Himself

by Jess Kidd

  The rain falls too on the roof of the village hall, dancing over the clogged gutters, ringing the ancient rusty school bell and running down between loose tiles to drip down the wall in the ladies cloakroom.

  Inside the main hall Michael Hopper is sculling across the floor with the look of a creature of quarry about him. To his credit he’s moving fast for a man whose knees are flittered with rheumatism. He almost clears the open ground before he is fastened to the floor by the steamrolling tones of Mrs Cauley.

  ‘Michael Hopper, I’ll have a word with you.’

  And there she is, coming in through the double doors dressed in a high-necked coat of apricot lace, like a fortified wedding cake. She has her talons hooked over Mahony’s arm, who is walking next to her with the air of a conquering hero, a fag upright in his mouth and his shirttails hanging.

  The drip on Michael’s florid nose stiffens to a sudden watchful stillness. ‘Is it you, Mrs Cauley?’

  ‘It is, Michael, and can you tell me where my cast members are?’

  Michael Hopper looks rapidly from side to side as if connecting up the various parts of his mind.

  Mrs Cauley fixes him with a dreadful glare. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, Michael, but there is no wedding, funeral or hurling match to account for a wholesale absence from the first rehearsal of my annual fundraising production.’

  Michael Hopper curses his knees to hell. ‘Will I go and have a look about the town, Mrs Cauley?’

  ‘You do that. And mind you send Father Quinn in here to me, if you happen to turn him out from under a stone.’

  ‘It’s Father Quinn you want specifically?’ Michael’s nose reddens.

  There’s a dangerous light in her eyes. ‘Isn’t he the man in the know, Michael?’

  Michael Hopper hotfoots it out of the door.

  She looks about herself with disdain. ‘Will you look at the filth of this place? He’s not even set up the chairs. If there was work in the bed, Michael Hopper would sleep on the floor.’ She sets her chin at a grim angle and squints up at Mahony. ‘I smell a rat.’

  ‘Do you now?’

  ‘I smell a big cringing rat in a dog collar. Quinn is blocking us; he wants you out of town.’

  ‘Maybe.’ He pulls up a chair for her.

  ‘We’re upsetting the old order, Mahony.’

  ‘But does he have that much influence? To call the lot of them out of the play?’

  ‘Not at all, but sheep will cleave to a weasel if they’re frightened by a wolf. Quinn is using Orla to get Mulderrig behind him.’

  ‘Do you think?’

  ‘With you here, and the play keeping you here, Orla will have retribution. Many of them were shook up by Mary Lavelle’s premonition, that much is clear, and Quinn will jump right on the back of that. Fear, guilt and superstition, Mahony, it’s a fine way to steer the herd. It always has been.’

  ‘Well, time will tell. Is it tea you want?’

  She nods. ‘Go on then. We’ll wait a while and see if anything turns up.’

  Mahony tucks a blanket around her legs and goes into the kitchen. Miss Mulhearne is sitting on the draining board revealing a good inch of stockinged ankle. Mahony can see the piles of cups and saucers through her. She throws her arms girlishly around her knees and gives Mahony the kind of smile that makes her beautiful.

  Mahony presses open a book. Amongst the empty cake tins and the rinsed milk bottles, behind the leggy wooden dryer and under the cobwebbed window, he reads poetry to a dead spinster. Miss Mulhearne stretches out the length of the serving hatch with her cardigan unbuttoned and her smile blissful.

  As Mahony reads, rain sheers across the half-open window and with the rain comes the smell of the wet earth rising. Outside the window the bushes beat time with their wet branches to the rise and fall of his voice, although the wind has abated now; she’s holding her breath to listen.

  Mahony reads, paying no mind to the wakening world.

  Father Quinn pulls up a chair and waits, watching Mrs Cauley sleep. She has the same subterranean look as a bog corpse he once saw in a museum. She could easily have been spat out by some remote wetland, her body preserved by its dark juices. She’s an archaeological find from another time, her skin as brittle as vellum and stained with age. She has a seedy string of pearls around her neck rather than a hangman’s rope. And no doubt her stomach would give up a very good last meal, not a caked smear of gruel.

  Father Quinn studies his enemy closely. He could crush her with the span of just one hand. But instead he arranges an expression of charitable concern on his face. ‘Mrs Cauley?’

