He stood at the window looking out at the square.
‘Look, I’ve told you. The bishop, he can help you, but he won’t if you don’t help me. Give me the photos, and he’ll phone you in the morning. You’ll get what you want.’ He turned and looked at him. ‘Something you’ve wanted, for how long? Nearly forty years?’
McLoughlin stood at the bay window. He watched Hegarty leave. A compromise. Hegarty would get the photos after McLoughlin had got what he wanted. He held the padded envelope between the tips of his thumb and first finger. He swung it backwards and forwards. It was unclean, dangerous. He felt as if the images would burn their way through the plastic and paper. He needed to put it somewhere, out of the way. He didn’t want it in his house. It would pollute his safe haven. He turned away from the window. He began to walk down the stairs. Ferdie trotted behind him. McLoughlin opened the door to the basement. He reached through and felt for the light switch. He tugged it once.
‘Go on, Ferdie, go on boy,’ he pushed him ahead down the narrow steps. Down into the old kitchen. McLoughlin stood and looked around. Then moved towards the range. The oven door was open. He pushed aside a battered roasting dish, burnt black, and pushed the envelope deep inside. He closed the oven door, carefully, slipping the latch back in place. He stood and looked around, then moved into the bedroom. He switched on the light. The bed, eiderdown, pillows, the wardrobe, underwear strewn everywhere. A strong smell of damp and decay. The beauty, the quiet elegance of the floors above resting on this, McLoughlin thought, and he shivered and looked up at the ceiling. And felt rather than saw, cracks, shudders, shakes and turned, calling the dog, a note of panic in his voice as he hurried upstairs.
He stood outside the house. He could still see Smith, the scattering of moles across his fat white stomach, his mouth open, screaming. It had been easy. He was a sitting duck. A rapist, a blackmailer, a piece of shit. So why hadn’t he been able to respond like that when he saw Reynolds in the street in Bassano? So close he could see the pores in his skin, the broken veins in his cheeks, smell the cigarette smoke on his clothes. Frozen, that’s what it was. He was frozen by the weight of responsibility. For his father and his mother, his whole family. All that grief, his own grief, it should have made him crazy and vicious. Instead it had made him weak and helpless, as if his legs had been cut off at the knees.
He looked across the green. Moonlight silvering the trees and grass. A shadow moving slowly through the trees. A sharp bark from Ferdie and the shadow stopped, turned, the fox’s narrow face suddenly visible. As she gazed at the man and the dog, the man’s hand on the dog’s collar, two more shadows appeared, smaller, rounder, pausing by their mother’s side, and all three began to walk with measured pace, away.
Man and dog turned away too. Up the steps to McLoughlin’s house, unlocking the door. Going inside, the lock clicking into place behind them. Lights on. Lights off. Silence, darkness.
Twenty-four hours, they’d agreed. McLoughlin would give him twenty-four hours. When he woke the next morning it was late. The house was strangely silent. The dog too, asleep at his feet. Beside him lay a tattered old lead. When McLoughlin had run down the stairs from Smith’s flat, Ferdie had been waiting for him by the rubbish bins. The lead was in his mouth. McLoughlin had tried to pull it away but the dog wouldn’t let it go. He’d carried it all the way home. Dragged it into the house.
McLoughlin lay back on his pillows. He was hungry, not as hungover as he’d thought he would be, although the whiskey bottle was empty, lying on its side where he’d kicked it as he was getting down onto the mattress.
He rolled himself to sitting. He stood up and opened the door. He walked into the kitchen. Sunshine again, glancing off the draining board. He filled a glass with water and drank it down. Opened the door to the garden so the dog could go out. Wandered back to the front room, grabbed a towel, then up the stairs to the tiny bathroom under the eaves. And realised it had gone. The Pole had taken his sledgehammer to it. The men sitting around on the garden chairs in the yoga room, having their morning brew, nodded and smiled.
‘No shower?’
‘Sorry,’ Pavel lifted his mug, ‘had to go. We put in new bathroom soon. There is toilet in basement, yes?’
‘OK,’ McLoughlin turned away. He’d have a quick wash in the kitchen then go out for breakfast. Best thing to do.
