The women swiped their phones as their children crawled over the seats.
‘Look at this one here,’ said one of the mothers excitedly, lifting up her phone and turning it to her two friends sitting facing her.
‘These leggings only cost me twenty euro,’ the woman said almost spelling out the word ‘euro’ she emphasised it so much. ‘Been delivered and all for that.’
Crowe looked at the women again. High platform heels, hair freshly straightened, fake eyelashes, manicured nails and layers of make-up. In sharp contrast to herself.
I probably look like I’ve been dragged arseways through a ditch.
She hadn’t been to the hairdresser’s for half a year. She hadn’t bought clothes or underwear in she didn’t know how long. And she had still not got around to buying make-up. She had cut her make-up tube in half and had scraped each end dry. The past months were just a blur.
‘Sit the fuck down,’ the first woman roared at a girl, her daughter, Crowe presumed.
Crowe looked out the window as the Luas glided to a halt. A group of young fellas and girls were messing on the platform. Just as the Luas door closed, one of them lunged for the door, forcing it to open. They all piled in. Just like her thoughts.
She had gone to visit Garda Peters that morning. She tried to get to the hospital every fortnight or so. His mother was there, as always. Although they lived in Tipperary, she drove up every morning, after the traffic, and didn’t go back until the late afternoon, before the evening rush. Her husband worked the garage back home and came up at the weekends with her.
Crowe felt stabs of pain in her heart as she watched Peters’ mum fuss around the bed, tidy the side tables, straighten the pillows, smooth out the sheets and share small talk with the nurses. On the bottom of the bed lay a tabloid newspaper, which she bought every day for her son.
‘A lot of the news is too grim: murders and the like,’ she told Crowe, ‘so I read him the sport. Mind you, I’m sure I’m not pronouncing all them foreign names right.’
She laughed and Crowe shared the moment with her. She twisted inside at the woman’s anguish. She dreaded being asked about the investigation, but knew it was inevitable. She wanted to be honest, but didn’t want to break the woman’s will completely.
‘We are trying hard, Ms Peters,’ she said. ‘We are doing everything we can. We won’t give up.’
Ms Peters looked at her, nodded and smiled. She placed her hand on her son’s wrist and rubbed it back and forth. Crowe knew Peters could stay in the coma indefinitely. If he ever did wake up, he would be paralysed from the neck down.
The Luas shuddered slightly, rousing Crowe. The women and the kids were gone. She caught sight of impressive graffiti decorating some dilapidated buildings.
‘Ya know she gives great head,’ a boy said loudly.
Crowe turned around. It was the youths that had jumped on a few stops back. One of the young fellas stood in the aisle, his hands down the front of his tracksuit bottoms.
‘Shut the fuck up,’ a girl replied.
‘Don’t tell me to shut the fuck up or I’ll slap ya one, bitch,’ the young fella shouted, pulling one of his hands out and pointing at her.
Crowe could sense other passengers tensing in their seats. She fought her instinct to intervene. She just wanted to get home, though she wasn’t sure if Tom would be there. Invariably, he was out these days. She didn’t know where. He’d just say he was out, having a pint or watching ‘the match’, which seemed to be most nights. He’d have a smell of drink off him alright. Some of the nights she came home she found porn on his computer. He didn’t bother wiping the history. But could she blame him? They hadn’t had sex in ages.
She was always tired and couldn’t get in the mood. She had been working non-stop for nearly four months, going through hundreds of hours of tapes to locate that truck. But it was a proverbial needle in a haystack job. And she had built up a backlog of other cases, which she was struggling to work her way through. She didn’t know when Tom and her last sat down together for a dinner. But she couldn’t sit at a table, have wine poured out for her, eat a nice meal and share small talk, with the killers still out there, sticking their two fingers up at everyone.
She wondered if Tom would do the dirt on her if he got an offer. He was handsome enough and had a weakness, like all men, if an available woman came his way.
She looked out at the grim Bridewell District Court as the Luas stopped and recalled her first cases at the chaotic Court 44. It was like being thrown into an urban jungle, without a map or the language. No one seemed to know what was going on. And you couldn’t hear a thing. It was sink or swim.
That was only five years ago. But it seemed like a different life.
There were more shouts behind her.
‘My God, be careful. My daughters.’
Crowe saw the young fella pretending to throw a bottle of beer against the window. She looked through gaps of people and made out a woman sitting opposite the youths. She had children with her.
‘Sorry there, Winnie,’ the youth said, to hoots of laughter. ‘What’s their names?’
The woman did not reply.
‘Ya not understand English, Winnie?’
‘Angel. And Precious.’
The kids laughed and repeated the names, ridiculing them.
Crowe sighed. She opened her bag, to check the pepper spray was near to hand. She took out her badge. She heaved herself up and negotiated her way through people that were getting off. The young fella eyeballed her as she approached. Both his hands were shoved down his grey tracksuit.
‘Sit down and leave the woman alone,’ Crowe said.
The young fella laughed, surprised by her audacity.
‘Listen, love, best thing youse can do is turn yer pretty ass around, yeah, and fuck off.’
‘I’m a garda,’ she said, holding up her badge. ‘If you don’t stop harassing this woman I will arrest you under the Public Order Act. Now, sit down.’
Crowe noticed she wasn’t the slightest bit nervous.
‘We’re just messing with Winnie Mandela here,’ the boy said, leaning in towards the woman. ‘Aren’t we?’
The woman clutched her two girls.
‘Would you like to sit down with me?’ Crowe asked.
The woman nodded and pushed the girls out. Crowe looked at the youth again and down at his friends, two boys and two girls, all around thirteen or fourteen.
‘What’s this, garda?’ the young fella said, pretending to be offended. ‘Can’t we even have a laugh with them foreigners now? That a fucking crime now, is it?’
She watched his hands move inside his tracksuit.
‘Do us all a favour and take your hands out of there,’ Crowe said. ‘It might be the only way you get any action, but the rest of us don’t want to see it.’
His mouth pouted, like a fish. He searched for words, but none came out. Muffled laughs from his friends broke the silence.
Crowe walked slowly back to her seat and acknowledged the woman’s thanks. She stared at the big, beautiful smiles of her children.
She wanted to smile back, but dark thoughts pulled at her.