The Therapy House

by Julie Parsons

  As she passed him by he caught her eye. He smiled.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he held out his hand, ‘so very sorry.’

  She nodded and swallowed. He could see she was on the verge of tears.

  ‘Thanks,’ her face was pale, her eyes red-rimmed. ‘Are you?’

  She stopped, looking up at the uniformed guard.

  ‘No,’ he shook his head, ‘retired now. As it happens,’

  ‘Oh of course,’ she smiled. ‘It was you, wasn’t it? Who found him.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right. I’m very sorry,’ he repeated his words, unsure now what to say. ‘If I can do anything, at all. You have my number,’

  ‘Yes,’ she nodded again, and he saw the family resemblance. A handsome lot, the Hegartys. The portrait on the wall upstairs. Dan in his prime. McLoughlin could see his bearing in his grandchildren.

  He watched as they walked up the steps and through the front door. The guard closed it firmly behind them. A small knot of people had gathered. Young mothers with kids in buggies, a jogger in shorts and a damp T-shirt, and three photographers, cameras with huge lenses all pointed at the windows. As another car approached, slowed, stopped, and a voice called out his name.

  ‘Hey, Michael,’ Johnny Harris, unmistakeable, the characteristic booming volume. ‘Fancy a drink?’

  They sat in the yacht club bar. It was empty. Sunlight played across the low mahogany tables. The windows, wide open, looked out onto the deck, thronged at weekends with sailors, but deserted now save for a large fat seagull. A faint tinkle of rigging banging against masts drifted into the large, high-ceilinged room. McLoughlin leaned back into the deep, tweed-covered armchair. It creaked beneath him.

  ‘This is nice,’ he sipped his coffee.

  ‘Yes,’ Harris raised his cup. ‘Very civilised.’

  There was silence for a moment. Just the sound of the club burgee flapping gently in the light breeze and the far off clatter of cutlery as the tables in the dining room next door were laid for lunch.

  ‘So?’ McLoughlin looked across at Harris. ‘The post-mortem. Tell me all.’

  There was no doubt how the Judge had died. A bullet fired at close range into the nape of his neck. Exited through his neck. Death was instantaneous. Spinal cord severed. But it hadn’t caused the damage to his face.

  ‘It wasn’t the bullet that did that. Although, the Webley .45, as you know, is the largest calibre. Developed by the British Army in the 1880s, designed to stop a chappie with a spear or a bow and arrow at a hundred yards.’ Harris sipped his coffee.

  ‘Yeah, knock-down power, all the energy goes into the body.’ McLoughlin lifted the small biscuit from his saucer and began to strip off the cellophane. He’d had no breakfast. The big Polish labourer had taken a sledgehammer to the kitchenette this morning. There’d be precious little cooking done from now on. ‘So the shot killed him, but didn’t do the rest?’

  ‘No, the angle was wrong. It smashed through the vertebrae. But the face, that was something like a hammer.’ Harris reached across and snatched the biscuit from his fingers.

  ‘Hey,’ McLoughlin’s expression was one of mock outrage. ‘Eat your own.’ He leaned over and slid the other biscuit from Harris’ saucer. He rested it in his palm for a moment. ‘It was done after death of course, obvious from the blood spatter, or lack of it.’

  ‘Congratulations. You haven’t forgotten everything.’ Harris bit down on the biscuit.

  ‘Not everything. Just most things.’ McLoughlin began to strip away the wrapper. ‘But why? Doesn’t make sense, does it?’

  ‘Well, disfigurement, dishonouring,’ Harris shifted. ‘You’d often see it, but usually associated with a sex crime.’ He paused. He munched.

  ‘I heard about the Webley. In the glass cabinet, and the ammunition in the drawer.’

  ‘You did, did you? Aren’t you the clever one?’ Harris’ mouth was full of biscuit. ‘Mmm, nice. Do you want another?’ He waved his hand in the direction of the barman who was polishing a row of wine glasses. McLoughlin shook his head, patting his stomach.

  ‘Watching my weight, all part of the new leaf I’ve turned over, since I moved down to the town.’ He picked up his cup and swirled the remaining coffee around. The barman appeared. He bent down. He placed a handful of biscuits on the table between them.

  ‘Anything else, sir?’ His accent was Eastern European.

  ‘Thanks, no,’ Harris shook his head as he helped himself.

