Gerry Waldron peeled a layer of tinfoil from a platter of sandwiches he’d prepared at home. Simple ham and cheese, adventurous trout and cucumber. Enough for everyone expected at the meeting. He took a moment to appreciate the precision-cut triangles of bread, then arranged a neat stack of printed agendas at the end of the table. He looked around the rented community hall, admiring the perfectly arranged circle of chairs. He would have preferred a more intimate room, but a retirees’ crime fiction club had beaten him to the booking.
It was Gerry’s turn to chair the meeting, and he was hoping to demonstrate to fellow members that he would make a more enterprising leader than Grace Flynn. Grace founded the group to offer support to those members of the public who had discovered a dead body. Early risers, dog walkers, forest trekkers. Those nameless people you read about in the paper who come across a corpse. In two years as secretary – during which he’d felt more than a little sidelined – Gerry fostered a more ambitious mission.
He believed that under his rule, the group could become the nation’s preeminent Corpse Discovery Association, functioning not as a support group, but as an expert resource, called upon whenever a person was missing and presumed dead. He believed that it was a special gift, not blind chance, which led him to discover the deceased.
He had felt it that day by the river.
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He checked his watch and sat down to review the running order of the meeting. He hoped to pass a motion to change the group’s logo and had spent the better part of six weeks’ worth of evenings fine-tuning his proposed design on Microsoft Paint. He was also expecting a new member, Mr Anthony Gill, who had gotten in touch via Facebook. A new discovery was always exciting. Grace was happy to oversee the same old drivel every month. Derek Ryan’s supposed post-traumatic stress, Arlene Breathnach’s revisiting the car park where she discovered a taxi driver in rigor mortis behind the wheel of a Nissan Juke, meter running to a triple-figure fare.
Gerry, on the other hand, consumed the news voraciously, on the lookout for tasty cases. He, like most of the country, was gripped by the story of a Kilkenny mother who had taken her two daughters and not been seen for 36 hours. The photo released to the media showed a smiling woman in her early 40s, with two sandy-haired girls in swimming costumes, standing by a picnic bench. Gerry’s solo orienteering excursions took him all over the country, and he recognised the backdrop as Cahermurphy Forest in Co Clare. The public were asked to be on high-alert for a black Nissan Qashqai. His gift had yet to be triggered this time around, and it couldn’t be forced.
The door opened and Grace entered, trademark silk scarf on her neck, the ends of her shoulder-length grey hair chopped perfectly straight and her fringe covering her forehead in the style of Gerry’s least favourite aunt. Grace’s discovery was mundanity made flesh. Working as a community geriatric nurse, she let herself into Annette Burlington’s bungalow one afternoon and found the widow dead at the kitchen table.
The fact that Annette was sitting perfectly upright with her hands on her thighs and a cup of still-hot tea on the table was an interesting detail, but Gerry wondered if health workers shouldn’t be discounted from the group altogether. Surely death is par for their course? What next, police? Morticians? He chuckled and made a note to raise this at a future meeting, including the line about morticians.
Grace was flanked by Laurie O’Neill and Ray Brosnan. Laurie was in her late 30s and complained of a slow metabolism. The tragedy of her discovery was its ordinariness – a homeless man in a church doorway. The only surprising detail was that she found him after the hottest day of the year, rather than a usual winter exposure case.
Ray’s was more colourful. A missing fly fisherman who fell from his skiff near Carrowteige, Co Mayo, and floated past Ray’s boat one morning, at the exact moment he had supposedly hooked the biggest trout of his life. He let the fish go, though the same could not be said of his resentment of this (supposed) fact. Gerry stood to greet them, crossing the hall, his footsteps echoing on the wooden floor.
“Welcome all,” he said. “Coping all right?”
Grace and Laurie exchanged a glance. Ray offered a thin smile, and his eye caught the table against the far wall.
“Sandwiches?”
“Help yourself,” Gerry said, extending a palm. “Something special for you, Ray. Trout.” He winked. “Plenty of biscuits too, Laurie.”
“Fox’s?” Laurie asked and Gerry suggested she find out for herself. She smiled and hurried to the table, overtaking Ray, and put four Crunch Creams, at least one more than a decorous quota, on to a napkin. The little details, Gerry thought, smiling. So much for Grace and her plate of Rich Tea.
“Grace,” he said, as she undid the belt of her coat, while refusing to be drawn to the sandwich table. “Can I take your coat?” He offered his hands.
“No, thank you. It’s chilly in here.” She lowered her voice and dipped her head. “I hope you’ll allow others to speak this evening, Gerry. They come for support. To put their trauma behind them, not search for more.”
Gerry knew she’d rehearsed the final line and didn’t take the bait.
“Indeed,” he said, and checked his watch.
Grace turned and wiped a chair, then sat without further comment, hands folded on her knees. She had dismissed the idea that Gerry had a gift in a private conversation before, suggesting that his discovery had damaged him in a way that called for “more professional means of support”.
