House of the Dead

by Des Sheridan

  Chapter 18

  Sligo, Ireland, 14 September 2014

  Mrs Ryan had found Tara sitting in the chair staring into space, vacant and unresponsive. They called the doctor who came and sedated her, after which she was hospitalised for a week. Brian, shaken by her sudden deterioration, was adamant on her return home that she give up any thought of reading Joe’s materials; and for the next month and more she did just that, turning her mind to other things.

  She particularly enjoyed time spent shopping in Sligo Town with her niece. Aoife was a tall thin child with long light brown hair, pale skin and a wonderfully unfettered spirit, albeit twinned with an aura of fragility. No wonder with a mother like Niamh, Tara thought uncharitably. In America Tara had been a lousy aunt, forgetting birthdays and rarely thinking of her niece at all. But the child’s company was good for her now and she found the waif-like innocence of her niece a pleasing contrast to the awfulness of the adults she met. They greeted Tara with a patronising look in their eyes as if to say how unfortunate she was to be ill; as though she deserved it. Aoife accepted her aunt’s illness at face value, assisting with the practical problems it gave rise to but making no effort to probe it or make judgement. Tara, normally immune to sentiment, found herself profoundly touched by the child’s small acts of kindness.

  It was on one such shopping trip that Tara met Shay. They had gone to school together and she remembered vaguely that he had always had a shine for her. As a teenager she had not reciprocated but now, having bumped into him a few times in town, she found him attentive and considerate. In fact the very thing that had turned her off as a youngster, his steady predictability, she now found reassuring. He was a bruiser of a man, tall with great broad shoulders and thickset limbs and he shot about the place in his Audi TT. What you saw was what you got with Shay, she thought. His red hair, open countenance and ready smile could be read like a book. He was a local legend and popular too, having captained the Sligo hurling team in the All Ireland Final some years back. Although good-looking, there was something about him that didn’t quite work for her, but he was harmless and provided a distraction. Distractions were a great boon for her these days as they stopped her getting morose.

  During this time Tara hadn’t forgotten her grandfather’s memoirs. Joe had come alive for her in his writings and finally she resolved to return to her reading; she had to know more. She agreed with Brian to stick to the later journals, for now at least, and resumed her task. Seeking an insight into the older Joe, she selected a diary dating back only fifteen months. It covered a period of about nine months and many passages were a delight, providing an account of his rambles around Rosnaree. He loved to walk in all weathers and his notes on the countryside, its wildlife, crumbling ancient monuments and legends were very evocative. She knew she would have liked this Joe.

  Reading on, Tara encountered upon a new type of entry, first appearing about a year before his death. These were darker, more troubled writings that seemed to reflect bouts of intense depression and uncertainty. Often they trailed off into nonsense, the words on the page unable to capture whatever meaning he was seeking to express. These troubled passages grew in frequency as she turned the pages. There was mention now of doctors and how useless they were. And for the first time Joe spoke of dreams that seemed to recur and began to obsess him.

  His ramblings mentioned an old tomb and three spirals, but never identified exactly where he meant. He seemed to be researching historic features in the vicinity and he clearly had walked the surrounding hills in search of them. Tara recognised an allusion to the Labby Rock, a giant dolmen where the legendary lovers Diarmuid and Gráinne were said to have slept. The jottings over time became more extensive and addressed court tombs, wedge tombs, passage tombs, ritual landscapes and a wealth of other archaeological data, enlivened by hasty sketches and plan drawings. Joe’s interest in the monuments had evidently matured into a preoccupation and he had started to travel further afield to the great megalithic sites of Sligo. He had visited Knocknarea, where the legendary Queen Maeve was reputed to lie, and Carrowmore, a giant cemetery with over thirty individual tombs. In his attempts to systemise this information, Tara recognised an echo of her own analytical skills and her interest was kindled. She just wished Joe’s notes could have been less chaotic.

  Repeatedly Joe returned to Carrowkeel, where fourteen massive passage tombs straddled the high ground overlooking Lough Arrow. A childhood memory reminded Tara that they were known locally as the Pinnacles and that on a good day you could see the great piles of rock from the house. Moving over to the dormer window she scanned the horizon but low cloud shrouded the hills and there was nothing to be seen.

