Crying in the Dark

by Shane Dunphy

  ‘How’d I do?’

  ‘You sounds liken a big monster stumpin’ ’bout. I hears you breathin’ from a good bit ’way, don’t hardly need t’ see ya.’

  I grinned. ‘Did I hear you back near the house?’

  ‘I letted you. Wanted to see how you liked takin’ a swim.’

  ‘You wanted me to come this way?’

  She nodded, a small smile playing about her lips.

  ‘Why?’

  Using only her hands to drag herself, leaving her legs straight out behind her as rudders, she crawled with unnerving speed towards me. I stood up quickly, not wanting her to catch me on the ground. She seemed to flow into a standing position, her head low and her hair hanging over her face. I saw that she was wearing only a grimy white T-shirt hanging to her knees. No shoes. Slowly, she raised her head to look at me between the strands of wet, filthy hair. I moved my feet apart, got balanced, expecting her to spring at me.

  ‘Larry is near here,’ she said finally. ‘This be where he comes.’

  I hadn’t expected that.

  ‘Do you want me to find him?’

  Francey shrugged. ‘He does be sad.’ She seemed to be thinking, as if the conversation we were having was completely new ground for her. ‘Why he be so sad?’

  I took a step towards her, squatting down so that I was at her eye level.

  ‘Why do you think he’s sad, Francey?’

  She was gazing into the trees, and I sensed that she was fighting an urgent need to spring into one and get away from me. Love for her brother and an understanding that he was unhappy were all that was keeping her where she was.

  ‘I don’t know. He been actin’ weird.’

  ‘Has he?’

  ‘Yeah, liken a baby or sumpin’. I don’ like it so much when he be like dat. I want him to be liken the old Larry again.’ She looked at me, an open plea on her face. ‘You help him, okay? You make him right again. I’m lonely in this ol’ place wit’out him. Them other kids, they don’ like me none, an’ I don’ like them. I like my brudder. You make him be happy again, okay?’

  I stood up, my knees popping.

  ‘I can’t promise that I’ll make Larry any happier, Francey, but I’m going to see if I can’t at least get him to go back to the house. It’s not so easy to make someone be happy if they’re not. I think that his feelings are hurt, and that’s why he’s hiding out here.’

  ‘No! You tell me you’ll make my brudder happy or I’ma not show you where he be’s.’

  ‘Francey, I won’t lie to you – not now, not ever. I can’t wave a magic wand, or say a spell and make things right. If I could, I’d fix it that all the bad stuff that happened to you and your brother never did. What I can do is be your friend, and help you to talk about things that are on your mind. That sometimes makes you feel a bit better, to let that stuff out. Now, maybe Larry will feel like talking when we go to see him, or maybe he won’t. I can’t make him talk, and neither can you.’

  ‘If’n I tells him to talk to you, he will.’

  ‘It doesn’t work that way, Francey.’

  She scowled. ‘Come on. I’ll show ya.’

  I heard him before I saw him. A wail that sounded more animal than person rose above the tree line, the sound of abject misery. Francey stopped dead and waited for it to die out, eyes closed, head to one side.

  ‘He used to make them howls when we was locked up. He never done it since they took us out. I can’t get why he be doin’ it again. He isn’t locked up no more.’

  ‘There’s lots of reasons to be unhappy.’

  ‘They don’ even beat on us,’ she said, opening her eyes and staring at me. ‘We’s done everyt’in’ we can dream up, and they don’ hit us or kick us or take a strap to us neither.’

  ‘No one will hurt you here, Francey. At least, not like that. There’ll be no more beatings.’

  ‘I don’ understand this place.’ She moved forward a few more paces, and stopped at a rhododendron bush, heavy with scent. ‘T’rough here.’

  Behind the bush a narrow stream was flowing, a log acting as a bridge across it. Beyond was a wide clear spot on the bank of the island, and Larry was sitting there with his back to me, looking out over the water. I called to him, not wanting to startle the boy.

  ‘I ain’t goin’ back,’ he said, his gaze remaining on the lake.

