The Good People (44 page)

‘No. I do not think ’twas Micheál.’

She began to sob. A wail that filled the room.

‘Mrs Leahy?’

‘I do not think ’twas Micheál!’

‘Come now.’

‘’Twas a fairy!’ Nóra put her elbows on the table and cried into her hands.

‘Mrs Leahy, ’tis important that you gain control of yourself and tell me what happened. Did Anne Roche tell you that your grandson, Micheál Kelliher, was a fairy?’

Nóra nodded, her face still hidden in her hands.

‘And you are remorseful, for you understand that this was not the case?’

She wiped her nose on her sleeve and looked down at the shiny smear. ‘’Twas not Micheál they found then,’ she whispered. ‘That child was not my grandson.’

‘Surely you would know your own grandson.’

She shook her head. ‘No. He was changed. I saw him, and when he was brought to me, he was changed.’

‘And this Anne told you that the change in him was because he was now a fairy?’

‘She said that Micheál had surely been taken by the fairies. The cripple was one of Them. She told me she would have my grandson returned to me.’

The constable regarded Nóra carefully. Rolled another cigarette.

‘Mrs Leahy. You, a woman of otherwise good repute, believed this woman when she told you your paralytic grandson was an otherworldly sprite?’

‘Paralytic?’

‘Had not the use of his legs.’

Nóra used her shawl to wipe her eyes. ‘What? What is the word again?’

‘Paralytic. ’Tis a medical term, used to describe children such as yours who have not the use of their legs, or arms, or anything at all. ’Tis a known affliction, Mrs Leahy. A disease of immobility. And ’tis what the coroner and his peers are saying Micheál suffered from.’

‘No. ’Twas not a suffering. ’Twas not him at all.’

‘Yes, it was, Mrs Leahy.’ The man suddenly leant forward. ‘All this talk of fairies. Sure, people will tell themselves anything to avert their eyes from the truth of a matter.’

‘He will be waiting for me.’ Nóra began to weep again. ‘He’ll be waiting for me, and no one there to welcome him home. Oh God in Heaven!’

‘Mrs Leahy, did you tell yourself what you wanted to believe? Or was it some other understanding you were working towards? Give an old poor woman a chicken. Some fuel. And in return she’ll deliver you of a runt, all the while gabbling about the fairies.’

‘You’re wrong.’ Nóra drew her hands into fists. ‘Micheál will be there, returned. And after all I’ve done, all to have him back with me. And you’re keeping me here! ’Twas all I wanted, to have him back with me.’

The constable narrowed his eyes and took a long drag, watching her. The paper flared between his lips. ‘Sure it was, Mrs Leahy. Sure it was.’

Nance looked up from where she sat on the cart rattling on the road through Killarney. Every rock and rut knocked through her bones, until she felt that her remaining teeth would shudder from their gums. She was unused to travelling so quickly. Unused to the rapid pull of a horse, its ears upright to the urging of the dark-coated man sitting in front, dirty collar about his ears.

She had lost track of time.

The widow was sitting across from her, pinned against the corner of the cart and the broad shoulder of a policeman. Nance could not tell if Nóra was awake – a shawl covered her face, and her head hung forward. When they had brought them out from the barracks and set them on the cart, the widow – pale, feeble-looking – had leant across and whispered to Nance. ‘They will not believe me,’ she’d breathed. But not a word since.

Nance looked past the bulk of the constable beside her and stared out into the streets of Killarney. The inns and lodgings, the fine line of the high street and the close, filthy lanes and yards that ran off it. Smoky, sunny Killarney with poxy children spitting in the alleys and men carrying baskets of scraw and sod. After five nights in her tiny barracks cell there was suddenly too much noise, too many dirty faces staring at them, noses wrinkling. She had fled this place twice. This unkind town. Mad Maggie, Mad Nance: one and the same. Father gone to the water, mother to the fairies, there’s no knowing which way this one’ll turn, but ’tis clear she goes with Them. She goes with Them that does be in it. She is of the Good People.

Nance shut her eyes tightly and braced herself against the jolt of the lane. When she opened them again the muck of the town had faded and they were on the old mail coach road to Tralee, between the mountains of rock and grass, a blessed distance from the towering horizon of trees, the lakes and hiving swarm of Killarney. Men were in the fields, seeding the eyes of cups, while other potato plants were stalking up and out of the earth. The world had finally flowered. Ditches starry in dog violet and gorse, sow thistle, dandelion and cuckoo flower creeping into the fields. The lone fairy whitethorns left to themselves amidst the cultivated ground, blossoming into thick curds of white. Her heart soared to see the bee-blown, petal-filled trees.

