The Heart's Invisible Furies

“Are you all right?” he asked me. “You’ve gone a bit pale.”

“I’m grand,” I said, my voice catching in my throat. “I’m just worried about him, that’s all. He’s my best friend.”

“Ah Jesus, Cyril,” said Charles, looking a bit disgusted. “Would you stop talking like that? It makes you sound like a right Nancy-boy.”

“Have you ever seen Julian associating with strangers?” the sergeant asked me, ignoring my adoptive father’s latest interruption.

“No,” I said.

“Any strange men on the school grounds at all?”

“Only the priests.”

“You mustn’t lie to me, Cyril,” he said, pointing a finger at me. “Because I’ll know if you’re lying.”

“If that’s true, then you must know that I’m not,” I said. “I haven’t seen anyone.”

“All right. The thing is we have reason to believe that the men who seized Julian have been planning this for sometime. His father received death threats from the IRA after the piece he wrote in the Sunday Press a couple of months ago, saying that the supreme musical composition of all time is ‘God Save the Queen.’?”

“I have something to admit,” said Charles, leaning forward, a serious expression on his face now.

“What’s that, Mr. Avery?” asked Sergeant Cunnane, turning to him doubtfully.

“It’s not something I’ve ever told anyone before but in this room, which is a sort of confessional I suppose, I feel I can say it, particularly since I’m among friends. The thing is, I think the Queen is a very attractive woman. I mean she’s thirty-three now, I think, and that’s about five years older than I usually go for but I would make an exception in her case. There’s something quite frisky about her, don’t you think? I’d say she takes a bit of warming up but once you’ve loosened the corsets—”

“Mr. Avery,” said the sergeant. “This is a serious business. Could I ask you to stop talking, please?”

“Oh be my guest,” said Charles, sitting back again and folding his arms. “Cyril, answer the man before he has us all locked up.”

“But he hasn’t asked me anything,” I protested.

“I don’t care. Answer him.”

I turned to the sergeant with a bewildered look on my face.

“Cyril, has anyone ever approached you to ask you where you and Julian might be discovered at any particular time?”

“No, Sergeant,” I said.

“And who would have known that you were going to the Palace Bar today?”

“I didn’t even know myself until we got there.”

“But Julian knew?”

“Yes, he had it planned.”

“Maybe he tipped off the IRA,” suggested Charles.

“Why would he do that?” asked Sergeant Cunnane, staring at him as if he was a complete moron.

“You’re right. Makes no sense. Move on.”

“And Miss Simpson, Bridget,” continued the sergeant. “She must have known too?”

“I presume so.”

“And what about her friend, Miss Muffet?”

“Miss Muffet?” I said, staring at him. “Mary-Margaret’s surname is Muffet?”

“Yes.”

I tried not to laugh. It didn’t seem like her standard at all. “I don’t know what she knew or didn’t know,” I said.

There was a tap on the door, a young Garda looked inside and the sergeant excused himself, leaving Charles and me alone together.

“So,” he said, breaking the silence after a minute or two. “How have you been anyway?”

“Grand,” I said.

“And school is going well?”

“Yes.”

“Work is hell. I’m in there all day and half of the night. Did I tell you that I’m getting married again?”

“No,” I said, surprised. “When?”

“Next week, actually. To a very nice girl named Angela Manningtree. A chest out to here and legs that go all the way down to the floor. Twenty-six years old, works in the civil service, Department of Education, or does until the wedding anyway. Quite intelligent too, which, actually, I rather like in a woman. You must meet her sometime.”

“Will I be invited to the wedding?” I asked.

“Oh no,” he said, shaking his head. “It will be quite a small affair. Just friends and family. But I’ll make sure to introduce you to her the next time you’re on school holidays. I’m not quite sure what Angela’s actual relationship to you will be. She won’t be your stepmother or your adoptive stepmother. It’s a mystery. I might consult someone in the legal profession for the actual term. Max is the best lawyer I know but I suppose now wouldn’t be the right time. You have a cut above your eye, by the way. Were you aware of that?”

“I was, yes.”

“Did one of the kidnappers do that to you as you battled valiantly to save your friend from their clutches?”

“No,” I said. “An old woman hit me with her umbrella.”

“Of course she did.”

The door opened again and Sergeant Cunnane came back in, flicking through some pages that he held in his hand.

“Cyril,” he said. “Did Julian have a paramour apart from this Bridget girl?”

“A what?” I asked.

“A girlfriend.”

“No,” I said. “Not that I know of anyway.”

“The thing is, we’ve discovered a number of letters in your room, addressed to Julian. They’re quite…suggestive in their way. Erotic, you know? Dirty stuff. About the way this girl feels about him and the things she wants to do to him. But the problem is they’re unsigned.”

I stared at the table and tried to think of anything that would stop my face from bursting into flames. “I don’t know anything about them,” I said.

“I tell you what,” he said. “If Mrs. Cunnane had half the imagination that this girl has, I’d be taking early retirement.”

Both he and Charles burst out laughing at this and I looked down at my shoes, praying that the interview would come to an end soon.

“Anyway, this all looks harmless enough,” he said. “It probably has nothing to do with the kidnapping. Still, we have to follow up every lead.” He turned the pages and read some more, his lips moving as his eyes flickered across the words and finally he frowned when he reached something he didn’t understand.

“What does that mean, do you think?” he asked, showing the letter to Charles and pointing something out, and my adoptive father whispered something in his ear. “Christ alive,” said the sergeant, shaking his head in disbelief. “I never heard of such a thing. What type of a woman would do something like that?”

“The very best type,” said Charles.

“Mrs. Cunnane certainly wouldn’t but then she’s from Roscommon. Well, whoever this lassie is she wants to do it to Julian Woodbead.”

“Ah to be young again,” said Charles with a sigh.

“Can I go now?” I asked.

“You can,” said Sergeant Cunnane, gathering his papers. “I’ll be back in touch if I have anymore questions. And don’t worry, young Cyril, we’re doing everything we can to find your friend.”

I left the room and looked up and down the hallway for Bridget and Mary-Margaret but they were nowhere to be seen and so I waited for Charles, who seemed surprised to see me still standing there, and we walked out onto Pearse Street together.

“Well, goodbye,” he said, shaking my hand. “Until next time!”

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