The communion lay-servers took their places halfway down the aisle. McLoughlin watched the queues form. He didn’t receive any longer. Last time had been at his mother’s funeral a couple of years ago. It would have been churlish to refuse. She’d have given him a look if he’d hung back, the look that said, don’t let me down. Don’t be like your sister. Clare, the rebel, who’d vanished to London as soon as she graduated from UCD with a degree in social science. Who’d lived in student squats, eventually marrying a guy from Glasgow, when she became pregnant with her daughter. She came home, reluctantly, when their mother died. She didn’t take part in the mass, ill at ease with the rites and rituals. She had sat with her head bowed, her hands tightly clasped in her lap. Rejected his handshake, and left as soon as possible afterwards. Never phoned or emailed. Gone from his life.
Now he stood watching the queue shuffling forward. The soloist was singing ‘Che farò senza Euridice’. He leaned back against the wall, closed his eyes and let the music wash over him It was a tear-jerker, no doubt about that. In his mind’s eye it was Elizabeth Fannin he could see. Walking slowly towards the house, her saffron clothes glowing in the afternoon sun. The warmth of her touch as she comforted him. The sympathy and understanding in her voice as they talked about his father’s death. The way her smile transformed her face.
He opened his eyes. People were still moving from their pews into the aisle, and filtering then, back to their seats. There were faces he recognised, the garda commissioner in uniform and behind him Min Sweeney, looking tense and anxious. He felt a pang of sympathy for her. No arrests, no dramatic dawn raids on suspects’ houses. Nothing to satisfy the media or the commissioner. He watched Min settling herself. He’d call her after this was over. Maybe she’d like to chat, shoot the breeze.
He looked away and back towards the shuffling queue. It was nearly at an end now, a huddle of people waiting to sit down. Among them two familiar figures. The men from the photographs in James Reynolds’ bar. McLoughlin felt his stomach churn, a bang in his heart and the hairs rise up on the back of his neck. He wanted to leave, to get out and breathe some fresh air, but the crowd pressed in around him and now there was silence as the soloist ended. A sudden burst of coughing, throats being cleared and movement at the top of the church as a man, dressed in a black suit, took his place at the pulpit. McLoughlin recognised him. Liam Hegarty, John’s younger brother, a businessman of note. Started life as an accountant, then moved into high finance. A collector of contemporary Irish art. Hugely respected, solid investments, not like the fly-by-nights of the boom. McLoughlin had come across him years before when his house had been ransacked and burgled, his wife and children threatened.
Liam Hegarty cleared his throat. He began to speak. He came before this congregation, a broken man. Not only had his beloved and revered elder brother died, but the manner of his death diminished us all. John Hegarty was possessed with rare integrity. He had given up much to serve the people. He had put the pursuit of justice before the pursuit of personal happiness, personal satisfaction. His community owed him their gratitude.
McLoughlin listened as Liam Hegarty spelled out the nature of his brother’s brilliance, his goodness, his worth and value. His voice echoed through the church. McLoughlin glanced around. All were spellbound by the oratory, the power of the words. Liam Hegarty was, he realised, placing his brother in the pantheon of those who had lived and died for Ireland, the men who were executed in Kilmainham, shot during the Civil War, who died in Derry on Bloody Sunday.
‘Something is wrong,’ Hegarty said, ‘something is very wrong with our world when a man like my brother can die like this. It is up to all of us, every single member of the community, to ask ourselves why did this happen? And to make a solemn promise. We will not tolerate this kind of lawlessness, this kind of cruelty. In this, our republic we will not allow this kind of obscenity to exist any longer.’
His voice rose, then fell and he was silent. Applause echoed around the church and the congregation stood as one. The parish priest moved towards the coffin. He raised his hand in final blessing. The younger priest by his side swung the thurible vigorously and a cloud of incense-laden smoke drifted up to heaven. The male members of the Hegarty family stepped forward. They lifted the coffin onto their shoulders. They walked slowly down the aisle and out into the sunshine. McLoughlin waited for the family to pass, then began to push through the crowd.
Outside it was the usual post-funeral mass scene. There was an air of excitement, of a ritual having been enacted. The family stood by the hearse. People crowded around. McLoughlin watched. The men he had recognised in the photograph that day in Bassano del Grappa approached. The tallest of the two put his arm around Ciarán Hegarty’s shoulder. He bent his head and shook his hand, whispering in his ear. The other man embraced Róisín Hegarty. She smiled up at him, her expression grateful. The two of them then moved slowly from the church towards the road. The crowd parted, people reaching out to slap their backs, offering support and admiration.
McLoughlin could stand it no longer. He followed them quickly as they walked towards their car, parked by the row of small shops.
‘Hey,’ his voice was loud in his ears, ‘hey, you.’
He broke into a jog. Ahead of him the two men seemed not to have heard. He shouted again, louder this time, his voice bordering on hysteria.
‘Don’t walk away from me. Look me in the face.’
He skirted around, standing between them and their car. He could see they didn’t have a clue who he was. He shouted again.
‘Remember the 31st of August 1975? Remember Garda Joe McLoughlin? Remember how he died?’
