Something sparked in her eyes. She had her palms pressed to my chest now, and I could feel the anxiety rising in her suddenly. I pointed above her head.
‘Look at the moon, would you? Can you not see how beautiful it is?’ She didn’t look up. She looked at me: uncertainty, the beginnings of fear, maybe.
‘I want to go back,’ she said. ‘My friends will be waiting. They’ll be wondering where I am.’
‘No they won’t, you told me you’d had a fight.’
I had her pinned now, and she pushed at me. She tried to force me away with her elbows in my chest.
But I wouldn’t move. Spinning her round, I slammed her into the gate. She cried out. Covering her mouth, I dragged her down to the ground. She was terrified: eyes wide, lips parted, there was blood against her teeth. She was trying to scream, to cry out. I lay across her but somehow she managed to push me off and wriggle free. Grabbing her leg, I dragged her back and smashed her across the face.
She cried now. She tried to scream but I stuffed the heel of my hand in her mouth. I had her: she was prostrate beneath me. But I no longer wanted her. There was no desire in me. I did hate her, though: I hated her for the way she looked; I hated her for the way she’d led me on. I hated her for lighting a cigarette and dropping ash in my car.
*
Sitting at his desk, Quinn let go the breath he’d not realised was caught in his chest. He could still see Maggs in the witness box: dark hair and dark eyes, hunched up in his seat like a child. He had scrutinised every mannerism, every expression, every movement. He recalled thinking that no matter what he was trying to get across to the jury, there was a part of him that was enjoying the whole experience. He was the centre of attention, and he read so eloquently, and with such passion, that every eye was turned his way, including that of Eva, who was sitting in the public gallery wearing the necklace he’d given her.
*
I savoured every moment. With the belt around her neck, I could control how slowly she suffocated. It was incredible, empowering: to extinguish another person’s life. It was overwhelming. I tightened the belt; I tightened it till my knuckles whitened, before releasing it again. A gasp, and her body went into convulsion; twitching like a chicken with its head ripped off. That really intrigued me: when the oxygen was gone, she didn’t merely go limp: she went into a kind of fit. I realised I was at peace, a sense of quiet exultation working through my veins; this was the culmination of experience; it was action and reaction, authority without responsibility.
Lying back, I stared at the sky. The Milky Way was plainly visible; dusted stars, gathered like souls, cut a swathe through the firmament. I’m no writer, but lying there, I thought I could compose a poem. The stillness, the moon above, and the salty air drifting in from the sea.
Getting to my feet, I fetched a roll of tape from the boot of the car. She lay where I’d left her. For a moment, I thought she was dead. Bu she couldn’t be dead: not yet, at least. Bending close, I could feel her breath on my cheek. Relieved now, I tore off a strip of tape and fixed it over her mouth. I didn’t want any noise when she came to, but I didn’t want her to die either. Leaving her nostrils exposed, I bound her ankles, then her wrists, then left her lying in the shadows while I took a moment to think.
I knew this part of the country pretty well, and it didn’t take long to decide where I would take her. It began to rain; lifting her into the boot, I stood with the moon hidden and my eyes closed, letting the water roll off my face.
The engine running, I flicked on the headlights, then backed around and headed for the main road. I made for Ballylongford and O’Connor country; the ruins of Lislaughtin Abbey. Across the field was the old keep at Carrigafoyle: a stronghold the O’Connors had claimed was impregnable. In 1580, however, William Pelham had pounded it into ruins using small cannons and naval guns commandeered from English ships anchored in the bay.
Beyond the keep was one of the many broken-down cottages that littered this part of the River Shannon. Long and low it was, like a crofter’s place, a relic from the past; no one ever went there. I parked in front of a gate close to the house where Jimmy Hanrahan lived with his father. I’d seen Jimmy at the festival, though his father hadn’t been there. His dad hardly ever went out. His wife had thrown herself into the estuary after Jimmy had been charged with battering an old woman half to death. Ever since then, the poor old fool had seen dead people in his kitchen.