Gerry’s discovery was the stuff of legend. A walk along the Lee on a chill March morning. Nearing The Angler’s Rest – a fine waterside pub, where he celebrated his 50th birthday alone with a bowl of chowder – he felt somehow drawn to leave the road before the bridge and walk the flood plain of marshy grass. A cheap Dunlop luggage case was floating near the bank, snagged in the outstretched roots of an ancient sycamore recently felled by storm Brendan.
Gerry managed to pull the case to the bank using an improvised branch hook and discovered the remains of an adult male inside. The deceased was later identified as a wedding videographer named Tomasz Butska. The discovery made the front pages and the find remained unmatched by any other member of the group.
Gerry checked his watch again and felt like an inter-county starter before the provincial final, a perfect performance demanded. Brian Kearney, the group’s youngest member, arrived untypically early and Gerry saw it as a good omen. A spotty, slouching recreational diver with a bowl cut, Brian had an excruciating habit of edging his glasses millimetres up his nose before he spoke.
Despite Gerry’s regret that the younger blood didn’t offer a more invigorating energy, he respected the boy’s discovery. The body of a man who had been missing for 14 years, seat-belted inside a Corolla at the bottom of Lough Gur. The story made national news and in Gerry’s eyes improved the group’s pedigree. Gerry was even quoted in the Independent, which still rankled with Grace.
“Brian,” Gerry called, as the youngster crossed the room. “Good diving lately?”
“Some,” Brian said and Gerry imagined his skinny shape wrapped in a wet suit, face half-covered by prescription goggles.
“Any new finds?”
Brian shook his head and Gerry felt foolish. As if Brian might have made a new discovery and not reported it on WhatsApp. The group chat was supposed to be used strictly for confirming meetings and sharing one’s location if a discovery felt imminent, which had yet to occur. Frustratingly, photos of nondescript newborns, charity runs, and accompanying banalities, had begun to slip through the net of late.
Next came Arlene Breathnach, reporting to Grace that Derek didn’t feel up to joining. She tossed a judgmental glance at Gerry as she delivered the message. Then Ambrose Graham (sudden adult death in a public toilet), Louise Kelleher (a roofer at the bottom of a scaffold) and a Kuwaiti man named Taha Masud, who had never actually discovered a body, and was not alone when he arrived on the scene of a burning car that had hit a wall. The driver was alive, but could not be saved.
Gerry suspected Grace overlooked the shaky foundations of Taha’s credentials because of how Taha called her “Chairwoman Grace” and sang her praises. “You all better hurry if you want some sandwiches before I start,” Gerry said.
As Taha sat next to Grace, the door shut and Gerry looked up to see a well-dressed man crossing the hall. He wore a black peacoat over a salmon pink jumper, with a blue scarf knotted at his neck. He had thinning white hair and wore the goatee of a much younger man. Mr Gill. The others gathered around, and Grace stood.
“Mr Gill,” Gerry said, happy to have spoken first. The man carried himself in a way that set Gerry on edge, effortlessly undoing coat buttons with one hand, deftly cajoling his scarf free with the other. Hanging both over the back of a chair and smiling with teeth penetrated by some shameless dentist’s bleach.
“Mr. Waldron,” Gill said, his accent a low-key, well-to-do Leinster inflection. He turned to the others. “I deeply appreciate being permitted to come along. Which of you ladies is Mrs Flynn?”
“So well spoken,” Gerry heard Laurie swoon.
Grace began to speak.
Gerry interrupted. “This is Grace,” he said, casting a hand towards her as if displaying an expensive antique to a prospective buyer. “But I’m chairing this evening’s meeting. On that note, perhaps we should begin.”
Gill sat on Grace’s other side and they shook hands. Legs of chairs scraped, and teacups were placed on the floor. Gerry kicked himself for not thinking of side tables.
“What’s your story?” Brian blurted at Gill.
Gerry laughed and shook his head like an embarrassed father. “Brian please, let Mr Gill get comfortable. And remember,” he said, double tapping the document, “let’s stick to the agenda.”
Gill picked something unseen from a gutter on his corduroy trousers. Gerry met Gill’s eye and they both smiled, without showing teeth.
“Right then,” Gerry said, louder than necessary. “You each have a copy of the agenda. I’d like to start by welcoming Mr Gill to the group. Pending formalities, of course,” Gerry said, without looking up. “Item one, the group’s logo. Now, I know some of you are attached to Grace’s original design.”
“For God’s sake, Gerry, let the man speak, he doesn’t care about the logo,” Laurie said, gesturing towards Gill, who straightened and set his hands on the knee which rested on the other. Grace sighed and Gerry pretended not to notice.
“We’re all keen to hear details of a new discovery, Laurie, but I’m sure Mr Gill wants to see the workings of things before, haha, diving in,” Gerry said and nodded at Brian, who was shoving an entire trout triangle into his mouth.
