The Magdalen Martyrs (3 page)

This.

Most suicides will communicate their intentions, verbally or nonverbally.

I reached for a cigarette, realised I wasn’t smoking any more. Continued.

In America, they have QPR intervention: questioning, persuading, referring. I was reading about it in the paper.

How it worked was you listened, then talked the PS, the potential suicide, into getting professional help, fast. The hot phase of a suicide crisis was three weeks. Potential suicides make predictions, like “I’ll be dead before Christmas” or “I’ll never see the summer.”

I then waded through a mess of medical terminology, until I came to

Gatekeepers are the first people to realise the potential suicide is serious. They are the first “finder”. It’s their duty, responsibility, to direct the potential suicide towards help.

I stopped reading. So at last I could call myself something. A “PS”, ending up like an afterthought to a letter.

Gatekeepers! The pity was I hadn’t anyone to fill the role.

Sweeney’s is a hard pub. Anyone who strays in there is quickly shown the door.

Welcome is not part of the deal. Bill Cassell had held court there for as long as I remember. When I walked in, the place went quiet. Then, as it registered who I was, conversations resumed. I was at least familiar. Bill was at his usual table, looking even worse than before. The eyes, though, they were as bright and unyielding as ever. He said,

“I ordered coffee.”

“Coffee’s good.”

I took the seat opposite him. The barman brought the coffee. No one spoke. When he’d gone, Bill said,

“You don’t look so good, Jack.”

“Clean living is killing me.”

“You owe me double, Jack.”

“Right.”

“Well, I’m going to let you clean the sheet with one job.”

“OK.”

He sat back, fixed his eyes on me, asked,

“What do you know about the Magdalen laundry?”

“The Maggies?”

Anger lit his eyes, and he snapped,

“Don’t call them that.”

The Magdalen girls were called thus. In the fifties, unwed mothers were placed there by their families or the Church. Conditions were appalling and the girls subjected to horrendous abuse. Only recently had the full story been revealed.

He asked,

“Do you remember my mother?”

“No . . .”

“She was there. Had a terrible time. They shaved her head, wrapped her in wet sheets. But she escaped, met my father, and they had me. I learnt most of this from my father, after her death. There was a woman there, named Rita Monroe. It was she who helped my mother escape.”

He stopped. The story seemed to have drained him. I waited till he regained some energy, asked,

“What is it you want me to do?”

“Find Rita Monroe.”

“Can’t you do that yourself?”

“I’ve tried.”

“But after all this time, she’s probably dead.”

“So be it. If she is alive, I’d like to thank her in person.”

“Jeez, Bill, it’s a reach. Was she a nun?”

“No, one of the lay staff they sometimes employed. You have a knack of finding resolutions; somehow or other, you get the job done.”

“I’ll give it a try.”

“Give it better than that, Jack. You may or may not know I have some new help, apart from my usual boy. That’s the big one who wears a white tracksuit. He’s the one you see, but my new boy, now him you don’t want to see, not ever. He’s from Dublin, and I use him to . . . let’s say . . . terminate a debt. Trust me, but you don’t ever want to see him. You’ll smell him first, because the crazy fuck, he’s always chewing Juicy Fruit,
the gum? He comes up behind you, and you think you’ve been ambushed by an air freshener. I tell you . . . Nev, he’s a tonic.”

I didn’t reply; my eyes strayed to the bar, the spirit bottles calling me. He said,

“And stay sober.”

I figured we were done, got up to leave, when he said,

“No doubt you’ll have heard the stories about me.”

The stories were legion. Usually involving ferocious retribution. I nodded and he said,

“The fast food place, they got that wrong.”

One of the most repeated. The owner owed Bill money and wasn’t paying up. The yarn went that Bill had pushed the guy’s face into the fat fryer. He said,

“I didn’t put his face in the fat.”

“I never believed it anyway.”

He looked straight at me, said,

“It was his balls.”

After leaving Bill, I felt a lightening of my spirit. Not a whole lot but enough for me to answer someone who shouted hello. It was the first break in the darkness for so long. I didn’t expect to find Rita Monroe, but at least I could make the effort.

Back at the hotel, I began. Asked Mrs Bailey,

“Did you ever hear of a Monroe?”

“From Galway?”

“I don’t know . . . a Rita Monroe.”

She gave it serious thought, then,

“No, it’s an unusual name so I’d remember. Ask Janet. She knows everyone.”

Janet didn’t know either. Next, to the phone directory, found ten Monroes listed. Rang them all. No Rita in any of them or
even relatives. Went to the parish records and drew another blank. Course, she could be married. What I needed was someone familiar with the Magdalen. Walked down to Forster Street to where it had been located.

Demolished now, luxury apartments on the site. I wondered if the new occupiers were aware of what had been here. An elderly man was coming down the hill, measuring his steps with extreme care. He caught my eye, said,

“Howyah.”

I figured it was an outside shot, said,

“Howyah yourself. You’re a Galwegian, I’d say.”

“Born and bred.”

This, with a mixture of pride. I asked,

“Do you remember the Magdalen?”

He gave me an irritated look, as if I’d questioned his faculties. Near shouted,

“And why wouldn’t I?”

