Mr. Flood's Last Resort

by Jess Kidd

  “Grand so, I’ll just wait here, with you and Jesus and herself.”

  I sit down on one of the visitors’ chairs and try to think of one good reason why the manager should talk to me about Maggie Dunne. I blow into my hands and inhale, nearly knocking myself out with the fumes. A quick rummage in my handbag yields a cough sweet; the paper is half-off and it’s a little gritty. No doubt of a similar vintage to those I shared with Cathal. I sit looking at it with an immense sadness, until the sight of the sweet in my hand grows blurry.

  This is how Mrs. Chapman, Duty Manager of Holly Lodge, finds me.

  “Maud Drennan, is it? You’re here about your aunt?”

  I stare at her: all my fictions are coming true.

  * * *

  I FOLLOW Mrs. Chapman into her office. She waves me to a chair next to a desk. The office is high ceilinged and painted a bilious green. There is a wall calendar with a picture of the Pope against a backdrop of bishops.

  Everything is neat and orderly, including Mrs. Chapman herself in her navy suit and low-heeled pumps.

  She smiles at me. “I apologize. At first I gave your mother short shrift. You see, we don’t give out personal information to just anyone.”

  “Certainly not.”

  “But when she explained about the family connection I said I was more than happy to help.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Your mother said that you are writing a family memoir about Mrs. Flood’s philanthropic work.”

  I don’t know what to say, so I just smile.

  “Your mother, she sounds—”

  “She’s from Rotherhithe.”

  “Rotherhithe?”

  I distract her with a few quick questions. “They visited often, my aunt and uncle?” I ask. “In their caravan?”

  “I’m sorry, that was before my time. But Máire Doherty would know; she’s been here for years.” She hesitates, smiling apologetically. “Will you also be writing about your cousin?”

  “My cousin?”

  “Marguerite,” says Mrs. Chapman. “Although she was known as Maggie Dunne when she lived here of course. She went under her mother’s maiden name.”

  One and the same: Marguerite Flood, Maggie Dunne.

  “Of course,” I say. “And Maggie had blond hair.”

  Mrs. Chapman nods. “I understand that Maggie changed more than her name while she was here.”

  “Before she disappeared.”

  Mrs. Chapman frowns. “I’m really sorry,” she says, and looks like she really is.

  She pats me lightly on the arm. “I’ll go and find Máire for you.”

  On the wall opposite, the Pope and his crowd of bishops look down at me with mocking faces. Retrospect, I mouth.

  * * *

  MÁIRE DOHERTY has a strong flavor of nun about her, the non-terrifying kind, who wear socks in their sandals, do Internet surfing, and drink cappuccinos. She’s a thin woman with an unflattering haircut pitched somewhere between Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music and an Amish elder. There’s a small bump on her nose, and her eyes, like those made from currants on a gingerbread man, are set in a deeply lined face.

  She’ll see right through me with those sharp little eyes.

  I’ll act sober and try not to lie unconvincingly.

  “You’re here about your aunt?”

  I nod.

  “Will we go and sit outside, Maud? It’s such a fine day.”

  * * *

  THE GARDENS at Holly Lodge are still in bloom: blown roses, blousy dahlias, and bronze chrysanthemums. Late-flowering clematis scrambles around French doors that lead into a dining room. I look inside. Several of the residents are still eating, and the tables are being cleared by a short woman in a plastic apron who is making a big point of scraping the leftovers into a dustbin.

  I walk with Máire along a path through neat stepped lawns. We sit down on a bench overlooking a pond. A nymph in a nightie gazes down into the water, her expression placid. Around her feet stony-eyed fish cavort. I recognize her as a more modest relative of Bridlemere’s nymph. Instead of a conch shell she holds a jug against her hip, the spout dipped slightly.

  “That’s a lovely fountain.”

  “Your aunt put that in. She built that wing too.”

  Máire motions towards an ugly extension to the right of the building. Otherwise the home is three-storied with legions of windows: an old, purpose-built sanatorium.

  She glances at me. “So you’re writing a memoir, about your aunt’s charity work?”

