Brian Keating worked in the tech industry for more than thirty years, before packing it in to pursue a lifelong passion for writing.

He is currently studying for an MA in Creative Writing at UL.

He lives in Limerick with his wife and two children.

Missing Person

By Brian Keating

‘The question is, lads, where did he bury the body?’

It’s Tuesday afternoon, and John Joe, a semi-retired farmer in his seventies, is sitting at the bar in the Bridge Tavern, staring at the dregs of his pint of stout. Outside, the rain is blowing sideways against the window, carried by the strong south-westerly coming in off the Atlantic. It’s early May, but it feels like January.

‘This is the fiancé we’re talking about now I suppose, John Joe?’ Bernard, a retired solicitor, is standing with his back to the fire, warming his hands behind him.

‘Ex-fiancé, Bernard,’ Martin corrects him from behind the bar, where he’s polishing glasses. Seeing the fire is dying, he lifts the bar flap, walks over to the fireplace, and throws another log onto the hearth, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney.

‘Aren’t ye maybe jumping the gun a bit there, lads?’ Michael interjects from his stool next to John Joe’s. A former Garda, Michael is the pragmatist of the group. ‘Sure we don’t even know if the poor girl is dead. Aren’t they still out looking for her?’

The four men glance sheepishly towards the window, the rain pelting off the glass.

‘I’d be out there myself,’ says John Joe, ‘if it wasn’t for the arthritis.’ There’s a general murmur of assent. They’d all be out there if it wasn’t for the arthritis, or the dicky heart, or the tricky knee. Not to mention the wind and rain.

Officially, it’s still a Missing Person case. Alison Dunne hadn’t been seen for nearly two weeks, ever since the night out with her girlfriends when they had celebrated what was to have been her last Thursday evening in town. They’d been drinking here in the Bridge, after which her friends had dropped her back to her flat in the square. On the Saturday, she was to head up to Dublin, to start her new modelling job.

‘Sure the whole town knows that Gerry Hanrahan killed her, after she broke off the engagement,’ Martin reminds his customers.

To be honest, no-one ever really knew what Alison saw in Gerry in the first place. Money, maybe; he had a big farm outside the town. But she was young – ten years his junior – and glamorous, and ambitious; you couldn’t really see her being happy in the role of farmer’s wife. The town had never really been big enough for Alison, and now that she had broken things off with Gerry, it was decidedly too small for the two of them.

‘If you ask me,’ John Joe says after a brief pause, ‘I’d say he has her buried under the floorboards above in the farmhouse.’

‘Sure wouldn’t the Guards have noticed the smell?’ asks Bernard, not unreasonably. ‘Or those, what do they call them, cadaver dogs?’

‘Well obviously, he’s wrapped her up in some sort of plastic or something. I mean, otherwise the whole house would stink to high heaven.’

‘If it was me,’ says Michael, ‘I’d bury her in the slurry tank. Cut her up into little pieces first, of course. She’d decompose in no time.’

John Joe nods approvingly. ‘I can see you’ve put a lot of thought into this, Michael.’

Another round is called. The men watch the fresh pints of stout settling in front of them, mesmerised as always by the creamy bubbles flowing down the inside edge of the glass in waves.

‘Has anyone seen Gerry since herself went missing?’ John Joe asks.

‘He’s barely set foot in the town,’ says Bernard. ‘Although I heard he joined one of the search parties last week.’

‘Well of course he would,’ says John Joe. ‘Sure otherwise he might as well march himself down to the barracks with his hands up.’

‘He was a regular in here when he was doing a line with Alison, wasn’t he, Martin?’ says Michael.

‘He was,’ Martin replies. ‘I was in school with him too, back in the day. He was a fuckin’ bully back then too.’

Bernard and John Joe exchange raised eyebrows, and the subject is dropped.

Afternoon turns to evening. Some of the search party straggle in; there’s still neither sight nor sign of Alison. Martin feeds them soup and sandwiches on the house.

The last remaining customers have finished up their drinks and left by eleven p.m. Martin locks the door behind them and cleans the bar meticulously, as he does every night. It’s important to stick to routine. He leaves through the door behind the bar, into the house beyond, clicking off the lights behind him as he does.

In the house, he goes through his usual nighttime regimen: a late supper, then upstairs to brush his teeth and get ready for bed. It’s nearly midnight when he turns out the light.

