One Bad Turn

by Sinéad Crowley

  After a moment, Eileen noticed she was sitting on the floor, with no recollection of how she had got there. Della was still talking. Did Eileen know Marc Gilmore? Did she know his daughter Leah? Did she know if Leah and Alan were friends? Alan had been at a party at the Gilmores’ apartment the night before. Had Eileen been aware? No. No, Eileen told her. She had been completely unaware.

  Alan’s friend Michael, had come to the station to make a full statement. He had been very helpful, Della said, and even through her panic and her fear Eileen was able to send out a prayer of thanks to solid, sensible Reena Taft, who must have realized her son knew more than he was letting on and marched him to the station. She was diverted by the thought, so it took her a moment to grasp that Della’s voice had changed again. There was a forced brightness in it now as the young guard insisted that, in a way, this was good news. They knew where Alan had been. His Facebook posting had been geotagged out at Fernwood, on the south coast. They knew where to start looking for him now.

  But by the time the third phone call came, at 9 p.m. that evening, Della’s voice had changed again. Did Eileen have someone with her? Was there someone she could call? Marc and Leah Gilmore had been interviewed, she told Eileen, and what they’d had to say was worrying. Alan had been at a party in their apartment, but had left early. He had been drinking heavily, and was in bad form. And he had said, according to Leah Gilmore, that life wasn’t worth living any more. Leah hadn’t thought he meant anything by it, Della said. She had gone back into the party and forgotten all about him until the guards called to her door. She had sobbed, when they told her he was missing. It had taken quite a while to calm her down.

  Had Alan ever expressed suicidal thoughts? Della asked Eileen, who told her about the time he had flung his schoolbag across the hotel room and said he couldn’t take another moment of living there. ‘I see,’ Della said, and silence hung between them. To end it, Eileen told her she had called a friend, and that she was on her way over to sit with her now. There was no such person, but it seemed to make Della feel better, to believe she wasn’t alone. Reena Taft called that night, to say that Michael had set up a ‘Find Alan Delaney’ page on Facebook. When Eileen checked it, there were already over twenty messages on there. All sending prayers. No information.

  It was two days later when the final phone call came. Do you have someone with you? We’re coming to pick you up. No, don’t have a shower, be ready when we call.

  It wasn’t like on TV. There were no long corridors and they didn’t slide Alan’s body out of a long metal drawer. There was just a hospital bed, and a sheet over his face, Alan’s beautiful face, which looked so pale and perfect. And as Della held one of her hands and Eileen stroked her dead son’s face with the other she thought suddenly, violently, of Marc and Heather Gilmore, who had ruined their lives, and their daughter, their living, breathing daughter, who had allowed Eileen’s son to walk out of her party and do this to himself. One day, she told herself. One day they will all know how this feels.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  ‘I lost my child because of you, my only child. And I want you to know how that feels.’

  Claire, hearing the venom in her voice, moaned inside the gag and Eileen looked away from the doctor to glance down at her.

  ‘Look, love, I don’t know who you are and I’m sorry you had to get caught up in it. But I’ve been planning this for a long time and I’m not going to let you interfere with it. People often ask me what got me through, what kept me going when Alan died.’

  She knelt down and brought her face closer to Claire’s.

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you. This is what kept me going. Dreaming of this day got me through.’

  She reached into her pocket with one hand and pulled out her phone.

  ‘This is what I’m talking about.’

  Eileen shoved the screen to within an inch of Claire’s face so that it took her a moment to focus on the image. The photo showed a teenage girl, bound and gagged in what looked like the back of a van. Eileen grinned and replaced the phone in her pocket with hands, Claire saw, that weren’t quite steady.

  ‘Yeah, that’s her little darling, all right. Mummy’s little princess, and Daddy’s too. I’m pissed off he’s not here to see it. I’d hoped he’d come running as soon as he was called, but this one’ – she tossed her head in the direction of the bound and gagged doctor – ‘tells me he’s in China, of all places, and isn’t answering his phone. Bit disappointing, to be honest with you. But that’s the way things go. You,’ she raised herself off her knees and walked towards the doctor, ‘you’ll have to do.’

