The Therapy House

by Julie Parsons

  ‘Good? Hmm,’ Green put one finger to his lips. ‘Depends what you mean by good. He has lapsed, he has fallen, he has been led astray and in his turn has led others along the same path. However,’ he smiled, a sudden exuberant expression, ‘I think I’ll allow that he is, as you put it, a good man.’

  ‘And what about John Hegarty?’ McLoughlin could feel his name rippling through the room, ‘was he a good man?’

  Green didn’t reply. He leaned his chin on his hand, looking at the polished parquet flooring.

  ‘John was a sad man.’ He lifted his chin from his hand and stared for the first time directly towards McLoughlin. ‘He’d spent his whole life pretending. That’s not a good way to live.’

  ‘But perhaps it was the only way he could.’ McLoughlin felt suddenly defensive on the judge’s behalf.

  ‘I disagree.’ Green moved his hands back to the arms of the chair and began to drum rhythmically with his fingers. ‘I disagree completely. Secrecy engenders dishonesty. It makes men lie and cheat and hurt people. John Hegarty lied to everyone. He cheated everyone. He hurt many people.’

  ‘And you know this, do you?’ McLoughlin moved uneasily. ‘You know this for sure?’

  ‘I know this, as you so quaintly put it, for sure,’ Green mimicked his accent. ‘I know this to be true because John Hegarty, the judge, hurt me. He hurt me badly.’

  He got up. He stood with his back to the fireplace. He rocked on the balls of his feet. McLoughlin could see that not only was Derek Green thin but he was also extremely strong. The muscles in his thighs tensed inside his denim jeans and his biceps, visible beneath the short sleeves of his white T-shirt, bulged.

  ‘Hurt me, he did, hurt me badly,’ he repeated the words. ‘When I was a teenager. When I met him first many years ago. Met him one night, one dark, dark night. He took me in his car. To a house he had. A big house, tall, dark, empty. Cold it was, cold and dark and empty. I fell in love with him. This man, this good man. I thought he would change my life. And he did. He changed my life. But not the way I wanted it changed.’

  McLoughlin watched him. It was as if he was in a trance. His eyes were closed. He was swaying from side to side. Then his eyes flicked open.

  ‘I fell in love. I was a teenager. I was trying to find someone to love me in the way I wanted to be loved. I thought John would be that man. He told me he loved me. He told me I was the most important person in his life. And then…’ he moved away from the fireplace. He sat down. He picked up the packet of cigarettes. He pulled one out and lit it. A Zippo lighter, clicking the metal lid back and forth as he inhaled deeply, then let the smoke out, pouring down his nose, the click click of the lighter lid and one foot jiggling on the wooden floor.

  ‘And then?’ McLoughlin leaned forward. Green didn’t reply. He sucked on the cigarette so the tip glowed red.

  ‘And then,’ he shrugged. ‘He cast me aside. I thought he would love me forever but he cast me out. Into the darkness, into the night.’ He leaned forward, the cigarette in his mouth. He folded his arms, one over the other, one hand rubbing backwards and forwards over a small tattoo McLoughlin could see on his inner left forearm. It reminded him, its bluish tone, its size, of something, he couldn’t think what.

  ‘But you met him again?’

  Green pulled the cigarette from his mouth. The ash dropped on his thighs. He flicked it away and it fell on the floor, grey, worm-like.

  ‘I met him again. I saw him one day walking along the pier with the dog. I didn’t think he recognised me. He didn’t look at me. But when I sat down on the bench, the one near the plaque to Samuel Beckett, he sat beside me. He said he’d like to meet me again. I told him where and when.’ Green lifted the cigarette to his mouth. The smoke drifted from his lips. ‘I told him there were friends here. People like us. People who understood, who wanted what we want, who would do what we did. I told him he’d be welcome.’ He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. McLoughlin thought for a moment he could see a tear slide beneath Derek’s eyelid. He continued to speak, his voice quiet so McLoughlin had to strain to hear what he was saying, ‘I’d followed his career, his rise through the judiciary. Sometimes, just sometimes,’ he sat up again and blinked his eyes open. He looked over McLoughlin’s head. No tears now. A smile, a tight leer, ‘I thought I might tell on him. Spill the beans, rain on his parade.’

