The Butterfly State

by Carol Coffey

  Chapter 5

  1971

  Summer was here and Árd Glen was transformed into the picture-perfect postcard village Americans dream about visiting upon retirement. A three-hundred-year-old castle ruin dominated the village, once belonging to the Protestant landlord family that owned the majority of the area during English occupation. The ancient stone church was still in use despite being freezing cold and needing constant makeshift repairs by the local men to a leaking roof and a sinking foundation. With such a small population, the building of a new church was not high up on the bishop’s to-do list. Apart from three small shops, a post office and three pubs, Árd Glen had nothing to offer a visitor except its beautiful landscape. The village was nestled between large blue mountains and lakes that attracted fisherman from all over the world, many staying in larger towns in Wicklow as the village had no hotel. In summer, Saturday was spent lazily beside the lake by many, with children paddling or trying to catch small fish in improvised fishing nets made of their mothers’ old stockings strung tightly over bits of wood and tied with string, only returning home at dinnertime starving and exhausted. In the evening, the men, with a week’s work behind them, would sit in whichever pub was their preferred watering hole. Old men would reminisce while the young made great plans for the future, with talk of emigrating and making a new life in America or Australia.

  Michael Byrne would sit and listen to the talk but rarely took part. He had no friends and was considered an odd sort. On the rare occasion that he spoke, it was usually to make some outlandish statement, causing those around to stare at him before going back to their pints. Michael did not seem to know how to talk to people and, when strangers entered the pub, Michael would spend the time staring at them until they left and was usually unaware of the effect he had on those around him. He never felt like he fitted in anywhere and the frustration he had felt all his life was dealt with in the usual way: a pint followed by several small ones, followed by more pints until he felt numb, which was the feeling he preferred by far. He was aware though that some locals sneered at him. They knew he had taken advantage of an unfortunate situation in the Kelly household and had married Maura Kelly quickly, inheriting Jimmy Kelly’s farm and the man still alive. Few believed that he was the lad’s father. Some went further and doubted he had fathered any of the children for that matter, as Michael was born and reared in Árd Glen and was never known for his interest in the fairer sex.

  It was one such Saturday night that found Michael sitting in his usual seat in Mattie Slattery’s bar. In the corner he could see his brother-in-law Jimmy talking quietly with his boy, Liam. Jimmy looked up, stared resentfully at his brother-in-law before turning away. Michael did not fully understand Jimmy’s look – he rarely knew what people meant unless they said it out straight – but felt uncomfortable enough to get up and find another seat. Maura was dead only nine months and he understood enough to know that people thought he should be at home with his children. His children! He almost laughed out loud at the thought as he settled down for a night’s drinking in peace.

  Back in the cottage, Kate Byrne was alone in the tiny kitchen. It was after midnight and there was no sign of her father who had being drinking since morning, her future sister-in-law Rose Moore making sure to stop by and let her know that her father had been in Slattery’s all day and had been shouting at some tourists who had come in for a drink.

  “He’s going to ruin everything,” Kate said aloud although she was alone in the tiny cottage.

  She had put the baby to bed earlier and had not seen Seán who would normally keep her company at night. Tess went to bed at exactly the same time every night, her need for rituals and rules never fading. Kate was tired; the responsibility of running the house and caring for Ben was taking its toll.

  “Why couldn’t he just behave until my wedding is over?” she said again to invisible company. She knew he resented her, had always given her and Seán a hard life, running them down no matter what they achieved. He was better with Tess when she was born but was less interested when her problems became noticeable, and she had never, not even once, seen him lift the baby up. Kate could feel the tears well up and wondered why she was feeling so low. She wasn’t normally like this; perhaps it was all the worry of the wedding. She was missing her mother who should have been here to see her big day. Small, hot tears started to roll slowly down her pale face.

  “Poor Mammy! You would have loved all of this. You would have loved to see me get married!” she cried as she ironed one of the bridesmaid’s dresses.

