Benjamin Black - Even the Dead

How strange it was, Quirke thought, the way certain things, the most momentous, seemed to come not as something new and unexpected but as mere confirmations of things already known. “Tell me,” he said.

Mal was still looking at the sky. “Cancer,” he said. “The pancreas.”

“I see.” Quirke let go a long, falling breath. “When did you hear?”

“The other day. I had the tests done last week.”

“How bad is it?”

Mal smiled. “It’s in the pancreas,” he said. “What do you think?”

“Does Rose know?”

“Of course. She’s been very good. No tears, no histrionics — well, you know Rose.”

Not right now, Quirke thought; right now I don’t know anything.

“We’re too young for this, Mal,” he said. “It’s too soon.”

“Yes, well, it always is, I imagine. When we were student doctors, in Boston all those years ago, I treated an old fellow for something or other, I can’t remember what. Something trivial, an ingrown toenail, that kind of thing. He told me he was ninety-seven. ‘You know, young man,’ he said to me, ‘people say, “Oh, I wouldn’t want to live to be your age, to be ninety-seven,” but all that changes when they get to be ninety-six.’”

They rose from the bench and walked back together towards the house. They were silent; then Quirke, to be saying something, spoke of Leon Corless’s death and Phoebe’s strange encounter with Lisa Smith. He could see Mal was only half attending. He had an air about him of soft, slightly dazed amazement; he was like a man who after a long and dreamless sleep awakes to find himself in a world he doesn’t recognize.

“Is Phoebe all right?” Mal asked.

“She’s concerned, that’s all.”

Mal nodded. “It must be upsetting for her, the young woman disappearing like that. Phoebe is a good girl. She cares about people, always did. Of course, it gets her into trouble.”

Quirke hesitated. “Have you told her—?”

“No, not yet. I’ve so many things to think about, to consider. I should make a list. But I will tell her.”

“I could do it for you, if you like.”

“No, thank you, Quirke. I’ll do it myself, soon.” He paused. “It’s all so — so new.”

They were approaching the conservatory. They could see Rose inside, an indistinct figure behind the shadowy reflections on the glass. They stopped.

“What’s it like, Mal?” Quirke said. “I mean — knowing.”

Mal smiled gently. “Quirke, you’re the only person I can think of who’d have the nerve to ask such a question.”

“I’m sorry, I—”

“Don’t apologize. It’s what everyone wants to know.” He looked up at the sky yet again, thinking. “It’s strange,” he said. “I haven’t got used to it yet. I feel a kind of — a kind of lightness, as if everything has just fallen away. There’s only me, now, facing myself. Does that make sense? I feel almost relieved. It’s all suddenly simple.”

“You have religion. That must help.”

“No, no. That’s one of the things that have fallen away. Oh, I suppose I still believe, in some fashion. I’m sure something of me will go on, somehow, I’m sure I won’t be entirely annihilated. But all the old stories, God and Saint Peter and the pearly gates, all that stuff, that’s gone.”

They were silent, standing there on the grass. Quirke noticed how the air seemed to have dimmed, though the sun shone as brightly as ever; it was as if a speck of ink had been dropped into a bowl of clear water.

“This poor chap who died,” Mal said. “What did you say his name was? Corless?”

“Yes. Leon Corless. Sam Corless’s son.”

“The politician? Ah. And you think there was foul play involved?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“It sounds like a murky business,” Mal said. “I presume your friend Inspector Hackett is investigating? And you’ll be helping him, of course.” He smiled. “I must say, you didn’t take long to get back into the swim.”

“You know I’m grateful to you and Rose for putting me up for so long — and for putting up with me for so long, too.”

“Of course, I know that,” Mal said. He paused, seeming to cast about for words. “We’ve had our difficulties, over the years, you and I, Quirke. Some things I did wrong, some very bad things, and I regret them now, bitterly. I hope you understand that.”

Quirke looked away. Years ago Mal had tried to shield his father from the consequences of his wrongdoings, wrongdoings that Quirke had been instrumental in exposing, or that he had attempted to expose. It was all still there in Quirke, the outrage, the frustrated anger, the unexpressed recriminations, but what did any of that matter, now? Mal and he had grown up as brothers, with the jumble of emotions that brotherhood entailed. From here on they would have to find a new accommodation with each other; they wouldn’t have much time in which to do it.

As they went through the French doors, into the conservatory, Mal stepped to one side and put a hand on Quirke’s shoulder to let him go ahead, and for a moment Quirke saw himself stumble, not actually, but inwardly.

“Well, boys?” Rose said with forced gaiety, rising from the table, glass in hand. “Have you been having a heart-to-heart?”

“Let’s go and eat our lunch,” Mal said. “I’m hungry, all of a sudden.”

* * *

They ate in the small dining room at the back of the house, overlooking the garden. The wallpaper was gold flock with dark blue stripes, and the domed ceiling was painted with a scene of gods and garlanded maidens and frolicking cherubs that always set Quirke’s head spinning when he made the mistake of looking up at it. Maisie served them vichyssoise and, after that, smoked salmon garnished with slices of cucumber, and potato salad on the side. There was a bottle of dry Riesling in a bucket of ice. Mal, Quirke noticed, wasn’t drinking. He spoke of his sweet peas and his flowering shrubs, and Rose teased him in a bright, brittle tone, determinedly smiling, and avoiding Quirke’s eyes.

After a lull in the conversation, if it could be called a conversation, Mal said to Rose, “Did you know Quirke is off on another of his investigations?”

“Oh, yes?” Rose said, turning to Quirke with that steely smile. She had drunk three glasses of wine in quick succession and there was a giddy glitter in her eye. “Is that why you left us so suddenly — the call of the chase?”

“A young man was killed in a car crash, in the Phoenix Park,” Mal said. “The Guards suspect foul play.”

“How awful,” Rose exclaimed. She turned to Quirke again. “Why, you must be so excited. Though I always find it peculiar, that phrase: ‘foul play.’ Sounds like something you’d have to give a kid a whipping for.”

Quirke knew enough to be wary of Rose when she was like this, drinking too fast and putting on her southern drawl.

“Phoebe is involved too, in a sort of way,” Mal said.

Rose was still concentrating on Quirke. “Is that so?” she said. “That girl sure is your daughter, Quirke. What has she done to get herself mixed up in the murder of a young man — I take it murder is what we’re speaking of here?”

Quirke told her about Lisa Smith, and how Phoebe had taken her to the house in Ballytubber. Rose widened her eyes exaggeratedly. “Well, I declare!” she said. “I do think she might have checked with us before she started offering a stranger the hospitality of our vacation home.”

“Maybe you’ve forgotten, my dear,” Mal said quietly, “I’ve left the Ballytubber place to Phoebe, so it’s almost hers.”

“Oh, wonderful,” Rose said sourly. “Now we’re going to discuss wills, are we?”

Mal reached out and laid a hand on hers. She twitched, and seemed about to snatch her hand away, but didn’t.