“I’m Margaret, nice to meet you.”
I don’t know what I’d expected. A bull dyke if I was honest. She was in her late forties, with ash blond hair, cut in a pageboy. Brown wide eyes, a too large nose and great mouth: those lips that you want to reach out and touch. Dressed in a black polo and jeans, her body seemed strong, in shape. I was conscious of my cane, my age, and straightened my back. Ridge, observing me, smiled. Margaret said,
“You look frozen. Will you have a drink?”
And got the look from Ridge. I knew she’d cautioned Margaret about the alky, who had the grace to look confused, so I said,
“Some coffee would be good.”
She rose, headed off. I said to Ridge,
“She’s not what I expected.”
This amused her and she asked,
“What were you expecting?”
How to answer that? I tried a half truth, said,
“Hostility.”
“It’s early yet.”
Margaret returned with a tray, bearing sandwiches and a pot of coffee, said,
“Milk.”
And went off again. I surveyed the tray and said,
“I’m warming to her already.”
Then it struck Ridge, awareness travelling from her eyes to light up a wicked smile. She clapped her hands, exclaimed,
“I don’t believe it.”
I had no idea what she was on about, said,
“I’ve no idea what you’re on about.”
“Margaret, oh my God, you thought she was gay. That’s priceless.”
I felt my heart soar even as I kicked myself for presumption, went,
“She’s not gay?”
Ridge was shaking her head, said,
“God, I should have known, you are some kind of dinosaur.”
Margaret returned with the milk, looked at us, asked,
“Did I miss something?”
Ridge sat back, said,
“Not a lot.”
To move on, I produced the Black Magic and card. Margaret smiled and Ridge actually was surprised. She took the card, said,
“I guess you bought this in a hurry.”
And slid the card over. On the front was,
“Dad, on your birthday.”
I had no reply. I wasn’t going to relate the story about the non-national and the sugar. They’d have said I should have walked out. Ridge began to open the chocolates, said,
“Thanks for the thought.”
She offered the box. I declined but Margaret took two.
The urge to say “fuckit”, march to the bar and get hammered was powerful. Margaret poured coffee for me, and for a moment there was an awkward silence. Then Margaret asked Ridge,
“What time are your parents coming?”
I was surprised, had always thought of Ridge as being alone. Placing her in a family setting didn’t seem to gel. You asked yourself, “What is wrong with this picture?” There was something in Ridge, like myself, that set the seal of solitary around her. She answered,
“They should be here any minute. Can you wait?”
Margaret checked her watch, said,
“I’d love to but I’ve got an early shift.”
She stood up, leaned over and kissed Ridge on the cheek, asked me,
“Would you like a lift, Jack?”
“You’re going into town?”
“Yes.”
I looked at Ridge, who rooted in her bag, passed over the book, said,
“Take the lift.”
I didn’t look at the volume, just put it in my pocket. Margaret had a drink in front of her but hadn’t touched it and I asked,
“What about your drink?”
“I had one already. With all you guards around, I have to be careful.”
I let that go and said to Ridge,
“I’ll call you.”
“Do.”
It wasn’t a request; it was an order.
Margaret had a light blue Escort that looked new. She got behind the wheel and I sat beside her, fastening the seat belt. Took me a time as my cane kept getting entangled. She said,
“Let me help you.”
As she leaned over, I could smell her perfume. It certainly wasn’t any relation of the Woolworth’s special. I felt a stir of desire. God knows, I couldn’t recall the last time that happened. Then she smiled and put the car in gear. She drove well, capable and assured. I asked,
“Do you work?”
She gave a surprised laugh, said,
“Of course I work, what do you think? I’m a nurse.”
“Where?”
She shot a look, asked,
“Is this an interrogation?”
“Sorry, I was curious.”
She didn’t answer for a moment. We’d come along the top of the golf course, reaching Taylor’s Hill. She asked then,
“Do you have ten minutes?”
“Sure.”
“I like to park on the prom when it’s wild, like now. The sight of the bay, it’s wonderful. Would that be OK?”
When I nodded, she said,
“I’m a nurse at the Bon Secours, used to be called Galvia.”
I couldn’t resist, said,
“Nursing for the rich.”
She didn’t like it and had heard it before, countered,
“They don’t deserve treatment?”
Her tone riled me and I countered,
“Sure they do, they just don’t deserve special treatment.”
She was parking the car, with great skill. I imagined she’d do most things well. The sea was indeed spectacular, the waves crashing against the diving boards of Blackrock. It roused a sense of recklessness in my soul. I wanted to get back out on the edge of existence, to have the adrenalin roar in my blood. I could almost taste the madness in my mouth, realised Margaret was talking and said,
“Sorry, what?”
“Bríd says you’re attempting to change your life.”
“Bríd has a big mouth.”
That didn’t go down too good and she followed,
“She thinks you’ll fail, that you’ll drink again as you always do.”
I opened the door and with difficulty got out, said,
“Think I’ll walk.”
She was trying to apologise, but I slammed the door, the wind emphasising the aggressiveness of the gesture. As I turned into the fierce weather, I nearly lost my cane and wanted to sling it out into the bay. Before I could button my coat, I was completely soaked.
“He wondered if the problem of evil enhanced as time moved on and new evil was added to old or whether each new evil brought the world closer to the end of evil.”
Sean Burke, Deadwater
When I got back to Bailey’s, I was wet from head to toe. Tore my clothes off and climbed into the shower. Finally got some heat into my bones, put on a faded sweatshirt and got the book from my jacket. It was another book of plays by Synge,
The Playboy of the Western World and Other Plays.
I took a deep breath, opened the cover, and there it was, in large black writing:
The Dramatist
I flipped through the pages, and one piece was highlighted in red marker. I decided to try and memorise that, instinct telling me it was a component in the puzzle.
It’s you three will not see age or death coming; you that were my company when the fires on the hilltops were put out and the stars were our friends only. I’ll turn my thoughts back from this night-that’s pitiful for want of pity-to the time it was your rods and cloaks made a little tent for me where there’d be a birch tree making shelter, and on a dry stone; though from this day my own fingers will be making a tent for me, spreading out my hairs and they knotted with the rain.
Now I knew. Two girls had been killed, apparently accidentally. A book by Synge beneath each of them with the words “The Dramatist” written inside. So what did I do and who was going to believe me? Moved to the back page and, sure enough, typed on a label and pasted in there was “Deirdre, demented under the burden of her sorrow, falls lifeless across the open grave”. At least I could confirm the suspicions of Stewart the drug dealer. Tell him he was right: someone had killed his sister. I had absolutely nothing to go on. Even if I did, what the hell was I going to do, pursue the killer? The phone went and I picked up, heard,