The Therapy House

by Julie Parsons

  ‘Go on, tell me,’ he walked into the kitchen and opened the door to the garden, Ferdie rushing past him down the steps.

  ‘Jess went into labour, just after midnight. I got a call. She asked if I could come over and stay with Leah. So of course, I had to.’

  ‘Of course,’ McLoughlin smiled. ‘Of course you did.’

  ‘Anyway, the baby was born very quickly. Just a couple of hours and they came home this morning.’

  ‘That was quick. Don’t new mothers usually stay in for a couple of days?’

  ‘You’re out of date, Michael. These days if the birth was OK they shoo them home as soon as they want to go.’ He could hear the excitement in her voice.

  ‘And everything? Everything OK?’ McLoughlin moved towards the sink. He turned on the tap and grabbed the kettle.

  ‘Yes, fantastic, a beautiful little boy. They’re going to call him Benjamin.’ Elizabeth’s voice was firm and clear.

  ‘Benjamin, that’s a good name. And you like it?’ McLoughlin didn’t want to say too much.

  ‘Yes, I like it.’ She sounded calm, at ease

  McLoughlin put the kettle on its stand and flicked the switch. ‘And what about the lovely Leah? How is she?’

  ‘Oh, you know. A bit overwhelmed.’ Elizabeth paused. ‘I offered to take her to the playground, but she didn’t want to leave home. I imagine she’s very keen to establish her place in the family pecking order. Big sister, and all that.’

  ‘Yeah.’ McLoughlin could just about remember what it was like when Clare was born.

  ‘Anyway, I have to drop over to the office in a bit. An appointment with one of my people.’

  ‘On a Sunday?’

  ‘Yes, sometimes, needs must,’ she paused, ‘so I was wondering if I could call in,’ she sounded hesitant, ‘I really enjoyed last night.’

  He smiled. The day was suddenly brighter. ‘Great. I’d love to see you. Tell you what. I’m trying to do a bit of tidying up here. I’ll leave the back door open. Just come up when you’re ready. OK?’

  ‘Very much OK. See you soon.’ Was that a kiss she blew him? He couldn’t stop smiling now. He put the phone down on the countertop and spooned coffee into the jug. He lifted the kettle. And heard a loud banging on the front door. Fuck it. He’d a horrible feeling it might be Liam Hegarty. He put down the kettle.

  ‘OK, I’m coming, hold on a minute,’ he’d better get his story straight. He hurried into the hall. The banging was loud, insistent. He took hold of the lock and twisted. As someone pushed, hard, rushing in, a gloved hand grabbing him by the throat, the other slamming the door shut. Forcing him back against the wall and before he could do anything, twisting him around, grabbing both wrists and locking them together with a heavy plastic tie. Then turning him back and slamming a fist into his face. Pain, tears filling his eyes and the taste of blood in his mouth. And the man dragging him, pushing and pulling, so he stumbled up the stairs and into the big front room.

  ‘Gotcha,’ his legs kicked out from under, a series of kicks to his ribs and his abdomen, and his ankles then, tied together. So he lay, trussed and helpless.

  ‘Now, how does that feel, you murdering bastard? You killed him. The doctor told me. If you hadn’t gone to see him he’d still be alive.’

  McLoughlin tried to look up. He craned his neck. He could see polished boots. Tight trousers, long legs, a narrow waist, a blue shirt tucked in. He looked further. A thin face, high cheekbones, clean shaven, black hair cut close to the skull, round gold-rimmed glasses and an expression of anger and loathing.

  ‘Don’t look at me, you fucker,’ another kick this time to the genitals. The pain excruciating, radiating outwards, taking away every other thought, every other sensation. Nothing now but the pain.

  ‘You tormented him. He was helpless. You took advantage. You knew his heart was bad. You knew he was waiting for an operation and instead of staying away, you forced yourself onto him, plaguing him with your questions. I know what you’re like.’ Martin Millar was screaming now, a mixture of tears and saliva running down his face, spraying out in an arc as he spun around, his right foot held out, like a striker aiming for the goal mouth, except that it was McLoughlin’s face he was aiming for and as his boot connected McLoughlin felt his front teeth shatter. More pain, more blood, then sickness, dizziness and darkness.

  Light then, slowly seeping through his eyelids. He was lying on the wooden floor. He could feel the hardness beneath his cheek. He lay still. His face throbbed. He wasn’t sure if he could move. A loud sound filled the room. He lay still. He listened.