They both stopped and turned towards him. McLoughlin could feel their power, their sense of authority. These were men who knew how to lead, to dominate, to control, to kill, to get their own way regardless of the damage they caused.
The taller of the two looked him up and down. He began to speak, slowly and deliberately.
‘Friend, keep calm.’ He raised his arms. ‘Whatever you’re talking about, this isn’t the place to do it. Respect, friend, respect for the family.’
Beside him the other man smiled. He turned away and jerked his head. Immediately a third man appeared. He was large, well built, his expression blank as he placed himself in front of McLoughlin. A solid wall of body.
‘You can’t get away with this,’ McLoughlin’s voice was loud, angry. ‘James Reynolds. I know where he is. I’ve seen him. I know you’ve seen him too. Come back. Face me. Speak to me. ‘
The stocky, heavily built man moved closer. He crossed his arms over his torso, his legs spread wide. Behind him the other two were getting into their car. McLoughlin could just about see them, over the bodyguard’s shoulder. He could hear the doors slamming.
‘Come back you bastards. Come back and face me.’ The bodyguard was moving away now, step by careful step, leaving McLoughlin standing on the footpath, alone, and with again that sense of weakness, of helplessness, of paralysis. The car drove off. He stared after it, then shouted again, waving his fist. Conscious now that people were looking at him. Cameramen rushed forward. A TV reporter shoved a microphone in his face, and the crowd milled across the road, threatening to engulf him, as Min Sweeney appeared, taking him by the arm and pulling him away.
‘Don’t look back. Don’t look at any of them. Keep walking.’ Her arm through his, her pace brisk, so he almost tripped as he tried to keep up, as she half-dragged him down the road and away from them all.
They sat in the Eagle House bar. Min had pushed him into a dark corner, far from the blare of the TV. She put a glass of whiskey on the table, and two large cups of coffee.
‘Drink,’ she said. ‘And then tell me for God’s sake what was going on out there.’
His hand when he lifted the glass wasn’t quite steady. But the whiskey helped. It burned as it slid down his oesophagus and a war
m glow spread through his body, soothing him.
‘Well,’ he began. He told her. His trip to Venice. How he’d gone to Bassano del Grappa.
‘Where?’ she poured milk into one of the cups and stirred in a sachet of sugar.
‘North of Venice, towards the mountains. An hour or so by train.’
‘And?’ She glanced at her watch.
He told her then about James Reynolds, about going to the little museum, his conversation with the waiter, finding the Shamrock Bar, the woman who served him tea, and finally the encounter with Reynolds outside.
‘And I couldn’t get over it,’ his hand still wasn’t quite steady as he lifted the glass. ‘I saw him, I was so close to him. He looked at me. He didn’t know me. That man who almost destroyed me and my family and he looked through me. Like I was any old tourist visiting any old picturesque town in Italy. Just any old tourist looking for a pizza and a glass of red wine. And I did nothing. I said nothing. I walked away. And I haven’t been able to get him out of my head since.’
She sipped her coffee. ‘I take it you knew he was there.’
He shrugged. ‘I’d heard, years ago, he’d been there. I didn’t know if he still was, but the website, you know,’ he sighed heavily, then drank some more.
‘Well,’ she sipped her coffee, holding the large cup with both her hands. ‘There’s nothing you can do now, Mick. You have to accept that it’s over.’
‘Why?’ He looked at her. ‘It’s not over for me, or any of the other people they killed. It goes on and on. And you know something? The more time passes, the worse it gets.’
He hadn’t thought of it like that before, not really, not so clearly. But it was true. When it happened it was terrible. But so were lots of other killings. Time passed and the pain seemed to lessen. He was in that active part of his life. The job, his marriage, his future. It was all bright and intense. And there was still a belief that someone would be punished for his father’s death. But there was no punishment. Those who were responsible for the killings stopped being pariahs. Now they were peacemakers. And he had watched, incredulous.
‘The aftermath to war,’ Min shifted in her seat. She crossed her legs. She was wearing a black suit today. Her hair was pulled back into a sleek roll. Her heels were high, shiny black leather. ‘It’s messy and nasty. Justice isn’t done. That town, didn’t you say, they fought on both sides? Imagine what it was like there after the ceasefire. Imagine who had to shake hands with whom so life could go on.’
He shook his head. He drank his whiskey. ‘I can’t accept it. I know what you’re saying. But I can’t accept it.’ He got up and walked over to the bar. He gestured to the barman and lifted his glass. He turned towards Min. ‘Another coffee?’
‘Look,’ she pointed towards the TV. It was the lunchtime news. He saw the church, the coffin, the family, the dignitaries, the crowds spilling outside. He saw himself, the confrontation. The tall man was interviewed outside Dáil Éireann. His words were soothing. Unfortunate, bad timing, not the place. If he wants to meet me, no problem. Terrible things happened. Communities suffered. Oppression, discrimination, time to move forward, time to heal. We have all suffered the loss of loved ones, but bitterness serves no one.
‘You’ve done me a favour,’ Min raised her cup. ‘If you hadn’t had your little set-to, they’d have been door-stepping me, looking for a suspect, looking for answers.’