  The diary was littered with photos, cuttings, sketches and drawings. Initially Tara thought the latter were doodles; they seemed very abstract with random zigzag and spiral patterns. But on closer examination she realised they were representations of artwork, carved into the rock, the sort she recalled seeing as a child when visiting the great tomb at Newgrange, a hundred miles to the east. One image, a conjoined set of three spirals, occurred repeatedly, sometimes coloured in with gaudy marker pen colours in a pointillist style. She wondered at first why he had done this, but, tracing the coloured lines from one spiral to the next, she realised that the spirals were intertwined, three linking into one.

  Returning to the text, and reading it over several times to get proper sense of it, she concluded that the later passages involving Carrowkeel and the Old Tomb flitted between reality and dream. In one place Joe mentioned meeting people and singing with them. At another the text described a feeling of great elation. He talked of conversing with a messenger who had been sent to guide him. Elsewhere Joe seemed to be witnessing an event of great violence and the notes descended into babble. Tara realised she must be following the descent of her grandfather’s mind into dementia. He seemed increasingly imprisoned in a hallucinatory world where monuments and legends had become malevolently alive. The hair on the back of Tara’s neck rose. She had always assumed that dementia for the sufferer was an empty world, but in Joe’s case the opposite was true. He seemed tormented by extreme mental activity and imaginings; locked in with them and trapped by them. Anxiously Tara looked over her shoulder around the room as though her reading of Joe’s imaginings might somehow have conjured them up. The silent empty room, dimming as the afternoon light failed, seemed of a sudden pregnant with latent menace.

  There was one section, comprising a few paragraphs near the end, where lucidity returned. In it Joe described the location of the Old Tomb and the reference suggested that he had walked to it, in a short time, from the house. Tara was puzzled; there was no tomb near the house. She should know, for as a youngster she had crawled all over the place in pursuit of games and adventures. And yet something in his description seemed familiar to her. She resolved to go soon on the old walk around the back of the house. It would give her a chance to connect Joe’s writings with the landscape of the area and the doctor was advising her to get more fresh air.

  Putting aside the material, she descended the stairs and left the flat with a sense of relief. There were things in Joe’s world that did not make for comfortable reading and were probably not good for her frame of mind. A small voice inside her told her to leave well enough alone but Tara was by nature a curious creature. That was why she had been such a good forensic auditor. She knew how to dig out the truth.

  Chapter 19

  Brussels, Belgium, November 2004

  Arriving at the tall townhouse in a rundown part of Saint Josse, the patron quickly apprised Erik and Theo of his intention. Putting his arm around their shoulders he pulled them in close, their faces inches away from his own. Erik could feel his stare and it made him shiver.

  ‘Now boys, today we push the boat out all the way! Our friend won’t be coming back and we are going to make his departure nice and slow, and have ourselves some real fun. Can I count on you?’

  The patron’s words were carefully chosen bu
t Erik knew what was intended. Last night the thought had frightened him, even today on the walk here, but now the words had been finally uttered his unease started to lift. The patron increasingly had that effect on him, especially since he had returned from gaol. Somehow the boss always persuaded him to go along with things. The boss resumed speaking.

  ‘This is the moment of truth. I need men, around me, not boys. You can walk now but if you do, you will never get back in with me.’

  He released his grip and moved back, awaiting their answer. Erik wasn’t sure that the patron would let them walk, they knew so much. But he might. In the underworld you couldn’t kill everyone, someone had to walk and tell the tale; that was how reputations were built. Erik saw his employer watching him keenly, a half smile on his lips, and felt the inevitable certainty coalesce within his stomach. He needed the money, he needed the job.

  ‘Yes, boss – I’m in.’

  ‘If Erik’s in, I’m in too.’

  Theo’s words had a certainty that his wavering voice seemed to lack. The other two men both picked up the nuance and laughed. Then the boss moved them on.

