The Dramatist (10 page)

Then it struck Ridge, awareness travelling from her eyes to light up a wicked smile. She clapped her hands, exclaimed,

“I don’t believe it.”

I had no idea what she was on about, said,

“I’ve no idea what you’re on about.”

“Margaret, oh my God, you thought she was gay. That’s priceless.”

I felt my heart soar even as I kicked myself for presumption, went,

“She’s not gay?”

Ridge was shaking her head, said,

“God, I should have known, you are some kind of dinosaur.”

Margaret returned with the milk, looked at us, asked,

“Did I miss something?”

Ridge sat back, said,

“Not a lot.”

To move on, I produced the Black Magic and card. Margaret smiled and Ridge actually was surprised. She took the card, said,

“I guess you bought this in a hurry.”

And slid the card over. On the front was,

“Dad, on your birthday.”

I had no reply. I wasn’t going to relate the story about the non-national and the sugar. They’d have said I should have walked out. Ridge began to open the chocolates, said,

“Thanks for the thought.”

She offered the box. I declined but Margaret took two.

The urge to say “fuckit”, march to the bar and get hammered was powerful. Margaret poured coffee for me, and for a moment there was an awkward silence. Then Margaret asked Ridge,

“What time are your parents coming?”

I was surprised, had always thought of Ridge as being alone. Placing her in a family setting didn’t seem to gel. You asked yourself, “What is wrong with this picture?” There was something in Ridge, like myself, that set the seal of solitary around her. She answered,

“They should be here any minute. Can you wait?”

Margaret checked her watch, said,

“I’d love to but I’ve got an early shift.”

She stood up, leaned over and kissed Ridge on the cheek, asked me,

“Would you like a lift, Jack?”

“You’re going into town?”

“Yes.”

I looked at Ridge, who rooted in her bag, passed over the book, said,

“Take the lift.”

I didn’t look at the volume, just put it in my pocket. Margaret had a drink in front of her but hadn’t touched it and I asked,

“What about your drink?”

“I had one already. With all you guards around, I have to be careful.”

I let that go and said to Ridge,

“I’ll call you.”

“Do.”

It wasn’t a request; it was an order.

Margaret had a light blue Escort that looked new. She got behind the wheel and I sat beside her, fastening the seat belt. Took me a time as my cane kept getting entangled. She said,

“Let me help you.”

As she leaned over, I could smell her perfume. It certainly wasn’t any relation of the Woolworth’s special. I felt a stir of desire. God knows, I couldn’t recall the last time that happened. Then she smiled and put the car in gear. She drove well, capable and assured. I asked,

“Do you work?”

She gave a surprised laugh, said,

“Of course I work, what do you think? I’m a nurse.”

“Where?”

She shot a look, asked,

“Is this an interrogation?”

“Sorry, I was curious.”

She didn’t answer for a moment. We’d come along the top of the golf course, reaching Taylor’s Hill. She asked then,

“Do you have ten minutes?”

“Sure.”

“I like to park on the prom when it’s wild, like now. The sight of the bay, it’s wonderful. Would that be OK?”

When I nodded, she said,

“I’m a nurse at the Bon Secours, used to be called Galvia.”

I couldn’t resist, said,

“Nursing for the rich.”

She didn’t like it and had heard it before, countered,

“They don’t deserve treatment?”

Her tone riled me and I countered,

“Sure they do, they just don’t deserve special treatment.”

She was parking the car, with great skill. I imagined she’d do most things well. The sea was indeed spectacular, the waves crashing against the diving boards of Blackrock. It roused a sense of recklessness in my soul. I wanted to get back out on the edge of existence, to have the adrenalin roar in my blood. I could almost taste the madness in my mouth, realised Margaret was talking and said,

“Sorry, what?”

“Bríd says you’re attempting to change your life.”

“Bríd has a big mouth.”

That didn’t go down too good and she followed,

“She thinks you’ll fail, that you’ll drink again as you always do.”

I opened the door and with difficulty got out, said,

“Think I’ll walk.”

