Kindness, now a bit of kindness went a long way. Like the nice young man who brought her the sweet pea. She’d seen him, tall and thin and very dark, with his gold-rimmed glasses and his friend, the fat boy with red hair and freckles, a few times walking around the square. He’d admired her flowers, the marigolds and the cornflowers. He’d said his granny had lovely sweet pea. He’d bring her some. The other boy had smirked and giggled and spat on the footpath, and his friend had turned on him, scolded him for his bad manners.
She hadn’t expected he’d come back with the flowers. But he did. A big bunch, tied expertly with raffia in a bow. Not from a local garden she didn’t think. And not from the supermarket either. They had the look of a florist. She sank her face into the blooms and breathed in their sweet scent.
‘Thank you,’ she said, and he touched his forehead with his index finger and bowed.
Now Gwen polished and sang.
We sow the fields and scatter
The good seed on the land
But it is fed and watered
By God’s almighty hand
In years gone by a servant would have done this. A Mary, a Bridie, a Kate, instructed carefully by Gwen’s mother. But servants were a thing of her past. Sometimes Samuel came to sit with her and keep her company. He wasn’t much good at polishing. He wouldn’t take off his gloves for long and he could be clumsy. He liked cleaning, though. His little flat was always spotless. He had been lucky to get it. The judge, of course, the judge had put in a word for him. She would never have asked the judge for that kind of help. One had one’s pride. But Samuel and the judge were close in an odd kind of way. She didn’t really understand it.
She remembered the first time they had met. It wasn’t long after Samuel had come to Ireland. He was living in one of the bedsits in the detached house at the end of the square. Victoria House it was called.
It must have been a Sunday because they were walking back from church. It was cold and wet. She had invited Samuel for lunch. A bowl of soup in front of the fire. They had met the judge on the road. The dog had been running ahead. He was carrying his lead in his mouth and the judge was trying to catch him. The judge was getting annoyed. Samuel had stepped on the dog’s lead, trapping him. Then reached down and took hold of the end. Held it out to the judge, his leather gloves muddy. And something happened between them. A look, something. The judge snatched the lead, didn’t seem to notice that it was dirty. Didn’t say thank you. Just jerked the dog away. Didn’t say ‘good afternoon, Miss Gibbon’, the way he usually would. She had stopped and looked at him. Then looked at Samuel and said, ‘I must apologise on Judge Hegarty’s behalf. He’s not usually like that.’
And saw the expression on Samuel’s face. A mixture of emotions, she thought afterwards. Shock, surprise, fear, perhaps?
‘Do you know the judge?’ She asked him later, when they’d eaten and warmed up in front of the small fire.
‘The judge? Is that what he is?’ Samuel had put down his spoon.
‘Yes, retired of course now.’ She held out a plate with brown bread. ‘Supreme Court judge, very well known.’
Now she held the silver salver to the light. They had lived, the Gibbon family, in a large house in Belgrave Square in Monkstown. Thomas, her father, was the youngest boy. Went into the insurance business. No head for books. Not a university man. A disappointment to the family. He had died when she was fifteen. For years his death had been a mystery. No one spoke of it. She had watched her mother, how she struggled to manage. She taught the piano in the big room upstairs, every afternoon from two until six, a succession of girls and boys. While Gwen and William, her brother, did their homework in the kitchen behind. Cold in the winter. No heating. Chilblains on their hands and feet. Early to bed, hot water bottles and heavy eiderdowns. Gwen and her mother in one room, and William on the fold-up bed in the sitting room. And then the move, down to the basement. William would have saved them but William died in the war. And Gwen’s job in the school was part-time, poorly paid.
‘So, do you know the judge?’ she asked him again. And again he didn’t answer. But later that week he called to see her again. He was wearing a warm tweed coat. She thought she recognised it. Could have sworn that it belonged to the judge. And she began to see him, coming out of the judge’s basement.
‘I’m doing some jobs for him,’ he said when she asked. ‘I’m good with my hands. He wants to play backgammon with me. He thinks he can beat me.’