  ‘But you didn’t?’

  ‘I didn’t. For years he’d stayed away from the scene. I didn’t think anyone would believe me. And I was having a hard time of it anyway.’ Green pulled out another cigarette and lit it from the glowing stub before crushing the first one in the ashtray. ‘Hard times, hard times, not glad to be gay, not back then. Pink triangle territory really. Keep it hidden, keep it secret. Don’t rock the boat. Don’t tell anyone. Oh Derek,’ and he mimicked a woman’s voice, ‘no girlfriends. Such a pity, mama wants grandchildren, that’s what mama wants. But,’ and his voice slipped back to its usual register, ‘mama’s not going to get grandchildren. Poppa’s going to get an awful land. Poppa doesn’t like queers. Poppa has stories, terrible stories, men who tried to bugger him, men who would trade a blowjob for a scrap of bread, camp guards and soldiers who would make a pet of a boy. Keep a boy from the gas. Keep a boy from the whip. Keep a boy from the gallows.’

  And McLoughlin realised then, the tattoo on Derek Green’s pale inner arm. A number starting with a B. Crudely done, the line uneven, blurred.

  ‘Your tattoo?’ McLoughlin pointed.

  ‘Oh at last. Top marks Mr McLoughlin. Top marks for observation. My father’s number. Given to him in 1944 when he was fourteen, deported from Hungary to Auschwitz. The only thing I have of his now. He told me. You’re no son of mine. He shut the door in my face. So I took his tattoo. If I’d been in the camp I’d have had a number. For most of my life I’ve been in the camp. The camp where John Hegarty belonged. He was a denier.’

  ‘And is that why he’s dead? Is that why someone shot him, and destroyed his face? To shame him? Is that what this is all about?’ He stood up. His heart was pounding.

  Green didn’t answer. He put down the cigarette. He buried his face in his hands. He sobbed. McLoughlin waited.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Green looked up at him. His face was wet. His eyes were red. ‘I don’t think so. But here,’ he stood too. ‘Something I want to show you.’

  Samuel sat in his favourite chair. The backgammon set was on the small card table in front of him. He opened the wooden box. He began to put out the pieces in the pattern ordained for centuries. Two reds, five blacks, three blacks, five reds on one side of the board. And on the other side, the opposite. Two blacks, five reds, three reds, five blacks. His fingers touched the pieces gently as he lined them up. They clinked, one against the other. His father had given him this set when he graduated from university. An upper second, not the first his father had hoped for. He had seen the look of disappointment on his face, noted the slope to his shoulders.

  ‘Well,’ he had said, ‘with a first you could have been an academic. Now I suppose you’ll have to make do with a job. The firm will take you in. William Dudgeon and Son.’

  But still he had given him the backgammon set. Made of mahogany, the interior of rosewood and boxwood. Thirty ebony and boxwood pieces with an ebony shaker. One of the few possessions which Samuel had managed to hold on to. Through the years, from house to house, from marriage to divorce, from freedom to imprisonment. He had brought the set with him when he was processed on his way into the gaol. When the contents of his supermarket plastic bag were checked and noted and put away. The officer had looked at the large rectangular box.

  ‘Nice bit of work,’ his fingers had run up and down the grain, ‘but we can’t keep it here.’

  ‘Please,’ Samuel had been close to tears.

  ‘Get someone to take it. Wife? Mum? Sister? Brother? Friend?’

 
Samuel had shook his head. ‘There’s no one. Please. Please keep it.’

  The officer had opened it then, admired the inlay, fingered the red and black pieces, looked over to his colleague, a large blonde woman whose curves were held in place by the stiff fabric of her uniform.

  ‘What you say, Betty?’

  She glanced at Samuel, must have seen his despair, his humiliation, his abject state. She looked at the box and shrugged.

  ‘Why not. I’ll put it away in the top of the cupboard.’ She winked at Samuel. ‘Don’t you worry, it’ll still be here for you when you get out.’