  Mrs Cauley feigns bleary-eyed surprise. ‘Bless you, Father, for coming to me in my hour of need.’

  ‘Michael told me that you sent for me.’

  ‘I did, Father, tell me, where are all the people? Why are they not here? They’ve never let me down before.’

  ‘Well, Mrs Cauley, and this is a delicate matter, but I have been made aware that the village has a few concerns regarding your production.’

  ‘What concerns?’

  Mrs Cauley is surprised by just how many teeth one man could have in his head as Father Quinn looks at her and smiles.

  ‘I think you should consider changing your leading man, Mrs Cauley. Mulderrig is a little wary of strangers.’

  Mrs Cauley smiles back at him radiantly. ‘Mahony is not a stranger, Father. He was born here and he is fully entitled to return to the place of his birth. Not least to solve the mystery of his mother’s disappearance.’

  Father Quinn looks around himself, moistening his top lip to a wetter sheen with several erratic sweeps of his tongue. ‘Orla Sweeney did not disappear, Mrs Cauley. She left Mulderrig of her own free will.’

  Mrs Cauley leans nearer. Her voice is no more than a murmur. ‘Neither of us believes that old chestnut now, do we? Look, Father, one of your flock must have confessed a little something or other. There’s a reward posted, did you know that?’

  Father Quinn raises his eyebrows.

  ‘Unofficially, of course. Think of it more as a demonstration of gratitude from a rich old lady. All I’m asking for,’ she says, with a roguish glint in her eyes, ‘as a hitherto loyal friend to the church, is a few small nuggets of information.’

  Father Quinn frowns.

  Mrs Cauley unleashes a winning smile. ‘And of course I keep my sources confidential, Father. As you know yourself, I’m very discreet.’

  An expression of complicated disgust flickers over Eugene Quinn’s face. He surges up from his chair. ‘I’ll not be—’

  ‘Sit down, please, Father.’

  The priest takes his seat, levelling a look of impotent fury at the old woman.

  Undaunted, Mrs Cauley continues. ‘Oh, I know all about the sacrament of penance and confessional seals and all that jazz. Just pop the name on a bit of paper and post it to me. Or type it. Or better still, cut the letters out of a newspaper like a blackmailer in an Agatha Christie.’ She drops her voice to a whisper. ‘You see it doesn’t count if you don’t say it out loud.’

  Father Quinn shakes his head in disbelief.

  ‘Then bang bang, you’re on target for a new roof or a spanking new organ, a trip to Honolulu or whatever it is you want.’ Mrs Cauley taps the side of her nose. ‘And it’s all between you and me, Father. All I need is a name.’

  Father Quinn looks at her incredulously. ‘Mahony has put you up to this.’

  ‘He has not. I’m cutting a deal here. This is all me.’

  ‘Mrs Cauley, I’m going to forget that we ever had this conversation.’

  ‘And lose out on that cruise you’ve been dreaming of?’

  ‘This just proves the disruptive influence Mahony has had on this village.’

  ‘This village needs disrupting.’

  Eugene Quinn slaps his legs with his long hands and makes his words those of swift business. ‘No. I’ll have no more of this, Mrs Cauley. Mahony has turned this town upside down. Mrs Lavelle in particular is distraught. She is
greatly unsettled.’

  ‘She’s always been greatly unsettled.’

  Father Quinn ignores her. ‘This is my advice to you, Mrs Cauley: let Mahony return to the city. He doesn’t belong here and the people don’t want him here. He stirs up bad memories.’

  ‘He only wants the truth.’

  ‘He’s a fantasist, Mrs Cauley. His mother abandoned him and that’s the truth of it. He can’t accept that truth, so he’s come back spinning some dark tale, casting aspersions. You are not helping him by inventing these crime fictions.’

  ‘Mahony will find out what happened to his mother.’ Mrs Cauley smiles a smile of unsettling sweetness and folds her hands primly on her blanketed lap. ‘In the meantime, he’s going nowhere. For if there’s no Mahony, there’s no play. And if there’s no play – now I’m no fortune teller but I predict a marked downturn in your parish income this year.’

  The priest reddens.

  ‘This is my last production and I will have it my own way: Mahony is my leading man. If Mary Lavelle wants to have a funny turn and the villagers want to light a few extra candles then let them.’

  ‘Mrs Cauley, I only have your welfare and the welfare of this village in mind.’

