by Simon Bourke
“I’ll be fine,” she replied haughtily.
He’d played it perfectly. She’d be so eager to prove herself that he wouldn’t have to do a thing; he could just stand in the background and look sad. Dymphna would take care of the rest.
“Hello?”
A young boy answered the door, tousled hair, puffy eyes.
“Hello, son. Are your parents in?”
“Yes.”
“Could you wake them up for me, like a good lad?”
“Okay.”
He shuffled off down the hall, then turned. “Who will I say it is?”
“The Guards, son,” Gerard replied.
“Mam,” Kevin whispered, “the Guards are at the door.”
No reply, just the steady rhythm of their breathing as they enjoyed a Saturday morning lie-in.
“Mammy,” he whispered once more, slightly louder this time.
“What is it, Kevin?” growled his father.
“The Guards, Dad. They’re at the door.”
“What the fuck?” Daryl muttered harshly. “That fucking young fella!”
Daryl shook his wife and, after a sustained period of resistance, she finally woke up.
“What? WHAT?” Sinéad moaned, already in a bad mood.
“The Guards are at the door.”
“Oh, shut up, Daryl,” she said, turning to go back to sleep.
“Sinéad,” he urged, “they’re outside.”
“They are, Mam, honest,” Kevin added. “A man and a woman Guard.”
Sinéad looked first at her husband and then at her son; their earnest faces indicated that the Guards were indeed at the door. She rose from the bed, not daring to imagine what they might want with her. Throwing on a dressing-gown, she went to the front door.
Sergeant Toomey nudged his young companion as Sinéad approached. It was her show now.
“Mrs. McLoughlin?” asked Dymphna.
“No, Mrs. Cassidy. What’s this about?”
“Can we come in, Mrs. Cassidy?”
Sinéad opened the door wide and ushered them into the living-room, guiltily picking up an empty wine bottle from the coffee table which had a small crack near one edge.
“Take that out to the kitchen, love,” she said, handing the bottle to Kevin. “Do ye want some tea, Guards?”
The sergeant shook his head silently as he attempted to recede into the background.
“We’re fine, thanks, Mrs. Cassidy,” replied Dymphna.
“Is this something to do with Seán?” she asked, cutting to the chase.
He’d had that incident with the Guards a few years back, but nothing since. Her son wasn’t the type to get into trouble with the law, at least not as far as she knew. Anyway, he’d been in Wexford for the night; how things could have got from there to here was a mystery.
“It is, Mrs. Cassidy,” Dymphna said, swallowing hard. “I’m afraid there’s been an accident.”
Gerard studied the pictures on the wall, thanking his lucky stars he’d been paired with the new girl today.
“What kind of accident?” Sinéad asked, her blood running cold.
“I’m afraid your son’s dead, Mrs. Cassidy. His body was found by the riverbank earlier this morning. We’ll know more after the post-mortem.”
Sinéad smiled hesitantly; what sort of joke was this? Seán never went up the riverbank, had no reason to. Who did these Guards think they were? She stood up from her seat.
“I think you’d better leave now.”
“Mrs. Cassidy, I know this is a big shock, but please try to remain calm.”
Dymphna tried to put a consoling arm around her, but it was swatted away.
“Get your hands off me! How dare you come in here, saying such things!”
Dymphna persisted. “Your son’s body was found this morning about two miles outside of town, up by the riverbank. Here’s his wallet, see.”
She handed her the wallet and Sinéad took it hesitantly. “Where did you get this?”
“We found it in your son’s pocket. He’s dead, Mrs. Cassidy. I’m very sorry.”
Sinéad stared at the young officer for what seemed like an age.
“I want to see him,” she said firmly. “I want to see him now.”
She returned some moments later, dressed and ready to leave.
“Isn’t your husband going to accompany you, Mrs. Cassidy? This is not the kind of thing you should face alone.”
