Strangers at the Gate

by Catriona McPherson

  ‘No point,’ she said. ‘I’ve never heard of St Angela’s and I’m not going to shovel my hard-earned money into some shady religious operation sending Bibles to perfectly happy little Paraguayan children, ruining indigenous culture.’

  ‘I think you might have turned over two pages at once there. Who mentioned Paraguay?’

  ‘I saw a poster outside the church.’

  ‘And,’ I added, ‘hard-earned?’ I gave a final look around her shelves and left.

  There was a little snicket beside Mo’s Candles, leading to the back lanes. It was narrow and dark and, after less than a week in Simmerton, I had turned into the kind of creature that thought darkness pressing in all around offered comfort. I went a few feet up it and leaned against the cold bricks of the wall, cursing myself.

  I dug my phone out of my bag and hit speed dial two.

  ‘Doyle’s House of Damnation and Delight,’ said my dad’s voice. ‘Whassup, chicken?’

  ‘Hiya,’ I said, feeling better already. ‘I’ve just done something really stupid. I got in a fight with Richard Dawkins’s evil twin.’

  ‘Ah, sod him.’

  ‘Her.’

  ‘Sod her. Dozy bitch. Forget her. Go and look her up on her cloud in a hundred years and blow her a raspberry.’

  I laughed. ‘How’s Mam?’

  ‘Ah, she’s grand. She’ll be fine for Saturday.’

  We both left a moment of silence, knowing what he meant and knowing it didn’t need to be said. My mum was trying to drop her sedation and raise her anti-anxiety meds, hoping to hit the sweet spot on Saturday morning where she’d be able to enjoy the day without being overwhelmed or getting manic.

  ‘Give her a hug from me,’ I said. ‘Unless I can have a quick word.’

  ‘Best not.’ Then he got the chuckle back in his voice. ‘Tell us more about this atheist.’

  ‘She’s got a candle shop.’ His snort gave me a lift. ‘And she won’t donate money to any good cause that might have a Bible knocking around it.’

  ‘Typical!’

  ‘I was a real cow to her, though. I used St Angela’s – the adoption folk, you know? – to score a cheap point. Poor wee mites. It’s closing down.’

  ‘Ah, well, now,’ my dad said. ‘If you were still the daughter I raised you could go and confess your sins. But as things stand ‒’

  ‘Sod off ‒’

  ‘‒ way to talk to your father. How’s Paddy?’

  ‘He’s fine,’ I said. ‘Bit more in at the deep end than he expected. But, as I say, St Angie’s closing will probably lighten his load. Unless we can fundraise like crazy, which we can’t if I keep alienating donors.’

  ‘Maybe it’s a good thing,’ my dad said. ‘Don’t quote me to the Pope if he texts you, but if there’s not enough specialneeds kiddies needing a home to keep a charity open, that’s an improvement.’

  ‘So you’ve heard of it anyway,’ I said. It was bothering me that Waxy Mo, who worked up the street from Simmerton Kirk, didn’t have clue about its main charity effort. No wonder it was folding.

  ‘I’ve heard of it because you told me about it. Dozy mare.’

  ‘I love you,’ I said.

  ‘Well, there’s a coincidence,’ he said. ‘I love you too. Now, go and bug someone else. It’s paying your rent and keeping you out the bookie’s.’

  ‘See you Saturday,’ I said. ‘Is Elayne giving you gyp?’

  ‘Nothing I can’t handle.’

  ‘Hug Mam.’

  ‘Hug Paddy.’

  I clicked the phone off and put it away. And I left the utter blackness of the little close for the regular dimness of the high street, thinking – stupidly – it was the candle-maker, or Paddy’s mum and her shenanigans, or maybe even my own mum that was bothering me.

  For the rest of the trip round the burghers of Simmerton, as I waited for five o’clock to come round, I kept my head down. Or, at least, my lip buttoned. And when good works didn’t shift the guilty feeling from the pit of my belly, I tried phoning Elayne.

  I was in a wee tearoom down at the bottom of the street, where the buildings were beginning to peter out and the trees starting to close in. The woman behind the counter had called me ‘Sister’ and given me a free scone with my Earl Grey. I was among friends. Slightly confused friends, but friends. No one was at any of the other tables, so late in the day in the pits of winter. The owner was through the back loading a dishwasher.

