In the Rosary Garden

by Nicola White

  ‘Fucking hell’ he muttered and rolled onto his back, one hand fumbling at his groin, taking care of the condom. She nuzzled into his side, trying to keep the feeling going, sneaking looks at his body through half-closed eyes, the dim light barred by shadows of branches around them. He looked like he was sleeping, but his fingers moved slowly back and forth through her hair, keeping her quiet. Owls called in the woods.

 

  The marquee was still alight when they got back. Ali wasn’t sure how much time had passed. They parted outside the van.

  ‘I need to find Joan,’ he said.

  She slipped back in the way they had snuck out. All the refreshments were packed up. Sleepers and snogging couples occupied the benches. Half the dancers had gone home. The Corvettes were playing Spancilhill, and a scattering of people were lurching around the floor to it. A circle of six men, including Roisín’s husband, rotated drunkenly at one end of the floor, arms around each other’s shoulders like a rugby scrum.

  Brendan was putting the records away.

  ‘Where’s Davy?’

  ‘Fucked off somewhere. Just like you. I’ll need your help with this lot.’ He wouldn’t look at her.

  ‘I met some girls outside,’ said Ali, acting more pissed than she was.

  ‘Did you now?’

  ‘They were such a laugh. I lost track of time,’

  ‘And which one of those charming ladies gave you that big hickey?’

  Ali clamped her hand to her neck.

  ‘Other side.’

  She wrapped both hands round her neck.

  ‘Must have got your head stuck in a tent flap,’ he said, but he wasn’t smiling, and wouldn’t speak to her on the way home.

  TWENTY

  Joan came over when Una called but refused to get in the car. He had told Una she wouldn’t want to, but Una never listened.

  ‘Tell her it’s just for a moment.’ She hissed the message from the drivers seat, and he turned to Joan.

  ‘Just a quick chat,’ he said, ‘in private, like. You said you wanted to talk to Una. Well, here she is.’ The chug of dance music started up again in the marquee behind them.

  ‘She can talk to me up there.’ Joan pointed up the road to where the village started, sodium light falling on darkened housefronts and empty pavements.

  She turned and walked away, up the middle of the road, towards the lights. Davy got into the car with Una.

  ‘What’s she playing at?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe she’s drunk.’

  ‘You’re pretty well on yourself. She shouldn’t be out of Damascus House. I told Peter Nolan, they should keep her in. She’s not right, she’s been making threats.’

  Joan was a smoky flicker in the darkness. Una started the engine and eased the car along the road in her wake. She didn’t turn the lights on.

  ‘What threats?’

  ‘Letters. At least one a day.’

  ‘Is she saying she’ll tell on you?’

  Una gave him a disgusted look. ‘Tell on me? You don’t know what you’re saying.’

  Joan looked back over her shoulder. Davy rolled down the window and stuck his head out.

  ‘Come here for a minute, eh? Just – come on,’ he called.

  A wash of light fanned through the car as a vehicle appeared behind. Una pulled into the side and ducked her head low. He copied her, not really knowing why they were playing this game. The other car swooped past, then braked hard as it lit up Joan in the centre of the road. She scrambled to the side with one hand shading her face.

  ‘Maybe you should do this another time,’ said Davy.

  ‘I don’t want her coming to ours, for Joe to get wind of it. I need her alone.’

  ‘I’ve an idea,’ said Davy. ‘You drive on past her, and let me out. I’ll talk to her, take her to Olohan’s lane. You come join us. It’s be quiet there.’

  ‘I’ll come too.’

  ‘No. Wait and I’ll talk to her. Give me a head start.’

  She was standing at the little triangle, the one with the tub of flowers and signpost on it. She was looking down towards the bridge. He stuck his hands in his pockets and sauntered over.

  ‘Nice night for it,’ he said.

  ‘Is your sister coming?’

  He slid his hands out of his pockets and transferred them, gently, sliding, over her shoulders.

