The Therapy House

by Julie Parsons

  She smiled at him. A reassuring smile. ‘And did you hear anything else? It looks like he was shot, so did you hear anything?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, nothing, it was late when I got home. Around midnight. I went to bed pretty much immediately. Slept through until about six. I didn’t hear anything’

  ‘OK,’ she stood up. ‘I’ll need a proper signed statement from you. Tomorrow, come in tomorrow and if there’s anything else—’

  ‘Yeah,’ he cut across her, ‘of course if I remember anything else.’

  ‘And we’ll want access to your garden and house if that’s OK,’

  ‘Sure’ he nodded. ‘Anything I can do, of course.’

  She turned to go, then turned back. ‘And tell me, did you know him?’

  ‘Not really. I’ve only had the house a short while. We had a chat or two over the wall. I recognised him of course. He was always in the garden. Him and the bloody dog.’ The wound on his hand was beginning to throb.

  ‘And visitors, family, see anything?’

  He shook his head. ‘As I said, I’ve only had the house a couple of weeks and I was away for part of that. I don’t know any of the neighbours really. Seems a quiet place, not much going on.’

  ‘Not much going on?’ Dom raised his eyebrows as he reached for the bottle of wine and topped up his glass. ‘Not sure I’d agree with that statement.’

  ‘Yeah?’ McLoughlin held out his glass for a refill. This was probably a bad idea but his hand was hurting. He’d gone to hospital and got the tetanus injection. They cleaned it, bandaged it. But the painkillers had worn off and he was still feeling something, shock, upset, fear. When he closed his eyes he could see the shaft of light edging around the shutters and falling across the chair. And the way the room looked when he switched on the ceiling chandelier. The dark pool of congealed blood, what was left of the judge’s face. The quiet elegance around him. The large sofa and chairs covered in flowered material, the grand piano in the bay of the window, the white marble fireplace with its shiny brass tongs and poker. The portrait above it, a handsome young man in military uniform, whose gaze seemed to rest on the body. Daniel Hegarty, the judge’s father. One of the greats of the War of Independence. Fearless, they said.

  ‘Don’t you remember? Good few years ago now. Your girl Sweeney, she was involved.’ Dom sipped his wine. Silence for a moment. ‘It was a terrible thing. That little boy.’ Dom sighed. ‘Sweeney was the one. Not long after her husband died. Do you remember him?’

  ‘Andy Carolan? I didn’t know him well. He was on the way up I know that. Brain haemorrhage wasn’t it?’

  ‘He was watching TV. She found him in the morning. Twin boys, seven or eight or something.’ Dom shifted and the leather beneath him creaked. ‘Sweeney did a great job. Got the guy who killed the kid. Must have left quite a mark on the place.’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose. There’s a wooden bench on the green with a plaque and his name on it.’

  There was silence for a moment. They both had memories. Things they’d seen. People they’d met. Crimes that had shocked them.

  ‘This is good,’ Dom leaned back and closed his eyes. ‘Quiet is good.’

  ‘How long will she be gone?’ McLoughlin looked over at him.

  ‘Until four. Eleven to four Monday to Friday. It’s a lifesaver.’ Dom’s eyes were still closed. ‘She’s pretty good really, but the nights are bad. She wakes all the time and wanders around. I have to get up with her. She could do anything.’

  ‘And the family? Do they help?’

  ‘They try but you know, they’ve kids of their own and jobs and lives. They love her and they’ll mind her if I’m really stuck, but,’ he opened his eyes and sat up.

  ‘Listen,’ McLoughlin leaned forward, ‘I wanted to ask you.’

  ‘Ah,’ Dom smiled and slapped his hand on his thigh, ‘I was wondering.’

  ‘I’ve just come back from Venice,’ McLoughlin shifted in his seat.

  ‘Venice, you lucky fucker. One of the places I wanted to take Joanne.’ Dom lifted his glass, ‘What brought you there?’

  ‘Oh a bit of nothing really. A straying husband, his current girlfriend, a very pissed-off wife, you know the sort of thing,’ McLoughlin sat back and crossed his legs. ‘Nothing important. But don’t you remember? Years ago. What you told me. About James Reynolds.’

  ‘James Reynolds?’

