The Quiet Ones Page 19

  ‘Was there anyone she was close to there? Any friends she’d made during her stay?’ Oonagh was aware she was referring to Hannah Gray’s incarceration as though she’d been on holiday.

  He shook his head. ‘Not that I know of. All I know now is that she needed help and I let her down.’

  ‘Peter, please.’ Oonagh laid her hand on top of his, unable to shake off the knowledge that she was going to make his day a whole lot worse. ‘You did all you could. You entrusted your daughter’s care to the professionals. You trusted them.’

  He let out a sarcastic laugh. ‘There wasn’t even a fatal accident inquiry.’ He stirred the dregs of his coffee with Oonagh’s teaspoon. ‘The last words she ever said to me?’ He’d posed it as a question, but wasn’t expecting an answer. ‘“Dad,” she said, “can you take me home?” And I didn’t. D’you know how that makes me feel?’ Oonagh had no idea how he felt. Couldn’t even begin to imagine the horrors that filled his nightmares each night.

  ‘Peter, I know this must be so difficult for you.’ Oonagh hated that line and wished she could think of something different to say, something comforting, something real, something that said I want to make this go away for you, but she never did.

  ‘Her mum had wanted to wrap her up in a blanket and put her in the back of the car, but I stopped her.’ His chin quivered slightly; he rubbed his hand across his mouth, but it wouldn’t take the pain away. ‘Said the doctors knew what they were doing. All I could see was that she was getting heavier so that was a good thing. She was like a skeleton when she first went in, her bones were sticking out, and I was just happy that she was starting to look normal again.’ He swallowed hard, the tip of his nose tinged pink as the memory threatened to spill over into tears. Peter had split from Hannah’s mum not long after their daughter died. Oonagh guessed the grief had been just too much for them to bear.

  ‘Is it possible Hannah was telling the truth?’ Oonagh caught the look on his face, then quickly corrected herself. ‘Not monsters, well, not as such, but I’m investigating the possibility of some…’ Oonagh wasn’t quite sure what words to use; she felt ill equipped to be handing out this type of bad news to a stranger ‘… some sort of abuse at Breakmire.’

  ‘What the hell’s going on here? Why’re you so interested in my daughter?’

  She detected a note of anger in his voice. ‘Peter…’ Oonagh took a deep breath and swallowed hard; there was no sugaring this pill ‘… did you see Hannah’s death certificate?’

  He nodded. ‘Of course. Exposure, hypothermia.’

  Part of her wanted to walk away now. This poor man had suffered enough. ‘And the post-mortem examination?’ He didn’t seem to be grasping what she was saying. ‘Did you actually see the post-mortem report?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think so.’ He thought for a second. ‘No. No, I didn’t. Why?’

  That was hardly surprising. Few families, if any, got to see the official post-mortem report as a matter of course, and at the time of Hannah’s death it would have been unheard of.

  ‘Are you saying my daughter didn’t die from hypothermia?’

  Oonagh took the buff coloured envelope from her laptop bag and slid it across the table, her heart thumping in her chest, her throat tightening; she had no idea if she was doing the right thing, but knew she had no choice. From the moment that email had dropped in her inbox she knew what she had to do. Peter Gray opened the envelope and took out the document, only two pages in total; it was the full autopsy report.

  ‘Peter, the post-mortem examination does indeed have hypothermia as the cause of death.’

  It didn’t take him long to read the most relevant details: sixteen year old girl, superficial scratches on her arms, legs, hands and feet, which would be no great surprise as she’d run off in the dark dressed only in a thin nightdress. There had been a lesion or bruise across her forehead, possibly a friction burn, but, like the scratches, it was deemed superficial. Toxicology report showed that she’d had benzodiazepine in her system; again this would have been consistent with the prescribed medication. Cause of death; hypothermia. Hannah had crawled under a bush and by all accounts just gone to sleep. Such a tragic end to such a short life.

  Peter Gray’s eyes scanned the rest of the document. A muscle in the side of his jaw twitched as he read the basic details of Hannah’s height, weight, date of birth and physical description, before reaching the vital information at the bottom.