She was trying to apologise, but I slammed the door, the wind emphasising the aggressiveness of the gesture. As I turned into the fierce weather, I nearly lost my cane and wanted to sling it out into the bay. Before I could button my coat, I was completely soaked.

“He wondered if the problem of evil enhanced as time moved on and new evil was added to old or whether each new evil brought the world closer to the end of evil.”

Sean Burke,
Deadwater

When I got back to Bailey’s, I was wet from head to toe. Tore my
clothes off and climbed into the shower. Finally got some heat into my bones, put on a faded sweatshirt and got the book from my jacket. It was another book of plays by Synge,

The Playboy of the Western World and Other Plays
.

I took a deep breath, opened the cover, and there it was, in large black writing:

The Dramatist

I flipped through the pages, and one piece was highlighted in red marker. I decided to try and memorise that, instinct telling me it was a component in the puzzle.

It’s you three will not see age or death coming; you that were my company when the fires on the hilltops were put out and the stars were our friends only. I’ll turn my thoughts back from this night—that’s pitiful for want of pity—to the time it was your rods and cloaks made a little tent for me where there’d be a birch tree making shelter, and on a dry stone; though from this day my own fingers will be making a tent for me, spreading out my hairs and they knotted with the rain
.

Now I knew. Two girls had been killed, apparently accidentally. A book by Synge beneath each of them with the words “The Dramatist” written inside. So what did I do and who was going to believe me? Moved to the back page and, sure enough, typed on a label and pasted in there was “Deirdre, demented under the burden of her sorrow, falls lifeless across the open grave”. At least I could confirm the suspicions of Stewart the drug dealer. Tell him he was right: someone had killed his sister. I had absolutely nothing to go on. Even if I did, what the hell was I going to do, pursue the killer? The phone went and I picked up, heard,

“Jack?”

It was Jeff and his voice was heavy. He said,

“Pat Young is in hospital.”

“What happened to him?”

“He was attacked.”

“By who?”

He took a moment and I knew he was selecting his words carefully, then,

“The current terminology is, I believe, by person or persons unknown.”

The sarcasm dripped from the phone. I’d known Jeff in most moods, seen him grope through pain, despair, but never, never had he used this pitch and especially not with me. I tried to move away from that, asked,

“Is he badly hurt?”

“Depends on how you define badly.”

My anger flashed but I kept my tone level, asked,

“Is he conscious?”

“Luckily, no.”

Now I was unable to rein it in, said,

“Are we going to dance around much longer? What do I have to do, take three guesses?”

“Gee, Jack, you sound worked up. I didn’t think you cared that much what happened to Pat?”

I let that go, probably because it was true. If I let rip—and every fibre of my being urged me to—our friendship might not recover. My mouth had been the cause of numerous disasters, so for once I didn’t get into the ring. I waited, then asked,

“Is he going to make it?”

“I hope not.”

Took me blindside and I was unable to proceed. He said,

“If you were castrated, would you want to
make it?
”

The end words were spat, the venom in full flight. I said,

“Jesus.”

“I don’t think He had much to do with it.”

“Who did?”

Now his voice was winding down and a deep fatigue moving in. He said,

“I already told you; actually I told you twice.”

What had he told me? I’d no idea, asked,

“What did you tell me?”

He let out a long suppressed breath, said,

“You weren’t listening. Like Cathy says, you never do.”

Click.

I held the phone in my hand, the dial tone mocking me. I wanted to go down to Nestor’s, confront him and find out what the hell he was talking about. But I hadn’t the energy. Got into bed and felt as bad as I ever did. Expected to spend the night tossing and turning. Sleep came fast and deep. The dreams were vivid.

My mother, in an open grave, shouting, “
Jack, I can’t move. Help me
.” I had a shovel in my hand and began to pile in the clay. Jeff, holding a copy of Synge’s book, whispering “
Why don’t you listen?
” and then tossing the book. As is the way with dreams, logic wasn’t evident. The book landed beside the grave and I screamed, “
I can’t bury that. I don’t understand what’s happening
.” Then I was limping along the coast road, without my cane. Margaret and Ridge were further along, taunting, “
Hey, catch up
.”

