The Magdalen Martyrs

The other sound you heard in the laundry was coughing. Like a chorus from hell. The girls all chain-smoked; it relieved the tedium and gave them a sense of being adult. The fumes in the place, combined with the nicotine, produced the racking cough from the very depths of despair. When Lucifer heard that sound, she began to smile, without even realising it. The smile began at the corner of her eyes and spread in step as she stalked the length of the room. The girls, heads down, tried to gauge her mood. Course it was always foul, but the level of her wrath varied.

Her favourite trick was to select a girl and ask her to sew a pile of curtains. She’d almost sweet-talk the creature, then from nowhere, she’d lash out with a fist and send the girl spinning, as she screamed,

“You whore of Babylon, where do you think you are? This isn’t a spa. You’re here to repent, and if I ever catch you smiling again, it’s the toilet for you.”

Among her catalogue of cruelty was the wrapping of wet sheets around the offender and leaving her to stand all night thus. She called it the “cleansing”.

I went to the AIB and joined the tiueue. Took the time to fill out a withdrawal slip. Put down a hefty figure. Wouldn’t you know, the same cashier. I said brightly,

“Hi.”

She looked up and remembered. She didn’t sigh, ‘cause the banker’s manual forbids that. But she got as close as she could. I handed her the docket, said,

“I guess you won’t require proof of identity this time.”

She could delay me though. That is in the manual. She stood, said,

“I’ll need this authorised.”

“Grab a cig while you can.”

“I don’t smoke.”

“You amaze me.”

I read about home loans, equities and other riveting shit. Could see her in consultation with a suit. He looked my way four times. I know because I counted. When she returned, she asked,

“How would you like your cash?”

“In a brown envelope, keep things familiar.”

Gave me a white one, and I said,

“You’ve a touch of the bad drop.”

Went to Dunne’s, Oxfam, Age Concern and Penney’s. Bought

      2 suits

      3 jeans

      6 shirts

      4 Ts

      3 shoes.

And blitzkrieged through what had been a fat lump of money. Hailed a cab, and the driver said,

“Yo... Jack.”

“How ya doing?”

“Not as good as you. What’s with all the parcels?”

“New start. Listen, could you leave all of this at Bailey’s Hotel?”

“You bought new gear for the staff?”

I pulled off a wedge, said,

“And a drink for yourself.”

No more questions.

Next to the Augustinian and lit a rake of candles for Brendan Flood. Is there a difference between one and eight being lit? Yeah... eases that nagging conscience. I didn’t know what prayer to offer, so I said,

“I miss you, Brendan.”

If not the most profound, it was certainly the most truthful.

Then to Charlie Byrne’s. Clothes might be essential but books were vital. And it’s my favourite place. Charlie on his way out, said,

“Jack, there’s a whole new load of crime fiction just arrived.”

“Brilliant.”

“I put your favourites aside.”

Now some people know bookies and believe it makes a difference. I don’t really think they’ll put a good horse aside for you, and yes, they surely do know about favourites.

Give me a bookseller every time. Inside, Vinny was reading Meetings with Remarkable Men.

I asked,

“Is that for show or are you... like seriously into it?”

He gave a huge smile.

“It’s for serious show. Where have you been? We thought you’d given up books.”

I stretched out my hands, palms up, asked,

“How can you give up books?”

“That’s what we like to hear.”

“Vinny, I’ve lost my current library.”

“Lost?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Got you. So... you’ll want to start over, get the basics in.”

“Will I run through a list?”

“No, I’ll get you up and flying. Where are you based?”

If he was surprised, he didn’t show it. I said,

“Can you deliver in a few days?”

He was writing in a pad, said,

“I’ll even bring a pizza.”

I reached for my wallet, and he said,

“Let’s do that after.”

That evening, I was back in my partially restored room. It still looked rough, but the devastation had been curtailed. I asked Mrs Bailey,

“Who did the repairs?”

“Janet and I.”

