silence.
“What are you saying?” Corless demanded. “Did someone knock him out first?”
Quirke held up his hands and shrugged. “I can’t say that for certain, no.”
“But you are saying it, right? You’re saying it’s a possibility—maybe more than a possibility.”
“I’m not sure what I’m saying, Mr. Corless. Mine is an uncertain science.”
“And what is your science?”
“I’m a pathologist.”
Corless saw the sea again, molten, aflame, the water’s purling edge and the child running towards him.
“So, then, Mr. Corless,” the detective said from his place by the window, “you say your son wasn’t interested in politics at all—that he wasn’t active in any way.”
“Why are you asking?” Corless asked. “What does it matter?”
Hackett fingered his blue-shadowed chin. “If your son didn’t die by accident, or if he didn’t mean to die—”
“What?” Corless half rose from the chair, then subsided again. “What are you saying, ‘if he didn’t mean to’?”
It was Quirke who answered: “The first people on the scene, the ambulance men, the Guards, assumed it was suicide. But that might be what they were meant to think.”
Corless had lowered his head and was shaking it slowly from side to side, a wounded bull. “Leon wouldn’t kill himself,” he said. This was a dream, surely it had to be. “He just wouldn’t.”
“Are you sure of that?” the detective asked.
He was regarding Corless closely. Corless only looked away. He hadn’t shed a tear, he realized, not a single tear. He was glad; when you weep you’re not weeping for the dead, you’re only weeping for yourself. He felt numb. That would wear off, though; yes, soon enough the numbness would wear off.
Hackett spoke to him again: “The thing is, Mr. Corless, if Dr. Quirke here is right—and his assistant agrees with him, by the way—and your son died under, well, let’s say suspicious circumstances, then it’s my job to find out what happened, to find out how Leon did die.” He paused. “And yourself, Mr. Corless, you must have enemies. You’re a prominent man, your views are well known, and they’re not popular.”
Again there was a silence in the room. They heard the sounds of the traffic in the street below. A horse and cart went past. Someone shouted a snatch of drunken song. This is a new city, Corless thought, one that came into existence a few minutes ago, when they told him Leon was dead. A new city, and I’m a different man in it. All sorts of things were dead along with his son, and other things had come into being, things that he would feel, when he was no longer numb. Nothing would be the same, ever again.
“I don’t understand any of this,” he said, suddenly plaintive. “I don’t know what you’re saying to me, what you’re asking.”
“I’m sorry,” Hackett said. “I understand. We should leave you in peace.”
He glanced at Quirke, who nodded.
In peace, Corless thought. In peace.
The two men moved towards the door. Corless didn’t get up from where he was sitting. He had the impression that if he tried to stand he would fall back again, and slump into himself, like a half-filled sack.
The sea. The waves. The child with the sunlight behind him, featureless now.
* * *
As they came out into the street the heat hit them again, a smoky miasma, and for a second they could hardly breathe. Hackett consulted his watch. “The Holy Hour is past.” He nodded in the direction of a marble-fronted public house on the other side of the street. “That place looks cool enough, and we could do with something to sustain us.”
They crossed the road, dodging the traffic, and dived through the double swing doors into sanctuary, dim and tranquil. Quirke never ceased to marvel at the palatial grandeur of Dublin pubs. This one, with its big stained-glass window and pink marble counter, had a churchly aspect. They entered the wood-paneled snug and felt as if they were
“What are you saying?” Corless demanded. “Did someone knock him out first?”
Quirke held up his hands and shrugged. “I can’t say that for certain, no.”
“But you are saying it, right? You’re saying it’s a possibility—maybe more than a possibility.”
“I’m not sure what I’m saying, Mr. Corless. Mine is an uncertain science.”
“And what is your science?”
“I’m a pathologist.”
Corless saw the sea again, molten, aflame, the water’s purling edge and the child running towards him.
“So, then, Mr. Corless,” the detective said from his place by the window, “you say your son wasn’t interested in politics at all—that he wasn’t active in any way.”
“Why are you asking?” Corless asked. “What does it matter?”
Hackett fingered his blue-shadowed chin. “If your son didn’t die by accident, or if he didn’t mean to die—”
“What?” Corless half rose from the chair, then subsided again. “What are you saying, ‘if he didn’t mean to’?”
It was Quirke who answered: “The first people on the scene, the ambulance men, the Guards, assumed it was suicide. But that might be what they were meant to think.”
Corless had lowered his head and was shaking it slowly from side to side, a wounded bull. “Leon wouldn’t kill himself,” he said. This was a dream, surely it had to be. “He just wouldn’t.”
“Are you sure of that?” the detective asked.
He was regarding Corless closely. Corless only looked away. He hadn’t shed a tear, he realized, not a single tear. He was glad; when you weep you’re not weeping for the dead, you’re only weeping for yourself. He felt numb. That would wear off, though; yes, soon enough the numbness would wear off.
Hackett spoke to him again: “The thing is, Mr. Corless, if Dr. Quirke here is right—and his assistant agrees with him, by the way—and your son died under, well, let’s say suspicious circumstances, then it’s my job to find out what happened, to find out how Leon did die.” He paused. “And yourself, Mr. Corless, you must have enemies. You’re a prominent man, your views are well known, and they’re not popular.”
Again there was a silence in the room. They heard the sounds of the traffic in the street below. A horse and cart went past. Someone shouted a snatch of drunken song. This is a new city, Corless thought, one that came into existence a few minutes ago, when they told him Leon was dead. A new city, and I’m a different man in it. All sorts of things were dead along with his son, and other things had come into being, things that he would feel, when he was no longer numb. Nothing would be the same, ever again.
“I don’t understand any of this,” he said, suddenly plaintive. “I don’t know what you’re saying to me, what you’re asking.”
“I’m sorry,” Hackett said. “I understand. We should leave you in peace.”
He glanced at Quirke, who nodded.
In peace, Corless thought. In peace.
The two men moved towards the door. Corless didn’t get up from where he was sitting. He had the impression that if he tried to stand he would fall back again, and slump into himself, like a half-filled sack.
The sea. The waves. The child with the sunlight behind him, featureless now.
* * *
As they came out into the street the heat hit them again, a smoky miasma, and for a second they could hardly breathe. Hackett consulted his watch. “The Holy Hour is past.” He nodded in the direction of a marble-fronted public house on the other side of the street. “That place looks cool enough, and we could do with something to sustain us.”
They crossed the road, dodging the traffic, and dived through the double swing doors into sanctuary, dim and tranquil. Quirke never ceased to marvel at the palatial grandeur of Dublin pubs. This one, with its big stained-glass window and pink marble counter, had a churchly aspect. They entered the wood-paneled snug and felt as if they were
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