Bronagh's Confessional (Part five of five)

Whenever my mother used to send me down the street for smokes, I took longer than I should have. And that wasn’t because main street in Castletownbere was ever anything that would give you any kind of thrill. Still isn’t. No, I lingered because I knew that I’d probably end up right in the middle of Aoife’s circle of friends.

If it was over the weekend, I might not come home until after supper. For where Róisín alternated between attracting people before shoving them away, her twin quietly gathered the town rejects, the geeks, and the just plain disoriented children in need of some guidance. You could always find them slap bang in the town square, stealing puffs on ciggies far more illicit than the ones my mother smoked, or sneaking pints of Bulmer’s cider that Jonno from McSorley’s pretended not to know about when customers took their orders outside. It was one of the only places in town I knew I’d feel welcome, and with no reservations. None of the other eejits made cracks about six-shooters or police women in need of real crimes to chase after. So far as I could tell, Aoife never actively did anything to create this sense of safety other than sit down on the bench, put up her pink combat boots, and jam her fists into her pockets. It was like a ritual. Kids flocked to her like pigeons to breadcrumbs. I felt more like a crumb myself than any kind of graceful creature in those days, to be straight with you.

With Aoife’s and her sisters’ parents dead, it was their aunt Moira who filled those sensible shoes. She would usually appear late in the afternoon, choosing not to see the blue smoke enveloping her niece and her friends like a shroud. “Time for your dinner,” she would say, and without haste or judgment. I liked Moira Hegarty then, and I’m not ashamed to admit it, even if everyone in town now agrees that they always knew she was nuts. A killer, people say aloud near the SuperValu; they don’t even bother lowering their voices now that there’s no risk any longer of being overheard by someone who might do something about it. A sick, demented old buzzard. Sure. But she was glorious once. I was there, I saw it. Beatiful, even.

“Eat up, my darlings,” she chirped before our Friday dinners up at her house – the one she later turned into a bed-and-breakfast. That was all before she began to populate her house with statues of the Saints, and started to burn the food. Before Jim. Before any of it. There was always a spare seat at the table for me, just in case my own mother’s dinner didn’t quite measure up, which was often. It was on these occasions, with orangeade on tap and breaded chicken cutlets within reach that I felt like a proper sister to Aoife, Róisín and Fiona. There’s nothing like the quiet agreement of silently chewing children to cement a pact of almost-sisterhood.

That’s the word to pay attention to, though, isn’t it? Almost.

Because just as surely as the mighty crowns of trees don’t grow into heaven, those dinners began to fizzle out as the Walsh sisters began to notice boys. Or, should I say, when those gobshites began paying real attention to their collective female loveliness. Dirty pints of stout replaced the orangeade. Yours truly was never that pretty or that noticeable, so in the end it was just me and the girls’ aunt Moira around the dinner table, with only Aoife skirting by to grab a piece of cake on the way out the door. Aunt Moira – yes, I called her that, too, because she let me – was a gem. She told me not to worry about any of that lark, to follow my bliss and apply for the entrance exam into the guards as soon as I was old enough. I often answered by crying my tears into the bosom of her starched white shirts when I was certain nobody else could hear or see.

A murderer? Sure, I know she is. I read the papers, too. I buried my friends and even spoke in front of their caskets. I’ve paid my dues. But put yourself in my well-worn shoes for just a little bit longer than it takes to agree with the obvious, and you’ll see that the passion that swept across our town and into the hollow heart of Moira Hegarty was not of the ordinary kind. What Darling Jim Quick breathed into Castletownbere was no mere trick of the hand, or some romance story meant for dullards with no imagination.

He made Moira feel more than special once more; he convinced her that she was deserving of love. And not just any love, mind you, but his very own. Yes, yes. I know that Moira is the extreme example of what Jim wrought on us all, but was the effect really so unusual? Wasn’t Moira merely the one person who needed to be loved just a smidgen more than the rest of us? I think she was. But there are limits to my understanding. She did kill two of my best friends in the whole world. I was speaking clinically. So far as I know anything about that, anyway.

I told you before that I hesitated because I was afraid, and it’s true. When Jim’s stories took him around our county, I got copies of the Garda reports, too. Sexual assaults. Outright murders. Shadows in the night, and the growl of a motorcycle. I knew sure as shite that Jim had done it when I read the case file of the widow Julie Ann Holland, over near Drimoleague. Then I saw him one day, sauntering into McSorley’s just as bold as you please. “Have one with me?” he asked, and I found myself in front of a pint at one in the afternoon, in full uniform and everything. I wasn’t drunk on his charm, or the beer. I just couldn’t believe it. My Sergeant played cards with him, too, for Jaysus’ sake! What would you have done? “Erm, Sergeant Murphy, sir, I think I know who the serial killer is. It’s that handsome fella who makes sure to lose to you at poker so you’ll remain his friend.” Can’t you just see it? Goodbye, uniform, and hello SuperValu cashier’s desk.

So here we are, then. The moment of truth. I’ve told you of my sins but in a way, I’ve only just begun to rattle them off, haven’t I? I apologize, but as I’ve talked to you, I’ve shredded that report I intended to send to Garda HQ, begging them to punish me. They’d never believe me, is what.

Besides: There is one person still alive whom I will do everything to save, even if it means laying down what I have left of this life.

My name is Sergeant Bronagh Daltry, and I hope your judgment on my actions won’t be as harsh as the one I have reserved for myself.