‘How did she get your number?’ Asked Tommy.
‘She’s a Detective, I’m sure she managed to figure it out.’ Said Aoife, leading him to the door, and then unlocking it with her key.
‘S ok, I can walk.’ Whispered Tommy, and Aoife let go of his vomit strewn t-shirt. She unlocked the door and they stepped out into the rainy air. It made Tommy want to vomit, again, but he held it in. For Aoife. He was sure she would appreciate that one.
Tommy walked towards his Mondeo, but Aoife laid a persuasive hand on his shoulder, and directed him to her car. He got in the front seat and looked around: the car was neat, clean and smelled pretty. In other words wasn’t the product of Aoife’s sloppy lifestyle. She must still have been with that boyfriend of hers. What was that? Six months? Impressive record for her.
Aoife pulled out of Glenmaroon Road and headed straight for the N4. It was then that Tommy realised he didn’t know where the meeting was.
‘Where we going?’ Asked Tommy.
‘St Patrick’s Hospital.’ Said Anne.
Oh Jesus, thought Tommy; the wealthy man’s rehab (he had of course done his stint in there himself, most Gardaí preferred the Rutland, but for just that reason Tommy had chosen St Pats) – half the people in there would be just a few weeks into the program. There was one benefit to that however, that being that the majority of group members would be jealous of his stoned state, rather than horrified. Tommy rested his head against the dashboard, and the thought struck him that perhaps he would be locked up the moment he stepped into Pats, but then he remembered: the Mental Health Act 2001. He could only be sectioned if he was an immediate danger to either himself or others. Otherwise he would need to give his signature before they put him in a ward, and with that comforting thought he allowed his thoughts run away into dreams.
They weren’t allowed run for long however, as just several minutes later Aoife woke him. They were in the car park of St Patricks.
‘You paid the parking fee? There was no need.’ Said Tommy.
Aoife’s glance could have burned. ‘That really is the least of my worries. C’mon.’ She said and got out.
Tommy followed, allowing the raindrops to gather on his brow as he slowly trooped his way into the hospital. The front desk was manned by a woman with what was either blonde or brown hair, depending on how Tommy’s morphine addled eyes saw her. It was at least some ten metres away, so Tommy allowed Aoife strive forward and he just hung back near the doors, though not directly in front of them as they were automatic and those waiting on cushioned seating may not have appreciated the cold wet spray coming from the outside in a constant push. Aoife asked for directions, and after some checking was told where to go, then she came over, grabbed Tommy’s hand and brought him along. Aoife Bishop, the only thirty-one year old physics professor Tommy knew who wore nothing but tracksuits.
They walked down a corridor lined with beautiful art which, even in Tommy’s inebriated state, was something to behold. This hospital was an old, old institution; famous too, after Johnathan Swift had granted £10,000 to ‘the lunatics and idiots of Dublin’, and it had an air of history about it. It had an air of madness too, Tommy reflected, but when you’re stoned you just can’t make those kinds of judgments.
Before a green door, there he stood: grey hair and a short sleeved shirt, the image of working class success.
‘Well, the prodigal son returns.’ Said Peter Mullins, who just so happened to be Tommy’s NA sponsor.
‘I was busy, homicide and shit.’ Said Tommy, feeling awfully like a kid sent to the principal’s office.
‘You won’t catch many murderers in the state you’re in, you’re so stoned you couldn’t catch the clap in coppers.’ Said Peter.
‘Look I didn’t mean to fall off.’ Said Tommy.
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah. Just stopped coming to meetings and started shooting up dope; but didn’t mean to start taking drugs again.’ Said Peter.
‘It’s not that.’ Said Tommy.
‘What? Daddy was mean to you? Girlfriend split up with you? Save it for the meeting.’ He said, pointing to the green door.
‘Look, Peter, I really would rather we go get a coffee.’ Said Tommy.
‘Why? So you can weasel out of recovery? No, you’re going to go in there and show everyone in there why missing meetings is a bad idea.’
‘I’m suffering and you wanna make an example of me?’ Asked Tommy.
