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V.M. Devine

A Terrible Beauty

the murder at Joyce’s Tower

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About the Author

V. M. Devine is the pen name for the writing-collaboration
of Valerie Ganzevoort and her father, Michael Mahony.

Michael originally hails from Dublin, Ireland, but has
spent the greater part of his life in Johannesburg, South
Africa. He is a retired IT guy.

Valerie was born in Johannesburg. In between exploring
her interest in Children’s Fiction, and writing in collaboration
with her dad, she is primarily focussed upon raising her
three very young children.

A Terrible Beauty – the murder at Joyce’s Tower is
V. M. Devine’s first novel.

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a terrible butchery

The blow to the head had not been fatal. It wasn’t meant to be.
The dull thud of wood against skull was quickly followed by
the sharp splintering of glass as the near-empty whiskey bottle
and tumbler fell from the victim’s limp hands. The body jolted
forward, the head smashing into the edge of the circular gun
deck and causing the body to be jerked around so that it ended
face-up.

The assailant paused at the clang of metal against granite as
the man fell, and then stooped to examine the man’s wristwatch.
Its face was cracked but the motion of the second hand showed
that the watch was still functioning.

Perfect.

With a quick glance upwards, the assailant put on a pair of
surgical gloves. The battlements around the top of the tower
were sufficiently high to conceal any activity taking place
on the roof, well out of sight of any casual Sandycove walker
or Forty Foot bather who might happen to glance up at the
Martello Tower.

Now for the mobile phone. Right pocket? No. Left pocket?
Yes.

His eyes were closed, the measured sonorous breathing of
the drunken form providing its own oscilloscope. Blood was
oozing from the head wound, but he was still alive. That was
essential.

After switching off the phone, the assailant undertook the
steady and unhurried journey back down the steps of the
tower and through the passage into Forty Foot Cottage.

The bag containing more surgical gloves, the protective gear
and goggles, and other required items, was where it had been
left, and the assailant now carried it into the study, ensuring
that the inside bolts on both external access doors into the
cottage were secured.

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Looking around the room, everything was as anticipated –
creatures of habit make things so much easier. The victim’s car
keys, house keys, wallet, pocket diary, and personal religious
items, all on the desk. And most importantly, in its scabbard
hanging on the study wall was the takoba sword.

Still wearing the surgical gloves, all of the required items
were set up in the study as planned. It only took a few moments
for the assailant to don the full protective clothing and goggles,
and then to return to the tower roof.

The eyes behind the goggles focused intently for a number
of seconds upon the body. It was not going anywhere. He was
still lying on the granite floor alongside the gun deck, with his
left arm stretched out nearly touching the tower wall which
overlooked the Forty Foot. The blood around the head wound
was starting to congeal, as was the blood on the granite floor.

The takoba sword was removed slowly and carefully from
its scabbard.

With a silent nod of satisfaction, the assailant slowly
positioned the sword over the neck and took one last look at
the victim.

At that very moment, the man opened his eyes. Their eyes
met. A flicker of incomprehension gave way to understanding.
He knew. The assailant paused. Instead of the expected fear in
the eyes and the hysterical scream of the terrorised, a faint veil
of calmness seemed to pass over the man’s face, and with a
look of – what was it? – could it actually be appreciation? – a
sigh of release seemed to emanate from between his lips. The
eyes were still open as the assailant raised the sword one last
time, and brought it sweeping down.

***

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a terrible beauty

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1.

Friday 6th March 2015, 6am, Sandycove, Dublin

Calum glanced at the wall-clock as he opened the front door.
6am. Sunrise exactly one hour away. Good.

He moved nimbly out of his front gate wearing only his
towelling dressing gown, and as he rounded Joyce’s Tower,
made the Sign of the Cross.

The notice which cautioned visitors to the Forty Foot that ‘Togs
must be worn’ knew by now that it was wasted upon Calum and
made no attempt to bar the way of this particular allyearrounder
as he slipped past her to where the early – very early – bathers
stripped naked before plunging into the water.