  ‘Good, now, there is something else, I have invited three of the Party Committee, including Jean Le Vache, to join us. They need educating, a bit of cognitive therapy, so let’s plan how to run the show.’

  ‘What do you mean? Cognitive what?’

  The patron smiled at Eric.

  ‘It’s simple, Erik. It is important that Jean and the others know to some extent what is coming and choose willingly to participate. Just as you and Theo have just done.’

  When Jean and two other men arrived, the patron chatted amiably with them, careful to drop enough hints of what was to follow to whet their appetite. Watching the patron interact with the new arrivals Erik realised what he was doing: he was priming them. Finally the boss seemed satisfied, and took them down the narrow steep, dog-leg stairs into the lower cellar. The professor was sitting in a chair with his hands tied behind it. Although a thin man of quite small stature he had a large head, longish hair and a closely cropped goatee beard, which he dyed to hide the grey in it. He was sixty four years old. His expression combined fear and arrogance in equal measure. Initially the patron and Erik played good cop and bad cop and Professor Le Maitre fell for it, shouting at Erik and thinking he could yet win over their leader. After ten minutes of verbal exchanges, Le Maitre was in cocky form, addressing the three witnesses and warning them to promptly put a stop to proceedings. He reminded them that he had been leader of the Conference du Renouveau Celtique Internationale for twenty- two years and there was no way they could oust him through a bit of heavy-handed carry-on. Did they think he was born yesterday?

  Without warning the patron suddenly struck him hard across the face with the flat of his large hand. Le Maitre stared back at his attacker, his eyes wide in alarm. This seemed to enrage the boss further and he shouted into the prisoner’s face, spraying it with spittle.

  ‘There are some things you just don’t get, aren’t there, Jacques? I have given you plenty of opportunities to move on, move over or move up. But you wouldn’t – would you? Well get this, we are going to kick the shit out of you and then you will gladly kiss my boot.’

  Pulling back he gave the nod, and Erik and Theo moved in on Le Maitre. They beat him expertly, with slaps to the face and punches to the stomach, pausing between blows so that the patron could abuse the man further, itemising the mistakes he had made and the offence given on numerous occasions by his refusal to fall into line. The boss was working himself up into a right frenzy. Erik felt himself respond to his boss’s mood; escalating the strength of his blows to match it. Theo, as usual, took his signals from Erik. Together they worked the old man over.

  Finally, cutting the ropes, the men let Le Maitre slump to the ground and the patron put his boot forward. You had to admire the professor’s courage, Erik thought. The prisoner refused to kiss the shoe, and spat a mixture of saliva and blood at it instead. Everyone laughed and the patron waved them upstairs.

  ‘Come on, let’s have a break, this is thirsty work.’

  Back upstairs in the house, the patron passed around drinks, and explained the information that he wanted to extract from Le Maitre.

  ‘I have heard from several sources that when Jacques has had too much to drink he has claimed to have secret knowledge of the Seeing, the Celtic ritual of divining the future. Well, it is time for him to share it!’

  He laughed and the others joined in.

  ‘The fact that he is not divulging this information to his closest associates shows what we are dealing with. It is very frustrating and holding the work of the Conference back. He needs to be taught a lesson!’

  Erik observed how the patron also dropped hints to the men, giving them a chance to leave if they wanted to, but was not surprised when they didn’t. The neat whisky was having an effect and curiosity did the rest. He noticed that Le Vache looked hesitant. Erik disliked the little creep anyway. The man thought he was a cut above the likes of him and Theo, giving them disdainful looks and rarely speaking to them. It was good to see him today looking uncertain and nervous. He could do with taking down a peg or two and Erik sensed an opportunity close to hand.

  Leaving the room, the patron made them wait in the hall as Erik pulled out some parcels from a cupboard and ripped them open. Each contained a white, full-length coverall with a front zip and Erik passed one to each man.

  Jean, a look of alarm on his face as he took in the elasticated collars to the hood, cuff and ankles, asked ‘Why do we need these?’

  Erik, sensing Jean’s increasing unease, felt emboldened and goaded the man as he chivvied him into the suit.