And he smiled, a sudden sweet smile. And she was pleased.
Now she sat at the table. She sang and she polished. Every three months the same ritual. Would she make it through to the next silver-polishing day? Even now, sitting down, she was breathless.
She put down her cloth. She screwed the top back on the polish tin. Who would take care of all her little pieces when she was gone? There were cousins somewhere. New Zealand, she thought. Or perhaps it was South Africa. But they would not be bothered with her things. Death would come soon she feared. Someone would find her, lying on her bed in her damp little room, her body stiff. That nice Elizabeth Fannin, perhaps. She would arrange her funeral. She would parcel up her few possessions. But soon she would forget her. And even poor benighted Samuel. Soon he would no more know her than the man in the moon.
She pushed herself to standing. She held onto the back of a chair. She eased herself to the small sofa. She sank down. She closed her eyes.
‘Go away death,’ her voice was but a whisper. ‘Go away death. Not today, not yet. Don’t take me yet.’
Three missed calls on the Judge’s mobile phone and a text message overnight. Won’t wait for ever. I want the money. And with it a photograph. He had looked at it. He had felt sick.
Now he sat in the judge’s drawing room, the morning light glancing across the piano, the stain dark on the carpet. He waited for Liam Hegarty to arrive.
He heard the sound of the front door opening, the click of the lock, the heavy thud as the door was closed, then silence, the footsteps muffled by the stair runner. Was this what it was like for the judge that Sunday when he died? Did he sit here, in this lovely room, the piano, the painting, the cabinet, the carpet, the comfortable sofa and chairs? Waiting, anticipating? What was it? Pleasure or pain? Or were they one and the same thing?
The door opened. Liam Hegarty hurried in. He was red-faced, his jacket slung over one shoulder, the sleeves of his freshly ironed shirt rolled back.
‘You said it was urgent.’
He listened in silence as McLoughlin spelled it out. The whip, the money, the phone, the threat.
‘Did he actually say he had the photos?’ Hegarty took a folded white handkerchief from his trouser pocket and wiped his forehead.
‘Not to begin with, but he sent me this.’ He pulled out the phone and handed it over. The judge’s naked torso. His eyes closed. And a head pressed against his groin.
McLoughlin watched. Liam winced. His face turned pale, his large frame suddenly grew smaller.
‘What will he do, do you think?’ Liam’s voice was uncertain.
‘If we don’t pay up, you mean?’ McLoughlin reached over and took the phone back. ‘I think it’s pretty obvious. Wouldn’t take a minute. Email the photos to the newspapers. Or put them up on the web. All out in the open then. However,’ he paused, ‘if he does that, then bang goes his steady income.’
‘And bang goes my brother’s reputation. All he stood for. All we stand for. What we, our family did, to make this country.’ Hegarty moved towards the portrait. ‘My father, he was a brave man. Ruthless, determined. He stood up for us. He stood up for the people. And what would happen if this,’ he paused, ‘this bullshit comes out? Everything would be tainted by it. And it wouldn’t be fair. John had a weakness. So what? We all have weaknesses. But our family would be fucked.’
‘So?’
‘So,
call him. Set up a meeting. You want the photographs.’ Hegarty got up. He began to walk around the room.
‘It’s not going to work, you know,’ McLoughlin watched him.
‘Why?’
‘Because he’s copied them, scanned them, got them on his phone, the easiest thing in the world. You can’t only have one photograph or one set of photographs now. You know that.’ McLoughlin drummed on the sofa arm with his fingers.
‘So what are you saying? That I should go on paying him indefinitely?’
‘No, I’m not saying that. I’ll do what I can, but,’ he shrugged, ‘what about your part of the deal? I’m still waiting.’
‘Ah, that, you and all that.’ Hegarty’s forehead and nose were shiny with sweat. He took off his glasses. He began to clean them with the handkerchief.
