Himself(85)

Jack smiles. ‘The town has taken to him.’

‘Unlike his mother.’

Jack doesn’t answer.

‘What happened to Orla Sweeney?’

Jack smiles at her. ‘It’s too late in the day to ask me that, Merle. I’m off home to my slippers and RTé. I’ve not the time to talk crime tales.’

‘I’ll only ask you again,’ smiles Mrs Cauley.

‘The persistent detective.’ His voice is low, mildly sardonic. ‘Don’t you need a body for a murder inquiry?’

‘We will find her.’

Jack looks amused. ‘Who will? Bridget Doosey with a shovel?’

‘We know she was murdered, Jack. Evidence or no evidence.’

‘I credited you with better sense.’ He sounds genuinely disappointed. ‘There was no murder. The girl left town and dumped her brat at the orphanage. This crime story you’ve invented is not going to change that.’

Mrs Cauley narrows her eyes.

Jack stands up. ‘Forgive me; it’s been a long day. Goodnight, Merle.’

By the door Jack stops and shakes Mahony’s hand and kisses Shauna on the cheek. He’s telling him he’s done a grand job, no doubt. Mahony’s face is blank, unreadable. As Jack turns to go he looks back at Mrs Cauley and smiles.

In the kitchen Mahony and Shauna are dancing to a slow song on the radio. Mrs Cauley can see them through the serving hatch. Shauna has her head against his neck and her hand furled against his chest. Mahony rests his cheek against her hair. God help them, thinks Mrs Cauley.

Alone in a pool of electric light Mrs Cauley raises her glass and toasts the stage. But the stage is empty; there are only a few fallen sequins that will take Michael Hopper a month to sweep up.

Johnnie isn’t there.

She closes her eyes.

Johnnie smiles and kisses her face again and again and again.





Chapter 48


May 1976


Father Quinn wipes his forehead with the curtain. He can’t for the life of him find his handkerchief. He sits back down at his desk and tries the phone again but hears nothing down the line.

He feels very wrong. He blames the library. He hasn’t liked this room since the frogs took it over. They are very active tonight, arranging themselves in patterns on the hearthrug like synchronised swimmers, leering up at him, kicking out their webbed feet, turning and merging.

Father Quinn wipes his forehead with the receiver. Wait a minute! If he holds it up to his ear he can hear a voice through it.

Perhaps it’s God’s.

Or The God Of The Frogs.

The frogs nod and grin up at him, melting together into colourful clumps: a horrific kaleidoscope of soft underbellies and reticulated limbs, green and orange, gold and brown.

There’s another sound inside the receiver: it is hooves, galloping. Father Quinn picks up the phone, wraps it in his jacket for safekeeping and edges along the wall to try to find a door.

Bridget Doosey looks at the sugar lump on the saucer; she’s tempted to have a go of it herself. She’ll have to ask Shauna how many she put in the priest’s whiskey. Judging by his reaction there’s a rake of fun to be had on the old LSD, what with the babbling and the muttering, the licking of the wallpaper and the swinging from the curtains. But now it’s time for Father Quinn’s trip to take a more unsettling turn, with a little help from last year’s nativity play and the priest’s equinophobia. She’s had a good clop on the coconuts, but now it’s time for the priest to meet his new friend face to face. She picks up the donkey’s head. It’s a work of art, complete with grey fur, foot-high ears and bulbous eyes. The jaw can be animated by way of a string to show off the set of long white teeth to full effect. Bridget stifles a laugh and opens the guestroom door.

Father Quinn sees the creature even with his eyes closed. He hears it even with his ears closed, haw-hawing at him. It has chased him through walls and over bedposts, around tables and through letterboxes, with its eyes swirling and burning. He holds his head in his hands and his fingers go straight through into the mush of his brain. He cries like a baby and cradles his telephone against him. From time to time he kisses it and dribbles into the mouthpiece.

In the kitchen of the parochial house, in the first grey light of morning, Bridget Doosey takes off her mask and pours herself a pi?a colada. She wipes her eyes and drinks. This is the best fun she’s had in a very long time.

She takes off her tail and puts on an apron. Later she’ll fix Father Quinn a coffee, carefully stirring in two more special lumps, then she’ll phone the Bishop and tell him that Father Quinn is acting strangely. In the meantime she’ll tie the priest to his bed frame. Just so that he doesn’t damage himself by jumping out of the window or doing anything stupid.

Then she’ll go over and visit Teasie to see if she can’t get Mary Lavelle freshened up a bit.





Chapter 49


May 1976


A flannel would be wasted on Mary Lavelle. That much is obvious to Bridget Doosey.

Bridget sends Teasie out of the room for a clean pillowcase then she gets up on a stepladder to cover Mary’s face. For she is certain that Mary wouldn’t have wanted her daughter to see such an expression. Blue tongued and pop-eyed, like a mouse Bridget once found strangled in a hairnet. Luckily Teasie only caught the back view of her mother swinging gently from the light fitting.