  ‘This could get a bit messy, Jean. You don’t want blood on your nice clothes do you? What would Monique say? Come on, don’t be a baby.’

  The others laughed and Erik watched with satisfaction as Jean grinned awkwardly in embarrassment. The man looked to the patron for support but he was just laughing along with the others and Erik was pleased, his authority enhanced. When they were all in the suits they filed downstairs and entered the basement. Seconds after entering the room Jean, turning abruptly around, seemed belatedly to try to bolt but found that Theo was already locking the door after them. Erik watched the colour drain from Jean’s face as he realised that there was no turning back now. That’s right, thought Erik with relish; it is time for you to join the big boys.

  Chapter 20

  Cashel, Ireland, 15 September 1647

  The Archbishop stroked his fair beard with his right hand and reassessed his options. The roar of cannon boomed outside, each volley followed by cries and screams. Murrough’s abrupt attack on the Rock had come without warning to all including Cornelius. In his sixty-seventh year, he had been Archbishop of Cashel for the last two decades and it had taken a rare mix of shrewdness, guile and luck to survive over that long period of time. Sometimes a further gift had come to his aid - an instinct to sense early when the game was up. Colonel Butler, not fifteen minutes since, had confidently reassured him that his troops would repel the onslaught, but something told Cornelius otherwise.

  To him, Murrough’s unflinching resolve spoke volumes of the age they now lived in. As soon as the Baron had arrived yesterday afternoon he had demanded their immediate surrender and this morning, when it was not forthcoming, he had ordered his cannons to open fire. Cornelius reflected that it was part of a wider canvas. Infighting amongst neighbours had always been the way of the Celts but that custom - cattle theft, duels and small set pieces between troops of warriors - was not what was happening now. This warfare was on a larger scale and more brutal, with grim-faced colonels relentlessly laying waste to the land in their wake. Ireland had never seen this before outside of the northern plantations. The Archbishop recognised in Murrough a man for the times: ambitious, untrustworthy and increasingly unpredictable and ruthless.

  Sensing that a turning point was upon them, Cornelius could see only darkness and death ahe
ad. As Archbishop he had a public duty to look to the security of the Rock, its inhabitants and its religious treasures. But privately there was much more at stake. Above everything he must personally protect the Triskell. Striding out into the hall, he waved a hand, summoning Canon Lally, his Treasurer, into private conference in his chamber.

  ‘Donovan, do be quick.’ he called out tensely. ‘Time is short!’

  On the far side of the walls Murrough, realising that the initial bombardment was not going to be enough to force the quick surrender he wanted, was in no mood to accept defeat. Looking up at the walls of the fortress, his eyes travelled further to the azure blue sky, threaded today with wispy high-level cloud. Gone were the dark clouds of last evening and the prolonged spell of fine weather was continuing. An idea took shape in his fertile, impatient mind. His horse officers could offer little on horseback against such a bulwark as the Rock, but he might yet avail of their bravery in another way. Ordering them to dismount, he redeployed them to strengthen the core of an assault upon the walls on foot. Two cavalry officers voiced concern at such an indignity but a snarl from Murrough was sufficient to silence them.

  A number of foot soldiers were tasked with carrying forward piles of dried turves, which were placed against the foot of the walls. In this manner a great bank of turf was created which Murrough’s men then set alight. Initially the smoke served its intended purpose, helping protect the attackers from the pikes and rocks that were raining down upon them from the walls. Then, significantly and unexpectedly, the wind changed and the smoke billowed over the walls into the compound, causing consternation in the ranks of the defenders.

  Taking advantage of the mayhem, Murrough’s men scaled the walls in several places and broke into the courtyard, cutting down the defending troops. Seeing what was happening Colonel Butler, who was leading the defence, called on his troops to fall back into the garrison. Here they held their ground awhile but, coming under further pressure, were obliged before long to retreat further into the Cathedral. But even this was useless since by now there was no stopping the invaders who were using ladders to scale the walls and smash through the stained glass windows. It was a rout. The attackers flooded into the building and within minutes were swarming around the rest of the complex.