urbanepublications.com
First published in Great Britain in 2017
by Urbane Publications Ltd
Suite 3, Brown Europe House, 33/34 Gleaming Wood Drive,
Chatham, Kent ME5 8RZ
Copyright © Deirdre Quiery, 2017
The moral right of Deirdre Quiery to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978-1-911331-89-6
MOBI 978-1-911331-91-9
EPUB 978-1-911331-90-2
Design and Typeset by Michelle Morgan
Cover by The Invisible Man
Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY
urbanepublications.com
CONTENTS
“The Wound is the Place where the Light Enters You.”
“Don’t Grieve. Anything You Lose Comes Round in Another Form.”
Day 1
Day 2
Day 3
Day 4
Day 5
Day 6
Day 7
Day 8
Day 9
Day 10
Day 11
Day 12
Day 13
Day 14
Day 15
Day 16
Day 17
Day 18
Day 19
Day 20
Day 21
Day 22
Day 23
Day 24
Day 25
Day 26
Day 27
Day 28
Day 29
Day 30
Day 31
Day 32
Day 33
Day 34
Day 35
Day 36
Day 37
Day 38
Day 39
Day 40
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Deirdre Quiery
“THE WOUND IS THE
PLACE WHERE THE
LIGHT ENTERS YOU.”
J RUMI (1207 – 1273)
For Martin – for hanging in there and being the most fantastic support and muse.
For Matthew Smith, Founder and Director of Urbane Publications – for showing what it truly means to be collaborative.
“DON’T GRIEVE. ANYTHING YOU LOSE
COMES ROUND IN ANOTHER FORM.”
J RUMI
AUGUST 2012 BELFAST
GURTHA OPENED the kitchen door calling out Nuala’s name. He was about to call out for Paddy as well but the words stuck in his throat as he glimpsed Nuala lying at the bottom of the stairs, wearing her favourite navy blue pleated skirt, and a striped navy blue and white jumper. A sandal had broken loose from her left foot and lay turned over on the tiles like an abandoned child’s sandal. Her head rested on her arms as if she were sleeping. Gurtha felt a coiling of energy as if someone had stabbed him with a dagger and his throat contracted, curling up like a snake. He held onto the stair bannister for a second, breathing deeply with perspiration breaking out on his temples and running down the sides of his cheeks before dropping to his knees to feel for a pulse. Her skin was taught like a drum – no pulse, although he thought that he detected a hint of warmth. He pressed two fingers a second time into her neck and then feverishly looked for a pulse at the wrist but her wrist was cold and motionless.
He rolled Nuala onto her back, attempting to bring her back to life with mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, pumping her chest with his fists joined together. Her eyes remained closed. There was no movement in her body. He fumbled once more to find a pulse in her neck but there was nothing. Maybe he imagined it, but it seemed in the short time he had been there that her body was already solidifying. He searched for his mobile, dialled 999 and asked for the emergency services. Maybe he should have done that first but he could hardly breathe, never mind think. He sat on the tiled floor beside Nuala, holding her hand, waiting for someone to arrive.
He thought that it had been a terrible accident – that she had fallen downstairs. However, the doctor who arrived to certify the death felt that there were sufficient grounds to justify an inquest. The coroner’s verdict turned out to be one of unlawful killing. There had been evidence of a struggle – bruising to the arms before she had fallen or had been pushed. The body had been dragged after the fall and positioned in a way which was incompatible with an accidental fall downstairs.
There was no obvious motive for her murder and no suspect.
♥
Gurtha sat in the front row of the pews in Holy Cross Church, head in hands. On his left Paddy blew noisily into a cotton handkerchief. Kneeling to the left of Paddy, Tom and Lily stared straight ahead watching Father Jerome wipe the chalice clean. Cornelia, on Gurtha’s right, patted her nose dry with a Lancome powder puff, flecks of powder flying into the air, sparkling into the sun shining through the stained glass windows. With the help of a Chanel mirror and her little finger she corrected a smudge of crimson lipstick at the corner of her mouth. Laura from the sweetie shop, on Cornelia’s right, blessed herself on the forehead, lips and heart as Father Jerome gave the final blessing. He then walked swiftly towards the microphone where earlier in the Mass he had delivered his passionate eulogy for Nuala. He scanned the congregation with a slow, meaningful searching sweep of his eyes, left to right.
“We have been informed that it is more than likely that Nuala’s murderer is now sitting in the Church beside one of you. There were a few gasps and a tut-tutting in the few seconds before he continued. “You have heard details of the profile of the person the police are looking for. Take courage and share whatever you know. We do not know why Nuala has been murdered but we have been cautioned by responsible professionals that the murderer is likely to strike again. May we raise our hearts in prayer once more for Nuala and pray also that the conscience of whoever committed this atrocity is awakened to allow them to admit the grievousness of their actions and, with remorse, receive pardon. Without remorse, a hardened heart lives in Hell – a Hell of their own creation, which they inflict on themselves and on loving families and friends.” He gestured towards the front row.
