The One Good Thing

A Jacob Kincaid Short

Jacob had been reading the same chapter of an old Lehane novel for the last half hour and wasn’t taking in a word of it. The sentences swam together with each drift of his attention. Finally giving up, he tossed the book on his desk and wandered out into the main office.

Helen, deep into a crossword and knowing he was bored, ignored him. It had been four months since his first official investigation which had netted him a nice pay-cheque and a new…

Well, he wasn’t quite sure what Helen was yet. Her official title and responsibilities had never really been ironed out. Still, he couldn’t argue with the fact that since the day Helen had turned up and told him he had a new employee, the office had been tidier, the bills got paid, and the work was picking up.

But that didn’t mean there weren’t dry patches. The days were he reached for the stack of old crime novels under his desk to ward off the tedium.

“I think we should get an office dog,” Jacob said. “Something small. Judgmental.”

She didn’t look up. “You already yap and walk mud everywhere.”

He wandered over to one of the filing cabinets. Opened a drawer, closed it again.

“I could organize Harry’s old files.”

“You could. Or you could admit you’re bored and go out for a walk.”

The rain was coming sideways on the other side of the window.

“In that?”

“Anything that gets you out from underfoot.”

He was about to hit back when the door opened. The man who stepped in was old but broad-shouldered, his face worn, with a flat nose that had been broken more than a few times. He was soaked through but didn’t seem to notice.

“You Kincaid?”

Jacob hesitated, wondering who he had recently wronged. “Depends.”

Helen finally broke her attention away from the crossword. “That’s him.”

The man reached into his coat and Jacob fleetingly considered diving for cover behind Helen. The hand came back with crisp notes. Fifties. He began to set them down on Helen’s desk, stopping at five.

“You know Marty Boyle.” A statement, not a question.

Jacob frowned. He did know Marty Boyle, back when he was a response officer in west Belfast. Boyle was a former journeyman boxer turned punch-drunk nuisance who would usually come to the attention of someone in the section at least once per set, and usually get himself picked up for something petty; theft or criminal damage, sometimes simple drunk, when no other offences had been committed but he needed taken offside.

Inevitably, you got to know him, got to find out he wasn’t a bad soul. If you were interested, he’d regale you with stories of pugilistic glory and one fair break away from being a contender. If you weren’t interested, he’d tell you anyway.

Jacob hadn’t thought much on Marty Boyle since his days in the west. He was just one face in many that blurred together in a hodgepodge of criminality, misery, bad luck and destitution, tucked away in the back recess of memory.

And then he ran into him about two months back outside a shop in the city centre. Marty had been standing by the door, hunched in a damp parka that might once have been green, clutching a takeaway coffee and staring at the traffic like he’d forgotten where he was supposed to go. Their eyes had met and through the muddle of his mind, Marty was able to recall Jacob, by sight if not name, and Jacob had stopped long enough to pass the time.

The man, who hadn’t deigned to introduce himself, held a finger on the notes on Helen’s desk. “Two-fifty to listen. Another two-fifty when the job’s done.”

“Well,” said Jacob “What’s the job?”

“You’ll need to hear it from Marty. He’s in the Mater. He’s not getting out.”

“How long?”

“Days.”

A man he barely knew, dying in a hospital across town, wanting to see him. He exhaled slowly. “I suppose I can listen.”

It was a short drive over to the Mater. Jacob followed the signs to Ward 4A, past tired relatives clutching polystyrene coffee cups and nurses with quiet, practiced smiles.

He stopped one, asked for Marty Boyle. The nurse pointed him down a side wing. “Room seven. He’s in and out.”

The door was ajar. Machines beeped softly. Tubes fed into the sunken figure on the bed.

Marty Boyle, the Mule in a former life, stirred as Jacob entered. He had only ever known him as a punchline with cauliflower ears but now he was a worn-out shadow of even that. His face was gaunt, cheeks hollow, skin tinged yellow.

“It’s yourself,” Marty said hoarsely. “Donal stopped by your office?”

“He did.”

“And he gave you the cash?”

Jacob nodded. “Aye.”

Marty smiled, slow and crooked. “Donal used to do my corner. Was a useful heavyweight in his time. He keeps some of my money aside, makes sure I don’t blow it all.” He wheezed. “Ye remember we met outside the shop a few months back. You said you were a private detective?”

“I remember.”

“I was thinking, never met a real-life one of those before, but then I suppose you are private.”

Jacob made a mental note to steal the joke but didn’t interrupt.

“She was the only good thing I ever had, y’know. Not just a good woman, good, full stop. The kind if you mess it up, you don’t deserve another shot.”

Again, Jacob didn’t interrupt. He took the she in Marty’s sudden segue as the reason he was here. He watched the older man’s hands, one fidgeting with the hospital sheet, the other trembling on his chest.

“I met her after a fight. I was busted up, couldn’t remember what day of the week it was. And there was Maura Devine, sitting on the steps outside the hall, smoking a fag and looking like she could see right through me. Told me she’d been dragged to the fights by her boyfriend. Told me I moved like I had one foot in the grave. I said it’s only because I can’t dance. She said take me out.

