Sometimes, I think that some men must really hate women. That’s a strong statement. That a particular group might actually, truly, deep-in-the-bones hate and loathe an despise and be afraid of: women. I’m thinking of the Wicklow mountains, wondering just how many female bodies are buried there. Yet again, another body has been recovered, this time of a lovely young Rumanian who was beaten and tortured beyond belief before they finished her off and dumped her body. There are more females than males up there, I’ll venture, though it’s no less awful for men.
But I’m thinking yet again, that County Kildare has a killer-at-large, some no doubt averagely respectable bloke who has killed at least five women in the last twenty years and has got away with it. Deirdre Jacobs, Jojo Dollard, Annie McCarrick to name but three. The list is very long. The list is long of women, girls, young ones who were out minding their own business – in a pub, having a drink; walking down a street; walking around in broad daylight – only to find themselves either being chatted up or dragged into a car before being raped and having the living daylights beaten out of them. Non-psychopathic killers usually panic when they realise what they’ve done. Killing the victim is the desperate act of someone who doesn’t want the victim to blab. As for the psychopathic ones? Killing comes naturally, without feeling. It’s as cold as ice, because such killers have no active conscience, no sense of remorse, no guilt-feelings that would prickle through the minds of the majority. And so, young women’s bodies are dumped.
Here is a list of way they are dumped: in cars, in refuse sacks, in bins, in suitcases (a 2 x 3 is a recent example, in which the remains of a beautiful young Malawian woman were crushed, pressed, compressed), in rivers, canals, in lakes, in forests, in skips – and of course in the Wicklow mountains. Forest and mountains are the refuge of the desperate, the ideal place to dig deep and drop a body in. Plenty of foresting, plenty of rocky outcrops, heathery beds. Nothing but the sound of the wind and the birds, a distant engine snorting through the Sally Gap in the distance, all very safe and a long way away from where the killer is digging, digging.
There is no end of concealing places in the mountains, and these guys know it. I will never for the life of me understand why men who are not involved in such activities, men who deplore violence and brutality, cannot or will not get themselves organised in a political manner to demonstrate their objection to the behaviour of some of their own gender. After all, how would they feel if it was their sister, mother, aunt, wife, girlfriend, whose body was defiled, tortured, brutalised and then dumped like a piece of offal?
How would they feel?