  ‘So, interesting, isn’t it?’ McLoughlin sat back on the sofa and crossed his legs. ‘The gun, the Webley, pride of place with all the other Hegarty memorabilia. I’m surprised, actually, that he still had it. I’d have thought he’d have handed it up in ’72 when the gun amnesty came in.’

  ‘Well,’ Harris licked his fingers, ‘if you were a Hegarty, you wouldn’t think something as pedestrian as the gun amnesty applied to you. That was for ordinary folk, with ordinary guns, ordinary guns used in ordinary crimes. Not the Webley. Not part of the shrine to the blessed Daniel. Someone took that gun and used it on his son. An act of defiance. Almost an act of sacrilege. A despoilment, a blasphemy.’ Harris crunched down on a biscuit, scattering crumbs across his shirt.

  ‘Kind of nasty,’ McLoughlin placed his cup neatly on its saucer.

  ‘Not as nasty as,’ Harris paused, ‘as the rest of what was done to him. Means there’ll be no open coffin at the wake. There’ll be no public viewing, and those things matter to a lot of people.’ Harris sat back.

  ‘A hammer, eh? Sweeney didn’t mention anything about that. I did notice the lads going through the skip outside. I wondered what they were looking for. They made an awful mess. My guys were pissed off having to put it all back again.’

  ‘Sweeney eh?’ Harris grinned at him. ‘Chats with the lovely Inspector Sweeney is it?

  ‘Not chats, an interview, about my statement. Very particular she was, very careful.’

  ‘Well she would be, wouldn’t she? A lot of people watching. She won’t want to put a foot wrong.’ Harris finished his biscuit and wiped his fingers with a paper napkin.

  ‘And the ties around the judge’s wrists and ankles? How long do you think he’d been like that?’

  ‘Well,’ Harris’s hand reached out, his fingers twitching, withdrawing, then seizing a biscuit, like a blackbird pulling a worm from a lawn, ‘can’t be definitive. But a good few hours. There were deep lesions from the plastic. Not nice.’ He paused. He looked down at the table.

  ‘And?’ McLoughlin leaned towards him. ‘Come on, what else? I know you really want to tell me.’

  Harris munched. ‘I shouldn’t, I know I shouldn’t, but,’ another long pause, ‘he’d been beaten, pretty badly. Marks on his back, kidneys, heavy bruising on his groin.’ He paused, swallowed. ‘And some other very nasty stuff.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah, he’d been gagged. Bruising inside his mouth and remains of fabric stuck between his teeth. Cigarette burns on his stomach and on the backs of his hands. Horrible.’ He swallowed again, ‘And other marks, some of them not new, on his shoulderblades and above. Healed scars.’

  ‘Any ideas?’

  Harris shrugged. ‘Not really. Could be,’ he paused, ‘well a number of things. Not sure at the moment.’

  They sat in silence. McLoughlin could see the judge, toppled forward, fragments of brain and shards of bone on the carpet and his hands and feet tied together. Harris sighed. He picked up his coffee and finished it. He wiped his mouth carefully with a paper napkin, crumpled it up into a ball and dropped it on the table. ‘And now, that’ll teach me. I feel sick.’

  ‘Fresh air, that’s what you need,’ McLoughlin stood up. ‘Come on outside, I want to show you a boat.’

  They walked along the terrace and down the steps towards the marina pontoon. It was hot, even at t
he water’s edge, sunlight bouncing off the sea, and sparking from the chrome fittings on the yachts tied up alongside. McLoughlin could feel sweat pooling in the small of his back.

  ‘Lucky to be alive, aren’t we, on a day like this,’ he stopped.

  ‘Yeah, we sure are,’ Harris breathed in deeply. ‘Smells good down here. All that salt. Positive ions, aren’t they?’

  They moved slowly along the wooden walkway.

  ‘There, look,’ McLoughlin waved his arm towards a medium sized cruiser. They both turned and gazed at her.

  ‘Nice, very nice,’ Harris nodded approvingly. ‘Roller rigging, very handy, plenty of room in the cockpit, in case you might find someone to share your bunk.’

  ‘I should be so lucky,’ McLoughlin smiled, ‘and you? Any love in your life?’

  Harris shrugged. ‘Not so you’d notice. My last young man didn’t go the distance. Bright lights, big city beckoned. I heard he’d fetched up in Milan.’ He sighed. ‘A boat now. There’s fidelity. Seaworthy like this one. You could go places in her. Condition looks good, any idea of a price?’

  ‘Asking is somewhere around twenty grand, but,’ McLoughlin paused and ran a hand appreciatively along the boat’s railing, ‘not many people with cash these days, so I reckon I could knock them down closer to fifteen. What do you think?’