Marty paused, wet his lips, eyes glazing. “She didn’t care about boxing. She just saw me. Said she wanted me out of it, I didn’t listen, kept taking the fights until she gave me a choice, boxing or her. So I stayed away for a while. Got a labouring job. We had dinners in. Went dancing. She…she used to tuck her legs under her when she sat, drink red wine, hum old songs while she washed her hair. I thought I saw a future. She talked about getting out of Belfast, moving down the coast. She always wanted a house by the sea.”

He stopped again, this time wanting Jacob to prompt him.

“What did you do?”

“Lost a fight.” He wheezed again. “Nah, it wasn’t the losing. Should never have taken it. Some big lad from Armagh. I thought I had one more in me. First round, took a shot right behind the ear and woke up in the locker room. Couldn’t face going back to her. She found me three days later in some poxy shebeen, said she couldn’t keep pulling me out if I kept diving back in. And that was that.” Marty sank further into the pillow. “I thought she’d call. I thought I’d fix it. Then the years got away from me.”

“You want me to…”

“- All I ever wanted,” Marty carried on, not hearing him, “was for her to say she remembered me. Not the fighter. Not the drunk. Me, from before the rot set in. Before my head went soft and the world stopped making sense.”

Silence fell, broken only by the wheeze of the oxygen line.

Marty’s eyes drifted back to the window. “She had this laugh… low and warm. I hear it sometimes, when I’m almost asleep.”

“So you want me to find her?”

The exertion of nodding once looked almost overwhelming.

“When did you last see her?”

“That day in the shebeen.”

“And that was…”

“Thirty-five years ago.”

Jacob puffed his cheeks. “Where should I start?”

Marty raised a hand in the vague direction of a cabinet before it flopped limply on his stomach. “There’s a picture of Maura and a letter. Give the letter to her, tell her I don’t have long left.”

The picture and letter were in the top drawer. The picture was creased, slightly stained, but the woman in it was beautiful. Mid-twenties maybe, sitting on a brick wall, cobalt blue sea behind her, sunlight on her face, dark hair tugged by the wind. Her smile was genuine, not just for the camera.

Happy.

Jacob wondered how long it had been since he had smiled like that.

He pushed the thought away. Pretty as the girl was, it didn’t answer his question. “Anything else you can tell me, Marty?”

“Clifton Park Avenue. She had a little house there. Forty-four.”

Jacob rubbed at his chin. A fading picture and an address from three decades ago. “Is there..” he stopped. Marty had drifted off, pulled under by exhaustion and whatever medication they were pumping into him.

Slipping the envelope and picture into his coat, Jacob stood. It was good luck, he supposed, that Clifton Park Avenue was only half a mile from the hospital. Close enough to walk.

But this was Belfast in December. He drove.

The door of 44 Clifton Park Avenue was painted a bright yellow. Jacob knocked twice and stepped back.

A young woman answered, late twenties, hair tied back. “Yeah?”

“Sorry to bother you,” said Jacob.” I’m looking for a lady named Maura Devine. I believe she used to live here.”

The woman gave a half-apologetic shrug. “Don’t know her. I’ve been here five years. Rent through an agency but the landlord is a foreign fella.”

“No previous mail? Neighbours ever mention her?”

She shook her head. “Not that I’ve heard.” She was already closing the door. “Sorry.”

“Right. Thanks anyway.”

Jacob turned back to the street, rain misting down again. Belfast drizzle soaked you slowly, it had all day to do it. Behind him, the door shut with a click.

He tried a few of the neighbours. Two didn’t answer. One woman peered through a chain lock and said she’d only moved in last year. Another man just shook his head and shut the door before Jacob could even ask a question.

Across the street he got more of the same until one door opened after a long rattle of locks to reveal a thin old woman in a wool cardigan. She smiled the way people do when they don’t get many visitors, listened as Jacob asked his question and said she did indeed remember Maura Devine.

“Lovely wee girl. Got married and moved away. Must be, oh about thirty years ago now.”

“Do you remember where?”

“Down the country somewhere.”

To a denizen of Belfast, down the country meant anywhere not in the city, a misty unknown expanse where people vanished into quieter lives.

Back to the office. Black coffee and social media.

Facebook. Instagram. LinkedIn pages with bright headshots. A couple of name matches; a HR manager in Derry, a nurse in Lisburn, both way too young.

Trying a different tact, he entered Maura Devine into the search engine along with the names of coastal towns. Maybe she’d gotten her wish and moved down by the sea. Portrush. Portstewart. Bangor. Ballycastle. Scanned the returned pages for any kind of trace.

He was telling himself he was on a hiding to nothing when he came across a possible lead on a local community forum for Newcastle. One Maura C. was querying the delay in new bins along the promenade.

It was the user icon that caught Jacob’s attention. A small circular image, poorly cropped, a sunset behind her. Even pixelated, the face held the same angular cheekbones and delicate jawline he’d seen in Marty’s crumpled photo.

