by Laura Elliot
‘Mr Molloy told me to expect you,’ the receptionist said when Adele presented her Voice Dox business card at the front desk. ‘Something unexpected came up and he’s not free to see you until later. He asked me to look after you. My name is Jessica. Would you like tea or coffee?’
‘No, thank you.’ Adele smiled and held up the cup of iced coffee she had purchased at Katie’s Kasket next door.
‘Good choice.’ Jessica returned her smile. ‘Katie makes the best coffee in Reedstown. Isn’t it a scorcher outside? Come with me and I’ll show you the archive.’
Adele accompanied her down wooden steps into the basement. No sheen of modernity here. The shelves were stacked with cardboard files that stretched from the floor to the ceiling, where a nicotine-stained veneer suggested the archive had once been a popular smoke-filled enclave. Adele was convinced she could still smell the residue of cigarettes and pipes. The tables and chairs had the battered appearance of much use, and framed posters of famous Reedstown Review front pages hung from the walls.
‘The paper celebrated its centenary six years ago so we have an enormous archive,’ said Jessica. ‘Much of it is on microfilm but it’s still a work in progress. We haven’t yet had an opportunity to put our content online. However, the scanner works so whatever information you need should be easy to find. The phone on that table has a direct line to my desk if you need anything. Don’t be shy. See you later.’
Alone in the basement, Adele switched on the scanner and began the painstakingly slow work of tracing the moment of her conception. She had roughly estimated when the assault on her mother occurred. After all, as she’d grimly reminded herself when she had been browsing the web, it was not difficult to count back nine months from the date of her birth. Although she had failed to find anything resembling the assault Marianne had outlined in such painful detail in her diary, surely a local publication would have reported such a heinous rape. Even if the victim had remained anonymous, the Gardai had a duty of care to notify the newspaper and issue a warning that Reedstown was a dangerous place to walk alone at night. There must be a link somewhere that would lead her to another link, then another; a chain reaction that would eventually expose the truth.
The newspaper’s reach was local, with an emphasis on the parochial. Weddings, funerals, charity events, prize-giving ceremonies, deb nights, every bunfight chronicled; yet Marianne’s name never appeared under any caption or in any column of print. Neither did Noreen. No mention of her in the Irish Countrywomen’s Association or the Irish Housewives Association. She wasn’t a member of the Reedstown Musical Society nor, apparently, had she ever served on the parish committee. What had she been doing all those years when her only daughter was growing up?
Adele searched for information on Charles Foyle. Her grandfather had died in a car crash when Marianne was ten years old. A musician who played the clarinet in an orchestra, he must have been well known in what was a small community in those days. His death would definitely have been reported. If not a front-page headline or an inside story, it would be recorded in the obituaries. Her frustration grew as she drew a blank once again. She keyed in the name ‘Shane’. Unable to add a surname, she watched as numerous results appeared on the screen. She stopped browsing when she saw a photograph of a boys’ football team. She estimated the players must have been about twelve when it was taken, a fact confirmed when she read the headline above it. They were the under-thirteen Reedstown Rovers. One boy was instantly recognisable. Younger than he had been in the photographs taken in the photo booth, he posed in the centre of the front row, his grin wide and triumphant. Shane Reagan, she read in the caption underneath the winning team. At last, something tangible to give her direction.
The keyboard snapped briskly under her fingers and another photograph appeared. Gloria Thornton, founder of the Sodality of Thorns and Atonement. A mane of silver hair spilled over her shoulders and the ascetic frailty evident in her long, angular face was offset by her eyes. Adele was unable to decide if they were hazel or green. The circle of yellow surrounding the pupils distorted their true colour and added a compelling chilliness to her gaze. Marks on her hands were clearly visible. Were they the sign of a stigmata, as Gloria claimed, or scars from her cancer treatment? She insisted that her recovery from a terminal diagnosis was due to divine intervention that occurred on a mountain top. New demands had come with this gift of healing and were outlined in the interview Adele read. Her disbelief grew as the journalist described Gloria’s experience on Croagh Patrick, which she had climbed to celebrate her recovery. On its summit, she had heard the voice of an apostle telling her to establish a sodality of the chosen, who would venerate the crown of thorns Jesus Christ wore to his crucifixion.
