The Magdalen Martyrs
- Автор: Бруен Кен
- Серия: Jack Taylor #3
- Год: 2003
- Язык: английский
- Год: Brandon
- ISBN: 978-0-86322-302-0
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «The Magdalen Martyrs». Краткое содержание книги:
“Can I see her?”
I’d have been delighted if she refused, but she said,
“Of course. She’s upstairs. I’ll come with you.”
“No need, you have your tea.”
She didn’t insist. I went up, paused a minute, knocked. Then realised she couldn’t answer. I went in. If you had to put lines to my feeling then, you’d capture it with,
Mary, mother of celibate clerics who have turned their back on human love, would have presented Augustine with the perfect heavenly projection of his own domineering mother.
How the Irish Saved Civilization by Thomas Cahill.
I’d braced myself for her to look different. Hadn’t braced enough. She was an old woman. The one characteristic she’d always had was energy. Sure, it was the dark kind, didn’t spring from a source of goodness. Based more on a sense of grievance and a deep bitterness. Whatever else, it fuelled her so she’d always seemed in motion.
Seated in a chair, her whole body had diminished, as if she’d collapsed in on herself. The right arm was lying useless in her lap, her face was contorted, and a trace of spittle leaked from her lips. The hair, once a lustrous black, was completely white.
Worst of all, I didn’t know how to address her. I stood near, said,
“Mother.”
It sounded as stilted and awkward as that. I didn’t so much sit on the bed as near collapse. I thought my mother had lost the ability to have such an effect on me. Her eyes had a dull sheen, seeing nothing. She didn’t register my presence.
The silence was bewildering.
I’d never experienced her without the running mouth, usually littered with recriminations, vague threats, but definitely alive. I said,
“It’s Jack.”
And felt a tightness in my chest, added,
“Your son.”
I’d tried to recall a time when I’d been close to her. Not a single incident surfaced. What I did remember was the constant belittlement of my father. He bore it without retaliation. As my passion for books grew, he had encouraged me. Built a large bookcase of which my mother was scornful.
“Books! You think they’ll pay the rent.”
I’d also discovered hurling. The two, books and sport, occupied every moment. My first day in Templemore, my mother had sold the books and burnt the bookcase. My father said,
“Your mother had a hard life.”
Perhaps it was my first adult awareness. I’d answered,
“And she wants to make ours harder.”
Now it was her turn. I moved to the sink, got a towel, brought it back. Carefully wiped the spit from her mouth, thought,
“What would it cost me to hug her?”
Couldn’t do it.
When I’d been slung out of the guards, she said,
“I knew you’d come to nothing.”
The worse I behaved, the better it suited her martyrdom. As I stared at her helplessness, I said,
“You’d think this would be the time for reconciliation, but what it is... is sad.”
I moved to the door, was about to glance back, but she was already burned into my soul. I walked down the stairs and the nurse appeared, asked,
“Did it go well?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sure it was of great benefit to her.”
I couldn’t resist, asked,
“What makes you so sure?”
Flustered, she hesitated, then,
“I mean, knowing her son is here.”
“She doesn’t know shit.”
The ferocity stunned us. I hadn’t intended laying it off, but she was there. I looked at my right hand, so tight on the banister it seemed transparent. The nurse began to move towards the kitchen. I said,
“Call me if there’s any change.”
I’d gotten to the door when she said,
“I understand it’s upsetting for you.”
I wanted to turn, lash her understanding against the stairs, but settled for,
“Upsetting? Right, that’s what it is.”
I hope I didn’t slam the door.
I walked down College Road, a sense of blackness dogging my footsteps. If I turned, I felt it would envelop me. The temptation to embrace the dark was compelling. The refrain from Death Row, “Dead Man Walking”, played over and over in my ears. Alcoholics live on a daily basis with a sense of impending doom.
As I got to the Fair Green, a City Link coach was pulling out. An overpowering wish to be on it gripped me. I sat on the wall, all out of schemes, dreams and plans.
As close to total surrender as I’ve ever been.
In one of those inexplicable moments of serendipity, a battered wino was sitting further down. He had a half dozen plastic bags spread round his feet. From one, he selected a bottle of Buckfast, put it on his head. I was as near to him as the length of a cigarette, looking right at him. He was oblivious to me or anyone else.
He began to sing, Abba again. I couldn’t believe it.
“Fernando.”
His voice was clear with a surety of style that was astonishing. I felt tears in my eyes and berated myself for crass sentimentality. Abba!.. I mean... Come on.
“I’d write and I wouldn’t lie. So when self-help writers tell one to find
the child within, I assume they don’t mean me.”