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Random thoughts during last night’s insomnia

COTTAGE PORN: I can’t shake it off. I’d say, at a conservative estimate, I do about 20 hours a week on property websites. They’re truly the teddy bear of the bricks-n-mortar world. Small dinky cottages with two windows and a garishly painted door. After years of plywood apartments, listening to neighbours fart & beat up their wives, romanesque snores and kids painting walls with overly worked lungs, I demand life lobs me a cottage. In return I’ll try to be less aggressive towards people who let me down and junkies who I like to describe as ‘a Monet of clanking bones in silver Nike’. I love *tiny* cottages that really only resemble belt buckles, architect licked ones too beautiful to be lived in, awkwardly shaped ones that somewhere along the line begin to look as infirm as their cuppa soup geriatric owners, loud crashing seaside ones with sand and flowers and bugs in the garden, crooked ones that’d need a bus-load of Polish builders to put back together again. I love them indiscriminately in the way a deranged animal sanctuary owner loves pit bulls, without noticing any savage flaws. I’d fill mine with crooked wooden furniture, books I’ve no intention of reading on a rake of built-in walnut shelves and some awesome portraits by Emer Martin on the walls. I’d like a separate carved-out nook to write in, mosaic wet-room, open fire. Can’t abide people moaning about the ‘work’ involved in cleaning out the ashes, etc. What about changing nappies for years on end for kids you didn’t think twice about having and later deciding at 50 you didn’t really want (or need)? I’m easy too about where it might be, this cottage that’s coming my way: Dublin, Galway, France or Berlin. There are no cottages in Berlin. Obviously it goes without saying I’d need a cat too, a cynical black one or lazy black & white one (marmalades are malcontents). My love and I will take turns cooking dinner and in the summer we’ll drink low-end high-alco fizzy crap on a beautifully tiled & trellised patio with terracotta plant pots, not overlooked by inquisitorial neighbours who play their TV too loud when not moaning about roadworks and the cataclysmic drinking habits of young people.

AMY: So predictable as to be invertedly shocking. Why couldn’t anyone stop this kid in her tracks?

ENDA KENNY: Baffling moment in our pigeonhearted history of putting ethereal skypilots in their place. After accusing the blokes in dresses of frustrating the Cloyne inquiry, a holy row erupted between Ireland and the Vatican that led to the recalling of the Irish ambassador in Rome. Enda’s intonation was gritty-steely, genuinely angry and determined, a stance normally reserved for collapsing money markets and depreciation of brick. He rightly acknowledged that victim’s lives are shattered – they may never be able to pick up the pieces – while in some parts of the country, abusers continue to live freely and are still held in high esteem. A faithful Catholic demanding that the perpetrators of child sexual abuse face up to the full force of the law; this was a Cilit Bang moment in Ireland’s political recital. It ain’t that long ago that standing up to the local parish priest would ultimately result in total ostracisation, if not lynch-mob persecution from gobshites obsessed with life after death instead of living the present-tense fluky one. The local priest/bondage builder could tell you how to vote, who to marry, how many children to have, what to think. Standing up to clergy was only done if you were leaving town for good. “Childhood is a sacred space”, Enda declared, saying out loud what we’ve all been screaming for decades. “Safeguarding their integrity and innocence must be a national priority.” Irish politics is removing the cataracts just as the Holy See is declared righteously blind. The whole of Europe has been yapping about us since. Thank you Enda. Sorry for saying you looked as ineffectual as a petrol pump attendant from the Midlands in the run-up to the last election. Invariably, I was wrong. 

JOURNALIST IN A COMA: Found myself feeling conflicted about news of the sports reporter, at the centre of an underage sex scandal, being in a coma. Tabloid ‘news’ [Evening Herald + Star] informs us his organs are failing and he’s unlikely to make a recovery at all. This ‘kinda’ [at least to me] indicates an overdose at some point which would fit in with the fact that he’s been on suicide watch for some time. It also suggests some sort of conscience and regardless of the grisly facts, this is quite a tragic end for everyone, particularly for the man’s daughter who’ll no doubt be saddled with chunky guilt and not much resolution. There are two extreme angles here: he deserves everything he gets or in our hideously sexualised modern world: did he really do anything wrong? I include the latter because someone actually said that to me last week in one of those I wouldn’t say this out loud but I know I can say anything to you pub moments. This was followed by a declaration that most teenagers these days are sexually active and look/behave well beyond their years. Well, yes, he did, of course, do wrong: a big glaring ugly aberrant wrong. But the way through this was perhaps to own up to those actions, face the law, trawl through rehabilitation, atone, learn from it, teach us something from it, even if life was never going to return to a workable norm. I interviewed this man 14 years ago for a college profile I was writing on Nuala O’Faolain. She considered him a ‘dear friend’ and a ‘desperately good’ character. I can’t help hearing her firebrand apoplexy from deep within the grave: “You stupid stupid man, just because she had breasts, an iPhone, red lipstick and a spellbinding smile, doesn’t mean she wasn’t a gormless child. YOU were the adult and the shock of finally realising this has killed you”.

