The Therapy House

by Julie Parsons

  ‘We didn’t mix with them,’ he’d said. ‘The girls were gorgeous. But not for us.’

  Not like that anymore, McLoughlin thought. Hardly any trace of those days. There was still a Protestant church by the park, Christ Church, said the name on the noticeboard outside. The royal crowns on some of the post boxes could still be seen, but painted green now, not imperial red. The Victoria fountain on the seafront had recently been restored after years of vandalism and neglect. And some of the street names harked back to the past. Like Victoria Square, where he lived now.

  He turned off the main road and walked across the green. He stopped by the bench under one of the silver birches. He bent down to read the small metal plaque screwed to the back.

  We remember Owen Cassidy who played here. We remember him always with love. Mummy and Daddy

  He sat down. He looked across to the row of houses. Owen had lived in number 26. It was at the far end, closer to the main road. They had found his body under the summer house in the garden next door. He had lain there undisturbed for years, where his neighbour, Chris, had buried him. There had been calls for the house to be demolished, the garden to be concreted over. But time had passed. No one talked about it. People moved on. That’s the way it’s done.

  His head was really throbbing. He shouldn’t have let Dom open that last bottle. He stood and began to walk across the grass. The crime scene tape outside the judge’s house fluttered gently in the evening breeze. He looked up at the bay window on the first floor. Hard to believe what had happened there. Even though he had seen the judge dead, seen the blood, seen his face.

  He moved past the waste skip parked at the curb. The guards had searched it. Dumped everything out, and hadn’t done a great job about putting it all back again. Rubble, old plaster, rotting wood in a haphazard pile on the footpath. He stopped and looked at it. The builders could deal with it tomorrow.

  He walked up the steps and went inside. The house was quiet. He picked his way carefully through the piles of timber and bags of cement, toolboxes and ladders, up the stairs to his room. He pulled the shutters together and sank down on the mattress. He lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling, then rolled over on his side and wrapped his arms around himself. It was the way he had always slept. As a child and as a man. As he would sleep now.

  The builders were ripping the plaster off the walls in the hall. McLoughlin could hear the thump and crash of the sledgehammers and smell the dust as it rose through the house. He got up. He felt bad. That last bloody bottle of wine. He’d learned from bitter experience that he shouldn’t drink so much. But it was always so tempting. And besides, he’d been doing Dom a favour. Poor guy. He was on his own a lot. Joanne and Peppa Pig were no substitute for a bit of adult company, no matter how much he loved her.

  McLoughlin stood on the landing. The builder’s name was Ian. He was a nice guy. Young and handsome. He could hear him singing down there. Good to know that someone was happy. He’d been delighted to get the job. His price was at least ten thousand less than McLoughlin had estimated. One of the few good things about the recession.

  He turned away and climbed the small staircase that led to the box room and the tiny bathroom at the top of the house. You couldn’t really call it a bathroom. It was more like a cupboard, a toilet with a basin and somehow a shower head squeezed under the eaves. He was reluctant to use it. The lino was lifting from the floorboards and there was mould on the stick-on panelling on the walls. When the house was finished his study would be up here. The box room and bathroom knocked together, a new window which would give him a great view over the houses and gardens behind, perhaps a glimpse of the sea.

  He turned on the shower and stood beneath its dribble of water. Hardly worth it really. He turned off the tap and began to dry himself. And saw through the small window the crime scene lads in their white overalls working their way, step by careful step, through the garden next door. And among them the woman with her hair in the blonde ponytail, dressed like the others, but unmistakeable. Something about her demeanour. Her face bright and animated. They were all laughing now. As she swung around and looked up he drew back, self conscious, the towel sagging around his middle. Not that she could see him from down there in the garden.

  ‘Mick, are you up there?’ He could hear his name being called. He opened the bathroom door.

  ‘Mick?’ the builder came up the stairs two at a time, a hammer in his hand, his dark hair streaked with plaster dust, a face mask swinging around his neck. ‘Sorry Mick, but you’ve a visitor.’

