July 2005. Such a beautiful summer, Michael McLoughlin thought, as he sat on the terrace outside his kitchen. He leaned back into the wooden slats of his old garden bench, and turned his face to the late-afternoon sun. It had been almost too hot out here at midday, but it was almost perfect now. He looked out across Dublin’s sprawling suburbs towards the bay and Howth Head beyond. The sea was so beautiful, striped like a piece of agate. Dark navy towards the horizon. Light green, almost turquoise closer to the shore. Every now and then a delicate stippling of white as a breeze ruffled the glittering surface. He got out his binoculars and focused on the boats. A couple of cruisers flying French flags and three from Britain. There was even an American boat out there, a big one, fifty feet or more in length, he reckoned, with that tough, buttoned-down look that deep-water yachts always have. And scattered across the bay, like a handful of children’s toys, were the sailing dinghies. On the north side from the club in Clontarf, and closer to home from the clubs in Dun Laoghaire. Where he was headed this evening. For his retirement party.
Retirement, already? He could hardly believe it. After twenty-seven years in the force they had told him he was ready to go. But he’d hung on for another ten years until it became obvious that his time was up. Did he care? Only in as much as he wasn’t sure how he would live the rest of his life. That was assuming there would be a rest of his life. So he’d done the sensible thing and gone to all the Preparation for Retirement courses that the welfare office laid on. And he’d tried to pay attention and not be one of the sniggering cynics in the back row. And maybe he’d learned a few things because he’d got himself some class of a job for the rest of the summer. He was going to deliver boats to France and Spain – some for a cruise hire company based in Brittany, returning boats that had been sailed to Ireland on holiday, and others for people who didn’t have the time to get their boats to the Med for their few weeks’ cruising. The company belonged to a guy he’d crewed for over the years. There wasn’t much money in it. Just his keep and a few bob for drinking and a couple of weeks in one of the company’s apartments or villas. And who knew where that might lead? There was very little to keep him in Dublin now. His mother was well looked after in the nursing-home. She’d miss him, but she’d understand. She knew he was lonely. That there was little love in his life. She’d wish him well.
He stood up and walked inside. It was dark in comparison with all that light outside. He felt his way into the bathroom, undressed and got under the shower. He’d need to lose a few pounds. Not much room below decks on most of those boats. And he had a sudden image of his ageing, flabby body in shorts. Not a pretty sight. He squatted down and let the water pour on to his neck and shoulders. His thigh muscles quivered and he thought for a moment that he would lose balance and topple forward. He pressed his hands against the tiled walls and pushed himself upright again. His breath was coming in short gasps. Jesus, he hadn’t realized how unfit he was. The last couple of years he’d been behind a desk most of the time, out at the airport working in Immigration. Too much administration, not enough action. Well, it would stop now. He’d three weeks until his first cruise. If he exercised for an hour every day, cut back on the alcohol and the fats he’d be in much better shape by then, he hoped.
He turned off the tap, picked up a towel and walked into his bedroom. He rummaged through his wardrobe and pulled out his linen jacket. He hadn’t worn it for years and he was sure the dress code for tonight was sober suits. But what the hell? It was his party so he’d wear what he wanted. He’d always been a bit of an outsider. Didn’t play golf, wasn’t interested in football, soccer or Gaelic, was a better cook than most of the Garda wives he knew. And he was a loner. No wife, not now. No kids, no family to speak of. That was why he’d picked the yacht club for the party. At least there he was known. At least there someone would greet him like a friend. Make him feel he had a place in the world.
He dressed quickly. The jacket still fitted. And it didn’t look bad, even if the colour was more ivory than cream. Maybe when he hit the sun he’d get himself a proper linen suit, trousers and a waistcoat to match. He turned away from the mirror and patted his pockets. Wallet, phone, keys, reading-glasses, all the essentials of middle-aged life. And for a special treat tonight, some cigars. Cohibas, the best Cubans. Kept in their own wooden humidor for special occasions. The box had belonged to his father. He had been a lover of cigars too. Not that he could afford them very often. So the function of the box had been subverted. His mother used to keep her favourite recipes in it, and a collection of treasures. A silver locket, a string of pearls. And some black-and-white snaps of Michael and his sister, Clare, taken with his father’s Box Brownie. When she’d gone into the nursing-home the humidor had become McLoughlin’s. He had cleaned it out and filled it with as many cigars as he could afford. And sometimes in the bottom section beneath the removable rosewood panel, he put his own treasures.
Now he picked out a dozen cigars. Enough to hand around to the lads and a few for himself. He filled his leather cigar case and slipped it into his pocket. He began to close the lid. Then he stopped. This was such a beautiful summer. Like that other beautiful summer, ten years ago. The year that Mary Mitchell died. That he met her mother, Margaret. That he fell in love with her. That he thought he would die from longing. He lifted out the tray that held the remaining cigars. Underneath was a brown envelope in a plastic bag. He picked it up and weighed it in his hand. He smoothed his fingers over its shiny surface. He didn’t need to look inside. He could see all the images as clearly as he had seen them that night in the shed behind the cottage in Ballyknockan. Mary Mitchell in the days before she died, her head shorn of its black curls, her body bruised and beaten. Humiliated and shamed. The moment of her death, her eyes half closed, her pupils fixed and dilated, a smile frozen on her wide, generous mouth. The photographs had been spread out on the floor beside Jimmy Fitzsimons. He was lying there, helpless, chained to a ring on the wall, his face covered with tape. Where Margaret had left him to die. And he had thought that McLoughlin would save him. That the guard would do the right thing. But instead he had wiped the tape, the handcuffs, the chain clean of her fingerprints. He had picked up the photographs and put them into his pocket. He could not bear to think that Mary would be tainted by Jimmy’s death. He had brought them home. He had put them into his mother’s treasure box. He had kept them and minded them. He had protected Mary’s memory as best he could and he had never stopped loving her mother.
He sighed heavily. He put the plastic bag back into the box, carefully replacing the thin wooden panel. He laid the cigars over it, then closed the lid and locked it with its small brass key. Then he turned away. It was time to go. It wouldn’t do to be late tonight of all nights. He opened the front door. It was such a beautiful evening. He got into his car and started the engine. The sun dazzled his eyes. He put up his hand to block it out. And thought he saw Mary. As she must have been when she was alive. Dancing through the rays of the evening light.
‘Goodnight, Mary. Goodnight,’ he whispered.
He put the car in gear. Then he drove slowly down the hill towards the sea.