Mary, Mary

by Julie Parsons

  It had become a habit. Watching Jimmy. It was something to keep him busy, out of the pub, and away from the bottles of whiskey, while his bosses decided what to do with him. ‘Patrolling’ he called it. He had been careful after that incident, that night when he was so drunk, not to get near enough to be seen. But close enough all the same, to observe what Jimmy was doing, where he was going, who he was meeting. To keep a record. Sure that sooner or later something would give. That he would burst open like a rotting apple, and reveal all the putrescence beneath that pristine exterior.

  But he had never expected this. That he would see Margaret getting into the car, driving off with him in the dark, heading out towards Tallaght, and now on the road to Blessington. The last person on earth he had thought would show up, on that warm summer’s night, in the middle of Dublin.

  The guards had never known where Jimmy had taken Mary, where he had killed her. He had said in his statement that she had died in his house. That he hadn’t meant to kill her, that it was an accident. But she had bled from her nose and her mouth and they had found no traces of blood. They had asked Margaret if she could think of anywhere Mary might have gone with him, but she had been unable to help them. Until she went back to New Zealand, after Jimmy had been charged, and before the trial, and Louisa showed her the photographs that Mary had sent her. Taken outside a pretty stone cottage. She was sitting on a low wall, her head thrown to one side in an exaggerated film-star pose. Pink sedum, white sea campion, tiny magenta cranesbill and purple aubrietia tumbled around her. Behind was the cottage and above it, like a finger pointing skywards, a huge brick chimney.

  She questioned Louisa. Did Mary say where it was, who lived there? Louisa was kind. She gave her the letter that had come with the pictures.

  ‘Here,’ she said. ‘Maybe it’ll help. Maybe the police would like it.’

  But it didn’t help. It told her where the cottage was, but it also told her a lot more. Details that made Margaret feel ill, her mouth filling with saliva as she read of her daughter’s feelings for the man who killed her. Of her desire for him, of her need for him, and her wish to be an adult, to be free of her mother.

  It was darker now. They had left the main road, and were climbing higher into the hills. Jimmy leaned back again and tapped his fingers on the upholstery.

  ‘Did you recognize the car?’ he asked.

  She turned away from the window. ‘What?’

  ‘The car, you’ve seen it before.’

  ‘Have I?’

  ‘Don’t you remember?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘A couple of nights before Mary died. She wanted to see you. She was crying for you. So I drove her down to the house. You were standing outside on the front step in the moonlight. She wanted to wave, but I would have had to untie her hands.’

  She looked out into the dark again. Mary’s face looked back at her, Mary’s body pressed against her side, Mary’s voice whispered in her ear.

  She had sat up in front of the fire. Patrick had lain beside her. With one finger he traced the silvery lines across her stomach.

  ‘Like snails’ tracks, aren’t they?’

  Written on my body, she thought. Her birth and her death. In the shape of my breasts and my belly, inside and out. Marked by her.

  He got more wood for the fire and built it up so it reddened her skin. He brought whiskey and glasses from the kitchen and a rug from somewhere. He wrapped it around her and pulled her down beside him, cradling her in his arms like a small child. He watched her, the way her face softened and crumpled, her eyelids fluttering as she began to dream. They had slept together so rarely. That first weekend in Hugh’s flat, the time she stayed in his house, the weekend in Mayo. He didn’t think she knew how much he had wanted her, wanted to lie beside her, turning as she turned, breathing as she breathed, dreaming as she dreamed, in unison, unconscious, unaware and wakening beside her, his eyes opening as hers opened. Carefully he reached for his wallet which he had placed with his car keys on the hearth. He had taken one of the photographs of Mary, and slipped it into the inside pocket, where he kept pictures of James and Conor. He pulled them all out now and spread them on the floor. My children, he thought, as he wrapped his arms more tightly around Margaret.

