The Dramatist (16 page)

“Did you know they are going to cut down the trees on Eyre Square?”

“What?”

“They say they’ll replace them.”

She gave a strangled sound, added,

“I don’t understand it. You cut down healthy trees and then replace them?”

She was lost for words till she near exploded.

“ ’Tis blasphemy!”

I’d caught the aroma of the
crème de menthe
. Sure it was sweet, but the underlay of alcohol was as strong as loss. I got a massive compulsion to leap the counter, put my mouth under an optic and squeeze till doomsday. I shuddered and she laid her hand on mine, a gentle touch, asked,

“Are you cold,
a mhic
?”

A mhic!
The Irish for son. In my youth, you heard it all the time. Back in the Claddagh, the old people used it still. A term of affection and endearment, sometimes scolding but never harsh. I said,

“Must be a draught.”

She looked round, seeing what ghosts I’d never know. I had my own crew to carry. She said,

“Of course, they’ll knock it down, put up some monstrosity, but, please God, I’ll be gone to my rest. You know what, Mr Taylor, you can live past your time and that’s a sorrow.”

I thought of Synge, his
Deirdre of the Sorrows
. Somehow, it always came back to that play, the passage highlighted in red I’d memorised. Deirdre, in the play, is crouching and swaying as she keens. She makes a straight speech to the dead, remembering the comforts of her time with them and the sheer despair of having them no more. It reached me in ways I could never have anticipated. The startling realisation, bizarre as it sounds, that the Dramatist was speaking to me
…perhaps trying to teach me something
.

It goes:

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
.

Despite myself, I was beginning to appreciate Synge. His language sang to the primeval part of my ancestry, to the very core of what made me Irish. Or maybe it had been too long since I got drunk. I said aloud,

“That’s pitiful for want of pity.”

Mrs Bailey gasped, stared at me, said,

“Isn’t that a beautiful thought—sad but true.”

The sparkle was dying in my glass of water. I said,

“It’s by Synge.”

She nodded, then,

“There was a holy row when his play was at the Abbey.”

“You’re familiar with him?”

“I’m familiar with rows.”

Janet, the chambermaid, stuck her head in the door, said,

“Mrs B, you’re wanted on the phone.”

She touched my arm, said,

“I’ll be back in a tick. I enjoy your company.”

She rose from the chair with difficulty, her bones creaking. I flipped through the
Galway Advertiser
, began to read about the line-up for the forthcoming Cuirt Festival of Literature. Turned the page and was looking at photos without registering much, hadn’t realised Janet was peering over my shoulder, till she exclaimed,

“There’s your friend!”

I nearly jumped, went,

“What?”

She leaned over, put her finger on a photo, said,

“There, that’s the man I met outside your room. He was carrying a large plastic bag. Lovely manners he had.”

I tried to concentrate, looked at a photo of a heavyset man with a distinguished appearance and a mane of thick white hair presenting a prize to a student. Underneath was the caption:

“Professor O’Shea of the English Dept at NUI presenting the prize for best essay to his student, Conor Smith.”

O’Shea…the name rang some chord. First I had to pin down Janet, asked,

“Tell me about…my friend. Don’t leave anything out.”

She was worried, creases down her already impossibly lined face, went,

“Did I do wrong?”

“No, no, he wanted to surprise me.”

Did he ever.

She frowned, then,

“It was a while ago. I’d been hoovering on the top floor, came down to get some bin liners and saw him outside your door. He asked if that was your room, said that you were old friends, that he’d wait a bit, see if you returned. He had a grand way of talking, you’d know he was a professional man, and gorgeous cologne.”

I could see him, prodded,

“And the bag, did you see what was in it?”

Her eyes brightened.

“Now that was odd. I got the impression it was a flower or plant. He held it close to his chest, like he was trying to hide it. Was it flowers?”

“It was, sort of.”

It didn’t look like Mrs Bailey was returning any time soon so I took her drink, handed it to Janet, said,

“Your good health.”

