoculars, the black fountain pen, the wallet, the leather-bound notebook, the pocket watch, the missal, the jet rosary beads. All had belonged to the man in the portrait. All had been admired, venerated. Relics, they were, holy relics.

  Samuel bent down and picked up the gun. The judge always kept it clean. Never allowed anyone else to touch it. The cabinet was open and the drawer below too. Samuel reached into it and took out the special cloth which the judge used to polish the gun. Now Samuel shined it and put it back where it belonged. He polished the key to the cabinet, the lock, the glass. He rubbed carefully, then returned the cloth to the drawer. He closed it, locked it. He would put the key in the desk downstairs. That was where it should be.

  He looked around. Nothing else out of place, but there were two glasses on the small table by the sofa. He walked over and picked them up. Smelt whiskey. Saw a cup and saucer on the floor. Picked that up too. Walked out of the room, looked into the judge’s bedroom next door. Noticed a plate and cup by the unmade bed. Gathered them up. Walked downstairs. Checked the dining room. Remains of lunch still on the table. A soup bowl and spoon, a piece of toast, half eaten, a packet of cheddar cheese. He moved into the kitchen. The sink was full of dirty dishes. A loaf of bread on the countertop, crumbs everywhere. A pound of butter flowing from its wrapper in the heat. And on the floor a selection of bottles, beer, wine, and the remains of a takeaway in its carton, dumped.

  It wouldn’t do, Samuel thought. Not fair on Mrs Maguire. He took off his leather gloves. He put on Mrs Maguire’s yellow rubber ones. He filled the sink with warm water. He washed and dried. He went to the hall cupboard and took out the hoover. As he pressed the button and the machine burst into a loud roar he heard the dog upstairs howling. That dog, he thought, he’s always hated that sound.

  He cleaned and polished. Upstairs and down. Then he was tired. He took off the rubber gloves. He put on his leather ones. He put his foot on the lever of the pedal bin in the kitchen. He took out the liner. He dropped the rubber gloves into it, then tied the top in a knot. Left it by the kitchen door.

 
The light was draining from the summer sky. Soon it would be dark. He needed to rest. He walked slowly back upstairs. The dog heard him and barked again, loudly, frantically. Samuel stopped outside the bathroom door. He wouldn’t let him out. He peered in through the door to the drawing room. He saw his hammer where he had left it, beside the judge’s body. He picked it up. The judge’s eyes were open. They looked up at him. Samuel hefted the hammer in his right hand. He lifted it high. He brought it down. It smashed through the skin, the bones of the judge’s face. He lifted it again. And again he let it drop. Now the judge’s eyes were no longer looking at him and his handsome face was no longer handsome.

  Samuel backed away, the hammer in his hand. He looked down at his shoes. They were spattered with blood. He knelt, untied the laces and slipped them off. Drops of blood, too, on the turn-ups of his trousers. He closed the shutters, then picked up the shoes. He hurried out and up the stairs up to the small attic. It was locked as always. No one went there except for the judge. It was forbidden. Now Samuel used his keys to open the door. The single bed was neatly made, a white sheet stretched tightly. He took off his trousers, folding them carefully, and lay back, covering himself with his coat. Beneath his head he could feel the hard outline of the judge’s laptop, hidden under the pillow. Above him on the wall hung a large crucifix. Christ writhed in agony. The judge, too, had suffered here in this small attic room. He had suffered for his sins, his many, many sins. Samuel had heard him cry out. Samuel had seen the marks of pain on his clothes. Samuel had taken them home and washed them, used bleach, hung them out in the sun to dry.

  And now that was all over. Samuel closed his eyes. He sighed deeply. It was all over now.

  The plane from Venice landed at around 11 p.m.

  McLoughlin watched the errant husband and the girl hurrying into the arrivals area. He watched them separate before they went through customs. She looked tearful. He looked hassled. He saw the aggrieved wife waiting at the barrier. Her husband greeted her effusively. A big bear hug, a sloppy kiss that just missed her mouth, and a large plastic bag thrust into her hand. As they turned, heading for the exit, she looked back. McLoughlin smiled and nodded. She didn’t respond. He held up his phone. She raised an eyebrow. He’d call her tomorrow. Arrange to send her the evidence.

  He went outside to wait for the shuttle bus to the car park. It was warm here too. Not as warm as Italy but a lot warmer than usual. Above the airport lights the moon hung in the dark sky. He felt unaccountably lonely. As the bus appeared, slowed and stopped, he clambered on board and stood leaning against the window. He found his car and got into it. He was unable to move. He couldn’t get James Reynolds’ face out of his mind’s eye. He stared at his hands on the wheel. The skin across his knuckles was unmarked. It should be bruised and bleeding, he thought. Torn from the impact, festering. His shirt front should be spattered with Reynolds’ blood.

  He started up the engine and put the car into gear. He moved slowly towards the barrier. He turned out onto the road and headed for the M50. And then remembered. He didn’t live high up above the city any longer. Now he lived down by the sea. In the old house. Three stories above garden, as the estate agents put it. A waste skip parked outside. The builders at work. He sighed and put his foot on the accelerator. Hardly any traffic at this time of night and before he knew it he was turning off the motorway, his back to the mountains and dropping down towards the coast. He pressed the button on the door. The windows slid open and he breathed deeply. Salt air filled his lungs. He felt calmer as he drove slowly through the town, quiet and peaceful, the sea just over the railings, the moon’s silver reflecting in the dark water.

