A Swift Pure Cry

by Siobhan Dowd

  This is the truth, sent from above,

  The truth of God, the God of love;

  Therefore don't turn me from your door,

  But harken all, both rich and poor.

  The sweet sadness was in the notes, with her mam's eyes far away as she sang them, looking out of the window, over the fields, and Christmas was everywhere in the house with the sound of her voice. Perhaps Molloy was right. You did feel better when you spoke.

  'Yes,' Shell said. 'It's the truth.'

  Sergeant Cochran put her hands on the table and rubbed her knuckles. Her eyes were cool and sad beneath the spiky hair. 'You say it's the truth,' she sighed. 'But it doesn't make sense.' She shook her head. 'You know what Superintendent Molloy's going to say?'

  'No.'

  'He's going to say: it doesn't accord with the facts.'

  Thirty-five

  The door opened. The man of facts returned, brandishing a typed statement.

  'It's from your father,' Molloy said, needling her with his eyes. He folded the paper in half and put it in his jacket pocket.

  Sergeant Cochran leaned over and whispered something to him.

  Shell stood up and turned away. Nobody stopped her. She stepped towards the pane of frosted glass. She ran her hand over its reticulations, imagining the storm-tossed day that lay beyond. The whispers went on, fierce and urgent. She heard the tape being rewound, the ghost-hiss again, then her own words, sounding lighter, disembodied; higher-pitched than how she thought she sounded. The thin reediness of her voice was like straw, something the slightest breeze could blow away. She wanted to block her ears off, but in this tiny room, there was no escape.

  'Come back here, Miss Talent.' Molloy's voice was piercing, a metallic hook.

  She sat back on the chair. Slowly she looked up at him. His mouth was open and frozen, the upper lip stretched off to the left, so that she could see a large front tooth, a small tip of tongue. She averted her eyes.

  'Bollocks,' he said. His fist crashed onto the tabletop. 'Bloody bollocks, isn't it?'

  She drew in her breath.

  'Well? Isn't it?'

  She let out her breath. 'No.' But it was so quietly said, he didn't hear.

  'You expect me to believe this crap?'

  She squeezed shut her eyes.

  'Babies being delivered by little brothers? Little sisters making cots from old boxes? Babies being buried in back fields? Miss Talent. You know, I know. It beggars belief.' He thumped the table again. 'Top marks, Miss Talent, for fiction. Bottom marks, Miss Talent, for truth.'

  He sat back. Tut-tipper-tup his tongue went against his teeth. He gave an elaborate sigh. Sergeant Cochran sat at his side, but by now she'd dropped off the edge of the scene, an irrelevance.

  'The facts, Miss Talent. I want the facts.' He tapped his fingernails on the tabletop, accordion-like. He retrieved the typed statement from his breast pocket. Gingerly, he unfolded it on the table, making the page lie straight. A minute ticked by. He did not move. 'I'm not a patient man,' he observed in a confessional-box hiss. 'Sergeant Cochran here will tell you. You'd better wake up, young lady, if you don't want me to really lose my temper. Because it's not a pretty sight, is it, Sergeant Cochran?'

  His voice grew louder.

  'I have here three versions of events. First, I have solid evidence: the baby found in the cave, along with the doctor's report on how it met its death. Second, I have this'-he tapped the statement-'the version that your father's given us. And third, I have that'-he brushed his hand against the tape machine-'your story. Now listen, Michelle. Number one version is true. Nobody can deny it. A dead baby was found this morning by a woman walking her dog on the strand. The dog went sniffing into the cave and wouldn't come when called. So she went in-and found, in a carrycot, skimpily clad-a baby. Stone dead from cold. She called the gardai. When we got there we confirmed what she found. The pathologist is still preparing his report. But there is no doubt in his mind that the baby was born recently and was brought there by a person or persons unknown, and cruelly left there to die. Brutally, deliberately exposed to the elements. Do you know about exposure, Miss Talent?'

  'No,' Shell whispered.

