The Lost Children Page 4

  Davies licked his lips. ‘You still haven’t answered my question. What were you arguing about?’

  ‘I can’t remember. Something or nothing.’

  Davies let out an exaggerated sigh and walked over to the window.

  ‘Listen,’ Tom said eventually, ‘we just didn’t see eye to eye, that’s all. It happens. We worked together and lived together. Things were apt to get a bit… well, a bit stressful. But for God’s sake, I’d never…’ Tom wiped the sweat from his forehead and felt a sting of betrayal at Father Watson’s lack of support.

  ‘Right. So you can’t remember what you argued about and you’ve no idea why he wanted you shifted? Is that about the size of it?’

  ‘That’s about the size of it, yes.’

  ‘You’re not being a whole lot of help here, Father.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ His apology escaped like a teenage whine. Tom thought back to the night before Father Kennedy’s death – to the screaming match between the pair of them. Either Father Kennedy had called the diocese straight away or that interfering old bat Mrs Brady had volunteered the information. But just how much did Davies know – or think he knew? Tom looked at Father Watson for a sign.

  Nothing.

  Father Watson put his hand across the advancing Davies and gently pushed him back. ‘Come on now, Thomas, calm down, the police have a job to do, that’s all.’

  ‘But, this penicillin,’ said Tom, ‘where would he have got it?’ He looked at Davies. ‘I mean, isn’t this the sort of thing you can trace?’

  Davies didn’t seem to like being usurped as interrogator. ‘Look Father, we’ll talk further—’

  Tom stood up and interrupted before he had a chance to finish. ‘I think I’d like to speak to a lawyer.’

  ‘Might not be a bad idea.’

  Tom thought Davies was just trying to put the wind up him with his poker face and refused to let him see how bothered he was. He turned to Father Watson. ‘Can I see you tomorrow? Just the two of us, I need to… talk.’ He glanced back at Davies and McVeigh.

  ‘Of course, Tom, the back of ten?’ Father Watson followed him out into the corridor and closed the door behind him. ‘Oh, and just one thing. Until this business is over I’ve taken you off that Magdalene project.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t want you speaking to that lassie, that Miss… Miss…’

  ‘O’Neil,’ Tom finished for him. ‘Oonagh O’Neil.’

  ‘Yes, Miss O’Neil. I don’t want you talking to any journalists. You know what they’re like and we don’t want this thing getting out of hand. So, tomorrow at ten. Bye, Thomas, take it easy. God Bless.’

  Tom drove back towards the south side. He was only a few minutes from the chapel house when he did a U-turn on the dual carriageway and rehearsed what he’d say to Oonagh.

  7

  Galway, 1956

  When Irene Connolly was made to pray in her bed each night for those less fortunate than herself, she often wondered who there was left to pray for. She was fourteen when she realised all was not as it should be in the world. Well, not in her world anyway.

  ‘Don’t forget to say your prayers. Night, night, Darling,’ and as the light went out that’s when the praying began. In earnest.

  He’d climb in under the cover of darkness, demanding her gratitude. What kind of daughter wouldn’t want to show her daddy just how much she loved him? After all he’d done for her. Her sister, on the other hand, was a disobliging bitch, he said. Damn near broke her mother’s heart walking out like that. But not Irene. She’d never do anything to make her mother cry. As if he’d do anything to harm his own flesh and blood. It was only natural for a father to love his daughter. So Irene would lie there, perfectly still. Biting down hard on the sheet to stop from crying out, petrified of waking her mother. Singing songs inside her head to make it all go away. She hoped and prayed her dad wouldn’t love her so much – Irene didn’t understand why love had to be so sore. Eventually she stopped praying; there didn’t seem to be any point when clearly no one was listening.

  But one day it seemed that her prayers had indeed been answered. In a way.

  ‘You stupid little… How could you do this to me?’ She heard the crack before she felt her head whip back from the full force of the back of his hand across her face.

  He was a big man, the blow strong enough to knock her over. He towered above her, his face purple with rage. Spit flew from his mouth as he screamed at her. He shook her like a rag doll, banging her head against the wall. When she couldn’t stand up any longer, he held her up by the hair.