The sodality had formed in the mid-eighties when claims of moving statues had dominated the news and droves of worshippers had gathered in grottos to witness such sightings. Adele’s anger grew as she continued reading. Why had the Reedstown Review given such biased coverage to this woman? Where was the newspaper’s objectivity? Its responsibility to search for evidence to back Gloria’s claims that she had witnessed visions of indescribable beauty and heard heavenly voices? People flocked to her, defying or ignoring those who ridiculed her visions and called her a charlatan. The coverage she received had mainly been written during the last year of her life. Previous references to the activities of her sodality had been much more impartial and were mainly confined to brief news reports on conferences and campaigns she had organised.
Gloria Thornton had died heroically. An electrical problem in the mother and baby home she had founded had started a fire, which had been exacerbated by chemicals stored in the premises. She had perished in the flames but not before she had led twelve terrified young mothers, some with babies, to safety. The businesses and shops in Reedstown closed down on the morning of her funeral. The Thorns had overflowed the local church, forcing many of the locals to stand outside in the rain. Adele searched for her grandmother in the photographs of the grey, sombre crowd but was unable to find her. Perhaps she was inside, sitting in the front row, weeping with the others over the loss of their founder.
How could sensible Noreen have been so gullible? On her last night, battling demons, she had struggled violently against the drips and constraints used to hold her still. In those final hours, she had found her voice again, but the few words she spoke were so weak and inaudible it was almost impossible for Adele to understand her. Muttered ravings about thorns and hell that made no sense to her at the time. Hell, if it existed, seemed like such an unlikely proposition for her grandmother. Noreen had attended daily mass and prayed at night for such lengthy periods that, sometimes, Adele would find her sleeping by the edge of her bed, her head resting on the duvet, her bare feet freezing on the floorboards. Noreen would awaken, still drowsy, dread freezing her features as she muttered her dead daughter’s name, ‘Marianne… Marianne,’ over and over again.
14
The Marianne Diary
Mam came today and sat in front of me with her glassy stare. She reminded me of a statue, so waxen, and that saintly smile, like just being with me made her a martyr. She’s skinny like a stick now and says it’s from the work she does in the Hard Wind commune. That’s where I’ll live when I leave here. But I have to be cleansed first. Mother Gloria says it’s important to remove all impurities from mind and body after the baby is born. That will stop me thinking about IT.
Why do I need to be cleansed? I did nothing wrong… but what do I know any more? Maybe I did ‘ask for it’, as Miss Bethany keeps telling me. Shane made me feel loved. Did I send out signals, an aura or a scent that they picked up and that made them crazy? Whoever they are. Sometimes I think I know them then I get confused again.
Mam is still going on and on about how IT will be nothing more than a distant memory that’ll get easier and easier as time goes by. That’s the way it was for her when Dad died. How dare she make that comparison. Dad’s death was clean and sudden. No gunge and smel
ls and my rape baby kicking like its struggling to escape from my dangerous clutch.
If only it was Shane’s baby. But we never did anything. Just touching each other and wanting so much more but afraid, knowing how Mam would freak if she knew. They did IT. One by one… laughing… sometimes their laughter is the only sound I hear. Their smell is still in my nostrils. I hold my breath, thinking that will force it away, but it doesn’t. I blow my nose until it starts to bleed but it makes no difference. I rinsed out my nostrils with salt and water but that just made me sick. The smell is worse than the feel of them. But that’s mad because smells can’t hurt.
