In My Mother's Name: A totally addictive and emotional psychological thriller

by Laura Elliot

  ‘Thank you, Mr Molloy.’

  ‘Call me Bob.’ His handshake was firm, warm. ‘We’re an informal bunch here. I hope you find the information you need.’

  16

  The Marianne Diary

  Oh joy. It worked. I never believed I could scream so loudly but I did and now I’ve no voice left. It had been raining all morning and the trees were glistening when I knelt down and screamed about the devil trying to steal my soul. I wrestled with Miss Bethany when she tried to lift me up and then she was in the mud with me, her white cap off and her long dress up to around her thighs. She was wearing knickers to her knees and I would have laughed crazy like the others if I hadn’t been struggling to hold her down.

  Barbara was gone, like a ghost flitting, and her boyfriend waiting for her outside the wall. No one saw her go or noticed Malachi opening the gate. She was gone by the time Miss Bethany dragged me to my feet, her face covered in mud and leaves.

  There was hell to pay. Miss Bethany keening like a banshee and Mother Gloria doing the Spanish Inquisition on me because I did a terrible thing. A good family were waiting to adopt Barbara’s baby and I’ve left them heartbroken. Sin has blackened my soul and damned it for eternity. Bullshit. Up yours, Mother fucking Gloria.

  I keep thinking about Barbara. Is she still running or is she safe? Everyone is still out of sorts since she escaped. Except me… I know I’ve done something good and that’s all that matters for now. I hope she’s in England. That was her plan. I helped her to escape and it was worth being sent to the tank for a week.

  I talked to my baby for the first time when I was there. I thought I’d be frightened being all on my own with only a mattress and a bucket but I wasn’t a bit scared. God, the real God, made it okay for me. Miss Quack Elisha came every day to check the baby’s heart and Miss Rebekah sent down her usual poison paws food, which The Quack insisted I eat because a healthy mother means a healthy baby.

  It was so quiet in the tank. Deep enough to drown me but I’d company, pummelling heels and fists, hiccups and moments of stillness when I knew my baby was sucking its thumb. I rocked backwards, forwards, and sang lullabies. When I touched my tummy it was like there was a pulse beating in the palm of my hand.

  I don’t know how to cope with all these new feelings. They’ve come like a river raging through a tiny chink and sweeping the hate aside to leave love in its place. Too late… too late… yet I was able to ask my baby’s forgiveness for drinking the gin. And forgiveness for deciding never to hold it or name it or love it the way a proper mother should.

  In the tank, there was time to bring all the bits of that night together. Lightning was no longer zigzagging through my mind but beaming down on my thoughts. That cigarette packet that Shane found on the floor.

  ‘Chinese,’ Shane said. I remember his voice shaking and the blood on his hands as he held the box up to the light for me to see. He said it was a clue. The writing on the package was weird, all squiggles and squares and symbols like the way Amy Zhou writes her name on her copybooks.

  I only saw it again in the Garda station before Garda Gunning threw it into the waste bin. It meant nothing to me then but I can’t stop thinking about it now. Sergeant Bale kept roaring about it being just litter that had blown in off the road and how Shane was making it up about the writing being Chinese and he’d better stop saying it or he’d be put in a cell. But Shane wouldn’t stop shouting and he was still in the cell when Mam came to take me home. I never saw him again.

  Three blind mice… see how they run… see how they run…

  17

  Back in the basement, Adele sat down at the computer and keyed in the words ‘House of Atonement’, but was unable to find any further information on the mother and baby home. No follow-up reports on the young women who had been rescued from the fire. Her mother was dead by then, her young body cremated, her ashes scattered on the mountain, and Adele, under Noreen’s care, was living in Crannock.

