Written in Blood (42 page)

‘There was a single bright spot in Liam’s miserable life. He had a friend. An older boy, Conor Neilson, who lived on a farm a few miles away. Hanlon would drag his son over there when animals were being slaughtered, not all that humanely by all accounts. This was supposedly in order to “make a man of him”. Of course it was just sadism. Once Liam cried when a lamb was killed and his father emptied a bucket of blood and intestines over the boy’s head.’

‘Bastard!’ Troy was compelled into expectorating speech. He did not apologise for the irrelevant interruption, but compounded his felony by adding, ‘I’d string the bugger up.’

Barnaby understood, even appreciated, his sergeant’s intemperance. He too would rather not be listening. There was something dark and inexorable in the setting and unravelling of this already tragic tale. When bad paths were badly trod what good could ever come of it?

‘Conor, by all accounts, was a strange plant to be growing out there in the bogs. Quiet and withdrawn, a great reader. When Liam could escape they’d roam round the countryside watching birds and other creatures. Sometimes Conor would draw - plants, flowers, pebbles in a stream. Naturally Liam’s father despised the boy and his own parents weren’t that far behind. Obviously,’ (here Max Jennings looked up) ‘I’m telescoping here. The next event I’m about to describe, which was to have such a traumatic effect on Liam that it changed the whole course of his life, took place when he was nearly fourteen and Conor three years older.

‘It was a spring evening. Hanlon’s fist had slipped even more savagely than usual and his wife had to be taken to the hospital. She was kept in and Conor’s parents were asked if they would look after the boy. Liam was surprised and immensely relieved, for he had dreaded being alone with his father. He slept on an old canvas truckle in Conor’s room, crying himself to sleep every night. Lonely for his mother, terribly afraid he’d never see her again. Eventually Conor took the boy into his bed. Cuddled and comforted him, kissed his tears away. One thing led to another.

‘Liam believed, and persisted in believing in spite of all future evidence to the contrary, that Conor was moved on that first occasion solely by affection and pity. One can see why the poor little devil needed to think so. His sense of self-worth must have been virtually non-existent. How could he be expected to take on board the notion that the only friend he had in the world had taken advantage, at a moment of great desolation, to use and betray him? So, passively, out of affection and gratitude, Liam let himself be used. This dangerous union - for that’s what it was, bloody dangerous forty years ago and in that community - continued. Even after Liam was back at home. Of course it was only a matter of time before they were discovered.

‘His mother returned, but Hanlon didn’t kick out the village girl he had installed when his wife was away. And it was she who saw the two boys one evening at dusk, “at it like otters” behind some corn stooks. Liam’s father went after them with his shotgun and was never seen again. “Sucked into the bog” was the general opinion and nobody would have minded much had not the two boys also vanished. The Garda did some sort of search - not trying too hard, I imagine.

‘After years of physical and mental cruelty the loss of her son tipped the balance of Mary Hanlon’s mind and she became deranged, stopping people at random, staring with wild accusation into their faces, pleading that they return Liam. Sometimes she would hammer on doors or scream through letter boxes demanding that whoever was inside bring him out. Eventually she was committed to an asylum.

‘The two boys, like thousands before them, ran away to the big city. In this case, Dublin. Here, at least for Liam, things went from bad to terrible. It wasn’t long before he and Conor were working the streets. And not much longer than that before it became plain that Liam’s youth and beauty - for he was, in those days, extremely beautiful - meant that every waking hour could have been spent turning his back on opportunity. Conor quickly took full advantage of this situation. Soon no one came to the young Ganymede but by him. The rates were as high as the market would bear, but Liam only received food, a small clothing allowance and pocket money. This state of affairs continued for nearly three years.

‘It may seem odd to you,’ Max Jennings unmeshed his fingers and turned his palms upwards, as if to illustrate his own past unbelief, ‘that Liam put up with all this for so long, but Conor kept him on a very short leash. The business took place at their flat, which meant opportunities to make other friends were virtually non-existent. And Conor would get very angry if Liam suggested going out and meeting other people. This was all that was needed to keep the boy in line for, not surprisingly, he was terrified of violence.’