  He turned inland and drove the quarter mile to Victoria Square. He parked outside his house. Stood for a moment looking around before taking his bag from the boot and bumping it up the steps to the front door. The houses on both sides were dark. No lights visible from the street. An old area. In the bad times families had moved out. The houses had been converted into flats and bedsits. Junkies had moved in. The desperate and poverty-stricken has stayed on. But recently, during the boom when property was gold dust, the square had become valuable again. When he’d driven through, trying to get a feel for the place before the contracts were signed, he could see the changes. Elegant gardens with clipped box hedges and paving. Front doors painted subtle shades of mauve and pink. Young families, SUVs with child seats, and scooters and small bikes propped against railings. Well-dressed men with children in buggies. One guy washing his car. He’d stopped to have a chat. The guy was friendly enough, but he could see it on his face when he mentioned he was interested in the house. Indifference, really. That was it. Touched perhaps with a taint of disapproval. Big houses like these, they were for families. And he saw himself through the younger man’s eyes. Old, alone, childless. It brought the reality home. It was too late for so many things; to have children, to have a good relationship with a woman, to have all those supports and comforts which so many people take for granted. Even his friends were few and far between. Now that he was retired, all that easy camaraderie had gone. What was there left?

  He fumbled in his pocket for the set of keys. He unlocked the door and let himself in. Dumped the case and his jacket in the hall and headed for the tiny kitchenette at the back. Pulled open the plastic duty free bag, undid the extra-large bottle of Powers Gold Label and poured a generous helping into a mug left on the draining board. Took a swig. Felt the warmth spread through his body. Opened the back door. The fresh night air poured in. There was a strong scent of jasmine. The neighbouring garden, he’d noticed, beautifully kept, close-clipped lawn, herbaceous border stuffed with colour. The old man, his straw hat tipped over his eyes as he moved carefully along the gravel path. And the dog, a black poodle at his feet, barking loudly when he noticed McLoughlin peering over the wall. So the man shook his index finger.

  ‘Quiet, Ferdie, quiet.’

  The dog took no notice, his bark with a slight growl of menace. The man turned to McLoughlin.

  ‘Ignore him,’ he said, ‘worse than his bite. Hope you don’t mind. Neighbours on the other side, both deaf. And not a problem when the house, your house now, was the therapists or whatever they were. Didn’t pay much attention to anyone here really.’

  And McLoughlin smiled and reassured him. He wouldn’t notice it either. He liked dogs. A long time since he’d had one, but he’d an aunt who’d had poodles.

  ‘Clever creatures, aren’t they?’ he said.

  And the man nodded and agreed.

  ‘Very clever. Don’t deserve the lap-dog reputation. Hunting dogs originally. Here Ferdie,’ and he clicked his fingers and the dog sat, and when he clicked his fingers again he held up his paw.

  ‘Good boy,’ the man patted the dog’s curly head. Then looked up. Supreme Court judge, John Hegarty. Retired a few years ago. Ill health, the official reason. Ill health, could mean anything. Word in legal circles and that included the guards too, was that he was losing his marbles.

  But whatever about his marbles he knew his garden inside out. Whenever McLoughlin looked out the back windows he saw him. He walked with a stick but he was well able to weed, using one of those kneelers, with arm rests. Popping up and down to root out a dandelion or a dock. Inspecting his plants carefully. Dahlias seemed to be a speciality. McLoughlin recognised the plants, in weathered terracotta pots. Not flowering yet, but their foliage already lush. The aunt was mad about them, the one with the poodles. His father’s oldest sister, Aunt Bea, unmarried, some mystery about that, living in what had been the family home, a former council house not far from here. Of course she was long dead, and the house long sold, but McLoughlin remembered well the Sundays when his father wasn’t working and they’d go and visit Aunt Bea and sit in her little kitchen drinking tea and eating her cherry buns. Delicious they were, and he’d go out into her neat little garden and play with Dooley, the poodle. Throwing a well-chewed tennis ball
until inevitably he’d knock over a pot and Aunt Bea would appear in the doorway and summon him. A slap across the back of his head followed by a handful of wine gums.

  Now he stood on the top step, the mug of whiskey in his hand. He felt calmer, not so distraught. Tomorrow was Monday. First thing he’d email the photos to the aggrieved wife. He wasn’t mad about the private work but it paid well. Minus, of course, the agency’s 10 per cent commission. The matrimonial was simple and straightforward. Maybe he’d try a bit of insurance fraud next. That might be more challenging. And tomorrow he’d give Dominic Hayes a call. He’d tell him about Reynolds, see what he had to say.

  He stepped back inside, drained the last drops from the mug and rinsed it out. It was depressing, this little cupboard of a kitchen. No room to put anything. A tiny Belling hot plate, no worktops, a miserable-sized sink. He couldn’t wait for it all to be ripped out. The large room next door, the dining room when the houses were first built, was to be his new kitchen. He’d pored over the plans, putting it all together. Braved IKEA to get his huge pot drawers and cupboards. Gone to his favourite electrical shop to buy the hob, double oven, fridge freezer. Chosen a black granite worktop. A black limestone floor for the work area and Iroko wood for the rest. He’d feel better then when it was all done, when he could cook and eat, and order had been restored.

  He walked through the house, turning off lights, and went upstairs to the room at the back where he was sleeping on a mattress. Once it had been used for meditation. There was still a strong smell of incense. He opened the sash window up high, then stripped off his clothes. He settled himself, pulling the duvet up to his waist. He closed his eyes. It was quiet now. He sighed and turned over. His breathing slowed and calmed. He slept.