He sat outside the café looking out over the sea front. Coffee with hot milk, a pain au chocolat, The Irish Times unread beside him. He tore chunks from the pastry, dipping it in his large cup. Around him conversations ebbed and flowed. A succession of young women with buggies passed by on their way to the playground. He could hear the children’s voices and see the heads of the more adventurous as they climbed to the top of the high slide and swung from the climbing ropes. And he recognised the child called Leah, Elizabeth Fannin’s granddaughter, her dark curls swirling around her face as she hung upside down. He stood, and Ferdie stood too. He picked up the old lead. It trailed from his mouth. McLoughlin took it from him and clicked it onto his collar. Probably better with so many children around.
He walked towards the child. And saw Elizabeth sitting on the low wall, a book open on her lap, a coffee in a takeaway cup in her hand. And the child falling suddenly, a cry bursting from her mouth. Elizabeth jumped up, the book dropping to the ground, as she rushed to her.
‘She all right?’ He sat down beside them, closing the book and placing it carefully beside her bag.
Elizabeth nodded. ‘Yes, a lot of tears, but I suspect an ice cream might dry them.’ She kissed the top of the child’s head. ‘What do you think, Leah? Ice cream?’
The child nodded, still unable to speak, sobs racking her small body, her fingers twisting together.
‘Tell you what,’ McLoughlin stood. ‘Why don’t Ferdie and I go and get them? Would that be a good idea? Orders please, I’m taking orders.’
By the time he got back with three cones, strawberry, chocolate and vanilla as requested, calm had been restored. Leah was now on the swings, Elizabeth standing beside her, giving her the occasional push. At the sight of the ice cream, Leah put up her hands to be lifted off and together the three of them sat on the wall, intent on finishing the cones before they melted away.
McLoughlin turned around and looked out towards the bay. It was dotted with white sails. He must, he thought, get in touch with some of his sailing friends. See if he could get a place as crew in one of the regular evening races.
‘Lucky, aren’t we?’ he nodded towards the sea, the pier, the walkers.
‘Yes, we certainly are.’ Elizabeth finished her ice cream and wiped her fingers on a piece of tissue. She bent over her granddaughter, dabbing her chin and cheeks. The child twisted away, and jumped down from the wall. She began to hop, one small foot planting squarely on the paving. Hopping, then skipping and humming, her voice tuneful. He watched her. He could see the judge and the boys, their faces turned towards the camera. Mute pleas for help in their pinched expressions.
His phone rang. He turned away from Elizabeth and looked down at the screen. Liam Hegarty. He pressed the answer button. He listened. The bishop would see him, this afternoon. He must get there before 4 p.m. After that the bishop would no longer be available. The bishop lived outside Mullingar in the midlands. Not easy to find the house. Hegarty would send him the GPS coordinates. And he would expect, Hegarty’s voice was cold, he would expect McLoughlin then to cooperate.
‘We’ll see,’ McLoughlin’s voice was equally cold. He pressed the red button and put the phone away. ‘Sorry, have to go, have to see a man about a dog,’ and he smiled. He waved towards the child, who turned and held up her face to be kissed. He bent down and brushed her soft cheek. She smelt of soap and ice cream.
‘You’re honoured,’ Elizabeth raised her eyebrows, ‘she’s not free with her favours, that one.’
He couldn’t help but feel smu
g. He shrugged, in a self-deprecating way, and apologised for having to leave so quickly. He took Elizabeth’s hand, the first time he realised, he had intentionally touched her. And said, ‘I’ve been meaning to thank you.’
‘For what?’ She didn’t pull away. He was glad of that.
‘For being so kind, when I told you about my father.’ He squeezed her fingers gently. ‘I didn’t mean to blurt it all out.’
She smiled. ‘You don’t need to thank me. I was just doing what any friend would do.’
‘Well, as you know my house is a long way from being finished, but perhaps you might come and have dinner with me. I hear there’s a couple of nice places in the area.’
He waited for the excuses but they didn’t come. Her smile broadened.
