The Convictions of John Delahunt (34 page)

I let my gaze drift to the side, as if trying to recall. ‘Helen wasn’t feeling well that day.’

‘So I heard.’ He fished a sheet of paper from his coat pocket, folded it on itself three times, and wedged it beneath the nearest leg. When he shook the table again it didn’t budge. ‘I’d say your baby felt even worse.’

I had wondered that myself: if it could feel anything.

‘Where’s your wife now?’

I didn’t answer, just sat in the seat opposite, shifting the chair to the side so I could cross my legs.

Lyster said, ‘Do you want me to bring her back?’

‘No.’

He smiled, although his eyes didn’t change shape.

‘Why did you need me that day anyway?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘Maybe I just wanted the company. But when you didn’t show up, it made Tom think that you’re unreliable.’

‘I’m still trying to bring information to Fownes Street.’

‘Like the names in your college club. A waste of everyone’s time.’

Lyster picked up an empty wine bottle to read the label, wrinkled his nose and put it aside. Then he puffed out his cheeks, and began a long continuous tutting with the rhythm of a horse-trot. Finally he said, ‘Delahunt, I know it can be difficult. I was much like you once.’

That wasn’t a comforting thought.

‘You start off and everything you report seems to pay off, then things begin to dry up. But you have to keep working at it.’

He rubbed his unshaven chin with an open palm, which caused a rasping sound. Then he scrunched his eyes and yawned, baring the blackened tops of his lower teeth. He apologized, and said he hadn’t had much sleep the night before.

‘Because of something in the Castle?’

‘No. My youngest is teething.’

‘Oh.’

‘You showed with Cooney that you know what to do when the opportunity arises. Tom may have given you a hard time because of it, but I was impressed.’ He looked at the mantel clock. ‘I don’t live far from here, just at the top of Capel Street. We should meet for a drink now and then, and discuss work.’

‘I’ve been thinking of finishing with the Castle, Lyster.’ I looked at him frankly, as if I treated him as a confidant. ‘Once I get my degree, I’m going to seek more stable employment.’

He drummed his fingers; the nail on his middle finger was long and clicked against the wood. Then he bent down, took the paper from under the table leg and replaced it in his pocket. ‘Suit yourself.’ He buttoned the top of his coat, and pushed both hands behind his neck to flick his hair over the collar. ‘But did you ever wonder, Delahunt, how someone who has had such a dire effect on so many lives is still able to walk the streets unharmed?’ He thought for a moment, as if he was troubled by my naivety. ‘I’ll just say that you don’t want Sibthorpe to decide you’re no longer useful.’ He extended his hand across the table, and I shook it. When I tried to let go he maintained his grip. ‘That’s the last thing you want.’

It rained for a week after Lyster’s visit. During long spells of wet weather, water dripped from the ceiling through the hole in the central rosette and a crack in the plaster above the fireplace. A deep pan collected the water in the middle of the room; a glass tumbler did the job beside the hearth. At first the drops were slow and sounded several seconds apart. They fell at different rhythms, which over the course of a few minutes would converge with and then diverge from each other. Every time they got close I listened out, but the drops never hit their vessels at exactly the same moment. When the tumbler filled, I’d pick it up, examine the cloudy water in the light of the window, then drink it down. It had a metallic taste, like the nib of a pencil.

The heavy skies made the room cold and dark even in the early afternoon. Our kitchen dresser was an old piece of furniture that belonged to the landlady, Mrs Travers. It had three drawers, but only one was being used to hold the cutlery. I broke the other two apart and used the kindling to build a fire. I also pulled off some of the cabinet doors, leaned them in the crook of the wall, and stamped on them till they fractured into rough planks. Mr Lynch called up that he was trying to sleep, but I ignored him.

Once the fire was lit, I rummaged through the cutlery drawer. There were several types of knife. One was a carver with a wooden haft and six-inch blade. The butter knife had a rounded point, with handle and blade made from a single piece of pewter. The metal had no gleam, which I thought lacked elegance. A few dinner knives remained from a set that had come from my home in Fitzwilliam Street. They had serrated blades of Sheffield steel and mother-of-pearl handles. I remembered the hardboard box in which the set was kept in our old dining room. A sheet of felt paper lay beneath the lid, and a dozen knives and forks sat snugly in their own grooves in a crimson baize mount. We only used them on special occasions: dinner parties and religious holidays. Over the years, pieces were lost or broken, so now only a few remained.