She was still unconscious as I lifted her, slippery where I’d wrapped her in a plastic tarp. Shoving open the gate, I made my way across boggy grass that sloped to rough banks and darkened water beyond. Coming to suddenly, she wriggled like a worm; I slapped her. She was heavy; the rain made the plastic oil slick, and it was all could do to hold her. I walked in a half-crouch a hundred yards along the shore.
By the time I made it to the cottage, I was breathing hard. Soaking wet, I could see the shell of the keep, and beyond it the remains of Lislaughtin Abbey.
The cottage had no roof, the wooden cross-beams breaking the sky overhead. Fatigued now, my legs felt like jelly. Inside, it took a moment for my eyes to grow accustomed to the dark. She was trying to cry out, muffled sounds coming from behind the tape. There was no one to hear her.
There were three rooms, one of which had been tacked on as an afterthought – a toilet or a scullery, perhaps. I considered the floors, carpet sticking to old boards, slivers of rotten linoleum. Many of the boards were decayed, the nails that held them, rusty. When I lifted them and felt in the darkness underneath, it was clear that there was a space a couple of feet deep. This was perfect: a body could putrefy here, and no one would ever know. I broke boards where I had to, laid them to one side. After a while, the openinng was big enough. Then I looked her in the eye. What I saw was terror, pure and absolute. That terror thrilled me.
I laid her in the hole and pressed her down so that she was wedged tight and couldn’t move; no one would hear her cry. Leaving enough room for her to breathe, I covered the aperture with a few boards and the stinking remains of carpet.
A few hours later, I did drive to Ballybunion, only this time an extremely drunk young woman called Molly Parkinson was in the passenger seat with her eyes closed and her cheek pressed to the window. She was a hairdresser from Dublin: she’d cut my hair, and a few weeks ago we’d started going out. I’d rented a caravan on the headland overlooking the twin beaches where, in the old days, male and female bathers used to be segregated.
Molly was really out of it, and I had to carry her inside. There was a double bed at the back that was separated from the main living area by a partition. She was muttering about wanting another drink, but she didn’t object when I told her she’d had enough, and she moved only listlessly as I took her clothes off.
The blood pumping suddenly, I took her the moment she was naked. Afterwards, I sat on the step under the awning with rain rattling the canvas roof. I had half a bottle of wine and I nursed it; the caravan door was open and Molly was already in bed. I’d seen her drunk before and knew she’d have the mother of all hangovers in the morning. Earlier, she’d passed out completely. It was the perfect alibi: when she woke up, she would remember nothing about tonight at all. I could tell her she’d danced naked through the streets and she’d believe me. All I had to do was say we’d been together, and she’d be so embarrassed she’d back me up completely.
Sunday 31st August 10.05 pm
Danny was buried in Glasnevin Cemetery close to the Botanic Gardens. Eva had to drive through the residential area west of Dalcassian Downs and cross the little bridge that was all but covered with trees.
The pool of light from her headlights spilled briefly over the railway lines before exposing the first of the headstones. Leaving the car, she walked now, banks of stones on both left and right, until she came to the path that led to the south-eastern corner of the cemetery. There the railway line bisected the trees before the canal, but it was as close as they could get to the water; Danny had loved the canal.
Again she faltered, there in the darkness with the sound of a tram on the Luas line, cars on Finglas Road. She had an aching feeling that she should never have left the two girls in the house by themselves. She wondered what their father would say if he knew what she was doing; she wondered if he would understand.
She should not have left them. But they were asleep, and there was no fire in the grate and no one could get in. Then she realised that she hadn’t even brought a phone, let alone a purse or a bag: her mobile phone was in her handbag, and that was on the table in the hall.
She hesitated, then half-turned, looking across the rows of sleepers to the shadow of her car beyond.
*
Hidden in the trees, he heard her. When she paused, he could imagine what she was thinking: the children at home on their own. They were alone because their father no longer lived with them. If he had still been part of the family, none of what she was doing here would matter. Her presence set the pulse working at his temple. He knew how her son called to her and that, having come this far, she would not rush home.