  For the first time in ages she prayed. Begged God to let him kill her. To just get it over with. But the relentless pounding continued. Her mum’s screams faded into the background as each thud caused her ears to ring. But God must have been busy with more important things that night because she didn’t die, she just passed out.

  She woke with a taste of blood in her mouth. Her face bruised and sore, her lips thick and swollen. Her left eye completely closed over.

  ‘Oh Irene. Pregnant. How could you?’ Her mother sobbed as she dabbed her wounds with a damp cloth. Her dad sat nearby. He wrung his hands, head hung low, staring at the floor. The room was dwarfed by his huge frame. He avoided her one open eye, looked down at his feet instead.

  ‘How could you?’ her mother repeated, over and over again.

  How could I not? thought Irene.

  ‘What will people say?’ That seemed to spark off the madness in her dad once again. He stood up, but her mum shoved his jacket into his arms and ushered him out of the front door. ‘Please, Frank, leave it. Leave it just now.’

  ‘That’s me ruined,’ she heard him say as he walked to the door. ‘Finished,’ he said as he slammed it behind him. Irene hoped her mother thought he meant his reputation in the community. She couldn’t bear the idea that her mother knew the truth – that she was a silent partner in it all, a not-so-innocent bystander.

  He left her pretty much alone after that. Perhaps God did work in mysterious ways.

  She wasn’t allowed to go to school. Wasn’t allowed to go anywhere. Kept indoors, in the house. Safe from harm’s way.

  Her son was born before the summer was over. Kicking and screaming his way into the world four weeks early; born upstairs in the bed he’d been conceived in. Despite her initial revulsion, her dad delivered him and did a good job. There was nothing wrong with his skills as a doctor. He’d delivered hundreds of babies in his time.

  Isaac was wrapped in a towel before he was whisked away. Arrangements had already been made. Her father had connections, after all. Good connections. A young couple in New York were waiting to welcome Baby Isaac into their family. Irene managed to pull the cloth from his head as they took her son from her. Took just one peek at his tiny little face. The image of his father. ‘I’ll never forget you, darling boy,’ she whispered. Then he was gone.

  After that it didn’t take long before it started up again. Not as often as before. And this time nothing was said. There was no need for the loving daughter routine. It was enough that she didn’t scream, and kept her mouth shut afterwards. She just lay there with his enormous body heaving and grunting on top of her.

  Didn’t take too long. A few minutes. Then he’d pull out and leak his hot sticky mess onto her belly. Then he’d be gone. Without a word.

  Then the unthinkable happened. The unspeakable. The impossible.

  This time her mother sobbed and cried and begged for answers. ‘Oh God, Irene, no, not again. Why’re you doing this to us? What’s wrong with you?’

  ‘But Mum, I haven’t been outside this house since Isaac was born. I haven’t been over that doorstep in eighteen months. You haven’t even let me go to school. And there’s only one man who ever gets near my bed. One man, Mum, just one man.’

  Her mother’s hysteria rang through the house. ‘You’re a liar, do you hear me?’ her mother screamed. ‘You lying little bitch.’

  ‘Oh, please hel
p me, Mum. Please.’

  ‘This is not true, Irene. Do you hear me? This is not true. You’re not well, Irene. You’re sick.’

  ‘Wake up, Mum, for pity’s sake,’ Irene said under her breath as she ran out of the house, leaving the door wide open behind her.

  *

  As she sat down in front of the priest she struggled through her shame to find the words to describe what had happened. She couldn’t think of anyone else to tell. And she figured God owed her one anyway.

  *

  Her dad didn’t hit her when he came home that night. Well he couldn’t, not in front of the priest.

  Irene was sent upstairs while Father Kennedy spoke to her parents. When she was called downstairs, her father was stony faced.

  ‘Irene, we’ve had a chat about what’s best for all of us. Now it seems you may need more care than your mum and I can give…’ Father Kennedy laid his hand on Frank Connolly’s arm as he spoke.

  Irene looked at her mother. Weak, empty, distraught.