  ‘Yeah, remember, your friend in Interpol, the French guy, the rugby fanatic.’ McLoughlin could feel anxiety knotting his stomach. ‘He came over and stayed with you for those international matches, France and Ireland, the eighties.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right, Stephane something or other, good guy, great drinker,’ Dom smiled and for a moment looked like the man he once was. ‘He had a thing about the Provos. Knew more about them than I did. Knew all about what they were up to outside Ireland. Before the days of the war on terror. Public enemy number one. Attacks on British soldiers in Germany. Remember when they killed those two Australian tourists in the Netherlands? ‘

  ‘Yeah,’ McLoughlin’s voice rose a notch. ‘You told me, that he told you, the Italian police had found Reynolds in a place called Bassano del Grappa. A little town north of Venice.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Dom sat up straight. ‘Problem was we couldn’t put together a case for extradition. No evidence.’ Dom leaned forward. He suddenly looked younger. ‘We heard he’d gone to Holland, then the Basque country. ETA, you know? A bit of an escape route, Amsterdam, Bordeaux, Biarritz, Bilbao. All the Bs. We’d heard that Reynolds had got as far as Bilbao, but not much officially after that.’ Dom sat back and took a long swallow from his glass. ‘And then Stephane told me about, Bassano, what was it?

  ‘Bassano del Grappa, and you can add another B to that list.’ McLoughlin sipped his wine. He could do with something stronger really. ‘Barcelona, that’s where he met his wife, so she said.’

  ‘His wife?’ Dom looked at him. ‘You got close. How did you manage that?’

  And McLoughlin told him. How he’d always remembered the name of the town and where it was. How he’d wanted to go, but.

  ‘I have to be honest. I chickened out, time and again. I told myself I’d go next year, next year, next year. And then.’

  He was offered the job in Venice. He couldn’t avoid it any longer. He’d found the bar. He’d spoken to the wife. He’d met Reynolds outside in the street. Stood so close to him he could see the pores in his skin, the broken veins in his cheeks, smell the cigarette smoke on his clothes. Stood so close and did nothing. How he’d walked away in tears.

  Silence in the room. The faint sound of traffic below, the DART rumbling into its tunnel. Dom stirred on the sofa. He lifted his glass and drained it.

  ‘There’s a difference between people like you and people like Reynolds and the rest of them.’ His voice was soft.

  ‘Yeah, there is,’ McLoughlin could feel his hands shaking. ‘They get away with it. Look at the peace process, how well they’ve done since then.’

  ‘Christ,’ Dom raised his glass, ‘the fucking peace process. How did they swing that one?’

  ‘Well, at least they’re not killing the way they used to.’ McLoughlin put his glass down, carefully so it wouldn’t spill.

  ‘You think so? You wait. It’s not over yet.’ Silence. A seagull shrieking loudly, swooping down past the balcony. ‘Anyway, it’s good to see you. Glad you’ve moved into the town. It’s a nice place to live. Not perfect, mind you. But pretty close.’

  He emptied the bottle into McLoughlin’s glass, then got up and walked into the kitchen. McLoughlin could hear the sound of cupboards opening and closing, then the dull pop as a cork was pulled.

  ‘Here,’ Dom padded back into the sitting room. ‘This deserves another. Now,’ he settled himself back on the sofa. ‘James Reynolds. So he’s aliv
e and well and living in Italy. What do you want to do about him?’

  ‘Well,’ McLoughlin sat up straight. His back was at him again. ‘I spoke to Tom Donnelly in headquarters.’

  ‘You did? You managed to get him off the golf course?’ Dom shifted on the sofa.

  ‘Just about. I left a load of messages and eventually,’ McLoughlin raised his eyes to heaven.

  ‘And?’

  ‘What you’d expect. The case is still open. They regularly review all the evidence, but, with nothing new,’ McLoughlin could feel his jaw tighten, tension creeping up the side of his face.

  ‘The two other guys, the ones with him, they were caught, weren’t they?’

  McLoughlin nodded. ‘Yeah, Reynolds was in the car. He shot my father through the window, then he took off, without them,’ he paused. ‘Conor McNally and Eamon Ryan, they were picked up a few minutes later.’

  ‘Without the money I seem to remember, isn’t that right?’

  ‘Yeah, they threw the bags into the back seat before Reynolds left. So,’ he took a long swallow from his glass and topped it up from the bottle on the floor by the sofa. ‘They both got hefty prison sentences. Didn’t give up anything in interrogation, kept their mouths shut.’