I hefted one knife in my hand. It was a good size, fitting easily into my coat pocket. I tested its edge against the corner of the table. It sawed through the wood cleanly, leaving nice deep nicks. The blade also tapered to a sharp point, which I pressed against my fingertip. The slightest pressure would break the skin. I closed the drawer, and sat at the table with the knife placed horizontally in front of me. The scratches in the wood looked like a letter carved on an ogham stone.

As the day wore on, I remained bundled up in a wool blanket sitting directly on the deep windowsill, back propped against the jamb and legs gathered up. From there I could watch the passers-by hurrying through the rain, skipping puddles and holding their hats against strong gusts. It was pleasant to be so close to the window, dry and relatively warm, while drops lashed against the panes. When the street was empty, I’d breathe on the glass and draw pictures in the condensation. My fingertips made thick lines, but I could use my unclipped nails for finer details. One of my first attempts was to trace Helen’s face in profile. But the features I drew were rather manly, so I changed tack and added a beard. It turned out quite well. Over the course of half an hour, his unfamiliar countenance evaporated.

The drips from the ceiling grew more rapid, creating an unnerving tempo when combined with ticks from the mantel clock. I got up, snapped a length of wood over my knee and put the pieces on the fire.

Despite the weather, I left the house for short walks each afternoon. On some days I brought the knife with me, and on others I left it at home. Rainwater swirled through gutters in rivulets, and turned the road surface into a mire. Nobody lingered on the footpaths. Men and women walked quickly with their faces bowed, hidden by slanted umbrellas, or with coats draped over their heads like wedding veils.

One day I passed the North Dublin Workhouse on Constitution Hill, a large austere building with a grey façade, small windows and a high perimeter wall. The central buildings enclosed stone-breaking and exercise yards. I wondered how it worked in practice. Did one just walk up to the porter and request a bed for the night, or month, or year? Surely there’d be some sort of appraisal of condition before admission – of health, strength and mental faculties. If so, I’d be sure to impress the assessor.

I imagined the interior passages: whitewashed walls tinged by damp and soot; each airless room crowded with bunks, filled with unknown men perspiring, exhaling, shedding scabbed skin into their blankets. The sounds in the dead of night: heavy breathing, demented muttering, scratching, coughing, rats shuffling on the flagstones. Then during the day, lined up with fellow inmates in our striped blue shirts and cloth caps, breaking stones, crushing bones or picking oakum.

I’m sure one soon got used to it.

The weather finally broke on a Wednesday morning. Clouds thinned and sunlight appeared, making the wet pavements glisten. Water continued to gurgle through drainpipes and gutters, though the roads began to dry in the weak December sunshine.

I picked up the pan from the middle of the floor, almost full to the brim, and brought it to the mirror. With my horsehair brush and the last sliver of soap, I lathered my chin, and shaved away a week’s worth of growth with diligence. In the mid-morning glare my complexion appeared pale, with shadows beneath my cheekbones like smears of ash. A crack in the looking glass divided my face, so one eyebrow appeared higher than the other, as if I regarded myself with an arch expression.

Helen and her governess usually walked in Merrion Park between the hours of two and three. My old key to the gate in the western railing still worked, so I let myself in and scouted around the serpentine paths. It didn’t take long to spot them. The two women emerged from a copse of ash and turned on to a path that led to the garden’s central bandstand. I followed after them, keeping my distance at first. Mrs Bruce held a furled umbrella, though the threat of rain had passed. The governess did most of the talking, some meandering anecdote involving her sister. Helen only made the occasional comment, but her voice was soft and clear, and had regained some of its former brightness.

Compacted earth and dead leaves made the ground soft. The white wooden bandstand loomed ahead, where another pair of women stood beneath its slated, conical roof.

Before they could get much closer, I adopted a mild tone and said, ‘Helen.’

She glanced over her shoulder and stopped walking. Mrs Bruce may not have heard me, for she continued a few steps. When she turned, her face set in a scowl and she said, ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I just wish to speak with my wife for a few minutes in private. You can remain nearby if you wish.’

