The Therapy House

by Julie Parsons

  He smiled, and made as if to get up. ‘Just one thing, Derek Green, did he tell you anything about,’ he paused.

  ‘About?’

  ‘The judge and—’

  ‘The judge and Derek’s friends, is that what you’re asking?’

  He shrugged. ‘Well…’

  ‘Well, not really. All he said was that the judge didn’t participate. He just liked to watch.’

  McLoughlin smiled. ‘Am I free to go?’

  She stood. ‘Just before you do. One other matter.’

  ‘Yeah?’ He had a horrible feeling he knew what it was.

  ‘A man called Paul Smith was brought into St Michael’s A&E a couple of days ago. He had a smashed hand and a smashed knee, broken ankle and a burn on his forehead. He was in a bad way. His grandson found him, called an ambulance.’ She paused and looked at him. ‘The hospital called us in. Mr Smith declined to make a complaint or a statement. Despite the injuries done to him, the pain he had suffered, he kept his mouth shut.’ She drummed on the table. ‘Our lads asked around. Came up with a description of a man and a dog, heading in the direction of Smith’s apartment. Would you know anything about it?’

  McLoughlin looked into the middle distance. Found a spot on the wall above her head. Then looked at her. Found her blue eyes and stared into them.

  ‘Haven’t a clue,’ he smiled.

  ‘I thought you’d say that.’ Her expression was chilly. ‘I’m warning you, Mick. I don’t know what you’re up to. I’m assuming that your involvement with Mr Smith has something to do with your new career in private investigation. I didn’t realise that thug was part of the job spec. And,’ Min got to her feet, ‘if Mr Smith should decide to make a statement about the attack, I hope for your sake you have an alibi.’

  He left the station. He was hungry. He wandered along the main street looking for something to eat. But nothing was tempting. He pulled out his phone. It was just coming up to eleven. He’d call Dom. Maybe if Joanne had gone off for the day he’d be in the mood for breakfast.

  He sat on Dom’s wide balcony. Scrambled egg with toast and coffee.

  McLoughlin lifted his fork. ‘Thanks, just what I needed.’

  He ate in silence. Dom sat down beside him. He picked up the heavy envelope which McLoughlin had laid on the table. He pulled out the pages. ‘You’ve read it?’ Dom put on his glasses.

  ‘I had a look.’ McLoughlin lifted his mug and took a deep swallow.

  ‘So?’

  ‘I don’t know, I thought I’d want to read it, but it makes me sick. I can’t.’ He paused. ‘Would you? Fresh eyes, maybe?’ He wiped his lips with a paper napkin. ‘This is good, thanks.’ He returned to the eggs, shovelling them into his mouth.

  Dom spread the pages out on the table. He hummed as he read. Snatches of the ‘Mountains of Mourne’. He had a pen and a piece of paper and he was making notes.

  ‘Well,’ Dom sat back and picked up his mug. He added two spoons of sugar and stirred it briskly. ‘He’s certainly thorough. The planning of the robbery. Who was involved. The safe house where they stayed. Their movements on the day. Where the gun came from. Everything. His comments about your James Reynolds are particularly damning. Rich boy playing at being a revolutionary. Posh boy slumming it.’ Dom squinted up at the sky, and fanned himself with the sheaf of paper. ‘Bloody hot today. What does it say?’ He gestured towards the thermometer screwed to the railings.

  McLoughlin leaned over to have a look. ‘Twenty-four. What’s that in real money?’

  Dom looked at him. ‘Double it and add twenty-eight, that’ll get you close enough.’

  ‘So, that’s twenty-four and twenty-four, that forty-eight and twenty-eight, that’s—’

  ‘Seventy-six, you dopey eejit.’ Dom batted him gently on the head with his napkin.

  ‘Well, hot in any language.’ McLoughlin finished off the egg and pushed the plate away. ‘Thanks, just what the doctor ordered.’

  ‘Come on,’ Dom stood up, the pages in his hand. He pushed his chair back so it scraped across the tiles. ‘We’ll go in, have a look at your man’s confession and you can explain to me how you managed to get it.’

  Inside, the apartment was neat and tidy. A plastic washing basket filled with clothes, neatly folded, was on top of an ironing board. Dom walked slowly into the kitchen. He picked up the iron. He filled it with water, then plugged it in. He stood watching as it heated up, steam beginning to puff out.

  ‘The bishop,’ Dom put the washing basket on the floor. He bent down and pulled out a pile of pillow cases. He selected a pair decorated with pink princesses. He laid one on the board and began smooth it down. ‘One of the Hegartys I assume.’ McLoughlin watched him. The careful way he moved the iron. Backwards and forwards, up and down until the cloth was flat, even, all the wrinkles removed.

