The Secret Wound

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The Secret Wound Page 8

by Deirdre Quiery


  Gurtha sighed with relief when he opened his wallet and the piece of folded paper was still there. He checked his watch. It was ten o’clock. That would be nine o’clock in Belfast. Someone should be available to take his call.

  His hand trembled almost imperceptibly as he dialled the number. A woman answered.

  “Good morning, Violence against Women, how can I be of help?”

  “Good morning. My name is Gurtha Maloney. My mother, Nuala Maloney, was murdered last year on the 15th August. I’ve recently been made aware that she was carrying this telephone number in her purse. The murderer has not been found. I wondered if perhaps you have any records of Nuala reporting concerns that someone may have been violent to her or if she was worried that it might happen in the future?” Gurtha listened carefully. The line crackled a little. He switched the phone to his other ear. The woman replied in a gentle voice.

  “I’m so sorry to hear of your loss Mr Maloney. We normally would not give information of a confidential nature like this over the phone. However, I can look at our records. In view of the serious nature of this matter; I can give you a simple yes or no to whether your mother did contact us. If the answer is yes – all further information will be given to the Police and they will keep you informed of the situation. Is that OK for you?”

  “Yes. Yes. I understand. Please can you look now for me? I will hold the line.”

  Gurtha sat down at the kitchen table. His legs were now also shaking.

  He heard what must have been filing cabinets opening and closing, someone sneezing, a murmured conversation between two people, footsteps walking quickly across the floor.

  “Mr Maloney?”

  “Yes. I am here.”

  “We do have some information on file regarding a call by Nuala to our centre in July 2012. However, as I mentioned earlier – I cannot release any further details regarding this. I will immediately pass this information onto the Police and you can speak with them directly regarding the matter. Do you have the telephone number and name of the investigating Officer?”

  “I do. It’s in my mobile. Let me ring you back in one minute.”

  ♥

  Investigating Officer Andy Finn explained, “On the 25th July 2012 at 10.30 am, Nuala rang the offices of Violence against Women. We have it on record that she asked for advice about what she could do if she suspected that someone was planning to murder her. When the counsellor responding to her call asked Nuala the reason for this suspicion, Nuala said that she had a premonition and in the past other premonitions which she had turned into reality.”

  Officer Andy paused.

  “I’m sorry. As you can imagine these situations are difficult to assess. I have closely questioned the counsellor who talked with Nuala in July 2012. She confirmed that Nuala did not provide any evidence of violence or abuse. There was no reason to believe that Nuala was at risk. I apologise if what I am going to say to you now causes offence – but Mr Maloney – twenty per cent of calls received by the helpline are bogus calls – from people suffering mental health issues. Would you say that there was a possibility that Nuala suffered from paranoia or had a delusional mind set?”

  Gurtha took a quick intake of breath.

  “Officer – you know that Nuala was murdered?”

  “Yes. We are aware of that.”

  “Therefore Nuala’s premonition which was logged became a reality. This is not someone suffering from paranoia having delusions but someone with a highly developed intuitive capacity. Nuala had an unusual capacity to know things which others did not know. This ability for human beings to do this is well documented. It is called intuitive wisdom – a knowing beyond the rational mind.”

  “I apologise Mr Maloney if I have caused offence by my question. I recognise that you are a professional in these matters of consciousness and higher states of mind. However, as the investigating Officer, I thought it important to check if there were any mental health issues. Nuala’s murder may or may not have been connected to the premonition. We have to keep an open mind in this investigation to get to the truth and each small piece of what may seem insignificant data can, and often is, a vital piece of the jigsaw. I do have a further question for you Mr Maloney.”

  Gurtha listened anxiously, “Yes, what is that?”

  “Why have we only been made aware of this new information today and not earlier in the investigation? I am obliged to ask you if there anything else which you are withholding from us and once again to ask you is there anyone you know may have had a reason or motivation to kill Nuala?”

  Gurtha held his head in his hands, pressing the mobile to his ear, stuttered, “I really don’t know why I didn’t think of handing you the piece of paper which I found in Nuala’s wallet with the telephone number and the name of the organisation which helps women who are subjected to violence. I can only suggest that I was in a state of shock and forgot about it until this morning when something triggered my memory.”

