The Lost Children

by Theresa Talbot

  She climbed the stairs slowly, keeping her breathing under control. Her asthma was playing up a bit and she wanted to appear calm when she reached the top.

  He caught sight of her as she reached the second step from the top. Stood up, put his glasses on the table, and walked over to meet her. Kissing her on each cheek. Always the gentleman. When she’d first met him, it was one of the things that had attracted her to him. Now she found it slightly irritating.

  He guided her over to the table and held out her seat. Only when she was fully comfortable did he resume his position opposite her.

  ‘How did you get here before me?’ she said, a bit annoyed.

  He patted his thighs and smiled. ‘Turbo-charged.’

  Her heart did a little somersault and she cursed him for being so good looking. Bastard.

  A mixture of smells rose from the kitchens downstairs. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes and flared her nostrils to savour the aroma.

  ‘Hungry, Oonagh?’

  ‘Mmm, I could eat for two,’ she said sarcastically, patting her belly. She looked down at the menu in front of her. She’d decided what she wanted to eat on the way there; the menu was just an excuse for not talking for a few minutes. She laboured over it, running her index finger up and down, stopping every so often to illustrate the point.

  ‘Oonagh, I’ve been worried sick about you. The other night on the phone, well, I didn’t mean… You know how I feel, it’s… It’s just that…’ His voice trailed off without her interrupting. Normally she would fish him out of sticky situations. Throw him a lifeline. Reel him in before he had the chance to incriminate himself. It was a pattern that had developed early on in their relationship, he’d seen to that.

  He changed the subject. ‘How’s work? I’m sorry I missed the programme the other night. Something came up.’

  She looked up from the menu. ‘Eh? Oh never mind, I’m sure you’ll catch it next week. Lasagne, I think.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Lasagne, I’ll have the lasagne, always a safe bet in here.’

  ‘Oonagh, listen.’

  ‘Oh, and a bottle of Pinot Grigio.’ She put her menu down, folded her arms and looked up to indicate she was now ready to listen. He droned on for a bit, and she settled down for the usual spiel. She was only half listening, but managed to pick out a few key phrases, carefully chosen for maximum impact. ‘… position… responsibilities… reputation… not the right time… perhaps in a few years… blah de blah de blah…’ Tuning in and out without missing too much was easy; she was well used to Jack’s excuses.

  ‘Oonagh, I have to say, I’m really surprised at your attitude. I thought you had no qualms about termination. You always said it was a woman’s right.’

  ‘Yes, but bloody hell, I never said it should be compulsory!’ she shouted. He looked round, embarrassed in case anyone had heard her wee outburst. Witnessed her faux pas. Only the waiter was upstairs with them and he didn’t count, he was only a waiter after all.

  ‘Don’t worry, I can hardly keep it, can I?’ It was more of a question than a statement. But he didn’t pick up on that. The relief on his face was tangible. Suddenly he was ten years younger.

  ‘Oonagh, this doesn’t have to change anything. I know I’ve been a bastard these last few weeks. I’ve just had a lot on my mind. But you know how I feel. I can’t live without you.’

  She felt weary and was glad when the wine arrived. He was still droning on.

  ‘Look, why don’t we go away, take a holiday, somewhere warm? A break’ll do us good.’

  Jack never had trouble getting away – when he wanted to. One of the perks of being so successful; always at some conference or other. He was pouring her a second glass, celebrating getting off the hook so easily. Children were never on Jack’s agenda; baby seats just didn’t cut it in a Jag.

  The old Jack came flooding back, grinning from ear to ear. ‘… anywhere you like, Oonagh. What about Rome? We could tour round Italy, or… well, you choose.’

  He was certainly prepared to pay through the nose for this. Not surprising really. Every day, babies were being bought and sold for thousands of pounds, including on the Internet. Apparently the going rate for a healthy blond, blue eyed boy was upwards of ten grand. Oonagh wasn’t sure of the market value of a dead one. Not so much she reckoned. A good holiday was probably top whack.

  She ate silently, while he seemed unable to contain himself. The euphoria of his great escape.

  The bottle of wine on the table was soon empty. He ordered another one. Try as she might, she couldn’t share his enthusiasm.

  ‘I thought you had the car with you.’

  ‘Lighten up, Oonagh, I can handle a couple of glasses of wine for Chrissakes.’

  Was this man sitting before her really the best she could do?

  ‘You’ll know the devil when you see him, Oonagh,’ her dad had told her, often when they’d sat and chatted into the wee small hours, a bottle of brandy on the table between them. On those occasions her mum had constantly bobbed up and down, returning with batches of cheese on toast and saying things like, ‘You drunkards need something to soak up the alcohol,’ at the same time plying Oonagh with more booze to persuade her to stay overnight. It had usually worked.

  ‘Tell her about the night you actually saw the devil, Con,’ her mum would prompt her dad, and right on cue he’d reply, ‘Oh, I don’t know if she’s ready for that story, pet.’

  ‘Just tell me the story, Dad, before I sober up!’