  It hadn’t been difficult to find the house. Mary had said in the letter that it was above a lake and beside a quarry. Margaret had bought an Ordnance Survey map of Dublin and Wicklow on her way through the airport the day she came back for the trial. She had sat at the kitchen table that night and spread the map out in front of her. And there it was. Ballyknockan, across the lake from Blessington, twenty miles or so from Dublin. A cluster of stone buildings and a stack you could see for miles.

  She had borrowed the next door neighbour’s car and driven out, across the causeway, the lake cold and unwelcoming, and up through the village. The cottage was screened from view by a stand of pines. An iron five-barred gate stood open and beyond it a winding, narrow track. In front of the house was a concrete terrace surrounded by low walls. And in a pot beside the door a large grey bush. She bent to pull the dried remains of last summer’s flowers. Lavender, white lavender. She peered through the small windows, noting the huge hearth and the turf ashes blown in a brown drift across the flagged floor. She walked round to the back and found three outhouses, solid beehives of dressed granite, each with a large padlock on its heavy wooden door.

  Was this the place where Mary had died? She wasn’t sure until she got the jack from the boot of the car and smashed in one of the small panes of glass. Then, as she put her head carefully over the jagged sill, she smelt the stale smell, saw the iron ring on the wall and the straggling brown marks, finger-shaped, hieroglyphics waiting for her Rosetta stone.

  After she had wiped the vomit from her mouth and sat for a while in the shelter of the pine trees, she went back to peer in through the windows of the other sheds. The second contained what seemed to be garden equipment, a long-handled fork, a spade and a hoe, in the corner a wheelbarrow, and beside it a pile of concrete blocks and a length of blue nylon rope. The window of the third was covered from the inside with a heavy black blind. She pulled at the padlock, and banged on the door but with no effect. She would have to wait.

  The barman in the pub by the lake roused himself from his game of pool to boil the kettle for a hot whiskey. His friend looked on. Then, fat belly falling over the table, he leaned forward to pot another red. The glass was smeared but she drank without complaint and ordered another.

  ‘And what will you and your friend have?’ she asked.

  Time passed. Beams of sunshine glanced through the dirty windows, lighting up an unwashed floor, stained cushion covers, the layer of fine ash from last night’s fire.

  ‘So, tell me,’ she asked, ‘who owns that nice little cottage up by the quarry?’

  The barman stepped back from the table and paused while he considered the game. He walked around to the other side, massaging the end of the cue with a cube of chalk.

  ‘They’re Germans, aren’t they, Mick? Or are they Dutch?’

  His friend lounged against the bar, half empty pint glass in his hand.

  ‘No, they’re definitely Germans. They don’t speak much English. The Dutch are better at the languages.’

  ‘So have they been here recently?’

  ‘Not now. They used to come over every year for a couple of weeks in the summer. They had daughters, gorgeous-looking girls. They did a lot of windsurfing and water-skiing. They’d a boat on the lake. But something happened. Didn’t the old man have a heart attack or a stroke?’

  ‘Did he? You’d know. I wouldn’t have a clue. Too many new people out here now. Not the way it used to be.’

  ‘Would it be for sale, the house, do you think?’

  He shrugged. ‘Couldn’t say, but I’m pretty certain they sold the boat last year.’

  What was it Mary said in her letter to Louisa? That the cottage belonged to a family from Frankfurt. That Jimmy had a special arrang
ement with them, to collect them from the airport. That they’d given him a key, so he could keep an eye on the place, but he hadn’t heard from them in a while. That it was great. He could go there any time he wanted, and it was really out of the way.