  Eileen raised her foot and kicked out sharply, stopping only inches from the doctor’s face. The woman on the floor flinched, then stared up at her, blind terror in her eyes.

  ‘Had you worried there, did I?’

  She raised her voice, sounding, for a moment like a petulant child.

  ‘Think you were going to get a belt off me, did—?’

  Her sentence was cut off as the newspaper-seller strode past her, kicked the doctor square in the stomach, then stood back and watched as she fell sideways and lay on the floor, shaking, the tape on her mouth heaving as her digestive tract contracted. If she vomits, she’ll choke, Claire realized in horror, and it was clear the doctor was thinking the same way, her face contorting as she fought to bring her muffled retching under control.

  ‘That’s how you show her who’s boss.’

  The newspaper-seller took a step back, satisfied.

  Eileen hesitated for a moment, then nodded tautly.

  ‘Yeah. Sure, yeah.’

  Holding the gun firmly in one hand, she ran the other through her hair.

  The man looked down at her.

  ‘So what the hell we going to do now, then?’

  Eileen glanced in Claire’s direction then took a step back, indicating with her eyes that the man should follow her to the other side of the room. But the space wasn’t a large one, and even though they tried to keep their voices down, Claire could still hear every word they said.

  ‘Who’s she? You told me the place would be empty.’

  The man jerked his head in Claire’s direction.

  Eileen scowled.

  ‘I don’t know but, more to the point, what are you doing in here? You said you’d keep a watch outside. This was never the plan.’

  ‘I had no choice, did I?’

  Even through the heavy scarf Claire could hear frustration in his voice.

  ‘There’s no point blaming me. She’ – he jerked his thumb in Claire’s direction – ‘she threw something out the window. I had to come in. There was no telling what she’d do.’

  Eileen shrugged.

  ‘Just leave it to me, okay? We’re nearly there. Let me handle it, Richard.’

  Claire could tell by the way his eyes narrowed that she had used his real name. There was a moment’s pause, then the man slapped Eileen’s face, the noise reverberating around the room. The gun in her hand wobbled alarmingly and Claire’s stomach lurched, as she remembered again just how small the room was and how flimsy the barrier between the bullet and her child. In the opposite corner the doctor had hauled herself into a sitting position and was watching the scene unfold, her eyes dulled by pain.

  Eileen raised her free hand to her cheek and rubbed it in disbelief.

  ‘There was no need for that!’

  The man threw back his head and gave a derisive snort.

  ‘Wasn’t there? Bloody hell, woman. We had a plan, yeah? You had a plan? What are we going to do now?’

  Eileen’s eyes filled with tears. The gun in her hand was shaking now, and everyone in the room was looking at it. When Richard spoke again he sounded on the verge of panic.

  ‘Just keep it together, okay? Don’t do anything stupid.’

  Eileen nodded again, with less certainty this time, and the g
un in her hand shook violently. There was no way she’d be able to aim accurately at someone, Claire thought. In fact, the real danger now was that she’d fire it by mistake.

  Richard must have been thinking the same thing. He made a lunge for the gun but just as quickly Eileen jerked her hand away. Although sick with fear, Claire found she couldn’t look away. Was the gun loaded? Did either of these lunatics even know how to use it? And then another thought occurred to her: maybe this was her chance. The pair were arguing now – maybe this was her moment to break free, to do something . . . But her hands were still fastened tightly, her fingers now almost totally numb. She looked across at the doctor but there was no help to be found there. The woman seemed barely conscious and was now slumped on her side, her eyes half closed.

  Claire glanced at Eileen again. She was a tiny person, really. No more than five foot two or three. Short dark hair, greying at the temples. Cheap jeans and a chain-store sweatshirt. Scuffed runners. She’d be easy to overpower, if it wasn’t for—

  ‘Mama!’

