The Private Wound (16 page)

Coming from Flurry, who had never before shown any tendency to character-analysis, these home truths were unpalatable. His next remark was even more disconcerting.

“Tell me now, when did you and Harry first take a fancy to each other?”

I stared at Flurry. This was beyond everything. With the intuitive tact I could never get used to in him, he showed me the way out of my embarrassment.

“I've a need to talk about her, Dominic, and there's nobody else I can talk to. She's dead, and we both were fond of her, so why shouldn't we talk about her? You'd be doing me a favour.”

So the most bizarre part of that evening began. A cuckold and an adulterer exchanging reminiscences of the woman they had loved. I suppose the censorious would see it as morbidity in Flurry—a kind of mental voyeurism, but it never struck me like that. We had both consumed a lot by now, though Flurry said at one point that drink no longer had the power to make him drunk. I felt he wanted to possess himself of my share of Harriet. Between us, we recreated her, so that she almost seemed to be back in the room, reading one of her trashy magazines, a presence preternaturally vivid. I learnt much about the early days, when Flurry had just brought her over to Ireland. I told much about my feelings for her—even that I'd realised recently how incompatible we were.

Only later did it seem odd to me that her baby was never mentioned during these confidences. Surely Flurry must have had some suspicion that I might be its father? It was to worry me a great deal the next few days.

When at last I rose to go, Flurry took me by the arm.

“Why don't you come and stay here a while? Better than the two of us brooding in separate houses.”

“Thank you, Flurry. But I couldn't do that.”

“And why the hell couldn't you? I need you—you're a clever man—we could find the fella who did this, between the two of us.”

I still refused him. Which turned out a mistake …

The next morning, Brigid failed to turn up. I drove into Charlottestown, to meet a strange reception. My good-mornings in the street were pointedly ignored. A group of children spat at me. In two of the shops and the post office I was received in silence: the post-mistress did bring herself to sell me a few stamps, but the shop-keepers paid no attention to my orders. At the garage, Sean said he had run out of petrol. I remonstrated with him, for I had just seen him fill up another car: he only walked into his garage, sullenly keeping his eyes from mine. In the Colooney bar, the deferential Haggerty gave me a look, between fright and defiance. “You're not drinking in this bar, Mr. Eyre. From now on.”

“What the hell d'you mean? The law compels you—”

“Them's my orders. G'wan out with you now.”

It was a boycott. I began to feel panicky. I walked along to Leeson's store, where I had always purchased the bulk of my provisions. I gave my order. The assistant said he had instructions to give me no more credit.

“But this is ridiculous. I've always paid my bill at the end of each month.” I took out a few notes. “If you must have cash, here it is.”

A pause. “I'll speak to the manager.” No more.

“Well, speak to him.”

“He's not in. What will you be wanting, Mrs. Rooney?”

“Then I shall speak to Mr. Leeson.”

I went out in a rage. Two corner-boys spat at my feet.
“That's the fella's after murdering Mrs. Flurry,” said one. “Yerrah, go drown yourself, mister.” “Bloody Englishman,” screeched the other. They rushed into the road, scooped up horse-dung and started flinging it at me. The street seemed to fill with people, staring at me, shaking their fists.

I pushed through them and rang the Kevin Leesons' bell. Then, throwing the door open, I went in. Maire appeared, looking harassed. “I'll be with you in a minute. Sit down now and rest yourself.”

She was away five minutes. I had leisure to think of my predicament. If I left Charlottestown, the police would see it as the move of a guilty man, and pull me in: if I stayed, I should be starved out.

And who could have organised this boycott but Kevin Leeson himself?

Maire came in, brushing aside a strand of auburn hair with the back of her hand. The children were out on a picnic, she said, in her most social manner: they'd be sorry to have missed me. I cut through her small talk.

“I've been boycotted in this town, Maire.”

Her eyes started out at me. “Boycotted? What d'you mean?”