  ‘Joanie.’ He purred it. She met his eye only briefly. She was such a little thing. Big trouble in a small package. ‘Come away to the lane with me.’

  She looked at him again, examined his face as if trying to remember something about him that wasn’t coming back to her.

  ‘No,’ she said, and his hands tightened.

  Down by the old bridge a figure appeared and stood watching them. He stepped away from Joan, but it was only Una, come round the back way. Davy put his arm firmly around Joan’s shoulders and marched her down that way. When they got to Una, he gave her a little push and backed off. He’d got them together, he could go now, back to the dance, but still he stood, curious to see how Una would handle her.

  ‘What do you think you’re playing at?’ said Una in her familiar scold.

  Joan just blinked at her then walked slowly to the centre of the bridge. ‘I want to show you something,’ she said. Davy could only just catch her words over the sound of the river rush. He moved with Una to flank her. Joan pointed over at crumbling bulk of the old chapel ruins.

  ‘Do you know what’s there?’

  ‘What’s there?’ asked Una tightly.

  ‘It’s the cilleanach,’ said Joan. ‘My mother told me about it. It’s where the unbaptised babies go.’ Davy shifted to see exactly where she was pointing. It wasn’t the chapel, it was the little walled plot beside it, frothing with brambles and bracken.

  ‘It’s not used anymore, Joan, it’s just stories,’ said Una.

  ‘That’s where he should be… my baby.’ She sagged as she spoke. ‘I’m very tired.’ She turned so that her back was against the wide bridge wall and tried to push herself up on to it.

  ‘Why don’t you and me talk about it,’ Una said, ‘Davy doesn’t know about these things.’

  That was so typical of her. Make him help when she needed him, then try and wave him off like a he was still a boy. In a moment she’d say it was women’s things, women’s business. Well, he wasn’t going anywhere. He stepped in and put his hands under Joan’s arms, gave her a hoosh up so that she could sit on the wall. Now she was at an even height to Una, eye to eye. This would be interesting, he thought.

  ‘Your child’s at peace, Joan. You need to understand that,’ said Una.

  ‘You told me he went to limbo. Someone at the place told me there was no limbo anymore,’ said Joan. ‘I hate to think he might be floating alone in the dark, the cold.’ Davy made a small, involuntary sound. She wasn’t so far from the truth of it. Una shot him a fierce look, put her hand to Joan’s arm.

  ‘Don’t talk like that.’

  ‘You said there would be other babies, but none came.’

  ‘You’ve been unlucky.’

  ‘If his remains were in the right place, then he’d rest. Maybe another child could come to me then.’

  ‘That’s a bit morbid now,’ said Davy, trying to lighten things, but Una looked murderous, no appreciation for his efforts. Well all right then, she could handle it herself. He turned from them, ran his eye over the backs of the houses. Dark windows, everyone asleep or at the dance.

  ‘He is at rest,’ Una was saying, ‘On the farm.’

  Joan started wailing then. ‘I’m not asking much of you, missus.’

  He was vaguely aware of Una reaching out for the girl, then a flurry of fast movement. Una knocked into him, holding her jaw, and Joan – Joan was gone.

  He threw himself across the width
of the stone wall, looked down into the dark. He could make out nothing, just some smears of river scum scrolling by.

  ‘Jesusgodnojesusno…’ Una’s voice ran out over the flowing water.

  ‘What have you done?’ he said.

  ‘She kicked me! She flung her leg out and kicked me!’

  ‘Did you push her?’

  ‘Of course I didn’t. She toppled herself!’

  Una grabbed his hand and pulled him after her, over to the chapel and down the riverbank, sliding on the muddy grass. She hadn’t held his hand since he was a child. It was so strange, like a game. He was aware of wanting to laugh, to just scream with laughing. They were feeling their way along the outside of the bridge, down to the arch, the stone damp and gritty under fingertips. He kept looking at the surface of the water, its even drift. No splashing, nothing moving in it.

  ‘Are you sure she fell in?’ he asked.