  ‘Hello?’ Elayne’s voice was worried from the off, suspecting a cold-caller.

  ‘It’s Finnie,’ I said, thinking if she’d put her specs on she’d know that from the ID.

  ‘Is something wrong?’

  I let the sigh out silently, with my mouth wide. ‘No, I’m just phoning to say how much we’re looking forward to seeing you on Saturday. Just checking it’s all okay.’

  ‘It would be much easier if Paddy would come and get me instead of bothering Eric,’ Elayne said. She meant it too. It would strike her as much easier for Paddy to drive two hours instead of my dad going three minutes out of his way.

  ‘Eric’s all set,’ I said. ‘Looking forward to seeing you too. Listen, Elayne, can you do me a favour?’ Oh, I was an expert.

  ‘Of course, dear,’ she said. I could hear her voice changing as the idea that I needed something only she could provide began to sink in.

  ‘Will you be anywhere near a Marks & Sparks before Saturday?’ It was fifty-five per cent likely to work. Elayne was a true believer in Marks & Spencer. But she knew I wasn’t. It would delight her if a week in the sticks had converted me. So long as she didn’t see through the ruse and so long as she didn’t remember that my dad would be driving past a huge edge-of-town on his way.

  ‘I could get the bus down tonight,’ she said. ‘Late-night opening. I’ll have a coffee. What are you after?’

  ‘A tub of those Rocky Road bites?’ I said. ‘And one of the caramel wafer bites if it’s not too much to carry.’

  ‘You don’t need to go buying cakes,’ Elayne said. ‘I can bake and bring a tin down with me.’

  ‘Wow,’ I said. ‘That would be even better. If you’ve got time.’

  ‘I’ll make a coffee and walnut cake.’

  ‘You’re too good to me,’ I said. ‘Don’t tell my mum you’ve got it in the car. She’ll be in the tin before you’re over the bypass.’

  Elayne chuckled. I could hear the happiness. Now she’d definitely come and she’d take the lift too, although she’d nag Paddy to take her back at night. I’d need to make sure he was over the limit at dinner. She’d never want a lift from me.

  Then I ruined it.

  ‘And how’s Paddy?’ she asked.

  ‘He’s fine,’ I said. ‘He’s off on a jaunt today. Up in Stirling.’

  The line went dead, as if we’d been cut off. I knew we hadn’t. I knew she was thinking that driving from Simmerton to Stirling would have taken Paddy within two miles of the turn-off to Stenhouse where she lived. Yet he hadn’t told her, he hadn’t stopped in on the way there and he hadn’t warned her he might be stopping in on the way back.

  ‘Oh, damn it!’ I said. ‘I wasn’t supposed to tell you. He was going to surprise you. But I’ve ruined that anyway, haven’t I? Asking you to bob down to Marks for me. You might have missed him.’

  Now I’d have to text Paddy and tell him he had to go to his mum’s on the way home.

  ‘You’re surely not jealous, are you?’ Elayne was saying, sounding happy again. She had, as quick as that, decided I’d tried to stop Paddy seeing her by cooking up a story about wanting Rocky Roads. I couldn’t imagine living inside Elayne’s head and was glad I didn’t have to. ‘I’d better run,’ she added. She’d be making dinner for him now, hoping to send him back to me too full to tackle whatever slop I would put in front of him.

  I wish I could say it didn’t give me a little flip when I saw, minutes later, out on the street, that Paddy was back in Simmerton already. He was flying along, his jacket flapping and his tie o
ver his shoulder. He had two briefcases in his hands, neither of them his, both of them bulging, and he was running like a bank robber, like a convict on a prison break. Running for his life, as if all the hounds of Hell were after him.

  Chapter 19

  ‘Paddy!’ It was too loud to shout in the street, in a small town. But then that was too fast to run. And I’d made him stop, at least. He’d stopped as if I’d shot him. I took darting looks all around as I loped up to him. Whoever it was would know something was wrong, if they were watching.

  ‘Have you been?’ he hissed at me, as I caught up with him outside the office door. ‘Out to the house? To Widdershins?’

