He took the old vinyl record with trembling fingers—Mozart; Meistermusik K. 477 for men’s choir. They didn’t make records anymore, and he’d not listened to that one for twenty years. He mainly listened to the radio or turned on the television. The people on the TV, in the stories, kept him company. Twenty years … 

He felt scared. Her face still existed in his dreams—now in his nightmares. He didn’t have many records; just this one and a few more. Buying that record player? A folly he’d undertaken when trying to impress the girl his mother had wanted him to marry—Sinéad. That was long ago, before he’d sold the farm; before Dublin stretched streets and houses into the countryside. Sinéad. He tried to remember her face. Nothing came, really nothing. Even though his mother had tried so hard to match them—mass after mass, Sunday lunch after Sunday lunch. She didn’t give him a break on the topics of marriage, family, and kids. 

The record now sitting on the player used to be his favourite. He lowered the player’s arm, still trembling, the twenty years weighing down his fingers. The needle head touched the black vinyl track, and he saw that girl's face—unnamed—that girl he’d never talked to; that girl he could not forget, though he tried so hard day after day. 

He remembered January fifth 1980—rather the early hours of January sixth after he’d returned from the pub. Each moment remained so clear. He’d stayed after closing time, like many Saturdays, but this one was his birthday and he’d been playing a few tunes. He went home and dropped his concertina, singing aloud, unsteady on his feet. His dog waited for him, tail flapping, jumping up and over. Of course, it was late, but he was still wide-awake, his energy riding on Guinness’ blood, spirit high and warbling. He didn’t mind a bit of walking in the fresh air. He took the leash, and the dog barked happily. 

“Shussh, you idiot; can’t you see the time? Shush.” He patted the dog. He didn’t plan to walk that far, just a few paces up to the entrance of the Phoenix Park and back.

Clouds lowered the sky to meet the Wellington obelisk, and a strong wind blew, but it wasn’t raining. The dog was lively. It was still more or less a puppy, about a year-and-a-half old. 

“Shussh, doggy; keep it quiet, and keep steady. Do you think I can walk that fast after all that drinking? Slow down; yeah that’s it. Good boy.” 

A running youth knocked him down by the gate. The old man had enough time to glance at his face and see that the boy didn’t seem so young after all. He saw blood and hatred, so much that even his Guinness-impaired vision couldn’t hide it. He shivered. The dog barked, and the younger man grinned, running away faster. 

Our man wasn’t that old, on his sixtieth year, but the evening beers had made his feet and legs leaden. He slowly got back on his feet. The leash had gone, and the dog with it. He heard the puppy barking in the dark, not very far, though. 

“Bloody dog can’t really behave. Uhhh, going to wake up all the damn neighbourhood. Bloody good it does not have a voice, that damn dog.” 

The old man knew the park quite well from walking there daily, but it was late, and his feet didn’t walk that straight. The barking grew closer. The night became darker as well, clouds lower still. 

“Doggy, shush. Would you quiet? Shusshh; come here,” he called again.

He didn’t like the atmosphere—too heavy on his shoulders. It couldn’t be that far now. The barking stopped. The waning moon smiled through the clouds. 

Then he saw her. 

Her white leg appeared first, through the bush, one bare foot turned slightly toward the sky. The effects of the Guinness drained from his body. All suddenly became clear, neat and nauseous. He moved around the bush, needing to get closer. Blood ran along both her legs. One bent in an awkward direction—maybe broken. Little clothing remained, her breasts bare. Blood pooled around cuts on her belly—knife cuts? She was still breathing, barely, a frail path of life he followed: her belly; her breasts; her bruised neck; her fine-boned face; her mouth, unsealed. His dog licked her cheeks, wagging his tail, trying hopelessly to drag her back in life. 

Her face mirrored the whiteness of the moon. Within the night silence, he could nearly hear her blood dripping away. So thin and fragile, he could only think of an angel: beautiful. It had been many years since he’d seen a naked woman. She had no strength to move her face under the dog’s licking, and he watched her die under the smiling moon, a lock of her hair pulled away by the wind. He stayed long after her last breath until the clouds covered that moon again. Her visage, graceful in an ugly death, hypnotized him.

The puppy licked his hand. Suddenly fears and panic rose within his chest. Out of breath, he couldn’t run, so he walked fast, pulling his dog. Scared, he walked faster still, not looking behind, not even thinking behind, faster and faster until he could close his door and secure the lock, all the locks. The youth's face and the blood in his eyes remained in his mind. 

He felt cold, suddenly as sober as a Sunday before mass. He had whiskey somewhere, but the thought of it turned his stomach upside down. His dog already slept. Unable to stand the silence, he went to the record player and pulled out the first records he grabbed, not looking for anything particular. He needed noise, something to fill his mind and replace his thoughts. He lowered the arm, the head meeting the black vinyl track. His hands shook like today. The title of the record read: Mozart, Meistermusik K. 477. 

