The White Tower (5 page)

‘I guess they'd have worn uniforms of some sort,' I said, nervous now about saying the wrong thing.

‘Well, they wouldn't stand up in lines and march.'

I flinched. Moira noticed and reacted with a slow, derisive smile.

I decided that asking questions might be a better way to go. ‘When do you think
Castle of Heroes
might have been set?'

‘Maybe around the Armada. Elizabeth the first. If it's one of the great rebel Ulster families.'

My guess was that a time frame hadn't mattered much to Sorley Fallon. I suspected that his approach to history had been a ragbag one—pick a name here, a style of dress there. The main thing was the contest. The settings could vary according to his whim.

I didn't mind chatting to Moira about all this, though at every step I was bound to reveal my ignorance of Irish history. But I couldn't help being conscious of her husband's presence in the house, if not actually within earshot, then somewhere just outside it.

Moira understood, or else her own awareness of Bernard's critical and judging presence tipped the scales, because she roused herself and handed back the emails. I hesitated before taking them—I'd expected that she'd want to keep them.

I told her I'd send off some more. I hoped Sgartha and one or two others would answer my questions about Ferdia and his prowess in battle. Best, of course, would be to talk to Sorley Fallon.

. . .

I was surprised to find that Bernard Howley wasn't in the house and that it seemed as if Moira might have known this all along. She called through the back door to let him know that I was coming out, and for a second they could have been any older couple, habits known so well that a few half words were all they needed.

Bernard stood in the open air, framed by trees, bushes and a trellised fence. Two tall eucalypts in one corner, a clutch of three silver birches in another, gave the garden balance. In between were smaller apple and plum trees, flowering shrubs and creepers that gave off mingled, wind-shredded scents of acacia and fruit blossom.

Niall's father motioned me forward and indicated a green wooden seat in a spot out of the wind. He didn't sit down though, and, in the circumstances, I too felt like standing.

If I'd met him socially, I'd probably have thought of his face as pleasant. His features were small and regular, and his resemblance to Niall grew on me as we talked. I guessed his hair had been blond, and his blue, wide-spaced eyes suggested that the similarity between father and son would once have been striking. He was taller than Niall looked in his photo, with a heavier build.

He held himself very erect, one hand on the back of the garden seat continuing to extend the invitation I'd declined. Instead of looking at me as we spoke, he addressed some part of his own anatomy, his hands mostly, a forearm hidden under a shirt that smelt strongly, even out there, of dry-cleaning chemicals.

We began talking, of all things, about Niall's car.

‘What happened to it?'

‘The police returned it to us,' Bernard said, frowning at his fingernails, ‘along with my son's computer and his—personal effects.'

‘Which were?'

‘His wallet and his car keys.'

Bernard reminded me of Mikhail Litowski at the Telstra Tower, though they weren't alike to look at. It was the stiffly upright stance, the self control, though I sensed that in Litowski it would go much deeper.

‘My son's wallet,' Bernard went on, ‘was in the car. There was his driving licence, credit card, and about fifty dollars cash.'

‘Nothing else?'

‘Just his wallet and car keys. Oh, and his work pass. One of those clip-on passes.'

‘Why would Niall be carrying his work pass? He'd finished work for the day.'

Bernard checked his spotless shirt cuffs and replied, ‘I have no idea.'

‘Where's the car now?'

‘I sold it. Don't know about sold. Gave it away practically. The boy who got it couldn't believe his luck.'

‘Do you have his address?'

‘Somewhere,' Bernard said. ‘If I haven't thrown it out. Look, where is all this leading? I really want to impress upon you, Ms ah—?'

‘Mahoney,' I said, thinking that he knew perfectly well.

‘What help can you possibly be to my wife? You're not a trained counsellor. You'll only end up doing harm. Moira needs to be helped to put the tragedy behind her, not to dwell on it. If she's offering you money to perform some sort of an investigation, then I'm prepared to offer you a larger sum to stay away from her, from us.'

He finally looked at me, a long level stare. I was sure this had been planned as well, the timing of it, the carrot and the stick in one.

‘Mr Howley,' I said, ‘why do you think your son killed himself?'

I didn't think he was going to answer me, but eventually he did.