I told her the happenings of the last half-hour. She seemed genuinely startled. “But that's a terrible thing. Kevin must have a stop put to it. I'm afraid he's away to-night, but—”

“Kevin must have
started
it.”

“Dear God, sure he'd never do a thing like that!”

“He owns the Colooney: they refused me a drink. He owns the store: they refused to sell me provisions. No one's going to do that here without Kevin's say-so.”

“But—it's not possible. There must be some mistake. Dominic, why should he want you boycotted?”

I could have said “because I cut him out with Harriet Leeson, and he's in a rage of jealousy”; or “because he's up to some shady political manoeuvre and thinks I'm a British spy and wants me out of the place.” But, looking at Maire's distress, I couldn't bring myself to do it.

“The people here seem to think I killed Harriet. I hope Kevin didn't put it into their heads.”

A certain wariness came over her face. “Now why on earth should he do that?”

I shrugged.

And suddenly her control snapped. “That wicked, wicked woman,” she cried. “I know I shouldn't be saying it, but
we're well rid of her. Everyone was happy here till she came.” Maire rose abruptly from her chair, and rearranged some ornaments on the mantelshelf.

“‘Everyone'? What harm did she do you, for goodness' sake?”

“Agh, you all fell for her painted mouth and her saucy ways.” Maire flung round at me, angry tears in her eyes. “She was no better than a harlot, that one!”

“Flurry loved her,” I protested.

“She twisted him round her finger. Delilah and Samson. She was the ruin of him.”

I let that pass. “It's not just him you were worried about.”

Her eyes avoided mine. “I don't know what you mean.”

“You were jealous of her and Kevin. Weren't you, Maire?”

She looked at me indignantly. Then, to my extreme embarrassment, she was on the floor beside my chair, gripping my knees, bursting out in a tempest of sobbing. I stroked her hair gently. In the dull misery I had felt since Harriet's death, I turned to Maire just because she was a woman, a mother figure. She must have repressed this jealousy so long, for she was a proud woman, that it broke out now like an elemental fury. I could feel the heat of her body raised by the flooding tears.

At last she pushed herself up and sat down again, mopping her eyes. She gave a little nervous laugh. “I don't know what you must think of me, making such a fool of myself.”

“You've nothing to be ashamed of, Maire.”

“I never thought I had it in me to be such a jealous woman. And I never had reason to be—not till
she
came along.”

“But,” I said awkwardly, “do you
know
that Kevin—”

“She couldn't let men alone.” Maire's eyes, brilliantly green again after the tears, stared at me. “Why was Kevin away so often at night? He got angry if I asked him. I never dared ask him if sometimes he was with Harriet. I expect she was shameless with him—the way I could never be.” Maire blushed. “I can tell you things I wouldn't tell anyone else: because you're a stranger—well, not a close friend—a sophisticated man.”

“Oh, I'm not that.”

“I'm not—not a passionate person,” she went on, blushing again. “I suppose she gave Kevin something I couldn't.”

“Well, it's not the end of the world for you, is it?” I said gently.

“No,” she replied in a small voice. “At least I gave Kevin children. Now, I'm forgetting my manners. Won't you take a glass of whiskey?”

We raised our glasses to each other. Maire took one of my cigarettes and smoked it inexpertly as a young schoolgirl. It was to prevent her bringing up my own relationship with Harriet that I said,

“What were all those idiotic questions you told me Concannon has been asking you?”

“Oh, it all started with him inquiring about our movements the night Harry—the night she died. Kevin got angry about it.”

“Well, Concannon has to ask all of us about that. You were both at home, I imagine.”

Maire looked at me strangely. She seemed to be trying to make up her mind about something. She took a deep gulp of whiskey, then came out with “He's terrible secretive—my husband, I mean. He hates people to be inquisitive about his comings and goings. Half the time he doesn't even tell me where he's off to.”

“Yes?”

“He had a business appointment in Galway late that afternoon. He started back along the coast road, and about eight miles from here his car ran out of petrol. It's a lonely road—d'you know it?—and there was no petrol pumps open that time of night, so he walked home. He didn't get back here till near midnight. I was in a great taking.”