  It was very dark away from the main road. Even now at midsummer, when the light still clung after the sun had dropped behind the hills. No moon, no star to steer us by, McLoughlin thought, as the rest of the traffic drifted away, filtering into the housing estates on either side of the dual carriageway, until there was just the one pair of red lights in front. He kept his distance, as the road narrowed to a single lane, the street lights ended, and countryside replaced suburbia. Pine trees on one side, tall dark shapes planted right up against the wooden forestry fence, and on the other, open fields where groups of cattle stood, jaws rhythmically chewing, eyes shining, as his headlights played across them. He tried to imagine what was happening inside the car in front, but somehow he couldn’t. He needed a drink very badly. Just the one, to settle his nerves, and calm him, so he could think. He slowed down, and pulled into the side of the road. He reached over and felt around in the glove compartment, his fingers finding a torch, a couple of maps, a forgotten packet of half Coronas. He slammed it shut with a disgusted click, then leaned down to grope in the gap underneath the front seat. Nothing, but a couple of biros and an old notebook, the pages curled and grimy. He got out of the car, and hurried around to the boot. Inside was a sports bag. Left there after some weekend trip or other. To play squash or badminton with the lads, he probably said to Janey. An excuse, they both knew, to get away, to Galway or Cork, for some fun without her. He rummaged inside it, pulling out a pair of runners, thick socks, tracksuit trousers, a shirt that still smelt of alcohol and stale sweat, and underneath them all, the smooth bliss of a bottle. Vodka, three-quarters full.

  He got back into the car and carefully unscrewed the cap, lifting it to his mouth to swallow a great, burning gulp. He coughed as he replaced the top, wedged the bottle between his thighs, and started the car again, speeding now to catch up. It was a while before their lights appeared like two glittering red eyes, a quarter of a mile or so in front. As a reward he lifted the bottle again to his lips, and for the first time in ages he felt almost happy. She was here. Once more. He thought he’d never have the chance to talk to her again, to apologize to her for what had happened. But maybe now everything would be different. His foot pressed down on the accelerator, and he drank again from the bottle. Then slowed abruptly as he swung onto the tree-lined main street that ran through the little seventeenth-century town of Blessington. A crowd of people were standing around outside the pub, some still with glasses in their hands. A lot of shouting, laughter, then someone burst into song. A football chant.

  ‘Olé, olé, olé, olé,

  Olé, olé.’

  Taken up by the others, in unison, one loud voice breaking up the night’s silence. Nice to see people enjoying themselves, McLoughlin thought, the vodka beginning to smooth away the troubled edges of his anger and tension. He wound down his window, leaned out to wave and shout encouragement. He was tempted for a moment to stop and join them, offer around his bottle, sing their silly song, forget about the car that once again had disappeared from view. But the thought lingered, just for that moment, as long as it took to drive through the town, and leave behind the brightness of its street lights and windows. And look again for the lights of their car, the two beacons that were drawing him on.

  But where were they? The only lights now were coming from behind, dazzling his eyes in the rear-view mirror, then passing him out, or coming towards him on the other side of the road, figures in silhouette as they shot by. And up ahead was a junction. Straight on was the road to Baltinglass; to the left the bridge across the lake, to the Poulaphuca reservoir, and the villages of Valleymount and Ballyknockan on the far side. He stopped again, and again drank from the bottle. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, trying to think, to work out which way they would have gone. He got out of the car and walked, first ten paces down towards the lake, then back to the crossroads and ten paces in the other direction. A sign was what he wanted. Something to show him where to go. But there was nothing. Only the sound of his shoes scuffing over loose stones, and further away the insistent yapping of a dog. And another, and another, a chain of sound. Signalling what? The passing of a car? Someone calling out for help? He listened again, spinning around to try to pinpoint the direction. Then he got back into the car and turned towards the bridge, the water ahead like a spreading pool of black ink, the darkness closing in around him.

  Darkness too, in the laneway that Jimmy had turned into. Only the lights of the car cutting through the black, the yellow beams bouncing over the pot holes. Quiet, hushed. No sound when he switched off the engine but his breath coming from his mouth in short gasps. He got out of the car first and came around to her door. He held it open for her, and as she stood beside him he lifted his arm and let it graze her breast. His face was in shadow, but she could see the outline of his open mouth and smell his excitement. He took her hand. It was cold and limp. He fumbled with the keys and unlocked the low front door. He stood aside to let her in.

  They had sat in front of the fire, Patrick and Margaret, that night wrapped in blankets, drinking whiskey and talking.

  ‘This reminds me,’ she said, ‘of what it was like all those years ago.’

