by Jess Kidd
Madame Sabine’s head drops forwards. She regards me with a sudden searching gaze, her black irises bright. Her hands make one last pass and then drop, lifeless, back onto the counter. Her head yanks up with a clattering of her coin-edged veil. A card drops into a recess below and the curtains fitfully draw themselves closed.
I pick it up. It’s a postcard.
It’s been ripped to pieces and put back together again. The repair is illuminated with seams of glowing gold.
Greetings from Pearl Strand
It is a wild empty place, the place on the postcard. A place where the ocean meets the sky and seabirds scream and reel in wide, wide, borderless blue. Where dunes are three stories high or no more than an anthill. Where the sand has a sheen to it, a certain luster in the right light (moonlight, starlight, dawnlight). A long crescent swoon of a beach.
I turn the postcard over. In pale-blue ink, big loopy letters dotted with a love heart:
Wish you were here.
CHAPTER 48
Chief Constable Frank Gaunt, retired, will drive us there: Renata, in dark glasses and a wax jacket, the dog, and me.
Frank waits in the hallway under the sour glower of Johnny Cash and the benign gaze of Jesus Christ. Renata finds her handbag, her keys. He remarks on how much Stella has grown.
“She’s spoilt,” Renata says with a smile.
I watch them watching the dog and wonder how I will get through this day.
* * *
THE HOUSE is boarded up. At the top you can see empty windows and charcoaled joists. In wet weather the smell of smoke rises again.
They have cleared the grounds of the rubbish that made the fire brigade’s job so difficult. It was a warren, they said, impossible to get their equipment down, which is why the damage was so severe. The caravan has survived, along with the icehouse and the gate lodge with its mullioned windows. I can see them now, past the cut-down bushes and wooden walkways. The well is still covered with a tent.
We meet the police officer in charge; I don’t catch his name but he has hair gel and a shaving rash and a habit of pushing the tip of his tongue between his lips after every sentence. We shake hands and he walks us round. Renata grills him; she’s only interested in the forensics and she wants all the details. The police officer looks at her in desperation as he guides her over uneven surfaces. Frank brings up the rear with Stella dancing on her lead.
Renata takes my arm and squeezes it. She still has moments of panic outdoors. When she does we do breathing exercises and sing show tunes. I look up to see if she’s struggling. She kisses me and offers a tissue from her handbag. Then I realize it’s me that’s crying.
* * *
“DID THE fox ever come back?” I ask the police officer.
He nods. “It’s been seen hanging around.”
“And the cats?”
“A few; some of the builders have rehomed them.”
I wonder about Beckett, but with eyes like his he would have easily found a home. Stella pulls at her lead, as if she’s caught a sniff of something. Or maybe it’s just the word.
* * *
AS FOR the saints: there are no saints today. No faint bobbing of a veil outside the perimeter fence, no flick and slap of a pacing sandal.
Instead, all around me stand Bridlemere’s dead.
I can’t see them but I’m sure they are there. Mary Flood, relaxed in a shirtdress, puts a steadying hand on my shoulder. Maggie, standing a little apart, flashes me a quick grin. Cathal raises the still-dark caterpillars of his eyebrows.
And the others?
There are no others. There are some fires even the dead can’t survive.
I LAY flowers at the gate alongside wilted bouquets and teddy bears. Marguerites for Maggie. Roses: red and white for Mary, and for Cathal, a single perfect yellow bloom.
* * *
LILLIAN HAD cleaned it and wrapped it up until I was ready to look at it: the frame I had taken from the wall of the white room as the fire brigade fought to save Bridlemere, as the staircase fell, as the sparks shot up into the night.
The moths were intact, pale and pristine under glass. I worked the back free and found what I was looking for: the counterpart to the envelope hidden in the red room. Inside, on three sheets of paper, executed in small neat handwriting: Mary Flood’s confession.
* * *
SHE HAD read the story on her son’s face before he even opened his mouth. She had lost one child. So she promised not to tell.