“What?”

“Sure, you couldn’t get tradesmen for a week. I could move you to another room.”

“No... no... that’s great.”

My clothes had been delivered. I showered and tried on a new suit. In the cracked mirror, my reflection was jagged. The sections of the suit I could see seemed OK. My face appeared fragmented, and I definitely blamed the glass. Time to go and meet the ban garda. As I got downstairs, Mrs Bailey asked,

“Did you tell the guards?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think you would.”

In 1982, Pope John Paul II, addressing a group of garda pilgrims, said,

I could recite the above by heart and did so at the oddest times.

When Brennan’s Yard was opened, the general response was,

“You’re kidding.”

Who’d call a hotel after a yard? But it’s been doing good. Round the corner from Quay Street, it does a brisk trade. Sure, it has notions, but they’re not flash notions. The bar doesn’t require a suit, but it whispers the suggestion.

I went in, and an eager barman hailed,

“Good evening, sir.”

Like I said... notions.

I got a pint of Guinness and took a table at the rear. Didn’t recognize the ban garda when she appeared dressed in denim top, short black skirt and medium heels, a drink in her hand. I said,

“I wouldn’t know you in that gear.”

“Can I sit?”

“Unless you’re happier standing.”

She sat.

I looked at her drink, said,

“Let me guess, a spritzer?”

“No, white wine.”

I lit a cig and she said,

“Could you please not smoke?”

“Jeez, Ridge, what kind of tight ass are you?”

“The kind who doesn’t enjoy passive smoking.”

I leant back, had a hard look. She had nice features in a bland fashion. You wouldn’t pick her out of a crowd, but I felt she wanted it that way. I said,

“You asked to see me. I don’t remember you saying there’d be rules.”

She took a sip of the wine. Impossible to say if she derived any satisfaction. Her eyes had the fevered shine of the dedicated. Not a zealot but in the neighbourhood. Her voice was quiet as she said,

“Why do you like annoying people?”

“I don’t... not really. Let’s say I don’t like ‘annoying people’. And God knows, they’re thick on the ground. Prosperity’s made them worse.”

“You prefer the good old days.”

“Don’t be snide, Ridge, it twists your mouth.”

She watched as I finished the pint, said,

“Could you stay sober till we have our talk?”

“Depends how long winded you are.”

She leaned forward, said,

“I’m good at what I do.”

“So was I.”

She shook her head, went,

“I’m serious. I love being a guard. I don’t sneer at the force.”

Pause,

“Like you do.”

I stood, asked,

“You want a drink?”

“No.”

As I ordered, I tried to rein in my temper. No question, she got to me. I lit another cig, checked to see if she was watching.

No.

Staring out the window. Probably dreaming of one day being the chief. It crossed my mind to hammer the drink, then fuck off. Leave her to the high moral ground. Knew she wasn’t the type to let it be. Some other day she’d waylay me, and I’d have to hear whatever it was she wanted to say. A priest came bustling in, Fr Malachy, my mother’s friend. He spotted me, said,

“Propping up the bar as usual.”

“And you’re being an asshole as usual.”

He stepped back, my bitterness assaulting him, but he rallied, said,

“I thought here would be a cut above your station.”

“They let you in.”

“It’s the sodality dinner. We have a room booked.”

“Prayer pays, eh?”

“Your mother is poorly. You might sober up enough to visit.”

I grabbed my pint, began to move, said,

“For that visit, I’d need to be very drunk.”

When I sat down, Ridge said,

“Is that a priest?”

“No, that’s the dregs of the barrel. So, what’s on your mind?”

“The Magdalen.”

“And...”

“Galway is a European city now.”

“So?”

“So, there are people who’d prefer not to have old history on display again.”

“What’s this to do with me?”

“You were searching for a woman who worked there.”

“And you know this how?”

“My uncle... was a guard.”

“Jeez, a family of ye.”

“I can help you.”

“You’re a little late. I already found her.”