  Now Samuel sat back in his chair. He picked up the two dice. They weren’t made of wood like the rest of the set. He wasn’t sure what had happened to the originals. These were hard plastic. Heavy, he weighed them in his palm. Heavy, the judge had weighed them in his palm. Shook them vigorously then threw them across the board. The judge never used the ebony shaker. He liked, he said, to feel the dice. He was sure, he said, that he could influence the throw with the shape of his hand. Samuel didn’t agree. It didn’t work that way. And it never worked that way for the judge. Samuel had sat in the big, beautiful sitting room, the portrait on the wall above the fireplace, the backgammon on a small table between them and watched how the judge would flounder, would fail, would lose on the throw of the dice.

  Now he put them in the ebony cup. He shook them vigorously. He dumped them out on the board. Double sixes. He smiled. The judge sat on the other side of the table, his legs in their cream cotton trousers crossed, and he smiled. Or he tried to smile. His face was a mess. Sticky black blood coated his skin. One eye was missing, the other rolled around in its socket. His nose was smashed. Only his mouth was intact. His lips pulled open and Samuel saw the judge’s teeth. They were bared in a grin. It was cheeky. Like the grin he had that night in the club in London. The big cheeky grin. The boy on his knee. The scared little boy, his body white, so white and his veins so blue showing through the translucent skin. His fingernails bitten to the quick, his bare feet, dirty. And the judge, although he wasn’t a judge then, all those years ago. He was a barrister, ambitious, clever, good at his job. Sent to London to advise on a court case. A racehorse. Gone missing from a race meeting in England. Bred and trained in Ireland. Owned by an Englishman. Insured in Ireland. Missing in England. A complicated situation. Legal advice needed on Irish insurance law.

  ‘We’ll get the best,’ his father had picked up the phone. ‘It’s worth a lot. The fees will be huge.’

  The young barrister from Dublin. Handsome, clever, did the job. Won the case for them.

  ‘Take him,’ his father had said, ‘take him out. Make sure he gets whatever he wants. We’ve done well out of him. There’ll be a bonus for you this year.’

  The young barrister, his suit of fine wool, his shirt of cotton, his tie of silk, with the boy on his knee, one hand grasping him around the waist, the other lifting high a glass of whiskey. And men behind him, beside him. A boy here, a boy there, a boy kneeling, a boy lying. And as the camera clicked, as the flash bulb popped, all mouths open, a loud cheer. And Samuel stood at the back. He watched for a moment. He had done his job.

  Make sure he gets whatever he wants. Samuel could do that. He knew his way around. He wasn’t his father’s son for nothing. He bent down and whispered in the Irishman’s ear. Handed him his card.

  ‘I’ll be back for you later. But if you need anything phone me.’

  And the young barrister grinned and nodded. Drank his whiskey and stood up. His hand on the nape of the boy’s neck as they moved towards the private rooms behind the curtain.

  Now Samuel moved the backgammon pieces. Double sixes. You could do a lot with them. He picked up the dice and placed them in the ebony cup. He shook and shook and shook.

  The barrister went back to Dublin. Samuel drove him to the airport. They shook hands. Samuel turned his hands over and looked at them. He expected to see blood. There had been blood everywhere. The low couch in the back room in the club had been soaked. The floor was wet. Sticky handprints on the wall. Blood on the barrister’s white underwear.

  ‘Sort it out,’ his father had shouted. ‘Use your fucking head. No one cares about the boy. A bit of city rubbish. ‘

  Samuel watched the barrister walk away. Tall and slim, a black Homburg hat on his head, a Crombie coat and shoes shined to a high gloss by the night porter in his hotel. And tried not to think of the boy, the piece of city rubbish, swept down the drain.

  Now Samuel dumped the dice on the board. A six and a four. Just what he needed.

  ‘I’ve got you,’ he smiled at the judge. ‘You’re stuck. You can’t move. You’re helpless.’

  The judge’s mouth stopped smiling. He tried to get up but he had no strength. He sank down. What was left of his head drooped. And Samuel sat upright. One gloved hand stroked the other. He giggled. He remembered the mound of earth in the graveyard. The pile of rotting flowers.

  ‘You’d better go back where you belong. You’re nothing now.’ He clapped his hands. He looked down and when he looked up the judge had gone.

  Samuel smiled. He piled the backgammon pieces into a tall tower. They tottered, swayed from side to side. Then toppled, red and black tumbling to the floor.

