‘So, one thing.’
‘Yeah,’ Dom grinned at him. ‘What’s that?’
‘Mac, who the fuck is Mac?’
McLoughlin thought back over everything he’d read about that day outside the post office. The two old ladies inside. The people at the bus stop. But he’d never heard the name Mac mentioned before.
‘Yeah, that’s what I noticed too. Who the fuck is Mac? The one that got away?’
‘No one ever mentioned a look-out either. It was always just the gang of three, Conor, Eamon and Jim.’
‘That’s what I thought. But look, here,’ Dom pointed to the last page, the signatures. McLoughlin looked down. He read out loud. ‘Signed by Eamon Ryan, witnessed by Theresa Ryan, Padraig Ryan. Theresa Ryan née MacFeeley. Family, died-in-the-wool Republicans from Derry. In those days she was always known as ‘Mac’. Dom raised his glass triumphantly. ‘Got married to Eamon Ryan after he was released. They had a son, Padraig. She nursed Eamon through his cancer. Still living in Waterford.’
‘So,’ McLoughlin let out a whistle. The dog scratched at the glass doors and whined. Dom made as if to get up. ‘Leave him,’ McLoughlin waved his hand, ‘he’s grand.’
‘So, I reckon, Mick. I reckon if you paid a visit to Theresa Ryan you might find her amenable to making a statement. New and credible evidence. The kind of thing that at the very least could occasion a trial. And not only a trial but a conviction.’
McLoughlin shook his head. ‘Just one problem. She’d be implicating herself. Putting herself in the frame too.’
‘Yeah, maybe,’ Dom shrugged, ‘but you don’t know what’s been going on in her life. Not everyone likes the way the war ended, the way the spoils were divided, the way the power shifted. I’d go and see her. You’ve nothing to lose.’
They sat at the table. Dom produced bread and cheese and some beer. He’d put Joanne to bed. She’d fallen asleep, he said, watching TV.
‘I don’t know what happens with her. But she’ll probably wake around one or two.’ Dom cut himself a slice of cheddar.
McLoughlin spread butter liberally on a crust of bread. ‘And will you have to get up?’
Dom shook his head. McLoughlin could see the grooves of tiredness beneath his eyes. The slump of his broad shoulders. ‘I’ll hear her and I’ll get up too. Sometimes I can settle her down with a DVD but often at night she’ll just wander around the room. Sometimes she cries. Sometimes you can see she’s frightened.’ He sighed, grabbed his bottle. ‘Here, news time. Let’s see what’s happening in the world.’ He picked up the remote and moved towards the sofa as the TV came on. The weather was the top story. Shots of beaches, children paddling, sand castles, girls in bikinis, queues for ice creams.
Then the picture changed. Walls, barbed wire, guard dogs on patrol. The newsreader’s expression was serious, solemn as she read. ‘Police in riot gear were called to the Midlands prison today…’
‘What’s she saying? What’s happened?’ McLoughlin got up from the table and joined Dom.
‘Shh,’ Dom pushed him back. ‘Listen.’
‘A routine search of the cells was taking place. A large number of mobile phones and other contraband had been seized, when fighting broke out. Our crime correspondent has sent us this report.’
The reporter was standing outside the prison. Behind him police vans were coming and going, and gardaí wearing helmets with visors, carrying shields and batons were lining up. The reporter described what had happened. A search of the blocks. Resistance from the prisoners. A pitched battle took place. The canteen was wrecked. A number of injuries, some serious. Ambulances were called.
‘Among the casualties was the notorious career criminal, Brian O’Leary, imprisoned for multiple drug offences and crimes of violence. Mr O’Leary is understood to have been transferred to St Vincent’s hospital for treatment for a head injury. Mr O’Leary’s solicitor made this statement.’ The reporter looked down at his notes. He began to read. ‘“We are extremely concerned at the state’s failure to protect our client Mr Brian O’Leary. Mr O’Leary’s injuries are consistent with a beating by a rubber truncheon. He also has extensive burns to his face and his eyes which appear to have come from prolonged exposure to teargas. A complaint has been made to the Department of Justice.”’
