One Hundred Names (23 page)

The door opened and the mousy woman from the previous day entered.

‘It’s like Groundhog Day in here,’ Kitty remarked.

The woman looked around, the hope visible on her face, then sat down, disappointed.

‘The usual?’ the waitress asked her, and the woman merely nodded.

‘Why don’t you just go over to her?’ Kitty asked.

‘What?’ Archie snapped out of his trance and pushed his plate aside, embarrassed to be caught.

‘The woman,’ Kitty smiled. ‘You’re always looking at her.’

‘What are you talking about?’ His cheeks flushed. ‘
Always.
Sure, you’ve only been here twice.’

‘Whatever,’ she smiled, and let the dust settle before she moved on to more serious topics.

‘I came prepared today,’ she said, taking out her notepad and recorder.

The way he looked at the apparatus made her nervous he would back out, and she could have kicked herself for her error. Many people became uncomfortable around recording equipment. If the camera was the asshole magnet, her recorder often brought the shyness out of people. Nobody liked the sound of their own voice – well, most people didn’t – and the recorder brought out the self-conscious realisation that their words were being listened to, less like a conversation and more of an interview.

‘I don’t have to use this if you don’t want me to.’

He waved his hand dismissively as if he didn’t care.

‘So we were talking about your daughter’s death—’

‘Her murder,’ he interrupted her.

‘Yes. Her murder. And how the guards focused on you during the case and you felt that it distracted them from finding the real killer.’

He nodded.

‘I thought we could talk a bit more about that. How you must have felt, how frustrating it must have been to have vital information that wasn’t being listened to.’

He looked at her with that amused gleam in his eye again. ‘You think that would interest people?’

‘Of course, Archie. It’s everyone’s worst nightmare and you went through it. People would be fascinated to hear about the reality of living through it, and I think it would help people to change their opinion of you too. You know, workwise, instead of seeing an ex-prisoner, they’d understand who you really are. That you were a father protecting his daughter.’

He looked at her and his eyes softened, his jaw, his shoulders, everything. ‘Thank you.’

She waited.

‘But the thing is, that’s not the story.’

‘Pardon?’

‘My daughter’s murder – sure that’s part of it, I think it has a lot to do with what has happened and it was my story then – but it’s not my story now.’

Kitty looked down at all her notes. She’d stayed awake working until three thirty that morning in Sally’s responsible spare bedroom. ‘So, what’s the story?’

He looked down. ‘I never believed in God. Not even at school when my priestly teacher drummed the fear and the guilt into us. I believed that he believed it, all right, but I thought he was mad. Delusional. I thought if somebody had to force you that much to believe in something then it wasn’t worth believing, that it wasn’t natural, you know?’

Kitty nodded.

‘I prayed at night before I went to bed as routinely as brushing my teeth. I believed in God as much as I believed in germs. It was something adults just scared you about, just habit, something I had to do. I didn’t believe in God when I was six years old and we buried my mother, or at seven when I made my first Holy Communion, or at twelve when I made my confirmation. I didn’t believe in Him when I stood in His house and promised Him I’d forever be faithful to my wife-to-be, but,’ he looked at Kitty, his eyes glassy, ‘I thanked Him the day my daughter was born.’

He went silent.

‘Now, why did I do that? How can you thank someone you don’t even believe in? But I did. Without thinking. Like it was natural.’ He pondered that for a while. ‘But then the sleepless nights began and I forgot about Him again. Occasionally, when she fell ill, ran a high temperature or bumped her head as a toddler and we had to fly her in to Temple Street for stitches I remembered Him again. But as quickly as her tears would dry and that beautiful smile of hers would come back to her face and light up my whole world, I forgot about Him again.

‘It was only when she went missing for one whole week and we started a public campaign to find her that I remembered Him again. I started praying to Him. Every morning just at first, at home, the very second I woke up. I’d pray for that day to be the day she came home. Then it became more regular, most minutes of every day. Then I started going to church. Every day. Thoughts of Him came as frequently as thoughts of her. I invested so much time and energy making pacts and promises, trade-offs: if You bring her back, I’ll do this; if You help us find her alive, I’ll do that. If You even help us find her at all I’ll be the best bloody person You’ve ever known. I begged Him. A grown man, down on his hands and knees, begging. I believed in Him so strongly, more than I ever had in my whole life.