Calum looked back at the Tower. The dawn was still some
time off, but the full moon in the clear night sky provided more
than enough illumination for the set that constituted the dark
tower and its contrasting companion, the huge white house with
its intentionally nautical style, designed and occupied all those
years ago by the Architect, Michael Scott. The only memories of
those 1950s days – of Micheál Mac Liammóir and Hilton Edwards
rehearsing The Importance of being Oscar in Scott’s lounge – were
those of his father, incarnated within Calum in the story-telling of
it all.

How he loved this place.
The others had not arrived, but would shortly, regulars,
most of them, and each one with at least one Christmas Day
swim to his credit. Some, like himself at fifty-two, were middle-
aged, the oldest eighty-three, and there was a youngster who
had just left school. The unspecified protocol was that no one
needed to wait for anyone else; to be here was to be free. The
feminists may have imposed their will on the previously male-
only bathing establishment, but the remnant of the ‘Forty Foot
Gentlemen’, who had been championed most ably by Calum’s

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late father, still swam naked as of old – albeit under the cover
of darkness.

He laid aside his dressing gown, and the sharp March wind
stung at his naked flesh. The sea was turbulent, but no more
so than usual, and he knew that once he hit the water it would
be a welcome change from the wind. Hand on rail as he moved
down the steps into the water, he heard the horn of the Mail
Boat leaving Dunleary Harbour and registered – but only
subconsciously – that it was wrong. What was wrong he didn’t
know, but it was… wrong.

Anyway, conscious that he had no time to waste if he was
to get home, and then down to 8am Mass before opening the
doors of his Solicitor’s Office, he plunged himself headlong
into the inviting and seemingly bottomless dark pool. The
initial shock of the water exhilarated more than hampered.
Calum had never tired of explaining to the infidels (who had
become very tired of hearing it) that the trick to swimming in
cold water was to stay in the water. No quick in and out. His
counsel was to stay, and after about three minutes you will be
very reluctant to leave the water.

Practicing what he preached, Calum swam over to the rock of the
long-deceased diving boards and then back again to Elephant Rock.
The swell was intense as always, but with well-practiced strokes,
he swam backwards and forwards between the two sentinels of
the Forty Foot, eventually making his way back to the steps and
out of the water. He had just grasped the railing when he heard
voices calling to him. His friends had obviously arrived, but there
was something wrong, very wrong; they were rushing towards him
and shouting, screaming, competing with the noise of the water.
Even if he had turned around to see what they were pointing at, it
would have made no difference. The man-made wave hit him like
a personally-targeted tsunami and flung him impatiently against
Elephant Rock, and then continued to scrub him up and down, up
and down the Rock, like the washer-women of old rubbing clothes
up and down on the banks of the River Liffey.

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At the inquest, the ferry company disclaimed any responsibility.
Yes, they had left much earlier than usual that Friday morning
because it was actually the Thursday night boat that was involved.
Yes, it had experienced technical difficulties which took until the
early morning to repair, and then they had departed as soon as
possible. No, they were not travelling at excessive speed in order
to make up time, and any suggestion of their boat generating a
tsunami-like wave was ludicrous.

The lady-coroner concurred, emphasising that the
testimonies by the group of naked eccentrics as to what they
did or did not see in the dark of that pre-dawn Friday morning
were hopelessly unreliable, and she returned a verdict of
indeed tragic, but accidental death on the person of Mr Calum
O’Gorman, Solicitor, late of Sandycove Point. She then added
a criticism of the local police, pointing out that if An Garda
Síochána had been enforcing the bylaws in regard to the
bathing practices in that area, this tragedy would never have
occurred.

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2.

Saturday 22nd August 2015, 5:45am, Northern Nigeria

Nearly six months after the tragic death of his older brother
in the Forty Foot, it was Fr Luke O’Gorman’s turn to knock on
death’s door.

It is the lucky few who survive a heart attack of this sort and
Dr Ezekiel Okore felt a sense of pride as he checked the vital
signs of his patient. All were stable.

The tall man lay motionless beneath the pipes and cables all
confirming that the patient was doing well. Dr Okore shook his
head sadly, how could this man ever be well again after that?
His body at least would recover. Only a shock of sandy hair was
untamed by the sterile room and the closed eyes gave nothing
away of what they had seen. Poor, poor man.

