‘Go,’ she said, ‘you, dog, go away.’
‘Sorry,’ McLoughlin reached for Ferdie’s collar. ‘Sorry.’ But Ferdie had found something interesting and edible. He buried his nose in a piece of old newspaper.
‘Stop it, Ferdie, come on, drop it,’ McLoughlin grabbed Ferdie by the collar. With the other hand he prised the newspaper from his mouth. A half-eaten fish head dropped to the ground. McLoughlin reached in his pocket for a handkerchief and wiped the dog’s face. A noxious combination of blood and skin. ‘Christ, you messy creature. Come on now.’
He dragged him away, conscious that a small crowd had gathered to watch.
‘I should throw you in,’ he said to Ferdie, who ignored him, and whined cheerfully. McLoughlin swung the judge’s bag by the handle. It was heavy. He felt as if everyone could see what was in it. He climbed the narrow steps to the pier’s upper level and stood, the wind ruffling his hair and blowing his shirt away from his body. A double beep. A text. Time 4 coffee ur hands r filthy.
McLoughlin looked around. Skateboarders, dog walkers, fishermen, the man who was always busking, a pile of coins in his guitar case. A couple entwined in an embrace, leaned against the sea wall. The phone beeped again. He read the message. Wash ur fuckin hand coffee time 10 min our fave place dog knows way.
He looked around again. The busker was singing ‘Dirty Old Town’, his voice plaintive. The embracing couple were now sitting on a bench, the girl on the boy’s knee, her face buried in his neck. A woman with a large dog, a boxer, was standing, looking at the boats moored in the harbour, a takeaway coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other.
McLoughlin hurried towards the steps which led to the water. He put down the bag. He knelt and dunked his hands in the cold sea. A wave washed up, soaking his sleeves. He stood, picked up the bag again and took the steps two at a time, back up to the pier. He began to jog, the dog leaping excitedly around him.
Away from the sea breeze it was hotter. McLoughlin’s shirt was sticking to his back as he ran past the park, along by the railway line. The dog knows the way, the text had said. And the dog certainly seemed to know where he was going. He trotted briskly, barely stopping, not allowing himself to be distracted by tempting scents. He stopped outside the wine bar. Today there were people sitting at the small tables on the footpath. McLoughlin recognised them as locals. Retired couples, with time on their hands.
‘Ferdie,’ one of the women, grey hair flopping over her face, bent to greet him. ‘How are you, sweetie?’ She scratched him behind his ears and he wriggled with pleasure. McLoughlin noticed the diamond-encrusted bracelet on her wrist. She looked up. ‘The poor judge. We do miss him. Any news?’
McLoughlin shook his head. ‘Nothing as far as I know.’ He clicked his fingers. ‘Come on Ferdie.’
Inside it was dark and crowded. Anthony greeted them like long-losts. He ushered Ferdie to his usual spot behind the counter and waved McLoughlin to one of the high stools near the coffee machine.
‘You’ll have?’ Anthony gestured to the selection of wines on offer.‘Just an Americano, thanks.’ McLoughlin looked around. Again faces he recognised. A few hidden by newspapers and one man slumped in the corner by the toilets. He looked as if he was asleep.
‘Can I tempt you?’ Anthony held up a bottle of Calvados. ‘A little extra something?’
McLoughlin shook his head. ‘No, thanks, still got a bit of work to do.’ The machine hissed and gurgled, spitting steam and the phone in his pocket beeped. He pulled it out. He read the message. Coffee outside now. The noise of the machine. The hissing and gurgling. That was the sound he’d heard in the background to the calls.
He got up, his heart pounding. He gestured to the open door. ‘Nice today. I’ll have it here, if that’s OK.’
‘Sure thing. Take a seat. I’ll be out to you in a tick.’ Anthony smiled and flapped a tea towel at him. ‘And a bowl of water for himself?’
McLoughlin nodded his thanks and eased himself off the stool. He could see his face reflected in the machine’s stainless steel. He looked pale. He could see panic in his eyes. He clicked his fingers and Ferdie got to his feet. McLoughlin held the door open and the dog walked through. He slumped in a patch of shade behind a large pink hydrangea in a terracotta pot. McLoughlin sat down at a small round table, the judge’s bag between his feet. He scanned the street. The sun had brought everyone out. Groups of children coming and going from the playground in the park. Joggers spilling out onto the road.