I couldn’t.

When I woke in the morning, the bed seemed like a bomb had hit it. I was covered in sweat. I was experiencing what they term an emotional hangover. Nearly as bad as the real thing. Dragged myself to the bathroom, risked a look in the mirror.

Jesus.

How old was I getting? Could definitely see new lines on my face, deep imbedded ones. Took a long scalding shower and was clean if nothing else. Over coffee, I resolved to start tracking “The Dramatist”. Dressed to detect, in faded cords, sweatshirt and my guard’s coat. As I left the room, I wish I could say I was filled with zeal or a sense of purpose. No, I was tired. Mrs Bailey, peering intently at the
Irish Independent
, said,

“Guards, guards, guards.”

“What?”

“In Donegal, there’s a fierce scandal about bribery, intimidation, cover-ups, and in Dublin seventeen guards have been suspended after that public demonstration. In my day, a guard might turn a blind eye to poteen, but now they’ve lost the run of themselves.”

A whole lost era in that expression “to lose the run of yourself”. It’s a desperate crime in the Irish catalogue, to have ideas above your station, believing yourself above the common herd. It’s akin to having “notions”, and that is the bottom rung on the vanity ladder. My own battered history with the guards makes me an unlikely advocate on their behalf. I said,

“They’re all we’ve got.”

She actually blessed herself… “In the name of the Father…” Then added,

“God help us all.”

That ended the case for the defence. I left her to the paper and the state of the country, walked down to the Augustinian church and considered lighting some candles. The amount of people needing help would require more candles than I could light. I passed by. Next to the church is a French restaurant, then a steep flight of stone steps, followed by a store front. I moved to the right of the steps, tried to visualise how the student had fallen. No doubt that a fall from them could kill you. Across the street is a small outlet that sells silver jewellery. Seems to do a brisk trade. A woman came out, watched me, and I gave a noncommittal wave. That seemed to decide her and she crossed over.

She had a gypsy look, dark hair to her shoulders, dark eyes, sallow complexion. Wearing one of those long billowing skirts that suit nobody. They proclaim, “I’ve lousy legs.” I’d have put her age at forty, but lines around her eyes, the side of her mouth—maybe older. What she most definitely was, was attractive. A grace in her movements. She said,

“
Quel dommage
, what a pity.”

French?…or affected?

I asked,

“Did you know the girl?”

“Yes, she had a small apartment at the top of the steps.”

I looked again, went,

“People live up there?”

“She did. In the city now there are apartments in the most unlikely places.”

Her English was perfect but with a slight overlay of accent. Also a trace of an Irish tone that people acquire who learn English in Ireland. A softening of the vowels and the barest hint of a lilt. I decided to plead ignorance, see what she’d tell, said,

“I don’t really know what happened.”

She seemed happy to oblige, said,

“Karen, Karen Lowe, she’d have been living there about a year, often popped into the shop. The night it happened, she’d been out with some friends and left them around ten. At 10:45 p.m. someone saw her lying there, called the ambulance and the guards.”

I tried to frame the next question as delicately as possible, asked,

“Could she have been drinking?”

Vehement shake of the head.

“No, I know her…oh,
mon dieu…
knew her. She’d go to the pub but never more than a glass of shandy.”

Then she stared at me, said,

“You’re not the police?”

“No, no,…I’m a…from the insurance company.”

She near spat, said,

“
Merde!
They like to make the people pay the money but to pay back…never. You know how much my premium is for the shop?”

I didn’t want to carry the can for an insurance company but had to venture,

“A lot?”

Her head was nodding furiously, a trace of spittle at the corner of her mouth. I reassessed my original opinion as to her being attractive. I now had her pegged as demented. She said,

“You tell them cocksuckers…”

Pause.

She looked at me, asked,

“Is that the correct word?”

Who was I to argue? It was not the description I’d have expected from a French lady. I’d have thought something classier, insulting but elegant, as is their birthright. But my turn to nod, if less energetically, and she continued,