by Laura Elliot
On the night she discovered she was pregnant she had called into Liam’s home office where he was working late and seduced him on his desk. A television screen flickered on the wall, the sound mute, business grafts constantly changing as she scattered his carefully arranged documents to the floor. Bending over, she offered herself to him with an abandonment that shook them both to their core. His roughness and her compliance, that was how he always believed Stephanie was conceived. He apologised to Julie afterwards, gently sliding her thong back up over her thighs, kissing the marks he had left on her arms, the cheeks of her arse, on her neck. She forgave him. Two things she knew. That she would never again trigger such uncontrolled wantonness in him and that she had the strength to ensure her secret. She had upheld her side of the bargain since then, and he unaware that such a soulless contract had been made in his name, adored the child he believed to be his daughter.
He was lying to her about the meeting. She knew the texture of aggression, its abrasive breath fouling the air. She had walked in on an argument that had nothing to do with the annual Reedstown Festival but had everything to do with Adele Foyle. Her name uttered by her husband with the vehemence he usually reserved for a curse.
Part 3
27 Davina
Davina switched on the coffee machine. A strong espresso was needed before she undertook a morning in the constituency clinic, where she would handle the mutterings and grievances of constituents; the needy and the greedy, as Keith called them, always with a hand out or looking for a hand up. Not that he ever gave them that impression. Like his father, he switched into what Davina called his ‘charm offensive’, which convinced the constituent that his or her problem was the only one that mattered to him.
She perched on the high stool beside the breakfast oasis with her coffee and laptop. This precious fifteen minutes allowed her time to check her emails and Facebook. As usual, it had been a busy night on Reedstown Reminiscences. She had set up the Facebook page during Keith’s election campaign. It proved to be a brainwave but soon became a victim of its own success. Trying to administer the page was too time-consuming and Davina had handed that responsibility over to a friend’s daughter, Martina Spellman, who was studying computer science at Reedstown Community College. Her co-administrator had obviously been approving posts from around the world. Lots of old photographs and quite a few new link-ups, as one-time friends made contact again. Davina scanned the posts – and stopped when she recognised a new name. Martina had accepted Adele Foyle into the group and approved her first post.
Hi Everyone I’m new to Reedstown Reminiscences and looking forward to belonging to your group. My reason for moving to Reedstown is to make a documentary and I hope to remain here until it’s complete. I want to document the life of a teenager called Marianne Mooney. She was fifteen when she left Reedstown and had just turned sixteen when she died. That’s twenty-four years ago. Does anyone remember her? Unfortunately, my research material has been compromised so I’m back to the beginning of my search. Can you help me? Send on your photos and your memories of Marianne. She was pregnant when she left Reedstown and her baby was delivered in the House of Atonement, which was run by a local Reedstown resident, the late Gloria Thornton. I’ve set up a blog to tell Marianne’s story. This will consist of diary entries Marianne wrote during the final months of her life. You can add to my research or simply browse through Marianne’s reminiscences. Lots to find out – lots to tell. Hit the link below and join me on my blog. http:mariannememoriesreedstown.com
How long had this post been up? Midnight. Martina must have approved it before she went to bed. Why was Adele Foyle focusing on Marianne Mooney and her tragically short life? Life was in the present and too fast-moving to be slowed down by negativities from the past. The popularity of Reedstown Reminiscences was that it allowed nostalgia to bask in the glow of happy memories.
Davina hit the link and opened the blog. It was a simple design, no trimmings. One page for diary entries, a second one for photographs. Viewers were invited to submit their own and caption them. Someone had already responded to the request and added a photo of the grey, charmless bungalow once occupied by Rosemary Mooney, the unkempt front and back gardens neglected so that she didn’t have to waste time pulling weeds when she could be pulling lost souls into her fantasy world. Christy had brought order to that wilderness. The rampant dandelions and thistles had been concreted over and the lanes leading to his clinic had become well-trodden over the decades.
The diary entry seemed to be about jet trails and monsoons. What interest had anyone in teenage ramblings? She stopped when she came to a redacted name. Sergeant XXXX said it was important to get to the truth. That sounded suspiciously like Jack Bale and later, the Mr XXXXX who told her to look to the future was definitely Davina’s father-in-law. Christy was already being dragged into the sorry saga of the Thorns.
A photograph of Marianne Mooney stared back at her from the screen. One of those old-fashioned strips of five, taken with Shane Reagan in a photo booth. She was laughing, which was not the image that came to mind when Davina allowed herself to remember the girl. The sight of them together, arms around each other, pulling faces, lips puckered, acting the fool, added to her uneasiness. The handwriting, though slanted and scrawled, was legible, despite some blotches on the page that suggested tears were shed on the day she left Reedstown.
The sky was peerless and the sun, high and fierce, drilled through the kitchen window. It was only an hour since Davina had showered but she must do so again. A long, cool shower to bring down the prickly heat that was spreading over her body as she continued reading what must have been one of the most outrageous accusations ever made. A gang-rape, here in Reedstown. Three perpetrators, that was what Marianne Mooney claimed. The nerve of her. Everyone who had known her was aware that Shane Reagan was the only person responsible for her unfortunate pregnancy. Trouble, the snake: Davina could hear its rattle. Her heart thudding, she continued reading. Her teeth clenched when she came to the last line. Horrible things that aren’t true and the older girls sniggering and calling me a slut every time they see me.
