Ripped (87 page)

'Mrs
Sweeney
and
her
husband
– Mary
and
Willie
–
are
very good
to
me.
I
think
I
eat
in
their
house
more
often
than
my
own.'

'You
should
really
get
stitches
in
this
.
At
least
when
you
eat with
us
you
get
plain
wholesome
food.'

'Oh,
no,'
Father
Hurtle
said,
'not
stitches
surely?
I
don't
want
any
fuss.'

'This
will
sting.
I
don't
see
.
.
.
there's
no
glass
.
..I
don't
think, no.
That's
okay.
I
have
butterfly
plasters
somewhere
.
.
.
There
we
go
.
..
and
there,
and
one
more.'
She
was
wearing
an
apron
and
took
a
roll
of
bandage
from
the
pocket.
As
she
began
to
bind
the
hand,
she
asked
him,
'Do
you
know
where
this
bandage
came
from?'
She
was
very
pleased
with
herself
and
mischievous.
'From
the
hospital.
It's
just
a
small
hospital,'
she
explained,
taking
account
of
Murray.
'Well,
eighteen
geriatric
beds
and
twelve
general
–
heart
attacks
and
things
like
that
to
give
you
a
bit
of
variety.
When
one
of
the
old
people
die,
you
tie
up
their
ankles
before
the
undertaker
comes.
And
when
you
cut
off
the
bandage,
you
pop
the
rest
of
the
roll
into
your
pocket.
Then
you
forget
and
bring
it
home
with
you.'
She
laughed
with
delight.
'That's
you
all
wrapped
up
in
stolen
bandages,
Father.'

But,
with
a
change
of
mood
as
they
were
leaving,
she
asked him,
'Did
you
go
on
Saturday,
Father?'
She
shook
her
head
more
in
sorrow
than
anger.
'And
wasn't
Willie
right?
Didn't
you
find
yourself
being
made
a
fool
of
by
a
lot
of
Communists?'

'They're
building
a
nuclear
power
station
along
the
coast,'
Father
Hurtle
said,
glancing
at
Murray
as
they
retraced
their
steps.

'What
was
happening
on
Saturday?
Some
kind
of
protest
demonstration?'

'I
hadn't
realised
the
place
was
so
large.
They'd
hidden
it
behind
a
great
rampart
of
earth
so
that
you
couldn't
see
it
from
the
road.
I
simply
hadn't
realised.'
He
sighed,
and
turned
his
head
as
they
passed
the
last
of
the
houses
to
look
at
the
sea.
A
white
haar was rolling
in
towards
the
shore.
'Isn't
it
strange
that
we
can't
vote
on
what
really
matters?
All
those
young
people
on
Saturday
marching
and
singing
–
it
won't
make
any
difference.
In
the
evening,
I
saw
them
straggling
away
over
the
fields
like
an
army
in
retreat.
No
country
has
ever
held
a
vote
before
it
declared
war.'

'Did
you
get
anyone
to
go
with
you?'

'Two
ladies,'
Father
Hurtle
said.

In
the
presbytery,
he
offered
tea
and,
as
he
sipped
the
delicate
fragrant
liquid,
some
of
the
colour
began
to
come
back
into
his
cheeks.

Murray
tapped
his
tongue
softly
against
his
palate.
'Lapsang
souchow,'
he
decided
appreciatively.

'You
know
your
tea!'
The
priest
was
excessively
pleased,
as
if
he
had
been
prepared
to
apologise,
and
indeed
hurried
on,
'I
don't
usually
offer
it
to –
I
felt
the
need
of
it
just
now.
Most
people
prefer
something
more
familiar,
so
I
don't
offer
it.
I
keep
it
to
myself –
not
selfishness,
just
that
I
know
it
wouldn't
be
enjoyed.
It's
my
tipple.'

'Mine
too.'

'Ah,
you
live
alone.'

Some
unexpected
acknowledgement
not
to
be
admitted
passed
between
the
two
men.
They
drank
in
silence,
by
accident
raising
the
cup
to
their
lips
and
putting
it
down
again
in
unison.

'How
can
I
help
you?'

'I'm
not
a
Catholic.'

'No.'

'I'm
a
private
enquiry
agent.
I've
been
hired
to
trace
the
whereabouts
of
two
children
you
helped
to
an
adoption
–
this
would
be
about
twenty
years
ago.
It
was
when
you
were
in
Moirhill, the
mother
was
murdered.'

'Annette
Verhaeren.'
The
name
came
without
hesitation.
That
puzzled
Murray.
It
was
twenty
years
ago,
and
yet
the
reaction
had
been
immediate.
'I
can't
help
you.'

'It
would
be
to
the
children's
benefit.'
Murray
offered
the
cover story
he
had
devised.
'I've
been
hired
by
a
relative
of
the
mother.
There
would
be
money
in
it
for
them,
if
they
could
be
found.'