‘You won’t say anything to her. We’re going home.’ Mrs Bruce tried to move while keeping a grip of Helen’s arm, but she wouldn’t budge.

‘Come this instant or I’ll fetch Arthur,’ she said, as if Helen was still her young pupil.

I said, ‘Go ahead. I only require a few minutes.’

The old woman narrowed her eyes. ‘I will not leave her alone.’

A cold, gentle wind pushed Helen’s skirt against her leg. Then she spoke for the first time. ‘I’m sure John doesn’t mean to carry me away.’

It was pleasant to hear my name so spoken. Mrs Bruce said, ‘But, Helen …’

‘Perhaps it would be best if you did bring Arthur.’ She placed a hand on her governess’s arm. ‘We can settle all this here and now.’

The old woman wasn’t convinced. Helen looked over her shoulder and pointed towards a bench, saying, ‘We’ll remain there until you return.’

Mrs Bruce glanced between the two of us, considered for a few more seconds, then started back towards the gate, giving me a wide berth. I tipped my hat as she passed.

Helen and I were left facing each other. She brought her fingertips together, but then changed her mind and let her arms hang. One side of her bonnet fluttered quietly against her cheek.

‘You look …’ I was going to say ‘much improved’, but that didn’t seem complimentary. ‘You look very well.’

She searched my face. Perhaps the same couldn’t be said of me. Helen walked towards the bench and sat down, arranged her dress over her knees, then stared at the path.

I went to sit beside her, leaving a hand’s width between us, and paused to see if she’d shift further away.

‘Your health has improved?’

‘Yes, thank you.’

‘I’m glad.’ A scent of rosewater hung around her. The smell coming from my unwashed coat must have been somewhat less appealing.

‘Have you reconciled with your parents?’

‘They’ll be in Edinburgh until the spring. But Arthur has written to them.’

‘I see. Did they write back?’

Helen rubbed her hands together. She appeared to have regained all movement in her fingers, and the whites of her fingernails were perfectly clean. She took a balled pair of gloves from a coat pocket and put them on. For a moment I thought it was a precursor to getting up, but she remained with her hands in her lap.

‘Why did you come, John?’

‘To see you.’

‘Arthur has been anxious to hear your response.’

‘You know what he’s offered me?’

She nodded.

‘Was it your idea?’

This time she made no reply. On the lawn before us a red squirrel searched for food among the dead leaves at the base of a willow tree. The bole twisted above its roots like a wrung cloth.

I said, ‘The less time I spend in Arthur’s company the better, especially after our last meeting.’

Helen thought it was sad, since he and I had once been good friends.

I shrugged. ‘You said yourself he never liked me.’

‘I said no such thing.’

‘You did.’ I let the moment linger so I could hold her gaze at close quarters. Her eyes were dark and full of mistrust. ‘Though you may not remember.’

She frowned and looked away, perhaps ashamed to be reminded of her former condition, and the change it had wrought in her behaviour. The two women in the bandstand descended the steps and walked past us. Helen waited for them to pass beyond earshot.

‘Yes, it was my idea. Arthur suggested the annulment, but he worried you would dispute it. So I told him to make the offer.’ She picked a twig from between the slats and dropped it on the ground. ‘But not as some bribe or pay-off. I wanted to be sure you could start your life again. What we did, John, our marriage … it was a mistake.’

This meeting wasn’t going as I’d intended. I shifted in my seat, resting an elbow on the back of the bench. When I spoke, my voice was low. ‘Helen, I came here because I want you to come back with me to Grenville Street.’

Her head was already shaking.

‘Listen, I want the two of us to start again. And perhaps even—’

‘No.’

Embarrassed then by the thick sentiment of my tone, I bowed my head. A shirt-cuff had disappeared beneath my sleeve. I pulled it out, up to the heel of my hand. Helen’s cream skirt was stark against the green of the bench. Hundreds of tiny fleurs-de-lis had been sewn into the fabric, visible only when their soft thread caught the watery sunshine.

When I lifted my head, Helen regarded me with the corners of her mouth downturned. I didn’t want her to say any more, so I spoke before she could.