  ‘Take it,’ Derek Green said, ‘take it and leave me alone.’

  A sports bag, black leather, closed with a zip.

  ‘Where did this come from?’ McLoughlin weighed it in one hand.

  ‘The judge, he asked me to keep it. He’d turn up from time to time and he’d get something from it.’ Green had moved away into the small hall.

  ‘Something? What?’

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t ask him.’

  ‘And you didn’t look?’

  ‘Not while he was alive. When I heard he was dead I opened it. I’m sorry I did. Now,’ he held the front door open, ‘I want you to leave me alone. Get out and don’t come back.’

  His tears had dried. He was standing straight. His face had returned to its former expression of arrogance and contempt. McLoughlin called the dog. He heard the door slam behind them. He carried the bag home. He resisted opening it. He waited until he had shut the front door firmly. He stepped over the sacks of cement, the ladders, the electric drill, the tubs of tile adhesive and stacks of tiles. He sat down on the stairs, the bag beside him. He looked at it for a moment. Then grasped the zip and pulled.

  He’d never seen a flagellant’s whip before. A wooden handle, a bit like a child’s skipping rope, but attached to it four knotted cords, with small wooden beads twisted into them. He’d hefted it in one hand, then held out his other palm and swung it gently. Even though the cords barely grazed the skin he flinched and cried out loud with the pain. It took him back, for a moment, to school, the Christian Brother, a big man, the leather raised above his shoulder, then whistling down. His hand red and swollen for hours afterwards.

  But nothing as painful as the whip in the bag. He held it up to the light. Dried blood, clearly visible, was caught in the small knots and around the beads. It must have been used regularly, frequently. It must have left scars, marks on the body. What was it that Harris had said? Scars, old, healed. Not sure where they came from. Min would know, or at least suspect. She’d be looking for something like this. He flicked it again. And she’d be even more curious if she saw what else was in the bag. He put down the whip and lifted out a plastic sack. He pulled it open. Inside was a large amount of money. Fifty euro notes in bundles of a thousand euros. Fifty such bundles. And a phone. Turned off. When he held down the power button there was no response. He turned it round and looked at the small apertures on the top. He walked into the sitting room. His charger was plugged into a socket. He switched it on and attached the phone. He’d wait for it to power back up, to see what secrets it was hiding.

  It was late now. He was exhausted. Even his mat
tress looked tempting. He lay down, covered himself up, wrapped his arms around his body and slept.

  Woke, the sun in his eyes, the builder’s radio on loud, and the usual crashing and banging. He got up. Found the kettle, found the tea bags. Made himself a cup. Dressed and walked out onto the front steps. Hot already. The sky blue and everything beautiful. And his name being called. Elizabeth Fannin was standing at the gate. Beside her a little girl, her dark hair a tumble of curls, wearing a bright pink dress, a choc ice in one hand and a doll in the other.

  ‘Michael, hi, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.’ Elizabeth was smiling, her hand resting lightly on the child’s head.

  McLoughlin hurried down the steps. The little girl looked up at him. Her face was smeared with chocolate. He pulled out his handkerchief and offered it to her. She smiled, and shook her curls, twisting one bare leg around the other.

  ‘Say hallo to Michael,’ Elizabeth gave her a little push. McLoughlin held out his hand.

  ‘Aren’t you the lucky one?’ He bent down. ‘I love choc ices. Can I have a taste?’

  ‘Go on, Leah, give Michael some,’ Elizabeth’s voice was cajoling, but the child would have none of it. She turned away, her face set, the toe of one sandal scraping over the granite path.

  ‘It’s all right,’ McLoughlin was sympathetic. ‘People like me are too old for ice creams. Makes us fat.’

  The child looked up at him, squinting in the bright sun. ‘Ask my granny. She’ll get you one. She’s lots of money in her bag. The ice cream man’s over there.’

  ‘Right, OK, granny,’ McLoughlin grinned at Elizabeth, ‘how about it? Ice creams all round?’

  They sat, McLoughlin, Elizabeth, Leah and her doll, on the Cassidy bench. Ferdie crouched in front, waiting.

  ‘So, you’re a grandmother?’ McLoughlin licked his choc ice.

  ‘Yeah,’ Elizabeth stroked Leah’s curls.