  ‘Well,’ Dom reached over and pulled a laptop from the coffee table. He opened it up, his hands moving swiftly, easily, across the keyboard. ‘Here, have a look.’ He turned it towards McLoughlin.

  ‘What is it? I don’t have my glasses. Can’t see a fucking thing without them.’ He pushed it back. ‘Read it to me, will you?’

  ‘OK, here goes,’ Dom’s fingers stroked the touch pad. ‘Here we are. An Phobhlacht, the online version.’ He scrolled and clicked. ‘Here, I have it. Comhbhrón. You know what that is? You still have your Irish?’

  ‘Sure,’ McLoughlin smiled, ‘fourteen years of the Christian brothers, I still have the Irish. Comhbhrón, condolences. So, who do we have?’

  Dom began to read. ‘Ryan, Eamon, Deepest sympathy is extended to the family of Eamon Ryan on the tragic passing of their husband, son and father. From everyone in Waterford, South East.’

  ‘And when was that?’ McLoughlin looked at him.

  ‘June, 2012. Last year.’ Dom hands grasped both sides of the computer protectively.

  ‘How do you know it’s him? There must be loads of Eamon Ryans.’

  ‘I saw it and I wondered.’ Dom shifted on the seat. ‘I asked around. It’s him all right. Lung cancer. He was diagnosed when he was in prison. He’d chemo, radiotherapy, the works. They let him out. He was never going to recover.’

  ‘And the other one, McNally? What happened to him?’ McLoughlin drank some more. The wine was beginning to give him a headache but somehow he couldn’t stop.

  ‘He’s dead too. He died inside. Got into a fight. Stab wound to the chest.’ Dom looked at him. ‘I’m surprised you don’t know all this. Were you not curious?’

  McLoughlin got up, walked around the room, then took his seat again.

  ‘I met Eamon Ryan. He wrote to my mother, said he wanted to see her. She wouldn’t go. I went in her place.’

  A small man. Pinched face. Grey skin, grey hair. Bad teeth, nicotine stained. Tattoos on his forearms, the usual, the tricolour, Bobby Sands, and Tiocfaidh ár lá. Our day will come. They sat facing each other. McLoughlin waited for him to speak.

  ‘I wanted to meet your mam. I wanted to tell her I was sorry for what happened.’ His voice was low, his accent from Wexford, Waterford, perhaps.

  ‘Too late for that,’ McLoughlin remembered he had said to him. ‘Too fucking late for all that.’

  ‘I know,’ Ryan looked down at his hands, ‘I know that now. It wasn’t meant to happen that way. It was just about the money. It wasn’t about,’ and he paused, then coughed.

  ‘So will you make a statement? Will you name the man who murdered my father? Will you do that at least?’

  Ryan shook his head. ‘I can’t,’ his voice was barely audible. ‘It’s not our way.’

  ‘But if you did, who knows. Could have an affect on your sentence.’ McLoughlin watched him. Ryan’s face was scored with deep lines around his mouth and eyes. ‘And if you got out, there’d be witness protection. We’d look after you.’

  Ryan didn’t answer. He looked down at his hands. He coughed again. A dreadful sound, from deep in his lungs. Then he stood.

  ‘Tell your mam what I said. I’m sorry about your father. It wasn’t about him. It was only about the money.’

  Silence for a moment. Dom refilled their glasses.

  ‘So, both of the guys who were on the raid with Reynolds are dead. I wonder about the other witnesses. No one in the post office saw anything.’ Dom sipped.

  ‘And from what I remember no one in the street at the time saw anything much either. They’d all had the knock at the door.’ McLoughlin smiled.

  ‘The knock at the door, you can’t beat it.’ Dom swirled the wine in his glass. ‘And, what was the name of the guy who was with your father? His partner, on the day?’

  ‘Dermot Sorohan, do you not remember?’

  ‘Oh yeah. Sorohan. He never went back to work, did he? Died a year or so later. Was it suicide?’

  McLoughlin shrugged. ‘Car crash. Hit a tree. Four in the morning, not wearing his seat belt.’ They sat for a moment in silence. Then Dom nodded towards the balcony.