  Suddenly, she found herself staring at a photograph of her grandmother. A younger-looking Noreen, she was dressed in a long, tweed coat that Adele remembered from her childhood. Standing among a group of women and men outside St Dominic’s church, she was holding a placard aloft. She was part of a protest, Adele realised, and the protesters on either side of her also carried similar signs. From the blurred lettering, Adele could make out that they were protesting against a priest. Father Breen. Marianne had mentioned him in her diary. Their mouths were open, as if they were chanting in unison. She read the names on the caption under the photograph and frowned. A mistake had been made. Noreen – third from the left in the front row – had been captioned as Rosemary Mooney. Adele checked the other names but could not see any sign of her grandmother’s correct name. Struck by a sudden thought, she keyed in the name ‘Rosemary Mooney’ and watched, bewildered, as more photographs of Noreen were uploaded. They all followed the same pattern. Protests outside the local school and cinema, a larger protest outside Dáil Éireann… and, in each one, her grandmother was captioned as Rosemary Mooney. As she scrolled through these old editions of the Review Adele saw that the name also featured on many of the letters’ pages. Inevitably, these letters were filled with complaints about some or other aspect of Reedstown society or the behaviour of society in general, which, as far as the Thorns were concerned, had lost its moral compass. An address was listed at the bottom of each one.

  River View

  10 Summit Road

  Reedstown

  Co. Dublin.

  Her fingers shook as she entered the name Marianne Mooney. At last, her mother’s young face appeared. Marianne in break-dancing gear, legs akimbo, at some dance festival. In a First Communion photograph with her classmates, hands joined, a soulful expression. Posing in a skimpy singlet and shorts, a trophy raised in both hands. The same electrifying feeling that had come over her in her grandmother’s kitchen returned. The pitching floor, the unstable surroundings, the tingling run of fear over her skin. Noreen Foyle had been a fraud. A fanatic. A stranger she had never known, and with a name Adele was unable to recognise. If she pushed too hard against the structures of the life they had shared, would they collapse into nothingness? Was that already happening, she wondered, as she switched off the scanner and rose stiffly to her feet?

  She turned right at the traffic lights in the centre of the village and drove upwards towards Summit Road. Her mind was dense with questions and a wild curiosity. Here, the houses were detached and luxurious, their walls partially hidden behind mature trees, except for number ten. Bigger than the rest and with an ornate thatched roof, it stood apart from its neighbours. She parked the car in a side road and walked back to the house where her mother had been born. No longer called River View, it had been renamed Hillcrest, which suited its perched position on the brow of the hill. This was a cottage in name only, a manor showhouse that gloried in the intricacies of its thatch, the curves and angles perfectly executed, the edges as rigid as a scrubbing brush. Three cars, two BMWs and a 4 by 4 jeep, were parked on a courtyard in front of the cottage. Two lawns, riotous with flowers and shrubs, fell away on either side of the courtyard.

  Lanes bounded by walls ran along either side of Hillcrest. As a child, Marianne must have played in those lanes, bounced balls off the old brickwork. Later, perhaps, she might have kissed Shane there, the two of them in the shadows, breathless with longing, away from Noreen’s judgemental gaze. Entering the lane on her right, Adele could see that a recent extension had been added and the building was even larger than its frontage suggested. She was unable to see over the wall but she figured there must be a large back garden stretching to the end of the lane. As she turned to walk across the rear of the lane she was surprised to discover another building, one storey in height and much smaller than Hillcrest, set into the centre of the wall. The name The Lodge was carved on the plaque on the wall and a postbox placed beneath the left-hand window was printed with the name Christy Lewis. The Lodge had the same pristine appearanc
e as the bigger house and closed shutters on the leaded windows blocked her view of the interior.

  She glanced upwards towards Hillcrest and glimpsed someone at a top-storey window. The figure vanished and Adele, unsure if what she had seen was a shadow or trick of the light, was conscious that she was trespassing on someone’s private property. Reluctant to be seen lingering any longer, she hurried towards the opposite lane and walked back along the side of Hillcrest.

  A statuesque blond woman in cropped white trousers and a loose linen top was waiting for her at the top of the lane. If her authoritative stance was any indication, she was obviously the owner of the house, a fact she confirmed when she said, ‘My name is Davina Lewis. Can I ask what you are doing on my premises?’