‘Yes, me and all that.’ McLoughlin looked around. The room was peaceful. Apart from the marks on the carpet it was hard to imagine that anything out of the ordinary had happened here. He could hear the dog barking outside and a sudden rumble as a load of rubble was dumped into yet another skip. ‘Your nephew, Ciarán, he’s the one with the connections isn’t he?’
Hegarty pushed his glasses back up his nose. He looked tired. ‘Ciarán’s a bullshitter. Got involved when he was in college. Says they’re the future. Does a bit of fundraising now and then.’
‘So? What does he know? Who does he know?’
‘He knows nothing. He’s no use to you. Spoilt rotten. Like all the rest of John’s children. Had it far too easy. No, I’ve a cousin. A retired bishop. You might know of him. Declan Hegarty.’
The priest on the altar at communion. ‘I know who he is.’
‘He’s who you want. I’ve spoken to him. He’s reluctant, but he knows all about shame, vilification. He knows what happens when certain,’ he paused, ‘certain information gets out into the public domain. So,’ he began to walk towards the sitting room door. McLoughlin got to his feet. He followed Hegarty down the stairs.
‘So?’ They stood together by the front door.
‘So, when I hear that you have the photographs, then and only then, Declan will meet you.’
He held out his hand. McLoughlin took it. Hegarty’s palm was damp.
‘And just in case you think you don’t need me and my say-so, I can guarantee that Bishop Hegarty would have no intention of speaking to the police, you, or anyone else, without it. OK?’
He pulled open the door and together they walked into the sunshine. Ferdie was waiting on the step. He stood up, his tail wagging.
‘You still have the dog,’ Hegarty looked down at him. ‘Do you want me to take him? I could drop him over to Róisín.’
‘No,’ McLoughlin clicked his fingers and the dog lifted his paw. ‘No, leave him with me. For the time being anyway.’
Hegarty began to move away, down the steps.
‘Hold on,’ McLoughlin called out to him. ‘Just one thing.’ He hurried down to join him by the gate. ‘You didn’t seem to have anything to say when I told you about, you know, what I found in the bag with the phone and the money.’
Hegarty looked down, fiddling with his keys. ‘I don’t think there’s anything about my brother that could surprise me.’ He began to walk towards his car. Then stopped and turned back. ‘Declan, speak to Declan about it. He’s a wise man. He’ll fill you in.
‘Yeah?’ A sudden urgent beeping as a huge skip lorry pulled up and began to reverse into place.
‘He was John’s confidante. John spoke to him about pretty much everything.’ He got into his car. McLoughlin watched him drive away, and the skip lorry move into his parking space. He watched as it manoeuvred then stopped, the driver swinging down from his cab to hitch the skip to the trailer. He nodded and smiled.
‘Great day.’
McLoughlin smiled back, shutting the judge’s gate to keep Ferdie in.
‘Bet you’re sick of all the dust and mess,’ the driver began to fix a huge net over the pile of rubble, pushing pieces of wood, bits of brick into place, ‘it’s always hard on the neighbours.’
McLoughlin nodded.
‘Think this’ll be the last of them.’ He stopped and pulled back a large tile, shoving a gloved hand out of sight as he burrowed down into the heap, then pulling it out again. ‘Thought I saw something useful.’ He turned away, taking off his gloves. ‘You’d be amazed what people throw away. Perfectly good tools. I got a hammer last week. Screwdrivers, drills, saws, you could start a business with them.’ He climbed into the cab. McLoughlin watched, as the skip rose from the ground, hung swinging gently, then settled into place. The driver saluted, and pulled out, accelerating away. As the phone in McLoughlin’s pocket beeped. The judge’s phone. He hunted for it. He pressed the call button. He waited.
‘So, where will we meet and when?’ McLoughlin sat in the sun. He sipped a coffee. The dog snoozed at his feet. The pier was crowded. He shifted on the wooden bench, and nudged the sports bag with his elbow.