‘Here we are, one Americano, and one bowl of water.’ Anthony appeared at his side, a tray held high. He carefully placed the cup and saucer on the table, then bent down to the dog. McLoughlin held out a five euro note and Anthony took it and backed away. ‘Much appreciated, and do let me know if you want anything else.’ He turned towards the two women at the next table.
McLoughlin lifted his cup and took a sip and noticed a motorbike pulling up across the road. The driver dismounted. He was wearing leathers and a heavy helmet, the visor down. He walked towards the café, then paused as he put his foot up on the path. One hand disappeared inside his jacket.
McLoughlin’s heart began to hammer. He replaced his cup on its saucer. It made a soft musical clink. The man pulled something out. It looked like a padded envelope. He walked towards him and stood by the small table. He looked down. He pushed up his visor. Only his eyes were visible.
‘For you,’ his voice was calm, his accent neutral. ‘You have something for me, I think?’
McLoughlin fumbled beneath the table. He lifted up the bag.
‘I’ll take that,’ the man stretched out and at the same time handed McLoughlin the padded envelope.
‘Just a minute,’ McLoughlin put the bag down, anchoring it with his foot. He tore open the envelope, and flicked through its contents.
‘OK.’ He lifted his foot. ‘All yours.’
McLoughlin watched the bike as it turned and went back down the road in the direction from which it had come. He checked the time on his phone. Anthony was still chatting to the customers at the next table. McLoughlin raised his hand.
‘I’ll have a drop of the hard stuff if you’re still offering.’ He held out his cup.
‘Of course, dear boy,’ Anthony disappeared inside the café, then reappeared a few minutes later. McLoughlin sat in the sun. He sipped. He could feel the spirits in his throat, in his stomach. The envelope lay in front of him. He put one hand flat down on it. He could feel the stiffness of the photographs through the bubble wrap. He sipped again. His heart was thumping in an unnatural way. Ferdie stirred and sighed, and rolled over. Then his ears pricked up. McLoughlin could hear the roar of a motorbike. Coming back, speeding, going too fast. He watched it pass by. He watched it disappear out of sight. He checked his phone. Seven minutes, since the exchange, that was all. Seven minutes at approximately fifty kilometres per hour. He did the sums. Roughly six kilometres, three there, three back.
He drained his cup and stood. He put a handful of coins on the saucer. He picked up the envelope.
‘Come on Ferdie, time to go.’ The dog whined and got to his feet. He dipped his muzzle in the water and drank deeply. McLoughlin moved away from the table. Ferdie followed. He stood on the footpath. His nostrils flared in the evening air. He looked up.
The dog knew the way. McLoughlin bent down and stroked the soft curls on the Ferdie’s head. He held the envelope in front of his wet nose. The dog sniffed, and looked up at him, then turned. McLoughlin followed, as the dog began to trot briskly down the road.
A nice evening for a walk, the sun beginning to dip behind Killiney Hill. Heat radiating from the footpath, but a breeze now from the sea. Sweet scents from the gardens as they walked past. Mock orange blossom, McLoughlin thought. Philadelphus, creamy white flowers with a touch of purple at their centre. A favourite of his mother’s, he remembered.
They walked on. A small shop stood at the corner. The dog stopped at the door. McLoughlin went in. Rows of soft drinks and packets of biscuits. Tins of beans. Loaves of sliced white bread. An ice cream fridge. McLoughlin walked to the chill cabinet. He pulled out a small bottle of water. He moved towards the counter.
‘I’ll have a plastic bag too,’ he said. The young man, Chinese, smiled and produced one from beside the cash register. He nodded towards Ferdie who was slumped down, on the doorstep, his chin on his front paws.
‘He’s a good dog. He won’t come in. He knows his place.’ He took the coins McLoughlin held out. ‘You a nice boy, Ferdie, aren’t you?’
‘You know him?’ McLoughlin fiddled with the bag, opening it up. He put the envelope into it, along with the bottle of water.
‘Everyone knows Ferdie.’ The young man smiled. ‘The judge, he come here often. Always he buy chocolate. Fruit and nut, his favourite. He go to visit his friend, Mr Smith.’
