Lost in Shadows

by Alex O'Connell

  Doyle hadn’t wanted to marry her. You could see that in the wedding photos, if you looked, the ones taken on the steps of the church by her Uncle Patrick. He made no show at even trying to hide it. Whilst she was smiling radiantly and felt that her heart might, at any moment burst with all the love and pride that was welling up inside it, he was distant, unsmiling and it was clear to even a casual observer that he really didn’t want to be there. Especially not in a church. That was something he had been happy to leave back in Ireland. He had only really agreed to it in order to shut her up and because it was what his family seemed to want. Doyle found it easier to be carried along with their tide than to resist. After all, he was getting no younger, his mother insisted. And she was a good girl. A Catholic girl. With an Irish name if not the accent to match. There were O’Callaghan’s in their village back home, they told him. Good people. They had a lot of land. And respectability. She was pretty, too, long brown hair and dark, almost black eyes that were enhanced by her pale, almost opaque, complexion. She even looked Irish, they thought, despite the fact that her father had been born and bred in Kilburn and they’d overlook the fact that her mother was English. The Irish connection seemed strangely important to them, much, much more than to Francis himself. It was a good match. He wouldn’t do any better, they told him. His family loved Melanie O’Callaghan in a way that Francis Doyle never could. They, like her, thought that she could tame the wild man with a raging beast inside that had long since shown its first signs of stirring. But the beast, his own private devil, was too strong. They, like her, were wrong. Melanie’s family had no illusions. They knew what sort of man Francis Doyle was. Didn’t everybody in that part of town? His reputation, even in those early years, preceded him. They pleaded, threatened, cajoled, cried. But it was all to no avail. Her mind was made up.

  She was able to blame the booze for his violence at first. Wasn’t it always the way with men? He would spend the evenings in the pub and if she opened her mouth when he returned, he would hit her. Sometimes he hit her even when she kept quiet. Nothing too serious. A bruise here and there. Maybe a split lip. Still, that wouldn’t last. Not once the baby had arrived. He’d be too occupied with his son or daughter to go out drinking or to beat her. Two months to the day after their marriage, she announced to his delighted family that she was pregnant. Hers too were surprisingly pleased – maybe a baby was what they needed. Doyle was furious. That evening he beat her with a ferocity that she had not known before. It was a miracle that she did not miscarry. That was what the doctor called it. A miracle. Still Francis had a lot on his mind. The following day, whilst Melanie was still at the hospital, her wounds being neatly sewn and dressings applied to the worst of the contusions, Doyle was arrested on a totally unrelated charge of grievous bodily harm and assault with a deadly weapon. That had been business. Although the charges were later down graded to the lesser offence of actual bodily harm, someone had ‘persuaded’ the victim to down play the severity of his injuries somewhat, Doyle was in Wandsworth prison when his son, also to be named Francis in honour of his father, was born. Melanie was grateful, although she found it hard to cope on her own, her family rallied round and helped as much as they could. It took her three buses to get to the prison, but she went as often as she could obtain a visiting permit, right up to her confinement.

  That first night in hospital, when they laid little Frankie next to her, Melanie knew she had, at last, found purpose to her being. She loved her family, of course, and Doyle still, although not quite as much as she once had. But she had never before felt this way about anyone or anything. She imagined that no-one had. Ever. She loved Frankie immediately and with an intensity that she had never even been able to conceive of before. She loved him completely, with every fibre of her body. He now was her life. Without him she would be incomplete. Nothing else would ever matter again. That night she cried, warm beautiful tears of joy and hope.

  The first trip out little Frankie ever made into the real world was to the harsh, unfeeling Victorian brick façade of Wandsworth gaol. Thank God he knew nothing about it but Melanie could still imagine that, small as he was, he must be missing his father. Surely his father would love him as much as she did. How could do otherwise? Flesh of his flesh, blood of his blood. His mother queued with the other grey faces outside, a new born baby earned no special privileges here. She hugged him tightly to her and showed him off to the admiration of those other poor hopeless victims of their husbands’, or sons’ crimes and brutality. When Doyle saw who was waiting for him, he turned straight around and walked out of the visiting room. He refused even to see them. Melanie cried all the way home. These were no longer the tears of joy and hope but of rejection and bitter, grey despair. She knew now that things would never be how she had imagined. She saw, at last, through her delusions, every one of them, with a clarity that wracked and tortured her. She didn’t go back to the prison again.