“Well, if it’s no trouble, I’m happy to get it out there,” Gill said, feigning deference. Gerry felt the weight of eyes on him. He couldn’t risk a show of force, especially if he hoped to push through the logo change. He swallowed hard and conceded.
“Please,” he said, barely above a whisper.
Gill straightened again and let his eyes drift over each member. The high windows of the hall rattled, and rain whipped against them. The sound of slow footsteps and tentative taps of a walking stick came from the corridor.
“I’m sure,” Gill said, inspecting his immaculate fingernails. “I’m sure the names McAllister and Andrews mean something to you all.”
Laurie shrieked, Ray said “My God” and even Brian made a noise something like enthusiasm. Grace stirred and Taha looked to her for guidance. A current of intrigue spread through the group. Gerry’s heart raced. His stomach wrenched. The impending thrill of a high-profile discovery battled with the fear that his own find was about the be toppled as the group’s most impressive. He’d identified Gill as a potential challenger immediately, but still hoped his discovery was some tepid tale of a front-garden heart attack. He said nothing, and privately willed the others to not interrupt with stupid questions, so that he could consider the quality of Gill’s story without distraction.
McAllister, a junior minister, was found naked in the four-poster bed of an Airbnb near Glendalough, next to Simon Andrews, a married father of three, sprawled in a similar state of indignity. Deemed a double accidental death by carbon monoxide poisoning, the story had engrossed the nation. It had the profile and the scandal. A voyeuristic glimpse at the private lives of wealthy, powerful people. Gill’s story versus Gerry’s story was a battle as old as time. Mankind’s two great fascinations, sex versus murder, sleaze versus gore.
Gerry sank into his chair, as Gill recited, with rehearsed clarity, his tale of being asked to check on the rental property of a supremely affluent neighbour, whose Amalfian getaway was cut short by the fatally flawed gas boiler. A late summer sun rising above the Wicklow Mountains, blades of light pouring through forest branches. His monologue was peppered with details not mentioned in the papers. The cars in the driveway, long past checkout time. The Moët on the nightstand next to half a litre of baby oil, a lava lamp lending the scene an otherworldly glow.
Gerry dared to look at the others and could see fascination on their faces. Hypnotised, almost. Gill recounted how he calmly checked each man’s pulse before phoning the emergency services from the porch, then returning to the scene where he knelt and prayed for the dead. Laurie blessed herself, worshipping Gill’s sanctimony. Gerry glanced at Grace, whose hand rested on Gill’s shoulder.
After Gerry’s concluding remarks, the others flocked to Gill. Gerry knew his moment had passed. There’d be no vote on the logo and he wouldn’t be chair again for at least eight months. Only another discovery could salvage things. He crossed the floor without raising a glance or goodbye and flung the agendas and his logo design into the bin. He forgot his sandwich tray and that he hadn’t eaten since lunch.
He left the community centre in the company of the book club ladies and briefly considered following one madam with a bluish tinge to her white hair, so fragile that it looked as if an unexpected plot twist would be enough to shock her into oblivion. But finding an octogenarian dead at home would be about as impressive as finding loose change down the back of a couch. He needed more, to reach deeper into his gift.
In his car, he checked the news on his phone and saw a renewed appeal for the missing mother and daughters. He saw the estranged husband, pleading for their safe return. He eyed the community centre in his rear-view mirror as he left, troubled by images of the others sharing drinks and stories at Gill’s coronation in The Merry Monk. His search was unplanned, so he travelled without his orienteering kit of torch, compass, and North Face jacket with energy bars in the inside pocket. He admonished himself for not keeping spares in the boot.
He drove for hours, waiting for a sign that his gift was coming to life again. Then, on the periphery of Cahermurphy Forest it started to flicker, like a radio close to finding a station. He slowed to a stop behind an SUV that had no place on a midnight slip road, far from the main car park. He took a hat and mittens of Icelandic wool from the glove compartment, then stepped into the night, shining his phone light on the black Qashqai, its roof covered by leaves, its windscreen splattered with bird droppings. Empty inside. He unlocked his phone. The group chat was flooded with pictures of hot whiskeys and smiling faces next to a triumphant Gill. Gerry shared his location, then fastened his mittens. His gift was pulsing.
He closed his eyes and imagined the missing mother, taking her daughters to where they had once happily holidayed as a family, and let his gift guide him through the forest, arms extended, parting branches while twigs snapped underfoot and pine needles clung to his clothes. He ventured deep into the forest. He shivered. His phone beeped as the battery died and he stopped and listened to the breeze share secrets with the canopy. He put a hand on his rumbling stomach and turned, opening his eyes to a wall of forest night. He was almost sure that he knew his way back to the car.
Neil Tully is the author of the debut novel The Visit (Eriu). He grew up in Co Mayo and lives in Cork with his wife. He has won several prizes for short fiction and holds an MA in Creative Writing from the University of Limerick.