“Oh, I don’t know if I should. It makes me giddy.”

I gave her my best smile, all false sincerity, said,

“Giddy is good.”

That night, tossing and turning, something was trying to surface. Then I sat up: that time in Charlie Byrne’s, when Vinny introduced me to the professor—the Synge expert—it was him, the man in the photo.

Rang Vinny at Charlie Byrne’s bookshop. He asked
,

“Jack, how’s the Synge studies going?”

“Good. Listen, do you remember Professor O’Shea?”

“Of course I do. I introduced you to him in here: he’s the expert on Synge. You should really go and have a talk with him if you want detailed insight.”

“That’s what I want all right.”

Vinny hesitated then,

“Use a bit of tact, Jack.”

“What?”

“His wife died a few years back and they were childless. I think he’s probably lonely.”

“I know how that goes.”

“We got some new stock in: Daniel Buckman, K. T. McCaffrey, John Straley, Declan Burke, like that.”

“Put them aside for me.”

“Don’t I always?”

“I owe you a pint.”

“You owe me a fleet of pints.”

Click.

The telephone directory had the professor listed.

29, The Crescent

Galway

Old Galway, maybe old money.

I intended finding out, and soon.

“From the depths of the mirror, a corpse gazed back at me. The look in his eyes, as they stared into mine, has never left me.”

Elie Wiesel,
Night, Dawn, the Accident

Early morning, I listened to the news. Ferocious fighting on the
outskirts of Baghdad. The Americans had taken the airport and renamed it Baghdad International.

What’s in a name?

I rang NUI and asked if I might speak to the professor, make an appointment maybe. Difficult, as he’d a heavy agenda of lectures, seminars, meetings. He should be free near 4:30 p.m. I hung up.

That gave me the day.

I wore black jeans, black T and my garda all-weather overcoat. In my pockets, I put screwdrivers, the dead girls’ photos and
Deirdre of the Sorrows
. It was a beautiful spring day, and as I walked towards Dominic Street, I had to take my coat off. My limp was definitely improving. I remembered Tim Coffey saying that kids would call me “Johnny the limp”. Well, it hadn’t happened.

The Crescent was impressive: old houses, large gardens with the houses well back from the road. Most were occupied by doctors and consultants. I found No. 29 and took a moment. It was a dark house with an air of neglect, large hedges running along both sides so no neighbourly chats. Ivy crept along the front of the building and needed trimming. It wasn’t derelict but had definitely seen better days. I opened the gate and walked boldly up the path. On one of the other houses I’d seen the notice “Neighbourhood Watch”.

Always an invitation to thieves. When they don’t warn you, that’s the time to worry.

I avoided the front door, went along the side and found a garage joined to the house.

OK.

Using the screwdriver, I had the ancient lock off in a moment. No doubt about it, I was becoming a habitual burglar. In the garage was a pile of junk, rusted lawnmower, rakes and shovels. All looking as if they hadn’t been touched in years. A thick rope was coiled on a shelf, and I picked it up, uncoiled it, then let it lie. Went through to the main house. Unlike the Pikemen’s leader, Ted Buckley, here was a home gone to rack and ruin. Despite an air of mustiness and decay, dust everywhere, I couldn’t help admiring the place. An air of grandeur, high ceilings, intricate designs and expensive carpets. I know a good rug because when you’ve lived with lino and cheap coverings, you get a sense of the better deal. The kitchen had black oak furniture and one of those fine kitchen tables like a butcher’s block. Cups, mugs, plates were piled in the sink. None of the modern conveniences—no dishwasher, microwave, not even a toaster. Maybe he used a fork, held the bread in front of a two-bar fire. That vision didn’t play, not with the photo of the man I’d seen in the
Advertiser
. The floor needed a serious sweep. I did spot a coffee machine, the real beans deal.

I found what I took to be his study, and it was heavy with the smell of pipe tobacco. I had to open a window—the stench was overwhelming—though I only opened it a little lest he return prematurely. Heavy drapes on the windows were half closed, and I pulled them back to have some light.