  I nod with conviction. “Did you know the Floods well?”

  “I did.”

  “You knew Marguerite?”

  “I worked with her.”

  The old gardener rounds the house with a kneeler and a bucket. He gets down to weed the flowerbed.

  “What was she like?”

  Máire looks out at the fountain. “Maggie was very bright; she could be utterly charming.”

  “But she was a handful?”

  “She was challenging.”

  “She wasn’t too fond of her brother?”

  Máire glances over at the gardener and lowers her voice. “Now, it wasn’t as simple as that, Maud.”

  “No, I don’t suppose it was. So, the last time you saw Maggie was—”

  “The morning of 20 August 1985.”

  “The day she went missing?”

  Máire pauses. “Yes.”

  “Were the Floods visiting at the time?”

  “They’d returned home the week before.”

  “And Maggie was never found?”

  “No.”

  “What happened?”

  Máire’s wrinkles rearrange themselves into a frown, her currant eyes all but disappearing. “I believe Maggie ran away. She’d been doing it for years, despite all the measures we had in place. Mostly she’d return under her own steam. But this time she didn’t and the police failed to find her.”

  “Did she leave with anyone?”

  “There were sightings, of parked-up cars and strangers in the grounds, that kind of thing. The police investigated every lead.”

  “And they found nothing?”

  Máire looks at me. “That’s just it, Maud. Not a trace of her.”

  * * *

  WE SIT in silence, watching the progress of the gardener.

  “How did Mary take it?”

  The gardener gets up and drags his kneeler and bucket to a spot farther along the flowerbed.

  “It destroyed her.”

  St. Dymphna saunters out through the wall of the dining room, just next to the open French windows. She prefers to take walls rather than doors just because she can. She pigeon steps through the flowers with a look of studied piety.

  “Sometimes it’s worse, not knowing.”

  Máire glances at me. “I think it is, Maud.”

  We sit in silence for a while, looking at the nymph. The nymph tips her jug; from its spout runs a stream of clear water.

  “But Mary loved her son and she loved to draw.”

  “She drew?”

  “She did; she was very good at it.” Máire laughs, her face transformed, expansive. “We planned to put together a book, just for ourselves. I would write it and she would illustrate it.”

  “What was it about?”

  “Stories about each of us growing up, you know, and how it was back then, in a different time.” She smiles sadly. “There are some of Mary’s drawings in the library. Would you like to see them?”

  I would.

  * * *

  MÁIRE LEADS me along empty corridors; the residents will be in the day room now, she says. There are activities most afternoons. The hallways are painted pink, like bad medicine. Residents’ artworks jostle with framed portraits of saints. I recognize all of the saints, even the obscure ones. Some of the portraits are more accurate than others.

  Máire opens the door to a large, sunny room with old sofas and bookcases and a view out over the lawn.

  She points to a
picture above a filing cabinet.

  “That’s by Mary.”

  I move closer to a framed drawing of a sleeping girl of around seven, with her hand furled against her face. It’s lovely, rendered in vivid detail from the pin-tucked front of her dress to her upturned nose and the curls at her temples.

  “This is also one of Mary’s; she used pastel here.”

  The same child, older, sits reading. A ribbon is coming loose in her hair. Her hair is a soft bright auburn.

  “It’s Maggie, isn’t it?”

  Máire nods.

  I look at the child in the picture: Mary’s little girl.

  “What went wrong?”

  Máire shakes her head. “I can’t answer that.”

  “Are there any pictures of Mary, photographs I mean?”

  “There are.”

  Máire walks over to the bookcase and searches through a row of albums; she picks one out and hands it to me.

  “The residents made this to commemorate the opening of the new wing.”

  A priest with a pair of shears cuts a ribbon. Father Creedo himself. People look on smiling. Over the page there’s Mary in a shirtdress with shoulder-length red hair standing at the fountain. Behind her, water falls in blurred arcs through the air.

