The Therapy House

by Julie Parsons

  ‘Constance,’

  ‘Yes, Uncle Michael, how are you?’ She sounded busy.

  ‘Constance. I have to ask you, your client Martin, is that Martin Millar?’

  The lift doors slid open. He stepped inside.

  ‘Why do you want to know?’ her voice was wary.

  ‘Just tell me. The parking tickets, were they his? He’s a bad guy, Constance, you don’t want to get involved with a fucker like him.’ He pressed the button for the ground floor.

  ‘I’m not going to discuss my clients with you.’ The line was beginning to break up. ‘It’s none of your business who I represent.’

  ‘Constance, listen to me, the guy is bad, through and through.’

  McLoughlin could hardly hear her now.

  ‘Sorry Uncle Michael, but really, it’s nothing to do with you.’ She sounded very far away, her voice cold, distant. ‘I could give you the lecture about entitlement to a defence.’

  ‘I don’t want lectures, Constance, I just want you to understand what you’re getting yourself into if you take on Martin Millar. He’s trouble.’

  ‘Sorry Uncle Michael, can’t hear you. Have to go.’ The line went dead.

  He rushed from the lift. Min was still sitting at the table, her phone to her ear. She looked up and smiled, waving him to the chair.

  ‘Min, listen, get off the phone.’ He felt as if he was shouting.

  ‘OK,’ she put it down on the table. ‘Just arranging dinner for the boys. So?’

  ‘So, I think I have it. Martin Millar.’

  ‘We’ve gone down that route, Mick,’ she looked for a moment as if she was going to cry. ‘We did house to house with his picture. No one recognised him. We’ve no fingerprints, no DNA, sweet fuck all.’

  ‘Check again, check out the parking tickets in the town for the few days before the judge was killed.’ He wanted to shake her.

  ‘Why, what did O’Leary say?’ She gazed up at him. She still looked like a kid, he thought, with her fair hair scraped back from her face and no makeup. ‘Did he tell you something?’

  McLoughlin shook his head. ‘He wanted to put the boot in, to make me feel shit. And in doing so he mentioned something he shouldn’t. Just a chance.’ He didn’t want to tell her. The alarm going off on the monitor, the medical staff rushing in. He lifted the lid on the computer. ‘Let’s look at the video again. Quickly, go on.’

  Min stroked the touch pad. They could see the room and the judge. She pressed the play symbol.

  ‘Look, two things,’ he paused the video. ‘See, there,’ he pointed towards the painting. ‘Look, there’s a reflection in the glass. It’s faint, but you might be able to get something from it and,’ he pressed play again. He could see it now. The lead around the judge’s neck. It hadn’t been in the house when the Guards searched it. But it was like the lead that Ferdie had found, dumped in the rubbish when they went to Paul Smith’s that day. That stupid bollocks, Ed Smith, O’Leary had let it slip. Lucky his old da had something to save his miserable skin. McLoughlin could see the dog. Carrying it in his mouth, dragging it home. ‘The dog lead. I have it. I’m pretty sure it’s the same one. You might get lucky. There might be prints.’

  They drove, in a small convoy, McLoughlin in front, Min behind, back out along the sea road towards the square. He stopped at Gwen Gibbon’s flat. He signalled to Min to wait. He knocked on the door and disappeared inside. A few minutes later he was back, the dog jumping up at his side and the lead coiled, wrapped in a plastic bag. Min leaned out of her car window, her phone in her hand.

  ‘O’Leary’s dead.’ Her expression was bleak. He didn’t reply. ‘You didn’t tell me that bit. The doctor’s furious. He says he’s going to make a complaint.’

  ‘Let him, I did nothing. O’Leary worked himself up into a rage. I didn’t have to do a thing. Here,’ he held out the lead, ‘it’s filthy, I’m afraid. And God knows how many people have handled it. But,’ he shrugged, ‘you never know. You might get lucky.’

  She reached through the window and took it. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Thanks would be a good start,’ he clicked his fingers and the dog sat. He clicked them again and the dog held out his paw.