‘But when her body was found battered and bruised, I not only stopped believing in Him, but believed so strongly in His
non
-existence that I felt sorry, irritated even, at those who did. I couldn’t spend a minute in their company, not one single second, and believe me they all came out of the woodwork when Rebecca was found, to
help
us. Their belief, their naïvety, their openness to such ridiculous theories reduced me to blood-curdling anger. I felt their belief was a cop-out, a passing of the buck, a failure to be able to achieve anything completely by themselves, a lack of responsibility and a carelessness. Their idea that they had a saviour, that somebody else would guide them, was reckless to me. They were weak, why couldn’t they just accept that their lives were
their
responsibility? I wanted nothing to do with them. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

‘I do. That you don’t believe in God.’ She offered him a small smile.

‘No. I
didn’t
. I
didn’t
believe in God. Then I did, and He let me down and I spent seven years hating His guts, hating the very idea of Him. But it’s the same as thanking Him, isn’t it? How can you hate somebody if you don’t believe in them?’

Kitty had been so lost in his words she hadn’t noticed her breakfast being placed before her. She took a drink of water, trying to assess where they were, trying to guess where this was taking her.

Archie watched her.

‘You’re not going to believe me.’

‘I believe you,’ she said.

‘I promise you, you won’t believe me.’

‘Let me be the judge of that.’

He looked down at his tea, which must have been cold by then; Kitty could see the thin layer of hard water from the kettle on the surface. He didn’t speak for a long time.

‘Do your family know about the thing you don’t think I’ll believe?’ She tried to get them back on the subject again.

He shook his head. ‘No one knows.’

‘So I’ve the exclusive.’

‘Ah, there she is, the old hack is back.’

Kitty laughed. ‘Are you in contact with your family?’

‘No,’ he said softly. ‘Well, they’re in contact with me but … I’ve a brother in Mayo. Frank. He’s fifty years old and he’s getting married, can you believe that?’

‘There’s no age limit on love.’ Kitty tried not to sound sarcastic but failed.

‘You don’t believe in love?’

‘This week I don’t believe in very much at all.’

‘And you’re telling me you’ll believe in me?’

‘You’ve been very open so far. Plus, my future depends on you.’

He smiled. ‘What do you think about God?’

‘I don’t believe in God,’ she replied honestly.

He accepted that. ‘Do you know what I think about love? I think love can change us beyond recognition, we become love-sick, soft-eyed jelly-bellied fools.’

‘You were never that,’ Kitty teased.

‘I was too. When I met my wife. Gorgeous, she was. I was a right eejit at the time too. Love can soften people, I believe that. But in me, now, love riles up an anger, a red-hot rage that crawls on my skin, seeps into my blood and brings out the worst in me. That’s why everyone I love is better off loving me from afar. From Mayo. From Manchester. Wherever.’

Kitty pushed him to talk about it more.

‘My love for people takes on negative forms,’ he explained. ‘Shadowy, threatening, it’s far from the soppy crap you read in cards or the sweet nothings that people whisper in each other’s ears. Love makes most people soar. For me it pulls me down. I’m a demon ready to defend, to protect, to do anything for the people that I love.’

‘That’s understandable considering what you’ve been through.’

‘Is it?’ He looked at her, surprised.

‘Of course it is.’

‘For the past seven years, I’ve felt like a monster that doesn’t know how to love in the right way. And I know that, and yet …’ he disappeared into his mind. She could see him building his barriers again, the tension was returning, the tough guy was coming back.

Kitty had to talk before she lost the loose-tongued Archie completely. ‘Archie, tell me what it is.’

He studied the blackboard for a long time and then he turned round to check on the woman in the café again. He sighed, conflicted.

‘Tell me,’ Kitty said firmly.

‘Sometimes,’ he paused, ‘I hear people’s prayers.’

Kitty raised her eyebrows and waited for him to laugh, to tell her he was joking, but his expression didn’t change. She analysed it all in the seconds she had to win or lose this story. The woman stood up and left the café and Archie’s eyes followed her. Then he turned back to Kitty, probably waiting for her to do the same. She took a gamble.