DETTOL SOAP: Yer only man for an itchy arse. Hard to come by though. Not in supermarkets. I buy mine in Superpharm, Finglas.

HYPOCRISY: Psychopath Behring Breivik ordered ‘anti-muslim’ badges from India that were made by an Indian Muslim. As reported in The Guardian, Mohammed Aslam Ansari, owner of a small company in Benares, northern India, received the email order in March 2010 for a badge showing a blood-red crusader sword vertically piercing a skull marked with the symbols of Islam, communism and Nazism. Breivik designed the insignia for his Knights Templar group, and paid Ansari £90 for two samples – one in silk, the other in brocade. Ansari dispatched the badges by courier service but although Breivik had said he was interested in ordering 200 badges, he never followed up on the order. It sums up the flagrant lunacy of this grotesque tale while at the same time highlighting the absurdity of fanaticism. Historian and novelist Philipp Blom wrote that ‘human need for creating personal meaning generates myths, holy texts or ideologies. Believing those stories to be the truth makes us susceptible to fanaticism.’ You can find out if you’re a fanatic here

CANCER: Nerves on high alert today as I wait for news on my 46 year old brother’s ‘Round 3’ cancer scan results. He’s been through the mill already and the thoughts of any further suffering makes me feel genuinely scared and angry. Thanks too to his c**t of a wife who left him in the midst of treatment, taking the kids (and all the white goods) with her. Enter Friedrich Nietzsche stage right ~ One should never know too precisely whom one has married. 

The still missing women

Summer 1995 and London was fast draining of charm. In my last year at Middlesex University, a young psycho was sauntering about North London slashing women’s throats. Anthony Peter Roach, age 24, from Hornsey, had stabbed a woman to death as she walked home from Turnpike Lane Tube station. Hours later he attempted to murder a woman a couple of miles away and over the weeks before he was caught, there’d been several attempted attacks on students. We were advised to go nowhere alone. I’d just moved from Stamford Hill back to Tottenham, the same week a woman was abducted in broad daylight from a bus-stop near Seven Sisters and gangraped for six hours, as they drove around taking turns. No-one at the bus stop rang for help, even though the woman was kicking and screaming as the 4-man gang dragged her by the hair and sped off. Newspaper reports later said the people at the bus-stop assumed the woman must’ve known the men…that it seemed like a bit of a ‘game’. After seven years in London, I packed up and left.

Back in Dublin there an was air of what I can only describe as immaculateness. At least that’s how it seemed to me during the first few months. Students linking each other through the archway at Trinity College eating apples, jugglers and quirky musicians on Grafton Street, market stall women bellowing their wares on Moore Street, a welly of new cafes splattered in colourful art with latte machines fizzling away. I took in the turrety architecture all over town in a way I’d clear forgotten to do before. I visited museums, took up a language class, went on a a guided tour of the State Apartments and Viking ruins of Dublin Castle for a snitch at £1.75 (Irish pounds). The place was thriving and I was home! Four months later that feeling of inviolability vanished when 21-year-old JoJo Dullard was plucked from the streets of Moone in Kildare, never to be seen alive again. She was abducted, abused, murdered, buried, silenced: both her family and Gardaí believe so.

JoJo Dullard, missing since November 1995

I obsessed about JoJo’s terribly sad tale from the off. Dublin was so expensive and she’d dropped out of her beautician’s course to take up a job in a pub back home in Callan, Co. Kilkenny. I remember reading that her sister Mary was ‘delighted’ with the decision as she’d always worried sick about her in the mean grip of the unpredictable capital. The awful crawly coincidence of ordering that last drink in Bruxelles (a pub I drank in with my mates) and missing the bus home. Hitching on roads that perhaps we all hitched along in the 1980s/90s at some stage (I know I did, and often late at night too, coming back from parties in Kildare or as far away as Galway). JoJo was used to hitching in this manner: most rural teenagers and young adults were. But it was late, she was in a hurry, probably terribly panicked about just getting home. She’d travelled to Dublin that day to pick up her last dole payment and sign off for good. According to her family, she wasn’t even going to bother. That small detail really got me.