She’d heard that before, some time long ago in her past, and just as before she wished to tackle this very much alone. This was between herself and her boy. If he’d been up to no good or got himself into trouble, then she, and she alone, would deal with it.
“No, he’s not coming with me,” she replied, referring to Daryl.
He’d offered, but the last thing she needed was him and Seán staring daggers at each other while she tried to smooth things over with the Guards.
“Very well, Mrs. Cassidy. We’d best be off, then.”
The sergeant led the way, suggesting that both women sit in the back. Dymphna could offer support that way, he explained. The truth was that he didn’t want Sinéad up in the front beside him, in case she started crying.
“Are ye right?” he asked, looking back at the two of them.
The mother was in denial; he’d seen it countless times before. It was almost as if they knew before you even told them, but when you did tell them they chose not to hear it. They tuned out, nodding along silently while you offered your condolences; then, as you neared the hospital, they began to unravel. Hospitals did that to people. Some broke down at the sight of the building, the ambulances, and the patients outside having a fag; it drove the message home. Others lasted a little longer, holding out until the doctor arrived, but they all caved at the sight of the body. There was nowhere left to hide by then, nothing left to deny.
This wan here was completely oblivious, one of the worst cases he’d ever seen. She was like a zombie, sitting in the back of the car like a kid being taken to the beach; gawping out the window, lost to the world, completely shut down. Even a cold-hearted bastard like Gerard Toomey could see that she shouldn’t have been facing this on her own, that they should have insisted she bring someone along for moral support; but it was early in the morning and he just wanted this to be over. Maybe Dymphna would go down to the morgue with her; she’d been doing a great job so far.
24
The hospital where they’d taken Seán was in a neighbouring town, Dooncurra’s being too small to deal with anything beyond a sprained ankle. It took about twenty minutes to get there, time enough for Sergeant Toomey to start thinking about what he might have for breakfast. All he’d had so far today were two cups of tea and a slice of dry toast. He fancied getting something in that little café near Plunkett Street; they did great baps in there, bacon, eggs, sausages, whatever you wanted. The ladies behind the counter always gave him a little extra, fuel to help him fight crime they said. Yes, that’s where he’d go. A couple of baps and a big pot of tea, maybe a Twix as well; it was Saturday, after all.
“Nearly there now,” he said, as they passed the sign for Stoneyford.
Just a few more minutes till they offloaded their passenger and he could turn his attention to his stomach.
“How are you feeling, Mrs. Cassidy?” he heard Dymphna ask.
“Fine,” came the airy response.
She was holding out longer than he’d expected, but the sight of the hospital would probably do the job.
The mortuary was at the rear of the building, hidden away so as not to offend those who intended leaving at some point. The car park was deserted except for the ‘02 Nissan right by the door; the mortician’s he presumed. Gerard glanced at Sinéad through his rearview mirror as he parked. She was still gazing silently out the window.
“Here we are now,”
he said, staying in his seat.
The message was clear: Ye two fuck out of the car and leave me here with me paper.
He caught Dymphna’s eye and nodded in the direction of the building.
“Come on, Mrs. Cassidy,” she said softly. “Let’s go inside.”
“Okay,” Sinéad replied.
They got out and headed for the mortuary entrance. Gerard watched them until they’d disappeared inside and then breathed a sigh of relief. “Well, thank God for that.”
25
Dymphna was unsure of the protocol, of where to go and whom to ask for. But at this point she had ceased being a member of the police force, now she was just one woman helping out another.
“Here we are, Mrs. Cassidy,” she said, escorting Sinéad to the seating area. “You sit there and I’ll just have a quick chat with the receptionist.”
She went to the front desk and peered over the counter. There didn’t appear to be anyone on duty. There wasn’t even a bell to ring. She looked back at Sinéad, and then at the doors leading to the mortuary’s inner sanctum.
“I’ll be back in a sec, Mrs. Cassidy. You just wait there.”
