The Therapy House

by Julie Parsons

  ‘People?’

  Reynolds swung back in his chair. He gazed around the room. The barman was polishing glasses. Ostentatiously.

  ‘The kind that haven’t gone away.’ Reynolds picked up his glass. It jerked slightly and a few drops of liquid fell onto the table. He drank. McLoughlin watched him. He could do it, he was sure he could do it. He had done it to Paul Smith. The element of surprise. He could do it now. Reynolds put down the glass. One hand disappeared beneath the table. He fumbled in his pocket. McLoughlin tensed. A paper napkin. Green with the words The Shamrock Bar in orange printed across it. He wiped his mouth.

  ‘Adriana, per favore, una birra.’ His voice suddenly loud. ‘Beer, would you like a beer?’ McLoughlin nodded. ‘Due, Adriana, grazie.’ He fiddled with the napkin, pleating it, then smoothing it out. ‘Big business, Europe-wide. Making a fortune. Cigarettes, girls, dope, harder stuff too. You name it. They’re a talented bunch. Turn their hand to anything.’

  ‘And you, what have you turned your hand to?’

  The beers came in tall glasses, white heads which reminded McLoughlin of the ice creams he had eaten with Elizabeth and Leah, that hot day in the square.

  ‘You wouldn’t want to know. No one would want to know.’

  Reynolds lifted his glass and drank. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked away. The music was suddenly loud. Doris Day singing. The Deadwood stage was rolling on over the plains.

  ‘And the Ryans, Theresa and her son?’

  Reynolds looked away. He looked down at the napkin. ‘I didn’t want Monica to go. I told her we could fight it here. Through the courts.’ He laughed, a mirthless sound. ‘Onto a loser. It’d be lifting a lid you see. Questions would be asked for which there are no answers.’ He picked up his glass and took a long swallow. He put it down and wiped his mouth again. ‘Not just about your father and what happened that day. It would go deeper. Monica said no. Nip it in the bud. Dead meat, she said. From the moment you walked into the bar last summer. Dead meat, that’s what they were.’

  The barman was hovering. McLoughlin drank his beer. It was strong, a rich yeasty flavour.

  ‘A risk, surely, for her to go to Ireland like that.’

  Reynolds smiled. ‘Monica’s good at risks. She thrives on them. She grew up in that kind of world. Her father was on the run for years. She knows all about watching your back.’ He looked down at the table. He spread out his hands. His fingernails were bitten to the quick.

  ‘And what about doing the right thing? What does she know about that?’ McLoughlin fiddled with his glass.

  Reynolds looked away. ‘Depends, doesn’t it? Your definition, what the right thing is.’

  ‘So, we’re back to ends and means?’

  Reynolds didn’t answer. He picked up his glass and drained it. He raised his hand. The barman moved slowly back towards the row of bottles and line of shiny chrome pumps.

  McLoughlin drank again. ‘Your son, she wasn’t worried about what might happen to him?’

  ‘My son?’ Reynolds looked at him. ‘I don’t have a son. We don’t have a son.’

  ‘No?’ McLoughlin ran his fingers up and down the sides of the tall glass. ‘She told me, your son, studying in Rome. She was very clear about him.’

  Reynolds smiled. ‘Monica can’t have children. A car crash when she was a teenager. She had to have her womb removed.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘You don’t really.’ The barman placed a full glass in front of Reynolds. His hand rested on his shoulder for a moment. McLoughlin could see how his fingers squeezed hard. Reynolds shifted awkwardly. The barman moved back, just enough. ‘You don’t see at all.’ Reynolds’ voice was high-pitched now. ‘It happened when she was on the run with her father. She’s never forgiven the state for that. She takes it all very personally, very, very personally.’ He paused, looked down. ‘This son, sometimes it’s a daughter. Sometimes I hear her in the bar, she’s chatting away. She has the whole scenario, school, college, boyfriend, girlfriend. Sometimes she even has grandchildren.’

  ‘So,’ McLoughlin looked at him, ‘I should feel sorry for her now. Sorry that her crazy father and his crazy politics ruined her life, is that it?’

  Reynolds didn’t answer.

  ‘So easy for you. Always someone else to blame. The state, the police, the politicians, the system. Always someone else.’ McLoughlin drank. The beer caught in his throat. He coughed. ‘And what about you? Your legacy. The dead. The maimed. The lives wrecked. The hate and bitterness left behind, was it worth it?’

  Reynolds picked up his glass. He finished it off with a flourish. He wiped his mouth again.