  ‘Fuck.’ He held the document in both hands, his eyes darting across the page.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Peter,’ Oonagh said, and meant it. She had just added to this man’s nightmare.

  ‘How long have you had this for?’ He was still clutching the A4 envelope in one hand as they walked along the seafront. He’d barged out of the café under the pretence of getting some fresh air, but Oonagh could see the salty tears stinging Peter Gray’s eyes, and the biting wind along the shore gave him plenty of opportunity to wipe his eyes.

  ‘Just over a week. I called you as soon as I saw it.’ Peter Gray took the four steps down onto the shore and Oonagh struggled to keep up, her heels disappearing into the sand. ‘I’m so sorry.’ She’d apologised a lot this morning and she wasn’t sure why. She’d opened up a Pandora’s box and so many people were going to be hurt by this.

  ‘Has her mum seen it?’

  Oonagh shook her head. ‘Your ex-wife won’t speak to me. I tried but…’

  ‘She won’t speak to me either.’ He stopped suddenly. ‘So how the hell did you get a hold of it?’

  Oonagh hesitated and worried about telling him that she’d paid a contact in the NHS for the report. It wasn’t strictly legal, well, it wasn’t legal at all, but she’d decided it was for the greater good. ‘I have my contacts,’ was all she offered.

  ‘What can I do?’ Oonagh wasn’t quite sure what he meant. ‘Who the fuck do I speak to about this? Who’s going to fucking pay for what they did?’

  Hannah Gray had been three months pregnant when she died. This was turning into a real shitty day. This wasn’t the movies where a miscarriage of justice was uncovered and the forces of good prevailed against evil. This couldn’t be wrapped in a neat package, with a few sound bites and a Twitter feed with #justiceforhannah making everything OK. The nightmare Peter Gray had been living since his daughter’s death was about to get a whole lot worse.

  ‘I’m not going to lie to you, Peter, this is going to be tough.’

  That was probably the most understated thing Oonagh had ever said. Proving institutionalised abuse was a nightmare at the best of times, historical abuse was even harder. Throw into the mix the fact that the patient had been dead for twenty years and the said hospital was now lying derelict just added to the problems. There would be an inquiry, it would take years and the conclusion would be that our most vulnerable people had been failed and lessons would be learned – and safeguards would be put in place to ensure it never happened again. Oonagh could already smell the bullshit.

  ‘I’m not sure if this will be a comfort to you, but I believe the men responsible are dead.’ He stopped and looked at her. ‘And their deaths weren’t pleasant.’ Peter Gray dropped his head, allowing just the briefest glimpse of satisfaction to cross his face.

  36

  Tommy Gallagher 1983

  There was no room to lie on the floor with the other guys. As usual they seemed to have it sussed, laughing at some crap on telly. The music was blaring but all Tommy could hear was the sound of his own heart, thumping in his chest, and the deafening sound of blood whooshing through his ears. The other two lay on their stomachs, eating wine gums, propped on their elbows, legs stretched back, the odd foot swaying about. Not a care in the world. Not a fucking care. What the hell was happening?

  Tommy felt the bile rise slightly in his throat as his stomach heaved. He was going to be sick. He was going to vomit, then they’d laugh. The others would laugh and call him names. He could feel his face scarlet-red; he reached to stroke his c
heek, wiping the tears away. Quickly. Before anyone noticed.

  He stood up – perhaps he could squeeze in between them on the floor – but the hand gripping his wrist yanked him back and he fell back down onto the sofa. He knew what was coming. That thing. He wanted to scream at the others to turn round, see what was going on. What was wrong with them? What was so fucking great about The Banana Splits? It was shite. Even in colour.

  Derek flicked a wine gum and it hit Mic on the ear. A perfect shot. In return Mic elbowed him in the ribs and they wrestled about for a few seconds, just moments, yelling and swearing, but it was just kid-on. Tommy could see that. Tommy thought that would put him off, but it seemed to make him more eager. Tommy wanted to retch, and yet still the others didn’t see.

  If Tommy cried they’d all think he was a total prick. A right twat. They’d know he’d never done it. They’d all done it loads of times. Not with any of the lassies from school though. All lassies he’d never heard of, but Derek and Mic, and even Stewart. Stew, for fuck’s sake. How did he know what to do? They’d all said they’d done it. The shame burnt Tommy’s face and he tugged his sleeve down over his free hand to wipe his nose.