‘Niall lost control, of this game—I don't know what else to call it, but game seems an obscene word—of his personal life,' Bernard paused and took a couple of deep breaths, ‘God knows, I never thought Natalie added up to much, I thought Niall was worth ten of her in fact—'

‘Moira told me that at the time Niall moved back here, after breaking up with Natalie, you advised her—she said your view was that neither of you should intrude. You should let him work it out for himself.'

I meant to be cruel, to pay Bernard back. He went pale and pressed his lips together, biting them. Then he said, ‘We knew we had to let go. Whatever Moira says now she knew that as well as I did. It's hard,
was
hard, an only child, and one who'd always been so—'

‘What happened that night?'

Bernard looked at me again, not a long, calculating, hostile look, but quick, appraising, wanting to know what his wife had said.

‘I'm sure Moira's told you that Niall came home. Briefly. And that neither of us saw him.'

The wind picked up a notch and complained around a garden shed's aluminium corners. My wisteria would probably not flower for another four weeks yet, but Bernard's—I thought of it as his—was covered in buds about to burst. It had left its trellis way behind and climbed, a reck­less child, above the fence and higher, threading its way around a crab apple tree and reaching long brown fingers out towards the silver birch.

It seemed out of character, to let the plant run wild, without a proper climbing frame, and nowhere near the house where it could use the eaves. It seemed out of character for Bernard, whose compost heaps against the back fence were shaped into perfect pyramids. Suddenly, I wanted to tell this man about my own garden across the lake, flowers on my desk bespeaking hope, good things to come as well as bad, this man with his attention to pruning and neat edges, so much of the outward appearance of careful treading, careful tending.

‘It's all Moira's done these last few months,' he said. ‘Blame herself. And me.'

‘For what exactly?'

‘For being hard. Insensitive. For not having recognised a cry for help.'

‘What do you think?'

‘I think that, with hindsight, it's possible to rewrite any person's history. And that's what my wife, very understandably, is trying to do. But unfortunately, it won't do her, or our son, any good.'

‘What really happened that night?'

‘I've told you. Niall came home and went to his room. He was there for a little under half an hour. I know the time because there's a wildlife documentary Moira likes to watch and it had just started when we heard the front door open, and it finished a few moments after Niall went out. Of course neither of us took it in. We were too tense.'

‘What do you think Niall was doing in his room?'

‘He destroyed all his papers, notes. He could have spent twenty minutes or so getting rid of them that night, although I'd have thought it would take longer to do such a thorough job. Since we didn't see him leave, we don't know what he took with him. He could have had a bag, a briefcase, anything.'

‘Your son owned a briefcase?'

‘Well no, he didn't actually, not that I'm aware.'

‘There's also the computer picture.'

‘There you are then,' Bernard said, as though this alone accounted for the time Niall had spent in his room, and his reason for returning to the house. He sounded annoyed, as though I was again asking unnecessary questions.

‘Were you satisfied with the coronial inquiry?'

‘It was a terrible ordeal. I don't want to be reminded of it.'

‘Do you know the person Niall went out to meet?'

‘Eamonn? Is that who you mean? Niall worked with him. Yes, you could say I knew him. As well as I knew any of my son's friends.'

‘Did he come here, to this house?'

‘Not very often. What I mean is, my son wasn't terribly outgoing, he didn't seem to need people all that much. Sometimes I used to wonder if he needed anybody. He didn't seem to miss the company of people his own age, or go looking for it. I guess you'd have to say Natalie was an exception to that. But take one example—Niall never wanted birthday parties. Even when he was quite young. When we asked him he said no thanks, he'd just as soon not bother.'

‘But they were real friends for all that, he and Eamonn?'

‘I believe so, yes.'

‘Did you see Eamonn after Niall died?'

‘Well, he came to the funeral.'

‘Did you talk to him?'

‘Not much. To tell you the truth, all of that's a blur.'

‘So you know of nothing about the meeting with Eamonn, or ­anything that happened that evening or that day which might have ­triggered Niall's decision?'

‘I've already told you what I think.'

‘Are you angry with your son Mr Howley?'

‘Angry? When your son kills himself, do you feel angry? You feel everything, yes, including anger. But it's nothing like the anger I feel towards you for coming here and asking such a stupid question. It's not a human scale of anger.'

