by John Brady
The flashlight had come to rest close to the side of that cardboard box. It was in one piece. He brought it up and tried the switch several times. Then he shook it next to his ear. He couldn’t tell for sure if the bulb had smashed. He cursed himself again for delaying buying one of those little geeky keychain LEDs. The curtains were straight now in the bedroom window of the Higgins household. No Higgins keeping vigil. He dithered then, but soon fled in irritation to a decision: hand Higgins back the damned flashlight, say nothing, and hit the road for home.
But a last try with the switch was his undoing: the light came on for a moment, flickered when he lifted it, and then died again. He pried open the case at the edge of the lens housing and let his fingers find the bulb. He twisted it snug and clipped back on the housing. It worked.
He stepped back into the shed and shone the flashlight on the workbench, braced for the sight of the slick, spreading pool there. It was not as he had imagined. Next to where the lip of the tub had come to rest was a dark shining line, a joint between two pieces of the plywood. He bent down and turned the beam up to where he expected the drips would still be falling.
There was no stain on the floor. His annoyance had evaporated. He found a spot on the floor, put down a knee, and he craned his neck to look up under the bench. It was dry up there. He shone the light down on the floor again, and slid the box of rubbish out of the way. Nothing.
He got back to his feet and looked again at where the tub had fallen on its side. Grasping the edge of the bench, pulled at it and let it go. It barely budged. He let the light sweep back along the floor again, and back under the bench. A flicker amongst shadows behind the box caught his eye and he held the light there. He had no trouble spotting the long, slow drip that soon followed. Yet again he hunkered down and he pulled out the box. There it was, a black, almost circular spot, and it was wet. But it was too small: a fair amount had spilled from the tub.
He got up and began to examine the bench again, his eye skipping from place to place over the junk that covered the bench. It was fit for purpose, and nowhere near as old as the house or shed itself. The cold was curling up into his shirt front now, and his knees were stiff. The knuckles of his supporting hand seemed to press harder into the cement floor when he got down on his knee this time. He leaned in more, and with an effort he managed to tap the flashlight on the underside of the bench. It gave slightly at each tap.
This time, he made sure that the flashlight was bedded properly. He made his start at the back of the bench, and soon he had a ragged line of margarine and yoghurt tubs trailing along the concrete outside. He left the loose stuff until last, often scooping bits to the edge of the counter and carrying them out in small heaps.
Three pieces of plywood made up the top of the bench. The heads of the screws that secured them were spaced in a workman-like way. He took the Phillips screwdriver, and pushed it down hard before giving it a slow, exploratory twist. No resistance: the head turned over and over again. But the joint between this piece of plywood and its neighbour had shifted when he had nudged it. He worked his baby finger in along the wall where it met the panel until he felt its nail slip down along the edge. Then he reached in his other hand and got another nail under it. It took several tries before he was able to clamp his nails onto enough of the edge. The opening grew. He got his finger pads under it and tugged. The panel came up.
There were sheets of paper there, printed. A set held together by a clip had taken the brunt of the spill. The crud had pooled there before veining out over the biscuit-coloured finish of the drawer to the spot where it had begun its slow, late leak down to the floor.
He set the flashlight on the bench, its beam flattening in a diffuse circle on the wall, and laid the panel on its edge by the door. Then he took out his camera, but then he hesitated. An image of Technical Bureau fellas gruffly prowling the place in their white boiler-suits had floated into his thoughts. Was cat-farting around in this shed part of his job? Or was he trampling on a secondary crime scene? Both? Neither…? At this rate, he might as well set out deck chairs for himself right in front of the fan, and make ready for the shite to cannonade his way.
Well maybe not.
He started with a small paper-clipped sheaf that had been half-nestling under the other. Only its very bottom edges had been hit by the spill. The top sheet was a printout, or a photocopy of a printout, and it bore the unmistakably spotty marks that he’d known too well from his time looking through microfiches and microfilm.