  ‘Don’t be a bloody simpleton,’ Una said.

  ‘I can’t see a thing.’

  ‘She’s probably hiding. Call her name, would you? Quietly.’

  ‘Joan?’ his voice was tentative.

  They stood and listened, there was only the river’s steady flow.

  Una shook his hand off, drew herself up and stepped off the bank, into the water. It was waist deep at edge, and her coat floated out around her, like a lily pad.

  ‘She’ll be hiding,’ she said, and waded her way under the arch.

  Davy looked at her stiff neck as she disappeared into the shadow, her awful determination. What had just happened could not have happened.

  He scrambled back up the bank. Far off on the main street, a pair of drunk women were singing, holding each other up as they walked along.

  He started to run, away from the town, the bridge, the lights. He clambered over the first gate he came to and ran up two fields before he let himself stop. He flung his body down in the lee of an old wall, panting. Close by, a cow wheezed and he jumped with fright. It was a wonder his nerves still worked at all. He remembered the naggin of rum in his jacket pocket. It hadn’t broken. He clamped it to his lips.

  TWENTY - ONE

  It was pathetic to admit, even to himself, but Swan quite enjoyed Saturdays in the office. The drive into work was clear, and a sunnier air was discernible amongst his colleagues – dress code loosened by one button. The overtime helped, of course. A packet of chocolate biscuits lay open beside the coffee machine. He took two and balanced them on a saucer on top of his coffee cup. Breakfast.

  Half of the others were in already, Considine frowning at her desk with the phone jammed to her ear, Barrett scooting his chair across the aisle to pass him a sheaf of messages. The top one said Dr. Flynn from the technical bureau wanted him to call. The number was an internal extension, not the one for the state lab at Abbotsford, so he guessed she was upstairs. He felt invigorated for the first time in days, things were starting to move. Hopefully, Goretti could provide another piece of the jigsaw.

  Dr. Goretti Flynn’s office was crisp and organised, as was the woman herself. Her hair bothered him – a perfect dome of it floating about her skull as if it had never met with the resistance of a headrest or pillow. He imagined her sitting bolt upright in bed in a frilly nightdress, fast asleep. In other respects she was a very attractive woman. He was once tempted to comment on the hair, but stopped himself in time. It was hard enough to get forensics results through at the best of times.

  Goretti was at her desk, a china cup in one hand and a pen in the other, making marks in a grid on a large sheet of paper. Swan rapped gently on the glass door and she looked up and smiled. As he entered, she put her cup down and wiped her fingers on a tissue from a box on her desk.

  ‘I’ve something to show you,’ she said.

  She unlocked the door of the small lab behind and brought him over to a counter where three zip lock bags lay.

  ‘These are your three blouses – the one on the right is from the crime scene, the one on the left Declan Barrett gave me from the convent laundry, the one in the middle you brought in a few days ago. The blouse from the convent has a name tag sewn in at the neck, and Declan said all boarder’s shirts were required to have the same. Neither of the other two blouses has a name tag or signs that one was ever attached.’

  Goretti was on a roll. She had that clipped quality to her voice that usually boded well.

  ‘So, taking the name-tagged blouse out of the equation for the moment, I compared these two. If you washed out the fluid stain you would be hard put to tell them apart. Identical material, identical size, and as far as I can tell, identical wear and tear.

  ‘This type of blouse is made in Birmingham and imported by one Irish wholesaler. It’s sold in places like Arnotts, Clery’s and Roches Stores. Since it’s a standard piece of school kit, the wholesaler estimates they shift thirty thousand units a year. But that’s predominantly at primary school level, in smaller sizes, so there’s only about one thousand sold per year in this size.’

  ‘Only a thousand? That’s a lot of blouse.’

  ‘Yes – were it not for two things. Now neither is conclusive, but put them together and they are… well, pretty interesting.’

  She shook both blouses out of their bags and showed him the right cuffs – both were frayed along the edge in exactly the same way, in exactly the same place.

