Кен Бруен - The Magdalen Martyrs

I thought about that, admitted,

“That’s odd.”

“Wait till you meet Kirsten; you don’t know what odd means.”

“And I’m to see her how?... Just call and ask, ‘Did you kill your husband?’”

Terence let his irritation show, said,

“You’re the private eye. You’re supposed to be good at this.”

“Jeez, who’s that good?”

He indicated the envelope, said,

“It’s what you’re being paid for.”

I didn’t answer right off, let his tone hang between us, then,

“Terence, one time I’m going to mention this.”

“What?”

Like he was seriously irritated now. I said,

“Lose the attitude. Don’t ever talk to me like I’m the fucking hired help. You do and I’ll break your front teeth.”

Outside the restaurant, he’d given me his card. It had his name and three phone numbers. I asked,

“What do you do?”

“Software.”

“That’s an answer?”

“To my generation, the only one.”

I let him have that, said,

“OK, but I think this is a waste of your time and money.”

He gave me a small smile, said,

“See Kirsten, then we’ll talk.”

“Your money.”

“And don’t forget it.”

He was gone before I could react.

I’d walked towards Shop Street when I felt a tug on my arm. Turned to face my mother. She is your original martyr and is blessed to have me as her drunkard son. The farther down the toilet I go, the better she appears. My father was a good man, and she treated him like dirt. When he died, she did her grieving on the grand scale.

Leaped into widow’s weeds and spent every hour available at the church or graveyard, publicly displaying her loss. Her type usually has a tame cleric in tow. Fr Malachy, a prize asshole, was her escort for the previous years. I wouldn’t have liked him under the best of circumstances, but as her hostage, I out and out despised him. My last encounter, he’d shouted,

“You’ll be the death of your mother.”

I waited a beat before,

“Can I have that in writing?”

His face went purple and he gasped,

“Yah pup yah. Hell won’t be hot enough till you’re in it.”

Who says the golden age of the clergy has passed?

My mother said,

“I saw you at the Augustinian. Were you at mass?”

“Hardly.”

Her eyes had the usual granite hue. Under that scrutiny, you knew mercy was not ever on the agenda. Sometimes, though, she could whine anew. Like now, she said,

“I never see you, son.”

“Ever wonder why?”

“I pray daily for you, offer you at mass.”

“Don’t bother.”

She strived to appear hurt, didn’t carry it off and snapped,

“You’re my flesh and blood.”

My turn to sigh; it was definitely infectious.

“Was there anything else, Mother?”

“You have a hard heart, Jack. Couldn’t we have a cup of tea, talk like civilised human beings?”

I looked at my watch, said,

“I’m late for an appointment. I better go.”

“I haven’t been well.”

“I believe that.”

“Do you, son?”

“Oh, yeah, you never had a well day your whole miserable life.”

Then I was walking away. No doubt, Fr Malachy would receive an earful later. My heart was pounding and I could feel a tremor in my hands. Had to stop and take a breath outside the Imperial Hotel.

A fellah I knew was on his way in, stopped, asked,

“Fancy a pint, Jack?”

There was nothing I wanted more, but I said,

“No thanks, some other time.”

“You sure?”

“I think so.”

Next day, I ditched the suit. Went to the St Vincent de Paul shop and got a blazer, grey slacks and white shirts. Back at the hotel, I tried them on. Not bad and definitely a step up. In the lobby, Mrs Bailey said,

“My! You do look smart.”

“You think?”

“Definitely. A new woman?”

“In a way.”

“Wait a moment.”

She disappeared then returned with a dark knitted tie, said,

“It was my husband’s.”

“I couldn’t.”

“Course you could, now hold still.”

And she tied it for me, said,

“There, you are a handsome man.”

“Thank you.”

I caught a bus at the Square. It broke down before Dominic Street and I figured the hell with it, the walk will do me good.

At Nile Lodge, I checked the address Terence Boyle had given me and began the trek up Taylor’s Hill. No doubt about it, this was where the cash was. Past the Ardilaun Hotel and I came to Irish gates. A brass plate proclaimed, “St Anselm”.

Pushed them open and walked up a long, tree-lined drive. I was struck by the quiet. Like being in the country. Then the house, a three-storey mansion, ivy creeping along the windows. I stood at the front door, rang the bell.

A few minutes later, the door opened. A woman asked,

“Yes?”

English accent with an underlay of Irish. She was that indeterminate age between thirty and forty. Dark hair to her shoulders and a face that should have been pretty but didn’t quite achieve it. Maybe because of the eyes, brown with an unnerving stare. Button nose and full mouth. She had the appearance of someone who’s recently lost a lot of weight. Not gaunt but definitely stretched. I asked,

“Mrs Boyle?”

She gave me a long focused look, said,

“Yes.”

“I’m a friend of your husband’s.”

“Were.”

“Excuse me?”

“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.”