‘No, your family are suffering, your work is suffering. Whatever it is you’ve taken that makes your eyes go like that though, that’s preventing you from suffering anything much. Get in.’
And like that, Tommy followed him into the room. There were twelve seated there already, and doped up though he was, Tommy could still tell which were patients and which were from the outside – it was all about the coats. If you had a jacket or coat on your person, it meant that you had had to go out in the rain to arrive here. If you were however dressed in clothes distinctly unsuited for the outside, then it was obvious that to arrive at the meeting you just had to wake up and stroll downstairs – past lines of security of course. Detective work, hu-rah! The thought brought guilt into Tommy’s gut as he remembered that Amy’s murderer was still out there.
It was hard to believe that only forty five minutes ago he had been fast asleep – What the fuck is going on?
Tommy sat through two stories before the focus of the group shifted to him. One concerned a man telling them about the desire to use, another by a girl talking about being followed the other day by a homeless man; he had smelled awful and shouted loudly and the whole experience had made her want to start using again. After that, an awkward silence fell and Peter used it as an opportunity to speak about Tommy.
‘So, Thomas, you look like you’re in some shape.’ He said.
Tommy, who had already had three cups of coffee from the machine in the corner, was beginning to slowly sober up. He glared at Peter.
‘I went back, ok?’ Said Tommy, indicating his vomit stained t shirt.
‘Any reason why?’ Asked Peter.
Tommy shook his head. ‘It’s just, been a lot. A lot of shit.’
‘Tell us about it.’ Said Peter.
‘This case, Amy Clancy. A dead fucking eleven year old.’ Said Tommy.
‘Was it stressful?’ Asked Peter.
‘It is stressful, it’s very fucking stressful.’ Said Tommy.
‘Well, group, that’s biggest pile of shite I heard in a while.’ Said Peter and the room went quiet.
‘You don’t take dope because of an eleven year old girl, you take dope because you’re an addict, and have a sickness of the soul.’
Tommy shrugged.
‘No, don’t shrug. No matter how you look at it, you stopped coming to meetings, the medicine for your illness, and you fell ill again. Then you act surprised when you sleep in and miss work. Yes, your job is stressful, but welcome to life. Will you admit that you are back in the thralls of addiction?’
Tommy glared at him, he was doing this in front of a crew of people? They seemed as awkward as he felt, though to be fair it was a room full of junkies, hardly a hotbed of composure.
‘Yes.’ Said Tommy
‘Will you admit you are currently in the thrall of a savage state of mind?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Are you willing to get clean?’ Asked Peter.
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Do you want to get clean?’
Tommy hesitated because he knew what answering yes would entail, but he could hardly run away, now could he?
‘I do.’
‘Good, welcome to Narcotics Anonymous. Speak to me after about arranging your DT’s, now; does anyone else want to share?’
Another did, a boy barely gone eighteen told them about his love for violence. Tommy held in the panic. Panic, because he knew what was coming, and it wouldn’t be pleasant.
After the meeting Peter introduced Tommy to man he called Flynn, who apparently until two years ago live
d on the streets. Tommy didn’t recognise him, but knew undoubtedly, from his size alone that he hadn’t struggled at all to get the best spots around Dublin. He was six foot four, bulging chest and arms and skin streaked with tattoos.
‘This guy lives in a council apartment, ever since he got off the streets.’
Tommy nodded to him.
‘You’ll be doing your DT’s in his place.’ Peter said.
Tommy looked at Flynn, surprised, however Flynn just smiled.
‘Don’t worry, you won’t be disturbing me, I don’t have any things, family, or friends to disturb.’ Flynn said.
Tommy nodded his understanding.
In the waiting area Aoife was sitting with her legs underneath her and her glasses on, reading the Independent. She arose when she saw Tommy.
‘So what’s the plan?’ Asked Aoife.
‘DT’s.’ Said Tommy. He really wasn’t very comfortable with it, he would have to take three days away from the investigation; but Peter was right, he was in no place to be searching for a killer now: he was just a few steps away from the streets.
‘Where? Here?’ Asked Aoife.