  Sobbing, every now and then a cry of desolation. Footsteps. He watched the boots pass him by. Stop, turn, go on. Stop, go on. Stop, turn, go on. Then a face close to his. Millar squatting, one finger poking him, first in one cheek, then taking him by the chin and twisting his face upwards.

  ‘So, you’re awake, you’ve had your beauty sleep. You’re back in the land of the living.’

  Millar stood up. He stepped over him, his foot hovering above McLoughlin’s chest, above where his heart hammered beneath his ribs. He moved away and sat down on one of the old garden chairs.

  ‘Funny furniture you have here Mr McLoughlin. Would have expected more from a man like you. A few dicky old chairs and nothing else. Sleeping on a mattress in the front room.’ McLoughlin could hear the scrape of his boots on the floor. ‘Reminds me, so it does, of the gaff where I grew up. Filthy hole it was. No beds, nothing to sit on, no table to eat your dinner. Sleeping on a pile of manky blankets. Stinking they were, stinking of piss and God knows what else. An old sofa, falling to pieces, in front of the electric fire, where those cunts who called themselves my ma and da used sleep.’ McLoughlin could hear that Millar was on his feet again. He closed his eyes waiting for the kick, the punch. ‘Filthy we were, me and my sister. At school, when we went to school, which wasn’t often, the other kids would hold their noses and laugh. Hold their noses. Ooh look at them miss,’ his voice rose an octave or two, ‘they’re filthy, dirty, manky, ooh look at them miss, they’ve lice, crawling all over them miss, ooh look at them, they’ve sores and boils and cuts and bruises. And they’re stupid. Put them at the back of the room. Teach them nothing.’

  Millar was crying again, deep racking sobs. McLoughlin remembered. The evidence given at O’Leary’s trial. Mitigating evidence designed to show the good side of the thug in the dock. The child Millar, the child of addicts. Starved, beaten, sold for sex whenever they ran out of drugs. Eventually he and his sister were taken into care, fostered out, but Millar ran away. Found himself a haven in the large shed at the bottom of the O’Leary’s overgrown garden. Taken in by Mrs O’Leary, Bean Uí Laoghaire, as the defence counsel called her. Washed, fed, nurtured by Brian, Stevie and their mother. The barrister recalled the guardianship hearing. Eleven-year-old Millar was asked where he wanted to live. My lords, the boy was adamant. The O’Leary family were the best in the world. The state will continue to supervise his growth and development. It will ensure that he receives an education but it is apparent to all that Millar is happy where he is.

  ‘I’d never had a room to call my own until I went to live with Brian and his mammy. Never had a place to put my things. And Mammy knew I wasn’t stupid. She knew I couldn’t see properly. She got me glasses, like these,’ he pointed. ‘And a case to keep them in so they wouldn’t get broken. I never had anything to call my own until Mammy bought me things.’ He sat down again. ‘Shopping, she took me shopping, everything new. Everything clean and sweet smelling. A big pile of clothes. Now, she said, get something extra, something for yourself, Martin. There was a belt, stripy elastic with a snake for a buckle. I picked it up. She took it from me. She had this big old coat, big deep pockets. She slipped it into the pocket. Special, she said, that’ll be your lucky charm, and she winked.’

  He stood up and walked over to McLoughlin. He squa
tted beside him. He took McLoughlin’s face between his two hands. He winked.

  ‘She died you know, five years ago. And you know something, you fuckers wouldn’t let her son out of prison to go to her funeral. And for that you will be punished.’

  McLoughlin tried to close his eyes, but Millar had hold of his eyelids. ‘I’d blind you now, you bastard, but I want you to be able to see what I’m going to do to you.’ He stood up. He walked slowly away, then he turned. McLoughlin tensed, waiting for the blow. He heard the creak of the chair as Millar sat down again.

  ‘No rush, no rush at all. A nice Sunday like this. A nice place this square. I’d like to live in a nice place like this.’ Millar blew his nose. ‘Lovely neighbours you have. The old lady across the road. She loves her flowers. She loves her sweet pea. Like my poor old gran. She had lovely sweet pea. The only thing she cared about. She didn’t care about me, that’s for sure. And as for the judge, well, he took the biscuit, didn’t he?’

  McLoughlin tried to move. His feet were numb, pins and needles in his legs. Millar stood up, stood over him, and touched his cheek with the toe of his boot. The toe of his boot so close McLoughlin could smell the polish.

