The Girl From Yesterday (22 page)

The following day I was due to cover the day’s district court proceedings. In Ireland, the district court hears minor criminal cases, smaller civil matters (it cannot award damages over €6,348) and a jury does not oversee any of its dealings. For the readers of the
Western News
, the district court was a source of great gossip and entertainment. For many of our regular subscribers the reports we printed on the district court proceedings were the first items they looked for every week. Who had been caught driving a little too fast? Whose son had been arrested for being drunk and disorderly? Which couple had been cautioned by a garda for rowing publicly and causing a disturbance?

I could understand the attraction. Small towns are like goldfish bowls – not an awful lot happened, no matter how hard or long you watched, so you learned to glean excitement from the small things.

Covering the court was a long day. You had to remain focused and make a point of jotting down each and every detail accurately because, as Chaplin pointed out to me on my first day on the job, the individuals who appeared before our judge as miscreants were also some of the most litigious people you were likely to meet.

‘Get it right the first time and we won’t have to be printing withdrawals and apologies,’ he said, ‘or end up making our own news by finding ourselves in court.’

On the day in question the judge had called a break for lunch, and I was packing my notebooks, pens and other odds and ends into my bag when I heard my name being called.

‘Hey. Dunphy. You there.’

I looked up to see a middle-aged, besuited man with thinning blond hair. I recognized him as Keith Dignam, a solicitor who had been representing a young man who was up due to a lengthy backlog of traffic offences.

‘Yes?’ I said, assuming that I must have spelt his name wrong at some point in the past.

‘Lay off the Blaneys, all right?’

I looked around to see if there was anyone else he could possibly be talking to.

‘I wasn’t aware that I was laying
on
them,’ I said.

‘They are a great family and they deserve our respect, not to be labelled as child abusers and pariahs.’

‘And who has labelled them any of those things?’

‘Your newspaper—’

‘—has printed nothing about any child protection issues whatsoever.’

‘Well its stance on the dispute over the will—’

‘—has simply reported fact. Even if we did come down on one side or the other, we’d still be siding with a Blaney, so I don’t really get your problem.’

‘It is a matter of
tone,’
he said sagely. ‘You treat the thing as if it were a circus sideshow rather than a matter of human dignity.’

‘I’ll take your comments on board and report them to my editor,’ I said, getting up.

If I stayed around I would have said something I might have regretted.

Two days later I was at an auction of a group of derelict farm buildings that adjoined an old mill near the town boundaries. While quite a crowd turned out, there was little real competition for the properties, and Trapper Healy, a grossly obese, sweaty man who wore suits meant for somebody of a much slimmer frame, ended up being the only serious bidder. He was the most successful property developer and real-estate agent in town, and he hoovered the entire catalogue up as if the buildings were so many grains of sand. I had never even been introduced to Healy before, and I would never in a million years have thought that my humble comings and goings would have registered on his radar, but as soon as the gavel had been pounded the final time, he was making a beeline for me.

‘You,’ Healy said, no friendliness in his voice at all. ‘You’re the child welfare lad.’

‘I’m a journalist, Mr Healy,’ I said. ‘I write for the
Western News
. That’s why I’m here today. Congratulations on your acquisitions, by the way.’

‘Yeah, yeah, right. Now, I want to have a word with you about this Blaney affair. You don’t want to go runnin’ about, and you nothin’ but a blow-in, from
Dublin
, probably, getting people all upset and annoyed. It’s not good for morale. Jesus, I mean to say, any other time I’d’ve had a small bit of a fight to get these sheds, but you saw it today – no one had any heart for it.’

‘You think that I am causing a downturn in the local economy?’

‘What you’re doin’ t’ poor Tom Blaney is affectin’ everyone.’

‘If you have something to say about the children’s well-being, I suggest you talk to Sid Doran or Josephine Welch at the offices of child services. I know you don’t believe me, but I have no authority and no remit here at all. I am purely a writer who became something of an . . . I don’t know . . . an acquaintance of the family in recent weeks.’

‘You don’t fool me, you beardy feckin’ upstart,’ Healy hissed, putting a hand on my chest and gripping my shirt. ‘We’ve had you checked out. I know you were a child welfare busy-body for a lot of years, and I know you have a history of interfering in all sorts of things you should’ve kept well clear of.’

