‘Why is he guarded about that one thing? Why is it that he will talk of other awful happenings and not the death of his own child? Why won’t he help her now? He’s come all this way. It makes no sense, unless he is the guilty one?’
Joe’s driving is always careful and he hates when I start important discussions on the new dual carriageways.
‘Is it awful of me to be relieved that he’s in hospital and not our responsibility anymore?’ I ask the side of Joe’s head. ‘I miss Faye too. I cannot wait to see her.’
Joe smiles and fixes his hands on the steering wheel. ‘What do you think about it all? About Ella? About what happened?’ he asks.
I sit and watch the greens of the hedgerows haze and focus over and over and want to make a conclusion as to how I feel about Charlie Quinn.
‘I shouldn’t like him, but I do. There’s something endearing about Charlie, despite it all. I still do have a soft spot for him.’
‘I’m glad it’s almost over,’ Joe says. His glance shows definite thoughts. I should ask him his feelings. As usual, I don’t want to go into the hole in case I cannot come out. He takes a deep breath. ‘He’s still keeping secrets. We all know how unhealthy that is.’
‘Why won’t he say what he knows about Maeve’s death?’
‘He wants Ella to tell him what to do. He wants her permission, wants to make sure that he doesn’t let her down again. I can understand that.’
‘You don’t let me down,’ I reassure.
The traffic slows.
‘We all have to try to make amends,’ I say eagerly, watching for a reaction. ‘We need to find each other again and make things better.’
Joe is silent and the brake lights of the car in front are very bright in the twilight.
I don’t breathe and wait. There’s nothing coming back. ‘For Faye’s sake too,’ I go on, ‘we should try to make things better between us?’
The car stops and idles in a long line of traffic. ‘Shit! What’s the hold up now?’ Joe raises his chin and attempts to see around the car and lorries up ahead. ‘We could do without this.’
I silently wonder if my mother would take Faye and I in. It would be an alternative place to live – if I could stomach her disappointment at me being an unwed, abandoned woman. Minutes in my brain are spent packing; locating suitcases, all the paraphernalia that I’ll need for Faye. I have some cash. The thought of leaving Joe’s solid dependability sinks home. I cannot imagine my life without him. Does he not want to fight for our love at all? Will he not speak and save us? Should he not try to patch up things for the family’s sake? The side of his head is unchanged and I’ve been to hell and back in this silence beside him. I should scream but I am tired and weak.
‘What did you say, darling?’ Joe asks, looking over at me. ‘I was miles away. Sorry. What did you say?’
‘Can we make up?’
‘I thought we had. Did we not sort things out this morning?’ He raises an eyebrow. That quick, tense and awkward shag this morning was his idea of a reconciliation. It had been a while since we were intimate and that was his quiet ritual of him making amends while I imagined I had stale breath. ‘I know it’s been a while’ – he winks – ‘I thought we were back on track. All is good again, thank God.’
‘Just like that all is forgiven? Forgotten? You’ve made up with me?’
‘Ah. Things are moving now,’ Joe says with a sigh. ‘We’ll be home soon.’
52
Charlie Quinn
I can sleep on a rock if I need to even though resting isn’t easy for the other men on the ward. There have been questions about me too and the reason for my admission. I’m used to hiding my business.
All is fine until a visitor with a tabloid newspaper under their arm approaches my bed and asks, ‘Are you Charlie Quinn?’
I deny it automatically and he points to the photograph on the front page. It is a close-up photo of Ella and I talking in the conference room with the PR company.
‘All old men look alike.’ I turn my back to him.
‘It says here that Charlie Quinn has a slight Canadian accent and that he was admitted to hospital yesterday?’
I try to pull the curtain around and ignore the nosey fecker. The intern chap with a camera got paid properly for his time or perhaps Ella’s protectors are looking for a scapegoat.
‘Do the hospital know who he is?’ I can hear the man ask my neighbour in the next bed. ‘Do the Gardai know he’s here?’
With the mention of police, I think that it is time to hobble to the nurses’ station. I announce to anyone who can hear, ‘I’m the Charlie Quinn from the Ella O’Brien story. I think you better phone the police.’
In a couple of hours I’m in a private ward in the hospital talking into two recording devices. I’ve rejected a lawyer. I know they are the worst crooks of all. The policemen are gentlemanly and kind as they ask me to state my name for the record.
The first few minutes is all about the fact that I have told great swathes of this tale already and that I will co-operate with them in every way. I explain that Rhonda and Joe are helping me and only know what I’ve told them in recent days. I promise that the police will have copies of the tapes I’ve already done. The men nod and ask if I feel up to some questions considering I’ve been admitted to hospital only twenty-four hours before.
‘I have always been a scoundrel. You must understand that before we begin. I am dying of cancer. That much is true and from when I was a child I’ve been claustrophobic. When I passed out, I was in need of a place to “hide out” and I thought the hospital was as good a place as any. My hosts were tired of me, possibly scared and…’ I slap the table. ‘Here I am.’
‘Why do you think you should speak with us?’ one of the men ask me. ‘Have you been in trouble with the law before, sir?’