It will be May Eve in time, Nance thought. And she thought of how, in the valley, the people would soon pluck the yellow flowers for the goodness they drew from the sun, pulling primrose and marsh marigold and buttercups, rubbing them on the cows’ udders to bless the butter in them, placing them on doorways and doorsteps, those thresholds where the unknown world could bleed into the known, flowers to seal the cracks from where luck could be leached, on that night of
Bealtaine
bonfire.

Twenty miles from Killarney to Tralee. Thirty from the valley. Even when she was younger and used to hard walking, a road like this would have taken her sun-up to sundown to tramp.

The light faded. The afternoon became quiet and the crickets began to chirp against the far-off call of a cuckoo singing down the dusk. Nóra had begun to weep quietly. The cart rattled the irons about their wrists.

Here is God, Nance thought. I see him still.

Mary was sitting on the floor of the narrow Killarney barracks room with her head resting against the corner of stone, her fingers pinching the skin of her arm. Ever since the policeman had taken her from Peg O’Shea’s cabin, a trembling had set up in her hands, and she had fallen into the habit of nipping her flesh to quell the shaking.

Her head ached. She had wept for the first two nights, sobbing into her hands, still dirty with the mud from the river, until her eyes swelled and she was dazed with exhaustion. The policeman who had questioned her had seemed uncomfortable at her distress. He had handed her his handkerchief, waited patiently until she could answer his questions.

But now Mary felt dry, tearless. She glanced down at the cloth, balled in her lap, and brought it to her face. It still smelt of shop soap, tobacco smoke.

The afternoon had darkened. There was a small square window high in the cell, and throughout the day Mary had focused on the sunlight falling across the wall, transfixed by its slow shifting. She closed her eyes. She could hear men speaking to one another outside in the barracks yard, and then the echo of footsteps walking down the long corridor beyond her cell.

There was a sudden clanking as the door was unlocked and opened, and Mary, expecting to see a constable, was surprised by the sight of a familiar face.

Father Healy waited until the door had been closed and locked behind him before speaking to her.

‘Good afternoon, Mary Clifford.’

‘Father.’

The priest looked around for somewhere to sit, then, seeing only the bare stone floor, stepped over to Mary and squatted on his haunches.

‘This is a sorry business.’

‘Yes, Father.’

He paused. ‘I have been told that you swore an information.’

Mary nodded, tucking her knees up to her chest. She was aware of the grime on her feet, the muddy hem of her skirt.

‘I have some good news for you. The Crown counsel would like you to be their chief witness.’

Mary felt her mouth dry in panic. ‘Their chief witness?’

‘Do you understand what that means?’

‘No, Father.’

‘It means that they are willing to drop the charge of wilful murder against you, if you turn witness. If you tell the court and the jury and the judge what you saw. What you did.’

‘I did not mean for him to die, Father.’ She glanced down at the handkerchief in her hands, the tiny bruises on the inner flesh of her wrist.

‘Mary, look at me.’ Father Healy’s face was sombre. ‘They are going to free you. All you will need to do is make your oath, and tell the court what you told the policemen. What you swore in your information. Answer their questions as best you can.’

Mary blinked at him.

‘If you turn witness, they will not charge you. Do you understand? You will be able to return home to your mother and father.’

‘I will not hang?’

‘You will not hang.’

‘And Nóra? Nance? Will they hang?’

‘They are gone to Ballymullen today.’ Father Healy shifted his weight, pulling at the cloth of his trousers. ‘You understand that Micheál Kelliher was not a fairy child, don’t you, Mary? He was a little boy suffering from cretinism. He was not taken by the fairies, but by the ignorance of his own grandmother and an old woman. He was not banished. He was
murdered
. You understand this, don’t you?’

Mary clenched her teeth against the tears that suddenly threatened. She nodded.

Father Healy continued, his voice low. ‘God has protected you, Mary. But let you find a lesson in the fall of Nóra Leahy and Nance Roche. Pray for their souls, and for the soul of Micheál Kelliher.’

‘Can I go to Annamore?’

Father Healy rose, wincing. ‘That’s where you’re from, is it?’ He rubbed at a cramp in his leg. ‘Not until the trial is over. You’ll be coming with me to Tralee. The Crown counsel, the lawyers, will want to speak with you there. Do you have anywhere to stay in that town? Any kin?’

Mary shook her head.

The priest paused. ‘Let me see if I can’t arrange something for you. A place where you can work for your keep for the next few months, until the trial is over. Then you’ll be on your own, do you understand?’

‘Thank you, Father.’

He turned and knocked sharply on the door, and the sound of boots could be heard. As the key was turned in the lock, Father Healy glanced back. ‘Give thanks to God for this, Mary. It is by His mercy alone that you are saved. I’ll return for you tomorrow.’ And then he was gone.

Mary looked down at her soiled hands, her heart pounding. I am free, she thought, and she waited for relief to sweep through her.

But it did not come. She sat, pinching her skin between her fingers.

Nipping the bread to let the Devil out, she thought.