  ‘Sleep on it, don’t make any hasty decisions, plenty more boats around and you’ve a lot on your plate already with the house.’ Harris walked towards the boat’s bow, peered down towards the waterline, then walked back. ‘Good nick, looks to me. But let it sit for a while. Don’t make an offer just yet.’

  They moved back towards the clubhouse. A group of young teenagers, boys and girls, were dragging their small dinghys up the slip.

  ‘Lovely for kids, isn’t it?’ McLoughlin stopped to watch.

  Harris nodded. ‘It is, right enough. I don’t expect I’ll see any of them on my slab any day soon.’ He glanced down at his watch. ‘Which reminds me, I’d better go back. Two more drug killings last night. It’s going to be a long old day.’

  McLoughlin walked with him to the car park. Harris fiddled with his keys. ‘One other thing about John Hegarty.’

  ‘Yeah?’ McLoughlin put his hand up to shade his eyes against the sun.

  ‘He had prostate cancer.’ Harris opened the door. ‘Advanced. He must have been in pain. It had begun to spread.’

  ‘Wasn’t he having treatment? His son, Ciarán, isn’t he a consultant?’ McLoughlin could feel drops of sweat on his forehead.

  ‘Well that’s the funny thing. I checked with his GP. I know him as it happens. A couple of years behind me in Trinity. He said the judge wouldn’t have his PSA checked. Didn’t want to know. Same about his cholesterol. As it happens that was all fine. His heart was that of a man years younger.’ He drummed with his fingers on the car roof. ‘His prostate now, he’d have been dead within the year.’ He waved one hand in a farewell salute as he slammed the door.

  McLoughlin watched him pull away from the curb, the characteristic two toots on the horn. He began to walk back to the house, along the seafront. Bright sunshine, a perfect summer’s day, but he couldn’t get the sight of the judge out of his mind’s eye. It brought him back to that day, all those years ago. He was still in training. Just up from Templemore for a stint in the city centre. Word had come over the radio into the Bridewell. A guard had been shot in Dundrum. A terrible silence fell over the station. He knew what his father’s movements had been.

  His body was brought to the morgue in Store Street. The superintendent asked him if he would do the identification. He couldn’t. He was scared of what he would see. They sent a car for his mother. She did it. She was the brave one. He was the coward. They never talked about it. All through those dreadful days of mourning. When the coffin came home with the lid closed and the house was filled with relatives and neighbours and guards from every station around the country. He sat up that night, sat in his father’s favourite chair, candles lighting, the coffin closed. He sat, the bottle of whiskey beside him. He drank.

  And the next morning when the undertaker’s men wheeled the coffin from the house to the hearse, McLoughlin put his hand on the polished wood and whispered, ‘Bye Da, see you soon,’ the same words he had said three days before, as his father had left for work. ‘Bye Da, see you soon.’

  He was tired by the time he got back to Victoria Square. He was looking forward to his afternoon nap. But even from outside the house he could hear the banging. He sat down on the Cassidy bench. He’d wait here for a while.

  ‘Hey Mick, how’s it going?’ Ian appeared on the top step, holding steady a wheelbarrow filled to overflowing. He paused, waved, then pushed it down the ramp and into the skip. A cloud of dust rose up. Ian coughed.

  ‘Where’s your mask?’ McLoughlin called out.

  The builder shrugged. ‘Fucking thing, too hot for this weather.’

  ‘You’ll clean up the mess, won’t you?’ McLoughlin gestured at the heap the guards had left behind. Ian grinned, then waved again and turned, dragging the wheel barrow behind him. He disappeared into the house.

  McLoughlin swung himself around so his feet were up on the seat and leaned his head on the armrest. He began to drift off, then stirred. A shadow had fallen across his face. He squinted one eye open.

  ‘Hi, sorry, am I waking you?’ Elizabeth Fannin was standing beside him. He hadn’t heard her footsteps on the grass.

  ‘No, not at all. Here,’ he swung his legs down and patted the wooden seat. ‘Set a spell, as they used to say in,’ he paused, ‘that TV programme, from way back.’

  ‘The Beverly Hill Billies,’ she laughed. ‘You and me, we seem to have the same taste.’

  She sat beside him. Her shirt and trousers today were the saffron of a Buddhist monk’s robe. She closed her eyes and lifted her face towards the sun.