He waited for me to apologise for being stupid, and when I didn't, he went on. ‘You want to know what I think. I think my son was lost to me, not that night, but weeks, months before it, years. Now I can blame myself for that, or Niall, or circumstances. But blame—the word, the activity, has become meaningless to me. Just like the word anger, in the way you used it. You know, I can't remember a time when my son wanted to share his interests with me. There must have been a time, mustn't there, when he was four, five years old, when he couldn't help it? But I can't remember. I can't remember a time when he and I were open to the possibility, when he ran in to me and said, “Hey Dad, look at this!” Was that my fault? You see, this is where blame leads you. It's a road with no end.'

He paused, then went on, and now he sounded very tired. ‘I do know that by March, April, when Niall and Natalie broke up, and Niall came back here, back home, it was too late. And he told us nothing. In the end he told us nothing.'

Six

I wrote to Sorley Fallon, expecting to be ignored. If I was serious about helping Moira, I couldn't put it off any longer.

I introduced myself then typed,
I need to find out why Niall Howley killed himself.

I stared at this sentence, surprised at how personal it sounded. Up till then, I'd been thinking it was Moira's need, not mine.

Fallon emailed straight back. Over the next few days we had a sort of conversation.

I suggest you try talking to his family.

I'm already doing that. You'll understand that they're in a bad way, his mother especially.

I'm sorry.

A master of the short reply. Was he concerned, or just curious enough to continue?

I like your website.

Thanks.

What's business like there on the Antrim coast?

I get by.

Your jewellery's impressive.

I've some end-of-season specials if you're interested.

Can I take a raincheck on that? What happened to Ferdia? What went wrong?

It's a long story.

I'd established a link to Fallon, but a wrong move would snap it.
Not
making moves wouldn't get me anywhere either. I wedged my courage into my fingertips, and pictured Fallon licking his. How much of his jewellery business did he do by mail order? I imagined opening a well-sealed box on one of those brooches with a dagger pin.

While trying to work out my next question, I arranged to meet Niall's friend, Eamonn, at the hospital where they'd both worked, Niall as a radiotherapist, Eamonn as a nurse. I'd told Moira that I intended contacting Niall's former work colleagues and his ex-girlfriend, Natalie, who was away from Canberra on a field trip. She didn't argue with me, or insist that she'd only hired me to investigate the MUD. She did ask, though, for my latest news from Fallon.

Monaro Hospital had that special incandescence of new expensive places. We'd all seen the five-star accommodation ads on TV when it had opened to a fanfare three years ago. Tastefully decorated rooms with views of the Brindabellas. Especially tasteful flower arrangements, not those desperate floral loopings that surround the seriously ill. The ads for the new hospital had infuriated me. Since my mother died I'd developed, like many people I guess, a dread of hospitals as buildings.

I could have arranged to meet Eamonn in a bar in Civic, but I needed to see where Niall had worked. Being there wasn't as bad as I'd expected. The café was on the ground floor, not far from the main entrance, and this entrance, the shops surrounding it, the massed, shiny glass, the fountain, were exactly like the foyer of a large hotel. Only the number of people in dressing gowns and wheelchairs, the white coats of the staff, gave the place away.

One of the nurses who'd looked after me at the time of my car ­accident had been a man. He'd been taciturn, competent and kind, and I'd left my own stint in hospital well disposed towards male nurses in general.

Eamonn had the same gentle, though not self-effacing manner. The fine lines around his eyes and mouth suggested that he liked to smile, found quite a lot to smile about, didn't have to fake a cheerful expression for some poor patient who was feeling lousy. The prospect of half an hour spent talking about his friend's suicide apparently didn't make him feel he had to look like an undertaker either.

Both in its variety and quality, Eamonn told me, the food in the ­cafeteria was unusually good. He spent the first few minutes after we'd introduced ourselves singing the cook's praises, then explained that he and Niall had met at Dickson College here in Canberra.

‘We did the same Year Twelve subjects. You know, physics, advanced maths, the heavy stuff.' He smiled self-deprecatingly. ‘We were both interested in medicine. Well, I'd been interested in it since I used to pinch my sister's nurse kit. Niall was coming round to it. His first love, all through school, was computers.'