‘And do you have any?’ McLoughlin sat down again.
Min shook her head. ‘To be honest we haven’t a clue. The house is full of fingerprints. Fucking useless. It’ll take us weeks to get through them. And DNA too.’
‘CCTV?’
‘From the main street, nothing in the square. Also fucking useless.’
‘Anything online?’
‘There’s a desktop computer in the study. Emails, mostly to do with some academic research. Family stuff, photos, the usual. His google history was what you’d call unremarkable. Bought himself a few books, nothing much.’
‘Getting anywhere with suspects?’
She smiled grimly and shook her head. ‘You’d have known a lot of them, wouldn’t you?’
‘Indeed I would. It was a bad time, nasty stuff.’
‘O’Leary, he was the one.’ She fiddled with her cup.
‘The one indeed. The first to really organise his boys into a gang. The first to turn it from a hobby into an enterprise. I never thought we’d get a conviction. Had to be the special court. The only way to get a bastard like Brian O’Leary. And,’ he leaned back in his seat and folded his arms, ‘he was a savage. That stuff done to the judge, apart from his face, that’s the kind of thing O’Leary would have relished.’
‘What stuff?’ She looked at him. ‘What do you know?’
‘Oh, just, nothing really.’ He smiled.
‘Fucking Harris, can’t keep his fucking mouth shut.’ She picked up her bag. ‘The face I’ll give you, after all you saw it. But the rest of it, I’m warning you, Mick. Keep it to yourself. We’ve too many guys making a few bob on the side. Selling information, the new way to top-up your wages and curry favours.’
McLoughlin reached out and patted her hand. ‘Calm down, would you? I know what side I’m on. Yours, and only yours.’
‘Yeah, well,’ she stood up, ‘doesn’t solve my problem. O’Leary’s in prison, and who’s going to care enough about the judge to kill him?’
McLoughlin smiled. ‘Who knows? Hate, love, jealousy, the workings of the human heart. A mystery, always a mystery.’
‘Yeah,’ she checked her phone, ‘a mystery I need to solve. I’ve a briefing this afternoon. I’d better get back to the office and get my ducks in a row.’ She stood. ‘You want a lift anywhere?’
He shook his head. ‘Thanks, no. I’ll just sit here and finish my drink, and ponder.’
She moved towards the door, then turned back. ‘Good luck with the pondering. Let me know if you come up with anything. And,’ she paused and fiddled with her phone which had begun to beep loudly, ‘in relation to Reynolds. I seem to remember that Tom Donnelly from Harcourt Square, he was involved in the investigation. Why don’t you give him a call? You never know what’s been going on.’
‘Been there, done that,’ he smiled up at her.
‘And?’
‘What you’d expect. Investigation still open, any information gratefully received.’
She nodded and shrugged. He watched her walk away. He didn’t envy her. She’d drawn the short straw with this one. Murders usually solved themselves. Gangland? Well it was pretty obvious. Just join up a few dots. Domestic? Similarly obvious. Drunken row? Drinking buddy. Eastern Europeans? Other Eastern Europeans. But the judge? He ran over the possibilities. He felt bad. He was his neighbour. He should have known something was wrong. And how could he not have realised that there was someone in the house when he went in? He drained his glass. Time to go.
He walked back towards the church. All was quiet now. He was hungry. It was lunchtime. If his timing was right Ian and his lads would have stopped for their break. He’d make himself a sandwich. He’d sit in the wreckage of the house and imagine how it would be in a few months’ time.
He walked across the green. Another beautiful day. The grass beneath his feet turning brown, scuffed and lifeless. The skip outside the gate was full. They’d cleaned up the mess on the footpath. He paused, looked at it, then carried on up the steps. Fumbling in his jeans for the keys, as he heard an excited bark and saw the little black dog sitting on the judge’s front step. Jumping up to scratch the door, his curly tail wagging overtime as he whined. Then, as he noticed McLoughlin, he scurried down, rushed towards him, his small body thrashing from side to side. He lay at McLoughlin’s feet, and rolled over, his mouth opening and his long pink tongue lolling. Then jumped up again, and sat, one paw held out and his ears pricked up.
‘Well Ferdie, what brings you here?’ McLoughlin bent down. He patted the dog’s head. He looked into his large brown eyes, opened the door and stood back. The dog ran in.
‘This way,’ McLoughlin called and the dog followed him up the stairs. He found a bowl and filled it with water from the bathroom. The dog drank, greedily. Then lay down and closed his eyes. A shudder ran through his body. His chest heaved. His breathing slowed. He slept. How far had he travelled? McLoughlin wondered. The homing instinct, a powerful emotion. Wanting to get back to where you come from. Wanting to belong. It wasn’t only dogs who had it.
Today would be an Elizabeth Fannin day. Samuel liked Elizabeth Fannin days. Or he used to. For a while they had been difficult. When the ‘For Sale’ sign went up on the house she had told him she would have to move. He didn’t like that. He couldn’t find her new place. She had given him the address and told him which bus to take and where to get off. But he couldn’t figure it out. His sense of direction had deserted him. He had got lost many times. Confused, frightened, wandering around on his own.
The Therapy House Page 10