  Derek and Mic settled back down, back to the programme. Cartoons now. They were laughing and yelling at the telly as though it could hear them. Oblivious to what was happening just a few feet behind them.

  Tommy’s wrist started to burn beneath the grip. He stared straight ahead, but knew his abuser’s eyes were fixed on the other two on the floor. And then it happened. That sound. The sound he’d grown to hate. It was louder than anything, louder than the telly, louder than the blood rushing through his head. His stomach heaved once more and he managed to pull his hand free just as Derek and Mic jumped up. You’d think they’d never seen ice cream before. The van was right outside the window of the flat. ‘Pop Goes the Weasel’. Tommy’s dad used to sing that to him when he was wee, and pull his finger from his mouth to make that popping sound. Used to make him laugh. But this was horrible, it was clangy and noisy, it was cheap and nasty and made him feel even more sick. Derek was dancing from foot to foot, waiting for the money. Mic was at the window, pulling back the net curtain. ‘Hurry up, there’s hardly anyone there. It’ll be gone.’ Derek snatched the fiver from the outstretched hand and swaggered out of the door, as if he was used to carrying that amount of cash. Mic was running on ahead; they could hear him outside the window, desperate to make sure the van didn’t drive off before they got there.

  ‘Ask me for money.’

  ‘What?’ Tommy didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. ‘Ask me for money.’ His voice was low and he was gasping. He sounded angry. Tommy’s wrist ached as the fingers dug deep into his skin.

  ‘Ask me for money.’ He sounded really pissed off now.

  Tommy was desperate for it to finish, terrified he was going to pee himself. ‘Can I have some money?’ he said, hoping he would stop.

  ‘Say it again.’

  Tommy tried to speak but the words caught in the back of his throat and instead he started crying. Like a wean. The snot dripped off Tommy’s nose and landed on his hand.

  Derek and Mic were coming back up the stairs. Their voices echoing through the close. The van was clearly on its way as ‘Pop Goes the Weasel’ got fainter and fainter in the distance. ‘You’re a stupid prick.’ He pushed Tommy out of the way and wiped the snot from his hand across the leg of Tommy’s joggers. ‘Can you do nothing right?’

  Derek and Mic burst into the living room and Tommy jumped up, running to the toilet. But it was too late and he peed himself before he reached the lavvy. He could hear them through the door. Laughing and carrying on as though nothing were wrong. He was desperate to be one of them. Part of their gang. Instead he took off his jumper and wrapped it round his waist. Hiding the wet patch below. It didn’t look too bad; he’d managed to pull down his joggers before they got too wet. He’d already taken off his pants. They were soaking. He tried to stuff them behind the toilet, out of sight, but you could still see them. There was a wee bit of wood boxing around the sink. It was loose and he pushed his hand in it to shoogle it a bit. He could stuff them behind there. The wood was only thin; it pushed in easily. There was a pile of pictures stuffed behind it. They were those Polaroid ones. His pal Frannie’s dad had one. They didn’t need to get them developed. You could see the pictures right away. It took Tommy a couple of seconds to work out what he was looking at. They weren’t very clear. He couldn’t make out faces. That looked like a leg, or maybe someone’s elbow. Then he saw it. Clearly. He didn’t know who the boys were as their heads were cut out of the photo. But he knew Harry. He recognised Harry Nugent. And other men too.

  ‘Hurry up, ya prick. I’m bursting.’ Derek battered on the door and he stuffed the pictures back where he’d found them. His hand shaking as he tugged the flimsy piece of wood back in place. Instead he stuffed the soaking Y-fronts into his pocket and tried to look casual as he unlocked the door.

  ‘I left your ice cream in the kitchen.’ Derek barged past, unzipping his flies before he’d reached the pan. ‘Harry gave us enough for double nougats.’