‘And after school?'

‘Radiotherapy,' Eamonn said mildly, carefully.

‘I guess there's a fair bit of computing in that.'

‘Sure.' Eamonn nodded. ‘But it was the healing that was important to him.'

‘To you as well,' I said, sensing that he wanted this acknowledgment.

Eamonn smiled again, bending his head over his coffee and pastry. I took a mouthful of my apple cake and pronounced it delicious, though it wasn't.

‘We decided we didn't want the full six years then residency. Well, for me it was never really a serious consideration, but Niall toyed with it. And his folks would've supported him financially. No worries about that.' I heard a note of bitterness, but Eamonn's face wore the same accepting, even amused expression. ‘One weekend he read this article on cancer and radiation therapy. I remember he brought it to school on Monday to show me. That was it, his mind was made up after that.'

‘Where did he do his training?'

‘Sydney. We both did. I came straight back. Niall stayed on for another year.'

‘Didn't you like Sydney?'

‘It was okay.'

In spite of Eamonn's praise of the food, he was only nibbling at it. ‘I guess I'm not exactly the adventurous type.'

‘Do you like it here?'

‘It's pretty amazing working in a place where absolutely everything is new. Being the first. You walk into a ward and you think, this is going to be what we make it.'

‘And Niall?'

‘Well he was the first too, of course. The radiographers all started together.'

‘Do you live at the hospital?'

I realised I didn't know whether there was on-site accommodation for nurses.

‘No, it's—I live alone.'

‘Did you ever play
Castle of Heroes
?'

‘I can't stand all that war game bullshit.'

Who had kept the friendship going? I pictured two shy seventeen-year-olds gravitating towards one another, discovering a common interest. But then? According to his father, Niall had been a reserved, self-contained young man. Was it reasonable to guess the friendship had been more important to Eamonn?

I wished Brook had been able to get me the police report. He'd probably come good with it, but I was too impatient to wait. I would have benefited now from knowing what Eamonn had said to the police.

‘You saw Niall the night he died. How did he seem to you?'

‘Excited, high, happier than I'd seen him in ages.'

‘Happy?'

‘He'd been depressed. I hadn't seen him outside work for a while. I thought he'd been avoiding me. I didn't like to push him.'

‘But you were worried?'

‘I don't know about worried. Niall was a moody guy—no it didn't worry me, though looking back of course it should have. When Niall was in one of his moods, the best thing was just to let him be. That's what I thought, anyway.'

‘He'd always come round before?'

‘Kinda. Yeah. I mean Niall was always quiet. I didn't mind that. I'm quiet myself. We kind of understood each other.'

‘But that night was different?'

‘Definitely. I hadn't seen him like that—like I said—in a long time.'

‘And you asked him why?'

‘Pardon?'

‘You asked him why? What had happened?'

‘He said he'd had some good news, but he wouldn't tell me what it was.'

‘Did you have any idea?'

‘I wondered if it was to do with his girlfriend. I knew they'd split up of course. I guessed that was maybe why he'd been down. I wondered if they'd decided to give it another try.'

‘But?'

‘I've got nothing against Nat. She's a nice girl, but Niall never seemed that heartbroken when they broke up. I mean, it wasn't the end of the world for him or anything.'

‘Did Niall talk to you about
Castle of Heroes
?'

‘I knew some dickhead had been giving him a hard time.'

‘But you didn't take it seriously?'

‘Didn't want to.'

‘What did you talk about?'

‘A bit about work. We didn't actually talk much. We had a couple of beers, and, you know, joked around. Niall laughed a lot. But he wasn't drunk, and he wasn't on anything either.'

‘How do you know?'

‘Because we'd got stoned together and this was different.'

‘When you talked about work, was there anything in particular? Or anyone?'

‘Niall's boss had been riding him a bit.'

‘What about?'

‘I don't know, to be honest. Have you met him, Dr Fenshaw?'

‘I'm about to. What did Niall think of him?'

‘Respected him. Admired him.'

‘So he'd take any criticism seriously?'

‘Oh for sure yes. He would.'

I heard something in, or under, Eamonn's tone. ‘Admired—was there more to it than that?'