  ‘I’m just on my way to scoop up the girls and go now,’ I said. ‘Tell me what’s wrong. But calm down. People are staring.’ I didn’t know that for sure but I could feel eyes on me and, as I spoke, Abby was nosing a little blue car out of the carriage arch at the side of Dudgeon’s, slowing to cross the pavement. She wound her window down as Julie stepped out the front door and locked it.

  ‘Paddy?’ Julie said. ‘More trouble?’

  ‘Get in,’ Paddy said. His voice was grim. ‘Finnie, get in.’

  As he bundled me into the back seat, I mouthed, ‘What’s wrong?’ to him again, but he shook his head.

  ‘Are you coming with us?’ said Julie, sliding in beside me.

  ‘Let’s just get away from here,’ Paddy said. He clambered into the front seat beside Abby, clutching the two briefcases like lifebelts.

  ‘Paddy, what is wrong?’ I asked a third time.

  ‘Where to?’ said Abby, before he could answer me.

  ‘Go to our house,’ said Paddy. ‘The gate lodge. I don’t want any of this within a mile of our offices.’

  ‘What’s “this”?’ said Julie. ‘Something you found at St Angela’s?’

  ‘Something I didn’t find at St Angela’s,’ Paddy said. ‘A dog that didn’t bark.’

  ‘So … paperwork?’ I said, sitting back as my breath left me. ‘Irregularity?’

  Paddy looked at me out of the corner of his eye but said nothing.

  I could feel Julie’s antennae quivering so hard the tension filled the whole of the car and I was sick with it before we were out of the town and onto the cut. The fug of Julie’s nicotine and the perfume she used to mask it was bad enough, the stale smell of Abby’s bad suit didn’t help, but the sweet-sour reek of Paddy’s panic was worst of all. I’d never smelt anything like it before, except with my mum on the worst night of her worst crash when she ran with sweat and trembled.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Abby asked him at one point, but he laughed and then was silent. We were all silent until we got there.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ I said. It was starting to spit with rain. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

  Paddy carried the two bulging briefcases inside and dumped them on the coffee-table in the living room, then fetched the brandy bottle and four tumblers and set them down with a rap on the hearthstone.

  ‘For later,’ he said. ‘Abby, dig into that lot and tell me what you think.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Pad,’ I said. ‘Just tell us.’

  ‘I want a second opinion,’ said Paddy. ‘I went in cold this morning. I want to know if a second pair of eyes comes to the same conclusion.’

  ‘Is this some kind of test?’ Abby said. ‘See if I’m up to snuff? Lovatt never sets me tests.’

  ‘Just see if you feel the same about your dearest darling Lovatt after you’ve read that,’ said Paddy.

  ‘With you all standing over me, drumming your fingers?’ Abby said.

  ‘Look,’ I said, probably too loudly, ‘Abby, why don’t you go through to the bedroom. You can spread all the stuff out. I’ll bring you a cuppa. And then Paddy can tell Julie and me what the hell’s going on before one of us bursts.’

  ‘I’ll second that,’ Julie said. ‘I’ll carry one of the cases through for you.’ Even at a moment like this, if there was a neb at our bedroom going, Julie didn’t want to miss it. I rolled my eyes at Paddy and got a ghost of a smile in return before the shutters came down again.

  Five minutes later, we were all settled, Abby propped up on the bed, fanned folders and printouts all around her, a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits on my bedside table for her.

  Julie and I were on the couch and Paddy was standing in front of the unlit fire, chewing his lip, getting his thoughts in order. I twitched the throw off the sofa back and offered it to Julie. Our Edinburgh flat had been as draughty and cold as Edinburgh flats usually are, so maybe it was dread, or maybe it was the darkness, this all-day darkness that I’d never get used to, but the cold of the house was getting into my bones, and Julie’s bones were so near the surface, she must have been freezing.

  ‘I don’t know where to start,’ Paddy said.

  ‘Just start!’ I yelped at him.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Right. Well, okay. I found out who the board of directors of St Angela’s are. That was the first thing.’

  ‘And?’ said Julie. ‘So?’

  ‘Tuft Dudgeon is the finance director,’ Paddy said.

  ‘No, she’s not,’ Julie said. ‘She can’t be.’

  ‘And Lovatt is the chief,’ Paddy said.

  ‘He can’t be!’ Julie said. ‘He’s the lawyer. He can’t be on the board too.’

  ‘Abby’s looking at the articles right now,’ Paddy said.