  It was not until a week after his release that Doyle eventually came home. She was beginning to think, and to hope, that she would not see him again, that she and the baby had been abandoned. She thought, she must be entitled to a few benefits or allowances then. But he had, without announcement, walked back through the door and back into her life and back into her bed. Things were different than before. Worse. He barely spoke to her now and refused to even acknowledge the existence of little Frankie. Half the time, it was as if he couldn’t bring himself to even look in his general direction. Time passed but things did not get better. She no longer expected them to and eventually she even gave up hoping that they would. It wasn’t long before the beatings started again and she took them as uncomplainingly as in the past. They became an accepted part of her life, like going shopping or watching Coronation Street. They happened; it was her lot in life. She no longer bothered to make excuses to the people she saw at the shops or, for when it was especially bad, in the doctor’s surgery. She hadn’t fallen downstairs or been careless, walking into a door. She just smiled at them instead. A pathetic, insipid smile. It was the smile of the defeated. She could cope as long as he never laid his hands on little Frankie. If he ever did that, she would kill him. She even rehearsed it in her mind. A carving knife between the shoulder blades. That would kill even him. Or maybe turn that gun he now kept hidden away under the old sheets in the airing cupboard on him.

  Eventually, the day came as she knew inevitably that it must. Frankie had been a good baby for the most part. He had hardly cried at all, even when he was very small. But now he wasn’t well. He had been sickening for something all day, toddling across the floor, falling and crying uncontrollably. It was nothing serious, just one of those regular childhood illnesses that pass of their own accord in a day or two, but Melanie was worried about how Doyle would react. She was always worried nowadays. He hated it when the baby disturbed him. The door slammed behind him with a heavy thud. It was still early, and she was grateful that he hadn’t been out drinking tonight. He had been on a job. He was tense, she could sense it as soon as he walked in and she knew that something must have gone wrong. He wasn’t normally this bad. The tension emanating from both of his parents communicated itself to little Frankie, and, with his temperature still high, he started to cry again.

  “Shut him up.” The command had been issued.

  God knows she tried to do it. She really, really tried. She caressed him, she rocked him, she tried to sing a lullaby but her voice was choked with fear and apprehension of what must surely come. She could see Doyle becoming visibly more agitated. His face reddened and he paced the room, like a caged tiger, inexorably but with increasing rapidity.

  “Shut the fuck up!” He now addressed himself directly to Frankie who screamed with fear. Doyle screamed back with rage. He turned and punched the wall with such ferocity that he dented the plasterwork and blood ran freely from his knuckles, through the fingers of his clenched fist and dripped onto the floor. This enraged him even more. She knew know that she had to get out, but her first thought was t
o protect the baby, who was now screaming with the full vehemence of his unarticulated primal emotions. She had laid him on the sofa and placed herself squarely between him and Doyle. He went straight through her to get at the baby. His hand thrashed out and hit her on the temple, knocking her sideways, to the floor.

  Doyle wasted no more words on Frankie, he simply picked him up and felt his little body suddenly tense, become rigid even, he wasn’t used to such close contact with his father. His inaction was only momentary and it couldn’t last. There was no cradling or comforting, of course. Instead, Doyle threw the baby against the wall, twisting his entire body as he did so, putting all his considerable strength into his obscene brutality. His face had contorted into something inhuman – death’s dark shadows had descended upon him.

