The Therapy House

by Julie Parsons

  The bishop shrugged and poured himself a large tot. He sipped it appreciatively. ‘It was interesting, listening to John. I wondered if he was in love. But,’ he swirled the whiskey in his glass, ‘how would I know? How would I know how that kind of love would feel?’ He drank some more, then pushed the oxygen tubes back into his nose. ‘A mystery I’m afraid.’

  ‘You never loved?’

  ‘No, didn’t want anything to get in the way of the job. The vocation. The calling. But now,’ he paused, ‘look at me. I have no one. Even God has forsaken me. When I pray there is nothing, no response, no answers. All my life God was there for me. But now…’ he drank again, his Adam’s apple jerking up and down. ‘Do you have children?’

  McLoughlin shook his head. ‘Unfortunately, no.’

  The bishop topped up his glass. ‘I thought not. You have that empty look.’ He held up one hand. ‘I long sometimes to touch. Not in a sexual way. Desire has left me. But I long for the warmth of another human being. To hear their breathing. To touch their skin. To feel their life.’ He swallowed the whiskey in his glass in one mouthful. Silence for a moment.

  ‘Now, to business,’ he paused. ‘I can’t get up again. You,’ he pointed at McLoughlin, ‘top of the stairs, room on your left. Top drawer of the desk. An envelope. Read what’s written on it, and bring it down.’

  Up the stairs, narrow, cramped, the banister rough beneath his palm. The room on the left, small and dark. Books in piles on the floor. A desk, cheap. Made of MDF, more books and cardboard files. McLoughlin did as he was told, found the envelope. Read what was written on it. Hurried back down the stairs. Handed it over.

  The bishop tore it open, pulling a pair of reading glasses from his shirt pocket. He scanned the wad of pages. He peered up at McLoughlin then folded the pages together and stuffed them back into the envelope.

  ‘You can have this. It will give you enough information to go the authorities and nail James Reynolds. And when I say nail, I don’t mean it figuratively. Eamon Ryan’s sworn statement, witnessed by me, his confessor, by his wife, Theresa and his son, Padraig, gives chapter and verse of the preparations for the robbery, the planning, who was involved, when and where. And it also spells out the fact that there was no reason for Reynolds to kill your father. Your father was unarmed. Reynolds could have driven away with the money. He could have left him alive. Eamon Ryan never got over seeing your father die. It was only his terror of being labelled an informer which prevented him from naming Reynolds. But as death beckoned his conscience could no longer contain his secrets. So,’ he dropped the envelope on the table. His face was the colour of milk. His breathing was laboured. He waved his hands, his fingers twitching. ‘Take it. Do with it what you want. If there is a trial I will give evidence. Eamon Ryan wanted Reynolds to get what he deserved.’ He leaned back into the chair. ‘Pour me some whiskey. And go.’

  McLoughlin picked up the bottle. He poured. He picked up the envelope. It was heavy.

  ‘Just one thing. Why you? Why did he tell you?’

  The bishop smiled, a wan, pathetic grimace. ‘I have history with the Ryan family.’ He lifted his glass. McLoughlin waited. ‘Eamon’s older brother, Father Con Ryan, he wasn’t a good man. He did some terrible things. At the time, well,’ he paused and shifted uneasily in his chair. ‘At the time, I didn’t believe what I was being told by others. I chose to believe him. When there were complaints I ignored them. I moved him away, I moved him somewhere else. I’d always liked him. He had a certain charm.’

  McLoughlin looked down at the envelope in his hands.

  ‘When the truth of what happened came out, even though I could see how he had sinned, I also felt that I had been wrong. He was a weak man. I should have been stronger. You may remember, after he was arrested and charged he took his own life. He hanged himself in his cell. I went to see his family. I conducted the funeral mass. I believed then in God’s infinite capacity to forgive.’ He cupped the glass in his hands. He sipped from it.

  ‘And now? What do you believe now?’

  Bishop Hegarty closed his eyes. His head slumped forward.

  ‘Go, just go.’

  McLoughlin stood up. He turned away, then turned back.

  ‘Just one more thing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do you have any idea who killed the judge?’

  The bishop lifted his head, lifted the glass. ‘No,’ his voice wasn’t much more than a whisper. ‘No, I don’t.’

