The Lost Children Page 9

  ‘No really, you look awful.’

  He sat down at the massive pine table. Oonagh pottered around behind him, stealing glances every few seconds. He really was in a bad way. She put on the coffee and took two filled rolls from a paper bag.

  ‘I stopped off at the deli on the way home and bought some lunch. I take it you haven’t eaten?’ She put cups and plates on the table and fished out two custard tarts from another bag. Only then did she sit down opposite him.

  He was sitting bolt upright, elbows on the table, lips pressed tight. Oonagh made conversation but could tell he wasn’t listening. He seemed to be miles away. Only when she poured the coffee from the glass pot and pushed the milk and sugar towards him did he speak.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, trying a half-hearted grin as he slid the milk and sugar back unused.

  Oonagh heaped three large spoonfuls into her own cup, followed by a huge splash of milk.

  ‘Sweet tooth?’ Tom asked.

  ‘I like my coffee like I like my men… weak, wet and milky.

  He grinned at her and shook his head. She could see he was starting to relax. Slightly.

  ‘How did Father Watson take the news? Try to persuade you stay? That’s the usual, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, he persuaded me to stay all right.’

  He told her about the meeting, and his earlier visit from Charlie, giving her all the gory details. Left nothing out. She, on the other hand, said nothing about the exchange with her mum. By now she was thoroughly ashamed of it, and not only because of the cheap jibe at the end. But she shoved it to the back of her mind, along with the picture of Owen in his shower shoes and all the rest of the crap, and instead concentrated on Tom.

  ‘Bloody hell, you’re in it deep.’

  ‘Oonagh. Christ’s sake, never join the Samaritans, they’d have to employ a locum to cope with the increase in suicides.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ She genuinely was, ‘I flunked out of my final year of charm school.’

  ‘I’d still ask for a refund if I were you.’

  She gave him that one.

  ‘And before you ask, for the tenth time, no, I didn’t bloody kill Father Bloody Kennedy. Jee-sus, I’m beginning to wish I had, it would have been less pigging stressful.’

  She nodded. Her mind had stepped up a gear. ‘Never mind about all that. Guess what I found out about the Magdalenes?’ She didn’t wait for him to answer. ‘Tom, listen to this. Babies weren’t just taken away from their mothers and put up for adoption. They were sold. Sold! The Church was running a bloody baby trafficking racket.’

  He just looked at her. Said nothing. Just looked.

  ‘Did you know about this?’

  He shook his head. ‘Dunno, don’t think so. No.’

  ‘Well, don’t you think it’s something that should be exposed? I mean, bloody hell, does no one care?’

  He raised one shoulder. ‘What good would it do, dragging it all up now. I think you should just put it to bed.’

  She felt chilled to the bone. As though the whole rotten world was in on the act.

  ‘Put it to bed? No bloody way.’ There was a panicky edge to her voice. ‘And I’ll tell you this, it won’t be stuck in as part of the tail end of the Magdalene story. No way Jose. I’m going to do a special on this. Blow the whole thing wide open. This’ll cost the Church dear. And I don’t just mean money, Tom.’ Her eyes had filled with tears and she was shaking.

  ‘Calm down a minute, Oonagh, don’t just lash out for the sake of it. People can’t wait to put the boot in to the Church. But, come on, we give a lot of practical help to people who just don’t have anywhere else to go. Most of our funding comes from public donations and every time something like this happens our budget gets cut to nothing.’ He dropped his head into his hands and rubbed his face hard. ‘God knows, we’re trying to make amends for the past, but it’s bloody hard when it keeps getting raked up.’

  Oonagh breathed deeply and ran her fingers along the rim of her eyes. ‘It’s not about you, Tom. I’d never jeopardise any of your work. But this is something I have to do.’

  ‘I’m just saying, the Church isn’t a lot of doddery old men in black suits. It’s a business, understand? They can be ruthless when it comes down to brass tacks. I just don’t want you getting into something that you can’t—’

  ‘Handle?’ she cut in.

  ‘Well, yeah,’ he replied. ‘Put it this way, you don’t really know what you’re dealing with here.’

  She didn’t like this. ‘You know more than you’re letting on, don’t you?’