‘Never.’ Then, I stop and think a moment. ‘I have never been questioned by lawmen before now. No. Never.’
‘You should have been questioned or arrested? Is that what you mean?’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘And it’s all on the tapes you mentioned?’
‘Yes.’
‘And once we listen to these tapes, you’ll answer any questions we might have?’
‘Of course.’
‘You mentioned a lady called Rhonda. We’ve spoken to her and she confirmed that she’s helping you record all of this information and she summarised some of her concerns for us.’
‘Oh.’
‘She said there were old crimes, very old crimes, on the tapes and in her research. She’s discovered that you were involved or present at some murders and deaths?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And that you never spoke about them until recently.’
‘Also correct.’
‘These include…’ He looks at a notebook. ‘Your own mother in County Tyrone, a young orphan girl called Bridget Fahy in New Brunswick, Canada, and the first husband of your wife in Manitoba, Canada? There are concerns, too, for a lad you assaulted and stole from and now impersonate called Randal Hamilton.’
‘That’s a long list. Yes, I think Rhonda was concerned for what happened to them as well.’
‘And there’s also your involvement with the Ella O’Brien case.’
‘There’s also that.’
‘Mr Quinn, there’s quite a lot of ground to cover here. Most of it is out of jurisdiction and happened a very long time ago and until we listen to the tapes we ask that you remain in Ireland. In the meantime, we are going to have to ask for the passport you travelled on? Travelling under a false identity is an offence.’
‘Of course.’
‘And also insist that you do not leave this ward until given permission to do so? Do you understand this and agree to comply?’
‘I’m an old man. I’m not going to run anywhere. I came back to sort through all of this. I wish to help in any way I can.’
‘Good. Good.’
‘I would ask, though,
that I could travel to see Ella at the convent?’
They aren’t sure what to say.
‘I wouldn’t expect to cause any more trouble.’
‘We can see if that would be possible, Mr Quinn.’
‘Call me Charlie. I’ve missed my real name.’
‘We can see if we can grant that request, Mr Quinn.’
53
Charlie Quinn
The private hospital room isn’t small and I miss the noise and space of the public ward.
‘It’s for your own privacy,’ the nurse manager says. ‘And you won’t need to go to the Garda station if they can come here to speak with you. It’s best for everyone.’
‘I’m in a type of prison. I don’t like feeling hemmed in,’ I reply. She is of no assistance and opens the small window before slamming the door on her way out.
When I turn on Rhonda’s recorder, I go away to the prairies of the 1940s.
I had become aware of some of what Ella went through since I left. There were immigrants from Ireland flowing into Canada and her name was easy to slip into conversations. She was a legend for all the wrong reasons and I listened and asked a few questions here and there. Keeping quiet about what I knew wasn’t to protect myself, you understand. In Canada, I was well away from the threats of prison and all of that, and I wasn’t sure what she would need of me in the future. The general public had made up their minds about the guilt and who was responsible. It seemed once things were quiet and she was safe in the convent, there was no need to drag up the whole thing all over again.
A little part of me considered that the Mrs O’Brien in the newspapers and on everyone’s lips wasn’t even my Ella. What I mean is, I was a young boy and my Ella was like a dream, a muse, a reason for living. The Ella I made in my head and heart might not have been a true person. For surely a whole nation of people wouldn’t condemn the beautiful, innocent woman that I knew?
In those early days in Canada, when the homesickness was fierce, I thought about racing homewards and rescuing her. Then a doubt would surface about whether the baby was even mine. I would call myself a fool, like her husband had called me.
Even if I hadn’t fallen into taking another man’s name, coming home to face truths was much too scary then. It was easier to keep seeing the beauty of our lives together and to throw out all of the sadness.
Hiding everything, even from myself, was better than blaming my own stupidity. If I let in the truth then I would have had to come to terms with the fact that I did not protect Ella and our baby that day. If I pretended that Ella was indeed guilty, I wasn’t the scared boy who left her to her fate.
Now I know that unless I accept the decisions I made throughout my life, I’ll never be able to help Ella.
54
Charlie Quinn
Ella is refusing to see me. I’ve rung the number and written to the address. Both times I’m told that she has no further interest in speaking with Charlie Quinn.
This seems unlikely. She was a bit cold-hearted when I met her, and that was understandable. She didn’t know then that I had come to rescue her. She’s had time to think about it now and will see that I’m working everything around to fix things.
There have been articles in newspapers about how women fall from one abusive relationship into another. It alludes to Ella’s need for controlling men and how she was downtrodden into losing her sense of motherhood. I was shaken by the ones on how delinquency is linked to stalking and in some cases serial-killing. The one on cases of medical professionals getting god-complexes and using their status to hide crimes was particularly interesting. There were, of course, those on women in history who were tried for infanticide and even more conjecture on what drove them to it.
The nation is trying to come to a conclusion again. There are lessons to be learned and questions to be answered and they aim to find the solution and round it off in a nice, neat bow.
The Gardai are professionals and I like to see them coming. The four walls are boring and there’s a rush on my conscience to get the whole thing finished with. If only Ella would let me know what she needs me to do. If only I knew what the best direction was. I’ve waited this long and there will be only one chance to do this right – for my Ella and Maeve.