  ‘I’ve got someone checking the parking tickets.’ She smiled at him and pushed a strand of hair back into her ponytail. ‘You never know. It’s the little things isn’t it?’ She started the car. ‘Listen, I meant to say. I’m really sorry about that business in Dungarvan. I hear she was going to make a statement.’

  McLoughlin nodded. ‘That’s what she said.’

  ‘Do you think she’d have gone through with it? Old loyalties and all that?’

  ‘Well,’ McLoughlin could see her, standing in the vegetable garden, the cat winding itself around her legs. ‘Someone thought she would. Otherwise they’d have left her alone.’

  ‘And did I hear something about Reynolds’ wife?’

  ‘Jesus, news travels, doesn’t it?’

  She laughed. ‘Not news. We call it intelligence.’

  He stepped back.

  ‘Look,’ Min leaned out again, ‘the guys in Waterford, they’re circulating her photo. Someone will have spotted her.’ She put the car in gear and moved slowly away. He raised a hand and watched her drive off. Beside him Ferdie whined and rubbed himself against his knee. They walked across the green and sat down on the front steps. McLoughlin took out his phone, punched in Johnny Harris’s number. Heard his voice, ‘Michael dear boy, what can I do for you?’

  ‘Fancy coffee, a nice biscuit or two?’

  ‘Sorry, too busy, a lot on as you probably know.’ Silence for a moment.

  ‘Can you tell me, I was wondering,’ McLoughlin looked towards the square. Gwen had come out of her basement and was sitting in the sun in her little front garden. ‘Theresa Ryan and the boy.’

  ‘Executed, plain and simple. Hands behind their backs, shot in a kneeling position.’ Harris’s voice had a bleak ring.

  McLoughlin swallowed hard. He couldn’t speak.

  ‘Other injuries too, consistent with what I would call torture.’ Harris was brusque.

  McLoughlin’s mouth was filling with saliva.

  ‘Both had extensive facial injuries. Black eyes, broken noses, broken teeth. Mrs Ryan also has what look like cigarette burns on her inner arms.’

  ‘The cat?’ McLoughlin stood and fumbled for his keys. He could feel something travelling up into his mouth. He hurried down the little path towards the basement door and unlocked it.

  ‘We don’t usually do PMs on animals, Michael.’ Harris sighed loudly. ‘However as a cat lover, I’m afraid I was pretty upset to see what was done to the poor creature.’

  McLoughlin pushed open the door to the small toilet under the stairs. He lifted the seat and leaned over.

  ‘Someone slit the poor thing from chin to tail, while it was still alive. Incredible amount of bleeding. Who’d have thought such a small animal could have so much blood.’

  McLoughlin braced himself with one hand. He retched, again and again.

  ‘Michael, you all right?’ Harris sounded concerned.

  McLoughlin coughed and spat, then sat down on the toilet. He wiped his streaming eyes with paper.

  ‘Sorry Johnny, late night last night. Not feeling the best today.’ He turned on the tap in the small basin.

  ‘Hope it was worth it.’

  McLoughlin bent over and splashed water on his face.

  ‘Not sure to be honest. But at the moment I’m most concerned about the Ryans and what happened there.’ He wiped his face again.

  ‘Yeah, there was a lot of talk about you and your visit. The guy in charge, Liam Cassidy, the local sergeant. He’s a useful sort. I’m sure he’ll do what he can. Now,’ Harris’s tone changed, ‘have to go. Full house
here and it’s holiday time so we’re seriously short-staffed. I’ll let you know if there’s any more news. OK?’

  McLoughlin stepped out into the hall again. The dog was lying curled up on the doormat. McLoughlin opened the door to the front room. He switched on the light. He should do something with the rest of his day. Time to start moving some of the boxes of books upstairs. He thought back over his conversation, if he could call it that, with Constance. All that bullshit about people deserving a defence. She didn’t have a clue. He’d have to talk to her. Explain the dangers involved in guys like Millar.

  Come on, for God’s sake, get a move on Michael. He could hear his mother’s voice in his ear. Stop feeling sorry for yourself.

