Delaney. Part VIII

By Scott Bessenecker

When they arrive at the Murder Factory the next day, Mr. Murphey the manager and Mr. Cosgrove, the owner are waiting outside. Mr. Murphey flicks a cigarette butt to the ground. Although there are great dark circles under his eyes, he is more put together this morning than he was yesterday; pressed suit, black hat upon a balding head, and shoes reflecting the morning light. The owner is a white-haired gentleman, over six feet tall wearing little round spectacles and holding a gold-handled brown cane. There is a commanding air about him.

“Misters Rourk,” he says, extending a hand. “So happy to host you here at the Drogheda Care Home.”

The boys shake his hand and go on to Mr. Murphey whose eyes narrow slightly while taking their hands.

“Am I to understand the two of you are brothers?” Mr. Cosgrove is fishing for more detail hinting at the renowned nepotism that the corporation often flaunts.

“That’s right,” says Ash. “It was our greatest ambition to work for the corporation. Our mother works at corporate headquarters on Gresham Street.” These statements are true enough, though their ambition was simply to rise above the station of their parents – their mother a receptionist and their father working in the mailroom before his death. The family bent over backwards to get their boys into the corporate schools and drilled into their ever-living consciousness that they should aspire to become corporate officers. Both managed to ascend to the post of administrative assistants. It allowed the generous paid leave they are now enjoying; the boys having saved for a year to take this trip to Ireland.

“Very good. Very good.” Says Mr. Cosgrove. “And you two are inspectors.”

“Yes,” they both say at once, only Jackson does so with a shade too much eagerness in his voice.

“And you work for …?”

“The Office of Corporate Inspections.” Jackson says.

“Of course. But I mean, for whom do you work? Who is your supervisor?”

Because Ash works as administrative assistant for the Assistant to the Deputy Operating Officer, he is privy to memos about corporate operations, and so his mind is franticly searching a mental rolodex for the name of some officer connected to Care Home operations.

“Oh yes. I misunderstood. I thought you were meaning to which office we reported.” Ash is buying time for the rolodex to close upon a name. There is an awkward pause, but then a name surfaces.

“Mr. Jones.” Ash says finally.

“Mr. Jones.” The owner replies, not questioning Ash but inviting more information by raising his bushy white eyebrows.

“Yes. Mr. Percival Jones. Chief Production Officer for the Care Homes Division. He is our direct supervisor.” The name and title are practically correct. The person Ash is actually thinking of is Mr. Perseus Jones, and his title is Chief Operations Officer for the Division of Care Homes Output. But it sounds close enough for their hosts. Most employees, let alone those in the colonies, have little conception of the frequently changing hierarchical behemoth of the City of London Corporation.

“Well, let’s get to it gentlemen,” says Mr. Cosgrove, apparently satisfied at their answers. “Up to my office.” And he lifts his cane and motions for the brothers to enter the building. Apparently, the cane is purely ornamental, because he hardly touches it to the ground with every few steps.

By the time they have ascended the wide staircase to the fourth floor, Mr. Murphey has taken off his hat and is wiping his forehead with his handkerchief, panting madly on the landing. He waves the three others on wordlessly, so the brothers follow Mr. Cosgrove up one more story, then down the hall.

They enter a generous office with a row of windows that look out onto the yard. The interior walls are lined with bookcases. Not many books, but plenty of trinkets. They are what Mr. Cosgrove calls his gizmos, artifacts from before the Struggles. An old radio, a computer circuit board, a small television, a set of light bulbs mounted on a wooden base with an engraved metal plate announcing, “Light bulbs, circa 1988.” On one bookcase there is a black and white photo of Mr. Cosgrove and Mr. Murphey with the CEO of the City of London Corporation, Lord Mayor Wilson. They are stone faced in front of the Care Home, ceremonial scissors in the hands of Mr. Wilson and sagging ribbon which opened the place some years ago.

“Sit, sit, gentlemen.” And the brothers descend onto a leather sofa while Mr. Cosgrove retrieves four crystal glasses and a bottle of whiskey from a desk drawer. Mr. Murphey enters, no longer panting but still sweating profusely.

“Murphey, for God’s sake, sit down. You look like you’ve just done a shift on one of the pulley bikes.” And he is pouring whiskey into each glass.

“Thank you, sir.” He says. “I think I will.” And he plops into a leather chair next to the sofa as Cosgrove distributes the amber liquid, blooming with the aroma of Ireland.

“Bushmills,” he says. “They’ve been distilling whiskey since the 1600s. No electrical current required then. Thank God they had the good sense to keep their distilling equipment from before the industrial revolution.

“A wee early to be imbibing, don’t you think?” Jackson says somewhat sheepishly.

“You ever been to Ireland, Mr. Rourk?” Asks Cosgrove.

“No, sir. This is our first visit. But our grandfather is actually from Ireland.”

“Truly? Aye, well then, you’re what we call a plastic Paddy. But not to worry. We’ll make a true Irishman of you yet. Drink up gentlemen.”