‘No rush,’ the man chuckled. His tone was decidedly more pleasant than it had been. There was silence for a moment. He blew his nose, a loud honking sound. ‘Hay fever, fucking hay fever. This time of year, it’s the flowers. Fucking hanging baskets. My neighbours are all at it. There’s a competition. They’re all mad to win. It drives me crazy. I need some antihistamines.’ Another pause, more nose blowing.
McLoughlin remembered what Sorcha Hegarty had told him. The man smelt of smoke, and cheese and onion crisps, and something else. A nasal spray, was that it? Peppermint perhaps? The kind of thing you put on a tissue and breathe into your nose. The evidence from the robbery. No fingerprints, he was certain about that. But DNA, he wondered. He was pretty sure they’d have kept Sorcha’s pyjamas and her slippers. He could see her, small, slight, her head bowed as she sat in the interview room.
‘You don’t have to tell me what happened if you don’t want to.’ He had tried to reassure her. ‘But if we’re to catch the guys.’
She fiddled with her fingers, tearing a piece of skin from her cuticles. ‘There are people who can help you. People you can talk to about it all.’
She didn’t look at him. ‘I know, those rape crisis places. I don’t want to talk to anyone.’ Tears slid down her cheeks. ‘He hurt me, he really hurt me. It was disgusting.’
McLoughlin had seen the doctor’s report.
‘I don’t want my parents to know. I couldn’t look at them again if they knew. I just want to forget about it.’ Sorcha stood. ‘Can I go now?’
McLoughlin had watched her walk out of the garda station. It was the last time he had seen her.
‘So, where will we meet?’ He shifted the phone in his hand.
And he heard that sound, he’d heard before. What could it be? McLoughlin knew it, but couldn’t place it.
‘Somewhere nice. Somewhere in the sun. I like to get out of an evening. The judge and me, we’d meet for a coffee sometimes. Go for a little stroll. Not too far. Neither of us now, we’re not in the bloom of youth, if you know what I mean.’ Pause, more nose blowing, clearing of his throat. ‘How about the pier, the bandstand maybe? How would that suit you?’
McLoughlin heard the town hall clock strike the half hour. 5.30. He stood, lifting the bag. The dog got to his feet too. They began to walk slowly towards the bandstand. It had recently been restored to its former Victorian glory. The local council had done a thorough job. It even had wi-fi and as McLoughlin approached he could see there was the usual crowd of teenagers lounging on the steps, phones and iPads in hand. He looked around. He pushed past the kids and stood in the middle of the stage. He took out the judge’s phone. He waited.
A teenage girl, pretty, blonde with a stud in her bare navel and another in her nose, leaned down, holding a hand out to the dog. Ferdie sniffed it, a breeze from the sea blowing his ears back. The girl crooned
endearments and he rubbed himself against her bare brown legs.
The judge’s phone beeped. Twice. McLoughlin looked at the screen. He pressed the button. U cld do with xercise end pier bring fone.
Shit, the last thing he wanted was messing.
‘Come on, Ferdie, time to go,’ he clicked his fingers.
‘Ah,’ the girl looked up. Her makeup was expertly applied. ‘Can he not stay here with me?’ She smiled, showing perfect white teeth.
‘Sorry, not today. We’ve a date, haven’t we, Ferdie?’ McLoughlin hurried down the steps and together they began to walk away. The dog looked up at him. He whined and licked his lips. It was even hotter now, the sun glancing off the paving, right into his eyes. McLoughlin was sweating. He could feel a damp patch in the small of his back and on his neck. Sweating, not sure if it was heat or anxiety. He gazed at the people on the pier. A row of rod fishermen stood near the edge, their lines trailing into the water. They were always here now. Mostly Chinese, sometimes Polish or other Eastern Europeans, Lithuanians, Latvians. Sometimes Roma gypsies too. He stopped for a moment to see what they were catching. He didn’t recognise the fish. Pollock, maybe or mullet or some other variety. Most people would have thrown them back. The dog sniffed blood on the stones. A woman, wearing a long skirt, red and blue, her hair hidden under a scarf made from the same material, waved her hands at him.
The Therapy House Page 20