It was a short, businesslike obituary. November 18 1996,
Margaret ‘Peggy’ Larkin nee Murphy, after a short illness, in her seventy-fourth year. Beloved wife of the late Anthony Larkin LLB LLM, Justice of the High Court (d. 1988). Mourned by daughter Orna, London, and by son Padraig, London. Loving sister to Monica (Hynes) Carrickmacross, Co. Monaghan, Fidelma (Boylan) Leixlip, Co. Kildare, and the late Rev. Fr. Peter Murphy, Kenya and Blackrock (d. 1995).
The paper clip holding the other sheets behind was barely hanging on. He made to gently nudge it off with his thumbnail, but it flew through the air. He stopped and went still. Above the sounds of quickening breaths whistling out his nostrils, he could hear his own heart. He began holding his breath, and releasing it slowly through his mouth. It took a half dozen repeats to make any headway against the adrenalin.
He slid the next page to the front. ‘In Appreciation – Tony Larkin,’ a copy of an article from a parish newsletter from Sandycove. He skipped through it, lighting on details. This eulogy was delivered with keen feeling by one Patrick Moran, a member of the parish council. Humble roots and never forgot them. Encyclopedic knowledge, unparalleled legal expertise. Fair minded, impartial. Quietly devout family man. Daily communicant for most of his life. Lifelong member of the Franciscans’ Third Order. Like St Peter himself, Tony had been a man keen on boats and fishing. The parish, and Ireland itself, had lost a man of towering faith and devotion to justice.
The third page turned out to be a long newspaper obituary for the same Justice Anthony Larkin. This was where the parish newsletter had lifted the ‘towering faith’ and the ‘unparalleled expertise’ from. The last page in looked like a blotchy printout from some newspaper archive. It comprised two short paragraphs under a heading, ‘Conviction in Drugs Case.’ Michael Farrell, 24, Walkinstown, Christopher Tuohy, 20, also of Walkinstown; James Traynor, 21, of Crumlin And finally, Joseph McCarthy, 20, address in Pearse Street, Dublin. A remark at the end from the presiding judge that trafficking in cannabis was a serious crime that attracted more crime, and would be dealt with seriously by the courts. A serious message from Justice Anthony Larkin.
He laid the pages one by one on the floor, and taking his camera, he crouched over each in turn. He let his thoughts hop-scotch while he waited for his eyes to readjust after the flashes. Father Peter Murphy, Kenya; Sister Immaculata, Kenya. Father Peter Murphy at some prayer thing on Dalkey Island years ago; Sister Immaculata – literally in the same boat. Father Peter Murphy, Sallynoggin parish. Joey McCarthy, Sallynoggin parish. Father Peter Murphy and his nephew Padraig Larkin, Sister Immaculata and her sometime client, Padraig Larkin.
He now heard a soft, intermittent patter of rain starting up. It was no time for finesse. He stepped outside and picking up the rag, he went for the stapled papers that had taken the most of the oil. More photocopies. He lifted the bundle by the corner and held it dripping over the rag.
The oil had made the first page almost translucent. Peeling it away he saw it was a copy of a magazine page. It wasn’t one he recognized. He moved his grip, read the title: Missionaries of Divine Help? A row of children, dark faces, girls. Two nuns, one at each end of the row. They wore the same head-gear as the smaller nun standing to the side.
The writing beneath the picture was blurred by the spill, but legible enough: First Holy Communion St. Martha’s, San Luis. South America? Mother Albert, Sisters Rosa and Paula. Mother Albert? She was the head of something, a convent, a school. He bent closer, but the
picture’s focus defeated him at that range too. He scanned the column to the left, struggling through holy talk that wearied his mind: sacraments, souls, Christ, mission, joy, prayers, sacred.