*
Looking down on the flowers that covered the white pebbles that lay on top of the grave, Eva imagined his face. She could picture him in his room; with a rugby ball; she could see him getting ready for school.
She dropped to her knees, the ground sodden from all the rain. There were so many flowers; a year now, and so many people wanting to pay their respects.
*
Still he watched, though he was no longer in the trees. He was standing behind her, silently.
She looked so small and pitiful, her shoulders drooping as if the weight of the last year was too much for her to bear. When he spoke, his voice was a whisper. ‘Eva,’ he said.
The sound came from directly behind her. It was so sudden, so unexpected, that Eva cried out. Before she could move, she felt a hand grip her shoulder; another covered her mouth. She was forced face down on the grave. She lay on her belly. Then he was on top of her; her mouth in the flowers, the sharp stones pressing into her cheek. He rolled her onto her back and she lifted her hands. ‘Please,’ she cried. ‘Please don’t. Please, what are you doing?’
‘No sound.’ His voice was a hiss, a guttural rasp; something told her she had heard it before. ‘No words now, or I’ll kill you.’ He was covering her mouth, his shapeless head close to hers. ‘I’ll stamp you to death, do you hear me? I’ll stamp you to death right here on the stones of your son’s grave.’
All she could see was shadow. There was no whitened patch where his face should be, whoever he was. He was all in black, his features covered by a mask.
She lay there with his fist jammed between her teeth, so that the only sound she could utter was a pathetic kind of gurgle. She couldn’t move; her pulse was so thick that she felt the blood would stop flowing. Then her muscles seemed to come to life and she scrabbled to get up. In a flash, he forced her down again. She kicked out, and he cracked her across the mouth. He was on top of her, peering through the narrow slits of a ski mask; he could see the fear in her eyes. He kissed her.
He couldn’t help it: a moment of lust. He kissed her through the mask; he could taste blood where he had split her lip. His eyes rolled and, grabbing a handful of her hair, he wiped the blood from his mask. Then he saw the glint of gold at her throat.
The necklace, the pendant: the sacred heart of Christ bloodied by a crown of thorns. Gently now, he stroked the heel of his thumb back and forth across it. Then he tore the heart from the chain.
Stuffing it into a pocket, he took a roll of tape and, tearing off a strip, he twisted Eva’s head to one side and stuck it over her mouth.
He bound her wrists and ankles. Cloud blanketed the stars. Rain began to fall. For a moment, he looked into her face. She was helpless now; walking off a few paces, he took the pendant out again. The cemetery was silent and empty; only the ghosts of those who couldn’t sleep were taking any notice.
Eva was shaking, quivering with fear, cold with disgust. She was disgusted with herself for allowing this to happen, for leaving Laura and Jessie alone. She stared at the headstone, at her son’s name; her son beneath the soil. Tears clogged her throat; she could barely breathe. Snot from her nose ran over the tape covering her mouth. She heard the scrape of leather on stone, then he was above her again.
Tears like fragments of glass. She could no longer see the headstone, or the grass, or the broken flowers where he’d pressed himself against her.
Sunday 31st August 10.05 pm
Moss Quinn, still sitting at his desk, turned the pages of Mary’s file.
Once more he was back in the courtroom. And he could see Conor Maggs, his head bowed now as he finished reading. Very slowly, very deliberately, he laid the signed confession on the edge of the witness box. He shot a glance to where his barrister, Senior Counsel Phelan, was standing.
‘Thank you, Conor,’ Phelan said.
For a few moments, Phelan considered the notes on the lectern. Turning to the members of the jury, he looked each of them in the eye and then peered beyond the counsel for the prosecution, to where the three Gards who had brought the case were sitting. Briefly, Quinn felt the weight of Phelan’s gaze, before it settled on Doyle. The sergeant, originally from Kerry, was a big, heavy-set man; at fifty years of age, his face was seamed like old leather, his eyes a cobalt blue. The close-cut grey hair bristled across his scalp.
‘Poetic,’ the barrister stated. ‘One could describe it almost as whimsical. A tale to rival any told in this city of Sean O’Casey.’ He gesticulated flamboyantly. ‘A modern-day Juno; a veritable Ulysses.’ His features darkened considerably. ‘However one wants to describe it, it is a work of fiction.’