  ‘Yep, one of the Hegartys.’ He shifted in his seat. He felt sleepy now, tired after all the food. ‘A miserable old man. Emphysema, depression I’d say too.’

  ‘Drinking?’ Dom raised his head. ‘Not, I have to say, that I’m one to talk.’ He nodded towards the pile of empties stashed in a wine box.

  ‘Drinking, lots of whiskey, don’t think he eats much. Doesn’t have a housekeeper any longer. I wouldn’t think cooking was high on the curriculum when he was in Maynooth.’ He felt cold suddenly, as he thought about the bishop.

  ‘And how did you find him?’ Dom put down the iron, folded the pillow case and laid it on the sofa. He picked up the next one.

  ‘He found me, actually.’ Which wasn’t exactly a lie, not quite anyway. ‘I suppose he just felt bad about my father and all that.’

  ‘So, a coincidence, then.’ Dom was concentrating hard folding the pillow case.

  ‘Well I suppose, I don’t know, the fact that the judge had been killed, I’m not sure,’ McLoughlin shifted awkwardly, ‘he’d heard I was the person who found his body. He phoned me, said he’d something he wanted to give me, so I went to see him and there you have it.’ He picked up the pages and the envelope. ‘So the big question is. What can I do with it? Would any of it constitute real evidence? Or is it just hearsay, more talk, more gossip.’ He got to his feet and walked over to the glass doors. Then turned and looked back towards Dom. ‘What do you think?’

  Dom shrugged and pulled another handful of clothes from the basket. Joanne’s clothes. Pretty blouses and tops, skirts and trousers, all brightly coloured. ‘About the confession. I think it’s damning. I think it’s embarrassing. But whether, in a court of law, it would be enough to convict, I doubt it. It wouldn’t stand up as a dying declaration, unfortunately. The hearsay rules would still apply. He says this. He says that, but without corroborating evidence, well,’ steam hissed. The room was filled with a smell that reminded McLoughlin of something. Home, he supposed, it was home.

  Dom was concentrating on the job in hand. ‘But, it’s the way you use it. Maybe you won’t get your guilty verdict, your man locked up. But maybe you don’t need that.’ He put the iron back into its cradle. ‘There’s more than one way to get justice. There’s more than one court. Public opinion is a fairly important one.’ He paused. ‘If I were you, I’d be thinking about that. And now,’ he pointed towards the fridge, ‘this is thirsty work. There’s a bottle of Austrian white in there. You’ll like it.’

  They polished off the wine. Dom finished his ironing and sat down beside him. He surveyed the neat pile with a grin of satisfaction.

  ‘Funny isn’t it? I’d never have thought I’d get so much pleasure out of something like this. I don’t know,’ he stretched. ‘Don’t know why all these women are so keen to work outside the home. I think housework is fantastic. Dead simple and makes you feel good.’

  McLoughlin smiled at him. ‘Here’s to it then. To housework,’ and he reached over and they clinked their glasses together. As the doorbell
rang. Dom sighed.

  ‘I’d better go,’ McLoughlin got to his feet.

  ‘Yeah, probably just as well.’ Dom stood too. ‘She hasn’t been so good the last few days, since she came back from the nursing home. I don’t know what it is. She used to be really happy, at ease. But I’m finding it tougher, much more difficult.’ He began to move slowly, reluctantly towards the door. He looked back over his shoulder. ‘Leave Ryan’s statement with me, will you?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah, I’d like to go through it again. Sometimes it just takes a bit of time.’ Dom tucked his shirt into his trousers.

  ‘Yeah,’ McLoughlin nodded, ‘sometimes just a bit of time.’

  They walked together to the lift. Together they travelled down to the ground floor. The nurse from the Alzheimer’s Society was wheeling Joanne in through the heavy glass doors. McLoughlin stood back to let them pass. Dom squatted down.

  ‘How you doing sweetheart?’ His voice was gentle, tender.

  ‘She’s not so good,’ the nurse handed him a plastic bag, ‘we had to change her clothes. She had another accident.’

  ‘OK,’ Dom stood and took hold of the wheelchair’s handles. ‘I’ll look after her now. Thanks.’

  He turned away towards the lift. McLoughlin closed the outside door. He stood for a moment in the sunshine. The nurse looked after them. She smiled.

  ‘He’s a lovely man. His wife is very lucky. They’re not all like him you know.’ She moved towards the minibus.

