The Ruin

by Dervla McTiernan

  ‘Well . . .’ Rodgers smirked, then shrugged. Aisling wanted to slap him. He said nothing more, just passed the file from one hand to another. Glanced towards the door.

  ‘Right, well, let’s get back to this call,’ said Maude. ‘Was the caller male, or female?’

  ‘I don’t know, and I don’t think it’s relevant.’

  ‘Well, perhaps the answer is in your file,’ Maude said. Her tone was very dry, and Aisling felt a surge of fellow feeling towards her.

  With a sigh, Rodgers put the file back on the table and slowly turned the pages. He didn’t sit, but read from the file where he stood. ‘At one-sixteen a.m. on Sunday seventeenth March the garda on the desk at Mill Street received a call from a male caller who did not identify himself. He said that he had witnessed a person jump from O’Brien’s Bridge approximately five minutes earlier. Caller terminated the call.’ Rodger’s tone had changed. The bright but anxious student had taken up too much time and the irritated teacher wanted to move on.

  ‘Sunday seventeenth March. St. Patrick’s Day,’ Maude said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And that was the only call you got?’

  He nodded. He closed the file, and picked it up again from the table.

  Maude sat forward. ‘Look, could you just sit down for five minutes and answer our questions? That’s what this meeting is supposed to be about, isn’t it?’ Her voice was very controlled, but Rodgers was pissed off now and made no effort to hide it. He said nothing, but pulled back the seat and sat himself into it with exaggerated patience, while colour mounted in his face.

  ‘The pubs would only have been closed for half an hour,’ said Maude. ‘Paddy’s weekend. Half of them would have had late licences too. Don’t you think that it’s strange? That on a Saturday night in Galway only one person saw this, and he called the station but wouldn’t identify himself? Why wouldn’t he give his name?’

  ‘Certainly someone else may have seen your brother jump into the river. But there would be no need for them to call the police if they knew someone else had made the call, would there?’

  ‘Right, fine,’ said Maude. Her voice was a little louder now. ‘But you said that you lot got there in less than ten minutes, right? So there must have been people there, people who saw Jack jump, people who gave statements?’

  ‘There were some statements taken, yes,’ said Rodgers. This time he made no move to open his file. He was looking at Maude with poorly hidden irritation, his face more florid by the moment. Maybe he didn’t like being questioned by a woman, particularly one who was younger than he was.

  ‘I’m asking you if anyone other than this anonymous caller saw Jack jump into the river.’

  When Rodgers responded he spoke in a monotone, listing off facts that he suddenly knew without support from the file. ‘When officers reached the bridge there were a number of people in the vicinity. Two couples on the bridge were walking from the Róisín Dubh pub to Supermac’s on the corner of Cross Street and Bridge Street. A single male was crossing the bridge from the other side, on his way home from Busker Brownes. There were a number of other people near the bridge. Only brief interviews were taken in the circumstances, and no one had seen a man enter the water.’

  Aisling sat forward in her chair. Her head was reeling. Maude put both hands on the table in front of her and then, as if she couldn’t help herself, clenched them into fists. ‘This whole thing is bullshit,’ she said. ‘Jack didn’t kill himself. I can’t believe this. All you have to say it was a suicide is the word of some guy who made an anonymous call. There’s not a single other person who saw it happen.’ She took a quick gasping breath. ‘You should be investigating. You need to start investigating this properly. You’ve gone about it all wrong. Jack’s been dead for a week, and you’ve done nothing.’ Her voice rose at the end – still not a shout but raw and loud.

  ‘She’s right,’ Aisling said, hearing her own voice as if from a long way away. ‘This doesn’t make any sense.’

  But Rodgers was speaking over her. ‘That is not at all the case. The gardaí followed the designated procedures and carried out a thorough search of the area.’

  Aisling felt more and more disconnected from the scene in the room. Her head was swimming. Why hadn’t she asked any questions before now? ‘You need to look into this more. I don’t think Jack was depressed. He wasn’t depressed. And he was a very strong swimmer.’