‘Mr Smith? Does he live near here?’
‘Yes, not far, apartments for old people. Just down the road.’ He pointed.
McLoughlin stepped into the sun. He looked at the judge’s phone. No more messages. The screen was dark. Whoever had been watching him must have stopped. He wasn’t sure who it had been. Too many people around. No one who stood out. He’d done a fair bit of surveillance in his time. He’d been good at it. He knew when to hang back, when to speed up, when to turn away, to cross a road, when to watch reflections in shop windows. Now he looked around. The street was quiet. Cars parked along the footpath. Dinner time, he reckoned. Families gathering. Children to be fed, bathed and put to bed. Stories to be read. Fears to be soothed.
He began to walk again, the dog running on ahead. Past large, detached houses set in their own gardens. Then rows of newer ones, smaller, pebble-dashed, terraced. Views of the sea down the side streets. He clicked his tongue, but Ferdie ignored him. He trotted along, his tail wagging, stopping every now and then to sniff and smell, to scratch at a clump of dandelions and grass growing out of a crack in the path. Then suddenly, without warning, he took off, crossing the road, heading towards the two-storied building set back behind a high brick wall. The dog ran in through the open gates. McLoughlin followed slowly. He stopped and looked around. A neat lawn was bounded by flower beds, bright with colour, orange and yellow. On one side was a small car park. Beside it a large waste bin and some plastic rubbish bags piled against it. He stood and looked at the building. He counted the front doors, each painted the same dark red. Ten on the ground floor, and above another ten, with a walkway in front. Hanging baskets swung gently in the breeze beside each.
He looked around, then moved slowly towards the stairwell. He began to climb the steps. Ferdie was sniffing around the bin. McLoughlin clicked his fingers but the dog ignored him. McLoughlin turned away. When he reached the top he looked down the walkway. Baskets hung beside every door, except for one. McLoughlin walked slowly towards it. A frosted glass pane, a doorbell and below it a flap for mail. He lifted it carefully. He bent down and peered through. A small narrow hall, a door to the right and a door at the end. Both stood open. He could hear a sound. Coughing and the guttural catch of phlegm being cleared from a throat. He took a deep breath. He pressed the bell. He heard it chime. He saw a figure approach. The door opened, just a crack, but McLoughlin was ready. He remembered the old days. The dawn raids, the battering ram breaking the lock, the shouting and roaring as the guards forced their way in. The importance of surprise.
The importance of surprise. The door opened just a crack, but he was inside the house before the man, tall and overweight, with a shock of white hair, knew what was happening. A complacent fucker. A bully. McLoughlin had him by the throat, forcing him to the floor, pulling up his T-shirt. The appendix scar and the scattering of moles across his fat white stomach. He kicked him hard in the testicles, then stood on his ankle, hearing it crunch beneath his foot. He grabbed him by the hair and dragged him into the small kitchen. A table and on it, the judge’s bag and an open laptop. The man was trying to stand, bellowing with rage, gathering his strength. McLoughlin looked around. There was a small cast-iron saucepan on the cooker. He reached for it. Half-full of baked beans. And before the man could do anything McLoughlin had smashed one hand with it, then smashed one knee. And the man screaming now, in pain and fear.
‘The hand is for Sorcha Hegarty, for what you did to her. The knee is for me.’ McLoughlin was panting, breathless. ‘Consider yourself lucky I’ve left the other untouched. But if I get a sniff, the slightest hint that those photographs are anywhere other than where they should be, I’ll be back. And next time,’ he rested the saucepan on the man’s forehead, then pressed hard. He could smell the pale skin burning.
McLoughlin stood up. He looked down. Baked beans were scattered across the floor. He picked up the judge’s bag. The money was still inside. He put the laptop in beside it, wrapped the saucepan in a tea towel and put it in too.
‘You said you had a deal with the judge. But the judge is dead. All deals are off. Enjoy your dinner.’
He closed the door quietly behind him. The judge’s bag in one hand, the plastic bag in the other, as he hurried away.
The photographs. McLoughlin sat on the floor in the front room, his back pressed against the wall, the bottle of whiskey open. He drank. He felt sick. The whiskey wasn’t helping. But then, nothing would help.