He took a photo, checked to see that it worked, and took another just in case. The next page had fared better in the mess. It had only a small printed section, a quick print from a web page ‘Contact Us,’ with an email address and two phone numbers. ‘Counselling services are available.’ ‘After hours contact.’ Across the bottom of the page were notes made in pen, and some doodles. He recognized phone numbers, and what looked to be dates.
The last couple of pages were photocopies of snapshots. It looked like the start of a procession, all serious business, with hands joined in prayer, serious frowns, tightly combed hair. The priest was decked out in vestments, and just as solemn-faced as the altar boys. One boy was holding a processional cross, another the chains of a thurible, the silver-plated bowl that held the incense. Looming behind the group, he recognized Sallynoggin Church.
The smaller picture beside it had slid and turned a little on the photocopier. The two boys in this picture looked back at the lens with cautious half-smiles. There were signs of a party on the table in front of them – a paper hat, a whistle, what looked like half-melted ice cream with wafers sticking up from it. The big window behind them had leaded sections at the top. The faux Tudors. A church? ‘BD ’67’ had been written hurriedly in the space under the picture.
The glow in his chest had eased a little, but the turbulence still coursed through him. Again he tried to examine each of the faces, but almost immediately, his eyes lost their focus. He gave up, and let his stare come to rest on the spill. He was aware of the cold, of the quickening patter of the raindrops, of how the flash-light beam was wavering in his grasp. Each time he tried to coax something to unfold in his thoughts, it simply vanished.
There was one more sheet here, another print from one of the evening newspapers. There was no date. It was a short piece: ‘Vandals desecrate historic Killiney church.’ Along with the ‘desecrate,’ a county councillor took the opportunity to decry the influence of bad elements and a ‘hippie’ mentality that Irish youth seemed to think they had to ape. These signs of a ‘Black Mass’ were not merely matter for the Gardai, they were matters for their own eternal salvation.
He took his time reviewing the pictures he had taken. He considered phoning Malone, to keep him in the picture. No, he’d do that at home, after he’d copied the pictures on to his laptop. And then, it’d be a call to Ms. Orna Larkin. The self-same Orna Larkin who should have talked about this stuff. The Orna Larkin who wanted to leave her brother as he had been found, to be buried by strangers, and any coppers who wanted to do better for him out in the wind too.
He didn’t even try to remember where any of the plastic tubs had been on the bench, but continued to ferry them in at a steady rate and to place them where it suited him. Locking the door at last, he thought of Immaculata, and imagined the questions he’d be lobbing at her first thing tomorrow.
Higgins was suspicious. Pips sounded from the radio in the kitchen: the news.
“Very much appreciated,” Minogue said. Higgins’ breathing had grown more raspy.
“Whatever you were doing there, I don’t know. I don’t want to know.”
Minogue stopped rubbing warmth back into his hands. The rain didn’t seem to have made up its mind in earnest yet. The announcer handed off to a reporter, someone in Bagdad. Bombs had gone off outside of mosques.
Higgins tilted his head sideways a little, and sucked in a breath and grimaced.
“You hear that?” he said. “A mosque, that’s a church for those people. Bombing churches. What kind of a religion is that? Savages, is what they are. Savages.”
Chapter 30
Minogue tapped out the last few sentences of his Wednesday email to his son. They were taking longer than the rest of the message. The blinking cursor had seized his attention and was beginning to drive him mad. He reviewed what he had written. Iseult had emailed from that WiFi restaurant near the place they had found in that village near Arles. Her painting was going well, and Pat seemed happy enough at the language school there. And Daithi’s favourite cousin Mary was expecting her second in May. She had decided not to do the amniocentesis for Downs. Yes, she was very religious still.
But he had struggled to fill a paragraph about his own new circumstances. The job was ‘interesting.’ It was ‘not quite what he had expected.’
He had tried to be brief about the country’s woes. What was the point of dwelling on them? After all, Daithi read the papers online. But it was still important to mention these things at least. Maybe it was his own coded way to warn his son that moving back to Ireland was not a good move. No, not a good move at all. “What was that you said about moving?” He sat back again.
