Mary, Mary

by Julie Parsons

  She wanted to know, she told Patrick, everything that had happened to Mary during those eight days of her imprisonment. He had argued with her, pleaded with her. Pointed out that she would be giving satisfaction to Jimmy.

  ‘You know what he wants is to draw you into it with him. Don’t you. Don’t let him do it.’

  But there was no give in her. So now she waited in the dark, until Patrick came in, the torch in one hand, a wad of photographs in the other. He sat down beside her. He handed her the light and the pictures. Some were in black and white, some in colour. He watched her face as she flicked through them. Soon her skin bore the same pallor as her daughter’s had in death.

  ‘Wait for me outside,’ she said.

  ‘How long will you be?’

  ‘Not long.’

  Pain, pounding through Jimmy’s neck, up the back of his head, down into his temples. Pain in his shoulders, his wrists, something cutting into his skin, dragging at his arms. He tries to move, but he cannot. He tries to pull himself upright, but he cannot get his balance. He kicks out with his feet, but there is nothing. He opens his eyes. Someone is there. A shadow. Holding a torch that shines in his eyes. He wants to put up his hand, to shield them from the light, but he can‘t move his arms. He struggles, and cries out. Help me, please, he says. But there is no answer.

  The figure moves. The light moves. He sees who it is. Then he remembers. She turns the light towards herself. She has something in her hands. She holds them up, one by one. She begins to speak. Do you know what these are? she says. And then she begins to tear them, the soft photographic paper slowly surrendering its images.

  He tries again to move his hands. And he realizes. He feels with his fingers the shape of the metal. And he knows what it is. He tugs and tries to grab hold of the chain. But it is pulled too tight. Already his shoulders are beginning to ache. And there is a sudden pressure on his bladder.

  She moves again, easing herself out on the hard floor. Her white skirt spreads around her. He can smell a sweet scent. Lavender, is it? She stands up and comes over to him. She has something in her hands. A roll of grey sticky tape. No, he says, please, don’t, but quickly, she has strapped the tape across his mouth, and around the back of his head. And around and around and around, until only his pale blue eyes are visible. And then she has stepped back. Back to her place against the wall. And she has begun to speak.

  I asked you once, she says, what my daughter said to you before she died. You wouldn’t tell me. You laughed at me, you humiliated me. In the church that day. Do you remember? You thought you were so clever. Getting me to come and meet you. But you didn’t realize, did you, what the consequences of your actions were going to be. And now I don’t need you to tell me. I know for myself what she said, and how she said it. Because I know her, and I will always know her. As she really was. And now it is my turn, on her behalf, to tell you a few things. First of all I am going to tell you how you will die. Are you listening?

  She watched the shock in his bright blue eyes as she explained to him what it would be like to die of hunger and thirst. The slowness of it all, the torment as every cell in his body loses its precious moisture, the madness that would gradually creep over him as his brain wastes. He doesn’t believe me, she thought. He thinks that at the last minute I will take off his gag, undo his handcuffs, take pity on him. He thinks I’m a civilized person, compassionate, understanding, someone who believes in the rule of law and justice. He never knew with whom he was dealing. He didn’t realize what his actions would do to me. The effect they would have. The damage they would wreak. And now it’s too late.

  She stood up and looked down at him. At the golden hair, at the pale skin, at the slender body. At the dark patch spreading from his crotch. Then she switched off the torch. She stepped outside, closed the door, and fastened the padlock to the bolt. Patrick was waiting. She nodded to him. He was holding a piece of board, some masonry nails and a lump hammer. He began to close off the broken window. The thud of metal on wood rang out in the quiet night. The last human sound he’ll ever hear, she thought.