‘So, poor old O’Leary.’ Dom took a swallow of beer. ‘Must be losing it. Not like him to be on the receiving end.’
McLoughlin stretched out his legs. ‘Usually too cute for that. Still, he’ll be finished without the phone. Won’t be able to keep a grip on the boys outside.’ He drained his bottle.
‘Want another?’ Dom made as if to get up. ‘I’ll get them,’ McLoughlin stood. ‘You look as if you could do with a rest.’
He moved towards the fridge, pulling out a couple more bottles and the opener.
‘The boys outside,’ McLoughlin sat down. He yanked off the caps and handed a bottle to Dom. ‘Who would be his main man, would you think?’
Dom drank, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Well, there’s Stevie, the little brother. But he’s a bit light upstairs.’
‘Is he the gormless-looking one? Red hair and freckles and a bit of a squint?’
‘You got him. You’d almost feel sorry for him.’ He paused. ‘The name on everyone’s lips. Martin Millar, do you remember him?’
McLoughlin tried to think. He used to know them all. Used to know everything about them. Now he wasn’t sure.
‘Martin Millar, give me a few clues.’
‘Millar was an orphan. Drugs got the parents. There was a granny who did her best.’ Dom closed his eyes.
‘Grannies, they’re great. Always a granny to step in.’ Like Mags Maguire, McLoughlin thought.
‘Yeah, but in this case Millar’s granny wasn’t up to much. Couldn’t cope with the boy, so O’Leary’s mammy took over. She was good at that. She ran a bit of a boy’s town out in their house.’
‘I remember. Not so much a boy’s town, more like Fagin in Oliver Twist.’ Calling there, looking for Brian. Kids everywhere. A big pot of stew on the cooker. Clothes drying over the fireplace. Tripping over dogs and cats.
‘Yeah, you have it,’ Dom sat up straight and stretched. ‘Martin Millar was almost a son to her. I knew one of the social workers who tried to step in and get him taken away, sent to a more suitable foster family. Problem was he was mad about Mammy O’Leary. And in spite of everything she was good for him. Got him to go to school. At least until he was fifteen.’ Dom yawned. He looked exhausted. ‘My friend, the social worker, told me his parents had pimped him out when he was little. You’d almost feel sorry for him, and you might understand how he turned out the way he did. You might, or then again you might not.’
‘Ah, yes.’ McLoughlin could see the kid. Small for his age, but already aggressive, angry. Throwing stones at the police car when they came to arrest Brian that last time. ‘He’s the one they call Lennon, isn’t he? The glasses?’
Dom nodded. ‘That’s him. So when Brian went to prison he left school. Took over where Brian had left off.’ Dom leaned back into his seat and crossed his legs. ‘Now he’d be O’Leary’s representative on earth. All the time O’Leary’s been in Portlaoise, Martin is collecting his debts, keeping the stuff coming in, making the deliveries and distribution, generally being his master’s voice. And,’ he picked up his bottle, drained it, and wiped his mouth, ‘expanding O’Leary’s sphere of influence.’
‘Oh?’ McLoughlin looked at him.
‘Yeah, O’Leary had never been into girls or anything, how would you put it, messy.’ Dom grinned. ‘He was doing just fine with the drugs.’ He paused. ‘So,’ Dom put his beer down on the table, ‘girls and all that stuff. Brothels in every small town from here to Belmullet. A steady supply of young ones from here to the Black Sea. Most of them only too delighted to get away from whateve
r muddy little dump they’ve grown up in. History hanging heavily. Fascism, communism, borderlands, the armies of Europe tramping backwards and forwards. So, great idea, come to Ireland,’ he waved his arms, ‘gateway to the future.’
