—A reading from Ecclesiastes chapter three. There is an appointed time for everything, and a time for every affair under the heavens. A time to be born. A time to die. A time to plant. A time to uproot the plant. A time to kill and a time to heal. A time to tear down and a time to build. A time to weep and a time to laugh. A time to mourn and a time to dance. A time to scatter stones and a time to gather them. A time to embrace and a time to be far from embraces. A time to seek and a time to lose. A time to keep and a time to cast away. A time to rend and a time to sew. A time to be silent and a time to speak. A time to love and a time to hate. A time of war and a time of peace. What advantage has the worker from his toil? I have considered the task which God has appointed for men to be busied about blah blah.
Can’t type any more of it. Thought it might make me seem clever to include that reading but I think I’m only making the Bible look thick instead.
Anyhow if I didn’t hate Dinky I’d have been very proud of him up there in the altar saying them words to them all. And himself and Teesh afterwards. All handshakes and manly organisation. Postponing their woeful grief for the common good. Travesty of devastation. Show must go on. Show.
Stoic
N. 1. person who is impassive, who appears unaffected by emotions, especially person admired for showing patience and endurance in the face of adversity 2. ancient philosopher; a member of an ancient Greek school of philosophy that asserted that happiness can only be achieved by accepting life’s ups and downs as the products of unalterable destiny. It was founded around 308 BC by Zeno [14thC. From Latin Stoicus, from, ultimately, Greek stoa ‘porch’, referring to the Painted Porch in Athens, where Zeno taught.]
He was a fairly stoic man. James’ father was. And he was a man of action. Even though his very worst nightmare had become a real thing in his life. Had become his life. He was making sure everything went smoothly. Ringing all the people who needed to be told. Showing his wife the catalogue of coffins to pick one out for their son. Talking to the choir people about what music was planned. Getting hold of the uilleann piper for beside the grave. Getting Dr Reid up to take a look at his wife and his sister who weren’t coping so good. Dealing with the make-up artist at the funeral home. Making sure the marks would be covered properly before his wife would see her son. Handing in the clothes for them to put on him. Talking to the vicar. Dealing with the football club who were organising a guard of honour. Dealing with the principal of St. Brendan’s about the school’s own guard of honour and about the prayers and offerings they’d organised for the ceremony. Organising three teams of pallbearers to take James from the church up to the Protestant cemetery. Passing fivers to the altar boys for a job well done. Shaking hands. Thanking people.
Being a rock for his wife and everyone else who was floored by what was after happening. He spoke of his dead son on the altar that day and then he said some poem called ‘Little Boy in the Morning’ and only stopped once for a sec. His voice went high pitched for a sec and he stopped and swallowed. Then he coughed and carried on. His voice all deep and strong.
He will not come, and still I wait.
He whistles at another gate
Where angels listen. Ah I know
He will not come, yet if I go
How shall I know he did not pass
Barefooted in the flowery grass?
The moon leans on one silver horn
Above the silhouettes of morn,
And from their nest-sills finches whistle
Or stooping pluck the downy thistle.
How is the morn so gay and fair
Without his whistling in its air?
The world is calling, I must go.
How shall I know he did not pass
Barefooted in the shining grass?
Then he said he would be delighted if all would join him and his wife for some tea in their house after the funeral. That’s the custom around these parts. I’d say pretty much everybody did go back to the castle.
He was standing at the window in the upstairs library when I seen this. He was staring out and the sun was going down on the village of Ballyronan. The river ran regardless as ever, parallel to the main street which was quietly hiding in the valley. Mute and cowering. Rathkeen Wood on the south side of the village. Parish farms and the new housing estates on the north. The football pitch his son played in was in the foreground. Only thing you could hear from him was a few deep sighs. His back straight like a soldier’s.
Then the tears started to flow out of his eyes. And he couldn’t stop them flowing. And the tears were there for all to see. When he tried to wipe them away it only made his crying all the plainer for the people to see.
His sister Bessy saw this first. She went over to him and put her arm around him. Then his wife did the same. The room started to go quiet then. Everyone started to shut the fuck up and look over. Then his brother-in-law the plumber from Wexford went over and placed his hand on his shoulder too. My mother went over then. Then Seán Fuck. Detective Crowley’s wife Angela went over then. Then Old Master Higgins and his wife, Ber. Then Detective Crowley and my father. A few more that I didn’t know went over then.
Whoever had been in the room were all gathered around James’ father now. Nobody said anything. They were in a huddle. Everyone had a hand on his back or his shoulders or his arms or the back of his head. Like they were trying to pull the pain out of him. Take a small bit of it to carry themselves.
Next thing I seen his huge shoulders heave in fits and starts to the sound of his choked tormented sobs. Hands held, rubbed and caressed his shoulders, back, arms and the back of his grey head as he rocked back and forth. His sobs grew louder and stranger and everyone else started crying now too. I’m not sure when Mr Kent started grieving for his dead son but it might have been then. Everyone needs to be comforted sometimes. Even the chief of the tribe. Maybe that’s why crying evolved.