  I walked over, Francey hanging back, seemingly torn between giving us some privacy and hearing what was said.

  ‘I haven’t come to take you anywhere. I just want to talk.’

  ‘How’d you find me?’

  ‘I think you know.’

  ‘Francey.’

  I said nothing, waiting to see what his response to the betrayal would be. Slowly his head turned to look at me. I could sense Francey behind. His eyes travelled to where his twin was hovering by the stream, and lingered on her for a moment. His focus returned to the water without comment.

  ‘You go on back now. Tell ’em … tell ’em I’m a gone.’

  I sat on the wet bank next to him. I was filthy and sopping anway.

  ‘They know you haven’t gone anywhere, Larry. They can hear you crying back at the house.’

  ‘I’s not cryin’. That’s singin’.’

  ‘Well it’s the saddest song I’ve ever heard. I’m sorry about what happened with Olwyn. She really cares about you; it’s just that she can’t lie to you and pretend to be your mother. It’s not right for her to do that.’

  ‘I don’ know what you’re talkin’ ’bout. I was only messin’ wit’ dat girl. I lovens my mam. She was rale daycent to me.’

  ‘I’m sure your mother loved you, but she didn’t always treat you very well. That’s why you’re here.’

  ‘You fuck off talkin’ ’bout my mam! You don’t know nu’in ’bout her or ’bout me.’

  ‘I know enough to know that you had a rough time at home. I’ve seen the scars on you and the sadness and pain in your eyes. I’ve been doing this sort of work for a long time, and I know what that means. You’re right, I don’t know your mother. I’ve never met her, or your dad for that matter. They might be good people. But what they did, to you and your sister, that wasn’t good.’

  ‘I shouldn’ be in dis here place. Me ’n’ Francey, we were rale happy at home. We used sleep at night in a grand bed wit’ clayne sheets on it and I had a great, big brown teddy bear wit a red an’ white bow tie. He was all fluffy an’ warm. My mam used make us hot milk on the stove in a burner so’s we’d sleep, and Dad would tell us bedtime stories, ’bout dragons ’n’ princes ’n’ dwarfs ’n’ such. I ’member one time he bringed home a tub o’ ice-cream for us and set it down on the table and we eated it all up. He was a great dad.’

  I looked back at Francey, who was staring at her brother open-mouthed.

  It was quite possible that some of what he was saying was true: it is rare, even in extreme cases, for there to be no gentle and compassionate interactions between parent and child. Mr and Mrs Byrne may well have been kind to the twins at times. Judging from Francey’s expression, however, it seemed that her memories differed considerably from her brother’s.

  ‘I’m glad that you have such good things to say about your mother and father,’ I said. ‘And those things will always be with you. Treasure them. But it doesn’t take away from the fact that you just couldn’t stay living at home. Your parents were hurting you too much, and you weren’t getting enough to eat. Your father and mother need some help with that.’

  ‘It’s all cack, what you’s sayin’,’ Larry said, almost in a whisper. ‘My daddy is a great fella. Peoples is jealous of ’im, s’all. They’s told lies about him and Mam, that’s why me ’n’ Francey has to be here. Mam and Dad’ll sort it ou’ then we’s goin’ back, see? I know that. You jus’ wait ’n’ see.’

  ‘You know, Larry, there’s always hope that you and Francey can go back home. But the only way that’ll happen is if your mum and dad get a lot of help. It might take a long time. I don’t know if the
y’re even talking to the social workers about it. I’ll check it out for you.’

  ‘You do what’n’ever you likes to do. I know I’m goin’ home. Soon.’

  I looked back at Francey. She was watching us both silently, tears streaming down her face, tiny rivers running through the yellow algae that was caked on her thin cheeks.

  I stayed with them on the island until the sun started to dip in the sky, and midges descended on the ochre surface of the lake in a foul cloud. Then I took them both by the hand, and we walked slowly back to the house.

  I hadn’t been back to the residential unit where I’d first met Sylvie since I had been in college. It was a small house on a pleasant street in a good part of town. The manager let me in and brought me into the tiny front office. I didn’t know him. All the staff who worked with me had long since moved on.