  They drove slowly away from the cottage along the eastern side of the lake, the hills dark smudges above them. Patrick was in front in his car. She was behind in Jimmy’s Mercedes. When they came to the causeway that led to Blessington they drove halfway across and stopped and got out. They stood in the dark, side by side, looking down at the blackness of the surface. He held out his hand. She took the piece of plaited cloth from her wrist and gave it to him. He tied it around the keys, to the cottage, to the outhouses, to the handcuffs. He took a step forward, then lifted his arm and flung them out as far as he could. There was a small splash and a tiny echo as the water rushed up to claim its prize. He took her hand and kissed it, then turned it over and kissed the palm.

  McLoughlin woke. He had slipped sideways, and now he was lying with his head on the passenger seat, his body twisted awkwardly. Beams of light played across the windscreen, and over the car’s grimy ceiling. He sat up slowly, rubbing his neck. It was stiff and painful. And he saw the first car as it passed him by. And the face of the man driving it. And then the second car, Jimmy’s car. And saw that Margaret was alone, seated behind the wheel. He twisted around in his seat, reaching for the door handle, nausea making him weak. He breathed in the sweet fresh country air. Then he swung his body around and got out, his eyes burning, gritty, his mouth stale and dry. He stretched both arms above him, feeling the muscles in his back shift and his vertebrae creak in protest. Then he dropped his arms, straightening up, and watched the red points of light, disappearing now as the road dipped and curved away in the distance. And he remembered that night, when he had sat outside her house and heard the voices and seen the shadows against the firelight. He remembered when he had told her about the trial, and she had cut her hand on the vase. And he remembered the way she had rushed from the courtroom. That first day. All those months ago.

  He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and got back into the driver’s seat. And drove up the hill, in the direction from which she had come. Through the five-barred gate, along the potholed lane, to the low white cottage. He took the torch from the glove compartment, got out of the car and stood and listened. Silence. He tried the front door, but it did not yield to his touch. He walked around to the back, peering in through the darkened windows. He saw the dim shape of the outhouses, revealed in the golden beam of torch light fanning out in front of him. The heavy padlocks on the doors, and the one with the piece of wood where the pane of glass should have been. And then he heard a sound. A rustle, a movement, something scraping on concrete. He put his ear to the door and listened. Again the sound. He fished around in his pocket and brought out a large bunch of keys, then held the padlock in the beam of light, trying each one in turn until at last the metal hook was released. He pushed open the door, and saw, as he cast his torch across the darkness, Jimmy’s face looking up at him, contorted beneath the sticky tape, his body twisted by the cuffs. And McLoughlin saw, too, the photographs spread around him. And felt again the shame and guilt eating into him, burning through his conscience like battery acid. As he thought of the way the girl had looked as she lay in the morgue.

  He squatted down on the concrete floor. Jimmy tried to move, twisting from side to side as best he could. His eyes filled with tears as he gazed at him above the mask of tape. McLoughlin picked up the photographs and looked at them in turn. And saw the process of transformation. The girl as she had been at the beginning. Her thick curls, her unmarked face and body. And then the expressions on her face. Her cropped hair, her eyes wide with fear and panic. Her body marked. Curled against the wall, her spine turned towards the camera, each of her vertebrae isolated through her fine white skin. Like an anatomical drawing in a textbook. And then he saw, suddenly, the resemblance. The man in the car. The man in court. His thin, handsome face beneath his barrister’s wig. His black hair, cut so that the curls were close to his head. Long legs and arms. Long fingers. He flicked t
hrough the prints again. Faster this time. Not looking at the details, just at the overall impression. No doubt about it now. The relationship was as plain as the nose on his face.

  McLoughlin leaned back against the wall. He began to laugh, an hysterical chuckle that ended as quickly as it had come. He looked at Jimmy, at the hope that sprang into his eyes. Then he looked down at the photographs again, sorting through them, putting them in front of him in a neat pile. Corners and edges aligned. He picked them up, slipped them into his pocket and took out a crumpled white handkerchief.

