The Magdalen Martyrs (18 page)

Her favourite trick was to select a girl and ask her to sew a pile of curtains. She’d almost sweet-talk the creature, then from nowhere, she’d lash out with a fist and send the girl spinning, as she screamed,

“You whore of Babylon, where do you think you are? This isn’t a spa. You’re here to repent, and if I ever catch you smiling again, it’s the toilet for you.”

Among her catalogue of cruelty was the wrapping of wet sheets around the offender and leaving her to stand all night thus. She called it the “cleansing”.

I went to the AIB and joined the tiueue. Took the time to fill
out a withdrawal slip. Put down a hefty figure. Wouldn’t you know, the same cashier. I said brightly,

“Hi.”

She looked up and remembered. She didn’t sigh, ‘cause the banker’s manual forbids that. But she got as close as she could. I handed her the docket, said,

“I guess you won’t require proof of identity this time.”

She could delay me though. That is in the manual. She stood, said,

“I’ll need this authorised.”

“Grab a cig while you can.”

“I don’t smoke.”

“You amaze me.”

I read about home loans, equities and other riveting shit. Could see her in consultation with a suit. He looked my way four times. I know because I counted. When she returned, she asked,

“How would you like your cash?”

“In a brown envelope, keep things familiar.”

Gave me a white one, and I said,

“You’ve a touch of the bad drop.”

Went to Dunne’s, Oxfam, Age Concern and Penney’s. Bought

2 suits
3 jeans
6 shirts
4 Ts
3 shoes.

And blitzkrieged through what had been a fat lump of money. Hailed a cab, and the driver said,

“Yo. . .Jack.”

“How ya doing?”

“Not as good as you. What’s with all the parcels?”

“New start. Listen, could you leave all of this at Bailey’s Hotel?”

“You bought new gear for the staff?”

I pulled off a wedge, said,

“And a drink for yourself.”

No more questions.

Next to the Augustinian and lit a rake of candles for Brendan Flood. Is there a difference between one and eight being lit? Yeah . . . eases that nagging conscience. I didn’t know what prayer to offer, so I said,

“I miss you, Brendan.”

If not the most profound, it was certainly the most truthful.

Then to Charlie Byrne’s. Clothes might be essential but books were vital. And it’s my favourite place. Charlie on his way out, said,

“Jack, there’s a whole new load of crime fiction just arrived.”

“Brilliant.”

“I put your favourites aside.”

Now some people know bookies and believe it makes a difference. I don’t really think they’ll put a good horse aside for you, and yes, they surely do know about favourites.

Give me a bookseller every time. Inside, Vinny was reading
Meetings with Remarkable Men.

I asked,

“Is that for show or are you . . . like seriously into it?”

He gave a huge smile.

“It’s for serious show. Where have you been? We thought you’d given up books.”

I stretched out my hands, palms up, asked,

“How can you give up books?”

“That’s what we like to hear.”

“Vinny, I’ve lost my current library.”

“Lost?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Got you. So . . . you’ll want to start over, get the basics in.”

“Will I run through a list?”

“No, I’ll get you up and flying. Where are you based?”

If he was surprised, he didn’t show it. I said,

“Can you deliver in a few days?”

He was writing in a pad, said,

“I’ll even bring a pizza.”

I reached for my wallet, and he said,

“Let’s do that after.”

That evening, I was back in my partially restored room. It still looked rough, but the devastation had been curtailed. I asked Mrs Bailey,

“Who did the repairs?”

“Janet and I.”

“What?”

“Sure, you couldn’t get tradesmen for a week. I could move you to another room.”

“No . . . no . . . that’s great.”

My clothes had been delivered. I showered and tried on a new suit. In the cracked mirror, my reflection was jagged. The sections of the suit I could see seemed OK. My face appeared fragmented, and I definitely blamed the glass. Time to go and meet the ban garda. As I got downstairs, Mrs Bailey asked,

“Did you tell the guards?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think you would.”

In 1982, Pope John Paul II, addressing a group of garda pilgrims, said,

In the contemporary world the task of the police is certainly not an easy one. It requires a sense of vocation, of committed dedication to the safety and well being of your fellow citizens. It requires that you recognize and consider yourselves as an important and effective moral force for good at work in your society.

I could recite the above by heart and did so at the oddest times.

When Brennan’s Yard was opened, the general response was,

“You’re kidding.”

Who’d call a hotel after a yard? But it’s been doing good. Round the corner from Quay Street, it does a brisk trade. Sure, it has notions, but they’re not flash notions. The bar doesn’t require a suit, but it whispers the suggestion.

I went in, and an eager barman hailed,

“Good evening, sir.”

Like I said . . . notions.

I got a pint of Guinness and took a table at the rear. Didn’t recognize the ban garda when she appeared dressed in denim top, short black skirt and medium heels, a drink in her hand. I said,

“I wouldn’t know you in that gear.”

“Can I sit?”

“Unless you’re happier standing.”

She sat.

I looked at her drink, said,

“Let me guess, a spritzer?”

“No, white wine.”