‘Thank you, that would be lovely.’ She picked up her book and her bag. ‘Actually I was talking to Jess about your house. Did I tell you that she was an archivist? She’s done a bit of digging and she has a few titbits of information. You might find them interesting.’
‘Great, well,’ he began to move away. ‘I’d better get going. Will I book us somewhere, Saturday night, would that be good?’
And she smiled and nodded and waved as the child called out and she turned away from him.
Bishop Declan Hegarty. He opened the door of his modern bungalow on the outskirts of Mullingar. A small man, bent over with some kind of scoliosis. But bright blue eyes, sharp and clear in his wrinkled face, his head bald, pink and freckled, a few strands of white hair slicked across it. He ushered McLoughlin inside, into the sitting room, modestly furnished, a shiny laminated floor, a small sofa, two armchairs, a large flat-screen TV and an oval coffee table. Above the gas fire a crucifix hung. At the far end, a large glass door looked out onto the fields behind. Horses grazing, the grass cropped short.
The bishop was dressed in grey trousers and a white shirt. Open necked. Navy blue slippers were on his feet and he shuffled awkwardly.
‘Tea? You’ll have tea?’
McLoughlin nodded. ‘Thanks, yes, tea.’
The bishop gestured to him to sit. He turned away and moved out of sight. McLoughlin could hear the sound of a kettle, and the clatter of crockery. What was it Reynolds’ wife had said to him, that day in Bassano del Grappa? Every time you go into an Irish house, first thing is to have the cup of tea.
He lowered himself onto the sofa and looked around. Not much to see. No books, no magazines, no newspapers. Nothing of a personal nature either. No photographs or pictures on the walls or the mantelpiece. Only the body of Christ, his eyes closed, his head twisted to one side, drops of blood on his breast, his hands, his feet.
The door opened. The bishop came in, a mug in each hand. He dumped them on the table, shuffled back to the kitchen and reappeared with a litre carton of milk and packet of chocolate digestive biscuits. He sank down into the chair. He gestured to the milk, and the biscuits.
‘Help yourself,’ his voice was hoarse. McLoughlin could hear the whistle of his breath. Emphysema. He knew the signs.
‘I’m sure you don’t take sugar, no one does these days.’ The bishop fumbled with the biscuits, pulling at the packaging so it tore and they tumbled out on the table. He picked one up. ‘My favourites. I’m not supposed to eat sweet things. Diabetes, you know. But…’ he held it aloft and for a moment McLoughlin could see the host held high above the altar. The bishop bit on the biscuit, crumbs scattering across his shirt. He brushed them away, his fingers knotted and twisted. McLoughlin lifted the mug. The inside was stained brown. The tea was strong and bitter.
‘Now,’ the bishop swallowed. ‘We have some business to attend to, I understand. Some sensitive business.’
He shifted in his chair. McLoughlin could see that he was in pain.
‘You’ve come into the possession, I understand, of some photographs which show my second cousin, John Hegarty, engaged in immoral and illegal activities. You are, understandably, shocked and upset. You want to make these activities known. Despite the fact that John Hegarty is dead, that these photographs were taken many years ago, and to be honest, very little would be gained by their publication.’
One hand reached for a biscuit, then withdrew. McLoughlin put his mug down on the table. He began to stand.
‘Hold on, hold on,’ the bishop held up both his hands, palms out. ‘Look, OK, let me start again.’
Again he reached for a biscuit.
‘I knew John Hegarty very well. We went to the same school. Holy Ghost fathers. From the word go everyone could see he was special. School in those days was tough. Beatings were commonplace. But somehow John was never touched. Not by a cane or a leather. He was protected. There was a priest who had a soft spot for him. He was his pet. No one commented. No one said a word. And neither did John. He was always smiling, always happy.’ He paused. He bit into the biscuit. He closed his eyes. He put his head back. He munched and swallowed. ‘After school I didn’t see much of John. I became a priest. He became a barrister. We were both busy. We were both ambitious. He was heading for the Supreme Court. I would have liked to think I was heading for a post in the Vatican. I got as far as the Bishop’s Palace. Then my career stalled. The past was catching up. Allegations of abuse. Mistakes made. Children not listened to. I don’t have to spell it out. It became a witch hunt. They tried to drive me into the wilderness. Well,’ he opened his eyes. ‘They succeeded.’ He looked around the room. ‘I don’t even have a housekeeper.’ He smiled. ‘Tea all right?’