  Rodgers turned to her. He was louder now, his tone angrily condescending. ‘I know it’s hard to accept, but people can do dreadful things. Really. I’ve seen it. You sit on this side of the desk for a while and you’ll see what people can do. And do you know, he probably drank a fair bit of alcohol before he jumped. They always do. And the alcohol would be very disorienting and make it harder to deal with the cold.’

  ‘But he didn’t drink,’ said Aisling. ‘He had never touched alcohol in his life. He hated it, and he never took drugs.’

  ‘Well, maybe he made an exception, given what was in his mind.’ Rodgers stood up again, this time pushing his chair back hard. It couldn’t slide on the lino and so wobbled and nearly toppled backwards. ‘I suppose we’ll never know,’ he muttered.

  ‘What?’ Maude said.

  But Rodgers didn’t respond.

  ‘What do you mean we won’t know?’ she repeated, but it seemed that Rodgers was in no mood to reply. The patient teacher was long gone, replaced by a sulky schoolboy, halfway between the table and the door.

  ‘We didn’t order a toxicology report.’ His tone was triumphant.

  ‘And whose decision was that?’ Maude asked. Her voice was calm again, her tone pitched low. To Aisling she sounded like the adult in the room; Aisling’s own questions those of a hysterical teenager.

  The part of Aisling that wasn’t dull and dizzy knew that toxicology was not a routine step in every postmortem; that it wasn’t ordered without a reason, but she couldn’t find the energy to pass this information to Maude.

  ‘It’s certainly not yours,’ Rodgers was saying.

  ‘I am his next of kin. I would like to know who decided not to test Jack’s blood for drugs. I also want some answers about this anonymous caller. Has the call been traced since? There is no call box on or near O’Brien’s Bridge.’ She looked to Aisling for confirmation. Aisling shook her head and Maude continued. ‘No call box, so the call would have to have been made from a mobile phone. And I do not think it unreasonable for the gardaí to take the time to carry out what seem to me to be basic investigative steps.’

  Rodgers took hold of the door handle.

  ‘I’m sure it’s very hard for you to accept your brother’s death. Particularly when you weren’t really much of a sister to him during his life, were you really? I’m sure you’re feeling a bit guilty about that. And maybe now you’re trying to make up for it. That’s understandable. But you know, your friend here, she’s very sad about her boyfriend and I think you’d respect that and stop trying to get her all riled up.’

  ‘All. Riled. Up.’ Aisling repeated. She wasn’t trying to be funny, but she couldn’t seem to pull her thoughts together.

  Rodgers’ face darkened. ‘Right. I’ve given you the information I have to give you.’ He took two angry steps back to the table and shoved the grieving relatives’ booklet across the table at them. ‘Have a read of that. You’ll soon see that this whole thing was textbook, you know. Most drownings in Ireland are young men in their twenties committing suicide at night with drink taken. I’m afraid I can’t help you further today, and this room is needed now so I’ll have to ask you to leave.’ He stood and walked to the door, holding it open for them.

  Maude took her time, but she stood eventually, and turned to Aisling. Aisling couldn’t move. She thought she might be sick. Despite the confusion and nausea she felt that a little bit of Jack had been given back to her in this room, and if she left she might lose him all over again. The possibility that Jack hadn’t killed himself was suddenly everything. It was the thread she
could pick up and follow back to a world and a life where things made sense. She had to remind herself that Jack was still dead. No matter how it had happened, nothing would change the fact that he was gone. For the first time that knowledge truly sank in, and the shock of it made her blurt out the thought that was circling around and around in her head.

  ‘But, I’m pregnant,’ she said. She looked at Rodgers, and seemingly involuntarily, Maude turned to look at him also.

  He spoke quite deliberately. ‘I’m afraid major life change can be a trigger for suicide. You’ll read all about it in the booklet.’ And he turned and walked out of the room.

  Monday 25 March 2013

  CHAPTER SIX

  ‘She’s here,’ said Mary.

  ‘Who’s here?’ Aisling didn’t look up from her charts. She was conscious of Mary coming closer, looking over her shoulder and starting to read.

  ‘Checking up on me?’ Aisling asked, still not looking up.

  ‘Nope. Just interested.’