  18

  The Marianne Diary

  Oh, God! God! The pain is back again. I want to crouch down and breathe… breathe. They held me down… no, I’m not going to think about that again. I have to think of Shane. His face, the way he laughs, his kisses and everything else. But he’s gone too. Everyone’s gone… Mam is supposed to be here to hold my hand. That’s what she promised the last time she visited. She was mad at Mother Gloria for putting me in the tank. Malachi said they were fighting like hellcats about it. He’s leaving here as soon as my baby is born. He hates Atonement and says Hard Wind is just as bad, even though everyone is supposed to be equal and loving and sharing. Maybe that’s why Mam was crying so much that last time. She felt the baby kick when she put her cheek against my tummy and promised she’d be back in time for it to be born… I have to stop thinking about IT… but I can’t… can’t…

  The noise the door made when it dragged against the stone floor. I thought it was Shane coming but they were standing there, the three of them looking at me through the slits in their balaclavas. They grabbed me before I could scream and threw me down on the rug. I don’t remember much else, except for the stones digging into my back. There was always someone’s hand over my mouth so I couldn’t shout for help. Even if I had, no one would have heard. No one ever goes near the cottage. It’s been empty for forever and that’s why I thought it was our perfect hideaway… Oh God… oh God… The Quack says I’ve got false labour pains and my baby is not due for another two weeks. I’m to stop worrying and there’s plenty of time for Mam to get here. It’s so easy for her to say that. She’s not the one whose baby is going to be taken away. I used to think I wanted that to happen because I couldn’t bear the sight of it. Now I know it’s because my heart is breaking and I’m never going to be able to fix it… never ever… they took their turns with me and never spoke only to grunt and curse and call God’s name. One of them wanted to leave but the other two kept shouting DO IT DO IT DO IT and the taller one pushed him on top of me and then his jeans were pulled off and I couldn’t tell if he was struggling to get away from me or be with me the same way as the others. It was like he was crying and cursing at the same time and he ran away as soon as it was over.

  I remember the cars that kept passing when Shane tried to get help. His face was covered with bruises and one eye was so swollen he couldn’t see out of it. He’d seen the other two leaving but they dragged him off his bike and knocked him out. I keep wondering how we made it to the road when I was so heavy inside with the weight of them. I remember being on my knees and walking and falling again and still the cars went by and wouldn’t stop. I remember lights shining and voices shouting and Shane shouting louder than anyone and Sergeant Bale saying he had to get to the nub of the matter. I remember him carrying me from the Garda station to Mam’s car and me screaming because I couldn’t stand his hands on me… and now it’s time… I know it is… it’s time to get to the nub…

  Part 2

  19 Davina

  Davina Lewis was used to strangers admiring Hillcrest. The thatched roof stopped them in their tracks. Out came their phones and cameras, their selfie sticks. Keith had not wanted thatch. Conscious of his eco-aware credentials, he had toyed with the idea of solar glass panels, but she had her way in the end. Water reed or, to give it its scientific name, Phragmites australis, had proved to be an effective energy saver, and Keith was now convinced it had been his idea in the first place. Hillcrest was unique among the neighbouring houses on Summit Road and that, for Davina, was what mattered. Not for her, personally – she considered herself modest by inclination. But as a politician’s wife, and a parliamentary assistant to Christy, it was important to establish a distinctive presence in Reedstown.

  The woman came into view again and stopped when she saw The Lodge. Davina moved closer to the window. She prided herself on her ability to recognise trouble. Like a snake in the long grass, trouble could remain invisible yet nearby, too close for comfort but staying inactive until ready to strike. Strictly speaking, the young woman in the tan leather jacket and hip-hugging jeans, a black backpack slung over one shoulder, was not doing anything that unusual. After taking photographs of the front of Hillcrest, she had disappeared down the lane. Moving back from the window, Davina hurried up the stairs and into her bedroom to get a better view. This stranger was definitely loitering, which meant she was either casing Hillcrest with the intention of robbing it or she was planning to doorstep Christy. Her father-in-law was an expert on soundbites and the media loved his opinions on the latest political scandal.