  The three of them, Claire, Eileen and the newspaper-seller, looked in the direction of the annex as Anna gave another roar. This time her cry ended in a dull, defeated sob, which Claire felt like a physical punch to her middle. Christ almighty, what must the child be thinking? That she had been abandoned? What had she seen, even? Her mother suspended above her. The door bursting open. And then her mother had disappeared and the door had shut behind her, leaving her alone in a small, unfamiliar place. Claire wanted to weep at the thought of it. Her little Anna. For eighteen months, every time she had cried someone had come running. Now, she must feel completely alone. She could call and call but her mother was not going to appear, not now and presumably, in her head at least, never.

  Oh, Christ. Claire could feel her throat swelling with tears and swallowed frantically, the action causing a vacuum against the sticky tape. You can’t give in to panic, you can’t. Don’t think about her. Otherwise you’ll never get her out of there.

  The newspaper-seller looked at the door, swore under his breath, then strode across the room and kicked it shut.

  ‘Can’t hear myself think.’

  With a massive effort of will Claire closed her mind to misery again. Think, Claire, focus. You can’t help her if you lose it. You can’t help her if you lose control. It wasn’t the most poetic of mantras, but it was the only one she could think of and she chanted it over and over again until her heart rate returned to something approaching normal and she was able to focus her mind again.

  ‘Just give me that yoke, okay?’

  The man walked back across the room and made another lunge at the gun but, once again, Eileen held it out of his grasp.

  ‘No.’

  Her voice was steadier now, but there was a pleading edge to it that was obvious to them all.

  ‘Please. Let’s stick to the plan, yeah? There’s no need . . .’

  There was a moan from the figure on the floor and Eileen looked across at the motionless doctor.

  ‘Are you okay, Heather?’

  There was another moan, fainter this time. Suddenly Eileen darted across the room.

  ‘Heather – are you okay?’

  She nudged the woman with her toe and then, when she didn’t get a response, knelt beside her, putting the gun on the floor while she tugged at her, trying to turn her around.

  It was all over in a second. The newspaper-seller ran to her side and picked up the weapon.

  ‘You stupid cow!’

  ‘No!’

  Abandoning the doctor Eileen leaped to her feet again

  ‘No! Leave it, Richard! I—’

  She lunged forward and caught his wrist. He swore as he pulled his arm away from her. From the floor Claire could only watch in horror as they fought over the weapon, she scrabbling for it, he trying to lift his arm out of her reach.

  ‘Give it to me!’

  Eileen roared, then kicked his ankle. His scream of pain was masked by the gunshot. Immediately afterwards there was silence – even the baby stopped crying. And that, Claire realized, was the scariest sound of them all.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Although it had come from deep inside the building the sound of the gunshot was unmistakable. The pain in his side forgotten now, Flynn raced back down the lane, Daly following close behind.

  As they rounded the corner and came back out on to the main street, they heard a woman scream,

  ‘Help us!’

  Moving instinctively Flynn ripped off his hoody, wrapped it around his fist and punched a hole in the glass panel in the surgery door. He could feel Daly’s breath on the back of his neck and barked an order at him.

  ‘Call nine nine nine! And Collins Street Garda Station! Stay back, will ya?’

  This was no place for a civilian. Trusting Daly to have the sense to do as he was told, Flynn reached inside the broken pane, pushed the rest of the glass out onto the floor and scrabbled around until he found the lock. Glass crunched underfoot as he pushed the door open and ran into the hall.

  ‘Gardaí! Drop your weapon!’

  A flash of orange was all he saw as the figure came hurtling towards him. Instinctively Flynn stepped sideways in an attempt to block the man, but he was moving at speed and lashed out as he ran past, his fist hitting Flynn square in his injured side. The pain brought him to his knees, the walls closing in on him, and for a couple of seconds all noise, all distractions disappeared as he sank to the floor. Then as the agony darkened and became a dull, constant roar, flickers of sound filtered through to him. The baby, crying again. A muffled sob. A dull, low moaning. And Daly at his side.