‘Really?’ I said, looking confused. ‘Me? Here I was all this time thinking I was a by-the-book child protection worker. I mean, I’ve never been in trouble, never had any disciplinary action against me, I’ve always had a good relationship with the gardai – am I missing something, Mr Healy? Do fill me in if I’ve skimmed over something important.’

He gripped my shirt tighter and in a reflex action I shoved him away.

‘You are hurting my town,’ Healy said, breathing hard. ‘I won’t stand for it.’

‘Sit down then,’ I said. ‘And for God’s sake buy some clothes that actually fit you.’

Feeling as if I may have sunk even below his level of discourse, yet not feeling one bit guilty about it, I skulked back to the office.

I shouldn’t have been annoyed by the altercation, but I was. I sat at my desk two hours later, long after Chaplin had gone home, glowering at my computer screen, which contained little more than a flashing cursor and the words:
Auction Sellout
. I was proud of the headline. I thought it was short, snappy and controversial. Now if only I could come up with something to put below it. Like an article.

I heard a foot on the stair and thought it must be Chaplin back, but then realized the tread was too light. A knock on the door followed.

‘Come in,’ I called.

It was Rachel, one of the students from my night class.

‘Hey,’ I said. ‘Have you got something exciting for me to put in my column this week?’

She smiled bashfully and sat down opposite me. She was a pleasant-looking girl with brown hair and a petite frame. She was dressed in the uniform of a checkout girl. I knew she worked in the local supermarket.

‘Shane, I think I’m in trouble,’ she said, and I saw she was about to cry.

‘Take a deep breath and tell me about it,’ I said, going over to the cooler and getting her a glass of water. I grabbed the box of tissues from Chaplin’s desk and handed it to her.

‘I . . . I don’t know what to say,’ she said. ‘I mean, I haven’t even got a boyfriend. I wish I could tell you what I did to have made this happen.’

‘Make what happen, honey?’ I asked.

She fumbled in her bag and took out her mobile phone. I felt my heart sink.

The message this time was much, much worse. The previous ones were of the ‘this is what I’d like to do if I ever got hold of you’ variety, and were obscene but fairly pedestrian in their content. This one was nasty. It was cruel and angry and very, very threatening. I checked the number. It was from McKinney’s phone.

‘Do you have any suspicion as to who sent you this?’ I asked her.

She shook her head.

‘You didn’t give your number to anyone new?’

‘No.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘I’m certain.’

She stopped for a moment, as if a thought had occurred to her.

‘I lost my phone last week. In college.’

I looked up.

‘Where did you lose it?’

‘I noticed it was missing when we were in the computer room. Remember you were showing us how to use those database sites?’

‘Yes, of course. Can you remember if you had it when you went in to the computer lab?’

‘No, but I must have.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because I looked and looked and couldn’t find it. I was sure it was gone for good. Then when I was going home, I met that guy in the wheelchair – you know, Jeff – well he had it. He said he found it under the desk I’d been working at. I was so pleased he’d found it. All my numbers and a load of other stuff is on it.’

I smiled, though I wasn’t happy.

‘When did the texts begin? The bad ones?’

‘I got the first one the next afternoon.’

‘Okay, Rachel. You were right to come to me. Here’s what I want you to do . . .’

And I told her a plan I had been formulating. She agreed to help me.

‘Erik Erikson was a Danish-American psychologist,’ I said, a series of photos of the man being projected on to the board. ‘He dedicated his life to developing a set of what he called “psychosocial stages” of development, which took the ideas of Freud, some of which we looked at a few weeks ago, and turned them into something most people find a lot more useful.’

‘He looks kinda like a more serious Einstein,’ Breda said.

‘Mmm. I believe he was a happy man with quite a sense of humour,’ I said. ‘He was certainly popular with his students. But he was always searching for somewhere to belong, somewhere to call home. Just like Freud and so many of the other theorists we’ve discussed, Erikson was Jewish. But he looked like the stereotypical Viking – very tall, very broad, with yellow blond hair. So at Jewish Sunday school he was bullied for looking like Eric the Viking. At mainstream school they bullied him for being a Jew. As soon as he finished school, he ran away, travelling around Europe and farther afield, trying to find himself, as so many young people, both before and after him, have done.’