  McLoughlin walked across the road and stood in front of what had once been the railway station. A low stone building, elegant and neat. Wide steps up to the double doors which were standing open. He walked in. A large bright room, pale wooden floor, tables laid with white cloths, cutlery and glasses shining. A waiter, a young man with a long apron wrapped around his waist, approached him.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir, I can help?’ He smiled.

  ‘A booking, I’d like to make a booking.’ McLoughlin could smell fresh bread.

  ‘Of course,’ the waiter moved to a small desk by the door. He picked up a large black diary. ‘For when? For how many?’

  ‘Saturday night, for two. Eight o’clock.’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ the waiter lifted his pen. ‘Your name?’

  ‘McLoughlin, Michael McLoughlin.’ He spelt out his surname. He watched as the waiter wrote it down carefully, then closed the diary with a loud snap. He bowed and smiled. ‘We’ll see you then, sir. We look forward to it.’

  Home slowly, the sun hot on his head, the tar on the road beginning to melt, softening, sticky. He turned into the square. And saw outside his house a man lounging against the railings. Recognised him immediately. The suit, even on such a hot day, the glasses, the long nose.

  ‘Mr McLoughlin,’ Liam Hegarty turned towards him, his phone in his hand. He held it up. ‘You don’t answer these days.’

  McLoughlin pulled out his keys.

  ‘You saw the bishop.’ Hegarty moved towards him. ‘You talked. He told me.’

  McLoughlin kept on walking.

  ‘He gave you the statement.’

  McLoughlin didn’t reply.

  ‘We had an agreement, did we not?’ Hegarty moved and barred his way.

  ‘An agreement, yes, however, I’m not sure your side stands up to scrutiny.’ McLoughlin side stepped him. He began to walk up the steps.

  ‘You’re fucking kidding, aren’t you? I know what Eamon Ryan told Declan. I know what it’s worth.’

  ‘Well you may think you know, but I’m not convinced and until I am you’ll just have to wait.’ McLoughlin looked back, over Hegarty’s head. The square was empty. No one around. There was silence for a moment. ‘One more thing, Liam, a question.’

  ‘A question, what?’ His voice impatient, angry.

  ‘We’ve both seen the photos. We both know what the judge did. But what I want to know is why? Why did he do that?’

  Hegarty’s face reddened. ‘That has nothing to do with you. My brother, his life, the choices he made, that’s not part of our agreement. Now,’ a pause, an intake of breath, ‘I’ve honoured my side. You owe me. I want those photographs and I want them now.’

  ‘Well, tough.’ McLoughlin had his key in the lock. He turned it and pushed. The door swung back. He stepped forward. ‘I’m afraid you’re just going to have to wait.’ He walked inside and slammed the door behind him. As behind him he heard Hegarty shout, his fist on the wood. McLoughlin walked upstairs. He looked down from the first-floor window. For a moment Hegarty looked pathetic. And McLoughlin could see he knew it too. He moved away from the door, straightened his jacket, smoothed down his hair. Got into his car and drove away.

  Quiet today inside. Just the occasional high-pitched whine of a saw, and the radio, a football match by the sound of the commentary. Ian had said they would be finished soon. He could start arranging to get his furniture out of storage and move in. It would be good to sleep in a proper bed again. He felt exhausted now, shaken by the encounter with Hegarty. He lay down on the mattress and closed his eyes. The boys in the photographs filled his mind’s eye. Was he doing the right thing? He wasn’t sure any longer. He turned over, hugging his arms around his body. He could see Sorcha Hegarty, hear the pain in her voice. He wished he’d been able to help her. He rolled over, sighed, and slept. Until his phone rang. He pulled himself up, and looked at the screen.

  ‘Dom, hi, how you doing?’

  ‘Mick, listen,’ Dom’s voice was insistent.

  ‘OK I’m listening.’

  ‘The evidence. I’ve found it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Something new. Can you come over? I’ll show you.’ Dom laughed. ‘It’s fucking brilliant.’

  The papers were strewn across the table. Dom was sitting on the sofa holding a plate of pasta with some kind of tomato sauce. Joanne was on a beanbag, close to the TV. She turned when he came in. She smiled and waved. Her face was covered with food, and so was the large bib she was wearing. But as the dog scooted past McLoughlin’s legs into the room, her expression changed. She cried out, and cowered away.

  ‘Sorry,’ McLoughlin grabbed hold of Ferdie’s collar. ‘Didn’t think. What’ll I do with him?’

  ‘Here.’ Dom got up and quickly moved to the glass doors. He slid them back and pointed. ‘Put him out here. It’s not too hot at the moment.’

  Joanne had risen, uncertainly. She moved back and away, swaying from side to side and humming loudly.