‘Excuse me, Doctor.’ A ward sister entered the room. Lowering
her head respectfully, she said, ‘There is a man here from the
church that wants to speak with you.’

Dr Okore removed his surgical gloves and followed the sister
out of the ward.

The reception area of the Fatan hospital was empty except
for the old priest dressed in clerical white and seated on a
hard plastic chair which was nailed to the wall. An antiquated
television hung in one corner, the sound turned down, news
reels rushing past like a silent movie.

Dr Okore greeted the priest just as his eye caught the
headline, ‘316 believed dead in yesterday’s school massacre.
The Congregation of the People of Tradition for Proselytism and
Jihad, better known as Boko Haram, have claimed responsibility
for the attack.’

He looked away as all too familiar images flashed across the
screen. Empty classrooms with dark bloodstains across the

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floor. Overturned desks where frightened children had tried to
hide from the blood-frenzied fanatics. No hope. Boko Haram
– translated from Hausa means Western Education is sinful.
Education is sinful! What would you call this?

It was small comfort that he had been able to help the latest
intended victim of the attack. No, the priest whom he had just
stabilised had not been at the school when the attack had
happened but apparently he was the school principal. He had
returned from Kano the previous evening to the sight of that
bloodbath. No wonder the poor man had had a heart attack!

The old priest looked weary as he listened to the account of
the patient’s condition.

‘I’d like to know if we can fly him home to Ireland tonight?’
he said.

Dr Okore tried to hide his shock. ‘Tonight? We have only just
stabilised him. He needs a few days to recover.’

‘We’d like him home as a matter of urgency.’
‘But the families of the victims may feel abandoned by him if
he leaves now. They may blame him. It will be very difficult for
him to ever return to Nigeria under such conditions.’
The cold stare which clouded the old priest’s face silenced
Dr Okore.
At the end of his shift Dr Okore made his way wearily home.
He could not leave behind his concerns for Fr O’Gorman. He
knew first-hand what it was to be a victim of such terror. He,
himself, an Ibo, had fled Nigeria with his family during the
Nigerian civil war in the late 1960s. He had found refuge in
Ireland and had raised his family there. His son, Azikiwe, had
received a western education and was now a well-respected
doctor in Dublin. He would call Azikiwe and ask him to make
contact with this priest. Yes, he may well need a friend in the
coming months.

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3.

Tuesday 16th February 2016, 12:10pm,
Catholic Presbytery, Dunleary, Dublin

Detective Chief Superintendent Fírinne Jeffries removed her
hat as she followed the housekeeper to the guest quarters of
the presbytery. She was dressed in the navy uniform of An
Garda Síochána and while her visit was officially in her capacity
as head of the Special Detective Unit, the true reason for her
follow up visit was just to check in on Fr Luke O’Gorman.

‘Oh, do let me take that,’ the housekeeper made a grab for
Fírinne’s hat but Fírinne held on tightly.

‘Thank you, Mrs Doyle, but I am happy to keep it.’
‘Oh yes, yes, of course. I suppose you have to take good care
of your uniform.’
Mrs Doyle stopped fussing over Fírinne and instead started
fussing with the bobby pin that was attempting to keep a stray
curl in place in the bowl of silver hair that framed her plump
face. She then ushered Fírinne into an antiquated lounge which
looked as though it hadn’t been redecorated in half a century.
The dark wooden furniture and thick woolen upholstery
muddied together giving the room a heaviness that was almost
tangible.
They entered the room to find Luke seated in an old armchair,
staring blankly at the grey day outside. In his hand, he held a
tumbler half filled with amber liquid. Fírinne was certain that
it wasn’t apple juice. It had just gone midday.
Luke seemed to snap out of a trance at the sight of his
housekeeper and smiling warmly at her said, ‘Thank you, Mrs
Doyle. Would you be so kind as to bring us some tea?’ Turning
towards Fírinne he then said, ‘Chief Superintendent, it’s good
to see you again.’

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