Majella listened to the creak of each stair as she made her way down them. Ever since she was wee she had loved these sounds. She loved how they sounded different depending on whether you were coming up or down the stairs, and the speed at which you were traveling. She did not love the way the fag smoke drifting from her ma in the living room clashed with the fresh after-shower smell of her skin. She went into the kitchen, where she flicked the kettle on before dropping four slices of white bread into the toaster. She grabbed her soup mug and spooned three sugars into it, then went to the fridge. There was frig all in it, as usual: a carton of skimmed milk, a tub of spreadable margarine and twelve mini-bottles of her ma’s probiotic yogurt. She poured some of the anorexic milk into her mug, then closed the fridge. She dropped two round spoonfuls of SPAR Value instant-coffee granules on top of the milk, careful not to lose a single granule. Majella hated the way her ma scattered coffee around her when she made a cup. The kettle was grumbling its way to the boil. Majella checked the time on the kitchen clock: 5:05 p.m. Her shift started in fifty-five minutes, so she had plenty of time for breakfast and telly. The kettle switch flicked up and the toaster popped at the same time, sending a surge of pleasure through Majella, and she flicked her fingers to release the tension. Her da had liked it when the toaster and kettle stopped at the same time. Sometimes when she was wee he’d sing to her when the toast was near ready to pop and the kettle about to boil and, every now and then, he’d get the timing just right and the toaster and kettle and pop would happen simultaneously.
Half a pound of tuppenny rice
Half a pound of treacle,
That’s the way the money goes
POP goes the weasel!
Majella spread an even layer of margarine over the top of her toast, then smeared each slice with MACE raspberry jam, which bore the claim of being 20% real fruit! Majella knew the other 80% included glucose-fructose syrup, citric acid, acidity regulator (sodium citrate), gelling agent (pectin) and that the sugar content of the jam was noted as being 65 g per 100 g. She did not know why the jam was not called sugar jam (65% highly processed sugar!). They did not buy the jam based on its fruit or sugar content, nor for taste. They bought MACE raspberry jam because it was the cheapest jar on the shelf. Majella took a moment to survey her breakfast, then nodded to herself in satisfaction before carrying it through to the living room. The local news was coming on, so her ma turned the volume up. Majella did not like the local news, but her ma loved it. She sat up in her chair for the reports of car accidents wiping out four members of the same family on Christmas Eve, stared mournfully at the pictures of smiling children who’d drowned on their first foreign holiday, shook her head at the night-time footage of fishing boats searching for three generations of men for weeks, for months, while the fishes and crabs feasted. When a bride and groom crashed on their way to the airport for their honeymoon, Majella’s ma first sucked up the misery on BBC Northern Ireland before switching to UTV for a slightly different angle and camera footage. If a tragedy was of sufficient magnitude to feature on the Free State news, she’d try to catch it on RTÉ too. Majella stared out through the grey net curtains to the drizzle outside. Throughout her childhood, the local news had been a litany of deaths, explosions and murder attempts. Things only got worse after peace broke out. Reporters who’d worked internationally on terrorist atrocities were now reduced to covering record-breaking attempts that usually featured children or vegetables.
Police in the small village of Ag-gee-Bow-gee . . .
The reporter’s mispronunciation of her hometown caused a shot of pain to lick down Majella’s back. She didn’t understand why reporters from Belfast couldn’t pronounce Aghybogey. They were as bad as the Brits.
. . . are calling for public cooperation in . . .
Majella’s ma scrabbled at the + volume button. Majella braced herself before the TV boomed.
. . . reporting the latest developments in a story that has gripped and shocked this small, close-knit community . . .
Majella eyed the podgy reporter in a beige coat who was standing in the center of Aghybogey to cover this shocking and tragic story.
The Police Service of Northern Ireland have made it clear that the DNA testing and fingerprinting of males aged between sixteen and sixty will be selective, that samples will only be used in connection with this case, and that all samples will be destroyed once the police have ruled out the suspect. Police have also confirmed that the death early last week of eighty-five-year-old Mrs. Margaret O’Neill is being treated as murder. Local residents have given a cautious welcome to the new developments.
A series of people Majella knew flashed up on the screen.
. . . well on behalf of the local community and my constituents I would like to condemn this senseless act of violence that has resulted in the death of a well-respected elderly woman. The PSNI are doing their best to apprehend the assailant and I would ask for the cooperation of all local people . . .
. . . well you know I don’t mind what they do so I don’t as long as they catch him so they do cuz it’s not easy so it isn’t tae sleep in yer bed at night so it’s not when that beast’s out there so he is prowling after weemen and childern and it could as well be yerself next other than anyone . . .
. . . well all ah can say is he’d better hand himself in like cuz ye know ah wouldn’t like tae be him and get caught by someone else if ye know what ah mean cuz some a the local boys is wile angry and ah sort ah agree it’s hard tae hold people responsible if things sort ah just happen like . . .
The reporter signed off, sending his audience back to the newsroom in Belfast. Majella held her breath as her ma pushed the “–” volume button on the remote control. She sat still, chewing her mouthful of toast to mush, unable to swallow. Her ma dropped back in her chair, shaking her head.
— Well now. Ah’m sure yer Aunt Marie had wind of this for long enough before the reporters got tae it. And she didn’t break her neck running over tae us til warn us about it.
Majella said nothing, her toast lying thick on her tongue.
— Ye’d think maybe even a phone call. But naw. We had tae find out over the telly. PissNI doing DNA testing! And ah bet ye every frigger around us knew before they went to the telly. Bertie Daly and the Shinners and the whole fucken shower of them.
Majella let the wad of toast slide down her throat, then she took a mouthful of coffee.
— Ach poor, poor Maggie. Never wan for the limelight but her now thrown in tae it again at her age and her not out of it even now she’s dead and buried. Twas the shame that kilt her in the end, not what that baste did tae her.
Majella eyed the rest of her soggy toast, her appetite dead. Her ma stared mournfully at the christening photograph above the mantelpiece, where she stood sulking in a miniskirt despite a biting November breeze, aged just seventeen. On one side stood her mother-in-law Maggie O’Neill, stiff-backed and formal in a navy suit, her steely hair pinned tight underneath her hat. Majella’s aunt and godmother Marie looked decades older than Majella’s ma, despite being a year younger. Only Majella’s father looked happy, as he stood there, flanked by the three women in his life, cradling his baby girl. He looked cozy in his brown velvet suit with his extravagant flares. Her uncle and godfather Bobby wasn’t in the photo. He hadn’t been arsed to stand outside the chapel waiting for the photographer to get the camera set up, so he’d pissed off to the pub. You couldn’t see Majella in the picture: she’d been half-smothered in the blankets her granny’d wrapped around her.