Broken Angels (Katie Maguire)

by Masterton, Graham

  He took hold of the small oatmeal-coloured cardigan she was wearing, and peeled it off her shoulders. Then he tugged her sleeves off, one after the other, and dropped the cardigan on to the floor.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing, boy?’ she breathed, in a real back-of-the-number-seven-bus North Side accent. She loved the rasp of his stubble, and she deliberately chafed her face backwards and forwards against his cheek.

  ‘Thought you might be hot,’ he told her.

  He unfastened the top button of her green silk blouse, and then the second button, and then the third. He curved his hand inside and cupped her left breast, and gently squeezed it through her bra.

  ‘And what do you think you’re doing now, boy?’ she challenged him, but no less breathily.

  ‘I’m reminding myself of what I’m going to be leaving behind me.’

  His voice was like a soft blustery wind blowing across her ear. He was already unbuttoning her cuffs, and drawing her blouse off completely. It slid to the floor on top of her cardigan.

  He kissed her again, her lips and her eyelids and her throat. Then he reached behind her and thumbed open the catch of her bra. He gently lifted it away and cupped her bare breasts in his hands as if he had been given two miraculous fruit to hold. His thumbs softly rotated around her nipples, until they tightened and knurled. She had large breasts for a small woman, and John had always told her how much he liked it when she turned around, and he could see the crescent moons of her breasts on either side of her back.

  ‘What is this?’ she asked him, biting at his earlobe. ‘What are you trying to do to me? You know I can’t come with you. I just can’t.’

  ‘Ow!’ he said. ‘You’re hurting me!’

  ‘Wimp,’ she retorted, biting him even harder.

  ‘Stop it. This has nothing to do with my going back to the States.’

  ‘Oh, no?’

  ‘No. I’m not trying to change your mind. This is just us, here and now, this evening, in front of the fire. I hereby suspend time. There is no tomorrow.’

  He loosened her belt buckle and unzipped her tight black jeans. She pretended to resist him, but she lifted up her hips a little to make it easier for him to pull her jeans down and over her ankles. They had been lovers for over a year, and had slept together two or three times every week, and yet she felt both shy and highly aroused, as if this was the first time they had ever done it.

  They kissed furiously and deeply, almost like two excited dogs trying to take a bite out of each other. As they did so, John yanked open the buttons of his own blue denim shirt, and unbuckled his braided leather belt. He stood up, stripped off his shirt and his white T-shirt, and then stepped out of his jeans. He lost his balance as he did so, and nearly fell on top of her, and they both laughed.

  ‘How much have you had to drink?’ she teased him.

  ‘Not too much, you’ll be happy to know.’ As if to prove it, his boxer shorts were rearing up at the front, and Katie reached out and gripped his penis through the thin blue-striped cotton.

  ‘An Garda Síochána ought to issue these instead of batons,’ she grinned, squeezing him hard, her green eyes sparkling with mischief. ‘Well – it’s a sight harder than the regulation timber ones.’

  John pushed her slowly back on to the deep tapestry sofa cushions and kissed her, but she still didn’t let him go.

  ‘Do you know how much I love you, Katie Maguire?’ he told her. ‘I love you more than all of the crubeens in Cork.’

  ‘That must be the least romantic compliment that any man has ever paid me.’

  ‘What could be more romantic than that?’

  ‘Oh, come on. Can you imagine if Shakespeare had written, “Shall I compare thee to a plateful of pigs’ trotters”?’

  ‘You compared my cock with a cosh.’

  ‘Sure I did. But that was a compliment. Just look at it.’

  With that, she tugged down his shorts and bared his erection. His glans was swollen dark crimson, and a clear droplet of anticipation was already winking at her in the opening. She cupped his tightly wrinkled testicles in the palm of her left hand, and wound his dark pubic hair around her right index finger. She loved his pubic hair because it put her in mind of Michelangelo’s David, or some other classical male nude, like dark heroic flames.