But she began to fear that she would. That in a moment of weakness it would burst out of her. She’d be at church, or talking to Mrs. Cabello, and out it would come.
She had kept secrets before but this one was different. It festered and suppurated. It pressed against the sides of her skull. It was a dark mass at the back of her tongue. It strangled her heart and soured her stomach. She felt it lodged there, heavy and corrupt, like poison. Mary was consumed with the urge to tell, to vomit the whole story up.
She couldn’t tell her husband and she couldn’t tell her priest; she couldn’t tell her doctor and she couldn’t bring herself to tell her god.
So Mary wrote it down.
* * *
SHE WOULD sit and stare at her reflection. Sometimes in the red room, sometimes in the white; it didn’t matter. Both belonged to Maggie really, not to Mary. Furnished for a princess, not a queen. Neither room had been used by the girl; Cathal had readied them against visits that never happened. For the father doted on the child, despite everything. She was his fairy-tale girl, she could have everything, twice.
Rose Red, Snow White became Alice and fell down, down, down the rabbit hole.
Mary would sit for hours. Sometimes in the white room, sometimes in the red; it didn’t matter. For both mirrors showed the same woman: sealed mouth, hair of dust, and eyes of stone.
Soon enough there was another face at the mirror alongside the woman’s.
Everywhere Mary went Maggie followed, drifting behind, from room to room, twisting the end of her ponytail and staring accusingly.
Every night Mary took a tumble into the well. Her nails scrabbling against blasted brickwork. Her hands grabbing at the strange subterranean plants that grew from the cracks. Her lungs breathing the cold, earthy smell of the bottom of the world as she turned. Every night she was shattered by the impact.
Every morning, when she woke, Mary wondered if she could last.
* * *
STELLA IS asleep on the sofa, snoring softly. Her legs twitching as she chases the cats that slink and hiss through her dreams.
We see Frank Gaunt out and go into the kitchen and sit for a while drinking krupnik how it’s meant to be drunk, with a steady hand and a grateful brain.
Mary’s confession, the confession we didn’t show Frank Gaunt, is on the table between us.
“What do you want to do with it, Maud?” Renata’s voice is low, gentle.
I think about Mary, a proud broken fire-haired woman. Signing her name, sealing the envelope. I think about Maggie, safe now in the police morgue, raised from her unquiet slumber under rubble at the well’s end. Soon she’ll sleep in the family plot, only this time her rest will be eternal.
I think about Gabriel and Stephen, trapped at the foot of the stairs, their exit blocked by fallen debris. The cause of the fire: faulty wiring on a set of fairy lights.
Mostly, I think of Cathal sitting at the kitchen table at Bridlemere, whistling through his dentures, swearing amiably.
He pats down the wild white mane of his hair and smiles. Then he’s off, scudding down the cluttered hallway of my mind’s eye.
I get up and search the kitchen drawer for matches.
* * *
IT CATCHES. I hold the paper as it burns, dropping it into the sink when the flame gets too near my fingers.
I wait for a dim figure to step through the wall, with a glowing corona and a muttered prayer. With a cloak, or a robe, or a wall-eyed wink. But nowadays there are only two undaunted women in a maisone
tte with a bottle of krupnik.
“You’ve packed your passport, then?”
I smile. “I have.”
“Of course you have.”
“Will you be all right?” I say. “I’ll be back in a week or so.”
“You’ll do no such thing.” Renata looks me in the eye. “You’ll come back when you’ve found her.”
I nod.
“And you will find her, Maud.”
I raise my glass to Renata and she raises her glass to me.