  ‘No, I don’t. But I know a helluva lot of things went on in the past that sometimes are best left there. Things were different in those days. Y’know loads of families were split through poverty, or one thing or another. For God’s sake, the Government shipped thousands of kids over to Australia after the war, why’re you not harping on about that?’

  She gave him one of her looks.

  ‘And you know yourself that most of the Magdalenes weren’t run by the Catholic Church, something that seems to be conveniently overlooked these days!’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Oonagh waved her hand in a bid to shut Tom up. ‘I’ll make sure I mention that at the end of the programme.’

  ‘Oonagh,’ he said, ‘all I’m saying is that what seems abhorrent now maybe wasn’t so dreadful at the time. Anyway, most of the people involved are either dead or on their last legs. What’s the point?’

  ‘Yeah, what’s the point,’ she said, ‘if everything ends up dead?’

  Tom put up his hands. There you go, he seemed to be saying.

  But she wouldn’t let it drop. ‘I bet Father Kennedy knew about all this. Oh. That’s another thing. Jeezo, I nearly forgot.’ She patted the table. ‘He was actually involved in the Magdalenes – and not just in Glasgow, but Galway too.’

  Tom looked done in. ‘What difference does that make now? Don’t you think I’ve got more things to worry me?’

  ‘I happen to think it makes a lot of difference actually. I mean it’s funny how he never mentioned it.’

  ‘Look, Oonagh, lots of priests were involved. Don’t read too much into it.’

  ‘What time’s the funeral on Monday?’ He was getting on her wick now and she couldn’t be bothered to argue the toss.

  ‘Eleven, why?’

  ‘I’ll need to get a crew together.’

  ‘Crew?’

  Footage of Father Kennedy’s funeral would be a fantastic touch for her Magdalene documentary, now that she knew how instrumental he had been in the running of the home in Galway. She already had a rough commentary planned. She’d have to mask the filming as an everyday news item about his death. The programme was already over-budget and she didn’t have a hope in hell’s chance of getting a camera crew for another day. This way she could use the stock footage of his funeral and voice it up later. It also got round the problem of asking permission from the Church. They’d never agree if they knew what she had in mind. She told Tom all of this.

  ‘No, you can’t do that, just leave it will you, for God sake’s the man’s dead. Can’t you just let it go?’ He’d finished his roll and was picking at the pastry on his custard tart. Again, Oonagh refused to let go.

  ‘No, Tom, I won’t drop it.’

  ‘Who’re you trying to get at here?’ He left his pastry for a moment. ‘The Church, Father Kennedy, me?’

  She was gutted. She’d expected Tom to be as angry as she was. His reaction left her bitterly disappointed. ‘Whose side are you on, Tom?’

  ‘Side?’ He swung back on his chair in a huff. ‘It’s not about sides, Oonagh, don’t be daft.’ He let his chair fall back onto all four legs and looked at her. ‘Look, I know you’re as mad as hell over all this.’ She was about to interrupt him but he didn’t pause for breath. ‘And I’m not defending anybody here, but Oonagh, you’re not stupid, you know it was nearly impossible for single girls to keep their babies back then. It wasn’t just a problem with the Church. It was soci
ety in general.’

  Oonagh tightened her lips and stared hard at the table.

  ‘Oonagh there’s not a week goes by when I don’t see first hand the mess of some screwed up family. Pregnant teenagers shagging old men for a few bob for their next fix. Passing their weans round their pals when they’re out begging, cashing in on the sympathy vote. Can’t you get it into your head that maybe some of those kids who were adopted were at least given the chance of a decent life?’

  She’d heard enough.

  ‘Oh, come off it, Tom. That’s a cheap trick, that is. Why are you so keen to defend them?’

  She stood up to get fresh coffee, but he grabbed her by the arm.

  ‘Them, Oonagh?’ He forced her round to look at him. ‘Them? I’m part of them, have you forgotten?’

  She wriggled free, surprised at his grip for such a wee man. Her mum’s words rang in her ears. ‘You expect too much of people, Oonagh.’ She was sick of fighting and wanted to change the subject.