He knew he’d made a mistake; the music already drew her face back into his mind. 

For twenty years, he’d tried to forget her, but today her face and sweetness shone once more in his mind, along with the tunes and rhythm of the music. He remembered all the notes, each one sketching another line of her angelic face, white as the moon on that night—white as his face on hearing the first notes. Behind them were the park and its silence in the night. The music grew lighter; the moon was smiling. The strings came in; he was walking toward the bush, hearing his dog. The music became faster; his heartbeat as well. Then a pause; the strings stayed quiet; the oboe cried; he saw her leg. The choir entered—men’s voices, loud and poised—her breath there, then already gone. The strings came back; her face, each note for a detail: her mouth, slightly opened, tiny drops of blood pearling; her hair, dark; her breasts, bare; earth by her skin, black; dirt, all over her body but on her face; mud marks on her forehead, cleaned away by a large hand. The men’s choir returned; her eyes already closed, and her chest placid; her belly dripping her last breath along with her blood; her visage, pure, a sculpture. The choir paused, strings and winds conversing, cello grounding the scene; the dog was licking his fingers; the silence in the park grew stiller. 

He hadn’t moved, still facing the record player. Tears ran down his face. He couldn’t bear this secret any longer. He could’ve described the murderer’s face, but he never went to the police station. He could’ve run for help, but he’d watched her last breath. He’d kept her beauty for himself, her perfection. He’d longed for her. Guilt came later. It had been grounding his bones to the floor. He didn’t like the truth people would see, that he’d been a coward. He’d stolen her last breath, an angel breath for him only. Soon he’d be meeting God. What would he explain then? His dog, another one, still a puppy, moaned at his feet. 

He’d stayed home for three days after that night, January sixth 1980. He’d gone out only briefly for the sake of his dog and his place, but he’d kept watching over his shoulder. His hangover on Sunday had had a very sour taste, a taste of blood, and he couldn’t eat for the day. He remembered going to the bookmaker and betting on two horses—Pile it High and Black Raven—but he hadn’t stopped at the pub. He hadn’t wanted to talk or be seen, and he hadn’t read any newspaper for a week. He didn’t go to Phoenix Park for a month and never walked back to that corner in the park. He’d thought about her every day. The nightmares came so often now. Lately he woke up in sweat, hearing dogs barking, looking with a murderer’s eyes at a smiling girl. He dreaded sleep. 

The music ended, but he hadn’t found his answer yet. He wanted to remember that angelic face, but he hadn’t known angels could act devil within dreams.

The next morning, he rose much earlier than usual. He actually hadn’t really slept. His puppy was still asleep when he tied on its leash for his morning walk. He needed a long, energetic walk and wanted to see the deer—an excuse to go to that side of the park. 

The bushes had grown a bit bigger. He sat on a bench and lit his pipe, taking his time. Smoking that early in the day was unusual for him, but today it helped, gave him the impression he was doing something. He let the dog off the leash and decided to go into town soon and have some coffee. He would need a strong one. Then he’d go to the library. After slowly finishing his pipe, he returned home and fed his dog. 

Many thought him mad to have a puppy. He didn’t agree. He liked the company. It was his third one since the girl’s dog. He’d never again taken a breed dog after her, just puppies given away.

He put on his Sunday suit, even the tie. It was a bit tight at the neck, making him feel as if he were dressing up for a funeral. What time would the library open? Nine a.m.? He would see.

He arrived at the library before the opening times, so he treaded around the block. The squared shape of the grey stones grounded him in reality. He felt nervous. Though he never entered the library, that wasn’t the reason. He feared he wouldn’t find an answer, and his nightmares would still invade his nights. 

Five past ten; the library was now open. He had no idea how the place worked. Already its silence impressed him. He walked slowly, looking everywhere: the heavy stone stair ahead; the imposing pillars on the side; the flagstone’s mosaic or drawing—he couldn’t say—the receptionist with a small note at the side saying, ‘Permit needs to be obtained to consult the library.’ He froze. Permit? How long would it take him to have one? He couldn’t wait.

‘Hello there; can I help you?’

‘Euh.’ He looked at the receptionist. ‘How do I get a permit?’

The receptionist delivered a long monologue. 

The old man listened, his forehead creasing each time the man mentioned a new form. He gazed at the man, speechless. 

The receptionist went back to his book, then raised his head again. ‘Sir? What type of document do you want to consult?’

‘Euh. Newspapers; I’d like to read old newspapers.’

‘Oh. In that case you don’t need a permit. Simply go upstairs and ask at the main desk.’

The old man looked at the stairs, and then climbed them slowly. The place was as silent as a church. He untied his tie and collar, just a bit. When was the last time he wore that suit? Probably for his mother's funeral. He steadied himself, holding the hand rail. A young woman overtook him, her stilettos drumming on the stones in a Monday morning hurry. He followed her up the dim stairway. The upstairs room felt so much brighter. The reception was on the right. At a table straight ahead, someone was already working.