And gasped.

Wall-to-wall books. That was the other smell, the nectar of old volumes. There was even one of those movable ladders beloved of your true bibliophile. Four shelves devoted to Synge, and they looked like first editions. Though well used, they were in good condition, lovingly cared for. A computer on the desk, an old Macintosh. I turned to the sideboard and saw heavy silver-framed photos. The dead wife in two and then a young man I recognised. I felt dizzy, tried to get my mind in gear. I knew him. Niall O’Shea, who’d been horseplaying outside my childhood home; my father had broken his jaw. Niall O’Shea who had climbed the crane at the docks, sailed off.

Jesus.

I sat at the professor’s desk and opened the drawers. A sheet of paper with the lines from
Deirdre of the Sorrows
I’d memorised, that began:

“It’s you three will not see age or death coming.”

Fuck.

Opened the bottom drawer and found a green folder with bold black letters on the front:

THE DRAMATIST

My mind was reeling. Here I was solving a case, piece by piece, actually doing decent investigative work, and I felt wretched. In the folder were three photos. The first two I recognised:

Sarah Bradley

Karen Lowe

On the backs, in the same bold print, was,

AT PEACE

The third, I didn’t know, and with a sense of dread I looked at the back:

SOON

I nearly had it all. She was next, to be the third that wouldn’t “see age or death coming”.

I stood up and paced, opened a press. It held bottles of Glenfiddich, Glenlivet, Jameson, Black Bushmills. Ah.

I shut the press quickly. On the table was a pipe rack, with well-used briars and a
dúidín
holding centre stage. Used for years by the peasants on Aran and a great favourite with tourists. They’d been remaking them for the Americans. Word was that heads were very partial for their use with weed. This one was an old, clay tube, and bore in tiny letters along the stem:

j.m.s.

Was it possible?

I went into the kitchen, spent the next half hour grinding coffee beans, getting the brew just so. Set it to go. Few aromas match the real scent of genuine coffee. It almost comforted me. I never take sugar but searched for some now. I was feeling weak and definitely needed the rush. Ceramic mugs, by Don Knox, hand crafted. What they were was dirty, so I rinsed and scrubbed one diligently. Poured the brew and put heaped spoonfuls of sugar in. Didn’t bother seeking milk. Black was how I was. Drank it off, sweet and scalding, and sure enough, the jolt hit me fast. Not so much energised as focused. I half filled the mug again and went to the garage. Sipping the liquid, I studied the roof. A thick beam of wood ran end to end. I put the mug down, got the rope, and it took three attempts to get it over the beam.

Then I pulled up a stool and began to fasten the noose.

I returned to the study, closed the window and refixed the heavy drape. Then I sat in the professor’s chair, settled to wait. The light was fading when I heard the key in the door. Then wheezing and laboured breathing and the sound of a heavy briefcase hitting the floor. He came into the study and hit the light switch. His first response was shock, but he collected himself rapidly, gave a knowing smile, said,

“Jack Taylor, I presume.”

He was a big man, wearing a wool suit that had been expensive once. Now, it was merely shabby. He’d an off-white shirt with a tie askew, and his long white hair was rumpled, with dandruff on his shoulders. He wasn’t unlike the English actor Brian Cox, who’d played the first Hannibal Lector in the underrated
Manhunter
. A contained strength, rugged face, pitted skin and bloodshot eyes. They were vibrant though, revealing a fierce intelligence. He was carrying a brown bag with “McCambridge’s” on the side. From their deli I’d guess. As I said, old Galway.

He put the bag down, said,

“I’m going to have a drink, care to join me?…Or are you continuing your fragile sobriety?”

I stared at him and he said,

“I’ll take that as a no.”

He moved to the press, took out a heavy Galway Crystal tumbler and splashed in a generous amount of Glenlivet, held it up to the light, said,

“Go n-éiri an bóthar leat.”

And knocked it back, refilled. I said,