EXTRACT FROM THE ILLUSTRATED BOOK OF SAINTS
Saints were once real people like you or me, only far more special. In life, these individuals built monasteries and performed miracles of stigmata, prophecy, and ecstatic flight. They suffered uncomplainingly from eye gouging and lions, tuberculosis and disbelief. Sometimes they witnessed holy apparitions. To become a saint, you must be recognized by the church for your good work, exceptional piety, or arduous suffering in the name of Christ. We ask saints to pray to God on our behalf, invoking them against a wide variety of sicknesses, adversities, and disasters. When making a petition, it is a good idea to think about which saint best relates to the challenges you face. Each saint has a dedicated annual honorary day called a “feast day.” We remember the saints on their feast days and give them special mention in our prayers. The following are short biographies of the saints who appear in Mr. Flood’s Last Resort.
Gouging is when they dig out your eyes with a stick or a teaspoon. Mrs. McFadden used the handle of a rolling pin.
(Now Mr. McFadden can’t use it to stare at all the ladies in town.)
St. Dymphna
She wasn’t quiet at all
Born in seventh-century Ireland, Dymphna was an obedient, quiet little girl who loved Jesus above all else. Her father was a fierce old pagan king and her mother was a good, kind Christian queen. One sad day, Dymphna’s mother died, and although the old king searched high and low for a wife, he couldn’t find one to rival his dead queen in beauty. Mad with grief, he decided to marry Dymphna, who was as lovely as her mother had been before her. Learning of his plan, Dymphna fled Ireland for the continent, where she hid from her father in a town called Gael, in a country we now call Belgium. Dymphna had already promised herself to Christ and resolved to marry no man, least of all her raving pagan father. The old king hunted his daughter tirelessly, sending spies all over Ireland and abroad. Dymphna was found and the king traveled to Gael to force her to return home with him. When Dymphna refused, he struck the head from her body. Dymphna was only fifteen years old.
it’s brown
St. Dymphna has lovely yellow hair and wears fine robes. Often she is seen holding a lily, a lamp, or a sword. She also wears a crown. St. Dymphna is the patron of lunatics and runaways. Her feast day is May 15.
St. George
Top Secret Favorite
George was a brave and honest Roman soldier, though some say he was originally from Greece. Either way, he was the savior of a town named Salene, where a lake-dwelling dragon brought terror and the plague. So malignant was this creature that it poisoned the air and the water, the soil, and even the stones for miles around. To pacify the dragon, the townspeople fed it sheep and then goats, cats and then dogs. But the dragon was so greedy that they soon ran out of animals and had no choice but to feed it their own children. The first to be chosen was the king’s own daughter, who was taken out to the lake to appease the monster. George, passing by, learned of the dragon and the plight of the people and rode out to the lake to save the princess. Hearing the sound of horse’s hooves and the clank of armor, the dragon rose from the water. George made the sign of the cross and waded in, wounding the beast with his lance. He called for the princess to throw him her girdle and bound the dragon with it. Chastised, the dragon followed as George led it back to the town and told the people that he would kill it if they embraced the Lord and promised to live like Christians. Eventually, George met a bitter end when he refused to renounce his Christian faith and was sentenced to a brutal death by the evil emperor Diocletian. George is one of the Fourteen Holy Helpers whose prayers to God are very powerful.
A plague is when your tongue goes blue + your nails fall out + your teeth go soft + you get blisters the size of pancakes.
St. George wears shining armor and his lance. He is often pictured riding a pure white horse and sometimes there is a sly dragon under his feet. St. George is the patron of many places all around the world, such as Gozo, Milan, and the Balearic Islands. His feast day is April 23.
St. Monica
As a young girl, Monica was married off to a cruel Roman official, a pagan with evil ways and a terrible temper. Monica tried hard to be a good wife and she prayed for her husband and his mother, a difficult and unkind woman. When Monica’s son, Augustine, fell ill, she sought permission from her tyrant husband for his baptism. He agreed, but as the child recovered, he went back on his promise. Augustine grew into a wayward, idle youth, much to Monica’s dismay. He was sent away to school. But Monica was patient and continued to pray for him. After receiving a vision directing her to seek reconciliation with Augustine, she set out to find him. With the help of St. Ambrose, a holy bishop, Monica had the joy of finally witnessing her son’s conversion to Christianity. St. Augustine would later write of his mother’s acts of piety in his seminal book, Confessions.
not that lovely
St. Monica has a stern, but lovely face and wears modest, plain-colored robes. She is the patroness of difficult marriages, disappointing children, and the conversion of relatives. Her feast day is August 27.
cream
She is a bit sour + full of nagging. Granny says she would be the kind to wear the paint off the walls.