  ‘All those years ago.’ Patrick turned her face towards his own. He kissed her gently and pulled her head onto his shoulder. ‘Have you ever done anything like this with anyone else?’

  ‘Have you?’ she asked, her voice soft.

  ‘Tell me what you want,’ he said.

  ‘I want him to be punished. Really punished. The way he punished Mary.’

  ‘But the state will punish him.’

  ‘Will it? How? With a prison sentence which will last barely seven years? That’s no punishment. No, I want to do it. On her behalf. And I want you to help me.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I want you to do your job to your utmost. And then I want you to deliver him to me.’

  ‘And will that make you happy?’

  ‘Nothing will make me happy. Ever again.’

  ‘Tell me again what you want.’ And he pulled her down beside him, wrapping his body around hers, lulling her with his warmth, until eventually he slept, and she lay awake, staring at the shadows cast by the firelight on the ceiling until the sun began to creep back into the room.

  She didn’t look behind her as she walked into the cottage in front of Jimmy. She knew what would happen. They had agreed it all.

  ‘What will you use?’ she had asked Patrick.

  ‘I have just the thing. A heavy rubber cosh. It was given to me, as a joke really, by an old client. But I know how to use it. You learn a lot playing rugby.’

  She waited until there was silence. Then she turned round. Jimmy was lying on the floor. Patrick was bending over him, handcuffing his hands behind his back. Margaret picked up the set of keys that had dropped like a silver blossom beside him. She knelt down and checked his pulse.

  ‘OK?’

  ‘He’s fine.’

  Together they dragged him out through the back door. It had been easy for Patrick to push it in, the jamb rotted by the winter wet, to wait in the dark until he heard the sound of the car, then to take his place in readiness. Margaret took a small torch from her bag and tried each of the keys in turn until the padlock on the outhouse clicked open. She stepped inside and shone the light around her. Over the marks on the wall, the marks on the cement floor, the iron ring with the length of chain hanging from it. They didn’t speak as they dragged Jimmy inside. Patrick held the light while Margaret threaded the length of chain through the loop in the cuffs and padlocked it tightly around the ring. Jimmy lolled against the wall, his head drooping. Margaret handed Patrick the keys. Then she sat down, cross-legged, and waited.

  The barking of the dogs, drawing him on around the margin of
the lake. White cottages scattered here and there like handfuls of sugar lumps. Soft smudges of light behind curtains. A child’s bicycle leaning against a hedge. A car up ahead, but too small. McLoughlin drank again, and rubbed his eyes, tired now. Exhausted from the days spent watching, waiting, wondering. He wanted to sleep, to rest his head on Margaret’s shoulder. To see in the dark the outline of her jaw and her mouth. To hear her voice. To stop her before she got hurt, before she ended up like her daughter. Ahead was another junction, a sharp bend to the right. He tried to slow down, to turn in time, but his back wheels skidded, and he slid sideways, feeling the lurch of a ditch opening up beneath him. Then silence as the engine stalled and stopped. Shit. He banged his hands down violently on the steering wheel, then got out of the car, and walked around to the other side to assess the damage. He leant against the passenger door and pushed, feeling the car move beneath the weight of his shoulder. He got back into the driver’s seat, put the car into gear and turned the key in the ignition. He revved the engine and slowly, carefully, he began to move forward, the tyres gripping the long grass of the verge, until he was free. And on the road again. Tired, clinging on to the bottle for support. And saw a signpost. Black letters on a dirty white background. He craned his neck to read it. Ballyknockan. His headlights showed him small stone houses, a narrow main street, curving down to the lake, then branching off, up towards the dark undulating curves of the Wicklow hills. Which way to go? He stepped on the brakes, and again the car stalled. He leaned back in the seat, his head lolling. His eyelids closed, just for a moment. He struggled to open them. Again, as if he had lost all control of his body, they slid shut. He tried again, but the effort was too much. He shifted his legs and the bottle rolled down onto the floor, resting beside his left foot. He leaned back. He slept.