The boy knew no one would hear or come running to help. He had been here before.
A rack of black cassocks swung in a swish of air as the man passed by to sit in a corner chair. The boy shivered violently as the adult’s eyes appraised him, like a farmer at market assessing a prize bull.
‘Come here.’
The boy didn’t move.
‘Come here, I said.’
He had no option. He walked forward, his feet heel to toe like a tightrope walker, limping slightly in his one shoe.
The boy screamed as he was pulled between two bare knees, hands gripped him as robes were flung back.
‘Shut up! You are going to be a goody one shoe boy and do what I want.’
‘P-p-please don’t hurt me,’ the boy whimpered, tears streaming down his cheeks. He couldn’t see, he was so close to the darkness.
His head was thrust into a gaping void and he began to gag.
Terror grappled with his breakfast of watery eggs in the bottommost pit of his belly. It rose like a tidal wave and exploded in a vomit of projectile yellow phlegm.
The man jumped up, still holding him by the hair, and hit him with a thump to his ribcage, propelling him through the rack of swinging blackness. The boy slid down the far wall, a limp piece of flesh, bewildered and terrified.
He couldn’t hear the names he was being called, as the blows came hard and fast against the side of his head, thickening the rims of his ears.
He cried louder, his sobs thunderous.
Then he soiled himself.
And the angels sank deeper into the recesses of the alabaster ceiling as if they too were terrified.
Five
Cafferty’s pub on Gaol Street was two hundred metres from the council offices. Lottie was drinking thick soup, with lumps of chicken and potato soaking in it, warming her from her toes up. Boyd was halfway through massacring a house special sandwich that would have fed two normal people. But he wasn’t normal. He could eat anything, never putting on an ounce. The skinny bollocks, thought Lottie.
It was late afternoon and a few die-hards who had braved the weather sat at the bar nursing their pints of Guinness and ticking off horses on crumpled newspapers. A widescreen television on the wall, sound muted, presented the races from England. No snow there.
‘Bea Walsh says Susan could’ve been a lesbian,’ Lottie said.
‘Ever tried it on with a woman, yourself?’ Boyd asked, unaware of the coleslaw stuck to his upper lip, forming a makeshift moustache.
‘I wish. Then, maybe, I wouldn’t have this awful memory of being in your bed six months ago.’
‘Ha. Very funny,’ he said. He wasn’t laughing.
Lottie tried to dim the image of their drunken tryst. She hated to admit it but she’d enjoyed the warmth of his body beside hers that night – what she could remember of it. They’d never talked about it since.
‘Seriously though, Adam wouldn’t want you to be alone,’ he said.
‘You’ve no idea what Adam would have wanted. So shut up.’ Lottie knew she had raised her voice and was kicking herself for letting Boyd get to her.
He shut up and continued eating his sandwich, muttering ‘bitch’ jokingly under his breath.
‘Heard that,’ she said.
‘You were meant to.’
‘Anyway, Bea said it was more than likely canteen gossip, just because Susan was a loner. People love making up stories about the quiet ones.’
‘What does that mean? Like a non-practising Catholic? Been there, done that, not for me any more?’
‘You know I’m not a lesbian, not even a non-practising one.’
‘You’re not practising anything since Adam died.’
Lottie knew Boyd regretted saying it, the minute the words were out of his mouth. She said nothing, wouldn’t please him with a sarcastic retort, even if she could have thought of anything smart enough to say. Either way he was off the hook. For the moment.
‘Nice soup,’ she said.
‘Changing the subject.’
‘Boyd,’ Lottie said. ‘I’ve related to you what Bea Walsh, Susan’s PA, told me. As far as she knew Susan was originally from Ragmullin, spent years working in Dublin and returned here on a transfer two years ago. She also said no one could get close to her. She was a career-woman. Worked day and night, married to the job. She had to, in a man’s world, to get to where she was. Bea’s words, not mine.’
‘But she must’ve had some sort of a life outside of her job,’ said Boyd.
‘Do you?’
‘Do I what?’
‘Have a life outside of the job?’ asked Lottie, finishing her soup.
‘Not really. Neither do you.’
‘I rest my case.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Finish up your sandwich, Sherlock. We’ll head to Parkgreen and see if Lynch and Kirby have found anything of interest in Sullivan’s house.’
‘Are you going to interview the head honcho in the council?’
‘Who?’ Lottie asked.
‘The county manager.’
‘Gerry Dunne’s not available until tomorrow morning.’
‘I take it you’re not too impressed.’
‘Take it any way you like.’
‘Depends on who’s giving it.’
‘Would you ever grow up!’ Lottie said.
But Boyd was right. She was not impressed. They split the bill and left.
They hurried up the street, leaning into each other, sheltering from the chill, their breaths rising and merging into one.
Streetlights reflected off the snow and ice, throwing yellow ochre shadows on to shop fronts. It was freezing. Bitter was the topical word of the day. Those foolish enough to venture outside scurried past, their faces snuggled into scarves and hats, shielding their skin from the stripping wind.
Rushing along the slippery pavement with Boyd, Lottie felt the polar air pierce through her clothing. At the station, Boyd started the car. Lottie sat in, rubbing her bloodless fingers together.
‘Put the heater on,’ she said.
‘Don’t start,’ he said and took off, skidding dangerously close to the wall.
Just as well he has a badge, she thought, and as he drove she looked out at her town swathed in false purity, sinking into the evening darkness.
Susan Sullivan had lived in a detached three-bedroom house, situated in a secluded estate on the outskirts of the ‘better end of town’. If there was such a thing any more.
The area appeared quiet as they drove up. A few children, muffled against the weather, rode their Christmas bicycles up and down the frozen road, sneaking looks from under colourful hats at the two squad cars parked outside Sullivan’s gate.
A couple of uniformed gardaí stood sentry. A car in the driveway was white with a week’s worth of snow. Blue and white tape, hanging loose on the front door, screamed Keep Out, without actually having the words written on it. These were the only outward signals that something was wrong. Lottie felt like getting back in the car and going home.
Detective Maria Lynch greeted them at the door.