  Samuel watched the boy on the skateboard. It was as if the board was screwed to his feet. His balance was miraculous. He could jump and land and spin and jump again. Samuel had no idea how he did it. There were a couple of signs at the gate. A bicycle with a red diagonal slash through it and another, a skateboard with the same kind of slash. But the boy never paid any heed. He would swish in, his phone to one ear, and stop at the foot of the stairs, then pick up the board and tuck it under his arm as he took the steps two at a time. He was Mr Smith’s messenger boy. Coming and going at all times of the day and night, the soft rumble of his wheels as he flew down the walkway towards Mr Smith’s front door. A nice-looking boy, his blond hair cut short at the back with a quiff at the front. Headphones in his ears, the white lead trailing down into his shirt pocket.

  Samuel would watch him going into Mr Smith’s flat, then see him leaving, a plastic bag with a couple of bottles of cider, or a six pack of lager. Too young for the off-licence. Mr Smith would follow him out and stand looking over the balcony wall, watching as he jumped onto the board and headed off down the road towards the town. A cigarette in one hand, the smoke trailing into the still air, the other hand scratching his stubble, rubbing his big belly, jingling the coin in his pocket. Then turning and seeing Samuel. Winking as he lumbered back inside.

  There were always people visiting Mr Smith. He had lots of friends. Samuel couldn’t imagine what that would be like. Samuel had never had lots of friends. Well, that wasn’t strictly true. When he was up at Oxford he had friends. Clever young men from good families. Smart young men whose futures were mapped out. The way Samuel had thought his future was mapped out. He would work for his father and when his father died he would take over the firm. He would inherit the family home. The detached house in its own grounds. The accumulation of Dudgeon wealth and prosperity. He would marry. He would have children. A son to take over when he became too old and infirm to carry on. William Dudgeon and Son would become Samuel Dudgeon and Son. Life would go on as ordained. Father to son, father to son, down through the generations.

  Samuel watched the boy on the skateboard. He smiled at Samuel as he passed him by. And for a moment Samuel could see himself through the boy’s bright blue eyes. A crazy old man with a heavy tweed coat, a wide-brimmed hat, and black leather gloves.

  Mr Smith liked lounging in his doorway, watching. He was there the day Samuel got the key to his flat. The judge had come with him. They’d got the taxi from the square with Samuel’s suitcase and a few shopping bags. The judge had opened the door and the taxi driver had carried in the bags. The place was small. It was dirty, a strong smell of chip fat coming from the kitchen. But Samuel knew how to deal with that. Hot water and detergent. The judge had reached out to pat him on the shoulder but Samuel had shrunk back. So the judge had said goodbye. Said he’d see him in a couple of days. He had a few jobs for him to do.

  And later the little door knocker clattered and banged. Mr Smith was there, the cigarette in his mouth, smoke trailing out into the still air, the sleeves of his sweater rolled up so Samuel could see the thick grey hairs on his fat forearms, his hands fat too, and a heavy gold bracelet hanging down over his left wrist. He walked in, looking here, there, everywhere.

  ‘Needs a bit of work, but cosy enough,’ he drew on his cigarette. ‘If you need help, you know where I am.’

  ‘Thank you. You’re very kind.’ Samuel tried to avoid his eye.<
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  Mr Smith drew hard on his cigarette. ‘Not a bad place to live. Only problem is the rubbish out there,’ he waved his arm towards the door. ‘Council are shite. People dump stuff and they never come and pick it up.’ Smoke drifting from his mouth. ‘Brit are you?’

  Samuel hugged his arms around his small body. ‘English, yes. I suppose I am.’

  ‘Suppose?’ Mr Smith perched on the arm of one of the small chairs. It tipped slightly. He braced his legs and straightened up.

  ‘Yes, I suppose.’ Samuel felt cold. Fear always made him cold. ‘But my mother. She was from around here.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Mr Smith sat into the chair. He crossed his legs. ‘And what was her name?’

  ‘Her name was Cecily Lane. She was from Victoria Square.’

  ‘Ah, Victoria Square. Where the judge lives. You know the judge?’ and Mr Smith smiled and flicked his ash on the floor, ‘of course you do, didn’t he help you move in?’