“As you know, Nuala is …” He coughed, “was and I believe still is within the communion of saints, an active member of this community. Her faith was profound. She opened herself to the mystery of life and participated more than anyone I know in its dance. She enriched our community in many ways. In Nuala, I am reminded of the words of Pope John XXIII – “See everything, overlook a great deal, and correct a little.” That was Nuala’s way of being. She saw what was in your heart and what you could not see yourself. When she overlooked the flaws within your character, you knew them for what they were –minimising them had a way of magnifying them. When she corrected you a little, it was with the gentleness of love. You left her presence knowing what you had done wrong, yet rippling with love and sensing the unconditional love she transmitted. Love that came from a world Divine. How do I know this?” Father Jerome’s voice trembled; he gripped the lectern with both hands and leaned even closer to the microphone.
“When Nuala came to Confession – it was I who confessed to her – not the other way around. When she began her Confession, I listened to her and to my surprise my response was one of hearing
my own sins fall spontaneously from my tongue. I found myself waiting in the silence for Nuala’s comments. Her words were wisdom thoughts imbued with directedness and love.
You understand how important it is for anyone who has information about who is responsible for this horrific murder to approach the police or call at the monastery and ask to speak to a priest. You can ring the confidential number. Nuala, we can all agree, deserves justice.”
As if on cue, the altar boy snuffed out the two candles on either side of the altar. Smoke curled into the air in circles as a few muffled sobs were heard from the back of the Church. Everyone looked over their shoulder as if the murderer had revealed himself or herself and was about to confess but it was only Molly Devine from the choir who sang soprano with Nuala and who had momentarily lost her composure in response to Father Jerome’s address. She shook her head rapidly from right to left as though denying the unspoken accusation then fell to her knees with a small gasp, clasping her hands in prayer.
Nuala’s coffin rested on a wooden frame with a bouquet of red roses on top. Incense hung in the air from earlier devotions – its scent warm and comforting. Gurtha glanced sideways at the coffin. A coffin of oak wood with brass handles like a wardrobe toppled on its side, holding Nuala.
The previous day her coffin had lain open in the parlour, with cream coloured candles of varying shapes and sizes shimmering on the mantelpiece. The chair beside the coffin, which Gurtha had brought from his house on the Malone Road, was upholstered with fancy gold embroidery on red silk. Someone sat on it, leaning forward, resting their hands on top of Nuala’s and whispering into her ear. Occasionally someone would jump from the chair, stand firmly on their feet and stare into the coffin to commune in silence with Nuala in what seemed a more intense way.
It was odd for Gurtha to witness this warmth of expression for Nuala as he crossed his arms and leant against the door frame of the parlour door. When alive, Nuala never seemed to demand intimacy in relationship which appeared paradoxical considering the impact she had on others. She was rather a detached figure which did not mean that she did not love – quite the opposite. She exuded joy, kindness, generosity, gentleness and self-control, although indulging in her favourite Neuhass chocolates which she hid in the bedroom. Her love was a mesmerising love, radiating in a non-possessive way. In its presence you felt compelled to gaze, to understand the mystery hidden within someone eternally being refreshed from a fountain. Like an unseen source of water for someone who never experienced thirst.
Although Gurtha, her only son, was closest to her, he didn’t know what she really thought of him. She was not one of those mothers who talked about their children as if they were the centre of the Universe – or as if they were flawless and perfect. Gurtha knew that this was unusual. He thought it yet another sign of Nuala’s sanity. In Nuala’s company the deepest peace enveloped him. He couldn’t decide if he was sending peace to Nuala or if he was receiving it from her. It was as if the billions of neurons and trillions of synapses in their brains were sending each other inhibitors calming the world into a still place.
The evening before, at the wake, Nuala’s favourite music played loudly in the kitchen and visitors sang along to Frank Sinatra’s “I did it my way” while nibbling bites of cheese and ham quiche and sipping wine and beer. Hardly anyone talked about the murder. There were one or two utterances of “Who could have done it?” or “Why did they do it?” These questions were snuffed out like the candles on the altar as conversation changed to an exploration of Nuala’s sense of humour, her psychic tendencies, her knitting, baking, dancing skills, her love of singing in the choir and her fearless honesty.
Tom raised a glass of Harvey’s Bristol Cream sherry into the air, “To Nuala. We’re not here to investigate the murder. We’ll leave that to the police. Let’s celebrate her life. That’s what she would want us to do – a good party. Let’s enjoy ourselves.”
The party which followed would have nearly wakened the dead if such a thing were possible. That didn’t happen. Nuala lay waxen white, cold and still while the music got louder and people danced between the pickled onions which had rolled from the table onto the floor. Laughter crackled around the house that might have shocked someone not from Ireland. Mary Walsh broke a rib when her nephew Colin grabbed her around the waist and circled like a Dervish, Mary’s legs flailing as she shrieked with laughter and begged to be set down before the rib snapped. An ambulance was called and Colin accompanied Mary to the hospital. Everyone seemed to think that it was a good sign and that Nuala would have been delighted that the wake was so wild.
