But he did know. He knew she was
disappointed. All through those dreadful few days, when the coffin came home with its lid closed, and the house was filled with relatives and neighbours and guards from every station around the
country. And the removal to the church, the night of heavy drinking that followed, and the next day the funeral Mass, the burial, the three-course lunch in the hotel, then the session back at the
house where the drink flowed and all the old stories were told time and time again. And he knew what his mother was thinking.
‘How could you know? Are you a mind-reader?’ The therapist leaned forward in her chair.
‘Not a mind-reader, a body-reader. I know my mother. Our eyes didn’t meet. Not once. Not during the whole bloody thing.’
‘And now? How long is it since your father died?’
‘Nearly thirty years.’ He looked down at his hands. ‘Now, well, now she needs me. She’s in a nursing-home. My sister lives in London so there’s only me to go and
see her, to keep an eye on her. So it’s pretty OK between us.’
‘And do you talk about your father?’
‘Yes, we do. But we don’t talk about that. I don’t think either of us can bear to bring it up. I don’t know why I’m talking about it now.’
But he did know. He wanted to talk about Margaret, but there were things he couldn’t say. He doubted that the confidentiality rule would hold if he spilled the beans about what had
happened that night. So he’d dug up his father. And then when he could think of nothing further to say about him he prevaricated. Dredged up some other awful cases. A mother who had
suffocated her two children, then taken an overdose; a man who had set fire to the family home killing his wife and baby; a son who had starved his invalid mother to death and kept her body hidden
in the attic for months. They were all true cases. And they had hurt badly at the time. But he hadn’t been directly involved as he had been with the death of Jimmy Fitzsimons.
The death of Jimmy Fitzsimons. The slow, agonizing torture of Jimmy Fitzsimons. He had put it out of his mind. He had put the place out of his mind. He could have got into the car and driven out
there any time he wanted. But he hadn’t. He went crazy. He went to the clinic. He got better. He put it out of his mind.
Now he sat in the car in the dark. There was music on the radio. Frank Sinatra was singing. That lovely song, ‘Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered’. He remembered. A night in May
– was it 1986, ’87? Some time around then. Frank Sinatra had come to Dublin. Janey had got tickets to go to the concert in the football ground at Lansdowne Road. He hadn’t wanted
to go. He had been in the middle of a murder. A girl found in Blackrock Park. Raped and beaten. They’d followed up the obvious leads. Nothing so far. He’d have preferred to go drinking
with the lads to talk about it. But Janey had insisted. And she was right. It was a magical evening. Old Frankie’s voice was past its best, but he could still weave that spell. And
afterwards, as the crowd drifted out through the gates, a woman somewhere up ahead had started to sing. Her voice was thin and reedy but it didn’t matter. They had all joined in, a surge of
voices. They sang ‘Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered’.
Janey had reached out and taken his hand and he had pulled her to him and kissed her. And for once he’d been genuinely sorry that he had to go back to work and not home to be with her.
He began to sing now, in the car, in the dark, the lights of the city filling the sky with a sickly orange glow. The orchestra came in behind Sinatra’s voice, filling and swelling like the
sweep of a spring tide. And he felt the tears again as he sang, and his throat tightened and his voice choked and died away, leaving him suddenly bereft.
He checked the handbrake, checked that the car was in gear, switched off the ignition. He opened the door and got out. He walked around to
disappointed. All through those dreadful few days, when the coffin came home with its lid closed, and the house was filled with relatives and neighbours and guards from every station around the
country. And the removal to the church, the night of heavy drinking that followed, and the next day the funeral Mass, the burial, the three-course lunch in the hotel, then the session back at the
house where the drink flowed and all the old stories were told time and time again. And he knew what his mother was thinking.
‘How could you know? Are you a mind-reader?’ The therapist leaned forward in her chair.
‘Not a mind-reader, a body-reader. I know my mother. Our eyes didn’t meet. Not once. Not during the whole bloody thing.’
‘And now? How long is it since your father died?’
‘Nearly thirty years.’ He looked down at his hands. ‘Now, well, now she needs me. She’s in a nursing-home. My sister lives in London so there’s only me to go and
see her, to keep an eye on her. So it’s pretty OK between us.’
‘And do you talk about your father?’
‘Yes, we do. But we don’t talk about that. I don’t think either of us can bear to bring it up. I don’t know why I’m talking about it now.’
But he did know. He wanted to talk about Margaret, but there were things he couldn’t say. He doubted that the confidentiality rule would hold if he spilled the beans about what had
happened that night. So he’d dug up his father. And then when he could think of nothing further to say about him he prevaricated. Dredged up some other awful cases. A mother who had
suffocated her two children, then taken an overdose; a man who had set fire to the family home killing his wife and baby; a son who had starved his invalid mother to death and kept her body hidden
in the attic for months. They were all true cases. And they had hurt badly at the time. But he hadn’t been directly involved as he had been with the death of Jimmy Fitzsimons.
The death of Jimmy Fitzsimons. The slow, agonizing torture of Jimmy Fitzsimons. He had put it out of his mind. He had put the place out of his mind. He could have got into the car and driven out
there any time he wanted. But he hadn’t. He went crazy. He went to the clinic. He got better. He put it out of his mind.
Now he sat in the car in the dark. There was music on the radio. Frank Sinatra was singing. That lovely song, ‘Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered’. He remembered. A night in May
– was it 1986, ’87? Some time around then. Frank Sinatra had come to Dublin. Janey had got tickets to go to the concert in the football ground at Lansdowne Road. He hadn’t wanted
to go. He had been in the middle of a murder. A girl found in Blackrock Park. Raped and beaten. They’d followed up the obvious leads. Nothing so far. He’d have preferred to go drinking
with the lads to talk about it. But Janey had insisted. And she was right. It was a magical evening. Old Frankie’s voice was past its best, but he could still weave that spell. And
afterwards, as the crowd drifted out through the gates, a woman somewhere up ahead had started to sing. Her voice was thin and reedy but it didn’t matter. They had all joined in, a surge of
voices. They sang ‘Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered’.
Janey had reached out and taken his hand and he had pulled her to him and kissed her. And for once he’d been genuinely sorry that he had to go back to work and not home to be with her.
He began to sing now, in the car, in the dark, the lights of the city filling the sky with a sickly orange glow. The orchestra came in behind Sinatra’s voice, filling and swelling like the
sweep of a spring tide. And he felt the tears again as he sang, and his throat tightened and his voice choked and died away, leaving him suddenly bereft.
He checked the handbrake, checked that the car was in gear, switched off the ignition. He opened the door and got out. He walked around to
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