  Mrs Cauley lifts up her face, her eyes awash with honest fortitude. ‘I’m dying, Father, I’m riddled. I’ve been sentenced by Dr McNulty.’

  Father Quinn stifles an irreligious impulse and nods stiffly.

  ‘I have many loose ends to tie up before I allow myself to expire. I must deal with all my worldly possessions, such as they are. My little crock of gold must find a home, I must place it wisely into safe hands, having neither kith nor kin to inherit.’

  She smiles slowly, with a terrifying benignity. ‘The grief of not having my own way may lead me to make irrational decisions at a time when a clear head is needed. Father, you of all people know that old women are feeble of mind. My mind could snap, just like a twig, with the very slightest of pressure, then who knows what would happen to my nest egg? It could roll off anywhere, in any number of directions.’

  Father Quinn is bitterly aware that he must strike a deal of Mrs Cauley’s own making. ‘Mrs Cauley, I will, temporarily, advocate tolerance with regard to Mahony but this inquiry into the fictional death of his mother must desist. I want no more talk of murder. You must stop your amateur detective games. Do I have your word?’

  Mrs Cauley shrugs imperceptibly.

  ‘And I shall be keeping a close eye on Mahony and I will apply the full weight of the church and of the law should he put a foot wrong.’

  Mrs Cauley nods, clearly unimpressed.

  ‘And you must give me your word that Mahony will leave this village and go back to where he came from immediately after the play is over.’

  Mrs Cauley smiles slightly.

  The priest rises haughtily from his chair. ‘Furthermore, I shall also expect Mahony’s presence at Mass on Sunday and his public acquiescence to all codes of acceptable behaviour.’

  Mrs Cauley stifles a laugh and looks up at him with an unconvincing expression of ardent respect. ‘May God bless and preserve you, Father Quinn.’

  Mahony finds Mrs Cauley where he left her, fanning herself with a play script.

  ‘Take me to the pub, Mahony. I’m dying.’

  The wheelchair only gets stuck twice on the way to Kerrigan’s Bar. Mrs Cauley sings filthy songs all the way, refusing the umbrella Mahony tries to put over her and turning her face up to the lashing rain.

  By the time they crash through the doors of the saloon bar Mrs Cauley has lost her spectacles, her left shoe and every last ache in her joints.

  ‘How are the men?’ she roars. ‘Tadhg, I want to buy Mulderrig a drink.’

  The early drinkers raise their eyebrows and their glasses to her.

  ‘Perch me there in that corner and make mine a double-double.’

  Tadhg gives Mahony some bar towels for Mrs Cauley to knot about her head while her wig dries off. And there she sits at the table, flushed and beaming, decadent and regal, hopelessly frail and blazing with life.

  As the day wears on, the village starts to come in through the door to be lured to Mrs Cauley’s corner of the bar, where she holds court, downing shorts and telling her ancient theatre stories with the slippery skill of a card cheat. Mahony watches their faces as they turn to her, enthralled, even a little grateful, like she’s the morning sun after a cold night.

  Tadhg pours a couple of pints and motions Mahony over to a table in the corner. ‘Mrs Cauley in full flow is a beautiful thing. I haven’t seen her like this in a long time. You do her good, Mahony.’

  Mahony smiles and sits down. A long-dead drinker settles himself in the empty chair beside him and gazes at Mahony’s pint on the table. The dead man nods to Mahony and attempts to pick up the glass.

  ‘Well now, Mahony, it seems you’ve set the cat amongst the pigeons with a carving knife.’

  Mahony takes a cigarette from Tadhg and lights it. ‘Why’s that then?’

  ‘Mary Lavelle says that you have woken the dead. She says they reared up out of their graves the very moment you set foot in town.’

  Mahony laughs.

  ‘It’s no joke, pal.’ Tadhg frowns. ‘You’re getting their imaginations riled; it’s affecting them.’

  The dead drinker draws closer and tries to lick Mahony’s glass.

  ‘They just get caught up in it; it can happen to the best of us, the old superstition.’ Tadhg leans forward. ‘I remember a tinker scaring the life out of me once. She’d said she’d seen my grandfather riding around town on my mother’s back. The man had been dead six months and in that time my mother had suffered terrible pain. Now my grandfather was a bad bastard, God rest his soul, so you really wouldn’t want to be carrying him about your person.’ Tadhg raises his pint to his mouth. ‘But then Mammy went to the doctor’s and found out that it was sciatica she’d had all along.’

