Кен Бруен - The Magdalen Martyrs

“Terry.”

He was shaking from temper, snarled,

“You’re shagging Kirsten.”

“Whoa... keep your voice down.”

“I will not.”

I raised my hand. He stepped back, and I said,

“OK, now let’s sit down and you can try and cool off.”

We did.

I took out my cigs, fired up. He waved at the smoke, said,

“I hired you, and what do you do? You bloody go to bed with the bitch.”

“Who told you that?”

“She did.”

“And you believed her?”

It was if he’d been waiting for such an answer, asked,

“Do you have a tattoo of an angel on your chest?”

“I...”

“You do... Jesus... let me see.”

Grabbed at my shirt, tore the buttons. I caught his wrist, said,

“Over the past week, I’ve punched out three people. The thing is, I’m developing a taste for it. Here’s what you have to ask yourself. Do you want your wrist broken?”

I bent it towards the floor, and he said,

“All right... God, you’re so physical.”

“Are you going to behave, because you’re all out of warn-mgs?

He pulled back from me, massaged his wrist, moaned,

“That hurt.”

I tried to arrange my ruined shirt, said,

“I liked that shirt. You have no idea how fast I’m getting through wardrobes.”

His lip curled, actually turned up at the right corner, and he said,

“Sartorial is a description that would not readily spring to mind about you. One feels the charity shops have all your requirements.”

He was the kind of guy you’d never tire of beating the bejaysus out of. I said,

“Terry, I’ve checked out Kirsten. No matter how much you detest her, there’s no proof she killed your father.”

“And, of course, you investigated fully, especially in his bed. No clues there I suppose, or were you too preoccupied?”

“Give it up, Terry. It’s a waste of time.”

He jumped to his feet, said,

“I’m meeting her next week. One way or another, I’ll sort the tramp.”

“Come on, Terry.”

“Fuck you, Jack Taylor. You’re a despicable human being.”

And he was gone.

Mrs Bailey came over, asked,

“Can I get you something?”

“No... thank you.”

“The young man, were you able to help him?”

“I don’t think so.”

“If you don’t mind me saying so, Mr Taylor, storm clouds appear to be constantly over you.”

“You got that right.”

The day Lucifer left the laundry, she got up early, packed her small suitcase and gazed at the items of jewellery she had. Two small Claddagh rings, a pearl rosary and a small gold cross on a silver chain. These had belonged to “the Martyrs”, the girls whose deaths she had caused. Fingering the cross, she considered bringing it to the pawn on Quay Street, but it gave her such a thrill of remembrance, the surge of power she’d felt when those girls died. With a sigh, she put the cross in her bag, decided to keep it as a reminder of these glory days.

There would never be another time like this, and she knew her life would only be downhill after this. Her sister had two sons, and Lucifer adored them. She’d thanked the dark power she worshipped that her sister hadn’t had girls. After her time at the Magdalen, her hatred of women was even more entrenched, because they were so weak, always whining, always conspiring. A small laugh escaped her as she thought, “I sure put manners on the little cows. They won’t forget me in a hurry.”

I went upstairs, took off the torn shirt. Examined it in the vague hope of salvage, but it was beyond help. Slung it in the bin. The phone went. I picked it up, said,

“Yes?”

“Jack... it’s Brid... Brid Nic an lomaire.”

“Ridge.”

Could hear her annoyance, then she said,

“I got the information you wanted.”

“On Kirsten?”

“Yes.”

“Good girl.”

“Don’t be so condescending.”

“Good woman?”

“I’ll be in McSwiggan’s at eight.”

Click.

I began to listen to the death notices. How fucked is that? Instead of my morning drugs, I’d listen for those. Mental abuse of a whole different calibre. A lot of the names had a ring of familiarity. I was in that age range where you no longer watch for the success of your friends; you await news of their demise.

Then,

“Bill Cassell.”

As I rushed to turn the volume up, I noted the removal arrangements and

“No flowers by request. All donations to Galway Hospice.”

I didn’t know if that was a funeral I’d attend. It was due to leave the Augustinian at eleven the next day. If for no other reason, I should go to ensure he was truly gone.

That evening, I wore a sweatshirt, jeans and my guards coat. Despite the burning, it was still intact. I got to McSwiggan’s at eight fifteen. Ridge was already there, toying with a bottle of Diet Coke. I asked,

“Get you another?”

“No.”

I ordered a double Jameson; felt I’d been doing well with my cutback on the pills. I sat opposite her, said,

“We’re almost a regular feature here.”

No smile, no reply She was wearing a white T-shirt, navy jeans. Her face was without makeup, and it made her look severe, aloof. Reaching in her bag, she took out a notebook, said,

“Interesting person, this Kirsten Boyle.”

“That’s one way of describing her.”

She gave me a full stare, asked,

“Are you involved with her?”

“Not in that way.”

“Well, it’s what she does, collect men.”

I didn’t comment so she began:

“Her real name is Mary Cowan. From Waterford, lower middle class background, regular upbringing, nothing out of the ordinary. At sixteen, she met a rich English guy, ran off to England with him.”

“No crime there.”

“Ten years later, she arrives in Galway, with a new name, new accent and a recently deceased husband.”

“Oh.”

“Five years ago, she married again and became Mrs Boyle. Before and since the death of Boyle, she’s had a string of men. Her husband died of a heart attack; he was cremated quickly. Obviously, she has friends who expedite such matters. Normally there’d be a post mortem.”

I repeated,

“Expedite.”

“What?”

“It’s a word that appears to cling to her.”

“What clings to her is influence. She knows the right people.”

“You’ve got that right.”

She took a sip of the Coke, asked,

“Why are you interested in her?”

“I was asked to check her out.”

“You’re investigating her... no, no... you’re investigating the death of her husband.”

When I didn’t answer, she said,

“There’s nothing to prove she did anything.”

I asked,

“How did you discover so much?”

“My Uncle Brendan taught me well. His favourite line was, ‘It’s not what you know but knowing where the information lies.’”

I said,

“He sure would have been proud of you.”

A pained expression lit her face, then was replaced by the severe look. She said,

“I am so angry with him.”

I nodded, and she snapped,

“With you, too.”

“Me?”

“You were his friend, weren’t you?”

“Um... yes.”

“Why didn’t you watch out for him?”

“I wasn’t focused...”

She stood up, near spat,

“And when are you focused? When you’re ordering large whiskies, is that when you pay attention? You were a poor excuse for a friend.”

After she’d left, I remembered what Babs Simpson had once said,

“Alcoholics are almost always charming. They have to be, because they have to keep making new friends. They use up the old ones.”