Himself(28)

Mrs Moran narrows her eyes. ‘I only say it how I saw it, Mrs Cauley.’

‘And isn’t that the best way, Mary?’

Mrs Moran takes a sly gander at Mahony. ‘But if you’d prefer I dressed it up a bit? Tidied the corners?’

‘Not at all, Mrs Moran. We are grateful for your honesty,’ says Mrs Cauley with a rigid smile.

Mrs Moran, vindicated, allows her jowls to settle. ‘Well, Orla kicked herself down off the crates and walked up to me in that brazen way she had about her and she said, “Jesus, will you get down off your cross and let Mrs Moran get up there?” And I said, “You should be ashamed of yourself talking about the good Lord in that manner.” And she gave me such a smirk and turned on her heel and was off throlloping down the road. At the end of the road she turned and roared out like a fishwife, “I’ll be seeing you, Tadhg. Don’t you forget to meet me later.”’

Mrs Cauley glances at Mahony. ‘And that was the last you ever saw of her?’

‘It was. But I’m not sorry about that. Nor did I ever think on her again.’

‘Did you never wonder what happened to her?’

‘Mrs Cauley, if you had a bad tooth you wouldn’t send it a postcard when it was pulled out of your head, would you? I was just relieved she’d cleared off. What became of her, God himself only knows.’

‘You’ve been very helpful, Mary. If you remember anything else will you let us know?’

Mrs Moran nods and gets up from the chair. At the door she turns and smiles treacherously at Mahony. ‘It’s a terrible shame that one was your mammy, for you seem like a decent individual.’

Mahony accepts a hip flask and Mrs Cauley accepts a lit cigarette.

‘Tadhg, though?’ says Mahony.

‘Why not Tadhg?’

‘I wouldn’t have said he’s the murdering type.’

‘That’s what everyone says about the murdering type.’ Mrs Cauley inhales. ‘Of course it’s not bloody Tadhg; he’d have told the whole of Ireland he’d murdered her by now. But let’s put him down on the list. Jesus, just for the sake of having a name.’

Mahony nods.

Mrs Cauley looks closely at him. ‘How’re you holding up?’

‘Let’s just get through it.’

‘That’s the spirit. Any dead ones coming through yet?’

‘Haven’t we enough with the living?’

Mrs Cauley watches as Mahony runs his fingers through his dark hair.

‘I’m sorry you have to hear all this, kiddo. Will we stop for today?’

‘We won’t. We’ll keep going, aren’t we a fierce team?’ He catches her look and smiles; there’s a world of pain in his eyes. ‘I’m grand. Tell Shauna to bring the next one of these horrors in.’

Mrs Cauley feels something she hasn’t felt in a long time. She curses the smoke for bringing tears to her eyes.





Chapter 9


April 1976


Shauna sweeps the empty village hall and Mahony stacks the chairs and collects the plates and glasses. Mrs Cauley shifts the cards laid out on the table in front of her as if she is divining an indifferent fortune. She is annoyed that a fair few prominent citizens of Mulderrig have evaded interrogation. And she is annoyed at having missed Mary Lavelle’s performance, for a cracked mind often gives a true picture.

Miss Mulhearne missed it too. She is just emanating from the broom cupboard as Mahony comes down the corridor looking for a mop. She flits back inside and toys with the idea of keeping the mice company as they gnaw the wasted beams in the roof space above. Mahony walks into the cupboard, shuts the door and props the mop under the door handle. He turns over a bucket and sits down for a smoke. Miss Mulhearne decides to stay.

At first Mahony feels her as a cool, soft presence behind him. As his eyes adjust to the dark, Mahony can make out her mild-eyed face by the light of the small window high above him. She stands very still, with her hands clasped together low, and she makes him feel calmer than he has felt all day.

Mahony smiles at her. ‘Do you come here often?’

She nods.

‘Do you like the people, the plays?’

‘I like poetry,’ she whispers.

‘I don’t know about poetry but I’ve got a couple of dirty limericks you’re welcome to.’

Miss Mulhearne sighs, almost audibly. ‘I can’t remember any poetry really. I just know it was beautiful. I think I remember that Yeats wrote beautiful poetry, but all the words have gone.’

‘Are you always here?’

‘I teach here. But all the children have gone too.’

‘Everything goes. That’s how this whole thing works.’

Mahony draws bitterly on a cigarette. Miss Mulhearne moves imperceptibly nearer, as if to comfort him. A companionable silence fills the broom cupboard.

‘The mice are still here,’ she eventually says, very softly.

Mahony smiles in the dim light. ‘I’ll come back with some poetry then.’

Tadhg offers to run them back up to Rathmore House. He’s bursting to tell the Widow about his role as Michael James, a publican playing a publican! There’s goodness in that alone and she must approve of him helping to raise money for the church there.