  Samuel said nothing. He didn’t know what to say.

  ‘So,’ Mr Smith looked up at him, ‘your mammy was from the square. That’s nice. Married an Englishman did she?’ He grimaced and make an ugly face. ‘Fee, fi, fo, fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman, be he alive or be he dead, I’ll grind his bones to make my bread.’ And he laughed out loud. ‘Love that, really love that. One of them children’s stories.’

  ‘Jack and the Beanstalk,’ Samuel couldn’t bring himself to look at the man seated in the chair opposite.

  ‘That’s the one.’ Mr Smith shifted uncomfortably. It was obvious he was too big for the seat. He got slowly to his feet and threw his cigarette butt in the direction of the fireplace. It missed and lay smouldering on the linoleum. Mr Smith looked at it. ‘Better pick that up before it makes a mark.’ He turned to go. He stopped and looked at Samuel.

  ‘The judge, he’s a lovely man.’ Mr Smith pulled the cigarette packet from the pocket of his tracksuit. ‘I could tell you a few things about him.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Between you and me.’ He waved the packet at him. ‘One of these days, call into me, I’ve a few things I could show you.’

  The boy on the skateboard had swooshed in through the gate just as the ambulance was leaving with Mr Smith. The driver turned on the siren. It was so loud, Samuel put his hands over his ears. The boy stood, one foot on the ground, one on the board and watched them leave. Samuel watched them too. He had heard Mr Smith scream. He had waited, counted to a hundred, come out of his front door, stepped into Mr Smith’s hall. Saw the blood on the floor. Heard Mr Smith, crying for help. Backed away. Stepped over the blood spatters. Shut his own front door. Heard the siren as the ambulance arrived. Heard the tramp of heavy feet as the paramedics bundled him out, manoeuvring him onto a stretcher and down the stairs. Only then as the siren shrieked its message of pain and fear did he come out again. He lifted one hand in salute.

  ‘Bye bye, Mr Smith, bye bye.’ Then he turned away and closed his door. And heard the soft rumble of the boy’s wheels as he flew up and down and up and down the walkway.

  It was late by the time McLoughlin got home. He drove slowly into the square. He parked the car outside the house. He got out, picking up the envelope the bishop had given him. The sky was bright with moon and star light. It was still warm. He walked up the steps to his front door and opened it. Ferdie was waiting, standing expectantly, his tail wagging. McLoughlin stood aside and the dog rushed out, pausing for a moment then racing down, crossing the road, disappearing into the trees. McLoughlin followed. He needed fresh air. He could still smell the stuffy dustiness of the bishop’s miserable little house. He could almost feel sorry for him. Almost, but not quite.

  He sat down on the Cassidy bench. He watched as Ferdie ran around, sniffing, smelling, enjoying his freedom. The dog ran to him, jumping up, gently butting him with his head. McLoughlin scratched him behind his ears, and the dog closed his eyes, whining softly. Then pulled away and set off once again. Asserting his territorial rights as he roamed the square from one end to the other.

  McLoughlin leaned back, stretching his arms along the top of the bench. When he breathed in he could just about smell the sea. He sat now on the bench in the moonlight. He looked towards the judge’s house. The photos in their padded envelope, tucked into the oven in the old range, pushed behind the roasting tray. Liam Hegarty would have to wait a bit longer. Until he’d gone through Ryan’s statement. Until he was sure he’d got what he wanted.

  He stood, clicking his fingers for the dog and began to walk towards the house. His legs were heavy, his step slow. He took hold of the iron railing and pulled himself upwards. The dog trotted behind. McLoughlin opened the door and together, they went inside. He walked into the kitchen and cleaned his teeth, drank a glass of water, gave the dog some food, then hurried back into the room at the front of the house. Tonight even his mattress looked inviting. He lay down, fully clothed, the bishop’s envelope beside him. He closed his eyes. He slept.

  And woke, the sun in his eyes and his phone ringing, insistently. The sun in his eyes, the shutters left open last night. He fumbled beneath the duvet. He squinted at the screen. He pressed the answer button.

  ‘Min, hi.’

  ‘Mick, we need to talk.’ Her tone was peremptory.

  He pushed himself up onto one elbow. He rubbed his face.

  ‘We do?’

