Кен Бруен - The Magdalen Martyrs

Buoyed by my activities, I got a takeaway curry, settled in front of the TV, Watched for a few hours without registering a whole lot. Then Buffy came on. Despite myself, I started to pay attention. Count Dracula had a guest appearance. Buffy asked him why he’d come. He hissed,

“For the sun?”

Was smiling despite myself. Angel followed next. He’s a vampire good guy. This episode, he was forced to sing in a demon karaoke bar, despite protesting,

“Three things I don’t do: tan, date and sing in public.”

He mangled Barry Manilow’s “Mandy”. But the MC, who was green and scaly with red eyes, was impressed, said,

“There’s not a destroyer of worlds can argue with Manilow.”

The phone went. I answered, heard,

“Mr Taylor?”

“Yeah?”

“This is Terry Boyle.”

“Like that’s supposed to mean something?”

“I spoke to your friend Jeff in Nestor’s, about a job.”

“Oh yeah, the guy with the suit.”

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“You are... an episode of Angel! ”

“Are you serious?”

“You bet. I just watched Buffy! ”

“Oh.”

“So, what do you want?”

“I need your help.”

“I’m already on something.”

“Could I at least make a pitch?”

“Why not?”

“Perhaps I could buy you lunch. Would the Brasserie at one tomorrow be suitable?”

“OK.”

“Thank you, Mr Taylor, you won’t regret it.”

“I doubt that.”

Click.

The credits were rolling on Angel. I considered watching Sky News but felt fatigue come calling. In bed, for the first time in ages, I felt the faint glimmer of hope. If I could just hang on to this fragile feeling, I might struggle through. Not surprisingly, I dreamt of vampires. The thing was, they all wore the face of Bill Cassell. His usual minder was there, of course, the big guy, and a third man whom I couldn’t see. When I replayed the dream again, I thought of those lines from “The Waste Land”, the ones about “the third who walks always beside you”.

When I woke, I thought I smelled something odd, took me a time to identify it.

Juicy Fruit.

I wore the Age Concern suit. No doubt, it had been a decent item once. I choose it for two reasons: because it was cheap and dark. Checked myself in the mirror. I looked like a corpse that the undertaker had failed to help. Wore a white shirt and wool tie. Only accentuated the lousy suit. When I entered the Brasserie, a gorgeous girl approached, asked,

“Table for one?”

“I dunno, I’m supposed to meet a Mr Boyle.”

Her face lit up and,

“Oh, Terence.”

My heart sank and she added,

“He’s at his usual table, over here.”

Led me to the centre, beamed,

“Voila.”

Terry Boyle stood up, smiled.

“Jack Taylor?”

“Yeah.”

I hoped my dourness showed. He put out his hand, said,

“Glad you could make it!”

“Yeah.”

He was well built, about six two, blond hair and a fresh complexion. Not good looking but what they call presentable. Dark grey suit that shouted money. His age was in the thirty zone. The first Irish generation to grow up without the spectre of unemployment and emigration, this had given them an ease, a self-confidence and natural assurance.

The opposite of everything I grew up with. They faced the world on equal footing. We’d sneaked into life with a trail of fear, inadequacy, resentment and yes... begrudgery My response was booze. His generation toyed with Hooches. He said,

“Take a seat.”

I did, resolving to burn my suit at the first chance. He asked,

“A drink?”

“Some water, maybe.”

He nodded and I asked,

“What?”

“I heard you had a... you know... a problem.”

Christ, was there anyone who hadn’t heard? I asked,

“You heard where?”

“Superintendent Clancy. He was a friend of the family.”

The waitress came, breezed,

“Ready to order, guys?”

“Jack, what would you like?”

“You seem to know the place, I’ll follow you.”

“The spaghetti is dynamite... that OK? Need a starter?”

I shook my head. The start I needed was a triple scotch. He poured water into glasses, said,

“The grub’s excellent. You’ll be pleased.”

“I can hardly wait.”

He gave me a searching look, checked over his shoulder, then back to me with,

“I’m gay”

I turned, shouted to the waitress,

“Glass of wine.”

Terence was shocked, stammered,

“Oh don’t, I didn’t mean to set you off.”

I laughed, repeated,

“Set me off! What a great expression. I know you all of two minutes, and you seriously think you can set me off”

Jesus, I was shouting. The waitress came with the drink. Placed it in the middle of the table, no man’s land. White wine in a long-stemmed glass, beads of moisture clinging to the out-side, like precarious aspirations. Terence tried again.

“I didn’t mean to... blurt out my sexual orientation. But I’ve found it best to get it in the open from the beginning.”

I leaned over, close to his face, asked,

“What makes you think your sexual identity is of the slightest interest to anybody?”

He hung his head. At least I’d stopped shouting, for which we were all grateful. I said,

“You have the wine.”

He grabbed it, downed half in a second, said,

“Thank you... I mean, could we start over? I think we got off on the wrong foot.”

“Sure.”

The food came. I’m sure it was delicious, but I could only toy with it. Terence didn’t fare much better. I asked,

“Tell me what Clancy said about me.”

He pushed the food aside, began,

“It was the time of the teenage suicides, remember?”

As if I could ever forget. I nodded and he continued,

“The Superintendent used to golf with my dad. The suicides were the talk of the town. He said you’d solved it, despite being an almost chronic alcoholic. He said you could really have been something if drink hadn’t ruined you.”

I looked at him, asked,

“And what, you think that was some kind of recommendation?”

“I went to an agency, they wouldn’t touch the case.”

“What case?”

“My father was murdered.”

“Oh.”

“I know who did it.”

“Who?”

“His wife.”

“What?”

“My stepmother.”

“Aw, come on.”

“I’m serious. Please, will you just check her out, a preliminary investigation? I’ll pay well.”

I was now sitting on the steps outside the Augustinian church. A faint hint of sun was in the sky, and I felt I should acknowledge it. A Romanian woman, two kids in tow, asked me,

“Is this church Catholic?”

“It is.”

And they walked away, not looking back. On the wall beside me was a huge glass case. Our Mother of Perpetual Help used to reside there. Someone stole her.

Terence had given me a fat envelope stashed with cash. His stepmother’s name was Kirsten, and she lived at the family home in Taylor’s Hill. The father had been found dead in bed of a heart attack. I said,

“Nothing suspicious there.”

Terence had sighed, answered,

“Speed, speed would have accelerated it. He had a history of coronary trouble.”

“Speed?”

“Kirsten’s drug of choice.”

“Wouldn’t an autopsy have shown this?”

“There was no autopsy.”

“Why didn’t you demand one?”

“I was in New York. When I got back, he was already cremated.”