Winterwood (6 page)

Nobody bothers with religion any longer. Huddled shapes raggedly, sparsely embroider the black depths of the cloisters, idling
outside by the rainswept granite gables, shambling about like they're already dead. Stray mongrels loiter aimlessly by the
rusty churchyard gates, drooping moss clings to ancient defeated Marian shrines. Clergymen appear weighed down by guilt, shuffling
obsequiously through streets, full of shame. A lot of them have been convicted of the same crime as Strange.

The priest I dealt with was kind, considerate. But he looked drained and impossibly tired. Somewhat abstractedly, he informed
me that persistence was all I required. Persistence and time, he assured me, smiling unconvincingly. I felt sorry for him,
but still drifted out in the middle of his homily.

It was a windswept day on Harold's Cross Road. The rain was blowing in swathes towards the city as I stood there clinging
to the churchyard railings, my entire body shuddering violently, tears mingling with raindrops as they coursed down my face.

—Be mindful that, having exercised your will contrary to that of God and chosen iniquity, you alone will be responsible for
the consequences! I heard and became afraid.

But in the end I didn't care. I knew I no longer had any choice. I simply had nowhere else to go.

—Yes! I cried. And yes again!

A woman was observing me. I glared at her: Don't dare come near me!

I was lathered in sweat. Thick saliva had gathered on my lips. I felt like turning and spitting at the church. Extremes of
heat and cold went surging through me, warm blood cascading from my nostrils.

—Redmond, I heard, softly whispered on the wind, you know you can trust me. I'll look after you. Till the very last pea is
out of the pot, till the angels quit the hallowed halls of heaven.

For the first time in years I felt that I belonged.

—Thank you, I answered happily, as my voice was carried off on the breeze and I applied the sodden crimson hankie to my face.

Contrary to what might have been expected in the circumstances, finding myself in a state of what can only be described as
near-delirium.

When I looked again the woman was gone, the bus plashing onwards towards the golden, lit-up city.

All that summer I prayed and prayed, to one I now knew in my heart wouldn't fail me. A reassuring lightness had entered my
heart and I gradually began to feel the enormous weight lifting from my shoulders. I was so grateful I cannot begin to tell
you. It was such a dramatic renewal of the spirit that I found myself gradually beginning to give serious consideration to
the possibility that one day Catherine and I might actually get back together again.

Even to the extent of composing a letter:

To Catherine and Imogen, from Redmond, your ever-loving husband and father. For the first time today I found myself thinking:
maybe we'll leave the outlands behind. Maybe we'll come back to the place that together we knew so well. Do you think that
might happen, Imogen? Maybe you'd ask your darling mother.

I don't know exactly why I scribbled out 'father' when I was signing the letter. Scored it out and pencilled in 'Auld Pappie'.
It just seemed such a natural thing to do, really, much more representative of the emotions I was feeling: I wanted to be
warm and secure and tender, and to let her know exactly how things were. I wanted her to call me Pappie, you see. Also it
was a definitive way of bidding goodbye at long last to my so-called 'visitor'. Something that was definitely a long time
overdue. Ridding myself of him by becoming a profound exemplar of a father - and not some foul and abhorrent pederast the
likes of him. There was only one place he and his ilk belonged - in the outlands. That desert of the spirit which had been
expressly created for men like Ned Strange. In the barren fields where no roses would ever grow. Where even the
idea
of a flourishing rose would be unthinkable. I thought of him: wide-eyed and naked and covered in crimson blotches, standing
by his window looking out to see if he could see Michael Gallagher. His trembling lips parting as he whispered:

—Why, it's Michael. Look, my little friend - I've got some chocolate here in my pocket. Have a piece. Take it from Ned.

It was disgusting even to have to speak his name.

When we were in bed, Catherine would often smile and run her fingers through my hair.

—You really don't know how much I love you, do you?

I'd say no — and look away, a little embarrassed. Even though we were married I still could be a little shy like that.

—Redmond Hatch - my own Little Red. You can look so handsome, at times, you know.

I'd still say nothing and she'd peck me on the cheek. Then she'd lean over and kiss my neck softly.

—Do you know how much I love you, Red? Till the seas run dry, till the mountains crumble. That's how much I love you, Redmond.
That's how much I love you — you and your sweet little sugar lips. Till the very last pea is out of the pot. 'Sugar lips'.
I loved it. It was our own special 'making love' name. Nobody had ever loved
him
like that. Strange, I mean. Nobody had ever said anything like that to
him.
All he could get was a child to abuse. Nobody had ever loved him - ever. And never would. Not now.

Till Slievenageeha Mountain crumbled to the sea, till the winter snow whitened the high hills of hell.

As I folded the writing paper and sealed the envelope, I was consumed from head to toe by a warm and comforting
safe
kind of glow. I could just imagine Imogen looking up as she said:

—Can we go to winterwood now, Pappie? The Snow Princess — she'll be there.

I was just on my way out to post the letter when, suddenly, I experienced this truly appalling
crawling
sensation.

I stood stock-still in the centre of the landing. I could hear it - the sound of breathing at regular intervals. A massive
shadow, misshapen and elongated, was slowly forming in the far corner of the room.