“You’re not listening.”

“To what? The case is closed; it’s a done deal.”

She took a deep breath, said,

“Two young men have been murdered in the city recently.”

“Yeah, I heard it on the news.”

“And that’s all you know?”

I was getting exasperated, near shouted,

“What the hell else is there to know?”

“Their names?”

“Why should I want to know that?”

She sat back, waited, then,

“Because they’re related to Rita Monroe... her nephews.”

I tried to get my head round this information, muttered,

“Are you sure?”

“What do you think?”

“Jesus.”

I went back through what I knew, or thought I knew, asked,

“Why would anyone want to kill her nephews?”

“To hurt her.”

Then I recalled the time I’d met Rita Monroe. She’d said,

“I’m not feeling well. There’s been a bereavement.”

Or words to that effect. And she’d been very shook up. I, of course, had completely ignored that. Too, her house had been ransacked, as had my room. Ridge said,

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Let me think.”

The name that came to mind, the common denominator, was Bill Cassell. But he wanted to thank her, to express his gratitude for the help she had given his mother. I asked,

“What do you know about Rita Monroe?”

Ridge opened her handbag, took out a notebook, flipped through some pages, said,

“The Magdalen girls called her Lucifer, the devil incarnate. No one rained down abuse and torment like she did.”

My head reeled. Bill Cassell had told me she was an angel, and I just outright accepted that. Never once had it struck me to check out his story. I was so anxious to be free of my debt, I’d have stood on my head. I asked,

“How did you find out about her?”

“My uncle suggested I do some checking.”

“Oh... the guard.”

“That’s right.”

“How come he’s so fucking smart?”

“Was.”

“What?”

“Was so... as you put it... f-in’... smart. He’s dead.”

“I’m sorry. Were you close?”

“Were you?”

“Excuse me?”

“To my Uncle Brendan... Flood.”

“But your name...”

“He was my mother’s brother.”

I didn’t know what to say, said,

“I don’t know what to say.”

She sipped some more wine, said,

“He thought you could have been a great guard. Even in your current occupation, you managed to impress him, despite...”

She didn’t finish so I asked,

“What?”

“Despite your weaknesses.”

“Yes, well, I’ve plenty.”

“That’s what he said.”

My glass was empty. I debated another trip to the bar. She said,

“He told me to contact you if ever he was ‘unavailable’. That you needed a contact, a connection to the guards. He called it your lifeline.”

I had to ask, so,

“Were you surprised he... did what he did?”

“Killed himself?”

“Yes.”

“I was shocked, but I don’t know if I was totally surprised. He was a man who needed to passionately believe in something. You probably don’t understand that.”

I held the empty glass, asked,

“You think I have no beliefs?”

“Alcohol... that’s all you have.”

“Nice. You’ll go far in the force; they appreciate thickness.”

“Uncle Brendan respected you and seemed to like you.”

“Which you don’t.”

“I hate waste.”

“Jesus, you’re some ball-buster.”

“If you’re going to fumble around in the Magdalen case, I felt you should at least know what’s going on.”

“Thanks.”

She stood up, said,

“I didn’t do it for you.”

“Right.”

She placed a card on the table, said,

“My phone numbers, home and mobile. If there’s anything I can do for you.”

“You could order me a pint as you leave.”

“Order it yourself.”

And she was gone.

I lit a cig and muttered,

“Oh, fuck.”

I knew I had a whole mess of figuring out to do, but I couldn’t get my mind in gear. Her revelations had sucker-punched me. Stood up and thought,

“I’m right beside Sweeney’s now.”

The docks were out the door and turn right. You could hear the seagulls with that shrill sound of annoyance. Bill’s local was that near. What was I going to do... or say to him?

No idea.

Fr Malachy was on the path, sucking on a cig. I said,

“The sodality is a no smoking zone?”

“Some of us respect the feelings of others.”

I took a long look at him till he snapped,

“What?”

“You’d have made a fine guard.”