  'I'm told they did it in Roman times. And in China. Who knows where else? Exposure is a way to kill a child as sure as dashing out its brains. Or smothering it with a pillow. Or plunging a knife into its heart. But exposure, Michelle, is the coward's way of killing. The person maybe thinks it's not as bad as actively murdering the thing. Let the cold do the trick, they think, and I'll have nothing on my conscience. But the child, Michelle. See it from the child's point of view. It suffers more. Just think how that little babby felt, alone in that strange, damp cave. With the sound of the tide, ebbing and flowing outside. The cold in its fingertips. Think how it must have cried, Miss Talent, cried as hard as its little lungs could manage. But no good. All to no good. Think, Miss Talent, think. Then tell me the truth.'

  Shell sat in her chair, her gullet frozen, mesmerized. Haggerty's Hellhole. The encrusted black walls. The cold sand and stones. The groan of the wind in the hidden crevices. The tiny white flesh, wriggling to keep warm. A terrible place to die. Voices, loud and demented, rang in her head: Brightly shone the moon that night, though the frost was cruel.

  'That's right, Michelle. You're seeing sense now, aren't you?'

  She could feel his thoughts, moving inside her brain, shifting, restless, hurting her skull. He wanted her to say she did it. Why not say it? What did it matter? Her baby was dead, her insides were dead, everything was dead.

  'Mr Molloy,' she said. She swallowed.

  He leaned forward eagerly. 'Yes, Michelle?' he coaxed.

  'Mr Molloy,' she repeated. She shut her eyes and breathed out. 'I didn't do it.'

  He acted as if she'd said nothing. 'Was it the crying you couldn't stand?' he pursued. 'Was that it, Michelle? The crying? Was that why you put the babby away in the dark place with the thick rock walls? So you couldn't hear the crying any more?'

  She opened her eyes. 'The crying?' she muttered. She shook her head and bit her lip. 'The crying?' That was just it. 'My baby-my baby never cried. Not once. I never heard her cry. Never. I only ever heard her cry in here.' She put a hand to her head. 'In my thoughts. In here she cried. She's crying still. But out there-no, she never cried.'

  Shell rested her elbows on the table and pressed her knuckles to her eyes, so that her lids streaked yellow. She could hear the man opposite breathing in and out through his nostrils. Like the sound of the tide outside, rumbling back and forth. The Abattoir. Dead meat hanging from hooks. This cave, Shell. It's a hellhole. Like the whole of Ireland. The baby cried for its mother and the waves didn't listen. The Angelus bell pounded, drowning out the sound.

  'I've never heard of a baby that didn't cry,' Molloy hissed. His mouth was right by her ear.

  'I've told you. She didn't cry. Because she was dead. I didn't realize. Not at first. But she was dead from the start. She came out that way.'

  'I know the baby's dead, Michelle. You don't need to tell me that. I've seen it. You haven't. D'you know what death looks like, Michelle?'

  Shell took her fists from her eyes and stared at the statement on the table. I, Joseph Mortimer Talent of Coolbar Road, County Cork, state that the following is the truth...

  'Do you, Michelle? Because it isn't pretty. The skin goes funny. The body starts to smell--'

  Shell was back with Mam at the laying-out, with the waxen face and the yellow hands clasping the milk-white rosary. She put her hands over her ears. 'No.'

  'You listen to me, young woman. You just listen.'

  'No.'

  'Listen. Death is final, Michelle. Murder is a mortal sin. And your baby-for once and for all-was not a girl, but a boy.'

  Shell got to her feet. She had her hands over her ears. She was the bird caught by the sparrowhawk. She opened her mouth to scream but no sound came out. She stood in the room of frosted glass and silently screeched. The tracery of veins. The dark, e
ncrusted walls. Then the dead arose and appeared unto many. Two pale spots of light flickered on the peeling wall, hovering: the souls of the departed. Mam and baby Rosie had come together, not to haunt her but to save her. As they bobbed on the corner of her vision, she knew she was safe. Their angel wings shone around her. The man would never get her.

  Thirty-six

  The noiseless screaming worked where the truth hadn't.

  Molloy went away.

  Sergeant Cochran took her back to the room with the clear glass. She sat her down, and put an arm around her shoulders. She said kind things, but Shell didn't listen. She left to fetch a cup of tea.