St. Raphael
St. Raphael is one of the three archangels who stand at the throne of our Lord. He appears in many artworks, usually standing on a fish and holding a staff. Known for being a great healer, St. Raphael has cathedrals and other venues named after him all around the world from Quebec to Cuba, Mexico to France.
He is GORGEOUS!
St. Raphael has kindly eyes, long hair, and magnificent wings. He is the patron saint of travelers, happy meetings, and nurses. His feast day is September 29.
St. Rita of Cascia
When her husband was murdered by his enemies, Rita, a kind and worthy woman, urged her sons not to take revenge. After her husband’s death, Rita was free to fulfill her dream of entering a convent, so she joined the Augustinians. Rita wanted to suffer as the Lord himself had, so she prayed long and hard that Christ would allow her to suffer. Rita developed a deep wound on her forehead, such as would be made by the puncturing of a thorn. This wound never healed and caused her much pain, which she bore without complaining very much until she died in 1457. St. Rita’s prayers to God are very powerful, and her specialty is the granting of impossible requests.
Moaners cannot become saints – if you feel a complaint coming, the best thing would be to slap your face or bite your lip.
St. Rita’s most identifiable feature is the nasty sore on her head. She is also often pictured with a grapevine, roses, or bees. She wears the neat brown habit of a nun. St. Rita is the patron saint of lost and impossible causes, wounds, and marriage problems.
St. Valentine
Rather than renounce his faith, St. Valentine died at the hands of his Roman enemies, in AD 273. Many legends surround this great martyr, including the time he was asked to restore the sight of a nobleman’s child in order to prove that his God existed. The blind child duly found that she could see again. St. Valentine was captured and put into prison for telling people about God and for secretly helping couples to get married in ceremonies that were prohibited by the Romans. When he was in prison, St. Valentine tried to convert the emperor Claudius II who, angered by this, sentenced the priest to death by beating and beheading.
NOT a nice way to die (but could be better than being boiled, flayed, or stoned to death). Depends who you ask.
St. Valentine
is typically associated with roses, birds, and bees. He is the patron saint of beekeepers, betrothed couples, restored sight, and people who have the plague. He often appears dressed as a bishop in lovely red and white robes. This great martyr’s feast day is February 14, and even people who don’t know the story of St. Valentine go out and buy a card or a few blooms for their sweethearts in order to avoid facing the same grim fate.
NO THANK YOU
Turn the page to read the first chapter of Jess Kidd’s spellbinding debut novel, Himself, available wherever books are sold.
1
April 1976
Mahony shoulders his rucksack, steps off the bus, and stands in the dead center of the village of Mulderrig.
Today Mulderrig is just a benign little speck of a place, uncoiled and sprawling, stretched out in the sun. Pretending to be harmless.
If Mahony could remember the place, which he can’t of course, he’d not notice many changes since he’s been gone. Mulderrig doesn’t change, fast or slowly. Twenty-six years makes no odds.
For Mulderrig is a place like no other. Here the colors are a little bit brighter and the sky is a little bit wider. Here the trees are as old as the mountains and a clear river runs into the sea. People are born to live and stay and die here. They don’t want to go. Why would they when all the roads that lead to Mulderrig are downhill so that leaving is uphill all the way?
At this time of the day the few shops are shuttered and closed, and the signs swing with an after-hours lilt and pitch, and the sun-warmed shop front letters bloom and fade. Up and down the high street, from Adair’s Pharmacy to Farr’s Outfitters, from the offices of Gibbons & McGrath Solicitors to the Post Office and General Store, all is quiet.