Sinéad nodded dumbly, watching Dymphna go through the heavy wooden doors. She was still only vaguely aware of her surroundings. Everything had become fuzzy since she’d heard Kevin’s voice: They are, Mam, honest. A man and a woman Guard. She wasn’t stupid, she knew what that meant. At this hour of the morning? It could only mean one thing: something had happened to her boy. When had she last spoken to him? What had she said? She couldn’t remember. Could she have prevented this? Probably. A few simple words on her part and maybe she wouldn’t be here now. She’d be still in bed and so would he; a happy household, all silently sleeping with no Guards coming to disturb them.
But in they’d come, that prick of a sergeant and the young woman, polite but efficient. She dared not look them in the eye, was afraid to, because the truth was there, staring back at her. So she nodded compliantly, did as she was told, and asked them to bring her to her boy. And this was where they’d brought her, this cold, silent building. How had he got here? Why hadn’t he told her he was coming here? But that was Seán for you, always going off somewhere, never thinking to tell anyone where he’d be. She wouldn’t be too hard on him, even though he’d ruined her lie-in. A quick telling-off and then they’d get out of here, back home, away from this grey, lifeless place.
Dymphna returned and beckoned to Sinéad to follow her. A man came to greet her, a solemn man, and together they walked, the three of them, down a deserted hallway, the only sound that of their footsteps as she was brought to her boy. This place seemed to be devoid of colour, its walls, its doors and its lights all a drab shade of nothing. Even the doctor who walked beside her was an empty shell, faceless, nameless, characterless.
“Just down here, Mrs. Cassidy,” he said, as they turned yet another corner.
Dymphna was still there, Sinéad was vaguely aware of the young guard’s hand upon her own.
“Okay,” said the doctor, stopping at a pair of cast-iron doors. “He’s just in here. Do you want to take a moment first?”
Sinéad shook her head. The mortician glanced at Dymphna and led the way into the morgue.
It was a small room, not much bigger than her bedroom, but with a very high ceiling. Two sets of long halogen lights ran across it, their bulbs giving off a weak, insipid light and casting shadows across the tiled floor. To the left was a cleaning area with large industrial sinks, disinfectant and rubber gloves, and to the right were four large metal containers. Everything was as grey and as grim as before, carefully crafted uniformity from beginning to end. Sinéad had seen what was in the middle of the room as soon as she’d entered. There were three slabs, metal and clinical, and upon the middle one lay a long black bag. The mortician walked towards it, gently encouraging her to follow. She tried to move, but nothing happened. She was stuck here in this horrible room, with two strangers and a long black bag. They would have to get someone to carry her out. To her surprise, she found the slab coming closer; suddenly it was beside her. The doctor was there, tight-lipped and stoical. The woman, the guard, still gripped her hand, tightly now. Sinéad wanted to go home. This was quite enough for one day; maybe she could come back tomorrow. But the black bag lay before them, its long, gloomy mass stretching into oblivion, and the doctor was getting ready to open it. She couldn’t leave, not without seeing what was inside.
“Okay, Mrs. Cassidy?” the mortician asked.
She stared at him, her eyes glassy, and watched his hand move slowly to the top of the bag. He pulled down the zip, the sound reminding her of the big duffel coat she’d had as a child. She noticed the mortician’s fingernails, impossibly well-manicured, and wondered whether he trimmed them himself or got someone to do it for him. Maybe he had a special guy, who did all the mortician’s nails; he knew the exact length and shape they needed to be and gave them all a discount. The mortician carefully lifted the top of the body-bag and pulled it to one side. She saw a face there, a handsome face. A young man, popular with the girls no doubt. He seemed so much at peace, so content with life, that she almost tilted her head to admire him. But then she realised it was her boy, the boy she’d fought so hard for, who had always seemed to be slipping away from her since the day he’d been born. Her boy. Seán. He’d slipped again, only this time she couldn’t save him. He was gone, and she knew she could never get him back. Her world collapsed.
