Benjamin Black - Elegy For April

QUIRKE SAID HE WOULD BRING PHOEBE TO HADDINGTON ROAD, OR to Grafton Street, if she liked- did she not have to work today? She said she did not want to go home, and not to the shop, either. She asked him where he was going, and he said he had to see someone. “Let me stay with you,” she said. “I don’t want to be on my own.” They drove down to Leeson Street and turned left at the bridge, then right into Fitzwilliam Street. There was traffic now, the cars and buses going cautiously on the roads that were dusted still with frost. They did not speak. Quirke wanted her to tell him if she had known about Ojukwu and April, about Ojukwu and Isabel, and the unasked questions hung in the air between them. “I feel such a fool,” Phoebe said. “Such a fool.”

He steered the car left into Fitzwilliam Square and drew it to the curb and stopped. Phoebe turned to him. “Here?” she said. “Why?” He did not answer, only sat with his hands still braced on the steering wheel, looking out at the black, dripping trees behind the railings of the square. “What’s going on, Quirke, what do you know? Is April dead?”

“Yes,” he said, “I think so.”

“How? Did Patrick let her die?”

“No. But someone else did, I think. Let her die, or-” He stopped. There were coatings of white frost on the branches of the black trees. “Wait here,” he said, and opened the door and got out.

She watched him cross the street and climb the steps to the house and ring the bell. Then the door was opened, and he stepped inside. The nurse put her head out and looked across the road to where Phoebe was sitting in the car, then she followed Quirke inside and shut the door. It was some minutes before it opened again, and Quirke came out, putting on his hat. The nurse glared after him and this time slammed the door.

He got in behind the wheel again.

“What’s happening?” Phoebe asked.

“We’ll wait.”

“For what?”

“To find out what happened to April.”

The door of the house across the street opened again, and Oscar Latimer came out, with the nurse behind him helping him into his overcoat. He looked about, and saw the Alvis, and came down the steps. “Sit in the back,” Quirke told Phoebe, and got out and opened the rear door for her.

Latimer waited for a bread van to go past, then crossed the street. He got in at the passenger side, taking off his tweed cap, and Quirke once more got in behind the wheel. Latimer turned to Phoebe. “So,” he said, “it’s to be a family outing.”

Quirke started up the engine. “Where are we going?”

“Just drive,” Latimer said. “North, along the coast.” He seemed in high good humor and looked about him happily as they went down Fitzwilliam Street to Merrion Square and then on down to Pearse Street. “How are you today, Miss Quirke?” he asked. “Or Miss Griffin, I should say. I keep getting that wrong.” Phoebe did not reply. She realized that she was frightened. Latimer was looking back at her over his shoulder and smiling. “Quirke and daughter,” he said. “That’s a thing you never see over a shop, ‘Such-and-such and Daughter.’ And Son, yes, but never Daughter. Odd.” For a moment he looked to her so like April, with that pale, sharp, freckled face, that smile.

“Tell me where we’re going, Latimer,” Quirke said.

Latimer ignored him. He turned to face the windscreen again and folded his arms. “Fathers and daughters, Quirke, eh? Fathers and daughters, fathers and sons. So many difficulties, so many pains.” He glanced behind him again. “What do you think, Phoebe? You must have some thoughts on that subject?”

She looked back into his eyes, which were regarding her so merrily. He was, she saw now, quite mad. Why had she not realized it before? “Do you know where April is?” she asked him.

He put a hand on the back of his seat and leaned his chin on it, pulling his mouth far down at the corners, making a show of weighing up the question. “It’s hard to answer that,” he said. “There are too many variables, as the mathematicians say.”

“Latimer, I can’t just keep driving,” Quirke said. “Tell me where it is we’re going.”

“To-Howth,” Latimer said. He nodded. “Yes, good old Howth Head- Oops! Didn’t you see that man on the bicycle, Quirke?” He twisted about to look out of the back window. “He’s shaking his fist at you.” He laughed. “Yes, Howth,” he said again, resettling himself comfortably, “that’s where we’re bound. My father used to take us out there, April and me, on the tram. In fact, we could have taken the tram today, I suppose, made a jaunt of it- it’s the last line still operating, after all- but it might have made for awkwardness in the end. Imagine how the other passengers would have stared when I produced”- he reached inside his overcoat and brought out a large, black pistol with a long barrel-”this.” He held it upright by the butt, turning it this way and that as if for them to admire it. “It’s a Webley,” he said. “Ser vice revolver. Bit of a blunderbuss, I’ll grant you, but effective, I’m sure. I have it from my father, who took it off a dying British officer on Easter Monday 1916, or so he always said. He used to let me play with it when I was a lad, and would tell me about all the Black and Tans he had plugged with it. Then he had to go and turn it on himself.” He paused, and looked at Quirke, and turned his head and glanced at Phoebe, too, smiling again, almost mischievously. “Oh, yes,” he said lightly, “that’s another strand of the Latimer Legend that my mother and my uncle between them have managed to keep secret all these years. A heart attack, they said, and somehow got the coroner to back them up. Not such a large lie, when you think of it, seeing that he shot himself in the chest. Yes, anyone else would have put the gun to his temple, or even in his mouth, but not my Pa- too vain, didn’t want to spoil his broth-of-a-boy good looks.” He chuckled. “You’re lucky to be a foundling, Quirke. I’m sure you feel terribly sorry for yourself, having no Daddy that you know of, but you’re lucky, take it from me.”

They were in North Strand now, and before they came to the bridge they had to stop at traffic lights. Latimer laid the gun across his lap, with his finger crooked around the trigger and the barrel pointed in the general direction of Quirke’s liver. “For God’s sake, Latimer,” Quirke said under his breath.

Phoebe’s palms were damp. She tried not to look at the little man with the gun, tried not to see him, feeling like an infant hiding its eyes and thinking itself invisible.

“I’ve no doubt,” Latimer said, “that you’re both feverishly scheming in your minds to think of some way of getting out of here, maybe at traffic lights like this, or maybe if you see a Guard on the road and pull over and shout, office r, officer, he’s got a gun! I hope, I really do hope, that you won’t attempt anything like that.- Ah, there’s the green light. On, James, and don’t spare the horses!”

Quirke caught Phoebe’s eye in the driving mirror. They both looked away quickly, as if in embarrassment.

They passed through Clontarf, and then they were on the coast road. The tide was out, and wading birds were picking their way about the mudflats under a low, mauve sky that threatened snow; a cormorant was perched on a rock, its wings spread wide to dry. On Bull Island the sand grass was a vivid green. Everything is perfectly normal, Phoebe thought, the world out there just going about its ordinary business, while I am here.

“You couldn’t leave it alone, Quirke, could you?” Latimer said. “You had to interfere; you had to bring in that detective and all the rest of it. And now here you are, you and your inconvenient daughter, trapped in this very expensive car by a madman with a gun. The things that happen, eh?”