I reflected that the road, about a mile from Charlottestown, passed quite near the Lissawn demesne.

“Concannon was on to him—just where he'd left the car? how long had it taken him to walk? did he meet anyone on the way? Eejut questions. Kevin had Sean drive him next morning early with a tin of petrol to where the car was. He'd parked it on the grass beside the road. Sean's given evidence about that.”

“Why should Kevin get so angry then?”

“It was all the other questions upset him. Who was the fellow he met in Galway? Where? Why? He had the answers, of course. Another time Concannon came—it was only yesterday—he started pestering
me.
What state was Kevin in when he got back? Had he ever run out of petrol before? I said Kevin was tired and irritable when he got home, and went straight to bed. D'you know, we've had Concannon's men searching this house,” she exclaimed indignantly. “It made me wild. I was hard set explaining it to the children.”

Maire poured herself another whiskey absent-mindedly, then apologised and gave me one too. She was flushed. I perceived she was not used to drinking.

“You were worried by Kevin arriving so late?”

“
Worried?
Why, I even went out to—”

Maire clapped her hand to her mouth, in an absurd schoolgirlish gesture.

“Went out to look for him?” I prompted.

“Now I've given myself away, haven't I?” she replied,
too brightly. “It was all right. Katie sleeps in for the children.”

She took another gulp of the whiskey. “It's desperate strong. Oh, I forgot to put any water in it. I'll be leading myself into bad ways.”

“How far did you go, Maire?”

“How far? Oh, I see. I took my bicycle a mile or two along the road. I thought he'd be coming back that way, not the main road. I was in a great terror he'd had an accident.”

“What time was this?”

“Half ten? Eleven? I don't remember exactly. He'd said he'd be home by nine, you see. Then I thought, well he may have taken the main road after all, and he'll find me out, so I bicycled back in a lather. I got home only a little before him.”

“Did you tell Concannon this?”

“I did not. It's no business of his.”

“But you told Kevin?”

“I did so. It made him wild.”

“Why on earth should it?”

“He went on as if—as if I'd been spying on him that night.”

The word “spying” pointed up a falsity I had vaguely felt in Maire's narration. Sipping my whiskey, while she went out to greet the children who had just returned from their picnic, I sought to define it. Something about her manner had not rung true: it was almost as if she were repeating a story she had got by heart.

Then light broke. Kevin had returned a little before midnight, Maire only a little before him! Therefore, on her bicycle, she should have caught him up on the road. She had left the house at 10.30 to 11. She would reach the end of the track to Lissawn in about ten minutes (“I
bicycled a mile or two along the road”). What was she doing, then, for the best part of half an hour?

When Maire came back into the room, I said at once, “Perhaps you were.”

“Were what? I don't understand.”

“Spying on Kevin.”

The green eyes flashed at me. She looked almost beautiful, with the colour on her high cheek-bones. Her mouth was trembling. Before she had time to speak, I went on, “Jealousy doesn't shock me, Maire dear. How long did you spend in the Lissawn demesne that night?”

For a moment I thought she was going to hit me. “How
dare
you? You must be out of your mind! I never set foot—”

I interrupted, pointing out the discrepancy of the times. “You see, Maire, either you were bound to overtake Kevin on the road, or else you bicycled along the track beside the Lissawn gates and went home that way.”

She held out a bit longer, but I could not afford to relax: if she was in a trap, I was in a far worse one. “This is between us two, Maire. Please be honest with me.”

Then at last it came out, incoherently, piece by piece. For some weeks before, she had noticed in her husband a nerviness, and a reticence unusual even for him. “He said once he thought there were men following him.” The day he drove to Galway, Maire felt an uneasiness, a duplicity about him—and a kind of hangdog bravado, which always had aroused her suspicions about him and Harriet. She even felt something wrong about the naturalness of his references to the Galway trip and his affectionate leave-taking. “He seemed excited underneath, perhaps a little apprehensive.”