  The moment she'd gone, Shell went over to the window. The whirling atoms in her brain slowed down. She breathed in deep. The layers of aerials and chimneypots below faded away to early dark. The wind was loud but the rain had passed. She leaned her forehead on the pane and thought of Christmas: the presents she'd wrapped for Trix and Jimmy. Where are they now? Who's looking after them? She could see a necklace of yellow dots, swinging far away: fairy lights along the harbour front. Something settled deep inside. I loved my baby. Loved her. She hummed another of Mam's songs, the one she'd sung while washing out the woollens:

  'Green grows the lily

  And soft falls the dew.

  Sad was my heart

  When I parted from you...'

  It was about a lover who hadn't proved true, a song for the man with an eye on the main chance. A man like Declan, maybe. A smooth operator. Would he be homesick now, on the Manhattan streets? She doubted it. He'd landed her in this mess and he didn't even know it. He'd be having a roaring all-night party of a time. She blew on the glass, and dabbed her finger in the patch of breath, drawing a star with five sharp points. You're like a ewe on heat, Shell. You're like a bull with its horns stuck.

  The door opened. Sergeant Cochran re-entered with a mug and put it on the table. Shell glanced round from the window, then glanced out again, ignoring her.

  'Michelle,' Sergeant Cochran said. 'Your father wants to see you.'

  She drew on the window again. A crooked Christmas tree. She hoped its needles were sharp.

  'Did you hear me?'

  Beyond the chain of fairy lights, the dark ocean shifted. 'Yes.'

  'It's your right, Michelle. To have him with you, as your parent. You should have had him with you all along, but Superintendent Molloy insisted we question you separately. As two suspects.'

  'Are you going to let me go?' Shell whispered.

  Sergeant Cochran paused. 'In your case, I should think so. You're a minor, according to the law. But we've to know where to send you. We can't send you home on your own.'

  'But I want to go home,' Shell said. 'With Jimmy. And Trix.' She put a hand up to the cold glass. 'Where are they? What's happened to them?'

  'Jimmy and Trix are still with the Duggans, as far as we know.'

  'Can't I fetch them and go home then?'

  'Shell. Your father's going to be held tonight. You see, he's confessed.'

  'Confessed? To what?'

  'To killing your baby.'

  Don't you say anything, Shell. Don't you say a word. The typed statement. The facts. She made an 'O' with her lips and blew on the glass. But this time she didn't draw a picture. She watched the patch of mist shrink to the size of a coin, her heart seesawing. He confessed. He lied. Confessed. Lied.

  'I've told you,' she said, teeth gritted. 'Nobody killed my baby. My baby died. Jimmy, Trix and me, we buried her. In the field.' She turned round. 'My baby was a girl.'

  Sergeant Cochran sighed. 'That's what you say, Michelle. I know. But against that we have what your father's told us. And what we found in the cave.'

  'I don't want to see him,' Shell said. 'I don't care what he says. I just want to go home. I want to see Trix. And Jimmy.'

  There was a knock on the door. A guard put his head round and Sergeant Cochran went over to talk to him. They whispered.

  'It seems you've a visitor, Michelle,' Sergeant Cochran said out loud. 'Somebody who insists on seeing you.'

  'Dad, is it?'

  'No. A Father Rose.'

  Shell's jaw dropped. Father Rose? Her fingers fluttered to her neck, then ran through her hair. Father Rose? She thought of the Virgin Mary at prayer, curtains billowing from the window, bright streaks of light, the beating of holy wings. She stumbled to the table, eyes wide.

  'Will you see him?'

  'I-I--' She flopped on the chair.

  'Is that a yes?'

  The shepherds crouched in the field, sore afraid. She grabbed the tea. 'Yes,' she said. 'S'pose.'

  Sergeant Cochran left to fetch him.

  The room was silent, the wind hushed.

  She drank the tea without knowing what she did.

  He'd know by now. Know everything. He'd think her the worst of sinners, lost beyond recall, fallen into the molten core. The car's not so much dead as resting, Shell. God bless. Did you come here to pray, Shell? Or just to shelter? From the rain? He'd walk through the door and she'd dissolve to nothing with the shame. She wished she'd refused to see him. She wished it was Dad instead. She wished--

  The door opened. It was him.

  He'd jeans on, and a brown leather jacket with a lambswool collar, hanging loose. He'd the same unshaven look he always had when the day grew late.

  'Shell,' he said. 'There you are.' It was as if he'd just come across her in the village, outside McGraths' shop maybe, or on a stroll by the strand. He looked more ordinary than she remembered. He turned to the guard who'd accompanied him. 'I'd prefer to see her on my own.'