  ‘So you were here when?’

  ‘Close to ten years ago. I came as part of a college placement, but I was asked to stay on and do some relief work. I’m sure you’ll find records of me on file.’

  He sighed deeply and went to a bright green filing cabinet. He was a short, portly, bearded man, his receding hair gelled back and tied in a stubby ponytail. He wore his trousers high at the waist with the belt chinked tight, so his round belly seemed to be divided in two, a bulge on either side of the leather band.

  ‘And you want to know about young Sylvie Lambe?’

  ‘Yes. I work for the Dunleavy Trust now. She came up in connection with another case. I’m trying to trace her.’

  He continued to riffle through the files, his back to me.

  ‘Got any ID?’

  I walked around so I could place the card in his line of vision. He acknowledged it with a nod, pulling a tattered file, putting it on top of the cabinet and then opening a lower drawer and squatting stiffly to look in there. Seconds later: ‘Yeah, here we go.’

  He heaved himself up and brought the two files to the desk, motioning for me to sit.

  ‘Well, you check out. You were here for a few months. Pace too slow for you?’

  ‘I liked it here fine. No one offered me a full-time job.’

  He shrugged and picked up the second file.

  ‘What do you want to know about Sylvie?’

  ‘The address she moved to when she left here, and anything you can give me on her father.’

  He put his short legs up on the desk. He was wearing cherry-coloured cowboy boots with very high heels.

  ‘I’ve got an address here for a flat on the other side of the river. I’ll copy it for you. As for her old man, one Joseph Lambe – there’s a ream of reports on access visits, case conferences, psychological evaluations, all the usual stuff.’

  ‘Can I get copies?’

  ‘Look, there’s a photocopier in the hall. Why don’t you run off the whole file?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Well, we have to look after our own, don’t we?’ I couldn’t work out whether he was being sarcastic or not, but decided it didn’t matter.

  He took a pack of long, thin, brown cigarettes from his breast pocket and lit one with a small gold lighter.

  ‘What’s your interest here – really?’

  ‘She’s not doing so well.’

  He blew a cloud of menthol smoke at me. ‘So things didn’t work out in the long run. Sometimes they don’t.’

  ‘They didn’t even work out in the short run. He started abusing her the very first night she stayed with him, and then put her out on the game.’

  ‘And how does she fall under your jurisdiction? We haven’t received any formal requests for information. Dunleavy Trust is fairly high profile. I would have expected some headed paper to have arrived before your visit. Why the cloak and dagger?’

  ‘I came across her by accident. I’m working this in my own time.’

  He clicked his tongue.

  ‘You be careful, my young friend. If I were you, I’d tell your people about her and get them involved. That’s my tuppenceworth, anyway.’

  ‘Look, if it gets too hairy, I’ll ask for assistance. As of the moment, I’m just a concerned citizen helping out an old friend. I feel bad about having left her and never bothering to get in contact … see how she was doing.’

  ‘You were here for eight weeks a decade ago. You stay in touch with all the kids you work with?’

  ‘No.’

  He stood up and shook my hand. ‘You know where the copier is. If there’s anything else we can do, let me know. If I were you, though, I’d ring social services, call it in, and forget about her. You’re only digging a hole for yourself.’

  ‘I’ll keep that in mind.’

  There was an open-air market on the street where Sylvie and her father lived. Stalls with flowers, second-hand clothes, sweets and power-tools lined each side of the road, the air thick with the cries of the owners. I wandered through the hustle and noise for some time, pondering how I would handle the girl this time. I did not want her to bolt again.

  There was no intercom or buzzer system on the door of their building, just a row of weathered-looking doorbells, none of which had any identifying features. I pressed them all and then stood back, lighting a cigarette as I waited. After five minutes I rang again, holding several bells down for a good thirty seconds. This time I heard heavy footsteps coming downstairs, and the door was flung open by a heavy-set woman in a summer dress that, I noted with deep regret, left little to the imagination.

  ‘Who’re you?’ she said with vehemence.

  ‘I’m looking for the Lambes.’