  ‘All right, Ma, you win,’ he spoke out loud. He opened the box on the top of the pile. Cookery books. He moved it to the door. Underneath it were his favourite children’s books. The William series, the Enid Blytons, the Robert Louis Stevensons. He’d kept them for the child he never had. Underneath again was a box of biographies. He ran his hand over the spines. And found, yes, he’d thought it was here, Daniel Hegarty, A Life Examined. The author was a well-known academic and writer. McLoughlin knew him to see. He was tall, pompous, opinionated.

  McLoughlin pulled out the book. He leaned against the window, angling it to get the light. He turned to the index, flicking through the entries. And there it was. The name, Richard Lane. He found the page. He read what it said.

  Lane lived with his wife, Elsie and family of four children at 10 Victoria Square, Dun Laoghaire. He was a junior manager in Lee’s draper’s in George’s Street. The young Daniel Hegarty who lived next door had evidence that Lane was a very active anti-IRA man. Lane supplied information to the DMP about local IRA volunteers. He was instrumental in the arrest and imprisoning of the volunteers Patrick Keane and Seamus Dillon. A decision was taken that Lane posed a significant threat to the activities of the IRA in that area of south County Dublin. Under Hegarty’s command Lane was removed from his house. The unit took him to Killiney Hill. He was questioned vigorously. A cheque for the sum of twenty pounds, made out to Lane, from the British administration was found in his pocket. A court martial was convened and Lane was found guilty of treason and executed. Unfortunately for security reasons it was not possible to return Lane’s remains to his family. A subsequent search of Lane’s house found a list of names of local members of the IRA.

  A subsequent search of Lane’s house found a list of names of members of the IRA. What could that mean? He tried to imagine. Perhaps something to do with his work. Bills to be paid. Deliveries to be filled. Or maybe they were right. Maybe Richard Lane was an informer. Or to put it another way, maybe he was a loyal supporter of the Crown, then the lawful authority, intent on helping the forces of law and order. Did it matter then? Did it matter, now? What did matter was that this man was kidnapped in front of his wife and family. Taken away, questioned, tortured and killed. That was what mattered.

  He closed the book and put it back into the box. His hands were dusty, dust lodging in his throat, so he coughed. He needed water. He moved into the corridor. Elizabeth must have left the door to her office open. Light from the back windows was angling into the basement’s gloom. He walked towards it. He had noticed small bottles of water on her desk. He picked one up and twisted the cap. He sat down in her chair and drank deeply. A file was lying beside a pile of books. The name printed neatly: Samuel Dudgeon. He opened it. There was an address. It was familiar. He lived three doors away from Paul Smith. He flicked through the pages. There was a description written in Elizabeth’s clear handwriting. It was headed Dream? Hallucination? It described a scene.

  A man is lying dead. I look at him. I hate him. I fear him. I want to destroy him. I lift the hammer. I shatter his face. I am filled with guilt. The bad things I have done. I let a boy die. I let a boy’s death go unpunished. I need to make amends. I need to tell the truth. I see my mother. She comes to me. She touches my face. She looks like a child. Her hair is long and plaited. She tries to pick me up but I am heavy. I am old. She begins to cry. Tears pour down her face. A river of tears. They swirl around my feet. I see my mother. She is dead. I touch her face. It is cold. My hands are cold, frozen, white. I cannot warm my hands. They are cold now, forever. I hold up my hands. I make fists of them. My mother is dead. I see the man who took away her life. I need to punish him. I will smash his face. I will rip out his eyes, his mouth, his mouth which spoke lies. I will die rather than live with my guilt. The man comes to me. His face is shattered. I lay out the backgammon set. I pick up the dice. I have the black dice. He has the red dice, red like the blood which trickles down his face. I throw the dice. Double sixes. I play. I beat him. I always beat him. I tell him. I have beaten you.

  Underneath was written. Lewy Body dementia? Hallucinations? Delusions? Referral to psychiatrist, possible need for medication?

  The man with the shattered face. McLoughlin tried to remember. What information had been released? He was certain there was no reference to the injuries done to the judge. Certain about that. He closed the file lining it up neatly. He left the room, whistled for Ferdie and together they walked out of the chill of the basement and into the bright warmth of the summer. As his phone rang and he answered.

  ‘Elizabeth, hi, how are you today?’