—So, that was your special 'making love' name, was it? I wonder did she ever call
him
that?

There could be no mistaking his taunting chuckles.

—Leave me alone!
Do you hear me?
I pleaded. I thought you promised - you said I could
trust
you!

As it happened, it turned out to be nothing at all. Nothing but the wind, blowing desultorily through a loosely plastered
crevice, round about the size of a medium-sized coin.

I was considerably cheered by that - the idiotic innocence of it, in a way. A fact which may well have been evident later
when I was purchasing cigarettes. The shop assistant was displaying similarly buoyant feelings. The Republic, she told me,
had performed like titans on the playing field again.

—You have to hand it to the boys in green, she beamed.

—It's a great day, I smiled.

And it was - the more I reflected on my ludicrous 'imaginings'.

—It is indeed, she agreed, it most certainly is.

The football tournament held little interest for me, to be honest. But I was gratified, nonetheless, on her account and that
of all the others who had begun to stream from the pubs and clubs, clamorously regaining the streets once more. An indisputable
equanimity had now, at last, settled over my soul — and I simply can't emphasise to you enough just how grateful I was for
that.

Which explains why I became so dispirited that very evening on my return to the hostel. I had been actually whistling as I
was coming across the landing - when I heard myself crying out:

—Jesus!

There could be no mistaking it this time — it was there again. The
dampness,
that awful familiar asphyxiating
odour,
exactly the same as that very first night, when he'd stood by the window in a tortuous silence. I was so frightened by the
thought of what might be about to happen that my limbs refused to respond. I couldn't speak. It was a long time before I regained
my strength.

And when at last I did - with an enormous sense of relief, believe me — I began scouring the floorboards of the landing. High
and low, on my knees, examining each individual one.

In spite of my best efforts, failing to come up with anything of significance. I could find no indication, none at all, of
any disturbance.

And stood there in vain trying to comprehend what had happened.

I had definitely locked the door, I remembered locking it earlier on. But now - it was
wide openl

I stood there, baffled, tears of frustration starting from my eyes.

It took me some time to get over that episode, for no explanation I could come up with seemed in any way to satisfactorily
explain it. The same was applicable to my enquiries within the hostel itself. In retrospect, it would have been better if
I'd stopped drinking for a while. It would have been better if I hadn't gone to the pub in Rathfarnham. But it's easy to say
that now. It's just unfortunate it happened to be located directly across the road from Catherine's house.

I think that what happened was, I had been watching the match being relayed on a massive video screen when I looked up and
saw Catherine's partner Ivan standing directly across the road. Laughing and joking with the hedge-clippers in his hand. When
I saw him laughing like that - beaming away and passing the clippers to Imogen - I have to admit that for the very first time
I began to feel just the tiniest measure of sympathy for 'Auld Pappie' and the dreadful things that had happened to him over
the years. Or, maybe if not sympathy exactly, then perhaps, for the first time, just the smallest, tiniest
glimmer
of empathy. Certainly, finding myself considerably more comprehending than I'd previously been. Much more so than at any time
since the very first night of the—

I can't bring myself even to
utter
the word 'assault'.

When, out of nowhere, he'd uttered these oddly moving words:

—Why was love denied to me, Redmond? Why was I denied a son? A son I would have loved and who would have loved me in return?
It isn't fair, Redmond.

With devastating tenderness, to my amazement, he had continued:

—I knew your mother, you know, Little Red. That's what she used to call you, isn't it?

I felt like crying when I heard him saying that. Thinking of my photo and how I'd pretended my mother had taken it. Had taken
that photo of what an ordinary child was supposed to look like. That proper
likeness
of a properly loved boy, who didn't do things like dance hornpipes for his uncle, behind tall trees or anywhere else.

All children are beautiful but you always think your own's the best. That's what I thought the first day I saw Imogen.

I sat there in the pub, sipping away at my tepid pint of ale. I stared at them in the garden, snipping away at the roses.
Imogen was holding a basin of flowers and smiling. A shaft of sunlight lit up the bar's interior as a roar of triumph went
up for Ireland. A supporter in a giant green hat dropped his trousers and bared his buttocks. Nobody noticed. Too immersed
in the action replay.

When I came home that evening, initially I had been in good humour, but, to my dismay, that now familiar invasive feeling
of
imminence
began to grow, even stronger than before. And no amount of reasoning could seem to dispel it.

I knew Imogen had her lunch break in the Holy Faith at one o'clock so I made sure to arrive there good and early. I was amazed
at myself for having taken the decision but was more than gratified by the feeling of self-worth it had —quite unexpectedly
— generated inside of me.

Obviously I was taking a risk — but just seeing her once, I knew, would make it worthwhile. Officially, of course, I was barred
from having any contact with her — without prior written approval from her mother. Which, for one reason or another, obviously,
wouldn't be forthcoming. The truth is, she had concocted a number of stories to make me look bad. Ned Strange had been quite
a master at that in his time - embellishing the truth to suit his own ends. But he was nothing to Catherine Courtney whenever
she got going.