The Magdalen Martyrs (5 page)

“Wrong tense, he’s dead.”

“Oh . . . I am sorry.”

“Would you like to come in?”

“Yes, thank you.”

I followed her, noticing how her arse bounced. I felt a tiny stir of interest. The house was ablaze with paintings. I don’t know were they any good, but they had the sheen of wealth. Led me into a sitting room, all dark wood. A bay window opened out to a large garden. She said,

“Have a seat.”

I sank into a well-worn chair, tried to get my mind in gear. She asked,

“Like a drink?”

“Some water, perhaps?”

She had moved to a full bar, now cocked a hip, said,

“I would have taken you for a drinking man.”

She managed to coat the
taken
with a sexual undertone. I loosened the tie, said,

“Used to be.”

She said,

“Ah . . . I’m going to have a screwdriver.”

“What?”

“Vodka and OJ. This time of the day, it cuts the glare.”

“I believe you.”

She rubbed at her arms a few times. I knew the burn from speed could do that. Watched as she fixed the drink. She had the quick movements of the practised drinker. Held up the bottle, said,

“Stoli.”

“I’ll take your word for that.”

“You watch movies?”

“Sure.”

“You see the likes of Julia Roberts, she orders a drink, it’s going to be Stoli on the rocks.”

“I’ll bear it in mind.”

She gave a vague smile, not related to humour. Chucked some ice in the glass, then poured the vodka freely. One of my favourite sounds has always been the clash of ice in a drink. But to a dry alcoholic, it’s akin to the torment of hell, a signal to despair. She asked,

“How did you know Frank?”

So distracted was I, I’d no idea who she meant till she added,

“My husband . . . the
friend
you’ve called to see.”

“Oh, right . . . we, um . . . go way back.”

She nodded, let the rim of the glass tap against her teeth, a grating noise. She said,

“Ah, you must have been at Clongowes with him.”

I clutched at the lifeline, agreed,

“Yeah, exactly.”

She moved over to the sofa, settled herself, let her skirt ride up along her thigh, said,

“Wrong answer, fellah.”

“Excuse me?”

“Frank didn’t go to Clongowes.”

She didn’t appear unduly concerned, moved to the bar, added a splash of vodka, I took a deep breath, said,

“You got me.”

She gave a tiny smile, asked,

“But who is it I’ve got?”

“Jack Taylor.”

“Like that’s supposed to mean something.”

“I’m been paid to check you out.”

A slight raising of her eyebrows and,

“For what?”

“See if you killed your husband.”

“You’re fucking kidding!”

The curse rolling off her tongue easily, then it hit and she said,

“Terry, that little faggot.”

I nodded and she said,

“Jeez, you’re not too big on client confidentiality.”

I stood up, said,

“So, did you do it?”

“Gimme a break.”

“That’s a no.”

I moved towards the door, and she said,

“You have some neck, just call and ask me if I killed my husband.”

“It’s direct.”

She laughed, said,

“You have a phone number, if I decide to confess?”

“Bailey’s Hotel.”

“That’s where you live?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, Jack Taylor, you might not be very good at your job, but you have a certain style.”

I’d reached the front door when she added,

“You decide to go back on the booze, give me a call.”

I gave her my best blank look, as if I’d no idea what she meant. She gave a nasty smile, said,

“I know the signs, and believe me, you’ll be back sooner than you think. It’s not really
if
you’ll drink, only when.”

“Screw you, lady.”

“You wish.”

And she banged the door in my face. I hated that she was right on both counts.

“I loved my friends so much I was in love with them, wanted them to be in love
with me. But since life isn’t like that, this completely shafted any chance of a
significant relationship for longer than I care to think about.”

John Ramster,
Ladies’ Man

The following Monday, a second year student got a cappuccino
from the deli. It was one of those crisp fine days, not a cloud in the sky. You could almost touch hope in the air. People’s spirits lightened and you’d get a howyah, a smile from strangers.

That kind of day.

The student sat on a bench at the Square, sipped at the coffee. A stray wino would approach and ask for

“Price of a cup of tea, sur.”

But it wasn’t a serious beg, more from habit than necessity. No intimidation in it. Two non-Europeans asked for directions to Social Security. At noon, the bells rang for the Angelus. Down near the Great Southern, two workmen stopped their labours and blessed themselves. That is a rare sight. Not that they ceased working but that they observed the Angelus.

Around 12.15 p.m., a man approached, stood for a second behind the student. Then he took out a gun, put it to the base of the student’s head and pulled the trigger. He then turned on his heel and walked towards the top of the Square . . . and dis-appeared.

As he walked away, he threw the wrapper from his Juicy Fruit on the road.

The guards weren’t appealing for witnesses. They had far too many.

All contradictory.

Descriptions ranged from, tall, short, fat, thin.

He had, variously, long hair, black hair, no hair.

Was wearing, a suit, leather jacket, wax jacket, raincoat.

But definitely, old, young, middle-aged.

A photofit issued fit half the male population and wasn’t dissimilar to a few women.

Superintendent Clancy intoned,

“This is a horrendous, heinous crime. The gardai will not cease until the perpetrator is apprehended.”

He rambled on about lawlessness, a crisis in society, drugs and a range of vaguely related topics.

