“Oh.”
“Five years ago, she married again and became Mrs Boyle. Before and since the death of Boyle, she’s had a string of men. Her husband died of a heart attack; he was cremated quickly. Obviously, she has friends who expedite such matters. Normally there’d be a post mortem.”
I repeated,
“Expedite.”
“What?”
“It’s a word that appears to cling to her.”
“What clings to her is influence. She knows the right people.”
“You’ve got that right.”
She took a sip of the Coke, asked,
“Why are you interested in her?”
“I was asked to check her out.”
“You’re investigating her... no, no... you’re investigating the death of her husband.”
When I didn’t answer, she said,
“There’s nothing to prove she did anything.”
I asked,
“How did you discover so much?”
“My Uncle Brendan taught me well. His favourite line was, ‘It’s not what you know but knowing where the information lies.’”
I said,
“He sure would have been proud of you.”
A pained expression lit her face, then was replaced by the severe look. She said,
“I am so angry with him.”
I nodded, and she snapped,
“With you, too.”
“Me?”
“You were his friend, weren’t you?”
“Um... yes.”
“Why didn’t you watch out for him?”
“I wasn’t focused...”
She stood up, near spat,
“And when are you focused? When you’re ordering large whiskies, is that when you pay attention? You were a poor excuse for a friend.”
After she’d left, I remembered what Babs Simpson had once said,
“Alcoholics are almost always charming. They have to be, because they have to keep making new friends. They use up the old ones.”
She’d been the editor of Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar.
Her indictment had seared my soul. I don’t even think she meant it as such. If anything, she’d said it with a knowing resignation.
I don’t know how long I sat staring into my glass. All the grief I’d caused and endured had come storming upon my soul. At the very best of times, I was never “fond” of myself. For that moment, I was full of self-loathing. Then, I understood how Brendan could arrange a noose, step on a kitchen chair and swing. A middle-aged woman was cleaning and clearing the tables. I observed without caring a badge in her blouse. One of those frigging smile jobs. Written underneath was,
“Put on a happy face.”
I could have happily torn it off and made her eat it. She indicated Ridge’s Diet Coke, asked,
“Is that a dead soldier?”
“Oh yes.”
She paused, and I knew I was getting her scrutiny. I didn’t look up. She said,
“Cheer up, it might never happen.”
“It already has.”
Stymied her, but not for long. She was the type who’d find merit in politics. She said,
“You never know what’s around the corner.”
Now I looked up, pinned her with everything I’d been feeling, said,
“If it bears the slightest resemblance to my past, even the tiniest similarity, then I’m fucked.”
She took off quick.
Bill Cassell’s funeral rates as one of the most miserable I’ve ever attended. God knows, I’ve clocked up my quota. They’ve ranged from upbeat through pathetic to the plain sad. But for sheer misery, this was the pits.
A filthy day, the driving rain that soaks you entirely. No amount of wet gear is sufficient. You feel it dribble down your neck, wash along your legs, saturate your socks. It is relentless, a ferocious cold, and you understand the true meaning of “wretched”. Four people in all at the graveside. The priest, Fr Malachy, who had tried to light a cigarette. He failed. A gravedigger and a tiny frail woman. I was the fourth. Malachy rushed through some empty psalm. I helped the gravedigger lower the coffin. He was grunting with effort. I asked,
“Aren’t there usually two of you?”
“He wouldn’t come out in this weather.”
We made a bad job of it. The ropes cut into my hands, and I broke the nails on two fingers. When we were done, the woman stopped forward, let a single white rose flutter down. I moved to her, asked,
“Maggie?”
“Yes?”
“You’re Bill’s sister?”
She shrank back from me, as if I was about to assault her. Her whole demeanour was that of a whipped dog. Not only had she the body language of a victim, but also her eyes said she lived in expectation of further punishment. I tried to appear as unthreatening as I could. Not easy when you’re bundled in a guard’s coat, wet through and two feet from an open grave. She answered,
“Yes.”
As if pleading guilty.
I put out my hand, said,
“Jack Taylor.”
Her hand met mine slowly and she asked,
“Were you Bill’s friend?”
She had huge saucer eyes; guile or badness had never touched them. I didn’t want to out and out lie to such a person, so I said,
“We went to school together.”
“Bill didn’t like school.”
“Me neither.”
This seemed to ease her apprehension, and she said,
“You were so good to come and it being such a woeful day.”
I had no truthful reply. Malachy touched me on the shoulder, asked,
“A word?”
I said to Maggie,
“Excuse me a moment.”
And I turned to him, snapped,
“What?”
He backed up. Jesus, everybody was doing that. The vibes coming from me must have been deadly. He said,
“I’m surprised you’re here.”
“Like it’s any of your business.”
He made a vain attempt to wipe rain from his face. Even his dog collar was soaked. He said,
“Your mother had a stroke.”
“Yeah?”
“Good God, man, is that all you have to say?”
“Where is she?”
“She’s back home now. Will you go to see her?”
“I’ll think about it.”
“You have the heart of the devil.”
“Thanks.”
I turned back to Maggie. She was gazing at the grave with such a profound look of desolation. I’d have taken her arm but felt she’d have jumped. I said,
“Maggie, can I get you a taxi?”
“No, no, I have a car.”
She could see my amazement, said,
“Bill bought it. He bullied me into driving lessons. I wasn’t very good and I’d have given up, but you know Bill. He wasn’t a man you could go against.”
I nodded. Here was something I could certainly bear testament to. She said,
“I didn’t know what to do after.”
“After?”
“You know, people hire hotels and have something for the mourners, but...”
Her distress at the lack of people was palpable, so I said,
“Why don’t we go and have a drink, raise a toast to his memory?”
Her clutching at this lifeline was awful. She near cried,
“Would you... oh... that would be wonderful... I’ll pay... We can talk about Bill... and...”
My heart sank.
Her car, a Toyota, was outside the gate. As she got behind the wheel, she seemed completely disoriented. Before I could speak, she got it together, and with two false starts, we moved into traffic. She gave a smile of defeat, said,
“I’m not very good at this.”
“Don’t worry.”
I figured I’d do enough for the both of us. We went down Bohermore at a snail’s pace. Other motorists raged at us. I suggested,