Julie had described the bullying of Marianne Mooney as a virus. As far as Davina was concerned, that was way over the top, but Julie was all drama, so much nervous energy contained within her skinny frame. Looking back on it, the bullying of Marianne Mooney had seemed to happen overnight. Until then, she had been just an insignificant kid who wore weird clothes and never seemed bothered by the fact that she was an outsider. Then the stories started, the nudges and giggles when she walked past. She was called Queen of the Blowjob and it was reported as gospel that she had been down on her knees in Loyvale Park one night, drunk and uncaring as she obliged a line of eager boys. No one ever checked out the rumours. They were too salacious to withstand the harsh reality of objectivity. The fact that her mother was a Thorn added an extra dimension of pleasure to repeating such stories. Then she was gone and the rumours went with her, evaporating into a shameful silence that no one acknowledged when they heard she had died giving birth to her child.
A movement at the patio door distracted her. She moved away from the breakfast oasis as Christy slid the door open. He looked so old this morning, unable to disguise the sag and slope of age. As for those shapeless jogging pants! If the media could see him now… Davina closed her eyes at the thought of journalists linking into Adele Foyle’s blog. He was agitated, she could see that at a glance. She knew immediately that he had also checked Facebook.
He nodded towards the oasis, where she had left her laptop. ‘You’ve read the diary, I presume?’
‘I’m furious. Did you see the picture someone put up of The Lodge―?’
His face reddened and a vein pulsed on his temple. ‘Davina, my home should be the least of your worries this morning. Why did you allow Adele Foyle to join your group?’
‘I didn’t. Martina approved her.’
‘You agreed to take on full responsibility for administering that page
when you set it up, so what the fuck is a kid doing handling it?’
‘It’s too time-consuming to manage by myself.’
‘Then you should have closed it down. Have you any idea how many users have shared her post and are, right at this minute, linking into her blog?’
‘Not many. The post went up during the night.’
‘That makes no difference. Facebook doesn’t sleep. That diary entry…’ He exhaled heavily. ‘It’s total nonsense, of course, every word of it, but social media is a cesspit of misinformation. You, of all people, should know that. My name is up there─’
‘All she said is that you bought the house and you were kind to her.’
‘Kind to her? Is that how you read it? She said I was in her bedroom—’
‘Were you?’
‘How the fuck would you expect me to remember something that happened twenty-five years ago? I was probably trying to encourage her to look to the future when her pregnancy was behind her. That kid Reagan raped a minor and did a bunk as soon as he was found out.’
His terse tone increased her apprehension. Was he nervous? Over forty years in politics had honed his nerves to steel and nervousness was not an emotion she had ever attributed to him.
‘Where’s Keith?’ he asked. ‘I need to speak to him.’
‘‘He’s in Government Buildings.’
‘What the hell is he doing there?’ He pulled at his ear, his glare suggesting that this upset was entirely Davina’s fault.
‘Working with a cross-party committee on homelessness. He told you about it.’
‘Committees, committees… all he’ll get from sitting on them is a fat backside. Druggies and drunks, does he really think he’s going to make a difference in their lives? Local issues… that’s where you get results.’
He had gone off on a tangent, a favourite hobby horse. She let him rant on about the uselessness of today’s breed of young politicians with their cross-party committees and consensus. She knew when he was releasing a pressure valve in his mind and not even hearing his own words. Perspiration shimmered on his forehead and his face had a waxen sheen that alarmed her.
‘Has he seen this blog?’ he demanded.
‘I don’t know, Christy. He left early this morning.’
‘That bitch needs to be stopped in her tracks. The reputation of Reedstown…’ He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. His mouth had a slackness that reminded her of his bewilderment when his heart attack struck. His breath was coming too fast. No disguising his alarm now as he held on to the edge of the breakfast oasis to steady himself and pressed his other hand against his chest.
‘My tablets. Get them. They’re on the bathroom shelf―’
Davina helped him into a chair and ran to The Lodge. His laptop was on the coffee table, open. No need to check what he was reading before he barged into Hillcrest. She found his heart tablets in the bathroom and returned to her kitchen, where she was assailed by the sour smell of vomit. Christy bent forward and retched again before collapsing back into the chair. She winced away from the sound. Her lovely kitchen despoiled. She resisted the urge to fetch hot water and disinfectant.
He was still alert when she phoned for an ambulance.
‘Save your breath,’ she said when he tried to speak. ‘The ambulance is on its way.’
The paramedics transferred him immediately to a stretcher.
‘Get in touch with Keith?’ He grabbed her hand as he was carried from the house.
‘Take it easy,’ the paramedic advised him. ‘Save your energy for your recovery, and that’s beginning right now.’
Before following the ambulance, Davina deleted the Facebook post but its tentacles, she knew, had already spread around the world. She deleted Adele Foyle from the list of friends and rang Martina, whose phone went immediately to message. Leave a number… Her voice was giddy and young. How could Davina have been so stupid as to leave a teenager in charge of a landmine?