He fanned the photos out. There were ten of them altogether. And the negatives. Black and white. Some close-ups, some wide shots. The judge as a young man, still immediately recognisable. There were other men, too, in some of the pictures. And there were the boys. They were young. McLoughlin guessed at their ages. Maybe between ten and fifteen. Maybe younger. In some of the pictures their faces were obscured by their actions. But their bodies were plainly on view. Small, white, thin. They reminded him of boys he’d seen when he was at school. Boys from the orphanage next door. They’d share their classrooms for a couple of years and then they’d disappear. They were all small and thin. Their heads were shaved. Their teeth were yellow. At break time they drank their milk and ate slices of white bread, smeared with margarine, as if they’d never eaten before. McLoughlin and his friends had despised them, stayed away from them, mocked them. Now, knowing everything about the industrial schools, he felt ashamed of the way he had behaved. Now he looked at these boys in the photographs and felt even more ashamed. Of how he had colluded with Liam Hegarty to keep this part of the judge’s life a secret. To protect his reputation, his standing, his place in the world. Ends and means, that was it. Worth it in the long run. No matter how bad McLoughlin felt now, how bad he would feel in the future. He had to believe it would be worth it.
He poured more whiskey into his glass and drank. And coughed. And retched. He got up and walked down the corridor to the kitchen. His new sink had been installed. It gleamed in the moonlight which angled through the large rectangular window. The sink unit was stainless steel. Custom-made to fit the space, and with a beautiful mixer tap. He turned it on and filled a glass with water. It was cold and clean. He drank again. And again. But he couldn’t get the taste of vomit off his tongue, the stench from his nose. He drank and spat, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He walked through the house. He picked up the pictures and put them together in a neat pile. Then he slotted them into the padded envelope. He looked at his watch. It was nearly time.
They walked in silence through the judge’s house. Liam Hegarty opened the door to the upstairs sitting room. McLoughlin settled uneasily on the sofa. Hegarty stood beneath the chandelier. He smiled and held out his hand.
‘You’ve got them?’ He moved towards McLoughlin.
‘I’ve got them.’ McLoughlin sat still.
‘Great, well done, fantastic.’ Hegarty stood over him. ‘I’ll take them. And this time I’ll get rid of them.’ He smiled again, but now his smile was tense, a gri
mace.
‘I don’t know about that.’ McLoughlin shifted.
‘Really? Why not?’ Hegarty’s smile faltered and failed.
‘Why do you think?’ McLoughlin stood up. He shoved his hands in his jacket pocket, feeling the envelope.
‘You’ve looked at them.’ Hegarty glanced around the room.
McLoughlin nodded.
‘And you didn’t like what you saw.’
McLoughlin nodded again.
‘Look,’ Hegarty tried to smile, ‘those pictures, it was a long time ago. Things were different then, you know?’
‘In what way, different?’ McLoughlin could taste the vomit in the back of his throat.
‘You know,’ Hegarty spread his hands wide. ‘Look, sit down with me. Talk to me. Tell me what’s up.’ He sat on the sofa, crossed his legs, then patted the cushion beside him. ‘Here. Come on.’
‘Different? I’m interested in your definition of different.’
‘Well,’ Hegarty’s face tightened, ‘you know, so many things have changed, over the years. We never thought, well, you know, we never…’ His voice died away.
McLoughlin said nothing.
‘Look, all I’m trying to say, my brother’s dead. And those, well, rent boys they were, that’s what they were, rent boys. They got paid, they got something out of it, look at them.’ Hegarty’s voice was getting louder.
‘I have looked at them. I’ll tell you what I see. I see children, that’s what I see.’ McLoughlin was shouting now. The dog shifted, whined, cowered. ‘And I see your brother. And I’m thinking, men like him, they never stop.’
Hegarty stood up. His face was white.
‘And you,’ McLoughlin moved closer to him. ‘How can you defend him?’
‘Because, because,’ Hegarty looked away. He moved towards the mantelpiece. He picked up the framed photograph of his grandmother. ‘She suffered a lot, you know, old May. She got pregnant. She was put out by the family. My grandfather married her, then he went to England. He died over there. So the money dried up. We were always taught, it was beaten into us. Family first, family last.’
The Therapy House Page 21