  “What was that something?” Officer Andy asked in a direct yet kind voice.

  “I was having breakfast with my father here on holiday in Mallorca and … it was nothing … a memory of something Nuala had said to me years ago, came into my head.”

  “What was that memory Mr Maloney? It could be significant.”

  Gurtha hesitated. If he told Officer Andy that Nuala had called Paddy the Devil’s companion that would make him a definite suspect. Yet if Paddy had murdered Nuala, he needed to be brought to justice. Nuala would be outraged that Gurtha did nothing about it. It would be a gross betrayal.

  Officer Andy allowed the silence to unfold, “Take your time Mr Maloney. I understand that this is a stressful time and it can be difficult to immediately recall a painful memory.”

  Gurtha audibily swallowed,

  “It was Nuala’s purse. My father brought it to the breakfast table. I remembered that when I opened it after her death, there was the piece of paper with the number written on it.”

  “Mr Maloney, excuse me, but you said that the memory was of something that Nuala had said to you – not the memory of seeing the purse. What did Nuala say to you?”

  “I’m sorry – it was the memory triggered by the purse this morning. I am confused. Sorry. This is all extremely upsetting.”

  “Mr Maloney, you know that we are doing everything we can to find Nuala’s murderer. Can I emphasise that if any new information – including significant memories - comes to mind which provides a new perspective on why anyone would have had a reason to kill Nuala, that you contact me immediately?”

  “Of course Officer. I certainly will do that. Thank you for your help.”

  Gurtha looked at the screen of the mobile phone in his hand. ‘Call ended.’ He breathed deeply, noticing that his hand was still shaking. He would have to find out himself if Paddy had murdered Nuala, and if not Paddy, who had? With Paddy’s state of mind, there was no way that the Police would make any headway interviewing him. Gurtha would have to find a way of discovering the truth. Gentleness with Paddy might allow the truth to spill out.

  DAY 9

  MONDAY 19TH AUGUST 2013

  “SILENCE IS THE LANGUAGE OF GOD, ALL ELSE IS POOR TRANSLATION.”

  J RUMI

  A STRING quartet played Beethoven’s string quartet No.19 in C Major at the entrance to the gallery. The golden light from the setting sun glowed on the terracotta roof tiles, the windows of the gallery sparkled from the flickering candles inside. Outside in the small alley, sitting on a wooden chair, Paddy puffed on a Hamlet.

  Inside Cornelia, wearing a white turban and pink silk dress studded with pearls, gesticulated to the paintings hanging on the walls, “We are celebrating budding artists. The theme of the exhibition is ‘The Secret Wound’.” She smiled at Gurtha who nodded in acknowledgement walking towards the centre of the room. “Thank you for taking the time to be here for the opening of the exhibition. I prefer to say little and let the works of art speak for themselves. Art has implicit rather than explicit mean
ing. The job of attempting to make its meaning explicit is left to the art critics rather than art lovers. I consider myself in the latter category. I would like to share only a sentence or two of orientation for the exhibition. ‘The Secret Wound’ is a symbol for what lies buried deep within. Each one of us is in need of healing. It is a wound of perception inflicted upon us by our ancestors in our genetic inheritance and by the circumstances and choices of our lives. When we find it, see it, feel it – we have the potential to be healed. In the ancient Shamanic tradition the healers were always the wounded who, in healing themselves, became the ‘Wounded Healers’ of others. Enough said. Enjoy.”

  There was a murmur around the room from those who didn’t understand English asking friends to translate what Gurtha was saying and a whispering from the English speakers asking one another what Gurtha was talking about. Angelina passed around tapas of – ‘boquerones’, ‘calamares’, ‘croquetas’ and Spanish omelette and Barry served wine.

  Cornelia filled a plate with tapas. She approached Gurtha.

  “I’ll bring this for Paddy. What do you think he would like to drink?”

  “Guinness – but if there isn’t any – red wine.”

  Cornelia placed the plate of tapas onto a wooden tray and poured a large glass of Ribero del Duero into a silver goblet. She looked around the gallery, lifted a small vase filled with white daisies, placed it on the tray, floated towards the front door and placed the tray on the small wooden table.