Eamonn blushed and didn't answer.

‘Was there an argument between Niall and Dr Fenshaw?'

‘Niall didn't go looking for trouble, but he was such an independent guy. Hated being told what to do. But he was terribly proud of his department.'

‘Could the good news have been to do with work?'

‘Well, possibly, I suppose, but—'

Eamonn stared at me, his calm gone, in its place a mouth that could not find a straight line.

I took refuge in practical details and asked, ‘Did he have anything with him that night?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Was he carrying anything? A bag? A folder, or envelope of papers?'

‘No.'

‘Did he say anything about where he was going after he left you?'

‘No.'

‘What was he wearing?'

Eamonn thought for a moment, then said, ‘Jeans. Black jeans and a shirt.'

‘Just jeans and a shirt?'

‘Yeah, I think so.'

‘Did he have a jacket with him?'

‘Maybe he left it in the car.' Eamonn glanced at his watch. ‘Sorry to cut this short, but I have to go.'

‘What about your background?'

‘Background?'

‘Family. You've got an Irish name.'

‘Oh that. My folks were born here. I'm about as Irish as—' Eamonn waved a hand, faltering, eyes on his watch again. ‘How about Mahoney?'

I nodded. ‘Did you and Niall talk about Ireland? Irish politics?'

‘From time to time.'

‘Which side was he on?'

‘He wasn't political. I really have to go.'

I thanked him for meeting me and he agreed that if anything occurred to him that might help, he'd give me a call.

I watched his departing back with mixed feelings. I'd liked him straight away. At the same time a part of me was saying, be careful. Eamonn had been careful. Apart from Niall's state of mind on the night he died, he hadn't given anything away. He'd denied any detailed knowledge of the trouble Niall was in with
Castle of Heroes
. Why tell me categorically that Niall wasn't political? There was the game, for one thing.

I pushed my cake aside, wondering if my habit of leaving myself too much time between appointments was to create the illusion that I was busier than I was. I'd told Ivan I had a whole day of interviewing at the hospital. Why did I have to rub it in?

. . .

Over the phone, the head of the radiation and oncology department, Dr Alex Fenshaw, had made it clear that he was extremely busy, or rather his secretary had made the point on his behalf. In the end, we'd agreed on a short meeting, followed by a tour of the department with one of his staff, who would fill me in on the kind of work Niall Howley had done.

I found the department after making a few wrong turns along what seemed like a hundred dogleg corridors.

I told the receptionist who I was and that I'd come to see Dr Fenshaw. She checked her list. I wasn't on it, which caused a flurry for a few moments until I explained that I wasn't there for a consultation, but to see the doctor about a former staff member.

While I was waiting, I filled in the time reading pamphlets about ­palliative care. Dr Fenshaw finally appeared with a swish of white coat and long, dark-suited legs, ushering me through a doorway with a sweep of his arm. He was so tall that I felt physically diminished beside him, and I was sure the receptionist, who gave him a quick nervous smile as he hurried past her, had shrunk a good five centimetres.

He had that bearing-down look common to especially tall men. His mouth was wide and firm, curving upwards, lifted by his chin to make a point, to rest on that point for an instant before moving on. Yes, the hospital was wonderful. No expense was spared. His unit was especially wonderful. He was blessed by the dedication of remarkably talented young people.

‘After decades of struggling inside the public system, going the rounds with my begging bowl outstretched.'

Fenshaw laughed at himself, stretched out his large smooth doctor's hands and flicked them over. He smiled winningly. ‘After all these years I've landed on my feet.'

People could get better just by looking at this man. He knew it in the way his eyes flicked to a point just above my breasts. From someone else, this might have been offensive, or boring, or both. He apologised for being late, as an afterthought, and without being sorry in the least. His dark brown eyes smiled behind their glasses.

‘Niall's mother's paying you, is that right?' His voice lingered on the words to give them weight.

‘Do you know her?'

‘She came to see me a couple of weeks after the funeral.'

‘How did she seem?'

‘Very upset naturally.'

‘What did you say to her?'

Fenshaw moved his shoulders in a way that indicated the helplessness of a strong man used to helping. ‘There wasn't much I could say. Sorry seemed a good deal less than adequate.'