“Better than you anyway.”

“No, really, you have the cut of them.”

“God called first.”

I began to move away, said,

“I’m not certain of much, but I’m convinced it wasn’t God.”

Whatever he shouted after me, I didn’t hear it. Nothing up-lifting anyway Your life is in some bizarre state when priests are throwing abuse at you on the street.

Sweeney’s was closed. No sign of any activity. A guy was passing, and I asked him what had happened. He said,

“Sold. Just like everything else in the town. They’ll have luxury apartments up in no time. That’s what we need, more frigging apartments.”

The books arrived from Charlie Byrne’s, an eclectic mix of poetry, crime, philosophy, biography. Vinny had managed to mostly obtain hardbacks. There’s a world of difference between them and paperbacks. The only merit I’ve ever found in the latter is the price. Among the poets were Rilke, Coleridge, Lowell, Yeats. The crime had the foundation of Thompson, Cain, Chandler, Derek Raymond. I didn’t pay much attention to the philosophers, simply stacked them against the wall. My frame of mind could hardly register titles, let alone content. Biography had a fine mix: Fitzgerald, Graham Greene, Rupert Graves, Branson.

Branson!

I slung that. I could see the smile on Vinny’s face. Knew it would knock a rise out of me. A knock on the door. I said,

“Yeah?”

Janet came in, looking even more fragile than ever. She asked,

“Do you need any help in arranging your books?”

“No, I enjoy the job.”

She peered at the various stacks, said,

“You’re a holy terror for reading.”

“Thanks, I think.”

“Will you read them all?”

“I sure hope so.”

“I’m reading a book.”

“Are you... that’s good... would I know it?”

“A life of Matt Talbot.”

“Oh.”

I thought,

“Jesus, him again.”

A light in her eyes as she said,

“He’d been a martyr to the drink. When he stopped, he used to scourge himself.”

I nearly said,

“I’ve been fairly scourged myself.”

A hesitancy in her expression, then,

“I could lend it to you.”

I indicated the books, said,

“Maybe not right now, but hey...”

I moved across the room, retrieved the discarded volume, said,

“This is for you.”

She stared at the cover, said,

“Richard Branson.”

“Another remarkable man.”

She was unsure and who could blame her? She said,

“My husband might read it.”

“Terrific.”

“Thank you, Mr Taylor.”

When she’d gone, I surveyed my library. Definitely improved the room. Most of all, what they gave me was reassurance. I put on my second new suit and felt I was halfway to being a citizen. Outside, a light drizzle was coming down. In Galway, that’s almost a fine day. Decided not to go back for my all-weather coat. My plan was to find Bill Cassell and revisit Rita Monroe.

I was throwing this around in my mind as I walked up Eglington Street. Nearing the chemist, I heard shouting. A man was roaring at his children. He was over six foot, broad, and with a face suffused with rage. I don’t know what the kids had done, but they were clearly now in the grip of total terror. They couldn’t have been more than four or five years old. As I neared, the man leaned down and began to lash the boy across the face. The boy’s sister screamed,

“Daddy... Daddy... don’t.”

He smacked her on the head. I said,

“Hey.”

He turned, hand raised again, said,

“Fuck off.”

I looked round. People were staring. The man’s hand began its descent. I grabbed his arm and he turned, tried to head-butt me. That’s the first thing you learn as a guard on the street. At Templemore you hear about it; on the street, you learn how to fend it.

I stepped to the side and said,

“Take it easy.”

He didn’t seem drunk. That would have been simple to quell. His eyes were steady but aglow with meanness. I’d seen their type and knew that reasoning was out of the question. Brutality was their currency. I moved back, and he gave a small smile, said,

“I’m going to break your fucking neck.”

Rushed me. I swung low with my right, caught him solid in the stomach. Could have left it at that; he wasn’t going to be roaring any more. A suspended moment, as there has been throughout my life, when I could have pulled back from the recklessness that has blasted through my existence. Think I saw the little girl’s face, the fear he had put there, but it wasn’t just that. He was a bully, and I was sick of them.