  ‘By the way, the test was positive,’ she said, rubbing the flesh on the top of her arm, trying to make Tom feel guilty. ‘I’m pregnant.’

  He didn’t look shocked. Or guilty. But then Tom was a trained counsellor, and trained counsellors never looked shocked at shocking news. And rarely fell for the guilt card. Oonagh knew from experience.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘it looks like you’ve got better things to worry about too. Have you told the father yet?’

  ‘Told my father? My dad’s dead.’

  ‘What? No, the father of the baby. Bloody hell, wake up, Oonagh.’

  Her mum was right. Two years on and she was carrying her grief around like a guidebook. Referring to it before getting on with her life. A word or even a smell could bring it back like a blow to the stomach. While her mother shared afternoon delights with her new lover, Oonagh paid seventy-five pounds an hour to a therapist twice a month for the privilege of talking. Suspended grief he called it. Seventy-five pounds an hour. She was in the wrong job. Either that or she didn’t have enough friends. Or the right sort of friends.

  ‘Oh right, of course, yes.’ She felt embarrassed now that the penny had dropped. ‘I spoke to him the other night, on the phone. Last night in fact.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And what?’

  She couldn’t bear to go into the full details of the conversation with Jack. ‘I’m meeting him later,’ was all she said.

  God, her therapist would have a field day with this. Poor Oonagh, looking for a father figure to replace the dead one she couldn’t have any more. And instead she’d got herself a husband. Someone else’s.

  ‘I don’t know what to do, Tom. I mean, I can’t keep Wee Thing, can I?’ She rubbed her belly affectionately with both hands.

  ‘It’s got a name already? Just make sure you think long and hard before you make any major decisions, Oonagh.’ He reached out his hand and squeezed her wrist. ‘And make sure it’s your decision.’

  ‘Father Watson was right; the Church could do with more priests like you. Just a shame you’re not willing to be a bit more rebellious at times.’

  ‘For what it’s worth, I’ll say a prayer for you tonight.’

  ‘Well, when you speak to God, give him a message will you? Tell him he’s a right bastard.’

  ‘Well, at least you still believe, Oonagh. At least you still believe.’

  *

  Father Watson unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk and took out a bundle of papers. The envelope was addressed to Oonagh O’Neil in Father Kennedy’s spidery handwriting. He threw it in the bin. Then he unfolded a document written in the same scrawl.

  It is a terrible thing that we have done, and for all of that we must ask God for Mercy. Mercy and forgiveness. In my own defence all I can say is that at the time I believed what we were doing was for the best. But for the lives we have destroyed, that is little comfort. And for those who say they took no part in the events, I will say this: all it takes for evil to flourish is for good men to do nothing…

  He couldn’t stomach reading it anymore. Not again. He held it by the corner and set all three pages alight. An involuntary sigh of relief escaped as he watched the words curl and die in the grey ash. He dropped the burning letter in the wastepaper bin on top of the envelope addressed to Oonagh O’Neil. Then he stood and watched until Father Kennedy’s last confession disappeared with the flames…

  17

  Glasgow, 2000

  Oonagh arrived at The Rogano a good ten minutes early and decided to wait for Jack at the bar. She’d just hoisted herself onto a stool, and was about to order a drink, when she caught sight of Charlie in the mirror.

  ‘Oonagh O’Neil. How the devil?’ He gave her a wee wave.

  Smug bastard. ‘Well, if it isn’t Charlie McNae-chance.’

  She cancelled her drink and walked over to the booth where he was sitting. She gave it the once over. ‘This place must be going downhill, eh.’

  She bumped into him from time to time. The media was an incestuous business, especially in Glasgow, and Charlie Antonio was always on the lookout for work. Always on the make. He smoothed back his hair and wiped his hand over his mouth when she slid into the seat facing him. Normally she avoided him like the plague. They weren’t exactly bosom buddies.

  ‘I’m glad I saw you, Chaz,’ she said, ‘I want a wee word.’

  He looked genuinely intrigued. ‘Oh?’

  She got straight to the point. ‘You’ve been pestering a friend of mine, and I want to tell you to back off. No, make that, I’m warning you. Back off, or else.’

  ‘Or else, what?’