  ‘You’d have to hand it to her, wouldn’t you, Jimmy? Always one step ahead. Of both of us. But she made a bit of a mistake here, didn’t she? Leaving those pictures around. Her fingerprints, I’m sure, all over them.’ He leaned towards him again, as Jimmy strained his face up to him. ‘And all over that stuff on your face too. I bet she didn’t think of that, did she?’ And he carefully wiped down and over the shiny grey tape, feeling the contours of Jimmy’s bones, smoothing the creases around his nose and mouth.

  ‘Now, how’s that? Better?’ He stood up and turned and stepped over the threshold into the quiet night. And closed the door, and fastened the padlock, wiping it and the bolt and the edges of the door clean. And walked away without a backward glance. And got into the car, resting his head on the steering wheel, the tears pouring down his cheeks, and the sobs of grief bursting from his throat.

  They drove slowly, carefully. Along the T42 to Brittas, left on the L199 towards Willbrook. The suburbs drowsed on one side of the road, the hills on the other. Patrick watched the headlights of her car, following an even distance behind. He thought of her sitting by herself, her hands on the wheel where Jimmy’s hands had been. He wanted to stop, to bury his face in the soft folds of skin on her belly, to breathe in her smell, catch her taste on his tongue again. To talk to her endlessly. Tell her how much he loved her now, had always loved her. How sorry he was that he had abandoned her when she needed him. How he had pushed those memories away for years, flinching at first when he thought of her, until a thick layer of scar tissue cauterized his emotions. Until that night in the house by the sea when she had pared back the skin, and exposed once again the raw nerves of his feelings. And made him see that he would have to do the one thing she asked of him. No matter what the consequences. For Mary. To make up for all the years of silence. And now he wanted to know more. About Mary, about Margaret. About their life together. He couldn’t believe, somehow, that it would all end here, on this bumpy road in the dark. But he couldn’t stop now. He had to keep on driving, watching her in his mirror through Sandyford, past Leopardstown racecourse, until he turned right at Torquay Road, towards home.

  He followed the rest of her route in his mind’s eye. Down Newtownpark Avenue, the lights of the Howth Road a shining necklace across the bay. Left along Stradbrook Road, turning back through Monkstown and into Dun Laoghaire. The first boat left at six-fifteen. She’d make it with plenty of time to spare. She’d leave the car, as they had agreed, in the car park on the seafront, past where the old swimming baths used to be. Then she’d walk down to the terminal to wait. She’d bought a return ticket when she travelled from London yesterday, so she wouldn’t have to speak to anyone. And halfway across the Irish Sea she’d go up on deck and drop the car keys over the side. When she got to Holyhead she’d take the train to London, then go straight to Heathrow to catch her flight back to New Zealand. She’d be there on the other side of the world in thirty-six hours, and he’d be in Sicily, on holiday, with Crea.

  She watched the tail lights of his car, red and comforting. She could dimly see the back of his head. And then the orange indicator began to blink as he turned off to the right. He would drive along the quiet hedge-lined roads, past all the big houses wrapped in their layers of silent respectability. He would park the car beside the tennis court, then slip in through the kitchen door. His black Labrador would bang her tail on the hall floor as he passed, and he would bend down and dig his fingers into the soft indentations behind her ears. Then he would walk slowly and carefully up the wide panelled staircase into that bedroom, the one with the pink carpet and the pink bedspread and the photograph on the table.

  She wanted to go with him but she kept on by herself. A strip of pale gold lay along the dark horizon. She held the little photograph of Mary in her left hand. All for you, my baby, she thought. All for you.

  Praise for Julie Parsons

  Mary, Mary

  An admirable, beautifully conceived work of a dark, compelling and original new voice’

  Sunday Independent

  ‘Takes the psychological thriller to places it rarely dares to go . . . a first novel of astonishing emotional impact’

  New York Times

  ‘A great thriller-writing talent’

  Daily Mirror

  ‘Parsons is a writer to watch’

  FRANCES FYFIELD

  The Courtship Gift

  ‘A mesmeric portrait of obsession and evil’

  Sunday Telegraph

  ‘A skilful, high-quality suspense thriller in the Ruth Rendell mode’

  The Times

  ‘Haunting, evocative, compelling!’