  ‘Top floor,’ she said, turning her acned back and stumping back up the stairs.

  The building smelt of stale tobacco, cooking fat and unwashed humanity. The stairs were carpeted, but the covering was, in many places, so threadbare I could see the wooden boards beneath. The stairs ran up to a third floor, which was in the attic. There was only one door on that level, painted a cracked blue. I banged on it sharply.

  Sylvie answered my knocks. She was dressed in a sloppy T-shirt and blue leggings, her hair tousled from sleep and her make-up still on, smudged and messed from the night before. In her arms she held a child of about nine months, also dark-haired, looking at me with huge liquid eyes and sucking a pink soother. The familial resemblance was unmistakable.

  ‘Shane …’ There was fear in her voice.

  ‘Hey, Sylvie,’ I said. ‘Can I come in?’

  She clutched the infant to her. The child sucked furiously on the soother and watched me intently. ‘No, I don’t want to see you.’

  I nodded and looked about me at the decrepit condition of the landing. Easy, I thought. She’s still uncertain of you. ‘It was wrong of me to come on so strong, before, Sylvie. I can understand you being nervous. I just … I only wanted to help. I guess I freaked you out a little.’

  ‘You did.’

  She cuddled the baby, rubbing her cheek on its thick black hair.

  ‘That’s a beautiful child, Sylvie.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘A girl?’

  ‘Gloria.’

  ‘That’s a good name. It’s a word of praise, of celebration.’

  ‘I named her after Gloria Gaynor.’

  I smiled at the appropriateness.

  ‘I Will Survive.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She’s your daughter.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Although I had known the answer would be affirmative, I suddenly wanted to cry. It came on me in a rush, and I had to grit my teeth and force it right back down. I have a mental exercise I use when something like that happens. I see the feeling as a sheet of paper – the colour differs depending on the feeling: anger is red, pain is black, fear is white, sadness is blue. In my head, I crumple the paper up into a tiny ball and toss it into a bin, one of those pedal ones, where the lid opens and closes. Once that lid snaps closed, the feeling is gone. I can take it out and deal with it later, but for that moment it does not exist. I did the exercise, and if the deep sadness that
washed over me showed in my face, Sylvie seemed unaware of it. For the love of God, I thought, she’s just a baby herself.

  ‘Can I come in, please? I’m not going to lose the head today. You showed me that wouldn’t work.’

  She nodded and stepped back into the flat.

  The interior was worn and ragged but very clean and tidy. The dwelling seemed primarily to be made up of a large living room, with four doors leading off it to the left: a small kitchen, two bedrooms and a tiny bathroom. A selection of newish toys for Gloria was on the rug in front of a tattered beige couch. I sat down. A portable television, with the sound muted, was playing a daytime soap.

  ‘What do you want, Shane?’ Sylvie sat opposite me on an armchair that belonged to a different suite of furniture to the couch. There was another armchair in the other corner of the room, similarly orphaned.

  ‘To see how you are, to apologize, and to try and persuade you to let me help you. Why didn’t you tell me about Gloria, Sylvie?’

  ‘I didn’t think I’d ever see you again. What difference would it have made?’

  ‘Is the father still around? Is he helping out?’

  She stared at me, a wistful expression on her face. For a moment I was puzzled, then reality dawned.

  ‘Who’s the father, Sylvie?’

  She laughed cynically and placed the tot onto the floor among the toys. The baby gurgled contentedly and crawled over to a large plastic telephone and picked up the orange receiver. ‘Probably my dad, but there were a couple of johns who wouldn’t use rubbers.’

  ‘Sylvie, tell me that you’re using protection! Jesus, girl, you know better than that. You could catch anything!’

  ‘You try and tell an eighteen-stone drunk that you want him to use a condom when he’s already on top of you. Just see how you get on.’

  I shook my head. This was going from bad to worse.

  ‘Have you been checked out for sexually transmitted infections?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Will you let me organize that at the very least?’

  ‘Maybe. We’ll see.’

  ‘Do you have everything you need? Nappies, wipes, formula, baby food, clothes for her …’