  The baby became suddenly silent as he hit the wall with a sickening thud and fell to the floor. Melanie raced to him, trying to rise from her hands and knees as she did so. When she passed Doyle, he kicked upwards into her ribs. The steel toe cap of his boot seemed to bite through the flimsy fabric of her dress and embed itself deeply into her flesh. She heard the crack of bone and knew that one rib was broken, if not more. She didn’t care. She wouldn’t let that stop her. Shecouldn’tlet that stop her. With reserves of strength that only a mother defending her young can call upon, she dragged herself, on her hands and knees, to where little Frankie lay. Motionless and quiet. Perfectly still. He looked so peaceful, serene. She felt for an instant almost loath to disturb him. She took up his tiny wrist and felt desperately for a pulse. Thank God. He was still breathing. She stroked his face gently and saw that just a little blood was beginning to seep from a small wound at the back of his head. That blood screamed her back to reality. It screamed at her in a way that the child was no longer able to. It pleaded for protection. It demanded a retribution that she was unable to meet out. It was a cold silent scream; the unvoiced, unheard scream of all of those who throughout all the eternities of human history have been helpless and hopeless. It was the bitter, useless silent scream of the victim, the oppressed throughout ages lost and ages yet to be lost. It tore at Melanie’s soul and revived her with a fierce new determination. Suddenly she was no longer beaten and defeated. Now she was vengeful and determined. She was what Doyle had made her and she had to win. For Frankie’s sake. All the while, as she crouched over the baby, she braced herself for Doyle’s next onslaught. Mercifully, it didn’t come.

  Hospital. She had to get him to hospital. Frankie was alive, his breathing was shallow but perceptible and he still remained unconscious. There was some blood at the back of his head, not a lot but she knew enough to know that any head injury was serious, even more so in a child. How could it be anything other than serious? He had tried to kill her baby. She picked Frankie up and, clutching him to her, rushed to the door. She felt little pain herself. The shocking sting of its initial intensity had faded as she acted on pure instinct and adrenaline. It was only a temporary respite, her pain would return with a brutal stabbing vengeance later. But that lay in the future. It didn’t concern her now. Doyle made no attempt to stop her. He was just grateful to see them both go.

  Outside, hugging her lifeless baby against her breast, she kicked on the door of the next flat. Old Mr. Yexley look as dishevelled as ever as he hurried Melanie and Frankie into his home.

  “Get an ambulance. For God’s sake, get an ambulance.” He saw the desperation in her eyes. Sweet Jesus, he thought, that madman has killed the boy.

  Yexley had heard the noise through the paper thin walls and if he had not known of Francis Doyle and what he would certainly do to anyone who interfered, he would have definitely called the police straight away. Confronted now with the screaming reality of his violence, he wished that he had screwed up his courage and done so. Ashamed at himself, he now became braver. He rushed down the two flights of stairs that Melanie everyday had to contend alone with the push chair and breathlessly dialled 999 on the pay phone, feeling that his own chest would, at any moment, explode.

  The ambulance carried them like an angelic chariot of salvation to St. Thomas’ Hospital, lights flashing and sirens carving a way through the heavy traffic. By the time it arrived little Frankie was starting to come round. They scanned his brain. He was concussed, no more, and even that was mild. A minor contusion to the back of his head but nothing broken. And there wouldn’t be any lasting damage. That boy had a charmed life, a nurse told her as she sat on the edge of Melanie’s bed and showed her the leaflets for the women’s refuge in Southend. It was good, she told her. There were people there who really cared. People who could help her get back on her feet. They would make sure that she and Frankie, were safe. She groaned with the pain from the three cracked ribs that were now heavily strapped. It was an effort for her to breathe but, if nothing else, they were out of that damned flat and out of Francis Doyle’s life. They could try for a new beginning and try to begin to put the past firmly behind them. She didn’t think she could face her family. Not yet although she knew that they’d support her and when the nurse, pretty and fresh faced despite a twelve hour shift offered to call her friend at the shelter on Melanie’s behalf, she nodded gratefully. The following day, against the better judgement of the medical staff, she discharged herself and Frankie from St. Thomas’ and caught a bus from Victoria Coach Station to Southend on Sea. They had with them the clothes they wore, a potty borrowed from the hospital for the baby and the princely sum of twenty pounds in cash that the nurse could ill afford to spare. To call her an angel would be to use a clichéd platitude that did could never do justice to the full extent of her charity. To Melanie, she was so much more. She had given them the most valuable gift in the world. More priceless than diamonds or pearls, she had given them hope.