For the first time ever Sergeant Troy, listening intently, found himself forced to think of an arse bandit - i.e. the rising scum on society’s cesspit - with some degree of perceptive sympathy. This unsettled him considerably. Put out to a degree that rapidly became both irritating and uncomfortable, he was finally rescued by having resource to his ‘Cliché For All Occasions’ file. As always, it did not let him down. Under E (for excuses) there it was: Exception proves rule, the. Phew! Metaphorically, Troy mopped his brow. Things had seemed a bit unclear there for a moment. A touch on the complicated side. Relieved, he returned his attention to the story.

‘Then, just a few months before he was seventeen, Liam met Hilton Conninx. Perhaps you may have heard of him?’

Even as Barnaby shook his head he experienced a distant tremor of acknowledgement far too faint to be called recognition. In any case a wander from the point was the last thing he wished to encourage. Outside it was by now pitch black. The rate things were going it looked as if they were going to be there all night.

‘Conninx was an artist specialising in portraits. Extremely successful commercially he was poorly regarded by the critics though two of his paintings are in Dublin’s National Gallery. A sort of Irish Annigoni. Having had Liam’s remarkable looks glowingly described by a friend, Conninx made an appointment to visit the boy. The painter was not interested in what that same friend was cute enough to call “spreading the cheeky bits”. Though homosexual, Conninx was by then in his seventies and hoarded what energy he had with careful scrupulosity to spend at his work.

‘He knew straight away that he wanted Liam to model for him - in his autobiography,
Painted Clay
, he describes his first sight of the boy better than I ever could - the problem was Conor. He asked a large fee for each sitting, which wasn’t a problem, but also insisted on not only delivering Liam and taking him home but staying in the studio thoughout. Purely to protect his protégé, or so the explanation went, from “that evil old pederast”.

‘In truth Conor could not afford to let Liam wander far and certainly not in the company of anyone as wealthy, intelligent and successful as Hilton Conninx. For it was only by constantly invoking their common memories of a cruel and poverty-stricken past, which he implied had equally cursed them both, that Conor maintained his hold on the boy. Both of them were in the gutter and one of them had better not be looking at the stars.’

Here Jennings broke off for a minute or two, resting his forehead in his hands as if the telling of the story was too much for him. When he started to speak again it was more quickly, giving the impression he couldn’t wait for the whole thing to be over and done with.

‘But in the end greed overcame Conor’s struggle to maintain the
status quo
. As Liam’s manager, or pimp, he had demanded a hundred guineas for each sitting. Conninx had indicated that at least twelve would be necessary. But, in the middle of the second session, Conninx suddenly put down his brush and said he couldn’t possibly continue with a third person present. He would pay for both sittings, of course, but that must be an end to it. Liam discovered much later that this was all bluff. And that if Conor had called it, or even doubled the rate, Conninx would have given in. But twelve hundred guineas was a hell of a lot of money in the late fifties, particularly when you didn’t have to lift a finger to put it in your pocket.’

Barnaby quelled a strong feeling of distaste at this latest exchange of a boy, already sold God knew how many times, as if he were a piece of meat. The chief inspector could not shake off the feeling that somewhere in this last heartless transaction a child was still present making mock of the words ‘age of consent’.

‘It was the beginning of the end for Conor. Within a few visits Hilton Conninx had discovered Liam’s appalling history and started to persuade the boy to break free. It wasn’t easy. Liam had been in Conor’s thrall for so long he found it almost impossible to imagine surviving without him. He had no other home and next to no money. But Conninx persisted. The painter had plenty of clout and not only financial. Conor, who had been living on immoral earnings ever since he arrived in Dublin, was in no position to call any shots. One evening Liam did not return from his sitting. Conninx’s chauffeur arrived to ask for his belongings. These, such as they were, were handed over and that was that.