‘And what do you hear her pray about?’

For the second time he seemed surprised that her first question hadn’t been anything more negative, that she’d got straight to the point.

‘“Please”,’ he said, settling back down. ‘She sits here for twenty minutes every morning and says “please” over and over again.’

Kitty massaged her temples as she sat on the bus to her next destination. A man who hears people’s prayers? What on earth was she supposed to think of that? She could drop it right now, move on from Archie and speak to somebody else on the list. Someone normal. With such a tight deadline and Pete breathing down her neck, it was probably what she should have done, but it wasn’t her list to play with, it was Constance’s. Kitty remembered her old self, who used to crave meeting people like Archie and stories like his. She thought about Constance’s teachings and realised this was exactly the kind of story Constance believed in covering. This was the kind of story that twenty-three-year-old Kitty, just out of college, would have brought to her job interview, and one that Constance would have been intrigued by. Anything unusual and non-traditional would be the first thing she would want to investigate. Her heart raced as she thought about the possibilities. Perhaps Archie had heard Mary-Rose’s, Birdie’s, Eva’s or Ambrose’s prayers, perhaps he had a link to everybody on the list. She desperately needed to find out more.

She stared at the words she had written on her notepad.

Name Number Sixty-seven: Archie Hamilton

Story Title: Man of Pray
–
from the hunted to the haunted, to the hallowed

With less than a week to Pete’s deadline, and no more leads, Kitty was conscious of a mounting panic. A phone call to Archie established that he was not familiar with any of the names on the list. He impatiently snapped ‘No’ after each name she called out and informed her time and time again he didn’t know the names of anybody whose prayers he heard, and she managed to reach reading out only as far as number eight before he hung up on her. Being realistic, if you could be when dealing with the issue of a man who believed he heard prayers, if it was possible he could have heard the prayers of each person on the list and simply not know it, then how could Constance possibly know? The answer was, she couldn’t. The link between them did not lie in him hearing their prayers.

Kitty needed to meet more people. She needed more clues. She sat on a step in Temple Bar Square and rang name number four on her list.

‘Mr Vysotski, my name is Kitty Logan, I write for
Etcetera
magazine and I’m contacting you regarding—’

‘You received the press release?’ a man with a foreign accent shouted excitedly down the phone.

‘Excuse me?’

‘The press release. We sent it on Friday. I am so happy you received it. You will come to our press conference?’ He was so eager, so excited, talking a mile a minute, that she had to smile.

‘Yes, Mr Vysotski, but—’

‘Call me Jedrek, please!’

‘Jedrek. Where is your press conference?’

‘It was on the sheet! Today at noon! Erin’s Isle GAA Club. Don’t miss it now, will you?’

‘I won’t. I won’t miss it.’

‘You promise? We’ll have cakes and tea. It will be nice, yes? Mrs Vysotski is the most excellent baker.’

‘I’ll be there, Jedrek.’ She hung up, excited about her new intriguing addition to her growing list of quirky characters.

Kitty had a dilemma on her hands. She had made an appointment to meet Eva Wu at a brunch in the Four Seasons where Eva was to meet George Webb’s family for the first time at a pre-wedding family meet and greet. Eva or Jedrek …? Eva or Jedrek …? She quickly made the call and let Eva Wu down for the second time. Then she took out the business card that Sally had given her. She dialled the number and waited.

‘Hello. I’m calling about the teaching position for Television Presentation. My friend Sally Collins told me to call you …’

Kitty arrived at Erin’s Isle GAA Club at twelve fifteen, fifteen minutes late for the press conference. She was anxious travelling through Finglas, Colin Maguire’s home turf, and kept her head down low on the bus while at the same time she was constantly on the lookout for him. She pushed open the door quietly, hoping to sneak in unnoticed, without disturbing the event. However, that didn’t go according to plan. As soon as she opened the door she was faced with a long hall with two men sitting behind a big head table, before which rows of chairs had been set up. In the front row sat one single person and a photographer who stood by a table of food with his camera around his neck, eating cake.