  This is not the Mary I see in my dreams, blank-eyed, swooping. Nor is she the Mary of Cathal’s paintings, the pale muse with burning hair. This is a real woman in a real moment, having her picture taken. Her face caught somewhere between a smile and a grimace.

  “Are there any of Cathal?”

  Máire shakes her head. “He wasn’t so involved. He tended to use his time here to paint.”

  I turn the pages until I reach a photograph taken on the lawn at the back of the home. Trestle tables are set for a party. There are paper cups and bunting and jugs of juice, seated children and adults looking on.

  “Maggie is there, look.”

  Maggie in a T-shirt and shorts, her bleached blond hair scooped into a ponytail, secured with a white bow. She has her foot up on the rung of a chair and is smiling.

  But I’m not looking at her.

  Because sitting at the other end of the table is Sam Hebden. Very young, very thin, but unmistakable.

  “Who is this?”

  Máire peers at the photograph then looks at me oddly. “That’s Gabriel.”

  Next to him sits a fat child with black hair. A youthful version of the Gabriel Flood I know. I point to him. “And this?”

  Máire looks again. “Stephen, Mary’s sister’s boy.” She glances at me. “Not a relation on your side?”

  I shake my head.

  “He was often with the Floods. Mary’s sister wasn’t always in the best of health. The two boys were inseparable, more like brothers, really.”

  * * *

  MÁIRE OFFERS to walk me back to the entrance hall. She doesn’t ask me about my fictional memoir, nor volunteer any information on Mary Flood’s fund-raising. But she does let me borrow two photographs from the commemorative album. As we part, Máire Doherty looks at me kindly with her shrewd currant eyes and wishes me the best of luck.

  And then I realize. I open my bag and take out the notebook. “I think Mary meant for you to have this.”

  M D

  Don’t be afraid to tell our story.

  M F

  AS I walk down the drive of Holly Lodge and turn out onto the road I hear a car slow to a crawl beside me. I don’t need to look up to know it’s a green Golf with a dented passenger door.

  Dr. Gabriel Flood pulls over and winds down the window. “What happened to you?”

  He is livid, white-faced, and his eyes are brutal.

  The same man only different.

  I glance around me. The road is deserted. On one side, a high wall, on the other, a wood. St. Dymphna sails out from the trees and across the road, her face graver than I’ve ever seen it.

  “Are you going to get in, Maud?”

  I could. Or I could run back up the drive to Holly Lodge, a long lonely drive.

  Would he mow me down? My running could spark off predatory urges. I remember that the worst thing to do when faced with a creature possibly intent on harming you is to show fear.

  St. Dymphna glides to my side with her crown sparking and her robes deepening to a richer green.

  “You are more than a match,” she whispers, “for this sneaky lying bastard.”

  I take a deep breath.

  “I’m sorry, Sam.”

  The name hardly rings true; I glance at St. Dymphna.

  She nods. “Go on.”

  I go on. “I got talking to this group of ladies on a coach trip. When I came out I thought you were gone. I couldn’t see your car; I looked everywhere.”

  “Nice,” says St. Dymphna.

  “You were pissed at me,” I add. “You said it was a waste of time us coming here. I thought you’d just driven off.”

  Gabriel frowns at me. I can’t tell if he’s buying it.

  “I pulled the place apart looking for you,” he says.

  “I’m so sorry, Sam.” I look him dead in the eye and he seems to soften.

  I hear St. Dymphna breathe out. “He believes you.” She sounds relieved.

  Gabriel gestures towards the entrance of the home. “You’ve been in there? You’ve spoken to them?”

  “There was no one available. So I sat in the grounds until they moved me on. They said for me to come back after the weekend, when the manager is around.”

  He switches off the ignition and runs his hands over his face. “So what do you want to do now?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe check into the B and B?” I walk round to the passenger seat and get in. “You’ll stay?” I smile at him.

  “Of course.” He smiles back stiffly.

  I pull my seat belt on, amazed at my performance. He starts up the car.

  “Nice grounds up there, lovely fountain, like the one at Bridlemere.”

  “Oh yeah?” His voice is low, uninterested.