‘Liam remained with Conninx for fifteen years and was treated in a manner that he had never known in his life before. That is, with kindness and respect. I am,’ Jennings began to speak more quickly sensing (mistakenly) exasperation gathering in the breast of the man facing him, ‘compressing as much as possible. Hilton tried to teach Liam about art and music without, it must be admitted, much success and also encouraged him to read. Many portraits of the boy were produced during their first four or five years together, when Conninx still had his sight. It was his conceit never to paint a sitter in contemporary clothes and Liam was portrayed as a Victorian cleric, a French zouave, a pasha, a Persian lutenist - that’s one of the two in the National.

‘He became Conninx’s companion, amanuensis and friend. Though their relationship was never a sexual one there seems to be little doubt that Conninx cared deeply for the boy. Liam’s reaction was more constrained. He was thankful, as I suspect deprived children remain all their lives, for the smallest affection shown, but he was not able to respond in kind. Perhaps his loving apparatus, if one can so describe it, had been irreparably damaged. Perhaps Conninx’s attempts at healing never really reached the spot. Certain sufferings are untouchable, don’t you agree?’

Barnaby had never thought about it. Now, doing so, he decided that Jennings was probably right. This conclusion depressed him beyond measure. Troy spoke into the deepening gloom.

‘Did you say this Mr Connings lost his sight, sir?’

‘Yes, some years before he died. Liam did everything for him after that and when Conninx became ill - at over ninety - he cared for him at home until he died.’

This didn’t sound to Barnaby like a man incapable of love, but he had no wish to dam up the nicely running stream by saying so.

‘When the will was read Liam was the sole beneficiary. He inherited the house, plenty of money and quite a lot of paintings. As is the way of things after an artist’s death, the critics discovered just how versatile and under-rated Conninx had been and within weeks the value of his canvases went shooting up. Then something rather awful happened. The word on Liam’s good fortune was round, of course. Dublin’s not that big a place and in any case the bequest was published in the
Irish Times
. The day after this was done Conor turned up. Half of everything, or he threatened to tell the police that Liam had not only connived in his father’s murder and helped to bury the body but had actually fired the shot that had killed him.’

‘And had he?’ asked Sergeant Troy.

‘He swore not. His story is that he hid in the barn next to Conor’s house while Conor went inside, supposedly just for some money and a change of clothes. But he was gone nearly three hours. When he returned it was to say that Hanlon wouldn’t be bothering them again. He’d be drawn no further. No doubt Liam was so relieved to have escaped he didn’t much care how dearly this freedom had been bought.’

‘But surely,’ said Barnaby, ‘having been under-age when all this happened he would have had nothing to fear from the police.’

‘Nothing serious,’ agreed Max. ‘He knew that and Conor must have known it too. But actuality, rationality if you like, had little to do with how Liam reacted to this new situation. It was the reintroduction of the past, you see. The terror of it. What frightens us as children frightens us all our lives.’

‘So how did he handle this new turn of events?’

‘Well, things were different this time round. Liam was older, pretty rich and with a widish circle of acquaintances, one or two of them quite influential. But Conor had also prospered, though not in ways that would perhaps bear close scrutiny. And his acquaintances were very unpleasant indeed. As to how Liam handled it . . . he did what he had done all those years before. Stalling Conor for as long as it took to put his own affairs in order, he ran away, this time making a thoroughly professional job of it. He went to England, chose a new name and completely re-invented himself.’

‘That’s a bit drastic, isn’t it?’ asked Sergeant Troy.

‘You wouldn’t think so if you’d heard
him
tell the story.’ Here Jennings broke off and drank a little water. Momentarily he looked preoccupied, as if distracted by a quite different train of thought. He put the glass down and brushed at his forehead as if brushing away some irritating insect.

‘This transformation was not only for reasons of concealment. He seemed to hold a rather touching belief that by determinedly altering external details and behaviour he would somehow be psychologically transformed.’

‘Every day in every way . . .’ quoted Barnaby.

‘Exactly. Up to a point, and on a fairly shallow level, this may be possible, but the wounds Gerald had received were far too deep, and deeply infected, to be even adequately cleaned by such simplistic methods. But, as everyone you must have spoken to must have confirmed, as far as the outward shell was concerned he did a brilliant job. By the time I met him he looked and sounded like your quintessential Englishman. Any gentleman’s club would have been proud to sign him on.’