‘No, you have to stay at least a week, which I haven’t got. Plus, last time I got clean I wasn’t in the Gardaí, and the only way I could pay for it today is in conjunction with the job, and then I’ll ever be known as the junkie.’ Said Tommy.
‘So where?’ Asked Aoife.
‘My gaf.’ Said Flynn. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be keeping a very close eye on him.’
Aoife nodded. ‘So what do I tell Anne?’
‘That I had a TIA.’ Said Tommy. ‘It will cover perfectly, as all I’ll be locked up for is 72 hours.’
’78, you need six hours before you’re actually off the dope.’ Said Peter.
‘Yeah, alright.’ Said Tommy rolling his eyes.
‘Well, I bought you these.’ Said Aoife, taking out two packets of cigarettes; what was needed for a successful rehab. Then she wished him luck, leaned forward, and kissed him on the cheek. Tommy appreciated the gesture, as in this state he must have looked particularly unkissable.
#
An hour later, the room was bare, a wooden floor and unpainted walls. A mattress in the corner without even a pillow, but Tommy lay on it just the same. At least there was an ensuite toilet, though whether he would remember the use it when going cold turkey was another question.
He lay back on the bed and lit up his first fag of the session. The butt flared and the smoke coated his throat: just beautiful.
‘Ok, I’m ready.’ Said Tommy.
‘Ok, see you in time.’ Said Flynn.
‘Wait! I’ve only been using for a few weeks, so the cold turkey shouldn’t be that rough, right?’ Asked Tommy.
Peter and Flynn chuckled. ‘Goodnight sisters.’ One of them said, then shut the door after him.
That was it, he was alone, with nothing but the silence of an oppressive room to keep him company.
11
They split from the group, the two of them walking alone, beneath the white concrete wall separating the road from the shopping centre. He wore black jeans barely held up by a green belt and above his falling waistline she could see a lot of his red boxers. He wore then a white polo, grey hoodie and runners so white he must have polished them. Her sister told her to remember all these details, but he really was hot.
She could smell his aggressive fragrance mixing with his hair gel, it made her nervous, filled up her nostrils, gave her jitters. She kept looking at him, in an attempt to get him to speak to her, but he either stared at his feet or kept glancing back at the group following them. They jeered among themselves but really, she knew, they were jealous. She hoped they wouldn’t intervene or put him off. Thirteen years old, and finally she had her chance. Her mother’s complete ban on going out until she was fifteen had really put a dampner on any chances to do it randomly, and finally her friends had worked the group to find her a boy.
And what a boy he was. Everyone fancied Greg, and Greg knew that everyone fancied him, so for him to choose her? Amazing! Still, for a boy who had kissed so many girls before, he sure was awkward.
What was that? A howl, a buggy. In front of them a buggy lay, pushed into the huge wall. It was odd, just perched there, on its own, no one to claim it. Buggys, in her experience, usually had a mother with them, yet this one was just unaccompanied beside a main road.
There was no mistaking the howling for anything else: there was a baby inside. Even though they couldn’t see it yet. Greg hung back, but she knew better, a baby out here alone? Definitely not safe. She pulled the buggy back from the wall and a horrible stench hit her, one she knew too well from her young yet babysitting career – this baby’s nappy needed a change.
She looked down at it, the brown baby screaming so loudly and in that second she forgot all about Greg: she knew she had to get this baby with the leaking green eyes to safety.
##
Rebecca lay before him, not as he wanted to remember her, but as he had last seen her: her face beaten into a gorish tricolour of bruises. The left side of her face was caved in and a red, bloody, mess. The centre, fractured and black with bruises, the right, pale and kissed by death. Like the Bishop poem First Death in Nova Scotia, the unblemished side of her face looked just like a little frosted cake.
In the cold, cold morgue, the doctors laid out Rebecca
Finally, it always came to this – weeks of hallucinations, until finally the big reveal, the light of his life broken into pulp. He knew he was hallucinating somewhere in his mind, but still, the sight of Rebecca made him want to get up and take her hand in his, but he was just too damn ill. Lucky she was getting up and coming to him. She got up off the gurney table, spotted hospital gown doing nothing to stem the flow of blood down her body.
