David Brady’s rugby achievements were recorded and several ex-players-including some of Shane Howard’s former international teammates-pitched in with their eulogies; a couple suggested that perhaps latterly, Brady was beginning to see his future outside full-time professional rugby, a tactful way of saying that he hadn’t lived up to his youthful promise-or that he had blown his talent up his nose.
I turned left on Appian Way and cut up through Ranelagh village and stopped at the corner of a leafy square on the way to Rathmines. David Manuel lived in a Victorian three-story redbrick house with stained-glass panes in the front door and a tangle of bicycles and rucksacks and trainers in the wide hall and a wife with salt-and-pepper curls and purple dungarees who directed me up the bookshelf-lined stairs to his attic-floor office, which was decorated in cream and oatmeal tones with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves too and had roof windows that would have let in all the morning light if there had been any.
David Manuel, waiting, in his fifties, wore a three-quarter-length cardigan in assorted shades of green and a pale green collarless linen shirt and matching trousers and olive green Birkenstocks; his silver hair was shoulder length, his tiny face was lined but soft and unmarked, like a nun’s; he steepled his fingertips and smiled thinly at me through silver-framed glasses. I mopped my brow with the back of my hand; the sweat stung the teeth-shaped wound Emily Howard had left there.
“Dr. Manuel, Ed Loy.”
“I’m not a doctor-”
“I know that,” I said. Sweat smarted in my eyes, and I wiped them with my sleeve. Manuel looked at me quizzically.
“Maybe you need a doctor. Are you ill?” he said. His voice was high-pitched, querulous and amused. “You look too fit to have a heart condition.”
First rule with therapists: don’t get caught in a lie you can’t conceal.
“I probably had too much to drink yesterday. Last night.”
“Don’t you remember which?”
“Both.”
“And the face wound, that was a fight?”
“Yes.”
“And all of this, the drinking, the fighting, it has to do with Emily Howard? Or is it just how private detectives behave, or how they think they’re meant to behave?”
“The drinking just has to do with me. The fighting, yes, that had to do with the case.”
“And this case: is it the same one the Guards are investigating, the murders of Jessica Howard and David Brady?”
“I think it’s connected to those murders, yes.”
“Are you a fully licensed private detective?”
“I was. In L.A. When the licensing system kicks in here, I’ll apply for one.”
“And Shane Howard hired you?”
“Initially. Now his sister Sandra has. I suppose I’m working for both of them.”
“But you’re more concerned with Emily Howard.”
“I’m concerned with all the Howards. They’re all connected, I just don’t understand how. I was hoping you could help me.”
Manuel looked at me, nodded and sat back. I took him through Emily’s disappearance, the porn, the relationships with David Brady and with her cousin Jonathan. When I had finished, he sat still for a while, then shook his head.
“I can’t tell you anything she hasn’t already told you.”
“But you can tell me what you think.”
David Manuel angled his head from side to side, as if weighing up his options.
“I think Emily, to use a not very technical term, has been acting out. And acting out is not inconsistent with anger at her parents. And that anger may have many causes.”
“Might one of the causes be sexual abuse?”
Manuel said nothing, so I went on.
“Her aunt told me Emily’s mother was abused as a child. She certainly seemed to have an extremely competitive attitude to her daughter when it came to sex. And the fact that Emily let herself be photographed and filmed having sex, well, I’ve dealt with girls who’ve gone into that world. You could say the porn industry is based on a whole bunch of angry, abused women ‘acting out.’ And we ignore their pain and pretend to believe them when they say they’re reclaiming the control that was stolen from them, that they’re ‘empowered’; they were already degraded as children, and we become complicit in their further degradation as disturbed, malformed adults; we’re like the keepers in an asylum, raping the patients over and over again and insisting they’re in charge.”
“You’re a moralist, Mr. Loy.”
“Aren’t you? Or can you not tell me about that either? Was Emily Howard sexually abused?”
“I don’t know, is the truth.”
“Do you know what she thought?”
“That, I certainly can’t tell you.”
“This is a serious business.”
“And I assure you, I’m taking it seriously. I intend to talk to Emily as soon as possible. Depending on what she feels free to share-”
“What about Jonathan?”
Manuel put a hand up to his mouth, then instantly removed it; an echo, conscious or unconscious, of Jonathan O’Connor’s inhibited mannerisms.
“I would say, that in many Irish families, going back through the years, the children who were abused and the children who weren’t, in many respects often resemble each other. They exhibit similar symptoms and vulnerabilities. And so it is very dangerous, even when a child-I’m talking about adult children, you understand, the child-parent relationship-it can be dangerous even when a tale of past abuse is raised, for the therapist automatically to assume that what is being recounted is the literal truth. Or alternatively, to believe someone’s ferocious denials that no abuse took place, particularly when you’ve heard from that person’s siblings that it most certainly did.”
“Why is that? Why would people believe they had been abused when they had not? Why would they deny it when it had occurred?”
David Manuel took off his glasses and polished them on a corner of his linen shirt.
“I believe it stems from…from a cultural legacy in this country, a legacy of deep-rooted worthlessness that was inculcated in the individual and handed down through the generations. Man handing on misery to man as Larkin put it. The English enforced the idea that being Irish was an inferior state. The Catholic Church instilled a sense of fear and shame, not just about sex, about everything, about our very existence: work and pray, work and pray. Poverty, of course, a history of poverty played its part in undermining any sense we might have of our worth, of our personal identity. And the crawthumpers and bogtrotters who replaced the Brits, the pious fools and gombeens and Irish-language fanatics who told us we couldn’t all expect to live in our own country, and then made sure half of us had to emigrate by their insularity and sheer bloody incompetence. All internalized by our parents and grandparents, always the same message: we’re worth nothing, and we deserve less. And now, of course, we have money, and the Church is no longer a force, and we’re still hiding behind the lies, we keep insisting nothing bad has happened, we live in determined, alcoholic furies of denial. ‘We’re grand now,’ we laugh, with our legendary sense of humor. But you can’t shake off all that…what is it the Catholic Church used to call its teaching, ‘formation.’ You can’t just get rid of it. It’s, ah, ‘part of what we are.’”
I wasn’t sure I followed everything Manuel said, but I nodded just the same.
“I wouldn’t have thought Larkin was the most inspiring laureate for a therapist,” I said.
“It depends what you think a therapist is,” Manuel said. “People think therapists are all about dredging up what your parents did to you and then blaming them for it and feeling better about yourself as a result.”
“Isn’t that what they are about? I see you’ve a row of Alice Miller books there on the shelf. Emily had a bunch of them in her bedroom. Isn’t that her M.O.? It’s all Mummy and Daddy’s fault? Every child a damaged child?”
“Well of course, in a way she’s right. But that doesn’t mean the parents are to blame.”