McLoughlin didn’t reply.
‘One day, years ago, I was a parish priest at that time, nice area, out near you. I got a phone call from John. He wanted to see me. He sounded in a bad way. He wanted to talk.’
He described it. How they sat together in the presbytery sitting room. They drank whiskey. And John told him everything. The trips to London, the adventures in Dublin.
‘You see, he was getting married. He’d met Miriam. Her father and his father were friends. It wasn’t exactly arranged, but it suited everyone. John was, well, he was an honourable man. He didn’t want to go into the marriage with a stain on his conscience. So, we discussed it. He told me he intended to abstain from his activities. He wanted to be faithful to Miriam. To be a good husband. To be a father. He wanted the inside and the outside to match, if you know what I mean.’
McLoughlin knew what he meant. ‘Why did he speak to you? Was he making his confession?’
‘No, I offered the sacrament. He didn’t want that. If he had I wouldn’t be talking to you now. The seal of the confessional, well,’ he picked up his mug and drank. Tea slopped onto his shirt. ‘I suppose he came to me because he knew I’d know, how… ’ He stopped. Outside a bird screeched. The bishop looked away, looked down at the floor.
McLoughlin cleared his throat and shifted awkwardly. ‘So what did he want from you, if it wasn’t absolution?’
The bishop put down his mug. ‘He wanted to know that he could do it. That he could live that ordinary, everyday kind of life. He wanted to know how I did it.’
McLoughlin lifted the mug to his lips. He sipped gingerly.
‘I told him I prayed for help. I put my trust in the Lord. And sometimes.’ He paused. Again he looked away. ‘Liam told me you found John’s whip.’
McLoughlin nodded.
‘John asked me about it. I told him I felt it had its,’ he paused, ‘uses.’
The bishop got up. He went into the kitchen. When he returned he was pulling a little trolley. He sat down, fumbling with the tubes which protruded from the top. He slipped them into his nose. He breathed deeply.
‘I don’t get many visitors. I’m not used to so much talk. It’s tiring.’ He breathed in and out, slowly, his chest heaving. ‘So,’ he paused again, ‘he’d visit me regularly over the years. We’d pray together. I was part of his family. Whenever they needed a special mass they ca
lled on me. Christmas, Easter, parties, celebrations, I came to the house. When his oldest son got married, John asked me to officiate. When Miriam died, must be six years ago or so, I said the mass at her funeral.’ He paused, then breathed in deeply. ‘I thought he might need me afterwards, help him with his grief, counsel him, comfort him, but,’ he shrugged, ‘I didn’t hear from him, not for quite a while. He moved back to the family home in Dun Laoghaire. And then.’
McLoughlin’s back was sore. ‘And then?’
‘And then not long before he died,’ the bishop looked away, looked down at the floor, ‘Liam phoned. He said John wanted to talk. He said he’d bring him here. He sat there, where you are. He told me he’d started again. He said he was frightened.’
‘Frightened?’
‘Yes, frightened of the way he felt,’ he paused, ‘the intensity of his feelings. Frightened that nothing else mattered. The memory of his wife, his career, even his children, now they were as nothing to him. He sat where you’re sitting and he cried.’ He paused, leaned down and fiddled with the controls on the oxygen bottle. ‘I could see he was in pain. But I could also sense his excitement. There was an anticipation of,’ he stopped, looked down, then looked up again his eyes searching for McLoughlin’s, ‘ecstasy, yes, that’s what it was, ecstasy. There was nothing more I could say. And that was the last time I saw him.’
Silence in the room. The bishop got to his feet. He pulled the tubes from his nose. He swayed and McLoughlin half rose. The bishop waved his help away. He shuffled out into the kitchen. This time when he returned he was carrying a bottle of whiskey and two small glasses. He flopped back into his chair.
‘You’ll join me?’
McLoughlin shook his head. ‘Driving.’
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