Lake of Sorrows

He turned to the computer on the corner of his desk, typed “Brazil” into the system, and started scanning the dozen or so items that came up: joyriding, petty burglary, public drunkenness. No, none of those; the first names were wrong. Then he spotted it, and everything came back to him. The case had been one he’d handled himself, eight years earlier, with his old partner, Eugene Larkin. A postman making his rounds on the bog road between Kilcormac and Loughnabrone had discovered a lamb hanging by the neck from a scrub tree at the edge of the bog. Whoever had put the creature there had also cut its throat, and with the blood had drawn three circles in a sort of triangular formation on the ground below. It was just the sort of incident that fanned the flames of fear and intolerance in a small rural place. The killing had been discovered just after a full moon, and a sort of mass hysteria had taken hold of the community. The air was rife with rumors of clandestine rituals and blood cults. Perfectly innocent activities became suspect. When a second animal was found slaughtered after the next full moon, on the same stretch of road and in much the same condition, anonymous tips began pouring in. Ward had taken several of the calls himself, and could still hear the voices: Better look to that Brazil lad, Charlie. He’s a right quare one, he is—a desperate odd character. Not the full shilling, out walking on the bog at all hours. What’s he get up to out there? No good, I’ll promise you.

After the second incident, they’d decided to interview the boy, if only to eliminate him from the inquiry. Why the community had all settled on this boy in particular was a mystery. All that set Charlie Brazil apart from his fellows, apparently, was that he kept to himself, displayed a pointed lack of interest in football and hurling and girls, hadn’t been seen inside the church these last two years, and was seen walking in the bog at all hours of the day and night.

But after the official visit from the Guards, it seemed as though the suspicion and whispering only escalated. Emboldened by their neighbors, more voices began chiming in, a chorus of indictment. One person claimed her cousin’s daughter had seen the boy in nothing but his pelt, dancing around a bonfire. But whenever they had pressed further—for proof, any physical evidence, eyewitness statements placing Charlie Brazil in or near that part of the bog on the nights in question—the anonymous accusers had vanished like mist. They’d all heard about Charlie and his midnight rituals from a neighbor or someone in the pub. For some of them it was proof enough that the animals involved belonged to the boy’s mother; naturally she wouldn’t be interested in pressing charges against her own son.

The last and most violent incident had involved a kid goat. The third time they’d questioned Charlie Brazil with no result, Larkin had tried flashing a few photos from the scene. But the boy hadn’t looked at the pictures, nor at the men who were questioning him; he had maintained his composure, kept his eyes averted, and calmly continued answering their questions, with the photographs strewn on the table before him. Ward recalled that to Larkin, the boy’s lack of reaction had been proof enough of guilt. He himself hadn’t been so sure.

The Brazils were an odd family; that much was true. Ward had sensed a deep disconnect in the room with them—three individuals completely separate from one another, each consumed with maintaining that separation. He recalled the father’s dark expression, the way he’d hung back beside the door while the boy was being questioned, as though he wanted to be able to bolt at any moment. A powerful man, Dominic Brazil was, with hands like two spades. Ward had interviewed dozens of fathers like him, inexplicably silent men whose own fathers had been rigid and unforgiving, fearful of any weakness in their offspring. At least the mother had been concerned about what was happening to her son. Teresa Brazil, the woman who’d been in his office this morning, had looked at every grim photo that day so long ago without flinching. He was surprised that he hadn’t remembered her; she’d impressed him back then with her unwavering support for the boy. After looking through the pictures, she had turned and spoken slowly to him and Larkin, shaking her head. My son could not have done this. As though trying to convince herself, Ward had thought. As though willing it not to be so was enough. It was possible the boy had done it, of course. Anything was possible.

In the end, they hadn’t been able to find a single scrap of physical evidence tying Charlie Brazil to the incidents and consequently had never charged him. After the third and most grisly occurrence, the mutilations had stopped, and the case had eventually been shelved for lack of evidence. Ward hadn’t seen the lad since. He must be in his early twenties now, probably working for Bord na Mona as a ditcher driver like his father.