Now I have to cope with the smell of paint on top of everything else. That’s really sickening. Malachi used to be painter and decorator before he became a Thorn. He was ‘inspired’ when he heard Mother Gloria speaking at an assembly but all he’s done since he joined is paint walls. He has no time to meditate or find the meaning of life. Barbara is still going on about him helping her to escape. Her plan is crazy. The walls here are too high and dangerous with all that glass on top. The gate has a padlock and bolts. And eyes are everywhere. But she has it all planned.
Malachi has been posting letters from her to her boyfriend, Charlie. I’m the only other person who knows and she’s sworn me to secrecy. She’ll do it when we’re on our ‘daily constitutional’. That’s when we get to walk around the grounds. We’re not allowed outside the gates and Miss Bethany walks with us. It’s like being back at primary school when we had to walk in a line to confession. We’re going to be mothers, and some are mothers, yet we’re treated like children. If we protest, we’re told we’re privileged and that our parents could have sent us to the Magdalene laundry. Barbara says that’s stupid because those laundries are all closing down. No one has told the Thorns. That doesn’t surprise me. They don’t have anything to do with Catholics or Protestants and anyone who isn’t a Thorn.
15
It was stuffy and hot in the basement. Beads of sweat dampened Adele’s fringe and trickled along her spine. Her shoulders were stiff with tension, weighted down with frustration. When the door opened, she jerked back from the screen and dashed her hand across her eyes. The man who had entered smiled and crossed the floor towards her, his hand outstretched. His silver hair, short at the sides and with an untidy quiff brushed back from his forehead, was the first thing she noticed about him. Her initial impression that he was an older man changed as he drew nearer. He was in his early to mid-forties, she guessed, and his most distinctive feature was his eyes, dark-brown and with an arresting, inquisitive stare. He appeared to sum her up in an instant and his welcoming handshake told her he liked what he saw.
‘I’m Bob Molloy,’ he said. ‘Sorry if I startled you. Jessica tells me you’ve been here since early morning. You must be starving. I’ve having lunch at my desk.’ He held up a paper carrier bag with the words Katie’s Kasket printed on the front. ‘Why don’t you join me?’
‘Thank you but I’m not hungry. I’d rather keep going.’ She pressed her hand to her stomach to stifle the sudden gurgling but the sound was audible enough to make him chuckle.
‘Tummy talk,’ he said. ‘You can’t ignore it. Take a break and come back here with a clear head. Katie makes a fantastic tikka chicken wrap but if that’s not to your taste you can try the tuna melt. I want to hear what’s so fascinating about our archive. We’re not used to breaking headline stories in the Reedstown Review, more’s the pity.’
Unlike the open-plan workstations and the crowded basement, his office was large and airy with a view of the lower level.
‘I appreciate you allowing me to check the archives at such short notice,’ Adele said when she was seated in front of him, the wraps spread over his desk, hot coffee steaming in takeaway cups.
Meeting his gaze, his wide-set eyes disturbingly like her own, she was beset again by the pummelling suspicion that had marked her visit to Reedstown so far. Was she making eye contact with a man who could be her father? Aware that her palms were clammy, she resisted the urge to rub them against her knees.
‘Your email intrigued me,’ he said. ‘I’m a fan of documentaries, particularly the ones made by Voice Dox. Are you considering making a documentary about Reedstown?’ He smiled, as if this possibility amused him. ‘If so, that would be a first.’
‘Not about Reedstown, specifically.’ She answered him carefully. ‘I’m interested in cults and the impact they have on the lives of former members.’
‘What on earth have cults to do with Reedstown?’ He arched his eyebrows, dark by comparison to his hair and so finely shaped that she suspected the regular use of tweezers.
‘The Sodality of Thorns and Atonement was founded here in the mid-eighties,’ she said. ‘Their founder was a local woman which probably explains why they had such a strong following here. I want to find out everything I can about them.’