  ‘What? What’s going on? Mum, what’s happening here?’

  Her mum was wringing a hanky between her hands. ‘Where have we gone wrong, Frank?’

  Father Kennedy stood by the door. ‘I’ll leave you to it. You know where I am when you need me.’

  I need you now, you bastard.

  Before Father Kennedy left he turned to Irene. ‘You’re a very heavy cross for your mother and father to bear, Irene Connolly. No better than your sister. I’ll pray for you all at mass on Sunday.’ He closed the door quietly behind him. He was a considerate man.

  ‘Thank you, Father.’

  Then, and only then, did her dad’s fist make contact with her face.

  8

  Glasgow, 2000

  Oonagh was rolling a joint when the doorbell rang. She wasn’t expecting anyone and stuffed the fat spliff into a wooden box on the coffee table. Tom was standing on the step, looking sheepish.

  ‘Oh, Tom. Come in, come in.’

  Her Irish upbringing had left her with the overwhelming need to invite in anyone who happened to turn up at her door. Whether she wanted them in her house or not.

  She glanced back down the stairs, as though the reason for his visit might be trailing behind him. It wasn’t. The only thing on the step was a postcard from her PA, Gerry, telling her he was having a whale of a time in Ibiza. No surprise there.

  Oonagh led Tom through to the living room, sensing something was wrong, and shooed the cat from the settee before he sat down.

  ‘I’m glad I caught you in,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t sure if you were working or not.’

  She offered him a glass of wine as Tom mumbled some pleasantries. It wasn’t yet three in the afternoon. But Oonagh, used to drinking from about lunchtime – sometimes breakfast if she’d run out of coffee – thought nothing of it. She poured two large glasses and took a large gulp of her own, then decided to take the bull by the horns.

  ‘Is this about Father Kennedy?’ she said.

  ‘Well, yes, but—’

  Her mind was working overtime and she hardly gave him a chance to answer. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘The Police, they—’

  Oonagh interrupted. ‘Do they think he was…?’ She paused, and chose her words carefully. ‘… that his death may have been suspicious?’

  She refilled her glass, and topped up Tom’s, before forcing the cork back into the bottle.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, is this common knowledge among journalists?’

  Oonagh nodded and Tom looked crestfallen that she was one step ahead. She was hardly surprised the story was spreading like wildfire. It was she who’d asked Alec Davies to check it out in the first place. Despite rumours to the contrary, the police worked very closely with all the news organisations in and around Glasgow, including her own, and passed on titbits of information to those reporters they could trust. In turn, most journalists, herself included, respected ‘off the record’ information, sitting on it until the top brass said otherwise. Anyway, she had her own theories to consider.

  ‘You must admit, if it’s true, it’s a great story. It’d make a great book.’

  ‘Just what the world needs, another Scottish crime writer.’

  ‘Anyway,’ she said, already planning the first few chapters in her head, ‘do you still not know what he wanted to speak to me about? It’s a bit strange he calls me the night before he dies?’

  ‘No, it’s not. Will you just let that one go? Christ, journalists are all the same. I bumped into Charlie Antonio on Clyde Street… He’s—’

  ‘Oh, that little shit.’

  ‘Speaking from experience?’ Tom asked.

  ‘Too right.’ She swigged back the wine.

  ‘Care to elaborate?’

  ‘Not really but…’ Oonagh hesitated for just a few seconds. She knew she could trust Tom. ‘It was all a long time ago now.’

  Tom nodded and she carried on.

  ‘D’you remember that sleazebag Mark Pattison?’

  ‘What, that guy from the telly who was found dead in a hotel room with an orange in his mouth! Eh yes, I do remember as a matter of fact. Priests are allowed to read the papers, you know.’

  ‘I know.’ Oonagh let out a rather unenthusiastic laugh. ‘Well, you know there was a list of complaints against that creep as long as your arm. But he just seemed to wriggle out of every single accusation.’

  ‘Friends in high places?’ said Tom.

  Oonagh raised one eyebrow. ‘Absolutely. Apparently, he had enough dirt on those friends to guarantee him a get out of jail free card for life.’