“I said, that wife of mine has excellent hearing.”
“You said something ‘good move,’ like ‘a good move.’”
“I was just talking to myself.”
Naturally, he’d end the email on an up note. There’d be nary a hint that he had taken to drinking beer in the garage and that he had started smoking again. No mention of his suspicion that this had something to do with things he could no longer ignore, for example: that neither his son nor his daughter were living in their bloody home country. For example: that Iseult’s marriage was shaky. For example: that he woke up too early and too often, ready to admit that the States was going to be his son’s home always.
Maybe he’d put in a bit about Larry Higgins, proof positive that Dublin characters lived yet in all their glory. But he didn’t. Instead, he slipped mention of a plan that wasn’t a plan at all for him and Kathleen to steal away to Paris for a few days before Christmas. He typed ‘Love’ at the end, and then deleted it. His hands hovered over the keyboard, waiting for a proper finisher to come to mind. ‘Your Da’? ‘Look after yourself’? ‘Regards to Kathi’? Not: ‘When are you getting married?’ or ‘Why can’t she spell her name right?’
He quickly retyped ‘Love’ and then he sent it. Kilmartin’s email was still awaiting there in his Inbox, bold and Unread. Twice at least he had almost deleted it.
He signed out and returned to the pictures from his camera. Magnifying and zooming hadn’t helped much at all. All he got were bigger spots, a closer view of blurred features. Malone’s jibe had kept coming back to the surface: all nuns look the same. He zoomed out and felt a little less doubtful again: that face was a younger Immaculata.
He brought up the photo from the newsletter, the missionaries in the Philippines. Reducing the window to the face only, he set it next to the image with Immaculata and that priest in front of Dalkey Island. He just couldn’t tell. The closer he looked, anything he believed was common – posture? expression? – evaporated in the sea of dots. “Are you finished on that thing?”
The kitchen tap ran for several moments, and then the new stainless steel dish rack pinged with the rim of Kathleen’s tea cup.
“Because there’s something I have to show you. It’ll only take a minute.”
The clumping heels of her power-shoes from work turned to a swish over the carpet. She rested her forearm on his shoulder and reached for the mouse.
“No cat videos if you don’t mind. Or birds talking. Or dogs dreaming.”
“Type in Lá le Bríd. The www bit first of course. One long word, no spaces.” He looked up at her.
“Just type it, will you. Nobody’s going to brainwash you.” He watched the percentages climb on the clock that appeared. The first image faded in, sliding slowly left until it was eclipsed by another.
“Where’s the sound? Have you got it on?”
“Can’t I just watch?”
“Oh come on. It’s an experience, you gom. The music is part of it.”
It was a flute, a tune that he knew well but whose name he forgot.
“Is it a funeral maybe,” he said. She didn’t reply.
The pict
ures weren’t bad at all. The Aran Islands shot must have been taken with a camera inches above the surface of Galway Bay. The single, bare whitethorn spread starkly over the bog behind.
“Is that wind I’m hearing?”
“It is. In a minute you’ll hear waves. It’s so…so evocative, isn’t it?”
“Why am I watching this?”
“Why, why, why. It’s always why with you. Just look, and listen.”
The first word faded in and out. Cneasta: kind, gentle. The sound of the breeze began to take on a harsher edge.
“We brainstormed the words. We wanted Irish words too.”
“They’re nice photos,” he said.
“I’ll tell her then. Caoileann. Can you believe she’s only nineteen?”
“Caoileann. What kind of a name is that?”
“She’s like, oh…how to describe her? She arrived sort of complete.”
“A saint, is she. And does she perform miracles too?”
“Oh stop it. Caoileann can do anything. She grew up in Peru, travelling with her parents. Sort of back-to-the-land thing. They’re very, very spiritual people, her parents.”