Three hours later, Keith arrived at the hospital. Anxious and flushed, he embraced Davina. She breathed in the sweat of the city; the snarled-up traffic that had delayed him and, before then, the pressure of the enclosed back room where he had been uncontactable.
‘The cardiac specialist is with him now,’ she said. ‘She’ll speak to us as soon as she’s finished her examination.’
‘What was he doing?’ Keith demanded. ‘He knows he’s not supposed to exert himself.’
‘He was upset about something that appeared on social media―’
‘He never pays any attention to that rubbish.’
‘This time he did. It was related to the Reedstown Facebook page.’ She stopped as the ward door opened and Sybil Manning swept towards them, her team following behind.
‘Mr Lewis, we meet once more.’ She extended her hand to Keith. ‘I must admit, I wasn’t expecting to see your father again quite so soon.’
‘How is he?’ Keith bestowed his smile on her. The gift that just keeps on giving, Davina thought, still furious with him for taking so long to reach the hospital.
‘Thankfully, I’m almost certain he has not suffered another heart attack,’ Sybil reassured him. ‘But we’ll have to wait until the final results come back from the lab. The stents are still doing their job, as is his pacemaker. But stress has obviously been placed on his heart. On this occasion, I suspect it is emotional rather than physical. My suspicion is that he suffered a panic attack.’
‘Panic.’ Keith’s forehead creased with disbelief. ‘My father doesn’t understand the concept of panic.’
‘I suspect he does,’ the specialist replied. ‘He’s adept at hiding it but that doesn’t mean it can’t affect him. Of course, I’ll need the blood results before I make a final diagnosis. We’ll keep him in overnight to stabilise his blood pressure. If the tests are clear, he’ll be discharged tomorrow.’
Davina had stopped listening. A panic attack related to Adele Foyle’s blog. Fear leading to tension leading to panic that got the better of him and was released in a disgusting pool of vomit. She had no intention of returning to a sullied house and had cleaned it up before leaving Hillcrest.
She made an excuse and hurried towards the bathroom, where she took out her phone and checked the mariannememoriesreedstown blog. A second diary entry had been posted. It mentioned Keith and Liam. Their names, not X’s. She remembered that car. A present from his parents for his eighteenth birthday. Keith had driven it like a rally driver until he hit a wall and that was the end of that. Liam would go ballistic when he saw what Adele had written about the mother and baby home. Already, the sharing of information had begun and the blog was bursting at the seams, virtually speaking, with comments. A snake Davina could handle. But a Hydra, now that was a different matter altogether. No matter how many heads were cut off, more would keep appearing. Christy’s blood pressure would go through the roof if he saw the online reaction the post had spawned. She needed to take his phone from him, but it would be easier to cut off his right arm.
He was subdued when they entered the small private ward. The sedation he had taken was working and his eyes were slightly glazed, his voice weak. Keith stood at a distance from his father. He had a healthy constitution and was uneasy around illness, unable to understand how it could fell the strongest and reduce them to a pitiful huddle. And that was how his father looked as he struggled to communicate something – a message… a warning… a threat?
Davina was unable to decipher what was going on between father and son but she was familiar with their unspoken hostility. The united front they presented to the world was impossible to maintain in private. Christy was old-school, back rooms and cigarette smoke, to hell with the ban, foul air was essential for the foul decisions that destroyed the opposition. Cross-party support was anathema to him and his self-belief convinced him that his son’s political reputation would never equal his own. Davina, whose job nowadays seemed to consist mainly of keeping the peace between them, often wondered if taming li
ons would be an easier option.
‘I sorted it out for you the last time,’ Christy whispered just as they were leaving. His words were slurred, yet held enough bitterness to reach his son. ‘Now it’s your turn to clean up your own shit.’
Keith turned back and bent low over his father’s bed. His hand hovered above Christy’s mouth. Davina was convinced he would bring it down on those cruel, withered lips. She grabbed her husband’s elbow, forced him to look at her.
‘Let him rest,’ she said. ‘He’s too drugged to talk sense.’
‘I am talking sense.’ Christy licked his lips, his dry mouth rasping when he swallowed, and stared directly at Davina. ‘You’re strong, not like him.’ He pointed a finger at his son. ‘He doesn’t deserve any of it but he’s had it handed to him on a plate. You’ve got the balls to stop him fucking it up.’
Was Christy praising her? If so, what kind of drug had they given him? His finger was still suspended, an accusatory digit that Keith ignored as he turned and walked from the ward. Christy grabbed her arm before she could move and half-rose before collapsing back on the pillows. ‘Make him talk to you. You’ll know how to handle the storm that’s coming.’
Keith had reached Hillcrest before her and was sitting at the kitchen oasis, her laptop open in front of him. She was not fooled by his composure. His youthful good looks had weathered well, thanks to a defined bone structure, a thick head of black hair and a razzle-dazzle smile. No wonder the media treated him as a political poster boy.
‘Coffee’s ready.’ He closed the laptop and gestured towards the coffee machine. ‘Would you like a cup?’
‘No, thanks. Have you read that blog?’