  JEFFERY DEAVER

  Eager to Please

  ‘Brilliant. A star in the making’

  MINETTE WALTERS

  A clever, disturbing novel and, while comparisons with Rendell and Walters seem inevitable, Julie Parsons has her own distinctive voice’

  Sunday Telegraph

  ‘Parsons refreshes the palate with her elegant, imaginative style’

  The Times

  The Guilty Heart

  ‘It is a remarkable book, quite outside the usual run and ambitions of crime fiction’

  Independent on Sunday

  The Hourglass

  Another great accomplishment, even more deftly written . . . it has a gripping, underlying menace that makes it a spell-binding read’

  Irish Independent

  MARY, MARY

  JULIE PARSONS was born in New Zealand and has lived most of her adult life in Ireland. She has had a varied career – artists model, typesetter, freelance journalist, radio and television producer – before returning to write fiction. Julie lives outside Dublin, by the sea, with her family.

  Mary, Mary, her stunning debut novel, launched Julie on to the literary scene in 1999. She is also the author of The Courtship Gift, Eager to Please, The Guilty Heart and The Hourglass. Her most recent novel, I Saw You, is a sequel to Mary, Mary.

  Also by Julie Parsons

  The Courtship Gift

  Eager to Please

  The Guilty Heart

  The Hourglass

  I Saw You

  PERMISSIONS

  ‘Dublin’ by Sheila Wingfield from Between the Lines, edited by Jonathan Williams. Reprinted with kind permission of the Lilliput Press.

  ‘God Bless the Child’ written by Billie Holiday and Arthur Herzog Jr. © 1941 by Edward B Marks Music Corporation, London, UK.

  ‘When the Red, Red Robin Comes Bob, Bob, Bobbin’ Along’. Words and music by Harry Woods © 1926, Bourne Co, USA. Reproduced by permission of Francis Day and Hunter Ltd, London WC2H OEA.

  ‘When the Red Red Robin Comes Bob Bob Bobbin’ Along’. By Harry Woods. © 1923 by Bourne. Copyright Renewed. All Rights throughout the World (Except U.S.A.) Controlled by Bourne Co. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured (ASCAP).

  ‘When I’m Sixty Four’. Words and Music by John Lennon & Paul McCartney. © Copyright 1967 Northern Songs. Used by permission of Music Sales Ltd. All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  My special thanks to:

  My mother, Elizabeth Dobbs, who taught me how to tell a good story.

  My sister, Gay Johnson, and my brothers, Simon Parsons and Rory Parsons, and their families, for their help and comfort in good times and bad.

  My stepfather, Peter Dobbs, for his kindness.

  Lorele
i Harris, who told me to do it.

  Mary O’Sullivan, who I tried it out on first.

  Renate Ahrens-Kramer, Phil MacCarthy, Sheila Barrett, Cecilia McGovern, and Joan O’Neill, who listened and gently told me what was wrong.

  Alison Dye, who showed me what was right.

  Carole and Alexandria Craig for the alternative view.

  Paula O’Riordan for her loyalty and friendship.

  Dr Ursula Barry, Dr Kevin Strong and Karen O’Connor, BL, for their help with the medical and legal elements of the story.

  My friends in An Garda Síochána who were so generous with their time and expertise.

  Dr Art O’Connor, Central Mental Hospital, Dundrum, for the interesting conversation one bleak winter’s day.

  Treasa Coady for her leap of faith, and Charles Pick and Martin Pick for their expert help.

  Suzanne Baboneau, who showed me the loose ends and gave me the means to tie them up.

  And last but not least the Cadens, the Morrisseys and the Flahertys for all the parties.

  First published 1998 by Macmillan

  This edition published 2007 by Pan Books

  This electronic edition published 2012 by Pan Books

  an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited

  Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR

  Basingstoke and Oxford

  Associated companies throughout the world