Throughout the whole evening, Gurtha never strayed from his propped up position, leaning on the door frame of the parlour, watching everyone come and go to say their last goodbyes to Nuala. The questions of why had she been murdered and who had carried out the murder repeatedly and solemnly tolled in his head.
The murder had taken place on his birthday – Wednesday 15th August 2012. It had taken the Coroner three months to deliver his solemn report and release the body for burial.
In his head Gurtha replayed over and over again what had happened on that day. Paddy, Nuala, Cornelia and Gurtha were due to go out to dinner to celebrate. Gurtha arrived at Paddy and Nuala’s house at four thirty. He remembered the exact time because he checked to see if there was a text from Cornelia, before opening the back door with the spare key. There was no message but he noted that the time was four thirty and that Cornelia’s plane should be landing at Belfast International airport at any time.
There was no sign of Paddy or Nuala in the kitchen. As he walked across the kitchen floor, he noticed that the table was set for tea for four. Four china tea cups on saucers, a small piece plate with a pastry fork set on top of each and the china teapot in the centre of the table with the lid off, waiting for the hot water to be boiled. At that precise moment his mobile buzzed - a text from Cornelia to say that her plane had landed. She would catch a taxi and be with them within the hour.
♥
The day after the wake, towards the end of the Requiem Mass, the choir in the Church sang “Oh Danny Boy” and everyone got to their feet. Gurtha tasted loneliness and despair within. A cold metallic film coating his tongue – an acidic burning at the back of his throat. He could not sing but instead allowed himself to be washed by the plaintive harmonies of the choir,
“But come ye back when summer’s in the meadow
Or when the valley’s hushed and white with snow
And I’ll be here in sunshine or in shadow
Oh Danny Boy … Oh Danny Boy … I love you so.”
He remembered Nuala tapping her feet as Gurtha played the guitar after dinner a few weeks before. Nuala sang ‘Danny Boy’, gently beating out the rhythm with her fingers on her knee as if playing a piano. There was a moment when she didn’t quite hit the highest note. They held one another’s gaze and he knew that it would be the last time she would ever sing ‘Danny Boy’. He didn’t know how he knew. He just did.
Once the choir had finished singing, Gurtha excused himself to file past Cornelia and Laura into the middle aisle where he stood beside the coffin. Although in his nineties, Tom insisted on being a pallbearer. He put his arm strongly around that of Gurtha and two members of the choir - one of them the choirmaster - stood behind Gurtha and Tom, grasping one another’s arms as the coffin was gently placed on their shoulders. They began to walk slowly in unison towards the front Church door. The rest of the congregation followed like processionary caterpillars. Tom was slightly smaller than Gurtha and the coffin tilted slightly to one side. Gurtha imagined Nuala inside, rolling on the white silk cushioned sheets – as though slumbering in her sleep. She would typically give a snuffling sound and a small cough before she would waken. He would stand beside the bed with a mug of tea in one hand and toasted wheaten topped with honey on a plate in his other hand. That was in the days when he lived at home on the Crumlin Road before he moved into what Nuala called his millionaire Mansion on the Mal
one Road.
Gurtha couldn’t bear to watch the coffin being lowered into the ground where her body would be eaten by worms or crawled over by beetles. Neither could he contemplate seeing the coffin slide into a furnace to weird tinkly music. He made the decision that he wouldn’t watch either a burial or a cremation but would ask for the ashes to be delivered to him when the dreadful job had been completed. As the body burned, they would celebrate Nuala’s life by having lunch in Pizza Express in the city centre. Today, they would remember the moments of deep friendship they had shared over the years with Paddy tucking into his lasagne and visualise Nuala eating her favourite American Hot pizza with extra jalapeno peppers, her false teeth wobbling in her mouth.
The funeral directors gently lowered the coffin into the back of the black hearse, as though placing a baby in her cot, before respectfully shaking Gurtha’s hand.
Gurtha stepped into a large funeral car with Tom, Lily, Cornelia, Paddy and Laura. In silence, three sat facing three as the car pulled slowly away from the Church. Tom sat with a straight back, his silver hair brushed back from his forehead. His gnarled and wrinkled hand clasped Lily’s. He closely watched Gurtha as though seeing him for the first time – his blue eyes squinting slightly and a deep wrinkle of concentration furrowing in the middle of his forehead. Lily closed her eyes, took a few deep breaths and sighed.
Sitting in the funeral car it was clear to Gurtha that his life had been divided into two parts. In the first he had gazed out at the world – separated from it, distant from it. How many hearses had he watched? How many lines of funeral cars following, as he removed his hat and stood passively, in silence? An invisible screen separated him from the feelings and experience of the passengers inside.
Then there was the second part of life which, with earthquake ferocity, had shaken him from being an observer into also being an experiencer of life. It felt like a ‘oneing’ taking place and the most significant ‘oneing’ was the sense that there was an umbilical cord attaching him to the marbleised body lying within the coffin.
The Secret Wound Page 1