  He leaned over her, and whispered, ‘I dream about you every night, Katie, do you know that, and I think about you every day.’

  ‘But you’re angry with me, aren’t you, because I didn’t tell you all about my work, and how much it means to me. And you’re angry with me because I won’t give it up and come to San Francisco with you.’

  ‘I’m not angry.’

  ‘Yes you are. I can tell.’

  ‘Katie, you think you can read people like a book, and maybe you can, those criminals you have to deal with. But I’m me, and I love you, and I think you should give me some credit for being more complicated than that.’

  ‘What are you then, if you’re not angry?’

  He didn’t answer, but kissed her again – her hair, her forehead, her eyelids, the tip of her nose, and then her lips, almost as if he were giving her the sign of the cross in kisses. Then he sat up, and took hold of the elastic waistband of her pink lace thong, and drew it down over her knees and over her feet and dropped it on to the floor.

  ‘Now I’m going to read you like a book,’ he said. He had an expression on his face that she couldn’t quite make sense of – lustful, yes, but artful, too, as if he knew exactly what he was going to do to her and what the effect would be.

  He parted her thighs with both hands. She didn’t exactly resist him, but she made him use some strength to expose her. She was waxed and hairless, and her lips opened with the faintest juicy plick!

  John lowered his head and licked her clitoris with the tip of his tongue – just once, and then paused, staring directly into her eyes, as if he were savouring the taste of it. Then he licked her clitoris again, and again, and again, very lightly, but enough to give her a prickling sensation all the way down her spine and between her legs.

  He looked up and said, ‘See... this is how I open the pages,’ and he used his thumbs to separate her lips even wider, so that she was completely exposed to him.

  ‘The left-hand page of the book, that’s what they call the verso,’ he said.

  ‘Oh stop,’ Katie protested, reaching out to catch at his hair, but he ducked his head sideways to avoid her.

  ‘I’m serious. This is where I can read all about your past. You were always on the wild side, weren’t you, when you were growing up? Don’t try to deny it – your father told me all about you. You were wild and stubborn, and always trying to show the boys that you could beat them at their own game. Which you did, by becoming a detective, and then the top detective.’

  Katie didn’t know if she was amused or embarrassed or aroused, or all three. ‘You’re a header, John. You really are.’

  He looked up at her again, and smiled, but then he carried on. ‘The right-hand page, that’s the recto. That’s where I can read your future. I can see here – yes – I can clearly see here that you’re going to be making a break with your past, a truly spectacular break. You’re going to find happiness, and personal fulfilment, and somebody who loves you not in spite of your being so wild and stubborn, but because you are.’

  ‘And who taught you how to read a woman’s fortune by opening up her legs?’

  John smiled even more widely. ‘Every woman carries her fortune between her legs, you should know that.’

  ‘Sexist.’

  ‘That’s not sexist, that’s a compliment.’

  He knelt between her thighs, and took his penis in his right hand, and placed it so that his plum-like glans nestled between her lips, between verso and recto, the past and the future. She found his body irresistible, the hardness of it, his shoulder muscles sculpted into curves by eighteen months of physical work, ploughing and digging and log-cutting; and his narrow waist. She loved the d
ark crucifix of hair across his chest. But what was most attractive about him was not his body but the quiet respect he gave her, and his open admiration for what she was, and the way that he still found her a mystery worth exploring, even after all their time together.

  The question was: should she give in to him?

  There was a long silence between them, a sense that time was going by. John stayed where he was, making no attempt to push forward and penetrate her. She knew exactly what he was doing. If she allowed him to enter her, she was tacitly agreeing to give up everything in Cork – her career in the Garda, her family, her friends – and come with him to the States.

  The clock in the hallway started to chime. Katie took hold of John’s hips and slowly pulled him into her. He slid in so deep that he touched the neck of her womb and made her jump.

  20

  She arrived home shortly after 2 a.m. It had stopped raining now and a soft wind was blowing from the south-west. As she climbed out of her car she looked up and saw the full moon for a second or two, peeping at her from behind the clouds like a nosy neighbour. And where have you been this evening, Katie Maguire, and what shenanigans have you been up to?