  ‘You never know. Now that McNally and Ryan are dead, and peace has come upon us, Reynolds might make an appearance. You see,’ he pointed to the large telescope beside the patio table and chairs. ‘I spend a lot of time out there. Come and have a look.’

  He stood and walked over to the sliding door. He pulled it back. A warm breeze drifted into the room carrying the sounds of the street. McLoughlin joined him. He bent and looked through the eye piece. He could see nothing. He fiddled with the focus. Suddenly the ferry port appeared in his gaze. The high speed boat had just arrived from Holyhead. People were streaming through the gates. He could see them clearly, their faces, their features. He watched, men and women greeting each other. Kisses and hugs exchanged. An older woman in tears as she bent down to embrace a small girl. She turned in his direction and for a moment it seemed that she could see him. He stood up abruptly, suddenly embarrassed. He rubbed his eyes.

  ‘So,’ Dom sat down on one of the chairs. ‘This is the way it is. Middle of the night it’s the Plough and the North Star above it and Arcturus to the east and Regulus to the west. But during the day you’d be amazed what you see coming through.’ He waved towards the crowds on the footpath. ‘Fellas I arrested years ago when they were barely out of short pants. They’ll be bringing in drugs, guns, women, you name it. They use the boat. The security’s not nearly as tight as the airport. So,’ he looked up at McLoughlin, a broad grin on his face. ‘Your man, Reynolds. I’ll add him to my list. And when I’m sitting here, whiling away my time, my sweetheart in her rocking chair, singing her old songs, I’ll keep an eye out for him.’ He stood up. ‘It’s funny isn’t it? Joanne can’t remember anything and I can’t forget anything. I have all the names and faces in here.’ He tapped his forehead. ‘So, if I see him, I’ll let you know.’

  It was much later when McLoughlin left Dom’s apartment. Joanne had been delivered home. Dom had sat her down on a large bean bag in front of the DVD player. He had put on her favourite programme. Peppa Pig. McLoughlin watched, fascinated as the little pink pig jumped and cavorted and splashed in muddy puddles. After a while Joanne fell asleep.

  McLoughlin yawned. He was worn out too.

  Dom looked over at him. ‘Bed’s what you need. A bit of peace and quiet. Your hand,’ he pointed, ‘must be sore.’

  McLoughlin nodded and stood. He wasn’t completely steady. They walked together to the lift. Joanne woke and sat up. McLoughlin waved to her and blew kisses. She waved back. As they
stopped to say their goodbyes McLoughlin saw a small room through an open door. A bed with a lacy canopy, a bright pink duvet and a pile of pillows, also covered in pink flowery material. A high-backed chair like a throne decorated with a small crown. A dressing table with an ornate gilt mirror and a set of silver hair brushes.

  ‘Nice,’ he whistled softly.

  ‘Yes, it is, isn’t it?’ Dom leaned against the door jamb. ‘Joanne doesn’t want to sleep with me anymore. I think I frighten her.’ He shifted his bulk and tucked his shirt in more securely. His belly loomed over his belt. ‘So when we moved here we sat down and looked at her favourite books and I got it fitted out like this.’ He stepped into the room. ‘We never had a girl. Four boys, one after the other. We never had the chance to get in touch with our inner princess. So.’ He smoothed down the duvet. ‘She’s happy here, and that’s good enough for me.’

  They waited for the lift together. The doors opened. McLoughlin stepped in.

  ‘Just one thing.’ Dom reached towards him. ‘One thing, about your neighbour’s death.’

  ‘Yeah?’ McLoughlin put his finger on the doors open button.

  ‘This place. Everyone knows everyone else. The local intelligence is phenomenal. You can be sure whoever killed the judge, well someone knows, but people around here are good at keeping secrets.’

  It was hot outside. The sun was still riding high in the sky. McLoughlin walked through the town. Away from the seafront it was quiet. The main street was run down and neglected. For Sale and To Let signs hung from every second shopfront. He glanced from left to right. The side streets gave vistas of Victorian houses. Some were offices, most parcelled-up into flats. The spire of the Mariners’ Church towered over their slate roofs. No longer a place of worship. Not for years. The Maritime Museum, now. He remembered his father telling him, when he was a young man, the town was a Protestant town. Polite people who kept to themselves, went to church on Sundays, didn’t play games or go to dances on the Sabbath.