I later wrote a short story about that dark cold November night, trying to imagine the moment when JoJo ’knew’ something was wrong. I described the landscape as ‘….dark countryside, potted with grubby fields and grimy ditches, mucky mountains that would hardly be classed as mountains compared to the Jura or the Pyrenees. Lonely out-of-the-way places good for trapping animals and smashing up stones.’ I thought of all the missing women who had been struck down in their prime ‘with lump hammers, with plastic bags over their heads, with hard shattering punches, choked by the grasping hands of mad men’. That the moments in which the missing women met their deaths were really and truly the stuff of every woman’s harshest nightmare. And I thought of JoJo, spotting something peculiar in his car, the awful foreboding when his tone may have changed, when she knew, undoubtedly, what he was going to attempt next. ‘Even in the closing seconds when your brain is fizzing, popping, fading, you know not to bother making sense of it,’ I wrote in my short story. But in reality it’s completely impossible to imagine and only the sick can ever really get there.

Larry Murphy © Carlow Nationalist

Larry Murphy walked free from Arbour Hill Prison early today, whizzing off into the dawn in a dark grey taxi. Some reckon he’ll stay in Dublin, others say he might head over to the UK soon. His brother Thomas was on radio earlier saying he should never have been released. Either way he wasn’t letting Gardaí know of his plans and he also refused a flat on Dublin’s Northside, where police could’ve kept him under careful surveillance. I mention him here because he’s been previously considered a prime suspect in the case of JoJo’s disappearance and in Annie McCarrick’s and Deirdre Jacob. He’s never assisted police with their enquiries in this matter and neither has he ever been charged in relation to the three missing women. A Garda I once interviewed said it was utterly chilling how he’d simply smirk and stay quiet, when asked about them. He also refused therapy, resisted any remorse for the brutal rape and attempted murder of a Carlow business woman in 2000 (which landed him in jail). The only comment he ever made about her was: “She’s alive, isn’t she?” Much of his time was spent in prison carving wooden toys for the children of staff and various charities. He even made a podium for the Special Olympics, by all accounts: a model prisoner.

Despite the medieval braying from the tabloid press that he’ll strike again and soon, I personally don’t believe for a nanosecond that Larry Murphy is going to put a foot wrong for a very long time. He can wait. He can play with the authorities and the public. Memories will sustain him. This day is a very special one for him after all. Even just the God of small things: he hasn’t seen any of our modern capital’s hallmarks for a start: the Luas, the spire, etc. There’s a lot to take in. Especially the reams of happy young women pacing along the city streets, tired women too, stomping home from work. Women who will have no idea who he is or what he’s done. It’s been an age since he was able to glance sideways at strangers, with every ounce of his civil rights protected. The fact remains that there are dozens of Larry Murphys out there, a lot of whom we’ve handily forgotten. The likes of Paddy O Driscoll from Fermoy in Cork, released from prison in 2004 after serving a sentence for raping a young mother: six months later he bludgeoned another woman over the head with a brick, knocked her unconscious and raped her for over an hour. There are literally too many of these incurable psychopathic rapist and murderer types to recount here, in one blog.

For the time being the public is concentrating on Larry and the obscenely Draconian laws that allow for an affirmed ’critically dangerous’ person to roam our streets with freedom honoured and upheld and intact.By contrast the families of the missing women have felt very unsupported; not just with the formal investigsations but also with funding and resources. I wrote an aritcle in the middle of the boom about the Missing Persons’ Helpline being shut down due to ‘lack of funds’ (31st March 2005). On the same day it was reported in the media that ‘one million euro mortgages’ in the nation’s capital were the new-fangled norm. While the property pages boasted that the boom was bigger and better and louder than ever, families of Ireland’s disappeared slumped back in bankrupt silence.

JoJo's sister Mary Phelan, at the monument for the missing in Co. Kilkenny

I think too of JoJo’s family today, and the families of all the other missing women, trying very hard to avoid the horrible hype of Larry’s freedom. It’s a daily grind for these people just to forget. And of course without any bodies or DNA evidence, there is little or no hope of the missing women cases ever being solved. There’s scant hope too because Garda searches for these women in almost all cases were hideously delayed during the first few crucial days. Some of the families would later travel unaided to America to ask for help from the FBI because they felt so ignored by the Irish authorities. In Jo Jo’s case it was even suggested to her family that she may have got the boat clear out of Ireland altogether of her own accord due to ‘personal problems’. You can read the individual stories in a Sunday World book here:
There’s a photo of JoJo that always sticks out in my mind, back in the 1980s, sitting in her bedroom smiling away, a WHAM poster carefully sellotaped to the wall. An ordinary teenage girl on the brink of everything. Back in the day when the Irish countryside in which she lived was wild and uncultivated, when young men like Larry were out hunting for animals to tear up alive. Long before the ambush of boutique-style hotels took over or the reality sunk in of how utterly easy it is to murder, bury, and get away with it.

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This post originally appeared on the Anti Room blog from August 12th, 2010. To read comments click here