  ‘I said stay back . . .’ But Flynn’s voice ended in a sob and he made no attempt to dissuade Boyle’s husband as he grabbed him under the arms and helped him to his feet.

  ‘What’s going on, Philip? Where’s my child? Where’s Claire?’

  In too much pain to reply, Flynn nodded towards the end of the corridor and allowed Daly help him down and through a door marked ‘Surgery’. But today the room looked more like Accident and Emergency than a GP’s office. There was blood splatter on the inside of the door, on a glass-framed certificate on the wall and, Flynn saw, as his eyes raked the room, more blood in a dark pool underneath a woman’s body. Flynn ran to her side, then heard a grunt from the opposite wall.

  ‘Claire!’

  As Flynn struggled to find the source of the dark-haired woman’s bleeding, Daly sank to the floor in front of his wife and ripped the surgical tape from her mouth.

  ‘Are you all right? Where’s Anna?’

  ‘In there.’

  Boyle jerked her head backwards.

  ‘She’s okay. He hasn’t hurt her. My hands?’

  Daly wavered for a second, then bent forwards and ripped the tape that had bound them behind her back.

  ‘That’s it. I’m okay. Now go and get her, please.’

  Boyle pulled her hands in front of her and began to massage them, groaning with pain as the blood began to flow.

  Flynn called after Daly, who was struggling with a door at the end of the room.

  ‘Did you call for back-up?’

  His ‘yes’ was barely audible as he pulled the door open and disappeared through it.

  Flynn bent towards the woman on the floor again. Blood was pouring from a wound in her side and she appeared to have lost consciousness.

  Boyle was struggling to release her bound feet. ‘Heather’s a doctor, Flynn. Untie her. She’ll know what to do.’

  It was the first time Flynn had noticed another woman in the room. Just what, in God’s name, had been going on in here? Placing the injured woman as gently as he could on the floor, in the recovery position, he crawled over to the doctor, sweat breaking out on his forehead as the pain in his side surged. As he helped her wriggle out of her bonds he could hear in the
distance the faint, blissfully welcome sound of a siren.

  ‘I’ve got her.’

  Dizzy now with pain, Flynn looked up to see Daly looming over Boyle, a red-faced, frantic baby in his arms.

  Boyle’s head jerked back.

  ‘Is she okay?’

  Daly was stony-faced.

  ‘Of course she’s not bloody okay—’

  ‘Let me see her.’

  Boyle dragged herself up off the floor and hobbled towards her husband and daughter, throwing her arms around them, but Daly didn’t return the embrace.

  Feeling like a peeping Tom, Flynn turned his attention towards the doctor and her patient again.

  ‘Here – press this against it.’

  The doctor stood up, grabbed a package from a shelf and handed Flynn a large wodge of material, then moved his hands until they were tight against the injured woman’s abdomen.

  ‘Don’t move.’

  His injured side screamed in protest, but he didn’t make a sound as he pressed the material against the wound as tightly as he could. The doctor was calmer now she had slipped into professional mode and seemed almost relaxed as she took the patient’s pulse and muttered figures to herself.

  The siren grew louder. Boyle looked at the doctor and her patient.

  ‘Is she alive?’

  ‘Yes, but she’s losing a lot of blood.’

  Then came a shout from the front door and the sound of glass crunching. Within seconds the room was filled with people and Flynn found himself being pushed aside as green suited paramedics took charge. As if from a great distance he heard the doctor give clipped, terse information. Blood loss, tachycardia – and then, ‘Thank you, Doctor, we’ll take her from here.’

  ‘I think . . .’

  But Flynn’s voice didn’t reach the front of his throat and he sank back against the wall, aware now that the dizziness was not just being caused by the pain, but by the difficulty he was having breathing.

  Boyle, who was talking to the paramedics about the baby, glanced at him.

  ‘You okay, Philip? Was he hit, Matt?’