Jonathan
1
Sleep came quickly, a deep, unnatural sleep from which she feared she might never wake. Her dreams were upsetting and inescapable, dreams of loss and emptiness, of a void that could never be filled. She was in a well, miles below the earth’s surface, above her a small window of light. Reaching out, she strained her arms as far as they could go, but they disappeared into the void along with everything else. In desperation, she scrabbled for a way out, but only succeeded in falling further down. When she came to rest, she looked up for the light but it was gone; now there was only darkness. Something touched her shoulder, a hand, cold and unwelcome; another curled around her waist. There were dozens of them pulling at her, dragging her towards some unknown terror. She flailed at them but they were strong, far too strong for her. The light flickered on above, filling her with hope. She fought back, gaining ground, but they overwhelmed her, dragging and pulling until all the fight was drained out of her. She was tired of fighting now. It was easier to give in. They dragged her away and she was relieved. No more fighting; take me away, I give in.
They took her from the darkness into somewhere different, a new hell, a place beyond the limits of her imagination. Jeering, mocking faces lurked in the shadows. They struck out at her and then retreated, gorging on whatever it was they had taken. This was a place full of crashing noise and sickness, of malignance and horror. She would never be safe here; no one was. Here, you merely survived, but life could never get any worse – for this was the end.
Sinéad awoke gasping, soaked in sweat, still trying to fight them off. It took her a moment to realise she was safe, that they couldn’t get her any more. Then a fresh horror revealed itself. The past nine months: Her burden. Was it still here or had they taken it? She looked at the cot. It was in there, sleeping soundly. She had refused to take it when they’d offered it to her, turning away, asking the nurse to look after it; but now it was just the two of them. Could she take a peep, just a little look? It shifted in its sleep, gurgling contentedly. No bad dreams for it. She felt her resolve weaken, felt a dangerous urge to take it in her arms. No, she mustn’t do it. That had never been part of the deal. It was bound for a better life, a life she could never hope to provide. The worst thing to do would be to get attached to it.
So she settled back beneath the covers, back to that hateful place of sickness and terror. The dreams picked up where they’d left off, glad to reclaim her. Until finally, as if sensing she
’d had enough, they released her and she lapsed into an empty slumber. And when she next awoke it was gone. The place where its cot had stood was empty. She started to sob, quietly at first, but rising in volume until someone came in to quiet her. They gave her something to help her sleep, and before she knew it she was back in the darkness, fighting off the hands and arms.
*
She left the hospital the following day, numb and still in shock but glad it was over. This chapter of her life had come to an end, and now it was time to move on. For her, moving on meant going back, returning home. There would be questions, but she wouldn’t answer them. They’d just have to figure it out themselves; she really didn’t care. She would simply arrive at the door as if she’d just spent the weekend away, and that would be that. If they didn’t want her, she would go elsewhere. She could do that now; she’d been through a lot.
Her cousin dropped her off at the port and told her she was welcome any time, but they both knew she would never be back. Their relationship was tainted now, forever marred by this wretched affair. She went to the deck, watching her home of the past six months recede into the distance, glad to see the back of it. She was alone now, entirely alone. To her surprise, she found that she missed having it inside her. It had given her a sense of purpose, a reason to live. Without it, she felt worthless. What did she have to offer the world now? Nothing at all.
After a while she headed back inside, to the bar. She hadn’t had a drink in months, not since she’d found about it. It may have been her burden, but she hadn’t wanted to damage it in any way. Well, it was gone now, and she didn’t have to worry about anyone but herself. So she went to the bar and got a drink and then another; it helped pass the time. People talked to her and she talked back, noticing that she was just another young woman to them now. No longer was she afforded the near royalty-like status that had come with her burden, and she missed that too. She missed the respect, the protection from concerned strangers; people helping her out of chairs, opening doors for her and carrying her bags. She had been precious; they had been precious, both of them. Now she was just a drunken young girl on a ferry.