  ‘Probably from rubbing against an edge or surface while writing, but interesting how the wear is identical.’

  ‘A common thing, though.’

  ‘Okay, but look at this,’ Goretti swung a lamp out over the counter and switched it on. ‘Look closely – just above the pockets.’

  On both blouses there were several holes pierced through the fabric in the same position on the right breast, the tight weave of the polyester pulled open at minute entry points. Something had been pinned there.

  ‘Could be from some badge or religious medal the girls all have.’

  ‘Not in St. Brigid’s they don’t. Prefects wear a sash, only one medal or cross on a chain around the neck is allowed. All else is considered jewellery and Sister Mary Paul would kill you if she found it.’

  ‘Your research is formidable.’

  ‘Sure they drilled it into me.’

  ‘Ah, for god’s sake Goretti, why didn’t you mention it?’

  She shrugged. ‘It’s not important. Let’s just say my days at St Brigid’s weren’t the happiest of my life. I’m sure whatever was attached to the shirt would have been hidden by the tunic bib that covers it – so it was something clandestine.’

  ‘So, badges or brooches aren’t allowed, but Ali Hogan wore some under her uniform, as did the owner of the shirt in the shed.’

  ‘Or they’re both Ali Hogan’s.’

  ‘Do y’know, that’s a possibility that’s looking stronger by the minute. Did you have time to look at that bag Barrett brought up?’

  ‘That’s why I’m in here on a lovely morning and not on the golf course.’

  The bag was over on the central table, pulled inside out on a sheet of white card, so that only its black cotton lining showed.

  ‘You wanted a check for blood?’

  As he walked towards it, Swan could see that the lining looked spotless except for some wrinkles of lint in the corners.

  ‘Nothing?’

  Dr. Flynn nodded, not breaking eye contact.

  Perhaps a stain of bloody fluid in the bag to match the one on the shirt and paper bag would just be too neat. The baby could have been wrapped in some other layer that they hadn’t located, or she brought the baby to the garden in just the paper carrier at an earlier time. The misty woman or girl in his imaginary scenarios now wore Ali Hogan’s face.

  There were no leads yet from the towelling or blue carpet fibres, difficult without a scene to match them to. He urged Goretti to get out and grab what was left of the w
eekend.

  ‘If I served only you, Vincent, I’d be happy to, but there are others in line. Thanks anyway.’

  Half way down the stairs, Swan met Gina Considine striding up to get him.

  ‘Managed to track down Carmen Fitzgerald,’ she said, ‘her mother had taken her on holiday, South of France, no less. She brought her in this morning.’

  ‘I told her to tell Rathmines if she left the city.’

  ‘Do you want to hear it or not?’

  ‘Anything good?’

  ‘Well, she’s flabbergasted at the idea that Alison might have been pregnant. Says she didn’t have a boyfriend, they told each other everything and shared rooms in each other’s houses, so she would have noticed if she had a bump.’

  ‘Is she plausible?’

  Considine shrugged. ‘I think so, but then she told me something else.’

  She jigged her head towards the corridor of interview rooms and Swan followed her.

  Carmen Fitzgerald lit up the dreary room with her red jacket and electrocuted yellow hair, but her face was ashy.

  ‘Tell him what you told me,’ said Gina, ‘about the night before.’

  ‘Can I go home if I do?’

  Swan looked to Gina, she nodded at the girl.

  ‘We were at the school the night before – near the hockey pitch. We go there sometimes… to drink. It’s just round the back of Ali’s house.’

  ‘What time was this at?’

  ‘Dunno. About nine or ten. We met two blokes we knew from Rathgar College, so we went for a drink. But we weren’t near the Rosary Garden.’

  ‘She says they didn’t see anyone else,’ said Considine, ‘that they drank some beer and went home by eleven.’

  ‘And Ali was with you all the time?’

  Carmen chewed her bottom lip into a small sideways loop.

  ‘She went off for a little while with Ronan – they didn’t go far away.’

  ‘And you were involved with the other boy.’