  The dead drinker stares forlornly at Mahony’s pint.

  ‘It’s all this talk of your mother, her disappearance, murder even. You need to let it go. We both know Orla is out there somewhere, alive and kicking.’

  ‘I don’t know that, Tadhg.’

  Tadhg reddens. ‘Where’s your evidence then? If Orla is dead then where’s her body?’ Tadhg shakes his head. ‘Where’s the crime here, Mahony? I don’t see one.’

  The dead drinker nuzzles up to Tadhg’s shoulder, crying in quiet despair.

  Tadhg screws his fag out in the ashtray. ‘Call off the search, Mahony. Enjoy the play, have your break and you’ll leave on better terms for it.’

  ‘That’s your advice?’

  ‘That’s my warning. You keep winding them up and every last one will take against you.’

  Mahony shrugs. ‘And prove that they’re hiding something.’

  Tadhg looks at him in disbelief. ‘Have you heard nothing? Drop it and move on. That girl was a curse.’

  ‘That girl was my mother,’ says Mahony, hard-eyed.

  Tadhg looks away. He pulls out a handkerchief and gives his face the once-over. ‘Now there’s Jack up at the bar for me.’ He gets up. ‘Think it over, Mahony. Before it’s too late.’

  The dead drinker follows Tadhg to the bar, hopping up onto the stool next to Jack Brophy to sit looking in boundless despair at a pint with a virgin head on it just like a drift of thick cream. Mahony finishes his drink and waves his glass at the bar boy for another.

  Mahony looks at the outstretched hand in front of him.

  ‘You were asking after me, Squire?’ says the man.

  Mahony gets up and shakes the man’s hand. ‘Aye, I was. Take a seat. Jimmy Nylon, is it?’

  The man grins in delight. ‘It is. How did you know?’

  ‘I took a wild stab.’

  Jimmy Nylon sits down and crosses his legs, ankle to knee, stretching his slacks to the limit. He has the look of someone whose soul got up and walked away in disgust a long time ago. He holds up his hands as if he’s parting a biblical sea of tr
oubles. ‘Now, first off, whatever you heard about me isn’t true. I’m a lad with a bit of a reputation.’

  ‘You know what I want to talk to you about?’

  ‘I have an idea,’ says Jimmy, shooting Tadhg a furtive glance as he stands watching them from behind the bar with his arms folded.

  ‘Then what do you know about the disappearance of Orla Sweeney?’

  As Jimmy begins to finger the flayed edges of his magnificent golden hairpiece, Mahony can only look on in fascination.

  And rightly so, for Jimmy is a local legend, that much is clear. Ask anyone and they’ll tell you that what you have, right there, is a man of unwavering purpose. A man who spent decades as bald as a rock until one day he left town in search of the right hairpiece, at the right price.

  His travels took him all over Ireland.

  Some said he’d killed a man for his wallet in Athlone and some said he’d bought it with the money left him by a maiden aunt in Ballycroy.

  Either way Jimmy had struck gold. Literally.

  He returned to town with a flaxen toupee of prodigious style and quality. Here, finally, was the perfect marriage of easy-care manmade fibres and a dazzling blond hue.

  Jimmy leans forward in his chair and points at Mahony. ‘On the day Orla left town I saw her propping up the wall outside the General Store.’

  ‘Was she alone?’

  ‘She was alone an’ looked a bit downcast for herself.’

  ‘In what way?’

  Jimmy sucks air in through his teeth. ‘Now don’t get me wrong, I never had anything against your mother. But it didn’t do to be seen to be involved with her. It wasn’t good for the old reputation.’

  Jimmy’s hand travels down his leg to tap on his crossed calf then his knee and back again. Tap, tap. His fingers go up to rim around the cuff of his wig, then back down to his knee again.

  Mahony smiles. ‘She wasn’t popular. I get that. The town wanted her out.’

  Jimmy narrows his eyes, sensing a trick. He leaves go of his knee and hooks his hand up behind his back. ‘Ah now, I wouldn’t know about that. The truth is I felt a bit sorry for her. She was different, you see, running around the forest day and night. There was a notion that she wasn’t quite right, that she was a bit touched.’ Jimmy taps a pattern on the side of his head.