Benjamin Black - Even the Dead

She saw that Quirke was gazing at a framed photograph on the mantelpiece. It was of himself and Delia, Phoebe’s mother, arm in arm with Mal and Sarah, Delia’s sister. They were dead, both of those sisters. Delia had died giving birth to Phoebe, and Sarah had been struck down by a brain tumor — how long ago was it now? She couldn’t remember.

She put the teacup and saucer back on the tray and stood up. “I’m tired,” she said. “I’m going home to rest. I can’t think anymore — my mind is a blank.”

“We’ll talk again in the morning,” Quirke said. “Mind you”—he glanced at the window—“it is morning, pretty well. The dawn is coming up.”

He walked her down to the car. He was right: there was a thin, grayish glow, dirty as dishwater, in the eastern sky, above the rooftops.

“You’ve still said nothing to David?” he asked, leaning on the open door of the car as she put her hand on the starter.

“No.” She didn’t look at him. “What would I say?”

He didn’t answer that. “I’m glad you came to me,” he said.

Now she did look up, startled. “Are you?”

“Yes. Of course.” He did his crooked smile, which in the dawn light was more like a grimace. “Of course I am.”

* * *

When she got to Herbert Place she went straight into the bedroom and lay down on the bed. She meant to rest there for only a minute or two, and didn’t even undress, sure she wouldn’t be able to sleep. Hours later, she started awake with the sun shining on her face. She got up, moving stiffly; she felt as if she had run rather than driven all the way back from Ballytubber.

She made coffee and ate a slice of toast, then drew a lukewarm bath and lay in it for a long time, until the water was cold and she began to shiver. The bathroom was so narrow she had to stand sideways to towel herself dry.

She went back to the kitchen and made more coffee — she knew it would give her palpitations, but she didn’t care — and sat at the table by the window in her dressing gown. It was early still, and the street was deserted. Also it was Saturday, and all the offices in the houses round about would be closed. She loved the weekends here, when all day long it was so quiet she could hear the sound of canal water from across the road, and the ducks quacking. The sawmill over at Percy Place sometimes opened on Saturday mornings, but not until ten or even later, and it was only seven yet.

Strong sunshine was falling down through the window, onto the table; it was going to be another hot day. Already people were growing tired of the fine weather; she had heard them on the buses and in the shops, complaining of the heat. She didn’t mind it, and while everyone else had put on summer clothes, she saw no reason to change out of her accustomed black. When she had left the Maison des Chapeaux the owner, Mrs. Cuffe-Wilkes, had given her a big straw hat with a floppy brim as a parting gift. She had put it away on the top shelf of the wardrobe, thinking it much too frivolous for her, but today, she decided, she would wear it, no matter how silly it made her look.

She went to the wardrobe and took down the hat box and lifted out the hat. It was very pretty, an elaborate concoction of pale yellow straw with a red ribbon hanging down at the back. The price tag was still on it; Mrs. Cuffe-Wilkes had been careful to leave it there, to let Phoebe know what an expensive gift it was. Three guineas — a lot of money, all right. She turned the thing in her hands, looking at it from all sides. It was as light as a bird’s dried wing. She put it on and surveyed herself, a little shyly, in the mirror.

She frowned. She had been trying not to think about Lisa Smith, but now she had to give in, and everything that had happened in the night came flooding back. The sunshine, the coffee, the silly hat — all of it had conspired to let her doubt the night’s events, but now she thought of the hunted, haunted look in Lisa’s eyes, and it was all too real again.

She would have to find her. She felt it as a solemn duty. A person had been given into her care, troubled and terrified, whom she had tried to help, and, somehow, she had failed.

The face in the mirror gazed back at her accusingly from under the dramatically swooping straw brim of the hat. She took the hat off and put it back in the box and put the box on the shelf. As she was shutting the door of the wardrobe she caught a fleeting glimpse of herself again in the mirror, looking furtive, this time, and guilty, too.

It was early when Sam Corless arrived at the hospital. Hackett had sent Sergeant Jenkins in a squad car to collect him. He had on his bus driver’s blue serge trousers and an old tweed jacket with a red flag badge in the lapel. He wore no tie, and his shirt collar was open. He looked as a man would look the day after hearing of the violent death of his son. Hackett was waiting for him at the main entrance. Together they entered the hospital and went down the absurdly grand marble staircase, at the foot of which they were met by David Sinclair in his white coat. Hackett introduced the two men.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Corless,” Sinclair said. “I know how hard this is.”

How many times, he wondered, had he uttered those selfsame words, in this same place?

Sam Corless said nothing. He appeared physically sick: his skin was puffy and his eyes were bloodshot. They walked along the airless, green-painted corridor, Sinclair and Sam Corless ahead and Hackett following close behind. Sinclair opened the door to the lab. When they came in, Bolger, the porter, whipped a half-smoked cigarette from his mouth and hid it behind his back.

The charred remains of Leon Corless lay on a trolley under a white nylon sheet. A faulty tap was dribbling into one of the big metal sinks. Sam Corless rubbed his reddened eyes, which were stinging already from the harsh light falling from the lamps in the ceiling. Bolger was eyeing him with undisguised interest, the infamous Sam Corless; right now he certainly didn’t look like much of a threat to the institutions of the state.

Sinclair lifted back a corner of the sheet. For a second Corless’s broad face seemed to fold in on itself.

“This is your son, yes, Mr. Corless?” Sinclair said.

Corless nodded. “Yes,” he said. He seemed to be having difficulty swallowing. Hackett stepped forward and put a hand on his arm, just below the elbow. Sinclair let the corner of the sheet fall back.

* * *

There was a café opposite the gates of the hospital. Half a dozen Formica-topped tables, some metal chairs, a high counter with glass-fronted compartments that displayed assorted sandwiches and sticky buns. Behind the counter a girl of seventeen or so, fair-haired and nervous, tended a tea urn and a complicated coffee-making machine with many levers and nozzles.

Hackett and Sam Corless sat at a table by the window. Corless said he didn’t want anything, but Hackett went to the counter and ordered a cup of tea for him anyway, and one for himself. He hung his hat on a hat stand in the corner and sat down again. Corless was hunched forward at the table, empty-eyed, his hands clasped before him.

“Are you all right?” Hackett asked.

Corless looked at him as if he couldn’t remember who he was. “Yes,” he said. “I’m all right.”

Taking out a packet of Woodbines and a Zippo lighter polished with age, he offered Hackett a cigarette. Hackett shook his head. “I’ll smoke my own,” he said, “if you don’t mind. Them things are too rough for my poor old bronchials.” He picked up the lighter and turned it over in his fingers.

“February 1937,” Corless said, “the Battle of Jarama, outside Madrid.”

“Oh, yes?” Hackett said. “You were in Spain?”