  Aisling ignored her. Kept writing. Mary had been so supportive, but since the funeral the support seemed to have an edge to it. As if Mary felt that the fact that Aisling hadn’t completely collapsed was in some way letting Jack down. Aisling found she liked the old sarcastic, pissy Mary much more than the new uber-empathetic version. The overt sympathy made her feel claustrophobic.

  ‘I told Sandra to ask her to take a seat in the waiting room.’

  ‘Who?’ She wished, fervently, that Mary would go away. She had an hour to get through the charts, and needed two. There was so much to catch up on; she wouldn’t have believed she could fall this far behind in a week. She would be doing rounds with Cummins in the morning, and he was unbelievably anal about charting. He was due to mark her for assessment, and she wasn’t going to give him any excuses to mark her down.

  ‘What’s her name? You know. Jack’s sister.’

  ‘What?’ Aisling looked up.

  ‘Finally, a reaction. She’s sitting in the waiting room. Not much like Jack, is she? Skinny thing.’

  Aisling was already standing and moving towards the double doors, charts abandoned. It had been three days since the family liaison meeting. She should have called Maude at her hotel. Bad enough that she’d virtually run from that bloody meeting, hadn’t waited long enough to exchange even a polite goodbye. Worse that she’d made no effort to contact her since. Maude wasn’t in the seating area. Had she left already? But no. She was standing, arms wrapped around herself, looking out of the window at the dull afternoon. The view of the carpark was not inspiring at the best of times. On a dark winter’s day it was a bloody health hazard. If you weren’t depressed when you reached the waiting room you probably would be by the time you left it.

  ‘Maude.’

  Maude turned. Had she been that thin when Aisling saw her at the police station? She’d seemed strong then. Now she looked pale, depleted.

  ‘That girl they just brought in. The one with all the blood on her face and clothes. Did she try to kill herself?’ Maude asked.

  ‘What? No. Nothing like that. She had her tonsils out last week, then got an infection. She had a haemorrhage.’ Aisling found herself giving a little laugh. ‘It looked dramatic, but she’ll be fine.’ Why was she telling Maude all of this? And in an open waiting room? So much for patient confidentiality.

  Maude nodded. ‘Do you have time for coffee?’

  Aisling glanced towards the double doors. ‘I shouldn’t,’ she said. ‘I’m on for another few hours.’ She looked back at Maude. ‘We’re pretty quiet. I can probably take half an hour, as long as I take the bleep.’ She patted the pager tucked inside her scrubs top pocket. ‘The canteen will be closed, but there’s a café across the road. I can meet you there in half an hour?’

  Mary all but pushed Aisling out the door, so she restacked her charts, grabbed her puffa, and walked quickly out of A&E, across the carpark and University Road, and into the café. It was a functional sort of place, but the coffee was decent and it was in range for the pager. Maude sat at a table, two cups in front of her.

  ‘I ordered you a black coffee, but there’s milk on the table.’ She gestured towards the milk jug and sugar. ‘I thought you’d probably want it strong.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Aisling sat, and took the cup. She added sugar and milk with an apologetic smile and then felt awkward. She felt ill at ease in nearly every social interaction at the moment – too conscious of every expression that crossed her face. She was still editing herself, reviewing her expressions, adapting them to something appropriate for someone whose partner had just killed himself.

  ‘You look cold,’ she said.

  Maude was still wearing her coat and scarf; had her arms wrapped around herself. She looked down in seeming surprise, then released her arms and wrapped her hands around her cup.

  ‘It’s autumn at home. But still pretty warm. Nothing like this.’

  ‘Where’s home?’ Aisling asked.

  ‘Australia,’ Maude said. ‘The Kimberley.’ She checked herself, and shook her head. ‘Used to be, I mean, not any more.’

  ‘Did you live there long?’ The question felt ridiculous, the smallest of small talk.

  Maude shrugged. ‘Longer than I lived in Ireland.’

  ‘Right.’

  They fell silent for a moment, both taking sips of coffee.