‘And Martin Millar just waiting to get them in his clutches,’ McLoughlin looked towards the TV. The weather forecast, a blocking high coming up from the Azores. The temperatures in the high twenties. ‘What’ll happen now? O’Leary in hospital. No phone. No contact.’
‘Well,’ Dom leaned back and crossed his legs again, ‘a temporary blip I’d say. Watch this space. Normal service will be resumed soonest.’
‘So, what should I do about the other?’ McLoughlin gestured to the pages of Eamon Ryan’s statement. Dom reached for his laptop. He opened it up. His two index fingers moved slowly over the keyboard and stroked the touchpad. He turned the screen towards McLoughlin.
‘Here you go,’ he nodded towards the brightness. McLoughlin leaned forward, putting on his glasses to read. An article in a regional newspaper. Theresa Ryan, active in the local community. Involved in raising money for a new hospice. A photograph. A woman, hair dyed bright red, face thin to the point of gauntness, standing in a garden. Open to the public to raise money for a new hospice. An address. And a photograph taken at Ryan’s funeral, holding a red rose.
McLoughlin scrolled back. A long list of archive material. How she came from a Republican family, spent time in prison for possession of firearms. Took part in the dirty protests in the early 1980s.
‘If I was you I’d go and see her. Just turn up. Don’t give any warning.’ Dom closed the computer and took off his glasses. ‘Don’t give her the chance to say no.’
It was still warm when McLoughlin left the apartment. Joanne had woken. Out of a nightmare it seemed. Loud screams from the bedroom and Dom rushing to her. McLoughlin put the empties in the bin, washed the dishes and glasses, picked up the pieces of paper with Dom’s handwriting scrawled across them, then opened the glass doors and let in the dog. He grabbed him by his collar and half dragged him towards the lift, waving a quick goodbye to Dom, who was now holding Joanne on his knee as she sobbed. Outside on the street he let Ferdie go. The dog ran around in circles for a bit, then settled down and trotted at his heel.
It was almost dark by the time they reached the square. Lights shining from the houses’ long front windows. Sounds from the gardens, music, voices and the breeze blowing the smell of a barbecue. The skip had gone from outside his gate and one of the men had tidied up the small front patch. He leaned on the railings for a moment. He could smell sweetness. Night-scented stock trailing through the grass. Ferdie ran down the small front path to the basement, and stood up, scratching on the door. It opened.
‘Ferdie,’ McLoughlin followed him. The small hall was lit by the lamp on the table, and Ferdie scurried past it towards the closed door at the end.
‘Ferdie,’ McLoughlin hissed at him, hurrying to grab him just as he made a jump for the handle. He hooked his fingers inside the dog’s collar. He heard voices. Elizabeth’s, tuneful, gentle, and the sound of a man. A deep voice. A rumble in his throat.
He half pulled the dog away, and heard movement inside. Elizabeth’s voice louder, as he backed off, looking around, pulling the dog with him, into the room at the front of the house, boxes piled high, holding Ferdie tightly as he heard Elizabeth, in the hall now. Saying goodbye, pleasantries exchanged.
‘Careful going home. It’s dark outside. Can you manage? Let me know if you’re not OK. If you want to come and see me tomorrow, phone me. All right?’
The man’s voice barely audible as he moved away, mumbling.
The squeak as the door closed. The click as the lock engaged. Elizabeth’s footsteps and Ferdie now, pulling away, scratching to be let free. As McLoughlin stepped out into the light. And Elizabeth’s face, white, her mouth opening as if to scream.
‘God, what a fright,’ laughing, nervously, her hands clutching her throat. ‘How long have you been there?’
‘Sorry, really sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.’ He put out his hand and touched her arm. ‘The front door was open. Ferdie came in. He made a beeline for your door. I had to stop him from barging in on you. He’s got this great trick. He jumps up and hits the door handle just so. And bingo. He ran in here,’ he gestured behind him.
