Minogue squeezed his thumb harder on the key and stared at the hall door. Maybe that’s what Iseult had been doing those times he’d found her standing out on the bloody road staring at the house, sizing it up. No place like home. No place. Is that what the Holy Family came out of?
Before him was the step up, the mat underfoot, the key sliding into the lock. The Burren print on the wall then, the hello from Kathleen. Home. He’d been hearing that there was no place like home all bloody day, it seemed — Kilmartin knew something. The thought froze him there. No, he thought; it was pub talk, spoofing. Close ranks though — the Old Guard. He swore and pushed the hall door.
He closed the door and headed for the kitchen with the folder under his arm. The light over the counter was on. Kathleen had left a copy of the newspaper there. He could make out the photo of The Holy Family from across the room. He wondered if Kathleen had tried to get in touch with Iseult.
The cupboard door creaked. He reached in before it opened enough, felt the neck of the bottle, drew it out. He ran the tap slowly, took down a glass, and filled it. He downed three-quarters of the water, then he sized up the remainder and poured in as much Bushmills. The edge of the countertop bit into his hip but he didn’t shift. He took another mouthful and eyed Mairead O’Reilly’s folder again.
It looked odd with the yellow stickies skew-ways sticking out of it. He lifted a chair out from under the table and sat. What was the name of that outfit in Africa… in Kenya? Tall, very tall — He just couldn’t pin it. Tall, very tall — no, not the Bushmen. They measured wealth in cows too. A cow people. No wonder the Carra Fields had turned to bog. He opened to the sticky he’d scrawled “legends” on.
“What’s messy?”
Sleepy-voiced, Kathleen pushed open the door. He’d said it aloud?
“Masai, I meant to say. Did I wake you?”
“I thought you heard me,” she said. “What Masai?”
“I was thinking.”
She nodded at the bottle. He gave her the eye.
“Thinking, I said, love. I’m only in the door.”
“Give us a sup, will you?” she murmured.
He stared at her. She stared back at him.
“What are you looking at?”
“Well, I’m not sure,” he said. “You want a sup of this?”
“Why not?”
“This is whiskey, Kathleen.”
“Well my oh my. All these years and I didn’t know that.”
“But I’m going to hell and damnation with it, amn’t I?”
“I never said that.”
“Well why is the bottle hidden under the sink all these years?”
“It’s not hidden if you know where it’s kept, is it. Pour it, can’t you?”
She sipped at it, grimaced. He studied her expression.
“When’s the last time you took a drop of whiskey?”
“I phoned, you know. Eilis told me.”
“Told you what?”
She held the glass out, turned it, and watched as it swilled.
“We had a grand long chat. I didn’t know she was so clued-in, like.”
“Eilis is away with the fairies sometimes now, Kathleen.”
“No wonder she’s a match for you. Tell me again it’s the job that does it.”
“It’s the job that does it.”
He looked from the glass to the bottle to Kathleen’s face.
“Did you have a chat about Iseult? The thing in the paper?”
“I saw you outside, you know,” Kathleen said. “I heard the car. You standing there staring at the place. That’s what Iseult used to do. Una Costigan saw her late some nights, or Gearoid did. A half an hour, she said. Staring at the house.”
Minogue slid the glass back to the folder.
“What’s the folder? Work, is it?”
“To do with it, yes. What did Eilis have to say?”
“Nothing. The way girls talk, women talk. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Is this going to be a men-are-toxic thing?”
“You expected me to hit the roof, I’ll bet you. The Holy Family thing.”
Minogue stopped pouring.
“You’re right. Did you?”
“No.”
“Will you? In the near future?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know what came over me. I think it was talking to Eilis. She said to go with it. That Iseult needed me, needed us. And always would. She said that Iseult’s stuff was part of a conversation with us. That she couldn’t do what she had to do without us.”
Minogue let more into the glass. Kathleen stared at his hand on the bottle.
“I don’t get it,” Kathleen murmured. “Do you?”
“No.”
“I already had the article, you know. From the paper. I got it this afternoon when you were jet-setting it out in Mayo or wherever.”
“God, if only you knew.”
Kathleen rubbed at her upper lip.
“But Iseult makes some things sound really terrible, Matt. Going to mass, for God’s sake. Fifteen-year-olds trying to make themselves miscarry. Hemorrhaging to death. The body and blood — I had to tell her stop. It wasn’t the hint of blasphemy either. Then there’s your job, with killers. People’ll begin to wonder.”
Minogue took a measured gulp of Bushmills.
“People don’t really wonder much, so far as I can see, Kathleen.”
“I think it’s the pregnancy. But I’m not going to admit that.”
“She’s always been heading in this direction. She’s coming into her own.”
Her eyes darted from the bottle to his face.
“Are you getting slagged over her at work?”
“No,” he said. “Not that I noticed in anyhow.”
“Oh right, Jim’s off in the States. I nearly forgot. Good timing.”
“How’d you mean?”
She shivered
“Larry Smith and his crowd,” she said. “Don’t be talking to me about them. I saw the news. That family… God, they give me the creeps. Do you know what one of them said? ‘This isn’t over yet, not by a long shot.’ Isn’t that a threat?”
“They’ll hide behind something, I don’t know.”
“They shot up that squad car out on Griffith Avenue last month, didn’t they?”
“Prove it,” he said. “Anyway. We’re going to have Internal Inquiries look over how we’ve handled Smith.”
“But what if they’re serious, Matt? That they really will follow up on it, with the squad? You’re in the hot seat now.”
Minogue looked around the kitchen. He lingered on the shadows, the dull reflection of the light on the kettle, the dark corners. Would she know that Tynan wanted them to carry pistols now? She was staring at the calendar.
“People’ll think she had a terrible childhood or something,” she murmured “You know how the jokes go around.”
“Ah, it doesn’t matter, love. I’ll laugh it off.”
Her frown returned.
“You think you can?”
He looked over at the window.
“It’s either that,” he said, “or I’ll knock them down in the street. She’s my daughter, isn’t she? Ours. She’s telling the truth. As she sees it. And that’s that.”
Kathleen sat back and folded her arms.
“So: how is our daughter then, after your chat?”
“Thrilled,” Kathleen murmured. “Says she knew we’d understand.”
Minogue sighed and shook his head. Kathleen let out a sigh.
“She says she won’t preach about us still eating meat though.”
“Good of her. Tell her I’d compromise on the black pudding. But the rashers stay. Did she give you the lecture on carnivores and violence…”
Kathleen searched his face. He kept staring at the sink.
“Are you all right, Matt?”
Meat and milk had made those Masai tall, strong.
“I am,” he managed. “Yes.”
“You must be tired after the gallivanting.”
“I was just — Anyway. There were a few odd things lying around at the back of my mind. I think I just fell over them.”
Dowsing, that’s what Mairead O’Reilly’s father had done to find the buried walls. And it worked, didn’t it? In the right hands, it was said. Maybe his own job wasn’t far different. He put down the anniversary Shaeffer and rubbed at his eyes. A quarter after two, for the love of God. Fire with fire: he poured more Bushmills.