Haven’t had a fucking headache this bad now in a while. I’m going out for a walk. Down to the river maybe. Skim a few stones. I’ll be able to see cos there’s a full moon.
I Seen
I seen fierce rotten things. Your head would be fucked if you seen what I seen. See what I see. I seen Sinéad in hospital once. Brightest place I ever been. Like they think shadows would be bad for the patients or something. I was on my own in the visitor room and next thing she’s wheeled in by a nurse and she in a fucking wheelchair. Her mouth was like a baby’s. Like she didn’t know her tongue yet. The whites of her eyes were the whitest I ever seen. Her skin was pale and pasty. She dribbled and drooled and spoke in strange muttering words. I seen someone trying to talk who’d had a stroke one time. Like the tongue was swelled up or something. Was a bit like that. Just worse cos her eyes had no life in them. No struggle. First words she got out I’d been expecting but I wasn’t prepared. They still seemed to come out of nowhere and gave me a shock. Fucking rogue wave or something. A strange horrible murmur.
—Where’s James?
I’d been told what to say.
—He’s above in Dublin. He’s gonna wait until you’re a bit better is all.
She started crying then but in a way that someone who is paralysed might. The tears came down and her face flushed but the eyes just looked down. Steady like. Her face didn’t have on a crying face at all. The muscles didn’t as much as twitch. The noise she made was a constant high-pitched hoarse drone. Most horrible thing I ever heard. Would stop for a second while she inhaled. Then started again. Could say it was like a violin sound. But it wasn’t. I don’t know what that sound was like. Maybe nothing ever was ever like it.
I had to turn away then myself to hide my own tears.
—Why won’t he come to see me?
—He’s just giving you space is all.
—He’ll find someone else now, she said.
—He won’t, I said.
I looked out the window then and said,
—You’ve a nice view of the city.
The nurse came in then and said to Sinéad that
it was time for a nap like she was a baby or a hundred years old, all pet this and pet that. She wheeled her out and nodded to me.
—Bye Sinéad, I said.
I’d an old fucking cry for myself then in the visiting room over by the window and then I fucked off to get the bus home. I wiped my face with my sleeve same as I just did now.
I realised then why I’d been sent for. She was told she couldn’t see James so she asked if she could see me. That’s why I was sent for. Only reason she wanted to see me was to ask me where James was. She’d have known I’d have been in touch with James fairly often. All made a bit of sense then. Suppose I kinda knew all along but I hoped for something else. What, I do not know.
I was working away up the new houses them days but I got the bus up to her every Saturday. Saturdays was the best cos it was the only time I wasn’t thinking about her and wondering about the pain she was in but on Saturdays I got to see. She was in there for nearly a year. Well over six months anyhow. It was only in the last month or two really that she started being able to talk to me. I brought her up a walkman CD player one time and some CDs in the first few months but she never used it. I asked her about it and she couldn’t even remember getting it but she didn’t have it any more. I wanted to hold her. Even just her hand if not a hug. But she was in no condition to say if she wanted to be held or not. If she fell she wouldn’t even raise her hands to protect herself. She’d just go head first into the ground. There was no pain the ground could offer her I suppose. She was beyond the limit now. When you think about it she was useless, as humans go. Madness makes you useless which is a mean thing about the way we’re made. Her mind had taken away all her value to the world. But I knew the value of her. I knew.
More of Sinéad’s Psychiatrist’s Evidence
—And at this point she didn’t even know he was dead. Is that correct?
—Yes.
—Did she ask you if James was going to visit her?
—Yes. I think . . . yes, after a few days she asked me where James was. As in, why he hadn’t come to see her. Of course I was aware he had taken his own life and all of the staff knew that she wasn’t to be told this because of the danger of her self-harming. I told her that James couldn’t see her and she didn’t ask about him again until her friend Charlie came to visit. We were advised by her family that she may speak to him. She asked where James was and she cried but said little else. By now she was on anti-depressant medication as well as a sedative agent just to help relax her mind.
—At what point did you decide to tell her James was dead?
—She was with us just under two weeks when we told her.
—Why did you tell her then?
—Well, there were several reasons but certainly the most pressing and urgent reason was that we feared she would somehow find out that he was dead from a member of staff or another patient. Even though her contact with the public was extremely minimal we couldn’t guarantee that she wouldn’t find out. Now as to why we felt she was well enough to hear the news . . . well. Her condition had stabilised. She was still severely depressed but she was more predictable. I consulted by teleconference four of the top psychiatric consultants in the country and one in London and one in San Francisco and it was deemed best to tell her sooner rather than later. We knew that it was only after she knew the truth that her own healing process could begin in earnest. Anything else was a stalling device at best. And at worst . . . well, we felt it could be damaging to her, not to tell her the truth at this stage.
—Who told her?
—I did.
—Not easy, I’d say.
—No.
—Can I ask how you told her?
The other lawyer pipes up then.
—Your Lordship, is this really necessary?
—Your Lordship, I really think it is. I want the jury to get a full picture as to the state of Sinéad Halloran’s health at this time.
—Very well.
—Your Lordship I’m aware that this must be most distressing for Miss Halloran’s family and friends, but I’m sorry, I really do feel it is in the best interests of the court.