  She found herself sobbing louder now and was glad that she was alone in the house. She didn’t want to be seen crying – everybody depended on her after all. Everything that had happened in her life seemed to tumble down on her tonight. She sat beside the range, a seat her mother had once occupied. She had cried for her mother at the funeral but somehow tonight her absence seemed more real, seemed much more final. She thought of the awful life they had endured. Her father had often beaten her mother and hit both herself and Seán when they tried to protect her. Just when Kate felt her tears subside a lump rose in her throat, almost choking her, until she felt the years of anger and frustration rise up in her like never before. She heard a loud sound that was neither a scream nor a moan rise from her throat, a sound that seemed to come from some crazed animal. She was angry for Seán, for Tess and for Ben, but mostly for her mother who would never see another day, who would never see Kate’s day. Kate’s eyes widened as she thought she heard her mother calling her, pleading with her as she had done during the final days of her illness.

  “That bastard!” she said aloud. “He ruined her life, he robbed her of being here now, with her children, with me. He’ll ruin all of our lives.” She wished that her father was dead so that neither she nor her siblings would suffer any more at the hands of Michael Byrne.

  With only the glimmer of the street-light to guide him, Michael Byrne made his way down the village’s main street towards his farm, the two-mile walk feeling like twenty to his unsteady legs. It was almost four in the morning and he had woken in a ditch on the wrong side of the village. He wondered how he had got there and rose to find his shirt covered in vomit. He remembered that he had felt dizzy and had sat down until the feeling passed. He remembered being thrown out of Slattery’s, having had words with his wife’s nephew Liam. He had a vague memory of trying to get into Massey’s then and having words with Massey himself. He didn’t remember anything after that except sitting in this ditch for a rest and thought he must have dozed off. He set out to walk back through the village. He could see streaks of light forming in the sky, the sun trying to rise, still partly hidden by the tall dark-blue mountains that stood on almost every side of the tiny rural village. He had been drinking like this for days and could not see the blood in his vomit which spilled out onto the street outside the graveyard.

  Michael walked slowly, stopping each time the pain in his stomach stabbed him. He thought about how he had not eaten all day and how he might get that bitch Kate up to fix something for him when he got home. He continued walking, his hand placed firmly over his stomach.

  About a quarter of a mile further, Michael could hear footsteps behind him and turned but could see no one in the dark isolated road. He walked on a few yards but then could hear it again.

  “Who’s there?” he shouted nervously. He didn’t think he believed in ghosts but now that his wife was dead, he briefly wondered if she could haunt him.

  Clip clip!

  There it was again although it somehow didn’t seem as loud. Maybe it was someone going the other way. Had he passed someone in the dark without seeing them? He laughed at his stupidity and kept moving, his stomach having eased slightly.

  “Ha! Ghosts! Must be going crazy!”

  Michael walked further down the dark road and turned left onto a slip road that led to his farm. There were no houses here and the only lights he could see were the first rays of a new dawn.

  He con
tinued on, cursing his pain, with only the darkness of the silent road before him. He heard them again. Footsteps.

  “Who the hell is there?”

  The footsteps stopped.

  Michael, who thought himself a man not easily frightened, quickened his steps, twice slipping on the cow dung that littered the country road.

  He swung around again.

  “Jesus, come out! God damn you, what do you want?” Michael’s new-found bravery surprised him as he felt himself becoming angry. People were usually afraid of him, not the other way around. When no one spoke, Michael started to sprint, fear moving his weak legs, but the footsteps also quickened and became even louder. He decided to run off the road. He could hide in the long grass that surrounded the lakes not far from where he was.

  But the footsteps followed him.

  “What, for Christ sake, what do you want?” he begged, his bravery now sensibly abandoned.

  Michael stood still and decided to throw the contents of his trousers pockets into the darkness.

  “Here, it’s all I have!” he shouted.