  ‘Funny about the judge. I didn’t set out to kill him. I just wanted to have a bit of fun, brighten up Brian’s day. Sundays are bad in prison. A slow day, a long day, sure you’d go to Mass for the entertainment. Yes, that’s it,’ he pressed his foot down hard on McLoughlin’s cheek, ‘that idiot, Eddie fucking Smith, thought he could take me for a ride.’

  The pressure increased. The pain spread across McLoughlin’s face. He felt as if he was going to vomit.

  ‘Then his daddy came up with the goods. I nearly split my sides laughing when he gave me a peek at the photos.’

  ‘So,’ McLoughlin was trying to speak, ‘so why did you shoot him?’

  ‘Oh he can speak can he? We’ll have to do something about that.’ He lifted his foot and aimed it at McLoughlin’s throat. ‘But maybe not yet. Maybe not until he’s done a bit of begging. Like the judge.’ He moved away again. ‘Begging he was good-o, like that nasty little mutt of his.’ He walked around the room, pacing, his stride long and loose. Then he stopped and looked out the window.

  ‘Do you know anything about shame, Mr McLoughlin? Shame is the worst. Worse than grief, worse than loss, worse than hunger and thirst.’

  He sat down on one of the garden chairs, balancing carefully. McLoughin tried to twist around.

  ‘Don’t,’ Millar’s voice was a whisper. ‘Don’t look at me.’ Silence. ‘There was a man once, when I was a little boy. I never saw him. They’d blindfold me. I only once heard him speak. Usually it was just grunts and groans and sobs. But once he sang a song. He was happy. He’d got his way. And he sang a song.’

  McLoughlin tried to move. He felt sick.

  ‘“She Moved through the Fair”, that was it. That day, here, with the judge. He sat down at his piano. He was all polite. I told him the money was going up. He wouldn’t be dealing with Smith any longer, he’d be dealing with me. And Brian. He said it was too much. He couldn’t afford it. I said he could sell something. He could sell his piano. He said he couldn’t do that. And he started to play and sing. That song.’ He took a deep breath. ‘My young love said to me, my mother won’t mind, and my father won’t slight you for your lack of kine.’ Millar’s voice was a high falsetto. ‘Singing away, without a care in the world. And the shame came over me and I could feel him and smell him and taste him.’

  He got to his feet. Pacing again.

  ‘And then, the uppity fucker started mouthing off about Brian, how he was scum, how back in his father’s day people like Brian would have been shot, got rid of. So now it was begging time except it was him who was begging, not me. And then I thought, I’ll really get him to shit himself, so I got the gun, the famous gun and I loaded it, one bullet, from the box in the drawer.’ He mimed cocking the pistol, his finger curling around the trigger. ‘Give him a fright. I thought I’d give him a fright, but boom. And that my friend was that.’

  He sat back on the chair, folding his arms. ‘Brian always says that those who inflict it have to be able to endure it.’ He paused and looked up at the ceiling. ‘And then he says: but to be honest I’d rather inflict it than endure it.’

  This time the kick was in McLoughlin’s back, right up against his kidneys. Again the pain radiated out, spreading like a dark stain up and down, as far as his head, as far as his feet, so he cried out, feeling tears on his cheeks. Sick so he began to retch, a bitterness in his throat, a dribble of foul smelling spit, rolling down his chin. And then darkness again.

  Time passing. How much time? He had no idea how long it had been until the light forced itself back into his eyes. He blinked and tried to move. He tried to think. Where was his phone? He seemed to remember leaving it in the kitchen. And Ferdie? In the garden, he thought. Asleep in the long grass, the ball between his front paws.

  He couldn’t see where Millar was. There was no sound now. It was quiet. He lay still, trying to assess his injuries. He was pretty certain his jaw was broken, maybe his nose too. His right ankle throbbed. Probably fractured. He wouldn’t know until he put weight on it. He didn’t think the blows to his kidneys were too serious. He didn’t know about the kick to his genitals. He was still in pain but it wasn’t as excruciating as it had been. He tried to lift his head and look around. He couldn’t see Millar. Perhaps he had gone, had his fun, had his fill, done the sensible thing and left. He tried to lift himself up a bit more but this time the blows came hard and fast. A kick from behind and he could feel one rib at least and maybe more breaking. Patrick Brady, the boy in the bog, was this what he went through, was this what he felt?

  And then a sound from outside the room, a voice calling.

  ‘Michael are you there?’

  And Millar’s hand clamped over his mouth.

  Footsteps on the stairs and the rattle of the dog’s claws.