‘Oh, that’s OK,’ she giggled, relief. ‘The front door, open, was it?’ She moved towards it. ‘I think I need to get someone to look at the lock. I’ve noticed, you have to give it quite a thump to make it stick.’ She yawned. ‘Oh, sorry. It’s been a long day. I’d better get myself off home.’ She moved towards the lamp and he could see. The lines around her mouth, the shadows under her eyes.
‘You go.’ McLoughlin smiled at her. ‘I’ll look after everything here.’
‘Are you sure?’ She looked around at him.
‘Of course. Go on,’ he gestured with his head.
She smiled and nodded. ‘OK, my bag, I’ll just get it.’
He followed her into her room. ‘I’ll lock up. There’s a couple of things I want to get out of my boxes.’ He smiled at her.
‘Thanks Michael, that’s nice of you. It’s been a long week, this week, for some reason.’ She pulled a large basket from beneath her desk. Her shoulders were slumped.
‘Before you go. I just wanted to check. You’re still on for dinner on Saturday night?’
‘Dinner?’ she straightened. ‘Oh, yeah, lovely. You found somewhere you’d like?’
‘The restaurant down there on the front, in the old station building. Menu looks good. I’ve booked for eight. Is that OK?’ He wondered suddenly. Had he done the right thing?
‘Yes, fantastic.’ She slung her basket over her shoulder. ‘Why don’t you come by my house, say around seven. We’ll have a drink in the garden. It’s really nice at this time of the year.’
He walked her to the front door. He watched as she disappeared from sight. He moved back inside, back into the light. Ferdie had run ahead and was lying curled up on Elizabeth’s couch. McLoughlin sat down at the desk. Her diary was open. He pulled it towards him. He ran his eye down the list of appointments. ‘9 p.m. Dudgeon’ was printed. He swung back in the chair. Then pulled himself forward again. A ring binder was on the desk next to the diary. He opened it up, flicking to the last few pages. Elizabeth’s writing was neat, precise, tidy. The page was headed Samuel Dudgeon, the date, 26th July 2013. He sighed. Wouldn’t do to read on. Breach of trust. He closed it over, then looked around. Ferdie was asleep, his eyes closed, his head relaxed. McLoughlin got up. He walked to the windows and looked out. No lights in his garden. No sounds either. He reached up and pulled down the sash window, locking it tightly.
‘Come on Ferdie, time to go home.’ He nudged the dog with his foot. Ferdie stirred, yawned, stood. And together they walked out.
It was a while since he’d driven south. Motorway nearly all the way now. Cutting a swathe through Wicklow, Wexford and Waterford. Carving a dark smear across the green of the lush farmland. Plenty of traffic. Cars filled with families going on holidays. People carriers stuffed with children, roof racks laden with bags, boxes, bicycles. Trailers pulling boats of all shapes and sizes.
He leaned back in his seat and put his foot down. Another seventy miles or so. Skirting around Waterford and out along the coast, past Dungarvan, the R674 along the clifftop. He’d used Google maps, found the house. Set back from the road, a couple of miles outside the town. Drove slowly past a high wooden gate in the middle of a thick conifer hedge. He turned right, off the road into a narrow lane and parked the car. He got out. Quiet, birdsong, the faint clatter of a tractor in the distance. Fields all around, cattle grazing. He could see what must be the Ryans’ house behind a stand of sycamores. A modern building, or rather a modern extension tacked onto a single-story cottage. All painted white. A couple of sheds too.
> He pushed through a gate and into the field, the grass long, clinging to his legs. As he got closer he could see a large vegetable garden. Peas and beans climbing up wigwams of bamboo, sweet corn, as high as the elephant’s eye, courgettes, large sprawling leaves with yellow trumpet-shaped flowers, lettuces, bright green and glossy dark red, and other plants. Carrots and cabbages, their hearts beginning to bulk up. A circular washing line, shirts, towels, sheets, underwear, all lifting in the breeze from the sea. A Land Rover parked in front of a garage. And at the back of the house a conservatory stretching its length.
The Therapy House Page 25