  ‘It’s all right, love, doggie all gone,’ Dom stood between her and the sight of Ferdie who, in a disgruntled way, was inspecting the limits of the balcony. Dom took her hand. ‘Tell you what, would you like some ice cream? In your room? Strawberry ice cream and I’ll put your TV on. Would you like that?’

  She smiled. Dom nodded to McLoughlin. ‘Sit yourself down, won’t be a minute. There’s beer in the fridge if you fancy.’

  McLoughlin stood by the table and looked through the papers. He noticed where Dom had made marks, comments. Eamon Ryan’s statement was detailed. It began with his early enthrallment with republicanism. His family had it in their blood. Grandfathers and granduncles who had fought in the War of Independence and the Civil War. A proud tradition of resistance. They lived in Monaghan, a border county. Always conscious of the British presence across the fields. He spoke of his loathing for the Union flag and all it stood for. He watched the helicopters in the sky, heard the sound of guns, saw the volunteers who came south to have their wounds treated. And he wanted to be part of it. Bloody Sunday was the last straw. He’d do anything now.

  ‘Having fun?’ Dom sat down beside him.

  ‘Is she OK? Sorry about the dog. I should have left him at home.’ McLoughlin lifted his bottle and took a swallow.

  ‘It’s fine. You’d be amazed the effect straw
berry ice cream has.’ Dom hefted the bottle opener in his large hand. ‘You OK? Want another?’

  McLoughlin shook his head. ‘Not at the moment, thanks,’ he pulled the piece of paper towards him. ‘I’ve had a look. A lot of self-serving rubbish really. Shoring up his place in history.’

  Dom flicked the bottle top away and took a long swallow. ‘Yeah, most of it. Standard stuff you’d read in any online blog. But he gets more interesting when he starts talking about Reynolds. Very critical of what he did.’

  ‘Yeah, I read that part. Guilty conscience, remorse, I reckon.’ McLoughlin wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  Dom looked at him. ‘I think it’s a bit more than that. I think he was genuine in his feelings. And I’ll show you why. Look.’ He riffled through the pages and pulled out one. ‘I’m going to read this to you.’ He cleared his throat. He began.

  We left our safe house in Finglas early around six. There was me, Mac, Conor and Jim. We separated. Mac went direct to Dundrum. I went by myself and Conor with Jim. We each got the bus, separately. The car was parked, waiting, in Ringsend. Jim had the key. It was a yellow Vauxhall Cavalier. There was a sawn-off shotgun in the boot. Jim got it out and put it down by his feet. Mac didn’t come with us. The look-out needed to be in place by the time we got there. We sat around for a bit. We were all nervous. This was the biggest thing any of us had ever done. Around eight-fifteen Jim drove to Dundrum. We knew the van would get there around nine. We wanted to be in place beforehand. We parked up the side street next to the post office. I could see Mac at the bus stop outside. There were a couple of other people there, a woman and a young guy. A few people walking past, but it was early, quiet. Mac signalled that the van was arriving. We knew there’d be security on the transfer of the money so we waited until the bags were inside and the van had gone. Mac signalled the all clear. Conor and I got out of the car. I was sweating, my heart was pumping. We went inside. There were a couple of old ladies in the queue. Couldn’t be helped. Conor stood at the front. I shouted, kicked in the door to the back room, waved my gun at the postwoman. She turned milk white. I always remember. Put her hands up. It was weird. For a moment I couldn’t figure out why she was doing that. Then I realised. The gun in my hand. Anyway, the two bags were on the floor. She hadn’t opened them. So we grabbed them. It was so easy. Candy and babies come to mind. Too easy. We headed out. But when we got outside Mac was looking pale, scared. And then I saw a garda car had stopped. Jim had moved our car. It was on a double yellow line. As we came out this guard was walking towards Jim. We were behind him. I saw him approaching the car. Then I saw Jim lift up the gun and shoot him. The noise was horrific. I stopped, I couldn’t move. The guard fell like a stone. He was covered in blood. Blood everywhere. And I saw then, two more guards coming for us. I grabbed the bags and flung them into the car. Jim took off before I could get in. I turned around. One of the guards had Conor and before I could move the other got me. I looked for Mac. No sign. Mac was good at that, good at disappearing into a crowd. They took us to the local station. We could hear the reports coming in on the car radio. An ambulance had been called for the guard who was shot. Joe McLoughlin. He was probably dead already. No time for a priest. I vomited in the car. I was in bits. When they got us into a cell they laid into us. There was no holding back. They beat us to a pulp. But you know, even then I pretty much felt we deserved it. Jim didn’t need to shoot the guard. I don’t know why he did it. But it was wrong. And I’ve never stopped feeling like that.’