  The woman who was standing in the hall was tall and thin. Her hair, dark with grey streaks, was cut short. He noticed that her skin was sallow and her eyes were brown. She was, in contrast, brightly dressed, loose red trousers and a red blouse, the sleeves rolled up. He noticed her heavy amber necklace and the rings on her fingers. Silver, studded with turquoise and something that looked like amethyst.

  ‘Sorry,’ he moved towards her, tucking his shirt into his waistband, smoothing his wet hair back from his forehead. ‘Sorry about the dust.’ He opened the door and ushered her outside. Warm again today. The sky an improbable blue.

  ‘No, really I should be apologising. You’re in the middle of all that.’ She gestured to the house. ‘Not fun.’

  ‘Well,’ he shrugged. ‘I have to keep reminding myself. It’s a process. All things must pass.’

  ‘All things must pass away,’ she smiled. ‘Are you a George person?’

  ‘Not really,’ he smiled too, ‘I used to be a Paul person, but he’s become an awful softie. Not the same without John. They needed each other.’

  ‘Yin and yang, maybe?’

  ‘Or chalk and cheese, perhaps,’ he laughed. ‘Now, we’ve got that out of the way, what can I do for you? You’re not here I hope to complain about the noise and the extra traffic and all the general mayhem.’

  She shook her head and explained. ‘My name is Elizabeth Fannin. I was one of the therapists, you know?’ She reached over and ran her index finger across the brass plate. His eyes followed her hand. He saw her name and a row of letters. ‘I worked from here for the last, well, must have been thirty years. Very sad to leave, but,’ she shrugged, ‘all things must pass.’ She paused. He watched her face. Heavily lined, around her mouth, beneath her eyes, across her forehead. But somehow when she was talking the lines weren’t so noticeable. ‘Anyway, I was wondering. Your basement. Do you have any plans for it in the immediate future?’

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it that much. So far I’ve just been using it to store all my stuff.’ He looked down into the front garden. It had become a dump. A pile of rubble waiting to be emptied into the skip. ‘My immediate concern is the house itself.’ He gestured. ‘I suppose I will eventually tackle it but—’

  ‘Well,’ she cut across him. ‘I was wondering if I could rent it back from you. You see, I’ve a few clients, they’re all older people. In their seventies and one lady who’s eighty-five. I’ve been seeing them here, in fact there, for quite some time,’ and she pointed to the windows below. ‘Most have some level of dementia. Not enough to disable them completely but enough to make them sensitive to change. Little differences are very disorientating. Windows in different places. Shadows, lights, new furniture, pictures on the wall, that sort of thing.’

  McLoughlin remembered his mother. When she moved into a new room in the nursing home it had taken her weeks to adjust.

  ‘We all had to leave when the house went up for sale. I’ve a new place, it’s nice. It’s in a practice in Monkstown. However, my older clients, they’re finding it a real challenge and so am I.’ She paused. ‘It’s hard, it’s all very confusing. Fear of the future. Memory lapses. A sense of unreality. One constant. Death looming. So,’ she looked at him.

  ‘So, well, in principle I’ve no problem. But, the noise, the racket from up here, won’t that be diff
icult? And then there’s,’ and he pointed towards the crime scene tape.

  She shook her head. ‘That’s not really a problem for them, or me. You’d be doing us all a huge favour.’

  ‘OK, well, let’s have a look, shall we?’ He began to move down the steps towards the basement. She followed him.

  ‘It’s a kind of a mess, really,’ he paused, ‘but if you like…’

  He pushed the small side gate open and they picked their way through to the little door. He fumbled with his keys.

  ‘Here,’ he stepped aside and she moved past him. He reached for the light. The corridor stretched ahead.

  ‘Here,’ he pointed to the room at the front. ‘I’ve a load of stuff stored here.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘This is what I’m interested in.’

  She disappeared from sight. He heard her voice.

  ‘Come in. It’s fine.’

  He peered through the door. She was standing in the middle of the room. She was smiling.