  ‘So it’s not just the church who harbour weirdos then?’

  Oonagh let out a laugh. ‘Tom!’

  ‘So what’s this got to do with you and Antonio?’

  Oonagh swirled the wine around in her glass and chewed on the inside of her lip.

  ‘Right, but this goes no further than these four walls,’ she said.

  Tom held up one hand. ‘The sanctity of the confessional, Miss O’Neil.’

  ‘Well, d’you remember one story mentioned a young production assistant who accused him of attempted rape?’

  ‘Who, Charlie Antonio?’

  ‘No! Flipping Mark Pattison. Keep up, Tom.’ She tutted. ‘Well the girl apparently settled out of court and got a pretty big payoff, but it was rumoured that she was now a household name and the press went mental trying to identify her.’

  ‘Did you know her?’

  Oonagh let out a sigh.

  ‘Oh, my God. Was it you?’

  She looked at her watch. ‘That must be a world record for the length of time it’s taken a penny to drop!’

  Tom reached for her arm, ‘Oonagh, that’s deplorable. It must have been awful for you.’

  She shrugged, ‘things like that happen every fucking day in the media, Tom. It’s actually no biggie.’

  ‘No biggie? Cut the tough girl routine Oon’, you don’t need to. Not with me.’

  She looked into the bottom of her glass, normally there’d be a smart-arsed answer swirling around there, but not this time. She waited for Tom to speak, but he said nothing.

  ‘D’you know what the worst thing was? His breath. That stinking cigar smoke stench on my cheek.’

  Tom took the glass from her hand and placed it on the table. It was only when he handed her a tissue that she realised there were tears in her eyes. ‘Shit,’ she wiped the back of her hand under her nose.

  ‘Have you talked to anyone about it?’

  She reached for her glass, and shook her head. ‘Nah. I managed to stop him before… anyway, no real harm done so—’

  ‘I hope you kicked him right in the balls?’ The colour had risen in Tom’s cheeks; she could see he was angry.

  ‘That’s the thing, I couldn’t. He was so heavy, he was on top of me, on a chair and I honestly couldn’t move.’ Tom patted the back of her hand. ‘D’you know what I did?’ She didn’t wait for an answer, ‘I wet myself. On purpose. I peed myself
.’ Her memory often got the chain of events wrong, but she remembered the fat bastard rolling off her. ‘I told him I had a urine infection and he jumped up as though I was radioactive. After that I just ran.’

  ‘Good for you, Oonagh.’

  She let out a deep breath and topped up her glass. It’d been a long time since she’d allowed herself to think about it, and now she wanted the memory gone. ‘Anyway, Charlie Antonio – or the Wee Shite as he’ll be referred to from now on – found out and decided to run with the story that I was paid to put up and shut up after a serious sexual assault.’

  ‘But you were the innocent party here.’

  ‘Tom, not only did I get a wad of cash, but I got a really decent job out of it, too.’ Oonagh knew at the time the case would never have got within spitting distance of a courtroom. She’d have been branded a troublemaker and barred from every newsroom in the county. It’s just the way things were in her business. ‘It would have looked as though I was profiteering.’

  ‘I don’t remember reading that you had anything to do with it.’

  ‘Ah! Well, that’s just it. Someone tipped me the wink what the Wee Shite was planning. So I got in there first. He’d obviously stolen the legal document naming me, so I threatened to sue the ‘paper’ for breach of confidentiality. The upshot was that Charlie got the bullet from his cosy wee staff job at The Chronicle.’

  ‘And?’

  She felt herself blush. ‘And I got an even bigger payout… and an even better push up the ladder.’

  She tipped her head back and let the glass drain into her mouth.

  Tom’s chin hung limp in disbelief, before he broke into a half smile. ‘Oonagh, you don’t do anything by halves do you?’

  Oonagh’s own brush with Antonio seemed to give Tom a sense of reassurance. Coupled with the wine, he appeared more relaxed. He looked around the room. ‘You’ve done well for yourself, Oonagh. Far cry from the chapel house, or my old council semi in Milton, come to that.’