‘Did he ever find it?’ Rachel asked.

‘What?’ I asked. ‘Himself?’

‘No,’ Rachel laughed. ‘A home.’

I looked at the final picture of the great psychologist, looking into the camera with a determined, if slightly tense, expression.

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I like to think he did. He was very happily married, and he spent a lot of time with the First Nation Peoples when he came to America, and he always wrote that he was very comfortable with them.’

‘Maybe he did then,’ Tim said. ‘If you think about it, when you lose something, it’s often in the last place you look.’

‘That is a very profound observation, Tim,’ I said.

There was, at that point, a knock on the door and George Taylor stuck his head in.

‘Hello everyone,’ he said, smiling at the class.

‘Hullo Mr Taylor,’ they responded as one.

‘Shane, I have someone looking to have a quick word. Can you spare a few minutes?’

I brought up a slide that outlined Erikson’s stages.

‘Get into groups of three or four,’ I said. ‘Look at the names of the stages, see how they are all “something vs something else” – Erikson said that each stage involved a conflict. So, the first stage, which is the first year of life, is called
Trust vs Mistrust
. The second year of life is
Autonomy vs Guilt.’

‘What does “autonomy” mean?’ Maggie asked.

‘Who has a dictionary app on their phone?’ I asked, looking about the group.

No response.

‘Who can get one for free within twenty seconds?’

About twenty hands went up.

‘If you don’t understand any of the words, look them up. I want you to go through the stages, all of which are posted on the board there, and discuss why you think Erikson gave them those names. What did he mean by identifying each stage by those conflicts? What did he think was going on in the person’s head? I’ll be as quick as I can, and then I expect you to share your insights.’

Taylor said goodbye to the class and then led me towards his office.

‘I would have asked your visitor to wait until the break, but he assures me this is an urgent matter that simply cannot wait.’

‘Yeah? Who is it?’

‘Father Peter Ahern.’

‘Don’t know him.’

‘He is the bishop’s personal assistant. His right-hand man.’

‘It’s probably something to do with the paper,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Taylor, I’ll get rid of him as fast as I can.’

George patted me on the shoulder as we reached the door of the office.

‘The bishop is our patron,’ he said. ‘Take as long as you need. If you’re not out in half an hour, I can tell your group to take an early tea break. I doubt they will be too upset at the prospect.’

I gave him a thumbs up and went in.

The room was in darkness except for one lamp on George Taylor’s desk. Sitting in the principal’s seat, his hands forming a steeple in front of him, was a dark-haired man of perhaps thirty-eight years. He wore the black clothes and white collar of a priest, and had a pleasant, genial face.

‘Shane, thank you for taking the time to see me,’ he said, standing when I came in. ‘My name is Peter. We haven’t met.’

I shook his hand as we sat. It was all very friendly.

‘Mr Taylor has filled me in on who you are, and urged me to give you as much time as you require,’ I said. ‘So – what can I do for you?’

‘I’m here to ask you, in your capacity as a writer for the biggest-selling local newspaper in the region, to do me – and his Lordship, Bishop Kantwell – a favour.’

‘What kind of favour?’ I asked.

‘The kind that will be remembered. The kind that can earn you favours in return.’

‘I’m a man of simple tastes, Father, and of few needs. I assume the favour involves writing something for the paper. That is my job, so, if you have an item worth publishing, I’ll facilitate that, no problem, no reward necessary. If the bishop has something he wants to say, the newspaper is hardly going to turn him down, now is it?’

‘You are a pragmatic man, I see,’ Father Ahern said.

‘I like to think so.’

‘Very well. Let us not beat about the bush any further. Are you interested in history, Mr Dunphy?’

‘Yes.’

‘You are aware, then, of the great struggle Roman Catholicism has faced over the centuries in Ireland. The church has been persecuted by a succession of British monarchs – priests burnt at the stake or skewered like pigs, property stolen, manuscripts burned, valuable artefacts taken. Catholics were viewed as being little more than criminals, members of a dangerous cult.’