  He had stepped back, ready to run again, when he fell, tumbling down to what he knew was the lake’s edge. He was surprised to find himself wondering how he had misjudged it – after all, he knew this place so well – and wondered simultaneously why this fact mattered at all when some lunatic was chasing him in the dark. A hard sharp object stopped his fall. He could hear the water lapping behind his ears and wetness drip down from the back of his head. He touched it and knew that he had hit a rock and that blood was pouring from his head. He felt no pain and lay there, glad that he had not fallen into the lake itself as he had always been afraid of water and could not swim. Michael put one arm out, feeling the water in his right hand and laughed quietly when he realised his luck. He could hear nothing except the water and had decided to move when he saw it, a figure to his left, the shape of a person standing above him.

  “Wha’ –”

  With his word hanging in mid-air, Michael felt the full force of a fist in his face. He tried to move, hands raised, turning his face away from the blow. He felt another fist again at the side of his head and then another until the punches rained down on him. Blood poured down his face and he could not see his attacker. Michael grabbed on tightly to the figure’s legs and tried to stand but felt the hard blunt force of a rock in his face. He felt the rock again and fell backwards onto the water’s edge. He could hear his attacker panting near him and looked up, trying to wipe his eyes, his hands outstretched. The shadow stood and Michael cowered, thinking he was going to finish him off, but was relieved to hear him running away. He knew his nose was broken and could hear his own laboured, wheezing breathing. The dizziness he had felt earlier returned and he could feel himself losing consciousness as he drifted off beside the cold water’s edge.

  At half past six in the morning several fishermen had already cast their lines along the lakeshore. The sky was clear blue with hardly a cloud in sight. The lake was actually two separate lakes divided by a long narrow ridge. From the top of nearby hills it looked like a giant blue butterfly with wings outstretched towards the equally blue mountains that almost surrounded the water. The air was still chilly despite the early sunshine and small pockets of mist still hung around damp areas, giving the lake an almost eerie feel. The angling contest that would be held later that morning had already attracted a large group, with some having to move further along the lake toward Árd Glen for a quiet catch.

  Tom Healy had moved even further down the lakeshore, the noise from the crowd irritating him. He had fished at the lake since he was a boy and knew all the good spots, and was hoping to win the competition for what would be the second year in a row.

  “Wish me luck?” he had said to his wife during one of her “good-luck breakfasts” before setting off. This year he hoped to set a record, catching the biggest trout in the shortest time. As he cast his line, he noticed a young girl standing further along the shore. He hated children near his fishing area; they made too much noise and frightened fish away.

  “Hey, go play somewhere else, girl!” he shouted at the child, who ignored him. He wondered what on earth she was doing out at this time of the morning.

  Kids today, he thought as he marched toward her, angry that she had ignored him – no respect for elders, won’t do anything they’re told. He recalled his own grandchildren’s weekly visits which irritated him.

  As he drew nearer he saw that the girl was standing over something.

  “Must be a dead animal,” he said aloud when he noticed the swarm of flies around the area. He hoped no one would catch anything in his absence and glanced back to ensure his line was okay.

  Peering closer as he approached the spot, he wished he had brought his glasses. Then he realised what she was looking at and fell backwards into the grass before vomiting what remained of his wife’s cooking, the hope of catching the biggest fish now far from his mind.

  The body of Michael Byrne, bloodied and beaten at the water’s edge, was the last thing he had expected to see. Even more shocking was the girl, Tess, standing over her father, a large rock held firmly in her hands.

  When Kate Byrne rose from her bed, she was not surprised to find her sister missing from the bedroom. Tess often got up before dawn and slipped out of the window of the room they shared. She would walk down to the lake and spend the entire morning there, only returning at the exact time that her next meal was due. Butterflies fascinated Kate’s younger sister and she often spent hours drawing them by the water’s edge. As a smaller child, she had convinced Seán to make her a wooden sign for the front gate which she painted butterflies on and named the farm “Butterfly State”. Tess had been studying the formation of the Republic of Ireland at school and was amazed that people could make their own country, which is how she saw it. Seán and Kate had laughed and explained to her that countries were always there, that only boundaries were changed, but she didn’t believe this. When their father saw the sign, he ripped it off the gate saying it was ridiculous and that they’d be the laughing stock of the town. Since then Tess had slept with the sign beneath her pillow, informing anyone who listened that she would nail it back up when her father was dead.