  She unlocked the front door, took off her coat and her shoes and went through to the living room. It was ridiculous, she knew it, but in a way she still missed coming home to find Paul snoring on the couch, with half a dozen empty bottles of Satzenbrau on the coffee table in front of him, and the television still flickering with the volume switched off. She had never known what unholy mischief Paul had been up to during the day, and what tangles she would have to sort out for him in the morning.

  She went across to the sideboard and poured herself a glass of Power’s. She didn’t really feel like a drink but she didn’t want to go to bed straight away because she knew that she wouldn’t be able to sleep, and she didn’t want to watch Teleshopping or Shortland Street.

  She sat down in her armchair, her head bowed, and tried to make sense of what had happened this evening. Had she actually made up her mind to quit the Garda and go with John to the States? Or had she simply given in to her sexual frustration and the need for John to hold her in his arms? Had she been self-indulgent and weak, giving up on all her responsibilities, and all the hundreds of people who depended on her, or had she been incredibly courageous? Most of all, did she really have the nerve to go?

  She was still sitting there with her drink untouched when the kitchen light blinked on, and she heard the fridge door open.

  ‘Siobhán?’ she called out.

  A bottle clinked, and then the fridge door closed again, but Siobhán didn’t answer.

  ‘Siobhán?’

  Still no answer. Katie waited for a moment longer, and then she stood up and walked through into the kitchen.

  ‘Mary, Mother of God,’ she said. Siobhán’s short, balding ex-boyfriend Michael was standing at the counter, wearing nothing but a droopy pair of grey underpants. He was holding up a plastic takeaway curry container, and his mouth was half open, ready to take in a large forkful of chicken tikka masala.

  ‘Michael,’ said Katie. ‘What in the name of Jesus do you think you’re doing?’

  Michael looked around the kitchen, as if she might be talking to another Michael. Then he said, ‘Oh! I was feeling snacky, that’s all. Siobhán said she didn’t mind if I had some more curry so long as I faced the other way when I came back to bed and didn’t breathe it all over her, like.’

  ‘I don’t mean what are you doing eating curry. I mean what are you doing here at all?’

  Michael put down the fork and the curry container. ‘Siobhán said that you were away for the night, like, and any road you wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘Well, the funny part about it is, Michael, I do mind. This is my house and I don’t expect to come into my own kitchen in the middle of the night and find a strange man in his undercrackers eating some Indian takeaway.’

  ‘Me? You can’t call me a strange man, Katie. Come on, you’ve known me since school.’

  At that moment, Siobhán appeared in the kitchen doorway, her messy red hair even more Gorgon-like than usual, wearing nothing but a T-shirt with The Script printed on it in large red letters. Her eyes were puffy, as if she had been smoking skunk.

  ‘Katie? What’s going on? I thought you were staying with John tonight.’

  ‘Oh, yes? And why would you have thought that?’

  ‘Because I know how you feel about him, that’s why. I’m not blind, girl. I’ve been seeing how much you’ve been pining for him.’

  ‘That’s still no excuse for you to invite Michael here.’

  Siobhán put her arm around Michael and gave him a squeeze. Although he was short and beer-bellied, and he had a shiny bald head, he wasn’t bad-looking in a broad-faced, snub-nosed, twinkly-eyed way, and he was unfailingly good-humoured and always ready with a joke. Katie had always thought Michael would have made a perfect husband for Siobhán, but no husband would ever be a perfect husband for Siobhán because she could never stay faithful. Even at school the boys had called her Tootles because of her willingness to get down on her knees for any boy she fancied. She had discovered at a very early age what the way to a man’s heart was, and it was a little lower than his stomach.

  Michael said, ‘Come on, Katie. No cause to get upset. I’ll be gone after breakfast.’

  ‘So where does Nola think you are?’

  ‘I’m attending a company bash in Limerick so. You know, one of them morale-boosting things. Paintballing and bonding and all that malarkey.’