  ‘I can put my desk back. And my pictures. And everything they’re used to. It’ll be great.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’ The noise from upstairs was muted, but he could still hear the thumps, the bangs, the crashes.

  ‘Yeah, I often work in the evenings. It’ll be great,’ she said again and smiled at him. He could feel he was smiling too.

  ‘Well, OK, you can have it. We can sort out a fair rent, given all,’ he pointed at the ceiling, ‘but, if I decide I want it back.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ she cut across him, ‘I’ll have to deal with the move eventually, but it would give me a bit more time. To be honest, I know that a couple of them won’t be coming to me for much longer. But there’s one man in particular, it would mean a lot to be able to see him here.’ She held out her hand. ‘Can we shake on it?’ Her grasp was firm and cool.

  He smiled. ‘OK, we’ll give it a go. Let me know when you want to start and I’ll get the front cleared up.’

  ‘No, no, don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of everything. I have a few willing helpers I can call upon.’

  They walked together to the door. He stopped to lock up.

  ‘I’ll get a key cut. You can pick it up any time.’

  She nodded and smiled. ‘No need, actually I still have my old one. Oops,’ she put her hands up to her face, ‘think I should have handed it back, but well,’ she shrugged. ‘Anyway, thank you very much. I really appreciate this. If you give me your bank details I’ll set up a standing order. Or,’ she paused, ‘would you prefer cash?’

  ‘Cash? Why not?’

  They walked together to the gate. She turned away, then looked back and waved. She set off across the green, a distinctive figure, her red clothes, her confident stride, her grey head erect. He watched her until she disappeared behind the grove of birch trees. He hoped he’d done the right thing. But it might be good karma. A blessing on this house, and all that. He turned to go back inside and heard his name being called. Min Sweeney was hurrying down the next-door steps.

  ‘Mick, hold on a minute.’

  She had changed out of the white overalls. She was wearing a short black skirt and a beige blouse. He noticed that her legs were bare and her sandals were leather with a wedge heel. She stopped by the gate. A large satchel was hanging over her shoulder and she was holding a blue folder in her hand. She waved it towards him.

  ‘Your statement. There’s just a couple of things I’d like you to clarify.’

  ‘Yeah? Clarify? What?’ He was unaccountably defensive. It was an unfamiliar feeling.

  ‘It won’t take a minute. Just a couple of questions.’

  ‘Yeah, OK, if you insist,’ he smiled. ‘Look, I’m just about to make some coffee, would you like a cup?’

  They sat, perched on fold-up garden chairs in what he referred to as the yoga room. He’d found an empty cardboard box, turned it upside down and made a makeshift table. Large mugs of coffee steamed gently. He laid out a few bits and pieces brought back from his Italian trip. Fat green olives, salami sliced thinly. There was silence as they ate.

  ‘Yum,’ she wiped her mouth on a tissue. ‘Is this what’s it’s like, being retired?’

  He shrugged. ‘Sometimes, and sometimes it’s just a bowl of porridge and a cup of tea. Depends on the mood.’

  ‘Well, glad to know I’ve caught you when your mood is good.’ She smiled at him as she reached for more salami.

  ‘I’ll give you some to take home. I’ve more than I can eat. Now,’ he put down his mug. ‘You wanted to ask me about my statement. What can I do for you?’

  She went through it, line by line. What time had he rung the doorbell? What did he see when he looked through the glass panel into the hall? Why had he decided to climb over the wall? Was that the first time he became aware of the connecting door? What did he see when he walked up the steps to the judge’s house? How did he know the door was open? What did he touch when he went into the house? What did he hear? Which rooms did he go into? And on and on and on.

  ‘You see,’ she said, ‘there’s a couple of things. Did you close the door to the steps behind you when you came in?’

  He paused. He couldn’t quite remember. He’d put his hand out to open it and it was open already. He’d stepped into the house slowly.