  ‘Michael, you up there?’ The door bursting open. And Millar on his feet. And before Elizabeth could turn and run he had butted her in the face, so she screamed and fell to her knees, blood pouring from her nose. And the dog, barking, snarling, his lips pulled back over his teeth, his legs braced, his coat standing up along the ridge of his spine. The smell, the smell of the man in the room. He snarled and walked stiffly, slowly towards the man as Elizabeth sobbed and McLoughlin tried to push himself up.

  ‘Here, doggie, good doggie,’ Millar bent down and held out one hand, the other hand behind his back. Ferdie stood his ground, then took one step and another step and another. And Millar grabbed him by the scruff, a knife held to the dog’s neck.

  ‘Noisy little fucker aren’t you? I hate noisy, yappy little dogs like you. I like my dogs big and strong and bold with great big teeth. All the better to eat you with, my dear.’ And the knife suddenly slicing across Ferdie’s throat, a terrible gurgling sound and blood pumping out, as Millar held the dog away from him, then flung him wide, blood spattering, against the far wall.

  Silence then. Elizabeth sat, terror in her face, her hands shaking. Until Millar grabbed her, twisting her arms behind her back and fastening her wrists so she cried out again in pain.

  ‘Now, two for the price of one.’ He shoved her down on the floor and grabbed her ankles, tying them together too. He sat up on the chair, bracing his feet. ‘Isn’t this grand now. Quite a gathering.’ He looked over at the dog’s body. ‘Awful mess. A job to clean it up. Make things nice again. Homely. That’s what we want isn’t it? But,’ he buried his face in his hands, ‘we have no home now, not since you killed Brian.’

  He got up. ‘What will I do to her, Mr McLoughlin? What will I do? You decide.’ He bent over Elizabeth and took hold of her by the hair. He touched her chin with the toe of his boot. ‘A bit old for you, Mr McLoughlin? No spring chicken, is she?’

  ‘Don’t,�
�� McLoughlin tried to speak. He could barely move his jaw. ‘Don’t hurt her. This has nothing to do with her. Let her go.’

  Millar got up. He looked down at Elizabeth. ‘Not my type I’m afraid. I’m a gentleman, I prefer blondes. Like your niece, Constance. A natural blonde I suspect, from head to toe.’ He walked back towards Elizabeth. She was shaking, trembling so much that her teeth were chattering. Millar lay down on the floor beside her. He put his face up close to hers. He stroked her cheeks, gently, then took hold of her chin.

  ‘Look at me. What’s your name?’

  ‘Elizabeth,’ her voice was a whisper.

  ‘Nice name, I like that. Old fashioned. Constance is a nice name too.’ He twisted her face towards his. ‘Look at me, open your eyes. There now, that’s better, nice brown eyes. I like brown eyes.’

  McLoughlin tried to speak again. ‘Don’t hurt her. Let her go. Please.’

  ‘Please, that’s better, that’s nicer. I like that. A bit of gratitude goes a long way. Please Mr Millar, don’t hurt the nice lady.’ He pushed her away. He lay on his back. ‘Constance, there’s a nice girl, a pretty girl, a helpful girl. You know, Mr McLoughlin,’ he rolled over on his side, ‘Constance will help me. She’s believes in justice. Now,’ he sat up. ‘Enough of this small talk. Time for a bit of serious punishment.’ He stood. He pulled a cigarette lighter from his pocket. He flicked the lid. McLoughlin could smell the burning fuel. ‘Who wants to go first? Ladies perhaps? Age before beauty? Dirt before the brush.’

  Silence for a moment. McLoughlin could hear Elizabeth stirring and the sound of her teeth chattering. And then footsteps, slow, careful, footsteps on the stairs outside, the squeak of the floorboards. And a figure standing in the doorway. The familiar outline. The wide-brimmed hat, the sagging shoulders, the long tweed coat, the Tesco shopping bag held by the gloved hand.

  ‘Well, well, well, who do we have here?’ Millar’s voice loud and threatening. McLoughlin saw him move quickly towards the door. He heard the footsteps, Samuel Dudgeon’s footsteps as he walked further into the room. He tried to look up so he could see more clearly but the pain in his ribs was intense and he gasped and collapsed back down. He tried to imagine what Samuel was seeing. The dog, gutted, lying in a bloody heap by the wall. Elizabeth bound, blood on her face, shaking with fear. McLoughlin, trussed up, his face a mess, with bruises, black eyes, more blood. And Martin Millar, capering, dancing, blood too on his shirt and on his hands.