  ‘I can’t get over the weather,’ her voice was soft and gentle. ‘After last summer, dreadful the whole thing, everyone miserable. But this year,’ she breathed deeply and he could see her amber necklace rise and fall.

  ‘Yes, it’s amazing. Every morning when I wake up, it’s just fantastic, and then you start worrying.’

  ‘Will it be the last beautiful day?’ She opened her eyes and half turned to him. ‘We’re a terrible lot aren’t we? Always waiting for disaster, anticipating what’s to come.’

  ‘We should be living in the now.’ He stretched out his legs on the grass. ‘Mindfulness, the new buzz word.’

  ‘Whatever,’ she closed her eyes again, ‘just enjoy it while it lasts, that’s what I say.’

  They sat in silence. McLoughlin looked towards the judge’s house. He twisted on the seat. He could feel his jaw tensing, his fists clenching. And Elizabeth must have felt it too. She opened her eyes and turned towards him. Her expression was full of concern.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ She reached out, her hand resting on the back of his.

  He shrugged. He felt close to tears.

  ‘What is it? Tell me.’ She took his hand and squeezed it.

  The tears were coming now. A slow, steady drip and a deep, rasping sob. ‘Michael, what is it?’ She pulled a tissue from her pocket. She turned his face towards her and gently wiped the tears away. He swallowed hard. He tried to speak.

  ‘Shh,’ she said, ‘there’s no rush. Whenever you feel like it.’

  They sat in silence. He was conscious of her body. He could feel her thigh almost, but not quite, touching his.

  ‘It’s just,’ he swallowed hard. ‘I’m thinking about my father.’

  ‘Your father? Oh yes,’ she smiled at him. ‘I remember when he was killed.’

  ‘You do? And how did you know that I was, that he was…’ his voice trailed away.

  ‘Oh, you know. You can’t keep secrets here. Everyone knows some
thing about everyone.’ She stroked his hand. Her rings shone in the sunlight. ‘So, tell me about him.’

  McLoughlin stood outside the church gates. The bell tolled a single note. The hearse had just arrived, escorted by police motorcycles followed by a number of long black cars. The family gathered in a knot. Judge Hegarty’s three sons, daughter, daughters-in-law, grandchildren and a scattering of older men and women. All wore expensive black. A crowd milled around. McLoughlin recognised a number of the faces. The Ministers for Justice and Health, a few TDs, two army officers, aide-de-camps to the President and the Taoiseach, the official gold braid aguillettes on their shoulders. Up and down the footpath on either side and across the road the curious had gathered. Press photographers and TV crews poised for the dramatic moments of celebrity grief. A cameraman having a last pull on his cigarette. As the back of the hearse opened, all sprang into action.

  The priest appeared at the church door. He blessed the coffin and turned. The undertakers hoisted it onto their shoulders. The family followed. All began to walk slowly inside. McLoughlin waited until they disappeared from view, then moved forward. He found a place at the back, squeezed between two tall men in suits. Silence fell as the funeral party processed up the aisle. The organist was playing ‘Jesu Joy of Man Desiring’. At the altar five more priests waited. A moment of stillness, then the mass began.

  McLoughlin shifted awkwardly from side to side. Around him people muttered the words, made the familiar gestures, knelt, stood, knelt again. A soloist sang hymns in Irish. The gospel readings and the prayers for the faithful were said by the Hegarty grandchildren, good looking like their parents, their voices strong and confident, their accents ranging somewhere between middle-class Dublin and the intonations of Hollywood. The parish priest, a tall handsome man, grey haired, spoke in glowing terms of the judge’s service. To the church, the parish, his wife and children and last but not least, to the State. An older priest, stooped and bent, came forward to the altar. McLoughlin recognised him. He was a bishop, one of those criticised for their lack of vigilance in the child abuse scandals. There had been calls for his resignation, but he had toughed it out, ignoring his accusers with a mixture of arrogance and clerical self-confidence, until eventually he had to go. He was also a Hegarty. McLoughlin hadn’t made the connection before. Not an uncle, but perhaps some kind of cousin, once removed or second, perhaps? Despite his physical frailty the priest’s voice was strong as he said the prayer for peace. McLoughlin turned to the man on his right and shook his hand. All around clasps were proffered and exchanged. He leaned back against the wall and watched the communion rite performed. The host was held up and blessed, wine poured and drunk. The familiar words echoed around the church. The last supper, Christ and his disciples breaking bread together. The prophecy of suffering and death, and the promise of redemption. The magic and mystery of the bread and wine becoming body and blood.