  I glance at him. He looks straight ahead, jaw tensed, as if battling some inner demon. I should imagine he has a few of them.

  “Get him to pull over,” says St. Dymphna from the back seat. “Somewhere busy. Then make a run for it, Maud. His intentions are not good.”

  My heart turns inside me.

  * * *

  AS WE drive into the village I see a newsagent; there are parked cars, people all around.

  St. Dymphna whispers in my ear, “Here, Maud.”

  “I’d die for a cold drink. Can we stop?”

  He frowns and pulls over. I have my seat belt off but he’s already out of the car.

  “I’ll go,” he says. “What do you want?”

  “Just anything, thanks.”

  I watch him until he’s inside the shop.

  “He’s left the keys in the ignition,” St. Dymphna observes.

  * * *

  FOR A few minutes I just keep driving forwards, using any road, through town, out of town, just to get some distance. Then I start to calm down a bit and my heart stops jumping out of my chest and the blood stops rushing in my ears.

  “Will he call the police?” I ask St. Dymphna.

  “Will he ever,” she mutters. She’s in the passenger seat with her lamp in her hands, squinting furiously into the flame.

  “What is it?”

  “He’s calling his greasy sidekick.” St. Dymphna looks up to the heavens and winces. “I didn’t tell you that, if anyone asks.”

  I check the mirror for signs of a black BMW.

  “Should I be scared of him?” I glance at St. Dymphna.

  She avoids my eyes. “Yes and no.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I can’t; I’d be struck off.”

  “I’m sure you’ve done worse.”

  St. Dymphna looks at me and bites her lip. “Stop the car, Maud; check the trunk.”

  When I open the trunk my knees almost give way.

  Inside there are folded sheets of plas
tic, rolls of paper towels, refuse sacks, electrical tape, cable ties, and a box of disposable gloves.

  I get back into the car with my hands shaking. I can hardly start the ignition.

  St. Dymphna’s face is grim. “Lock the doors, Maud.”

  At the next roundabout I turn the car in the direction of Dorchester.

  * * *

  FRANK GAUNT opens the door to a peal of barking. He is a small bearded man flanked by slim hounds. The dogs come forwards to nuzzle my hand, tails wagging.

  I smile down at them and then I smile at Frank.

  Frank pulls the larger of them back by the collar. “You’re here about the puppies?”

  “I’m early. Should I come back?”

  “Not at all, now is fine.”

  I follow Frank through the hallway and out into the kitchen.

  Everything feels a little surreal. Like I’ve slipped out of real life into a different dimension and now I’m just visiting normality.

  I look around me; the kitchen is neat and well proportioned. The dogs that greeted me ramble over to their beds in the corner of the room where there is a pen full of squirming, writhing, wriggling puppies, chewing one another’s ears, licking one another’s eyeballs, falling into their water bowl, standing on their back legs looking out.

  “So what are you after, then?” Frank is businesslike but not unfriendly.

  I look out into the garden. Mrs. Gaunt is pegging out washing on a rotary airer. The lawn has just been mown and Frank has yet to put the mower away.

  I’ve a stolen car parked out the front of his house with a comprehensive homicide kit in the trunk. When I leave it’s likely there will be a black BMW trailing me. I’m a marked target. The invisible saint that’s just taken a seat at his kitchen table has told me as much.

  “To be honest, Mr. Gaunt,” I say, “I’ve come about a lot more than a puppy.”

  * * *

  TO HIS credit, retired chief constable Frank Gaunt hears me out. He makes us coffee and we sit down at the kitchen table. The puppies tumble and nip until one by one they fall asleep. Their parents sprawl nearby; the brindle bitch watches me with her dark eyes, her sensitive muzzle on her long paws.

  Mrs. Gaunt comes in and, understanding some subtle signal, disappears into the hallway with a nod and a smile. Frank doesn’t interrupt and his face remains largely expressionless. Although he frowns very slightly when I mention Stephen’s bribe and Gabriel’s lies and almost certainly hides a smile when I recount being picked up by the Dorking Nifty Fifties.