—If anybody, family or otherwise wishes to leave, please feel free. You may continue questioning Mr Mooney.
—Thank you, Your Lordship, and thank you, Mr Mooney, I appreciate this is not easy for you either.
—It’s fine.
—Now. Yes . . . how did you tell her about James?
—I simply told her that James was dead. That the morning she jumped in the river somebody misinformed James that she had drowned. That he believed this and he hanged himself.
—What was her reaction?
—The shock symptoms that she had recovered from after her suicide attempt returned. She also started vomiting. Well, mostly retching. She was sedated then and within a few days her physiological shock symptoms were completely gone but she had gone into a state of psychological stupor.
—Could you explain what stupor is, please?
—Certainly. Basically it is a state of immobility and mutism. People in a stupor are generally completely lifeless and unresponsive. Eye movements are about all you’ll notice. Generally in psychiatry we speak about it in terms of retardation of speech and movement. But when there is no speech and no voluntary movement we use the term stupor.
—I see. And how long was she in this stupor?
—Well, she started to show the initial signs of improvement after about five months.
—Five months? She was in a stupor for five months?
—Yes.
—Seems an inordinate amount of time, is it not?
—No. Not at all. Even if Sinéad wasn’t severely depressed she would have been very withdrawn. That is normal when grieving for somebody close and would be quite common for young women to be withdrawn in this way after someone close to them has died tragically. Now Sinéad was also deeply depressed; suicidal in fact. And on top of the normal feelings of guilt and regret that go along with grief, Sinéad had much more severe feelings of guilt and regret because her suicide attempt led directly to the death of the person she loved the most. So yes, the five months in stupor would be quite normal. Sinéad’s troubled mind needed time to readjust to the harsh realities of her new world and her consciousness would need to focus solely on that. On coming to terms with it all and assimilating the awful facts. Literally, her brain needed to prioritise, and small talk and even things like dressing herself were of little importance. Stupor enables the brain to focus only on dealing with the urgent psychiatric issues which have befallen the patient. We provided a safe secure environment where Sinéad didn’t need to focus on anything, where her mind was free to concentrate on remapping her new more difficult world whereby she could negotiate a life for herself in the future. She needed the time.
—What is post-traumatic stress disorder, Mr Mooney?
—Post-traumatic stress disorder is a syndrome that follows exposure to an incident or incidents which cause massive stress to the patient. It’s seen quite commonly in war veterans but also in accident victims or rape victims.
—And in your opinion was Sinéad suffering from this disorder at this time?
—In the hospital, is it?
—Yes. For those five months in which she was in a state of stupor. Was she suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder?
—No. Although she suffered certain elements of it, no, she certainly didn’t have post-traumatic stress disorder at this time. She didn’t fulfil the diagnostic criteria. The diagnostic criteria are quite specific for this. It is generally only when one returns or tries to return to everyday life that somebody can be diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder. It causes inability to function normally through a variety of ways. Sinéad was suffering from deep depression made much more severe by a traumatic event which caused her mind considerable added stress, but she didn’t have post-traumatic stress disorder, per se.
—I see, thank you. Could you tell the jury when she started to come
out of this state of stupor she was in for five months, please? And how she appeared to begin to improve?
When she did finally emerge after everything she was like a woman mortally ashamed of her own self – a scarlet woman.
There was no way of keeping Racey away from her. Sinéad came home for a weekend first to see how she got on. She shouldn’t have been going any place. She got out the Friday and Racey took her to The Snug on the Saturday even though Sinéad was in no condition. She was quiet and withdrawn in herself and Racey had dragged her out with false niceness. Loving the thought of parading herself as the loyal friend and parading Sinéad in her drugged state as the main attraction of the night. Of the month for that matter. Free spirit Sinéad reduced to a drooling pale sleepy-eyed shadow isn’t it? Fucking drinking a glass of orange juice. She raised it gingerly to her lips with a hand all trembly. Her eyes looked around all sheepish and caught a glimpse of a turning fascinated head or two who happened to have a look over at that particular moment. Passers-by at a fucking car crash. She’d look up again a minute later, and someone else would be staring at her. She did that all night.
In came a fella called Liam Durcan with his brother who was home from Boston with a buddy and a cousin. They’d be around on the piss for the week so ’twas important to introduce them. To give them standing in the village while they were home. That they’d be let in isn’t it? That each would be treated like one of our own. Liam was about thirty now. He was a reasonable footballer, but had given up on account of taking over the father’s big farm. He introduced them all by name, and all of us by name back to them. Dinky, me, Racey, Karen, Snoozie and Ciara and then he skipped Sinéad and went on to introduce a few of the old men who were close to us at the bar.
I saw this one Ciara looking down and shaking her head to herself. No one else seemed to notice, even though it was hard not to. I was there for the night, and even when the girls had left, no one mentioned anything. The only other thing that stands out was the way they left, with Racey holding Sinéad’s arm all the way out the bar, and asking her loudly if she was OK. There was no need to do either of course, but Racey was a great friend and a martyr and would do anything for her. Her destruction.
The Gamal Page 30