  ‘I felt embarrassed really. I was intruding. I almost felt as if I was breaking in. I remember I stopped. I called out. The dog was going crazy. Then of course I felt worse. So I don’t think I did close the door. I was more intent on finding the dog, and apologising to the judge. That was my priority.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what’s in your statement, but I wanted to check because when the guys got there, the back door was closed. In fact it was locked.’ She looked down at the typed pages.

  ‘Locked? I certainly didn’t lock it.’ He put his mug on the box. It wobbled. He picked it up again. ‘Where was the key? Was it in the door?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, it wasn’t. Eventually we found it in the kitchen, in one of the drawers, along with a load of other keys, bits and pieces of stuff, a small screwdriver, some string, some plastic bags full of coins. You know that kind of a drawer.’

  ‘Yeah, there’s always one isn’t there?’

  She nodded and smiled, ‘Of course we don’t know if that was the key which was used to lock the door. Or a spare key.’ She paused, looked down at the notes again, then back up at him.

  ‘So,’ he spoke slowly, ‘so what you’re saying is that whoever killed the judge was still in the house?’

  ‘Whoever killed the judge, perhaps, or someone else, we can’t be absolutely certain who, but,’ she paused again, ‘if you didn’t lock the door…’

  McLoughlin smiled, ‘Well that’s a surprise.’

  ‘So, did you, hear, see, anything else?’

  He closed his eyes. He was trying to think back. He opened his eyes and shook his head. ‘I honestly can’t say I heard or saw anything. I was so taken up with the dog and the barking and then the blood and then when I saw your man on the floor all I could think about was calling you guys. So I don’t know. Anything could have been going on downstairs or even upstairs for that matter. I only went as far as the little bathroom but if his house is like this one, there’s another floor above it. So,’ he shrugged, ‘that’s it really, although,’ he made a face, ‘bit of an eejit, really, to think …’ he stopped.

  ‘Well,’ she smiled and reached out and patted him on the knee. He felt for an instant like one of her sons, ‘Can’t change any of that. What happened, happened.’ She tapped the blue folder. ‘Did you notice a computer, a laptop?’

  Again he shook his head.

  ‘Apparently he had one, but there’s no sign of it. And another thing. Can you tell me, did you notice, the kitchen, was it tidy?’


  ‘I wasn’t in the kitchen. I went straight from the dining room, straight up the stairs towards the barking. It was only after I let the dog out that I went into the front room. I didn’t go into any of the other rooms. Just the dining room, the small bathroom and then the big room where the judge’s body was.’ He could see it again. Hear the sound of the dog, feel the sticky blood on his hands. See the man on the floor, the bloody mess on the carpet. He looked away and around his room. Same marble fireplace, same elaborate cornice, same ceiling rose. ‘The tidy kitchen? The significance?’

  ‘Well,’ she paused. ‘One of the people we’ve spoken to so far is a lady called Mrs Maguire, Mags Maguire. She’s the judge’s cleaner, or more like a housekeeper. Cooks for him. Does his shopping. Generally keeps the place in order. We brought her into the house to have a look around, in case something was missing. And the first thing she said was that someone had done the washing-up. She was amazed. She only works Monday to Friday and she said that when she goes in on Monday morning the place is always in an awful state. Apparently the judge wasn’t good at the domestic stuff. She’d leave him food to be heated up and he could just about do that, but he’d never clean up after himself. She thought maybe his daughter had been to see him. Because the place was so spick and span. But the daughter was away. In Paris for the weekend. Only just got back. So it’s a bit of a mystery.’

  Mrs Maguire had noticed that the washing up was done. She stood in the kitchen doorway, a small plump figure, her shopping bag dropped by her feet. She walked slowly across the lino to the sink. She ran her finger over the stainless steel.

  ‘Look at that’, she said, ‘it’s dry. Look.’

  She opened cupboards and drawers.

  ‘Look,’ she pointed. ‘All put away. He might wash a cup if he wanted tea, but that’d be all.’ She moved towards the pedal bin in the corner. She put her small foot on the lever.

  ‘Look,’ she pointed again. ‘See? The bin’s empty. There’s a new liner in it too.’