He waits a few minutes for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Then he gets up and goes back downstairs and into the pub. Behind the bar, there’s a trapdoor in the floor that leads to the cellar where he stores the barrels and other supplies. He grabs the recessed rusty iron ring, pulls up the trapdoor, and walks down the wooden steps into the blackness below. From the second last step, he pulls the trapdoor closed behind him, and pulls a cord on the ceiling to turn on the light in the cellar.

It was her own fault, really.

Alison had been a regular in the pub. Sometimes she’d come in with her girlfriends, sometimes with Gerry Hanrahan, him with that big shit-eating grin on his face like the cat who got the cream.

Of course, that was before she broke up with him. That wiped the smile off his face fairly sharpish.

Alison was a looker, too. Very tactile, always touching Martin’s arm when she was ordering her drink. Sex on the beach, or a porn star Martini, always with that little smile playing on her pouty lips like she was teasing him, looking for a reaction. Leaning forward as if she were about to impart some wonderful, intimate secret. And then when she’d catch Martin staring down her top, she’d say, “Eyes up, Martin!” and point to her face and laugh, and that fucker would laugh too, and Martin’s cheeks would glow hot and crimson. Just like back at school.

She was in a few weeks ago with three of her girlfriends. They sat at a table by the fireplace, all chattering loudly, like they’d had a few back at the flat before they came out. ‘A bottle of your finest pink Prosecco, Martin,’ Alison said. ‘We’re celebrating!’ And then she leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, ‘I’m getting the fuck out of Dodge. I can’t stay in this shithole. One. More. Fucking. Day.’

Martin wasn’t sure how to react. He knew she’d split up with Gerry, and some little part of him had dared to hope that maybe, just maybe, he’d ask her out, now that she was … what? Free? Available? But no, she was way out of his league. Always had been. And now she was leaving town. Thought it was a shithole. He’d never really liked the town very much, either, but it had never occurred to him to leave. Where would he even go?

‘That’s great news, Alison,’ he said, trying to sound like he meant it. Trying to keep his eyes on her face, even though she was leaning towards him, her breasts pushing up from her low-cut top, pressing against his arm. Her perfume was overpowering, mixed with the heady scent of her sweat and the sweet smell on her breath of something fruity and exotic.

‘I … I’m delighted for you,’ he stammered, forcing a little smile. ‘I’ll get that Prosecco.’

He turned away quickly, hoping the girls wouldn’t notice the bulge in his jeans. Behind the bar, he grabbed a bottle from the fridge and brought it to the table, along with four Champagne flutes. They all cheered when the bottle popped. ‘It’s on the house, Alison,’ he said.

They bought two more bottles over the course of the next few hours, and were the last to leave the pub, shortly before eleven p.m.

Martin was still tidying up when he heard a knock on the door. Unlocking it, he found Alison standing outside, alone. ‘I left my scarf behind,’ she explained, slurring her words slightly. She stepped inside and spotted it under the seat where she had been sitting. Martin fetched it and handed it to her.

‘Thanks Martin,’ she said. ‘And thanks for the Prosecco earlier. You’re very sweet.’ She placed her hand on his chest and leaned in to plant a kiss on his cheek.

Things might have gone very differently if Martin hadn’t completely misread the situation. He turned his head so her lips landed on his, and put his hand on her bare shoulder, his right thumb resting gently on the foothills of her left breast. Alison pulled away sharply.

‘Jesus Christ, Martin,’ she said. ‘What the fuck? I’m not that drunk!’ And then she laughed.

Martin felt like she had slapped him across the face. His cheeks reddened. He was confused, the almost tender moment followed so suddenly by the all too familiar feelings of shame and humiliation. Something bubbled up in his chest, some rage, reined in for years, suddenly unleashed. He could feel his heart hammering, pulsing in his ear, strong and fast. He clenched his fist and punched her in the face. Hard.

He had never hit a woman before. Never hit anyone, that he could remember.

That’s all it took. One punch and down she went, knees buckling, her head hitting the stone flags. He’d never forget the sound it made, a wet sort of splat, like a soft, ripe fruit hitting the ground. He stood over her, frozen, watching with fascination the halo of dark red spread around her head in a grotesque parody of an angel.

In the cellar, the fluorescent light ticks, buzzes, flickers on.

Something Michael said earlier had given him an idea. About the slurry tank. On Gerry Hanrahan’s farm. He walks over to the far wall of the cellar where he keeps his toolbox and picks out a hacksaw. In the opposite corner, under several boxes of liquor, is a chest freezer. He moves the boxes onto the floor and lifts the freezer lid. Alison’s glassy eyes look up at him accusingly, her lashes laced with a delicate filigree of frost.

He lifts the hacksaw, and gets to work.