  At least he didn’t bother with the pretence of not knowing who or what she was talking about.

  ‘Just take this as a warning, Chuck.’

  He let out a laugh, which came out as his usual snort. ‘D’ye think I’m scared of you and a poofy wee priest? Do me a favour, love.’ His voice dropped to a hiss as he noticed a waiter standing by the booth. They both ordered in a hurry to get rid of him. Another gin and tonic for Charlie, a glass of dry white for Oonagh. She was desperate to down it in a oner, but instead took just one sip.

  Charlie’s hair was thick with gel and curled slightly at the nape of his neck. His dark blue double-breasted suit was out of vogue and had seen better days. The jacket had a telltale hump, probably from being hung on a car’s coat hook. Luckily for him, the Burberry raincoat folded on the seat beside him had just crept back into fashion.

  ‘Look Chaz, why don’t you just leave Tom alone? He’s done nothing wrong, give the poor guy a break.’

  ‘Nothing wrong? Are you mental? He’s killed a bloody priest.’

  ‘That was suicide. You’re clutching at straws and you know it. He couldn’t hurt a fly.’

  ‘Some bloody investigative reporter you are. Fuck’s sake, O’Neil. He’s as guilty as sin.’ Again, another snort-like laugh.

  ‘If you back off…’ She was playing for time. Drummed her nails on the table. Sized him up. ‘Look, I’ll make it worth your while if you leave him alone. Okay?’

  ‘Worth my while? How?’ He traced his finger along the mahogany veneer on the table.

  Oh Christ, did he actually think she was coming onto him? She ignored his wee fantasy.

  ‘I know you’re hardly flavour of the month right now, Chuck. So back off and I’ll make sure you get a few decent jobs – well paid ones that could lead to other things.’

  ‘It’s your fault I’m in this state in the first place.’

  Oonagh refused to take the bait.

  ‘I go to that Sheriff fucking Court sometimes three times a week just to try to pick up a story I can sell on.’

  She felt a very slight pang of sympathy. Freelancers were finding it tough just now.

  ‘It’s ok for staffers,’ he jabbed his finger toward her face, ‘they treat a day in court like a fucking holiday. Saves them having to go out in the bitter cold, chapping on doors, asking some poor sod if they’re upset their wean got—’ She cu
t him off. She knew it was a tough gig, but that wasn’t her problem right now.

  ‘Don’t push it, Chazza. It’s your call.’

  She sat back in her seat and let the wine slip down her throat, easing the tension through her body. She allowed herself a smile. She didn’t know how long Charlie had been in the bar, but judging by the flush in his face, he’d had enough to give him a bit of Dutch courage.

  As she wrapped her fingers round the stem of her glass he leaned across the table and covered her other hand with his. He seemed to soften.

  ‘You know, Oonagh, I find you very attractive at times.’ He paused. ‘And you owe me one. So what do you plan to do about that?’

  ‘Shave my head and grow a moustache? Now piss off you shitty little creep. Deal’s off.’ She pulled her hand away and downed the rest of her wine in one swig. She stood up and walked out, stopping briefly to speak to the doorman.

  Charlie was left to pay for the round.

  *

  Outside, Oonagh stopped to catch her breath before punching Jack’s number into her mobile. ‘Hi… No, change of plan… Meet me at Sarti’s instead… Right, see you in five.’

  The streets were thronging with office workers struggling to get home, and the sky was dark and heavy, with fat clouds threatening to burst. She quickened her pace as she made her way to the Italian café bar a few blocks up. The first few drops of rain fell just as she reached the front door.

  Inside it was quiet. It was still early, and mid-week, the best time to get a table anywhere. Just a few people sitting downstairs next to a counter that sold an enormous selection of Italian meats and cheeses.

  Jack was sitting upstairs. She spied him immediately through the wooden banister of the spiral staircase. Dark blue mohair Italian suit, with a dark shirt to match his silk tie. His grey hair was cropped close to his head; from a distance it added a few years to him. He often joked he was going prematurely grey, and he probably had been ten years ago, but not now. His glasses – Oliver People’s – were perched on the end of his nose as he read the menu. Even sitting down, he looked outrageously tall.