I lit a cig and she said,

“Could you please not smoke?”

“Jeez, Ridge, what kind of tight ass are you?”

“The kind who doesn’t enjoy passive smoking.”

I leant back, had a hard look. She had nice features in a bland fashion. You wouldn’t pick her out of a crowd, but I felt she wanted it that way. I said,

“You asked to see me. I don’t remember you saying there’d be rules.”

She took a sip of the wine. Impossible to say if she derived any satisfaction. Her eyes had the fevered shine of the dedicated. Not a zealot but in the neighbourhood. Her voice was quiet as she said,

“Why do you like annoying people?”

“I don’t . . . not really. Let’s say I don’t like ‘annoying people’. And God knows, they’re thick on the ground. Prosperity’s made them worse.”

“You prefer the good old days.”

“Don’t be snide, Ridge, it twists your mouth.”

She watched as I finished the pint, said,

“Could you stay sober till we have our talk?”

“Depends how long winded you are.”

She leaned forward, said,

“I’m good at what I do.”

“So was I.”

She shook her head, went,

“I’m serious. I love being a guard. I don’t sneer at the force.”

Pause,

“Like you do.”

I stood, asked,

“You want a drink?”

“No.”

As I ordered, I tried to rein in my temper. No question, she got to me. I lit another cig, checked to see if she was watching.

No.

Staring out the window. Probably dreaming of one day being the chief. It crossed my mind to hammer the drink, then fuck off. Leave her to the high moral ground. Knew she wasn’t the type to let it be. Some other day she’d waylay me, and I’d have to hear whatever it was she wanted to say. A priest came bustling in, Fr Malachy, my mother’s friend. He spotted me, said,

“Propping up the bar as usual.”

“And you’re being an asshole as usual.”

He stepped back, my bitterness assaulting him, but he rallied, said,

“I thought here would be a cut above your station.”

“They let you in.”

“It’s the sodality dinner. We have a room booked.”

“Prayer pays, eh?”

“Your mother is poorly. You might sober up enough to visit.”

I grabbed my pint, began to move, said,

“For that visit, I’d need to be very drunk.”

When I sat down, Ridge said,

“Is that a priest?”

“No, that’s the dregs of the barrel. So, what’s on your mind?”

“The Magdalen.”

“And . . .”

“Galway is a European city now.”

“So?”

“So, there are people who’d prefer not to have old history on display again.”

“What’s this to do with me?”

“You were searching for a woman who worked there.”

“And you know this how?”

“My uncle . . . was a guard.”

“Jeez, a family of ye.”

“I can help you.”

“You’re a little late. I already found her.”

“You’re not listening.”

“To what? The case is closed; it’s a done deal.”

She took a deep breath, said,

“Two young men have been murdered in the city recently.”

“Yeah, I heard it on the news.”

“And that’s all you know?”

I was getting exasperated, near shouted,

“What the hell else is there to know?”

“Their names?”

“Why should I want to know that?”

She sat back, waited, then,

“Because they’re related to Rita Monroe . . . her nephews.”

I tried to get my head round this information, muttered,

“Are you sure?”

“What do you think?”

“Jesus.”

I went back through what I knew, or thought I knew, asked,

“Why would anyone want to kill her nephews?”

“To hurt her.”

Then I recalled the time I’d met Rita Monroe. She’d said,

“I’m not feeling well. There’s been a bereavement.”

Or words to that effect. And she’d been very shook up. I, of course, had completely ignored that. Too, her house had been ransacked, as had my room. Ridge said,

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Let me think.”

The name that came to mind, the common denominator, was Bill Cassell. But he wanted to thank her, to express his gratitude for the help she had given his mother. I asked,

“What do you know about Rita Monroe?”

Ridge opened her handbag, took out a notebook, flipped through some pages, said,

“The Magdalen girls called her Lucifer, the devil incarnate. No one rained down abuse and torment like she did.”

My head reeled. Bill Cassell had told me she was an angel, and I just outright accepted that. Never once had it struck me to check out his story. I was so anxious to be free of my debt, I’d have stood on my head. I asked,

“How did you find out about her?”

“My uncle suggested I do some checking.”

“Oh . . . the guard.”

“That’s right.”

“How come he’s so fucking smart?”

“Was.”

“What?”

“Was so . . . as you put it . . . f-in’ . . . smart. He’s dead.”

“I’m sorry. Were you close?”

“Were you?”

“Excuse me?”

“To my Uncle Brendan . . . Flood.”

“But your name . . . ”

“He was my mother’s brother.”

I didn’t know what to say, said,

“I don’t know what to say.”

She sipped some more wine, said,

“He thought you could have been a great guard. Even in your current occupation, you managed to impress him, despite . . .”

She didn’t finish so I asked,

“What?”

“Despite your weaknesses.”

“Yes, well, I’ve plenty.”

“That’s what he said.”

My glass was empty. I debated another trip to the bar. She said,

“He told me to contact you if ever he was ‘unavailable’. That you needed a contact, a connection to the guards. He called it your lifeline.”