Himself(18)

A good pint has magical powers. It can solve the simplest of problems, heal surface wounds and cement minor friendships, all in one evening. As Mahony steps out into the soft Mulderrig night he feels as if he’s finally found a place in the world, his own corner. His friends share the same face and he’s unsure of their exact names, but they rate him and that’s enough. He’s been inspected in the smoky light of Kerrigan’s Bar and, despite the Dublin accent, despite the leathers, despite the orphan scowl, they’d judged him to be a grand fella entirely.

And he’d disarmed them with his stories and the cast of Dublin characters he drew for them. From the boys who can hot-wire a car as fast as a fart, to the women with the broken voices selling black-market fireworks out of prams. Now they know all about the rooftops and the alleyways. They know about the good bars and the quiet doorways, and the grand houses and the wide parks. They have even seen the light on the Liffey as she turns like dishwater through the town.

As he falls out the door of Kerrigan’s Bar and into the gentle Mulderrig night, Mahony could almost forget what he came here for.

He walks through the sleeping town, sparking a fag with a tune in his mind. His boot heels spin echoes across the empty streets and he begins to sing low in his fine singing voice. The lyrics are pure, about love and sacrifice and good intent, but the tone in his voice makes the words dirty and hard. Curtains twitch and young girls in soft sprigged nighties with brush-gleaming hair look out dreamily. The dead drift down through floorboards and up through flagstones and through windows and walls and locked doors, listening, yearning.

Mahony walks alone in the blue-white moonlight, to the end of the village and up the steep road towards Rathmore House. The land exhales the heat of the day and the warm-bellied cows dot the fields in huddled shapes.

On a night like this it would be easy to forget, with all of Mulderrig soft and easy in its sleep.

He could forget, first of all, to ask what lit up her eyes, or if she ever laughed, if she liked apples or f*cking pears.

He could forget his own name.

Francis Sweeney.

After all, it’s a dead name: a name never taken, a life never lived.

This town took it from him. He won’t forget that.

The night is clear from mountain to sea as Mahony climbs the dark ribbon of road. Ahead of him the starlit forest slumbers. Behind him the moonlight skims and breaks over the mild-skinned water of the bay, which is as still as milk tonight. For the wind is lying low, curled into the strong back of the deep-sleeping velvet mountain.

A man could almost forget what he came for, when the lovely Mulderrig night is for him alone.





Chapter 6


April 1976


There’s a light on in the library and Mahony decides not to ignore Mrs Cauley’s summons to join her for a nightcap. He finds her propped up in bed, wearing a poker visor and playing solitaire. She has listened all evening for his footfall in the hall, although she’d never admit to it.

Mahony turfs a pile of papers out of an armchair and pulls off his boots.

‘Here.’ Mrs Cauley fishes a bottle out from under her pillow. ‘Pour us a drop of the hard stuff.’

Mahony pours her a tooth mug and takes a china cup for himself.

There’s a nice silence just while they drink. The reading lamp beside the bed casts a mellow tent of light over the two of them. The dead and the mice draw in to watch, lulled and quiet. The damp settles in the corners of the room and stretches itself out along the wallpaper.

Mrs Cauley peers over at him. ‘So how’s tricks?’ She collects up the cards, as quick as a croupier.

‘Not bad. I had a good time at the pub with the boys.’

‘The boys, is it?’ She shuffles and squares the pack. ‘Watch yourself. There’s not a trustworthy soul in this town. Every one of them has at least two faces.’

Mahony puts his feet up on the bed and looks over at her. The visor shades her eyes but he’s certain she’s taking everything in. ‘They seem sound enough.’

‘Will they still drink with you when they know who you are? Do they know who you are, Mahony?’

Mahony gets up and pours himself another. He ignores the empty mug in her outstretched hand.

Mrs Cauley fixes him with her best poker face. ‘So you didn’t ask your new pals at Kerrigan’s Bar what happened to your mammy?’

Mahony swirls the bad whiskey. It dances up the sides of the cup. ‘I didn’t.’

Mrs Cauley nods. ‘That’s a shame. They’d have spun you a story about Orla leaving town.’

‘It would be no story.’

‘So you believe she left town now?’

‘If she were dead I’d know about it.’

‘You’re right of course. She’d be over there by the fireplace, knitting.’

Mahony knocks back his whiskey in one hit, before it can take the skin off the roof of his mouth. ‘She could still be alive.’

‘Because you can’t see her?’

He shrugs.

‘The dead are like cats, Mahony. You of all people should know that. They don’t always come when they’re called.’

Mahony shakes his head. ‘They could be holding her somewhere.’

Mrs Cauley raises herself up on her pillows. ‘For twenty-six years, Mahony?’