The four of them down a half liter of whiskey in a little more than a half hour while Cosgrove regales them with tales from before the Struggles. While he was not an adult the day electrical current stopped flowing, he was a wily teenager, and has plenty of bits of useless information about those days.

“It is said that the average person in 1990 used 80 gallons of water per day. Can you imagine. 80 gallons a day! Of course, most everyone had running water inside their homes, as you enjoy there in west London today. But this water was delivered by electric pump, not Bengali laborers. I hate to think what having electricity today would do to unemployment! What would the Bengalis do for work? They all got promoted when the Struggles arrived.” And the four men laugh freely as though they were old friends, the whiskey casting its fraternal spell.

“Well lads, time for you to come see what we do here at the Drogheda Care Home. Off we go!” And Mr. Cosgrove pops out from behind his desk, cane pointed to the door.

“I believe will leave you to guide these gentlemen, sir.” Murphey says. “I’m afraid I have a good bit of work to do.”

“Of course, Murphey,” Cosgrove bellows. “Get on about your day.” And at this Murphey takes his leave, descends three flights to his second-floor office, collapsing onto his couch and falling directly to sleep.

Their first few stops on the tour are innocuous enough. The administrative offices on the fifth floor where a handful of employees are hunched over typewriters or adding machines, the clacking of them a terrific roar. A mail runner moves from desk to desk picking up and delivering manila envelopes creating the appearance of productivity. Mr. Cosgrove rambles on about their efficiency and the volume of work hours they are able to extract from the residents serving in the workshops and factories.

“Such dignity in hard work, wouldn’t you say?” He says, this more than once throughout the tour. Perhaps the alcohol obscures his short-term memory.

After passing reception and Mr. Murphey’s office where they hear the distinct rumble of snoring, they arrive at the second-floor cobbler station. The massive, high-ceilinged room smells of disinfectant with a hint of urine, but it is otherwise an impressive operation. Thirty elderly residents, many of whom appear to be in their 80s but in all likelihood are little more than 60, sit at workstations tracing out patterns on sheets of leather or pulling the leather over a form. Two men in white lab coat circulate to check the work and one woman who seems to be stricken with severe palsy sweeps up scraps. The room is surrounded by windows making it bright and allowing a sweet breeze to pass through. The elderly seem to be content as they silently and slowly work away at the craft.

“We have a daily quota of 150 shoes. Nothing like the production of able-bodied cobbler factories, but very good considering the age and conditions of these workers.” As he passes each station, Cosgrove places a hand on the heads of the workers. A power move, Jackson thinks. Then he notices on the floor near each workstation a metal loop cemented into the floor. One old woman’s ankle bears the distinct red ring of a shackle. Another man’s pants are stained with urine.

“Workers with purpose …?” Cosgrove calls out, and the room responds with a raspy, “… are workers with power!”

“Onwards.” And Cosgrove is leading the Rourk brothers down the staircase to the main floor.

To the left of the main entryway there are a set of double doors. A man with a Billy club stands beside them and opens one of them as Mr. Cosgrove and his two guests’ approach. A great racket of clacking and buzzing spills from a warehouse-sized room on the other side. As they enter, Ash covers his ears to dampen the tremendous din.

There are at least 100 children harboring varying forms of disability working at sewing machines, looms, and fabric cutting stations. Overhead a dizzying array of pulleys and belts twirl and spin giving power to the sewing machines below. The tall windows are either frosted glass or so filthy that they allow light in but are impossible to see out of. The room leaves the taste of oil in the back of one’s throat and the heat in the poorly ventilated room is terrific.

Mr. Cosgrove is proudly spelling out statistics of some sort or another but neither of the brothers can make out what he’s saying. Even if they could hear him, it is doubtful they could take it in. They are in sensory overload. Jackson stops before child of no more than eight who sits in a wheelchair. Both legs end in sockless stubs, one of them bearing two toes and the other none at all. He is feeding cloth rapidly past the whirring needle of a sewing machine, hands covered in scabs from obvious injuries obtained in his laborious work. A girl with dwarfism folds finished shirts. Jackson bends down to look at the label. It is the precise shirt that he himself wears.

One of the yardstick-bearing overseers passes by the girl lifting the stick lazily to scratch his forehead, but the girl instinctively cowers, raising an arm as if readying for a blow. The overseer chuckles, and Jackson sees that he has fallen behind the tour. He runs to catch up with Cosgrove and Ash as they near the exit at the far end.

“The pulleys?” Ash is yelling and Cosgrove squints as if this will assist his hearing. He cups a hand behind his ear.

“The bicycles?” Ash shouts.

Still no look of recognition on the owner’s face. Then Ash points upward at the pulleys that thread yards and yards of belts from one end of the sweatshop to the other. With this Mr. Cosgrove opens his eyes widely and smiles, nodding and signaling with his cane toward a door not far from the exit.