  ‘Worth it? Worth killing your father? Now there’s a question. I see them in Stormont. Doing business with the DUP, that bunch of bigots. I see them in the twenty-six counties, sitting in the Dáil. I hear their speeches. The opinion polls, they’re gaining strength all the time. I ask myself, was it worth it? What’ll they be in a few years’ time? Part of some crappy coalition, shaving cents off the old age pension, bickering over trolleys in A&E and water charges, for fuck’s sake. Was it worth it?’

  McLoughlin swirled the beer in his glass. Theresa Ryan, sitting in her conservatory, the cat on her knee, the sun hot, the sky blue. Theresa Ryan, dead on the mortuary slab. A bullet through the back of the head, her body marked with the signs of torture. Her son beside her. The cat, slit from chin to tail. What was it she said? A bit of power here, a bit of power there. Not what we fought for. Not what we died for. And not what we killed for.

  Reynolds stood. The barman picked up the cloth and began again to polish the gleaming glasses. Reynold pushed his chair towards the table. It grated on the tiled floor. ‘I dream about that day, the day I killed your father. He comes closer and closer. He’s smiling. He looks happy. In my dream I see that. On the day I didn’t. I didn’t see anyone. I saw nothing except the uniform. I lifted the gun. I fired. I didn’t see anything after that. I didn’t care. Now,’ he moved towards the door, ‘I think it’s time.’

  They stood in the street side by side. It was quiet, cold, dark. McLoughlin moved towards the bridge. He could hear the river below. He put out his hand and touched the wall. He tensed. The footpath was narrow. He pushed against Reynolds. The river below, the steep drop, rocks beneath. He could do it, he knew he could. Reynolds turned towards him. His face was shadowed.

  ‘Why did you come here?’

  ‘Why do you think?’ McLoughlin could feel sweat on his back.

  Reynolds stepped into the light. ‘You should know, I’m sorry about what I did. I’m sorry about a lot of things.’

  ‘You want forgiveness, is that it?’

  Reynolds shook his head. ‘There’s no forgiveness for people like me. We have to live with our sins.’ He closed his eyes. ‘I see them all. The people I killed. They share my life. When I wake, when I sleep, when I dream. There’s no escape. Monica doesn’t understand. She sees nothing. Except her child that never was.’

  He turned away. His pace was calm, unhurried. McLoughlin followed him. Together they walked, side by side. Up through the town, towards the station. When they reached the row of trees, Reynolds stopped.

  ‘Look,’ he pointed to the photographs attached to the trunks. ‘These men were brave. They stood up against tyranny and oppression. They had no choice. There was nothing else they could do.’ He walked from tree to tree. He read out the names. ‘Puglierin Fiorenzo, 29th September 1944. Cervellin Giovanni, 29th September 1944, Cocco Pietro, 29th September 1944. And this one, this is sad,’ he pointed again, ‘Ignoto, unknown. Same date, day, month, year.’ He rested his hand for a moment. ‘Important, isn’t it, to have a memorial. To be remembered. I wonder sometimes,’ he moved ahead, then looked back, ‘what will I be remembered for? How will I be remembered? Who will remember me?’

  McLou
ghlin walked away, towards the station. He looked over his shoulder. Reynolds was standing still, staring after him. Then he too turned and when McLoughlin looked again he was nowhere to be seen.

  Now he waited at the stop for the air coach. He felt empty. As the bus turned into the main street he could see Elizabeth. She was standing up, reaching for her bag. She saw him through the windows and waved. The doors opened with a loud hiss. He moved forward. He held out his arms. She stepped into them. He held her tightly. Her voice was in his ear.

  ‘I heard the news. It’s over now. It’s all over now.’

  Acknowledgements

  My thanks to:

  Gay Johnson, Kordula Packard, Renate Ahrens-Kramer, Phil MacCarthy, Cecilia McGovern, Sheila Barrett, Harriet Parsons, Sarah Caden, Renée English, Eithne Henson and Simon Parsons who read various versions of the novel and gave me their comments and support.

  Paul Bowler and the late David Lane for their extensive knowledge of guns and all that goes with them.

  Michael Ryan for his help with the legal aspects of the story.

  Cora Newman for her suggestions for music for the judge’s funeral.

  Paula O’Riordan and Thomond Coogan for their help with the Irish translations.

  Dan Bolger and all at New Island Books who have given me the opportunity to bring life to the people of Victoria Square.

  My husband, John Caden, who never wavered in his belief in the book and in me.