  Gwen Gibbon sat on the bench in her front garden. This was, she decided, her favourite place. She had sat here so many times in the years she had lived in the square. She had seen the comings and goings. Her memory was still clear. Particularly clear about the old days, when she had lived with her mother and father and her big brother upstairs. Sunday had always been her favourite day. It had a routine and rhythm all its own. A big breakfast, bacon and eggs, toast and marmalade and tea. Church after breakfast.

  She sat now in the sun. No one paid any attention to her. No one even saw her any longer. That was what happened, she knew, to women when they got old. They gradually disappeared from view. Which didn’t mean they stopped noticing what happened around them. The nice policewoman had come to see her. She had shown her some photos. There was one man she had picked out. He was small and plump with red hair and freckles. She had seen him a couple of times, seen him call into the judge. And there was the other man. The handsome one. Black hair cut short. Slender waist. Blue eyes, gold-rimmed glasses, white teeth and a warm, winsome smile. The policewoman had shown her his photo too. Gwen had hesitated.

  ‘Do you know him? Have you seen him?’

  Gwen pondered. The man had brought her flowers, a bunch of sweet pea.

  ‘I thought you’d like these,’ he said. He buried his face in the blooms. ‘Fantastic smell.’

  The other one, with red hair and freckles, hawked, spat a lump of phlegm on the path. And the handsome young man turned to him, ‘That’s disgusting, Stevie, don’t do that, not in front of a lady.’

  ‘Have you seen him? Take another look.’

  Gwen took off her glasses. Now his face was fuzzy, unclear. She couldn’t be sure. She shook her head. She remembered as she lay on the road that Sunday, pain in her knees, tears in her eyes, she had looked up. There was a face at the upstairs window. And a minute or so later the judge’s front door had opened, just a crack. A man stood there. He took a step forward and then Elizabeth was beside her. Elizabeth, bending down to help. And the door closing, the man disappearing.

  ‘No,’ she replied, ‘I don’t recall that face. The other one, now, I’ve seen him.’

  She sat in the sun. She watched the people come and go. No one saw her. No one stopped to say hallo. She turned her face upwards. She closed her eyes. Another perfect Sunday.

  The dog had growled at Samuel. Today, outside the church the dog had bared his teeth. Samuel had turned towards the seafront, walked as far as the pier and sat on a bench in the sun. His legs felt weak. And he wasn’t sure any longer where he was. Or who he was. People passed him by. Why did
no one know him? Why did no one greet him, call him by his name? There were hands on his lap, black shiny hands. They frightened him. He wanted to shake them off. He wasn’t sure what, if anything, he really was. Was he a shell, a husk, the skin of a snake, shucked off, dropped on the ground, like the shape of the judge’s tweed coat?

  Once, long ago, he had a family here in this town by the sea. A mother called Cecily. A grandfather called Richard, a grandmother called Elsie. But that family had long gone. They had been destroyed by the man with the gun. The handsome man on the wall in the judge’s house. Samuel had looked up at him. Then looked at his handsome son lying on the floor. That man knew all about blood too. And pain. And getting what you wanted no matter who got hurt. Samuel had lifted his hammer and he had destroyed that handsome face.

  Now he leaned back and closed his eyes. His hands clutched the shopping bag. He was safe as long as he kept it close. No one could hurt him. He sighed. The sun danced across his eyelids. He saw shapes, squiggles, bright bursts of light. And among them he saw the face of his mother. She looked so young. She held out her arms and he ran towards them. He buried his head in her breast. He sighed and for a moment he felt happy. That Sunday feeling, that perfect Sunday feeling.

  McLoughlin opened his front door. He stepped inside, the phone to his ear. Elizabeth was explaining.

  ‘I’m sorry about last night, about the way it ended. I really had a lovely time. It was just, something about…’

  ‘That’s OK,’ McLoughlin butted in. He didn’t want her to ask. He didn’t want to have to explain.

  ‘Anyway,’ she paused, ‘I didn’t ask you in last night. I felt bad about it and a bit silly, but actually,’ she paused again. He could see her face, the brightness of her expression. ‘It turned out to be for the best, because you won’t believe what happened.’