  The chances of successfully breaking and entering either Hillcrest or The Lodge were slim. The security system was state of the art. Christy had made sure of that when it was being installed. He wasn’t taking any chances with his secrets. The intruder made no attempt to knock on his door. Burglar or journalist, either way she was trespassing and Davina was determined to find out why she was taking so many photographs. Admittedly, The Lodge was cute with its red front door, the box plants at the entrance, the petunias cascading from the hanging baskets and the purple fall of wisteria softening the old brickwork on the rear wall.

  She moved back from the window and was waiting at her front gate when the woman emerged from the lane.

  ‘My name is Davina Lewis.’ Davina’s authoritative tone stopped her in her tracks. ‘Can I ask what you are doing on my premises?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ The intruder shoved her mobile phone into the backpack and approached Davina. ‘I didn’t mean to trespass but I was fascinated by your house. The thatch is amazing. And the lane… that lovely creeper growing along the back wall… it’s beautiful.’

  For an instant Davina thought she looked familiar but she was unable to think of where or when they might have met. She would have recognised her if she was from the locality but, perhaps, she lived in one of the new houses that had mushroomed around Reedstown in recent years. New voters, new faces – keeping up with a changing landscape was a constant challenge for the politically astute. The impression of familiarity was fleeting and the laminated business card the woman handed to Davina stated that she was a documentary maker/producer with Voice Dox. The company was based in London. As far as Davina was concerned, a documentary maker was akin to a journalist, and was possessed by that same bloodhound mentality. Not that this Adele Foyle would find anything on Keith. His hands were squeaky clean. Christy’s reputation, however, always threatened to cast a long, troubling shadow. The sooner he retired the better. He should have done so after his heart attack but he still believed he was invincible.

  ‘What is your documentary about?’ she asked. It was a perfectly logical question, yet she sensed a reluctance on Adele’s part to answer it.

  ‘I’m still at the initial stage of my research,’ she said. ‘An idea can be talked out of existence if it’s discussed too often before it’s properly formed.’ She sounded apologetic but Davina was tuned in to evasiveness and this young woman was not answering her question. Why should Hillcrest and The Lodge attract so much attention from a documentary maker? Determined not to let her escape without revealing her true reasons, Davina invited her into her home for coffee. Hug trouble close and find its chinks: it was a policy that had served her well in the
past.

  ‘My husband, Keith, and his father are the two sitting TDs for this constituency,’ she said when Adele hesitated. ‘I’ve lived all my life in Reedstown and I work as an advisor to both of them. Between us, we have a wealth of knowledge that could be useful if you’re making a documentary about the area.’

  Over coffee, strong and black, exactly as Davina liked it, she discovered that the documentary maker had no interest in politics. She claimed that she had never heard of Christy Lewis or his son until she arrived in Reedstown. There was no doubting her admiration for Hillcrest though, and Davina, as susceptible to flattery as the next person, gave her a guided tour. She had every reason to be proud of her home. It had been such a nondescript building when Christy lived here, so dated.

  Adele’s flattery was slightly unnerving. Her gaze was sharp, her brown eyes flashing here and there, but never settling on anything for long. Was she looking for photographs of children? They should be there, fresh-faced and gap-toothed, blowing out candles, opening Christmas presents, standing with their parents outside holiday homes. They had been part of Davina’s life plan and she had intended having two, preferably a boy and a girl, when she was in her mid-thirties and ready for marriage. Until then, her career in politics took first preference.

  She had only stopped to take stock of her future when she was diagnosed with uterine fibroids soon after her thirty-third birthday. A hysterectomy was deemed necessary. The shock and heartache that followed the operation could have defined her future, if Davina had allowed it to do so. Instead, she decided to focus once again on her career. She had worked as Christy’s secretary, research assistant, speechwriter, and political advisor. The cut and thrust of politics challenged her more than ever and she enjoyed the knowledge that the strings she pulled were invisible to everyone but herself. She had had an on-off relationship over the years with Keith and she was well aware that his interest in children was non-existent. He had joked during his wedding speech that he had chased Davina until she stopped running from exhaustion. She was happy to allow him to believe he was the hunter, and not the hunted. She had moved into Hillcrest and had been the brains behind the victory he achieved when he ran as a first-time candidate in the last election.