For a few moments there was no sound in the courtroom: nobody moved; nobody coughed; nobody seemed to breathe.
‘Your honour,’ Phelan said to the judge, ‘the so-called confession was written by a police officer with a flair for the language; the signature extracted by force. The defendant was hit so hard and so often that he wrote down word for word exactly what he was told.’ Again he paused, his lips forming a single line. ‘And then he was forced to sign it.’
A ripple of unease spread through the public gallery. The judge reached for his gavel. Glancing at Quinn, Doyle blanched slightly. He hooked one finger into the collar of his shirt, where it was suddenly constricting.
Phelan took a series of photographs from his desk; he passed them, together with medical reports, to the bench. ‘Here are the pictures taken at the hospital,’ he explained, ‘and here are some the defendant took twenty-four hours before he was arrested. You can see clearly that before the guards “spoke” to him, his body was unmarked.’ He looked long and hard at Doyle; the big man could not return his stare. Doyle’s gaze fell on Quinn and Frank Maguire, and neither of them looked back. ‘Conor knew the Guards were coming. For years they’d been looking for an excuse, and he knew what would happen when they got it.’
The barrister allowed his words to settle before turning once more to the witness box.
‘Now, Conor,’ he said, ‘in your own words this time, why don’t you tell the court exactly how it happened?’
Shifting in his seat, Maggs risked a glance in the direction of Doyle, who was peering at him from under hooded brows. Maggs’s eyes were hunted, the flesh around them wrinkled. Then his gaze shifted to the public gallery, and Quinn saw it fix on Eva. For a long moment he stared at her. Eyes closed now, he passed a hand across his face. He shook his head; his shoulders hunched to his jowls. When he spoke, he voice wavered.
‘The metal door was ajar,’ he began. ‘It took me a while to notice, and when I did I stared hard. I didn’t understand: why was the door ajar? The door was either wide open or it was locked. It was never, ever ajar. And the silence; the silence was new, and disturbing. Sitting on the narrow bed, with its thin mattress and single pillow, next to the tiny sink and the seat-less toilet, the silence was suddenly terrifying. Midnight, and I’d woken to a
crack of light breaking around the door jamb. They had nothing: I mean, no evidence, not a shred of anything to link me to the crime I was accused of. Yet they wanted it to be me; they needed it to be me – Doyle particularly, with all his hatred, but Quinn too.
‘And then, as if to confirm my worst fears, I could hear the footfall of the big man. I knew who it was. Not Quinn: he wouldn’t get his hands dirty. I began to tremble: this awful dream I could not wake up from was gradually becoming a nightmare. I knew what was about to happen; I knew how they were when they didn’t get what they wanted. I knew how they’d bend the truth; create their own truth so that they got the result they wanted.
‘I realised then that the block was empty: Jesus, mine was the only cell that had anyone in it. Nobody would hear; there would be no one to witness what was about to happen.
‘I felt the weight all at once in my bladder. I wanted to pee. I would pee my pants at the very least; I would pee my pants, I knew it. This was personal; this had always been personal. And because it was so personal, it was terrifying. I was trembling, shaking; I could hear myself whimpering like a child.
‘Then the door was pushed open and the half-light from the corridor was partially blocked by shadow.’
Sitting there listening to it all, Quinn saw him cast a glance once more at the gallery. Only this time he was starring at Jane Finucane. On remand at Mountjoy, Maggs had written a letter to an evangelical church group in Harold’s Cross. He’d told them how, after Doyle had finished with him, he’d been in and out of consciousness and then had suddenly woken up. He claimed that the cell was bathed in a white light and that Christ was standing before him. He showed him the marks in his hands; he showed him the hole in his side. He told him that he wasn’t alone. They’d heard how Jane had read that letter and afterwards had gone to see him. They had been together ever since. Further along the same row, and hunched up like a rag, Quinn could see Molly Parkinson, the girl who’d originally given Maggs his alibi.
The Gathering of Souls Page 2