 ‘Excuse me, could I read the newspaper from January sixth 1980?’

‘Yes, which one, sir?’

‘Which one?’

‘Yes, Irish Independent or Irish Times?’

‘Oh. Both of them please.’

‘Can you just fill in these two forms—your name; the title. I’ll be with you in a minute.’

He quickly filled in the forms, even signed them. 

The man turned back to him. ‘Okay, so you say both of them. No problem; just go into the reading room; the door behind you. I’ll bring them over.’

The old man turned around, facing the reading room door. It looked really dark inside. The long lines of tables each had a viewer, a black one. He wanted to read a real newspaper and hear the sound of the pages being folded, but he realized now that it wouldn’t be like that. The young woman with stilettos was already studying. He chose a place in the far corner, slightly hidden from the door, next to the old fireplace with beautiful Celtic designs in the tiles just below the mantelpiece. 

‘Here you are.’ The desk man dropped two rolls on the table. ‘Which one do you want to start with?’

‘Irish Times.’

‘Okay. When you’ve finished just go to the desk and we’ll swap films. It’s very easy to read; all the instructions are there. These buttons help changing the focus; these to go forward and backward, and you have page-by-page, or forward, rewind high speed. Okay?’

He remained silent.

‘That’s good, so give me a shout at the desk when you want to swap them.’

Explanations were too fast for him, but he didn’t say anything. He wanted to read on his own. The viewer was a Minolta, number 347. He paid attention to every detail, lengthening time. It seemed unreal to leap back in time so easily.

Saturday, 1980, January fifth: RDS Dublin, the young scientist of the year— he’d never realized that young scientist competition had been on for so long; Fianna Gael to press for women’s rights reform with a ‘Bill seeking abolition of criminal conversation as a cause of action under which a man may sue another man for the loss of the services of the former’s wife’—his mother wouldn’t have like that law, nor his sisters. The article, ‘Human Rights and law Reform for Women’, continued: Mr. Michel Keating TD called it a ‘nasty legislative device which treats women as property’. Reading that article suddenly seemed so appropriate. He thought about the girl in the park, her body becoming the murderer’s property. His breath grew short. An immense sadness wiped all thoughts. He needed to call her by her name. He needed to make a person of her face.

He kept reading, slowly. The Weekend Supplement pages showed Coronation Street on the list of TV programs. Monday January seventh had as its main titles: ‘Three UDR Men Die in IRA Ambush’; ‘Northern Ireland Death Toll Above Two Thousand’; ‘The Cold War’. Still nothing he wanted. The race page mentioned Black Raven. He remembered the horse at the Naas race on Saturday—he’d had a good bet on that day—and Pile It High as well, a seven-year old. He moved to the next page, Tuesday, January eight. Nothing. He’d seen the girl on Saturday night; he was sure. It had to be in the Monday edition. 

His fingers trembled. He didn’t have the best eyes and would’ve much preferred a normal newspaper to this dark room. He closed his eyes for a small break before moving pages backward. He had to find something. Slower than before, he placed his gaze on every letter of the edition. That’s when he saw it: a very small insert, no more than a fifth of an inch by a fifth, right down in the left corner of the last page, the one just before the sports. He had to change the focus to read it: 

‘Rapist sought. Gardai are appealing for information about the rape and murder of a young woman at Phoenix Park on Saturday evening, early Sunday morning. The woman, in her early twenties, has not yet been identified. Any witness, please come forward.’

No name was listed. The room felt really warm, but he didn’t want to remove his tie. He closed his eyes, his right hand on his chest, breathing deeply. Suddenly he understood; he understood what he should be doing. He walked to the desk. 

‘Sir, how are you doing? Are you ready for your next newspaper?’

‘I won’t need it. I’d like to make a copy of one page’

‘Sure, let me do that for you.’

A few moments later, he stood in the street, gripping onto the page copy, looking for the closest Gardai station. He’d come forward as a witness. He could still give a mental description of the guy. He would add some grey hair and wrinkles, of course, and would have to show the police the newspaper copy. The case was surely closed. Maybe they had already found the murderer. He would dig in; he had to.

It took him more than a month to complete his quest. He’d never worn his best suit as often as he had that month, but he had to look his best to get what he wanted: the name of the cemetery in which she was buried. 

The bus stopped at ten fifteen at the gate. He felt a bit nervous, like going for a first date. It was drizzling slightly. Her gravestone bore no picture, no cross, no angel. She’d been twenty-one years old. He dropped the Mozart record and the copy from the library. Next time he’d bring his dog. A willow tree stretched its branches nearby. He thought of that old saying about the moon owning the willow tree: ‘Do not cut its withes while the moon is on the wane, or the wood will be dry and brittle.’

He met her under the light of a waning moon.

Her name was Maeve.

He carefully laid a red rose on her grave.