  ‘We do. This morning. As soon as possible.’

  ‘Why?’ He sat up.

  ‘I think you know why. Suddenly, wherever I go I hear that you’ve got there first. I’m not happy about it. Get yourself down here as soon as possible.’

  ‘OK,’ he sighed. ‘Give me half an hour. I’ll see you then.’

  They sat in one of the station’s conference rooms. The air smelt stale. An oval table was between them, the veneer chipped, the surface marked. McLoughlin had had his fill of rooms like these. Once there would have been a couple of ashtrays and the room would have smelt of smoke. No smoke, not any longer, but the same feeling of oppressive airlessness. Min didn’t offer refreshments, not even coffee from the machine in the public office. Her skin was pale and drawn. There were deep shadows beneath her eyes which were red-rimmed and bloodshot.

  ‘Out of respect, Mick, I’m not cautioning you.’ She folded her hands together and placed them on the table. ‘Nor am I recording our conversation. But I expect you to treat me with the same kind of respect. I expect you to be honest with me. Do you understand?’

  He nodded. ‘Sure, of course.’ He tried to smile, but she didn’t respond. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘We’re not stupid.’ She moved back in her chair and crossed her legs. Jeans today, and runners. ‘We’re not fixed in our opinions. We’re open to exploring any and all possibilities.’

  ‘Of course, I know, I understand that.’ He sat up straight. He was hungry. His stomach rumbled loudly.

  ‘The question of the judge’s sexuality. We do know about that.’ Her expression was grim.

  ‘You do. Of course you do.’

  ‘Yes, we do. So I would have expected more from you.’ She pushed a stray lock of hair back and into her bun.

  ‘You would?’

  ‘Your visit to Derek Green. He told me you’d been to see him.’

  ‘He did?’

  ‘Yes. He told me you seemed to think that the judge’s murder had something to do with him being gay.’ She shifted on her seat.

  ‘He did?’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Mick, will you stop being so fucking thick.’ Her voice was loud, suddenly high pitched. ‘What I don’t understand is why you went to see Green. Why was that? If you had suspicions why didn’t you come to me?’

  He shrugged again. ‘It was nothing really. A bit of gossip. When you’re hanging around, walking the pier, when you’re retired, and you’re at a bit of a loose end, well, you hear th
ings. His name came up a couple of times. I just thought I’d have a bit of a nose. Old habits really. I’d have told you if it had come to anything. Really I would.’

  He paused, waited. Waited for her to mention the bag and its contents.

  ‘What did you make of Green?’ She sounded tired, worn out.

  McLoughlin shrugged. ‘I dunno. He wasn’t friendly. He didn’t say much. Look,’ he spread his hands on the table. ‘If I was you, if this was my case I wouldn’t get too hung up on the judge’s sexuality. If you think about it, how the judge was killed, and the disfigurement, all that, your theory about Brian O’Leary makes more sense. He’s a mad fucker. Do anything to prove a point.’

  She looked at him. He could see doubt across her face.

  ‘Do you remember, the reason his trial was moved to the Special Criminal Court? Every single person picked for the jury had been threatened. And only one was brave enough to report the intimidation. Do you remember her?’

  Min shook her head.

  ‘A young mother. When she left the Four Courts after jury selection she’d gone to pick up her kids from school. One of O’Leary’s boys had beaten her to it. She had twin daughters, aged six. When she got there they were sitting on the edge of the curb eating ice cream. They told her the ice cream van had come, and the nice man had given them the ice creams for free. He said if they were good, next time he’d come to their house. And, the little ones were so excited, he said he knew where they lived. And he knew that they slept in the bedroom at the back of the house. And that they both had the same pyjamas, with fairies all over them.’ He could see the woman’s face when she came into the station. Whiter than white. Her lips trembling. ‘So,’ he shrugged.

  Min shifted on the hard chair. ‘I went to see him yesterday. He didn’t even do the “no comment” routine.’ She mimed the inverted commas. ‘Just stared at the ceiling and kept a smile on his face. We’ve checked around his boys. Nothing to connect any of them with the town, that day, or any day.’ she paused, took a breath. ‘Look, I want you to stay out of this. Get a hobby. Go to a cooking class, take up painting, go sailing, do something, just stay away from me.’