“No, I didn’t mean any offence. It’s just you don’t hear much about it.”

He spat on the road, said,

“Best forgotten. It was like a concentration camp. They were worse than the Nazis.”

“Who?”

“Anyone involved in the running of it. May they roast in hell.”

He brushed past me, his piece spoken. I went to Nestor’s. The sentry was in place, with the habitual half pint. Jeff was stocking up, said,

“Jack, you look better.”

“I feel it.”

“What’ll I get you, coffee?”

“Sure. Could I have a word with Cathy?”

“Yeah.”

He shouted for her, then turned back to me, asked,

“You working on something?”

“Maybe.”

“You have that gleam in your eye. Not that you’d listen, but is it a good idea? The last couple of cases nearly killed you.”

“This is different.”

“I hope so, I really do.”

Cathy came down and, first off, a huge hug. She said,

“You shaved the beard.”

“What can I tell you? A change if not an improvement.”

She examined me, said,

“You could do with some nourishment.”

I listened to her voice with amazement. Cathy was a hard edged London punk when I met her. She had tracks on her arms and a mouth as foul as the weather. Then she’d met Jeff and gone native. Traces of London still lingered in her expressions, but they were becoming scarce. I missed the old version. She said,

“Your eyes and skin are clear.”

“So?”

“So you’ve kicked.”

“I’m trying.”

“There is help, AA, NA.”

I shook my head and she said,

“It’s nearly impossible to do it alone.”

“Can we move on to something else? I need your help.”

In the past, Cathy had proved very resourceful. She had a knack of not only tracking down information but doing it quickly. She asked,

“What do you need?”

“Ever hear of the Magdalen?”

“No.”

“OK, I’m trying to trace a woman named Rita Monroe.”

“No problem, I’ll get right on it.”

She didn’t ask anything further, so I said,

“I’ll pay you, of course.”

“That would be a first.”

Brendan Flood was an exgarda who’d discovered religion. My
first encounter, he’d half killed me, broken my fingers and left me for dead. By a strange set of circumstances, we’d become unlikely allies. He’d helped me solve a case. The last time I’d en-listed his help, I ignored his contribution and an innocent man was killed. I hadn’t seen him since.

Rang him and, reluctantly, he agreed to meet. As usual, he chose Supermacs. There he’d look longingly at large containers of curried chips. I’d offer to buy, he’d decline, as penance. I got there first, got a double cheeseburger and a milkshake. Was picking at these when he arrived. He was wearing a donkey jacket, leather patches on the sleeves. It was open to reveal a heavy silver cross on an even heavier chain. I said,

“Thanks for meeting me.”

“It was God’s will.”

I pushed the food aside and he said,

“It is sinful to waste that.”

“You want it?”

“I’m abstaining.”

“Naturally.”

He sat, folded his hands like a supplicant or an ejit, said,

“I believe you’ve turned over a new leaf.”

“You what?”

“That you’ve abandoned your various vices.”

“More like them abandoning me.”

He gave a small smile, piety leaking from the corners, said,

“Our prayers were answered.”

“What?”

“Our Tuesday night group; we prayed for you by name.”

“Thanks.”

He leaned over, put a hand on my arm, said,

“Now you’ve begun on the path, you should come and bear witness. People speak in tongues.”

“Yeah, any of them civil?”

He withdrew his hand as if burned, said,

“Be careful of mockery, Jack Taylor.”

I was getting a headache, asked,

“Could you check on somebody for me?”

He shook his head, said,

“Dire consequences tend to accompany you.”

“Look, this is a different deal. There was a woman, Rita Monroe, who was a decent human being.”

He thought it over, asked,

“You wish to locate this woman?”

“That’s it.”

“I shall meditate and ask the Lord for direction.”

“If you spent your whole life on a motorway, he thought,
you wouldn’t remember a thing.”

Rupert Thomson,
Soft

Buoyed by my activities, I got a takeaway curry, settled in front
of the TV, Watched for a few hours without registering a whole lot. Then
Buffy
came on. Despite myself, I started to pay attention. Count Dracula had a guest appearance. Buffy asked him why he’d come. He hissed,

“For the sun?”

Was smiling despite myself.
Angel
followed next. He’s a vampire good guy. This episode, he was forced to sing in a demon karaoke bar, despite protesting,

“Three things I don’t do: tan, date and sing in public.”

He mangled Barry Manilow’s “Mandy”. But the MC, who was green and scaly with red eyes, was impressed, said,

“There’s not a destroyer of worlds can argue with Manilow.”

The phone went. I answered, heard,

“Mr Taylor?”

“Yeah?”

“This is Terry Boyle.”

“Like that’s supposed to mean something?”

“I spoke to your friend Jeff in Nestor’s, about a job.”

“Oh yeah, the guy with the suit.”

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“You are . . . an episode of
Angel!’

“Are you serious?”

“You bet. I just watched
Buffy!’

“Oh.”

“So, what do you want?”

“I need your help.”

“I’m already on something.”

“Could I at least make a pitch?”

“Why not?”

“Perhaps I could buy you lunch. Would the Brasserie at one tomorrow be suitable?”

“OK.”