  “Here you are Paddy. Are you OK sitting here or would you prefer to come inside?”

  Paddy glanced up at Cornelia and unfolded the napkin,

  “I’m fine here. I can have a smoke. Nuala knows where to find me.”

  “Are you sure you’re OK? Gurtha is inside if you need him.”

  Paddy pushed an olive into his mouth.

  “Could you tell Nuala that I am here? She doesn’t always know what I’m up to.”

  Cornelia placed a glass of wine into his hand, pulling the small oak table a little closer.

  “I’ll tell her you’re here. She will be out in a few minutes. I think she’s in the loo.”

  Paddy nodded, “Yes she takes those tablets for her heart which means she has to go to the toilet nearly every hour.”

  Inside, Barry sat on a stool, smoothing his hair with a comb which he then popped into his shirt pocket. He then bit into a spinach croquette watching Angelina talking with Gurtha. He strained to catch the conversation.

  “The still point?”

  Angelina lifted a ‘pimiento de padron’ from her plate.

  “T. S. Eliot.” Angelina pointed at ‘The New Eve’ painting.

  “Do you not think this artist has captured the ‘Still point of the turning world’ in this ‘New Eve’ painting?”

  Gurtha helped himself to a cube of Spanish omelette.

  “What do you know about T.S. Eliot?” Gurtha dragged a four legged stool from the corner to sit down.

  “He was an interesting person.” Angelina raised her chin, staring at the ceiling,

  ‘At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;

  Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,

  But neither arrest nor movement.

  And do not call it fixity.

  Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards.

  Neither ascent nor decline.

  Except for the point, the still point.

  There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.’

  Gurtha nodded, “The Four Quartets.”

  Angelina offered Gurtha a glass of cava,

  “I never quite understood T.S. Eliot.”

  “What didn’t you understand?” Gurtha clinked his glass against hers. Barry watched and listened, hidden by a tall cheese plant.

  “He seemed to be able to write poetry with great spiritual insight but I was confused by ‘The Love Song of J Prufrock’ which launched his career. I thought it bestial whereas ‘The Four Quartets’ sublime and esoteric. It is as though he could be animal, human or divine. He could alternate his identity at will. Do you not think so?”

  Gurtha waved a hand, chasing away a mosquito buzzing around his eyes.

  “Perhaps the more intellectual we are it becomes paradoxically more likely that we succumb to the temptations of the flesh – we indulge the animal side of our nature.”

  “Why would that be the case? It doesn’t make sense. Is the rational mind not above animal instinct?”

  Angelina found a stool to sit on. Gurtha apologised.

  “Sorry, I should have offered you a seat first.”

  Angelina shook her head.

  “Don’t worry. I will be helping to serve the wine in a few minutes. What were you saying about the rational mind?”

  Gurtha looked at the ‘New Eve’ painting.

  “The rational mind is not necessarily a wise mind. After all we rationalise killing, racism, anger … The intellect fragments reality. Perhaps Eliot struggled with this as we all do. If you look at animals, the research shows that they are programmed to experience contentment and to nurture. It’s we human beings who are capable of leaving contentment and nurturing behind.”

  Angelina listened carefully and asked. “Why do we do that?”

  “I really don’t know for sure. When I have reflected on this question – I see the possible answer visually or symbolically rather than intellectually.”

  Angelina placed her glass on the table, leant forward, with both hands clasped.

  “And ….?”

  Gurtha took a sip of Cava.

  “It’s like a ladder. But not a straight one – a spiral one. Each rung contains a certain level of consciousness. As human beings we step onto a rung which provides us with emotional consciousness. We feel happy or sad. We are interested or bored. There’s an enormous spectrum of response attached to our emotional world. Then we step onto the thinking rung and we start to make judgements – liking, not liking, good and bad – dualistic thinking. We struggle to keep one foot on the rung of emotion with another on the rung of thinking and we never venture to the rungs above which would give us a new understanding of where we have come from.” He paused. “Please stop me if I am boring you. I have that tendency to do that with others.”

  Angelina picked at the wax falling onto the table from a thick white candle.

