The Magdalen Martyrs

Friday evening, a young man came out of his FAS course. He was doing well. He had a few bob in his pocket and was meeting the lads in Cuba.

The club, not the country.

A buzz was in the air, with all the false promise of the weekend. He stood for a minute at the back of the cathedral. Course, being the sparkling new generation, it never occurred to him to bless himself. Why would he? That ritual was rare to rarer. Who needs God at seventeen?

On a whim, he crossed over to the embankment, down the steps to where the ducks are. He stood at the edge, feeling good. Never heard the man. People use that path from the old mill up to the bridge regularly. It’s a snatch of tranquillity from the hectic Newcastle Road.

The man stopped, put two bullets in the young lad’s head, turned and went back towards the mill. If the splash of the body was loud, it didn’t cause him to look back. He flicked the empty wrapper from the gum into the river.

Witnesses, yet again, would provide a maelstrom of conflicting information. I heard about it in Nestor’s. Jeff said,

“God almighty, what’s with the world?”

The sentry said,

“I blame the tribunals.”

Before I could comment, the door opened and Terry Boyle came storming in. The blond hair awry, his tall frame rigid with anger, he was wearing a very good suit. Towered over me, shouted,

“What the hell am I paying you for?”

I was at my regular table, a book before me. I used my index finger to indicate the other hard chair. He said,

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Sit down or I’ll knock you down.”

For a moment, I could see the veins throb at his temples. Weighing the odds. Jeff had tensed, and Terry glanced round, sized him up, then snapped,

“Barkeep, a vodka tonic and make it soon.”

He sat.

I noticed lesions on the tips of his fingers. Tried to recall anything I’d learned in my Templemore days. He had said he was in software, so I said,

“Those from typing.”

The sneer turned his mouth ugly, and he near spat his reply,

“Jesus, you old guys. Nobody types any more; it’s called keying.”

I leant near, said,

“Come here.”

Startled look and,

“What?”

“Come on, move closer.”

He didn’t, so I said,

“You shout at me again, and I mean ever, I’ll put your balls out through your throat... key that.”

He straightened his back, said,

“I practise Kai-tai-wan.”

Least I think that’s what he said. Before I could respond, Jeff plonked his drink on the table, said,

“Sonny, you burst into my pub like a lunatic again, you’ll need that Kai whatever.”

And was gone.

Terry let out his breath, whined,

“What’s with you old guys? You’re so goddamn touchy.”

The lapse into American didn’t endear, but I let it slide, got my smokes out, and fired up. He said,

“Haven’t you heard of the patches?”

“Terry, take a moment, have your drink, and we’ll start over. How would that be?”

He did.

I said,

“What’s the bug up your arse?”

“I haven’t received a single progress report. How are you spending my money? Kirsten is spending money like a drunken sailor. My father’s money.”

Truth to tell, I’d all but forgotten the whole deal, said,

“I’m working on a definite line of inquiry.”

Stopped myself from adding

“An arrest is imminent.”

He eyed me with huge disbelief, said,

“You’re on to something?”

“Am I ever?”