  ‘She’d kill you if she knew you were here, with Siobhán.’

  ‘She probably would, like. But, you know, this is just for old times’ sake.’

  Siobhán said, ‘You’re always judging me! Always acting all righteous and superior because I like a bit of fun! What harm are we doing to anyone?’

  ‘Oh, none at all, apart from cheating on Nola.’

  ‘Nola’s not going to find out, is she?’

  ‘I hope for your sake that she doesn’t.’

  ‘Well, I hope for your sake that she doesn’t find out from you!’

  ‘Are you threatening me?’

  ‘I wouldn’t dare, girl! You might arrest me! Mary, Mother of God, what it is to have a moral guardian for a sister!’

  ‘Oh, get back to bed,’ said Katie.

  Michael put his arm around Siobhán and said, ‘Come on, darling. I think it’s time we called it a night, don’t you?’

  ‘You haven’t had your curry yet,’ said Siobhán, looking defiantly at Katie.

  ‘Forget it,’ Michael told her. ‘I couldn’t eat it now if I tried. My throat’s gone all constricted, like.’

  There was a long moment when Siobhán stared at Katie and Katie saw something in her eyes that she had never seen before. It wasn’t hatred, but it might have been resentment. Perhaps she had always wanted to be like Katie, but had never known how. Katie thought: If only I knew how.

  She slept badly, and dreamed that she was walking through the grounds of Blarney Castle in the pouring rain. She was sure that she could hear little Seamus crying, but every time she stopped to listen, so that she could tell where the crying was coming from, she could hear only the rain, pattering on the grass.

  She didn’t know if she ought to call out for him or not. If she called out for him, the witches who clustered in the caves around the castle might realize that there was a child there, and go out hunting for him, rustling and cackling in the darkness. There was nothing that witches liked better than roasting babies on an open fire. It was said that almost every morning the ground-keepers of Blarney Castle found dying embers in the cave they called the Witches’ Kitchen.

  When she reached the top of the hill that overlooked the castle gardens, she decided to risk it. She took a deep breath and cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted out, ‘Seamus! Are you there, Seamus? Seamus, my little darling!’

  She listened, and listened, and she thought she could hear him cryin
g, but maybe it was only a seagull, because seagulls cry like lost children. She didn’t know what to do next. She couldn’t simply walk away and leave Seamus behind, could she? Even if he was dead, and lying in the Old Church Cemetery, he would be so lonely if his mother was living thousands of miles away, and how could she lay flowers on his grave?

  Her phone started to ring. She opened her eyes and realized that she had been dreaming, and that she wasn’t standing out in the rain, after all. In fact, the sun was shining through her yellow floral curtains, and her bedroom was filled with golden light.

  She sat up in bed and shook her head to wake herself up. Then she picked up the receiver and said, ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s Jimmy, ma’am, Sergeant O’Rourke. Sorry if I woke you.’

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Ten past seven.’

  ‘Jesus, sorry. I must have forgotten to set my alarm. What’s the story?’

  ‘We’ve got ourselves another one, ma’am. Another priest, with his mebs cut off. Well, we’re not sure about the mebs yet, but from all the blood it looks like it.’

  ‘Oh my God. Where?’

  ‘A blind man couldn’t miss him, ma’am. He’s hanging by his heels from the flagpole outside of St Joseph’s, thirty feet up. He’s all bound up with wire, just like Father Heaney. Hands tied behind his back, knees and ankles tied together, and the same loops in the wire, just like Father Heaney. Somebody’s given him a terrible mangling, too, by the look of it.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Only about an hour ago. First light. A young fellow was delivering papers and he looked up and there he was. Poor kid thought it was a vampire and practically shit his pants.’

  ‘You haven’t cut him down?’

  ‘I sent a young garda up on a ladder to cover him over with a groundsheet and we’ve set up a diversion around the Middle Glanmire Road. We don’t want the kids to see him hanging there, on their way to school.’