Bronagh's Confessional (Part one of five)

The view from my window hasn’t changed. It’s the same snarl of half-empty tourist coaches and sales girls from the sports outfitter’s across the way sneaking outside for a ciggie, no matter how shit the weather. My colleagues haven’t stopped whispering, but they always did that. I still get a half hour for my lunch, even if it takes Maggie at the café nearly that long to make a fair sandwich. I no longer get a thrill out of putting on the uniform, but I act as if I do. The GARDA lettering on my jacket makes me cringe in shame. The fabric feels like steel wool when it chafes against my wrists. I hate it now.

Because nothing is the same as it was.

Not inside me, about me, nor any place else I can see with my own eyes. Darling Jim Quick has left memories all over town more tangible than the grave in which he lies. And if this is my confession, I doubt you can grant me absolution. How absurd for a cop to ask forgiveness, but there it is. I have nobody else who will listen. This is a resignation, nothing more. It will be sent to Garda HQ as soon as I’m done unburdening myself. So perhaps what I really want is to hear myself talk. Close your ears if you mind.

I have always been too methodical, hesitating to act where Fiona and Róisín Walsh would have plunged headlong into disaster without considering the risks. Especially Róisín. I suppose you might call it sound judgment on my part, if you’re being kind. But call it by its proper name. Cowardice. It was this creeping sensation, this feeling that makes your ears burn while you cast your eyes down, that handed the village of Castletownbere to Jim like a gift someone had already unwrapped for him to enjoy.

People died. Not gently and painlessly, either, but killed by someone who took pride in his work. Whether they were all as innocent as the gossips claim I’ll leave up to you. Because the desire they felt for the man in the cheap leather jacket is what made them take leave of their senses. I know I did, and he never so much as looked at me once.

It’s well documented, the papers have hashed and rehashed all the murders, and I won’t tire you with every detail. But what nobody can know is my part in it. I’m a law dog, you see, at least that’s what Róisín always called me, and dogs aren’t supposed to be disloyal. I had information about Jim Quick, right there in my hands, and I could have pressed harder. Filed a formal enquiry, disregarded Sergeant Murphy’s bullying, and driven that damn case file all the way to Dublin my own self. A file jammed with stray leads and half-provable insinuations, any one of which would have humiliated me in public had I marched it straight to the top.

But Jim Quick was a murderer without question, they all say now, a proper menace in a handsome package, who should have been put down long ago like that bastard wolf he turned out to be. I say brilliant, fabulous, couldn’t agree more. Sergeant Bronagh Daltry (that would be yours truly, who was but a wee newly minted Garda when it all began) should have, could have buttoned that bastard before he had the chance to tear up our town. But all those lynch mob voices were as silent as mine when he rolled into town. Back then, they sighed and felt a warm thrill inside more intimate parts than their little hearts, I’ll tell you that for nothing. They examined the papier mache mask, peered behind it, and saw the whiskers and incisors. And they came back for more. They would still be coming if Fiona, Aoife and Róisín hadn’t pulled out those handsome teeth.

But I know why I stall in coming clean about my role in this fiasco. Bear with me a little, even if you don’t have real pity, but just a morbid interest in what a disgraced cop might present for your afternoon titillation.

I don’t fear God, my mother, or even Father Malloy. And at this late point, no sanction my lords and masters in HQ can administer will make me feel any worse. No, I am afraid of admitting how much I truly hated the three Walsh sisters, even as I tried to love each of them to pieces. That’s the truth of it. And that’s why I haven’t sent this shagging letter of resignation along quite yet. For when I write down the words, I will have to post it. Duty, you see.

I adored Fiona, I really did. She was the oldest of all of us, a schoolmarm with a firm hand and a warm heart. She tried to include me as the fourth sister, even if everyone else snickered behind my back that I was like the ugly Beatle who didn’t play any instrument worth a damn. She yelled at Róisín whenever she got me into trouble, and was the only one who encouraged me to talk to boys more freely. Like that would ever happen. David and Garth, whom I both liked, only stared at Fiona’s arse. That is, whenever they weren’t too busy gawping at Róisín’s cleavage.

Róisín. Child of darkness, and Castletownbere’s resident goth experiment. A better friend to me than I ever was to her, and that’s a fact. But even as I tried to imitate her swagger, her easy smile and that effortless cocking of her black-clad hips, I only looked fatter and more desperate. A laughable clone. I can remember wishing her dead one night when she was helping me get ready for a date. I saw her quite clearly on a slab, that perfectly messed-up black hair thinned out by death.

And I got my wish, as everyone around here already knows.

I want to tell you more, I really do. And maybe I will, later. But I can’t take any more today. I feel like one of those rubber trees where the sap drips from them like white blood. I have a notion this confessional might take a while. I hope you’ll keep listening.