Concluded with,

“The gardai are pursuing a definite line of inquiry.”

In other words, they had zilch.

I had gone to ground with a book.

Here’s the lengthy title:

Movie Wars: How Hollywood and the media conspire to limit what films we can see.

By Jonathan Rosenbaum.

I was well into it, had almost forgotten how badly I wanted a drink. The phone went. I picked up, said,

“Yeah.”

“Jack, it’s Bill.”

“Hi, Bill.”

“I’m calling for a progress report.”

“Oh.”

“So, what progress?”

“Inquiries are in hand.”

Bitter laugh, then,

“You sound like a guard.”

“Old habits, eh?”

“Except I don’t want to hear that shite.”

“It takes time, Bill.”

“And who told you to involve that religious fuck, Flood?”

“Nobody told me. You want to find someone, he’s the best.”

“I’m telling you, keep him the fuck outa my affairs.”

I was getting tired of this, said,

“What are you going to do, fire me?”

I could hear his intake of breath, then,

“Don’t get fucking smart with me, Jack. You definitely don’t want to do that.”

“I don’t take threats well, Bill.”

“Time you learned.”

Click.

I tried to go back to the book, but the spell was gone. What I most wanted to do was to go down to Sweeney’s and kick the bejaysus out of Bill. I grabbed my jacket and took the hinges off the door. Childish but satisfying.

In St Anthony’s Lane, there is a coffee shop. Invisible to most pedestrians, it’s run by a Basque. I’d intended asking how he washed up in Galway but had never found the energy. Plus, caution said that Basques don’t do probing good. As usual, it was doing a brisk trade. Law clerks from the Courthouse, teachers from the Mercy school, a random student and two Spanish fishermen. The owner said,

“Jacques!”

I don’t have the witty reply to this, nor could I remember his name, so went with,

“How’re you doing?”

Lame, right?

Didn’t faze him. He said,

“Cafe con leche, grande.”

“Grand.”

He lingered, then said,

“I miss
Glenroe.”

A
Basque who longed for Wesley Burrows; the world was indeed on its axis. I’d been in a few weeks back and a group of students were turning CDs into ashtrays. One of them said,

“Don’t worry, it’s Garth Brooks.”

He had a faded Marilyn Manson badge on his notebook. I knew the two events were connected, but I couldn’t work up the energy to work it out. The coffee came, and the owner asked,

“Food?”

“No, I’m good.”

I stirred the liquid, anticipated the bitter kick. Such times, I’d have killed for a cigarette, then a scotch.

Then a line.

Then oblivion.

Physically, I shook myself, in an effort to dispel the harpies. Loreena McKennitt was playing and I let myself bend to the music. Glanced up to see my mother pass. Old Galwegians always used the lane to reach the abbey.

She was linking Fr Malachy. He, of course, was enveloped in cigarette smoke. Once in Carol O’Connell’s
The Judas Child
I’d come across

Her child needed a covert source of facts, the help of a dirty, backdoor invader, a professional destroyer of private lives, who
well understood the loathsome workings of the world’s worst scum.

So this is motherhood.

I mouthed,

“Amen.”

“Life taught me a long time ago to leave be anything
that’s got more teeth than me.”

Daniel Buckman,
The Names of Rivers

I was in Nestor’s, on my second glass of sparkling Balway wa
ter. That the day would come when an Irish person paid for water and paid dear is astonishing. Jeff said,

“You’re doing well.”

“At what?”

“You know, the drinking . . . the cigs . . . the other stuff.”

I shook my head, said,

“I’m flapping against the wind.”

He stopped polishing a glass, looked up, asked,

“What does that mean?”

“I’m biting a bullet, and I’m sick of the taste of metal in my mouth.”

He put down the glass, leaned on the counter, said,

“Very poetic if a little ominous.”

“Whoever said the clean life would help you live longer was right. They neglected to add you’d feel every boring minute.”

“It’ll get easier, Jack.”

“I wish I could believe that.”

Jeff had been sober for twenty years. Then, riding on a low after the baby’s birth, he’d gone on the batter. A one-night
rampage. I’d been the one to rein him in. A drunk for the defence, he’d been back on track since. I asked,

“Ever feel the need to blow again?”

“Sure.”

“That’s it . . . sure?”

“No point in dwelling on it, Jack. I can’t drink, end of story.”

I sort of hated him then. Not in a ferocious fashion but the dull ache that sickness feels for recovery. I pushed the water away and got up to leave. Jeff said,

“Cathy’s been surfing the net, trying to track down that information you wanted. She hasn’t had any luck yet.”

“OK, take it easy.” I was leaving when the sentry spoke to me; I nearly dropped from surprise, as he almost never did. He said,

“You’re investigating the Magdalen? Well, I remember it well. When we were kids, we’d pass by there and see them working in the gardens. God forgive me, but we called them names and jeered them. The nuns were standing over the poor bitches like wardens. I remember they had leather straps, and we got our kicks thinking about them walloping the girls. Did you know that when the public finally knew what was going on, the outcry was so great that in the middle of the night, the bodies of dead Maggies were exhumed and whisked off to the cemetery to be buried? There’s a mass grave there with all the nameless girls below.”