  Tommy ran out of the bathroom, straight into Harry. He was smiling. The way he always did when he had an audience. He held him by the shoulders, digging his fingers in just a bit too hard. He knew Tommy had seen the pictures. It was written all over his face. He rubbed the back of Tommy’s head. As if he was his favourite. The front door was open and Tommy made a run for it. Belting down the stairs, out of the close. He’d always been a fast runner. But now he ran so fast he feared he was going to be sick. He ran and didn’t stop running until he reached home. By the time he got inside his lungs were burning, his chest was heaving and his legs felt like jelly. The smell of dinner coming from the kitchen hit the back of his throat and he retched. He retched and couldn’t stop. He was sick all over the hall floor, on the new lino. His mum came running through from the kitchen. She placed her hand on his forehead and walked him through to the bathroom, holding his head over the pan, rubbing her hand in circles on his back.

  ‘You’re burning up,’ she told him. Told him he was sweating and shaking like a leaf. She told him it must be flu.

  Later she checked in on him; he pretended to be asleep and she kissed his head. He wanted to stay there. Forever. Where it was safe. But he knew he couldn’t.

  37

  It was a nightmare trying to piece everything together, but at least Oonagh had made a connection. She could have kicked herself for missing it the first time round. To the outside world Graham Petrie had very little dirt on him. He was squeaky clean. After Hazel Andrews had revealed that he’d been working as a volunteer porter at Breakmire the penny had dropped.

  She went back to the Mitchell Library and looked again at the asylum’s board of trustees. There it was in black and white. Graham Petrie. No wonder he’d been able to get away with so much for so long. Oonagh had seen it the first time she checked over the document, but that had been before he’d been murdered, and none of the names had rung a bell at the time. Petrie had used his volunteering to gain trust and access to the hospital without rousing too much suspicion.

  Nugent must have thought he’d won the lottery when he’d caught that little shite with his dick out. This sickened her. These women were supposed to be cared for and instead had been exposed to the most brutal regime imaginable.

  The thought of going back to that woman again was making her skin crawl but she had little choice. She was the only one who could give her answers.

  *

  ‘Hazel, what can you tell me about Hannah Gray?’

  Hazel Andrews smiled; she clearly liked being the centre of attention and holding the cards. ‘I only agree to see you because I’m bored, you know.’

  Oonagh nodded. ‘Well, that’s very good of you. I’ll try to be as scintillating as I can. Now. Hannah Gray. You must remember her.’ She posed it more as a statement than a question. She was done playing games.

  An
drews put down her book, carefully placing a bookmark inside, before closing it over. ‘She was nothing but trouble, that one.’

  ‘Is that why she was killed?’

  ‘She wasn’t killed. She ran away. Daft bitch. I’d told her to just play the game.’

  ‘So, she was one of the—’

  ‘Comfort women,’ Andrews jumped in before she’d had a chance to finish.

  ‘Comfort women?’ Oonagh was familiar with the term; the female prisoners of war enslaved into brothels, forced to work as sex slaves for the Japanese soldiers. Comfort women was a much more palatable name than victims of rape and slavery. The penny just dropped. ‘Bloody hell. Is that what CW stands for?’

  Andrews shrugged. ‘Don’t know.’ And she was probably telling the truth. She’d have had no access to Nugent’s records, so would have been unaware that he’d have abbreviated the term. ‘It’s what we called the girls who liked working with the men. It’s such a nice term, isn’t it?’

  Andrews made this all sound rather nice. A million miles away from the reality of it all. The reality of girls being abused and forced into prostitution. ‘People are stupid, you know that?’ Once again, Oonagh got the distinct impression Hazel Andrews was directing this particular insult firmly in her direction, but didn’t retaliate. It would do little good to rile her now. The important thing was to get as much information as possible. ‘Things go on right under their noses,’ she continued, ‘and they don’t bat an eyelid.’ She ran her hands down her sweatshirt, lightly caressing her breasts. Oonagh guessed this was also for her benefit, trying to shock her. Coming from a woman who’d killed five patients in her care, watching her squeeze her own tits wasn’t exactly sending Oonagh into a tailspin.

  ‘It’s not as though they weren’t cared for.’ Andrews shook her head, rolled her eyes. ‘They had the best of stuff and most of them enjoyed it.’ She gave a slight conspiratorial laugh. As though she was the only one in on the joke.