Took a step, then, leaning into it with my shoulder and all my weight, I launched with my left hand. The force hit him under the chin, up off his feet, sent him crashing through the plate glass window of the chemist. The people gathered gave a collective “Ah”.

They say there are two types of people in jail. The first adapt well, control the cigarette trade, prey on the weak and thrive on the petty rituals. The second are totally unable to adapt. Are wounded and hunted from their first moment.

And the one sure person who should never go to jail is a policeman.

Both of the above are higher on the food chain than a dis-graced cop. It’s payback time for the inmates and complete contempt from the wardens.

Within minutes of my lashing out, two squad cars arrived and an ambulance. Guards grabbed me, bundled me into the back of the car. I glanced at my hand, bruising already spreading across the knuckles. We didn’t leave then. No, the guards took statements. People stared in at me, a mix of excitement and cruelty on their faces. Did not bode well for what they were relating.

What I most remember of the scene, though, is the face of the little girl. Backlit by the broken window, she appeared to be forgotten in the turmoil. She stared at me with huge eyes, her thumb in her mouth. Her image is burned on my soul. If I had to describe her expression, I can only say it was pure hatred. I can’t blame the father for that. I was taken to the barracks, charged and led to a cell. It had two bunks. A man, sleeping or unconscious, occupied one; I sat on mine, tried to catch my breath. The suit had a tear in the sleeve and already appeared as if someone had slept in it. A fatigue hit me, but I didn’t want to sleep. Jesus, to nap and then come to in a cell... I stood and moved to the window. Through the bars, I could see a bare wall. I’d taken two tranquillizers that morning, their effect long dissipated.

Tremors ran up my chest, turned, ran down my arms. Tried to identify a sound I was hearing. Oh God, the grinding of my teeth. If I ever got out, I’d have a bath in liquid E. An hour passed, and I paced back and forth. The man in the other bunk ranted in his sleep, loud streams of obscenities, punctuated by sighs. Hard to say which was worse. At one stage, he began to vomit, and I turned him to prevent his suffocating. He clawed at my face. When I had him turned, I sank on the bed in near exhaustion. The smell of raw alcohol in the air was nearly overpowering. I felt it gag in my mouth. It being that rare of rarest days, not a drop had I taken. More time passed and the cell began to darken. Then the lights flicked and bathed us in harsh un-yielding light. I paced anew. A guard appeared, began to unlock the gate, said,

“Come on, you’re wanted.”

As I moved, he warned,

“No funny business... hear?”

I nodded.

He led me to an interview room and left, locking the door. There was a metal table, two chairs and a seriously misshapen ashtray. When I’d been charged, the contents of my pockets had been emptied, put in an envelope. I’d have murdered for a cigarette and caused untold mayhem for a pill, not to mention a double scotch. I sat on a hard chair, tried not to consider my situation. The door opened and Clancy breezed in. A shit-eating grin plastered on his face. He seemed elated, said,

“Well, well, well.”

“That’s a neat line. You should jot it down, trot it out at one of those golf club functions.”

His uniform was pressed to perfection. If anything, his grin widened. He said,

“Didn’t I tell you, boyo, one of these days you’d fuck up big time and I’d have you.”

“I don’t suppose due process applies.”

He cupped his hand to one ear, asked,

“What’s that, boyo. Speak up... don’t worry about shouting; there isn’t a soul will disturb us.”

“Don’t I get a solicitor, a phone call?”

He loved that, answered in an awful parody of an American accent,

“As the Yanks say, ‘Who you gonna call?’ ”

I waited, as if I’d any choice. He said,

“The fellah you put through the window, you couldn’t have picked a worse one.”

“I wasn’t exactly checking references.”

Big guffaw. He truly did seem to be having himself a time, said,

“You’re priceless, Jack. But yer man, the window fellah, guess who he is.”

