Elegy For April

“Let’s walk along for a bit, shall we?” Quirke said.

Latimer shrugged, and they set off on the path. Quirke was thinking what a contrast they must make, the two of them, him so large and Latimer so little. A dun-colored duck rose up out of the grass verge and waddled ahead of them for a little way along the path and then flopped into the water.

“I haven’t been here since I was a child,” Oscar Latimer said. “I had an aunt who lived in Baggot Street; she used to take us over here to fish for minnows. What was it we called them? There was an Irish name, what was it?”

“Pinkeens?” Quirke said. “Or bardуgs was another word.”

“Bardуgs? I don’t remember that. We put them in jam jars. Horrible things, they were, just two big eyes with a tail attached, but we were thrilled to catch them. My aunt used to make handles for the jam jars out of string. She had a special knack; I could never see how she did it. She’d wrap the string tight under the neck of the jar and then tie a special knot that let the string loop over two or three times to form the handle.” He shook his head wonderingly. “It seems so long ago. An age.”

The fellow could be no more than thirty-five, Quirke was thinking. “Yes,” he said, “the past wastes no time becoming the past, all right.”

Latimer was not listening. “We were happy, April and I, here, with our fishing nets. Life was suddenly- simple, for a few hours.”

A workman in shiny black waders was standing hip-deep in the canal, cutting reeds with a knife. They paused a moment to watch. The knife had a long, thin, hooked blade. The man eyed them warily. “That’s a dirty old day,” he said. Quirke wondered if he was a Council worker or if he was gathering the reeds for himself, to fashion something from them. But what? Baskets? Mats? He made the cutting of the stiff, dry stalks seem effortless. Quirke felt a twinge of envy. How would it be, to live so simple a life?

They walked on.

“Where’s your daughter today?” Latimer asked. “I presume it’s again about April you wanted to speak to me, yes?”

“And I suppose you’re going to tell me again that it’s none of my business.”

Latimer gave a brief, dismissive laugh. “Do I need to?”

They came to Baggot Street bridge and climbed the steps to the street. Across the way, the poet Kavanagh, in overcoat and cap, was sitting in the window of Parsons Bookshop, among the books laid out there, with his elbows on his knees and the holes in the soles of his cracked shoes on display, intently reading. Passersby took no heed of him, being accustomed to the sight.

“Have you had lunch?” Latimer asked. “We might get a sandwich somewhere.” He looked doubtfully in the direction of the Crookit Bawbee.

“There’s Searsons, down the way,” Quirke said.

The place was crowded with lunchtime drinkers, but they found two stools by the bar at the back. Quirke ordered a cheese sandwich, fearing the worst, and Latimer asked for a ham salad and a half-pint of Guinness. Quirke said he would take a glass of water. The barman knew him, and gave him a quizzical look.

The sandwich was all that Quirke had expected; he opened it up and slathered Colman’s Mustard on the shiny slice of bright-orange, processed cheese. “You know about the blood on the floor beside April’s bed,” he said, “don’t you?”

When he was at school at St. Aidan’s there was a boy, he could not remember his name, that he used to beat up regularly, an odd, fey little creature with slicked-down, dandruffy hair and an overlapping front tooth. Quirke had nothing in particular against him. It was just that nothing, not even repeated punchings, could ruffle the little twerp’s composure and air of self-possession. He almost seemed to like being hit; it seemed, infuriatingly, to amuse him. Latimer was like that, detached and slyly smiling and mysteriously untouchable. For a time now he went on calmly eating and might not have heard what Quirke had said. Then he spoke. “I don’t find it appropriate to discuss this kind of thing with you, Quirke. It’s a family matter, and you’re not even a policeman.”

“That’s true,” Quirke said, “I’m not. Only the police, too, have been told that your sister’s disappearance is a family matter. And frankly, Mr. Latimer, I don’t think it is.”

Latimer was smiling thinly to himself. He put a forkful of moist, pale-pink ham into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully for a minute, then took a delicate sip of his stout. “You keep saying she has disappeared. How do you know that?”

Quirke had bitten into his sandwich, and now he put it back on the plate and pushed the plate aside and drank a deep draught of water from his glass; the water tasted faintly of tar. “Your sister hasn’t been seen in three weeks,” he said. “I’d say disappeared is the right word.”

“By whom?”

“What?”

“She hasn’t been seen by whom in three weeks?” He spoke as if to a child, or to one of his patients, spacing the words deliberately, giving each one an equal emphasis.

“Have you seen her?” Quirke asked. “Have you heard from her?”

Latimer touched a finger to his stubbly, sparse mustache and again smiled faintly. He ate his food and drank his drink, with a contented air. His hands, freckled on the back, were tiny, pale, and deft. He wiped his lips on a paper napkin and turned on the stool, putting an elbow on the bar, and gazed at Quirke for a long moment, as if measuring him. “I’ve asked around about you,” he said. “About your background, where you come from.”

“And what did you find out?”

“You come from nowhere, apparently. Some orphanage here in the city, then an industrial school over in the west, from where you were sprung- I think that’s the right word?- by Judge Garret Griffin, who brought you up in his home as if you were his own son. You and Malachy Griffin, like brothers. All very colorful, I must say.” He chuckled. “Like something you’d read in a cheap novelette.”

Quirke rotated the water glass on its base, round and round, as if he were trying to screw it into the wood of the counter. “That about sums it up,” he said. “As a matter of interest, who were your informants?”

“Oh, various people. You know what this town is like; everyone knows everyone else’s business.”

Malachy, Quirke was thinking- would Malachy have spoken to this vehement little man? What if he had? None of what Latimer had said was a secret. He gazed along the length of the bar. The light indoors was brownish, dim, and outside it was gray. He felt he was in a cave, far at the back, crouched and watching.

“I mention all this,” Latimer said, “to make the point that you can’t possibly know anything about families. How could you? There are ties you wouldn’t feel- blood ties.”

“Blood ties? I thought we dispensed with stuff like that when we left the caves.”

“Ah, but there, you see? The very fact that you say that shows your ignorance, your lack of experience in these things. The family is the unit of society and has been since the very beginning, when we were still going on all fours- you know that much, at least, surely. Blood is blood. It binds”- he clenched one of those little hands into a fist and held it up before Quirke’s face-”it holds.”

Quirke signaled to the barman and asked for a whiskey- Bushmills Black Label- slurring the words as if to pretend he was not really speaking them. The barman gave him another look, more knowing than the first one, more complicit.

Latimer was picking up crumbs from his plate rapidly with the wetted tip of a finger and putting them into his mouth. His head was small, too small even for that neat little body. A tomtit, Quirke thought, that is what he is like, a tomtit bird, quick, bright, hungry, watchful.

“Tell me the truth,” Quirke said quietly. “Tell me where April is.”

Latimer widened his eyes, putting on a look of large, mild innocence. “What makes you think I know?”

The barman brought the whiskey, and Quirke drank off half of it in one swallow. The feeling of it spreading through his chest made him think of a small, many-branched tree bursting slowly into hot, bright flames.

“Your sister disappears, vanishes without trace,” he said, shifting his weight on the stool. “There’s blood on the floor beside her bed that someone has cleaned up. It’s a very particular type of blood. Her family’s reaction is to hush up the whole thing-”

“Hush up!” Latimer said, with an ugly laugh. “You make us sound like the Borgias.”

Quirke said nothing to that. “I think you know where she is,” he said in a harsh undertone. “I think you all