Sitting down on the bed beside him, she brought her fingers to his sweaty face and cleaned his brow.
‘You forgot about me?’ She asked, and just the sound of her voice in Tommy’s ears brought a smile to his eyes.
‘Never.’ Said Tommy. He expected her to say more but she remained silent, so he kissed her swollen lips.
‘Good, because I won’t forget.’ Rebecca said.
‘I don’t know who did it Rebecca, I don’t know who killed Amy.’ Said Tommy.
Rebecca remained silent, but soon the drops of blood from her wounds formed a torrent, escaping from her eyes, ears and mouth, washing away her complexion. The bed was soaked, the blood saturating his clothes, he was drowning in it. Then, it all faded away, and Rebecca was now white, pale as the snow outside the young Elizabeth Bishop’s window. Was that Rebecca?
No, it wasn’t. It was Amy, Amy Clancy, the figure of any father’s nightmares. Strange to think that her corpse would cause so much pain, when laid out like that; maybe someday he’d write a poem about her; First Death in Dublin City, he’d call it.
First death.
##
Anne leaned over a pile of nettles and heaved.
‘A homicide detective getting sick at the sight of a body?’ Said Matty O’Hara.
‘Only been one for six months. And that is rank.’ She said, pointing to the ditch.
Matty grimaced. ‘Yeah, it is one strange scene. One of the worst crime scenes I’ve ever seen.’
‘All the same, I’d prefer if you didn’t tell Tommy I retched.’ She said, and Matty nodded. He took a chewing gum from his pocket and handed it over to her, and she smiled her thanks to him.
The scene before her was beyond both her pay grade and ability. It was a teenage girl, dressed in a load of multi-coloured towels. Her joints had been knocked out of place, and her skull caved in – worst however was her mouth, which was covered in a ring of blood larger than what remained of her face. The teeth had all been pulled out, and instead a number of small hardware nails had been knocked in.
She could tell that whoever it was had been tanned before her death and that it was a her, beyond that, it was a mangled mess of limbs, skin, bone,
and guts she didn’t even know could be that colour. Tommy has chosen a terrible time to have a stroke.
‘Anything you can tell me?’ Asked Anne, not quite trusting her stomach yet.
‘Female, teenager, and not of Irish descent.’ Matty said.
‘Of what kind of descent? She looks almost Latin.’ Said Anne.
‘No, too dark, and not.. what’s the word.. Satin enough. But the killer has already made it clear enough what race the victim is.’ Matty said.
‘Go on?’ Said Anne.
‘If the nails in her gums are meant to represent fake teeth, and the different colour towels are meant to represent a long flowing bright coloured dress?’ Matty said.
‘Romani.’ Anne said.
It was strange how, depending upon who murdered this girl, the media would either pour over every detail or not give it an inch of type space. Dead Romani girls had a habit of not making it into the Irish papers, victims of serial killers stayed in the tabloids for years
‘Jacko!’ Shouted Anne and a young Garda looked over in his direction, he walked to her.
‘Hit up Pavee Point, ask them whether they’ve heard reports of any missing Romani girls.’ She said, and Jacko nodded his acknowledgement to the instructions.
‘Do you think the autopsy will be sped up?’ Asked Anne.
‘Already has been.’ Said Matty.
‘Fucks sake.’ Said Anne, rubbing her fingers into her temples. She glanced up, such beautiful surroundings ruined by the ugly sight of the mangled body. Before her stood the awesome white Ambassador’s Residence which, Anne was pretty sure, was one of the best homes in the city. Above the dead girl’s body an American flag billowed in the wind, while brambles cracked at their feet. For miles all the eye could see was grass fields and forests, in the distance a herd of deer were grazing casually.
‘How long until you’ve collected everything of note?’ Asked Anne.
‘An hour at most.’ Said Matty.
‘Ok, once your done I want her bagged and on her way to the morgue, we need to get the autopsy done as soon as possible so we can rule either in or out Amy’s killer. The media are going to be all over this one. Cunt wobbler.’
First Death In Dublin City (Thomas Bishop Book 1) Page 12