The noise of the record button takes me into the past immediately. Rhonda has asked to join the questioning and she wants to return to certain places that she needs clarification on. Strangely, the police think she will keep me calm and talkative. She’s given us a list and this is more off-putting than they all realise. I’m used to a flow of memories and this list is not appreciated. I don’t want to talk about the death of my mother. However, it is on this list.
Taking a deep breath, I start – ‘My father made me help him dispose of my mother’s murdered corpse in the quarry. Beth Quinn was my mother and her death traumatised us all. Cedric suspected that Father had killed her. I never told him or anyone else the truth. There was no way to bring Mammy back and I was a bold child known for being a handful. Telling lies came easy to me, everyone knew that. If I accused Father and was proved right, we’d all have been destined to end up in the homes we were threatened with on a regular basis. If I was disbelieved, Father might have killed me like he threatened – or worse still, he might have hurt Cedric and Anna. I was never asked if I knew anything about my mother’s passing. I simply lied with a silence and buried the reality with her.
‘From that moment on, Father reformed a bit and I could escape him. The crime drifted away and I only got an odd nightmare and a tug on the soul. I put it behind me because I was a growing boy with a future to create.
‘Cuff me now for not coming forward or understanding what was going on in the mind of a ten-year-old child.’
‘And this is the truth?’ Rhonda asks. ‘Might you have killed her yourself?’
Rhonda blurs into a watery shape and the next droplet moves to take its place. ‘It never occurred to me that anyone would think that I killed Mammy,’ I say, barely able to breathe. ‘I’ll try to read the list and get this over with. Randal Hamilton and his fucking coat – this thin boy stood out as a weakling. If I hadn’t taken his clothes then someone else would have. I didn’t know him well enough. At the time, I didn’t feel bad about what I did. He was younger than me and put up a good fight. I’ll give him that. He said it was his dead father’s coat and that should have stopped me. I was cold in every sense. I knew the coat would fit me as it was much too big for this weakling child. I was a bad bastard to take it.’
Rhonda sits taller and says, ‘I had difficulty finding him as you stood into the official photograph. He was on the ship’s manifesto and was not registered working anywhere in Canada.’
‘You thought I killed him as well?’
‘I was concerned until I found Randal. I think I found him. He was Edgar Randal Hamilton, named after his father. He died in the war after working for many years on ranches all over Alberta.’
‘I went looking for him once, too, and found his grave,’ I tell her. ‘I made sure to beg his forgiveness. I felt that I had made my peace with him.’
‘Bridget Fahy?’
‘Is she next on your precious list?’
‘She is.’
‘I ran and failed to protect another beautiful creature. I still picture her eating that peach, squatted down, relishing every morsel. She was braver than me. Imagine that.’ I look around the room. ‘I was a fully-grown man, capable of fathering a child and a small, undernourished girl, eating a peach was stronger than I was.’
‘Why did you not try to report Fran Daly?’ Rhonda asks.
‘How could a youngster report a man with property? Charlie Quinn was on the run from Ireland as it was. After I ran from Daly’s in fear I became known as Randal Hamilton who was finally making a life for himself. What would I say that would make anyone believe me? Home-children were a class beneath. Daly was not suspected of any wrongdoing despite many crimes on his land before that. I’m sure Bridget wasn’t the
first to die. If there are records I’m sure they will prove that children went missing from Daly’s before. That rotten pair raised a family and took in waifs and strays. Who or what was I? I’m guilty of the crime of silence again and of running away. It was what I did best in those days. I was a good runner – but I didn’t pull that trigger.’
‘You left the others behind to suffer?’ Rhonda says.
‘Thousands of children went through that system. Should I have rescued them all? I was a foolish, cowardly bastard and I was trying to survive.’
‘Polly Hollyridge and Gus Kelly,’ Rhonda reads off her own list. ‘Polly did marry the hotel owner and lived in comfort. She had a stroke at a young age and moved into a care home until she passed away fifteen years ago. According to the staff she had a good quality of life.’
‘She had a nice time without me. I’m glad of that.’
‘Gus Kelly?’ another voice asks.
‘Oh now, that bastard is a different story altogether.’
55
Charlie Quinn
The barn smelt of shorn hay and there was no nicer smell than a dry, good crop like that. I used to take naps in that hay and sometimes would wrestle Olga into it. Before Gus’s death, Olga was driving a new truck of her own. She was the brains behind the meat-packing side of the business. Gus didn’t like that and he made things difficult. As usual! He made everything difficult. He roared impossible demands, threw his weight around and generally made our lives miserable.
I could see his resentment growing. He tried to dictate Olga’s comings and goings and kept tabs on every move she made. It reminded me of other bad men I knew. The businesses all requested Olga’s input. If he did keep her away they asked for her. This drove him stir crazy. Men teased him about the level of work he did in comparison to Olga and I’m sure they taunted him about the money she brought in. It was all getting very tense.
The Quiet Truth: a haunting domestic drama full of suspense Page 18