‘It was never proven that they were a cult,’ he said. ‘Although you wouldn’t be the first person to make that accusation. And they weren’t confined to Reedstown. Gloria Thornton was big into expansion.’ The wry grimace that twisted his mouth suggested he had known her.
He shook his head when she asked. ‘Not her, personally, but I knew her son when I was in my teens. Gloria was seldom around in those days and I didn’t pay much attention to her activities. My grandfather was the editor then. I remember him complaining about the abusive phone calls he received if he wrote anything derogatory about the sodality. He hated giving Gloria the oxygen of publicity.’
‘I’ve been reading about her in the archives. She received very positive coverage during the last year of her life yet very little before then. Why was that, do you know?’
He tapped on his laptop, his fingers racing over the keyboard, his eyes on the screen. ‘That would be around the time he retired and my own father took over. New broom and all that goes with it. He knew Gloria. I think they went to the same school or were at university together. Whatever it was, they hung out in their younger days so he was more inclined to trust her, unlike my grandfather, who was a born cynic. But the Thorns have been extinct for a long time now.’
‘That doesn’t make Gloria any less interesting. She must have been very charismatic… or very conniving.’
‘The jury is out on that one, I guess. Maybe you can give us the answer.’
‘Did she have many children?’
‘Just one son.’
‘Your friend?’
‘I said I know him but Liam Thornton is not my friend.’ He held up his hand to forestall her next question. ‘I don’t have any contact with him so I can’t help you there. But be warned. You’ll be wasting your time if you intend contacting him. He never talks to anyone about his mother. He made that decision after Gloria died and has never deviated from it since then.’
‘Does he still live in Reedstown?’
‘Yes, he’s still here. But, like I said, he’s unapproachable.’ He sounded dismissive as he wiped his fingers on a serviette and closed his laptop.
‘Can you tell me anything about Noreen Foyle? I believe she was quite an active member of the Thorns?’
‘That name doesn’t ring a bell. Where did she live?’
‘Somewhere in Reedstown, that’s all I know.’
‘Then I’m sure you’ll find something about her in the archives. We were better than any census form when it came to recording the local population. Not so easy now that the developers have moved us into the twenty-first century. Are you sure you’re entering the correct information?’
‘I thought so. I’ll try again and see what I can find.’
‘How long have you been with Voice Dox?’
‘Three years. I worked as a journalist for a short while after I finished college but I was drawn more to voice than print. What about you? Was it always the Reedstown Review?’
‘Actually, between you, me and the wall, I always hoped it would never be the Reedstown Review.’ His tone was emphatic, rueful. ‘I worked for the We
bster Journal when I lived in New York.’
‘Really?’ Adele was impressed. ‘I was a subscriber to that magazine until it folded. The essays were so challenging and interesting.’
‘Unfortunately, there weren’t enough subscribers like you to keep it afloat. Bit of a change from the Review.’ He heaved an exaggerated sigh and gathered up the wrappings from his desk.
‘Why not return to New York?’ she asked.
‘It’s not that easy. I came home when my father was terminally ill. His impending death gave him a certain advantage and he was always a man to grab an opportunity. He made me promise to take over the family newspaper. Hard to refuse a dying wish. I’m fourth-generation Reedstown Review, all of us born with ink under our fingernails. Excuse me―’ His phone rang.
‘Hi Rachel.’ His voice softened as he turned away from Adele. His wife, she guessed. He wore a broad gold band on his finger. Did he have children? Were they the reason for his silver hair? She had detected a trace of New York in his accent, the drawl on the L’s, the muffled R’s. He must have lived there for quite a long time. What was it like to move from the intellectual austerity of the Webster Journal to the Reedstown Review, where the frivolous events of village life demanded front-page headlines? His openness had banished her earlier unease. The urge to confide the truth to him swept over her but ebbed away just as quickly. Time enough for another conversation when she had found something concrete on which to build her story.
‘Feel free to spend as much time as you need on your research,’ he said when he finished his call. ‘It was a pleasure meeting you, Adele.’