  “You’re not boring me at all. What are on the rungs above thinking?”

  Barry interrupted, slithering from behind the cheese plant, with a bottle of white wine. His shoulders curved, his eyes semi-closed, like a pig - his voice ingratiatingly, honey sweet.

  “Angelina, would you like a top up?”

  Angelina reached out her glass.

  “Thank you.” She smiled fleetingly at him and pointed to Gurtha’s empty glass.

  “What about Gurtha?”

  She watched his shoulders become even more concave as he poured the Cava into Gurtha’s glass. As the wine reached the top of the glass, he continued pouring. It cascaded with a bubbling exuberance onto Gurtha’s white linen trousers.

  “I do so apologise.” Barry withdrew the bottle with feigned speed, ensuring that a final splutter of wine fell onto Gurtha’s alligator skin Testoni shoes.

  Gurtha pulled a cotton handkerchief from his jacket pocket, mopping first the shoes and then the trousers, dabbing at his thighs.

  “I understand that you were trying to be generous.”

  Barry glanced at Angelina, “Would you like more?”

  Angelina twisted her face into a look of disgust, “You’ve already topped my glass up.”

  As Barry repeatedly blinked at her, he seemed to her like a lecherous camera man – with each blink capturing a photo of her to be drooled over later. She pointed at the stairs,

  “I don’t think the people upstairs have any wine. Would you be good enough to take care of them?”

  No sooner were those words uttered when Cornelia rushed towards them
. She stood breathing rapidly and shallowly in front of them. Her pale face whiter than normal, lips trembling.

  Gurtha jumped to his feet.

  “What’s happened?”

  “It’s Paddy. He’s disappeared. He’s gone.”

  Gurtha pushed his glass at Barry and shook his head.

  “What do you mean ‘gone’?” Without waiting for an answer he asked, “Who saw him last?”

  Cornelia confessed, “I did. I brought him his tapas and a drink.” She paused,

  “He was asking about Nuala. I told him a lie. I said that she was in the loo to calm him down. He seemed to accept that. I thought that he was OK. He seemed tranquil. Maybe I shouldn’t have told him a lie. I thought that he would come inside to look for her if he was confused. Not for a moment did I think that he would leave the gallery.”

  Gurtha took a deep breath.

  “Let’s stay calm.”

  Outside a circle formed around the wooden chair where Paddy had sat a few minutes earlier. Paddy’s cap lay folded in the centre of the chair. The tapas uneaten, a blue paper napkin rolled in the breeze along the street, the glass of wine empty. Cornelia and Angelina glanced to the right and left. Gurtha asked, “Did anyone notice which way he went?”

  Cornelia fanned herself,

  “No. I’ve asked everyone.”

  Gurtha rubbed his eyes, “He can’t have gone far if it was only ten minutes ago. I’ll go this way. Get Barry, Todd and Stephanie. Ask everyone if they can help. We meet back here ….” Gurtha glanced at his watch. “We meet back here at nine o’clock.”

  ♥

  Paddy listened to the violins playing inside. There was the gentlest of breezes moving the geraniums in the pots in front of him. A child in a turquoise cotton dress with a white bow in her hair sat on the pavement. He waved at her. She waved back.

  He scratched the stubble on his chin. ‘What time was it?’ He looked at his watch. It was seven thirty. He thought, ‘It must be time to shave.’ He normally got up at six-thirty when he was working – seven thirty was a bit late. He carefully examined the tapas on the table and chose to ignore them, lighting, instead, a Hamlet and breathing in the aromatic smoke. Wonderful. He sniffed at the air. Timeless Hamlet taking him back to where he felt safe, to what he knew - the smell of home. It didn’t matter that he didn’t recognise the writing on the sign above the shop in front of him. He squinted – ‘Sa Frontera’ – what was that? It must be time to go home. He heaved himself onto his feet. What would be the best way home? He looked up the alley to his right. At the end of the alley, in the distance was a huge mountain – grey, towering over the orange terracotta roof tops. Home could not be to the right. He looked left. There was Molly. A black and white cat rolled onto its back, purring as it played with a green ball on piece of string.

 

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