Clicking on Maura C’s profile, he opened her post history, scrolled past discussions of bin collection, parking problems and the local Lidl closing down.

And then, serendipity, or whatever passed for it in his line of work.

Seven years ago, Maura C was complaining about the size of the pothole outside her house in Commedagh Park. God bless her, she’d even included a picture. And while the size of the pothole was impressive, it was the house behind that drew Jacob’s attention. The house with number 23 fixed by the door in black metal.

Jacob leaned back, running a hand over his jaw. Newcastle. Where the Mountains o’ Mourne sweep down to the sea. He glanced at the envelope, then glanced at the clock. It could wait until tomorrow.

He made it to Newcastle in a shade under ninety minutes. The air smelled of salt and wet pine as Jacob parked outside a modest detached house with a decent view of the mountains.

He knocked once.

She answered almost immediately. Maura Devine wore jeans and a loose jumper. “Yes?”

“Maura Devine?”

She appeared as if she were about to correct him with her married name but stopped and instead said, “I am.”

“I’m Jacob Kincaid. I’m a private investigator hired by a man named Marty Boyle.”

For a second, her face shifted. Not surprise. Not pain. Just recognition.

Maura stepped back but didn’t invite him in. “Yes?”

“He asked me to deliver something.” Jacob reached into his coat, took out the envelope and held it out. “He said-”

“-I don’t want it.”

“Oh.”

He hadn’t been expecting that.

Jacob withdrew the envelope and without a contingency plan for this outcome, held it forward again. “Well, I told him I would.”

“And now you can take it back.”

Jacob considered holding the envelope out a third time, just to see what would happen, but decided to switch it up. “He told me what happened. He held on all the years since.”

“He held on? He held on to a bottle. He held on to fists and noise. I was a calm between collapses.” She paused, hands going to her hips, gaze now focused on the ground.. “Is he…has he...?”

“Not yet but he doesn’t have long. For what it’s worth, he never stopped thinking about you.”

Maura looked past him, toward the Mournes over his shoulder, toward memory.

“And what would I do with that now? He shows up again, at the end, all sorrow and longing? That’s not love. It’s convenience.”

Jacob nodded. “I’ll tell him you weren’t home.”

“No. Tell him you came. Tell him I answered the door. And tell him I remember. Every bit of it.”

Her voice caught slightly, but she didn’t break.

Then the door closed, quiet but final.

Jacob stood there a moment longer, the envelope still in his hand. The wind shifted. In the distance he could hear waves crashing to shore.

The following day, as dusk settled into night, he stepped off the lift onto Ward 4A.

He was halfway to Marty’s room when a nurse, blonde, soft-voiced, with deep purple bags under her eyes, stopped him.

“You’re Mr Boyle’s friend?”

“Yeah?”

“Did someone call you?”

“No. Why?”

“He’s declined since yesterday. Rapidly. We’ve made him comfortable, but it could be any time now.”

“Right.”

“He might wake again. Briefly. Sometimes they do, waiting for someone.”

“Well, I don’t think anyone else is coming.”

The lights in the room were dimmed. The monitor showed shallow, irregular lines. Marty looked like wax under the blankets.

Jacob pulled the chair close and sat.

For a long while, he just watched. Rain patted against the window like a soft drum roll.

With a grunt like he was hauling something heavy from deep inside, Marty’s eyes opened. They were glassy but aware.

“Did you see her?”

“I did.”

“Did she remember me?”

“Yes.”

Marty’s lips twitched into the ghost of a smile. “Told you she would.”

The room went quiet again.

Marty’s fingers twitched against the sheet. He mumbled something. Jacob leaned in close.

“...had this laugh. Low and warm. I hear it sometimes, when I’m almost asleep. I can hear it now.”

The breath left Marty in a slow, shuddering sigh.

The monitor showed a flat line.

The nurse came in silently, rested a hand on Marty’s shoulder, and turned off the machine.

Two days later, Jacob stood alone on a damp stretch of beach. The sea churned grey and dull under a low sky. Newcastle sat behind him. A few hundred metres down the sand was the Slieve Donard hotel. There would be guests in the spa, swimming laps or lounging in the long hot-tub, gazing lazily out to where the sea met the Mournes. They wouldn’t feel the cold in the wind, the bite in the air, or the weight of the envelope in his hand.

He’d thought about leaving it in Maura’s post box. Thought about mailing it with no return address. Thought, too, about burning it.

But instead, he opened it.

Inside was a single sheet of paper. No grand confession. No apology. Just a few crooked lines in shaky, oversized handwriting:

Maura,

I kept hearing that song you used to hum. The one with no name.

I got lost.

I loved you always, the last light I ever believed in.

– Marty

Jacob folded it back up and returned it to the envelope.

He walked to the edge of the rocks, tucked the letter beneath a heavy stone out of the wind, and stood for a while longer, watching the tide come in.

Then he turned and walked away.