  The guard looked uncertain.

  'One on one,' Father Rose said. He tapped his watch. 'Five minutes? You can stay outside the door, if you want.' The guard hesitated. 'It is her right. That's if she asks for it. Do you ask for it, Shell?'

  'I do, Father.'

  'There. She does.'

  The guard shrugged, then retreated. 'Five minutes,' he said. 'And I'm right outside.'

  The door closed. Father Rose took the other chair, plunged his hands in his jacket pockets and blew through pursed lips. Then he chuckled.

  'I've no idea of the law, Shell. I just made that last bit up.'

  'Did you?'

  'I did. For my sins.' He smiled.

  Shell smiled back.

  'I do know one thing. They can't hold you overnight. Not at your age. I asked my lawyer friend in Dublin.'

  'So they'll let me go?'

  'Unless they're going to charge you. Are they going to charge you?'

  'Dunno. They keep saying things. That man. Molloy--' Her lips wobbled, she shuddered.

  'What? What has he done?'

  'Nothing. Only I told him the truth. And he won't believe me. It's Dad they believe,' she whispered. 'I think they're going to charge him. You see-he's confessed.'

  'My God.' Father Rose put his hands flat on the table, the fingers splayed. 'What's been going on? What's the man done?'

  Shell pushed the mug of tea to one side and put her hands on the table, one over the other, cupped and calm. 'Father Rose,' she said. She swallowed. It has been six months since my last confession and these are my sins. 'It wasn't like that. It wasn't Dad. It wasn't what everyone thinks. There's been a muddle. I don't understand what's going on.'

  'Try me, Shell. Maybe together we'll un-muddle it.'

  She took a deep breath. In two more minutes, she'd told him, like she'd told the tape: the body book, the birth, the burial. But it was easier this time without the ghost-hiss and the narrow eyes watching. He listened. As she spoke, his hands moved across the table towards hers.

  'My God,' he whispered when she'd finished. His right hand landed on hers. 'We let you down. Every last one of us in Coolbar. We let you down.' His left hand went to his forehead, covering his eyes. 'The other day, in the church,' he said. 'Did you come to ask my help?'

  'I-I--'

  'You did, didn't you? And I didn't see. With the two eyes in my head, I didn't see. I wa
s too caught up in my own stupid state of grace. Or lack of it.' He paused, his head shaking back and forth. 'One last question, Shell. I have to ask this.' His voice dropped. 'Who was the father?'

  Shell bit her lip.

  'Who was he, Shell? He wasn't somebody close to you?'

  'Close?'

  'I mean, somebody in Coolbar-or even closer?'

  Shell thought of Declan on the aeroplane, chasing the day to another continent, downing the free drinks, gazing at clouds. We're still only blow-ins, Shell. 'No, Father Rose,' she whispered. 'Nobody in Coolbar. Least not now. It was--' But somehow the name 'Declan Ronan' wouldn't come, just as Bridie's name hadn't come that other time when they'd been fighting.

  Father Rose's brows knitted. 'Whoever he is, he doesn't deserve your--'

  The door opened. 'Time's up,' the guard called.

  Father Rose stood up. He reached a hand over to Shell's shoulder and sighed. 'Don't worry for now, Shell. Let's get you out of here. Mrs Duggan's a bed made up for you, she said to tell you. You hang on and I'll sort Molloy out. I'll be back to fetch you sooner than soon. Don't worry.'

  The door closed behind him. A hollow opened in the space he'd left, silent and chill, as if the room had turned from a kitchen to a larder. She went to the window again and saw the last of the day, a thin line, on the horizon. She rubbed out her earlier pictures.

  Then a poor man came in sight

  Gathering winter fuel...

  Jimmy was at the piano, finding the notes, the bells were jingling and the reindeer flying. The fleece collar, the shining leather, and lights along the harbour. The hollow filled. Don't worry. She blew on the glass a last time and drew a chimney, with smoke curling from it.

  When the door opened again, she saw he'd kept his promise. On his lips was a smile of triumph. The fleece collar was turned up, ready for outdoors, the night drive was in his tread. 'Shell,' he said. 'We're out of here. Hurry. Jezebel's getting cold with the waiting.'

  Thirty-seven