Himself(69)

Annie stands up and walks over to the sideboard and smiles down at the ornaments arranged there, a row of dancing ladies in crinoline dresses. Along with the potted palm, they are the only decoration in an otherwise drab room, for the walls are without pictures and the colours are uniform and cheerless.

Annie pushes one of the dancing ladies back into line. ‘The girl was a changeling, the old woman said. The moment she appeared, accidents and illness befell the family, animals died and visitors sickened as soon as they crossed the threshold.’

She picks up the last dancing lady, frozen mid-waltz with her furled parasol aligned with her leading right foot. She tips her backwards, cradling her in the cup of her hand. ‘Soon the birds stopped flying over the cottage and the white roses bloomed red. Even the mice ran away.’

Annie puts the dancing lady back down. ‘And all the time the girl watched the woman with eyes that went right through her. So that the woman began to shut the child away in a windowless room where they kept the turf. The woman had her husband fit a strong lock on the door but the child just kept on staring at her; she could feel her eyes right through the door.’ Annie fixes him with a look of terrible triumph. ‘It was in this room that the child led her own father to commit a terrible sin.’

Mahony stays very still.

‘Now, the woman went often to church, morning and evening, and since she was unable to take the girl with her (for the child would fall into a fit within sight of it, screaming herself insensible) she would leave her behind, locked in the room.

‘One evening, finding herself suddenly unwell on the coast road, the woman turned back. As she entered the cottage she saw that the door was no longer locked. The woman went forward and pushed open the door.’

Mahony notices the dead old lady on the settee beside him put down her knitting and cover her ears.

‘As the light fell across the threshold the woman saw them together.’

Mahony doesn’t move. He’s underwater by a mile.

‘Her husband ran from the house and she never laid eyes on him again. That night she took a lamp and went to look. The child was peaceful and flushed with sleep. But the woman saw that the girl was monstrous. As full as a tick on an animal’s hide. Full and bloated with the soul of a once good man.’

‘And what did the people of the village make of the woman’s story?’ asks Mahony, keeping his voice even, his face composed. ‘After all, were they not the judge and the jury?’

Annie folds her hands primly on her lap. ‘Several of the men didn’t wait to hear more. They ran straight out to find the girl, but of course she was long gone. So they took the baby down into the village and waited. And of course that lured her out of the forest.’

‘Orla came down to claim her baby.’

‘She came down to fight.’ Annie sneers. ‘The villagers would have shipped the both of them off and heard no more of it. But somehow the priest got to hear about their plans. He demanded that the bastard was returned to her and they were let alone to live in their hovel.’

‘And then the priest died?’

‘And then the priest died.’

Mahony sits forward with his elbows on his knees. ‘A coincidence?’

Annie smiles. ‘Coincidences happen. Of course, the new priest gave hope to the people of the town. He was on their side.’

‘You mean he turned a blind eye?’

‘I mean that Orla was strongly encouraged to leave and never return, and finding herself without a friend in the world, she left.’

‘Now that’s where you’re lying, Annie. Didn’t I tell you I’ve a great ear for the truth?’

‘That’s all you’ll get from me.’

Mahony shakes his head. ‘But you still haven’t given me the name of my mother’s killer. She was killed, wasn’t she, Annie?’

Annie says nothing; she gets up off her chair and walks to the door and opens it. ‘Get out.’

Mahony stands. ‘You won’t give me a name? Then I’ll give you one, shall I? Mary Waldron.’

The dead old lady looks up from her knitting. Annie stares at him.

‘I’ll give you another?’ Mahony says. ‘Cathal Doyle.’

Annie grabs hold of the doorframe.

‘Maggie Hoban.’

Annie cries out; she can’t help herself.

Mahony walks towards her. ‘Kathleen Irwin, Michael Joyce.’

‘Please.’

‘Bridget Lawless.’ He grabs her by the wrist. ‘Look at me.’ He pulls her close to him. She can feel his spit on her cheek. She closes her eyes.

His voice is flat, oddly metallic. ‘Maura Cusack, Theresa Walsh.’

Annie slumps down with her hands over her head.

Mahony clenches his fist.

Then he sees them: a shield of dead pensioners, their arms linked, their faces patient and apologetic. They shake their heads in dismay. They stand between him and the woman until he stops shouting, until he unclenches his fist, until he sees with the surprise of a sleepwalker waking the woman sobbing on the floor, until he leaves.





Chapter 38


March 1950


They told Orla to be quiet, that her baby was safe. They told her that they would find a good home for him. That he would go to live with a good Catholic family who would raise him to be decent. Orla spat and howled and tried to get out of the bed until Dr McNulty came.