  Aisling studied Maude as they sat there. Her dark hair was long, tied in a careless knot at the back of her head. She wore a grey wool coat that looked a size too big. She was very attractive – a middle-aged Audrey Hepburn? Except she must only be in her thirties. What, thirty-five? She looked older.

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t stay,’ Aisling said. ‘After the meeting. I had to . . . I had an appointment,’ she finished lamely. ‘I’m sure you’d like to talk. And I’d like to too. Could we meet again? When I’m not working. Before you go back to Australia.’

  ‘I’m not going back.’ Maude said, surprise in her voice. ‘My life in Australia . . . things have changed there. I’m going to stay in Ireland.’

  ‘I see.’ How tragic, then, that she’d waited too long. If returning to Ireland had been a possibility, why hadn’t she come before now? Perhaps Jack hadn’t meant that much to her.

  ‘I’d like to know what you think happened,’ Maude said.

  ‘To Jack?’

  A nod.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘But you don’t believe that he killed himself.’

  ‘I don’t know. It seems crazy to suggest anything else happened, but Jack wasn’t depressed. He could get down and out sometimes, like anyone, but he wasn’t depressed.’

  ‘So nothing had happened in your lives, nothing that would have upset him in some way?’

  Aisling shook her head, stared back at Maude. She wasn’t going to mention the pregnancy. If Maude wanted to ask if Jack could have killed himself because she was carrying his child, she could bloody well come out with it herself. Yes, Aisling had spent the best part of the week believing it herself, but she would never say it out loud again.

  Maude’s face was unreadable. Eventually, she said, ‘If Jack didn’t kill himself, then what? An accident?’ She paused. ‘Murder?’

  ‘Jesus, no.’

  Maude sat, watching her and waiting.

  ‘There’s no way. I mean, Jack didn’t have any enemies or anything like that. He was just an ordinary guy.’ A stupid thing to say. Jack hadn’t been ordinary. He had been so very special.

  ‘You can’t think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt him?’

  Aisling shook her head again. Tears stung her eyes and she blinked them back, then closed her eyes against a sudden, vivid memory of Jack. They’d been in college, had been dating a few months, it hadn’t felt like anything serious. She’d been in the library studying, and had met him afterwards, had seen him walking towards her across the quad. She’d watched his face light up when he saw her, his eyes fill with laughter at some story he had to tell her. Jack had gathered her t
o him in a great bear hug, then kissed her, put her down and started talking. They’d held hands and walked together through the campus. Such a simple moment, to realise that you love someone.

  Something in her recognised how right it was with Jack long before her brain could capture it and analyse it. Trying to explain him made him sound less than he was, she’d found. Describing him as a good man, kind, strong, independent but supportive. It all added up to something far more anaemic than the real thing. So she’d given up on trying to explain it to her friends, to her mostly absent family who thought she was too young to settle down, and just enjoyed it.

  He’d told her his story the first time he brought her home to meet his parents – that Aggie and Brendan were his adoptive parents, that his mother was dead, his father unknown. He had a sister, somewhere, but hadn’t seen her since he was a little boy and didn’t know where she was. All of it delivered matter of factly, with a smile that invited her to treat it lightly, as old pain long put away. She’d asked him about his scars later, the three round burn marks on his left shoulder, and he’d told her, not smiling now, that he didn’t remember getting them. Something about the tightness in his shoulders made her wonder if he was lying, but she’d kissed him, and let it go. Had she let too much go? Noticed too little?

  Aisling blinked her way back to the present, and found that Maude was watching her.

  ‘You think someone killed him, don’t you?’ Aisling asked.

  Maude nodded slowly.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You knew him best, Aisling. You know his friends, the people he works with, the places he goes. You need to think about who could have hurt him. Who had reason to want Jack dead.’

  ‘I’ll have to go to the police again, push them to take this seriously. That guy Rodgers is a joke, but there must be someone else.’ The coffee cup had cooled in Aisling’s hand, though it was more than half full. She checked the pager in her pocket, though it had been silent throughout their conversation. So strange to be there, with Jack’s sister, talking about his death as the sky darkened outside. Maude’s dark eyes, so like Jack’s but different too. Maude was less joyful, more cautious, harder to read.