  That had been her new beginning and she would remain indebted to the nurse, who’s name she never even knew and to Emma and Jane, the middle aged couple who ran the shelter in Southend, for the rest of her life. They provided her with a support system, financial, physical and emotional that she could not have survived without. And gradually things did begin to improve. Emma helped her get the benefits she was entitled to and to file for a divorce. In time Jane found her a flat. It was small but it was clean and to the two of them anywhere without Doyle would have seemed like a palace. And when she got the job in the printing factory, collating the pages of the technical manual that accompanied every piece of computer hardware and software sold before the advent of the Internet and inbuilt help programmes, they jointly helped her sort out the child care. After a while, she was able to help out at the shelter herself, as a volunteer, sharing her experiences with people who had imagined themselves to be completely alone in the world that didn’t care. She gave what little cash she could afford to help fund them, it was the very least she could do. No matter how she tried, she would never be able to repay them, her debt to them was too great. After living with a man like Francis Doyle, Melanie could draw comfort in the fact that there were still a few people like this, decent people left in the world. People who thought about others not just themselves and were prepared to do something to make a difference.

  It was because of them, indirectly, that she had met Scott. He’d served his apprenticeship at Walker’s printing works were she worked and was now running one of their two colour Heidelberg SORKZ presses. She liked him straight away. The others might have thought he was a bit boring, shy and a little bit too thin to be really good for him. But he had kind eyes and she thought he was nice. After seeing what Francis Doyle could do to you, she now found the idea of boredom attractive. For another thing, Scott was steady. He had a trade and a good job with prospects. As far as she knew, he had never been in trouble with the law and had certainly never gone to prison. She knew, soon after meeting him that he was a good man. Basically decent. He would make a good husband. And father. But what attracted her to Scott most of all, was that he didn’t seem frightened off by her young son, who remained the apple of her eye. In fact, he was good with Franki
e, really good; he seemed genuinely fond of the boy. At first, Mel was surprised by this. It hadn’t been what she was used to and it took her some little while to really open up. It wasn’t easy for her to begin to trust anyone with Frankie, let alone to consider sharing him. He had, after all, been hers alone, no-one else’s. Certainly nothis.

  There was no real passion between them, certainly not the burning all consuming fiery lust of a first love. But there was a love of sorts. One that grew slowly, gradually and was, perhaps, more real and all the stronger for that. It took him five years before he finally asked her to marry him. She was beginning to think he never would and she accepted instantly with a smile that he felt at that moment lit up the room and his whole world.

  It had been a good marriage, safe solid. Money was often tighter than she would have liked but they never went short. There were always presents at Christmas, good presents, and, holidays on occasions, one even to Spain. They still had the ornate bottle of wine encased in its wicker coffin, un-drunk on their mantelpiece, as testimony to it. There had been ups and downs, of course, as in any marriage. Once he had strayed. Only once, the result of a drunken fumble at a Christmas party. But he was honest about it – eventually – and she respected that. God knows, he had been repentant, on his knees even. It had taken time but she had forgiven him. After all she had faced in her life, she could find it in herself to forgive a whole lot worse. And he would never do it again. She was sure of that. She was right. He knew that he had too much to lose and he’d told her so. Compared to Doyle, Scott was a saint and Mel felt that, most of the time, she was as close to paradise as she could ever hope to get. She knew that she was very lucky. She saw her family from London sometimes. Occasionally they would come to the seaside to visit. But her past was a subject that was never touched upon. They all agreed on that. She and Scott had tried to, but they had never had children of their own. It didn’t really matter. To Scott, Frankie was his son, they had made it legal. His natural father had raised no objections, of course, and the love he gave was returned by the boy more deeply than any mere genetic bond could ever engender. It had been hard when he left, that autumn, for Scott no less than Mel. He missed him, the walks on the beach, the kickabouts on the park, the sharing of secrets. But those had given way to an intense pride. Going to university, who’d have thought that would happen? And to study music, too. There were no doubts, the boy was gifted. Everyone had told them so. Although they always liked to hear it, they didn’t need to be told, they could hear it for themselves. It hadn’t been easy to find the money for the lessons, let alone for the flute, but they had managed somehow, and got him the best they could afford. It had paid dividends, a scholarship to the Royal Academy of Music. A full scholarship. They didn’t hand those out on a plate – they required something a little special. They had high hopes of fame and fortune for Francis Wheeler. Both of them.