'There's always plenty of work in my line,' replied Herlighy.
'It's not that I didn't get a great deal of value out of our… you know,' Minogue looked to Herlighy.
'Our chats.'
'Our chats. I got a great deal of good out of them, yes indeed…'
'Are you staying on in the job, so?'
'If you had have asked me that two weeks ago, I would have said no. I don't think I would have even gone back to Vehicles.'
Herlighy stopped and glanced at Minogue.
'You had offers of doing something away from the front-line, I remember. Crime prevention, a bit of training for in-service or new recruits…?'
'Ah, I'd be bored stiff with that stuff, I have to admit,' Minogue shrugged.
'Tell me why you're staying on, then.'
Minogue blinked. He looked beyond Herlighy to the dripping trees. Were psychiatrists supposed to be this direct? A test?
'I haven't quite worked it out completely but… I didn't want to throw in the towel because of what happened. What you explained about trauma was very good, you see. I got so as I knew what was happening better. It's more like I don't want to be sitting at home watching the news, being able to switch off the telly or change the station if I don't like what I see… It's hard to express, you see…'
Herlighy nodded once and began walking again.
'I don't want something like this happening again, I suppose you could say,' Minogue added. 'I wish I could…'
'About Agnes McGuire, you mean?' asked Herlighy without slowing his stride.
Minogue felt the tightness close on his chest again, he drew a deep breath. The air was full of the dank smell of rotting leaves.
'Yes,' said Minogue hoarsely.
He stopped walking. Herlighy sensed he was walking on alone now and he turned. Minogue was standing with his hands deep in his coat pockets, staring out over the wet lawns. Herlighy took a long drag on his cigarette. He thought of some of the comments he had written in Minogue's file after the first sessions. An overly sensitive cop, caretaker personality quite dominant. Herlighy had been pessimistic at the start. A bogman, this cop, plainly out of place in this fraying city.
He walked over to Minogue.
'You'll be trying again then, Matt. Is that how I should write it in me file?'
Minogue searched Herlighy's face for any humour.
'You know that I can sign you for the full disability. There'd be no problem in the world in you getting the full salary until you qualify for the pension at retirement age,' Herlighy added. 'Have you considered that aspect?'
Minogue didn't reply immediately.
'I'd still like to keep on at the job,' Minogue murmured. 'If they'll let me.'
It was Minogue who started down the path first this time. Herlighy flicked the cigarette butt into the grass and followed him. Minogue seemed to be more relaxed now as he walked next to the psychiatrist.
'I don't need to tell you that you're welcome to stop by anytime,' said Herlighy.
'Thanks very much.'
Herlighy reached for the packet of cigarettes again. Minogue stopped when he heard the scratch of Herlighy's lighter. Herlighy eyed his patient over his cupped hands as he flicked at the lighter again. Minogue's gage was straying out over the acres of grass again. Gone already, thought Herlighy. The gas ignited this time and Herlighy tasted the first papery burn of the smoke. He caught up with Minogue.
'Did I tell you that Kathleen and myself are going to steal away to Paris for a little holiday?'
'Paris?' asked Herlighy. 'Why Paris?'
Minogue smiled and scratched behind one ear.
'Oh there's a sort of a story to it… do you want to…?'
Herlighy said he did. They walked on under the trees, Herlighy silent, listening to Minogue.
When tired, Herlighy often had an image of himself sitting in his office here in a country on the periphery of Europe, trying to sort out the Byzantine web of sophistry and evasion. Sometimes he had to remind himself that he, Herlighy, was searching, himself. He wondered if Minogue would visit again. Herlighy put the packet of cigarettes back in his pocket. So Minogue was ready for more. More what? Another drag on the cigarette reminded him of his envy.
EPILOGUE
Minogue had walked around Dublin on Friday, from church to church, museum to gallery. He had sat in the chill caves of cathedrals for a rest, unable to pray.
There had been nothing in Allen's car. It had been taken apart: nothing at all. They didn't want to charge him with anything, just dump him. All a mess, dump it back on Dublin.
Agnes McGuire had died early on Friday morning, letting go and casting off for where she'd not be let down again, Minogue thought. Did Allen know yet? And Loftus, now silent and remote, the little Napoleon, the one-eyed king, did he care? Minogue had not run fast enough or far enough. Again and again he saw the soldiers pulling two out of the car that night, then Allen's grey face in the back of the van.
Instead of a Mass Card, Minogue bought a card with a copy of Walter Osborne's 'Scene in the Phoenix Park' on it. He got them to use it as a Mass Card in Clarendon Street. He thought about going to visit Mick Roche, but he felt he should wait.
Walking through Trinity College, nothing had changed except the film of suspicion and resentment which had come across his vision. Gowned lecturers billowed past him in Front Square. Minogue turned away from his path and wondered if he should tear up the card.