  Kate decided to sit in the kitchen until the rest of the family woke up. She had heard someone moving about in the night and then again in the early hours of the morning. She wasn’t sure if it was her father or Seán, like herself, unable to sleep. From the window she could see Seán talking to someone in the distance. She wondered if it was the vet as they had a sick calf and she watched as the two men walked towards the house.

  As Seán opened the door into the kitchen, Kate noticed his flushed face and worried expression.

  “Kate, this is Sergeant Mullins,” he said nervously. “He wants us to come to the station with him.”

  Before Kate got a chance to ask what was wrong, Seán beckoned for her to stay silent. She quickly dressed Ben and got her coat, leaving a brief note for her sister who would almost surely come to some outlandish conclusion when she arrived back to an empty house.

  At the tiny rural station, Kate and Seán sat quietly as the sergeant explained how a fisherman had found their father’s body, beaten to death by the lakeside, Tess standing over him with the murder weapon in her hands. He had taken statements from several fishermen at the lake but a team of detectives would now take over the case. He had tried questioning their sister but she had remained silent. He had warned her that her silence would be seen as guilt, to frighten her, but she didn’t seem to understand.

  Kate sat stunned, waiting for him to finish, her mind trying to grasp what had been said. Eventually she spoke.

  “You hardly think Tess did it! No, that’s not possible. She must have come upon him like that. She’d never do that, she’s harmless. Why would she do it? There’s no way. She doesn’t understand what’s going on around her.”

  Kate ranted for some minutes while Seán remained completely silent beside her,
the baby sensing the anxiety and beginning to cry. She looked at Seán, amazed that he had nothing to say, and gave him a look he couldn’t quite understand.

  “I gave her every opportunity to tell me what happened but like I said, Miss Byrne, she wouldn’t speak.”

  “She gets like that, you don’t understand. She won’t speak if she’s frightened. It’s part of her condition.”

  “Her condition?”

  “She’s autistic.”

  He didn’t know what that meant so he wrote “retarded” on his notebook.

  “Can I see her please?” Kate asked.

  “Okay. Only a few minutes,” Mullins replied.

  In a small cold room off the main office, Kate sat hugging her sister who squirmed in her arms. She was not allowed to ask Tess about what had happened and a young policeman stood with them there. They would not permit her to take Tess home until the investigation was completed and she sobbed as she left Tess screaming after her and cried all the way home.

  About an hour after they reached the cottage, a detective came and took statements from them both. Seán had asked Kate to say they were together all evening. He explained to her that he had sat in the barn with the sick calf into the early hours but that no one could verify this so it was best if they said they were together.

  The following day, Kate’s head spun when she heard that her Uncle Jimmy had told detectives that Seán had a good reason to have done it, that the old man was holding back on letting the lad run the farm. Kate couldn’t understand why he would have said such a thing. Talk like that could have got Seán jailed for life.

  The three detectives assigned to the case tried individually to interview Tess but she remained silent. When they mentioned the lake she would put her finger to her lips as if to say “shhh” but no sound came from her mouth. They interviewed four local men who were classed as suspects as they were known to have had a recent gripe with Byrne but they all had alibis. The area around the lake was cordoned off and examined thoroughly. There were so many different sets of smudged footprints that it was impossible to identify individual ones. It was a useless exercise, needle in a haystack, they had said. The post mortem results revealed that although the blows to the head and face contributed to Byrne’s death, the actual cause of death was drowning. Detectives couldn’t understand how a small child could overpower a grown man. Motive was also an issue. Although they had been informed that Byrne treated his children cruelly, no one felt that the younger daughter had been treated particularly badly.