“I’ve no idea.”

“Ah, go on, guess.”

“I could care less.”

His hand slammed down on the table.

“Begin to care. He’s one of the top businessmen in the town. He was one of the ‘Man of the Year’ nominations.”

My turn for a half smile, answered,

“I can see where he might have been.”

Now he sat. The table between us, his eyes bored into mine. He said,

“You won’t like prison, Jack.”

“I’d say you’re right.”

“More to the point, prison won’t like you. Especially when they hear you were a guard.”

“No doubt you’ll spread the word.”

“Story like that, Jack, gets round like wildfire.”

I didn’t answer. When they come to gloat, it’s as well to let them rip, get it done. He added,

“They’ll be lining up for you, Jack, know what I mean?”

He stood, asked,

“You’ve enough tea, cigarettes... have you?”

He let his eyes sweep the empty table, said, “And no doubt you’ve already made a connection for your drug habit. They say you can score almost anything in prison. I have to go, a round of golf before dinner.”

He banged on the door, looked back at me, said, “I’d like to throw you some lifeline, some words of comfort in your darkest hour.”

I met his eyes, said,

“On account of how we were friends once?”

“Alas, all I can offer is... if you think it’s bad now, it’s going to get much worse.”

The door opened and he was gone. I was taken back to my cell. The guy in the other bunk was snoring peacefully. Maybe the worst was over for him. A few hours later, a sergeant appeared in the corridor. He was in his fifties, his bad fifties. Moving over to the cell, he said,

“Jack... here... sorry I didn’t get down sooner.”

Passed me a Dunne’s bag, added,

“I didn’t want the young crowd to see these.”

And he was gone.

I couldn’t recall his name. The face had a vague familiarity, but I couldn’t say from when. Opened the bag: cigs and lighter, sandwiches, bottle of Paddy.

Wilfred Scawen Blunt was a prisoner in Galway Jail in 1888. He noted that in the jail:

From The Women of Galway Jail by Geraldine Curtin.

I rationed the whiskey, taking small sips, enough to ease me down. Held off on a cigarette till the artificial calm had begun. Then lit one. Ah... the hit... Was even able to contemplate the sandwiches. Not actually eat but at least consider the proposition. Stowed everything under the pillow.

When a young guard came to check, he eyed me suspiciously. If he’d come in to search, I’d have fought him. At least I think I would. Rattled his keys and marched off.

My cellmate began to stir. A series of groans, then he began to carefully sit up. Alcohol reeked from his pores. He was in his late forties, with receding hairline, a ruddy face and slight build. Wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. All Calvin Klein labels. I’d noticed when I had to turn him. He gingerly raised his head, and I could tell it hurt. He asked,

“Who are you?”

“Jack Taylor.”

“Are you my solicitor?”

“No.”

He shuffled his body, trying to find a position that didn’t ache, then,

“You’ve a suit... are you here to talk to me?”

“No... I’m nicked like you.”

“Oh.”

I waited a bit, asked,

“What would help?”

“Help?”

“Yes, right now... what do you need?”

“A drink.”

“OK.”

Offered the bottle. He stared in jaw-dropping amazement, said,

“It’s a trick.”

“No, it’s Paddy.”

A fit of the shakes walloped him. I found an empty cup, poured a small amount in, said,

“Use both hands.”

He did. Managed to get it in his mouth, then near convulsed as the liquid went down. I said,

“Wait and see if you’re going to be sick. Sometimes the first makes you sick enough so that the second can stay.”

He nodded as rivers of sweat broke out on his face. A few minutes and the storm passed. I could see the physical change as his body grasped at the treacherous help. He held out the cup, only a slight tremor, asked,

“May I?”

“Take it easy. This has to get us through the night.”

Poured him another, asked,

“Cig?”

Shook his head in wonder, said,

“Jesus, who are you?”

“Nobody... a nobody in deep shit.”

“Me, too.”