  And at exactly that moment we all heard Abby’s voice, muffled by the two closed doors but clear enough. ‘Holy shit!’

  I laughed but Julie’s face fell. ‘I’ve never heard Abby say worse than “bum” in three years,’ she said.

  ‘And the rest of the board are … Well, who knows?’ Paddy said. ‘Maybe they picked them out of the phone book and maybe they found the names on gravestones, but they don’t exist. That’s what I’m actually trying to tell you. St Angela’s doesn’t exist.’

  ‘Doesn’t…?’ I said. ‘So what has Simmerton Kirk been raising money for?’

  ‘Of course it exists,’ said Julie. ‘We’ve had summer gala days and Christmas treats. We’ve seen the kids’ videos. What are you talking about?’

  ‘There might have been gala days,’ Paddy said, ‘and there might have been Christmas treats, but whoever the kids at them were, they weren’t adopted through St Angela’s Agency.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ Julie said. ‘They’ve all got very complicated health needs. And they live all over the country.’

  ‘You mean it’s a scam? It’s a front? They’ve been embezzling all the money and now they’ve … scarpered?’ I managed to say, as Paddy’s eyes flashed. Ended it all, was what I had nearly blurted out. Been caught and punished, was what I really thought.

  ‘But this is ridiculous,’ Julie said. ‘Why would they have company papers if it was all a scam? What is it that Abby’s reading?’

  ‘Oh, the evaluations are all real,’ Paddy said. ‘The home checks and psychological studies, the police checks on prospective parents. They’re all real. But there are no kids. There are no adoptions. There’s something very strange going on that I don’t understand. I hope Abby does.’

  ‘Paddy,’ Julie said slowly, as if she was talking to a drunk, ‘we have a slide show of kids running on a loop in our offices.’

  ‘A slide show that we got from St Angela’s,’ said Paddy. ‘Which doesn’t exist. And I want to go back to something else you just said. About the parents being all over the country. That’s true. They were in Scotland to start with. All of their evaluations are done in Edinburgh or Glasgow but none of them live here now. They’re in Somerset and Lincolnshire. They’re in Wales and the Isle of Man. Some are in Southern Ireland or scattered around the EU. There are eighty-four families that have supposedly been paired with a special-needs kid through St Angela’s and every single one of them has moved a long way from where they were when the adoption started.’

  ‘That makes no sense,’ I said. ‘That’s the very time when you need to be near your f
amily, isn’t it? Your mum and any random aunties? Adopting a disabled child must be hard even with all the help in the world. Why would they move away?’

  ‘Aren’t people’s names in the files?’ Julie said. ‘Can’t we just phone them up and ask them who handled their adoption? It’s obvious something’s going on, but we can come at it from the other end.’

  ‘I tried,’ Paddy said. Before he could say more, the door opened. Abby was standing there with a sheet of paper in her hand. It fluttered because she was shaking.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ she said. ‘What does this mean? It all looks normal and proper, everything above board, except the names of the board directors. There’s no way Lovatt can serve on the board and Tuft shouldn’t be fundraising if she’s their finance officer. But never mind that. I don’t understand why everything just stops. All the pre-adoption stuff looks fine and then it all just … stops. They all … disappear off the radar.’

  ‘We were just saying,’ Julie said. ‘We need to start at the other end. With the parents.’

  ‘And I was saying I tried,’ Paddy said. ‘That’s what I was doing all morning, as soon as I realised something was seriously wrong. I picked the most unusual names and tried to find numbers for them. And when that didn’t pan out I tried to find Facebook pages or Twitter accounts. Instagram. Then I looked for them on the forums they might have joined. Cerebral palsy, muscular dystrophy, whatever. Couldn’t find a single one. Eighty-four families and not a single member of a single one has a personal or professional website, a social-media account, or a mention in the press. They don’t exist. St Angela’s doesn’t exist. And I have no idea why not.’

  Abby came in and sat down in the armchair. ‘What will we do? Call the police?’

  ‘We were going to the house to make sure they’d really skipped,’ said Julie. ‘Will we still do that?’

  Paddy looked at me, waiting for me to weigh in. Something was bothering me. Something he’d just said had snagged on a little nick in my mind somewhere. I stared at him, trying to bring it to the surface. Social media? Was that it?