  ‘Well, it was a dark foggy night in Dublin, and I’d missed the last tram home. I’d been out on a date with your mammy, d’ye remember, pet?’

  ‘Oh, indeed I do, Con.’

  ‘Bloody hell, get a move on, Dad.’

  ‘Aye right. Anyway, I noticed a man coming towards me. As I say, it was dark, and there were no streetlights, so I couldn’t make out his face. As he got up beside me he stopped and struck a match to light his cigarette. He looked right at me, right into my eyes, and said, “do you have the time, Con?” I’d never seen him before in my life, so how did he know my name, eh?’

  ‘Dad, knowing someone’s name doesn’t exactly earmark him as Beelzebub.'

  ‘Shush, I haven’t finished yet. Anyway, something told me not to answer him. I’d heard if you speak to the devil of your own free will then he can claim your soul as his own. I ignored him and hurried on. After just a few steps I thought I heard the faint sound of horses’ hoofs. Clip clop, clip clop. I turned round to see him walk away in the other direction, but he stopped for a moment and turned to give me one last glance. He smiled at me and winked as if to say, “We’ll meet again, Con,” before walking on. Then that dreaded clip clop sound was there again. This time it was louder, it echoed through the entire street. As I watched him walk away I looked down, and, Oh Dear God, it was the most frightening sight I have ever witnessed. Instead of legs he had the cloven hooves of a goat.’

  ‘You had a lucky escape that night, Con,’ her mum said in all seriousness, cutting the slices of toasted cheese in half, slicing off the crusts for Oonagh.

  He looked at Oonagh in earnest. ‘Listen love, the point of the story is that you’ll know the devil when you see him. Try to recognise him if you can.’

  ‘Dad, I’m a bit old for you to be telling me not to get in with the wrong crowd, but okay, I’ll keep my eye out for Satan!’

  Oonagh looked across at Jack, the man rejoicing at the impending death of their unborn child. His pointed tail neatly hidden by his Aquascutum jacket, his cloven hooves well disguised under his Patrick Cox shoes. Surely, she deserved more than what such a sod had to offer. As an only child, she’d lost half of her family when her dad had died. She suddenly felt very protective.

  ‘I can’t do it, Jack.’

  ‘Take a holiday? Course you can, Dah-ling.’ His tongue licked the outside of his lips as he guided a piece of garlic bread back into his mouth with his pinkie.

  ‘No, you stupid fuck-wit!’ She slapped
both hands on the table, ‘I can’t go through with the abortion.’

  Jack was visibly shaken. She realised he’d probably never heard her swear before, at least not in anger.

  ‘Oonagh, get a grip of yourself.’

  Jack put his glass on the table and looked round. A few tables nearby were now occupied, but her voice had failed to carry and no one was taking any notice.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, woman, what’s got into you lately?’

  ‘Well I’ve seen everything now. You’re completely cool about killing a child, yet the thought of poor social etiquette throws you into a state of apoplexy? You really are an arse. Are you mental?’

  ‘Oonagh.’ He reached over and held her wrist. ‘Listen to me, a baby would spoil everything, you haven’t really thought it through, have you?’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Jack,’ She pulled her arm away and rubbed her wrist, ‘I’ve thought of nothing else! And I don’t see how things could be any more spoiled than they already are. Do you honestly think we can just go on as before? Do you for one minute think I can just pick up where I left off? Get real, Jack. It’s over.’

  ‘Fine. But you’re not having this baby. Do you hear me? Over my dead body.’

  She’d had enough. ‘You really have lost it this time. I know what’s wrong. You’re worried in case Jean finds out. She’d go nuts. You’re worried she’ll take you for everything. The house, the business, the lot. She’d screw you, absolutely screw you.’

  ‘Well, don’t expect me to hang around and play happy families.’

  She stood up to leave, leaning both hands on the table, putting her face as close to his as possible.

  ‘Jack, I’d rather employ Myra Hindley as my live-in nanny than let you have anything to do with this baby.’ She jabbed her index finger into his chest. ‘I don’t want you or your filthy money anywhere near my baby, okay?’

  As she swung round to leave, her bag sent the half empty bottle of wine crashing to the floor. It attracted just the right amount of attention from nearby diners.

  18

  Glasgow, 2000

  Oonagh spread the grainy black and white photographs out on the floor in front of her. A teenage girl grinned back. It was 1958 and the girl’s face was flushed with pride. The pride of a victory that had marked the end of a three day riot that had closed the doors of Glasgow’s Magdalene Institute for ever, ending a two hundred year reign of terror and abuse.

  No one seemed to know exactly what had caused this violent and final outburst. But it had ended with the girls breaking out and running up Maryhill Road in a defiant lap of honour.

  Laughing, screaming, hysterical with relief. Captured on camera. Immortalised forever.

  Oonagh picked up one of the pictures for a closer look. It showed a group of women, no more than girls really, running along the middle of the road. In the background loomed Lochbridge House, empty and barren but still imposing itself. She recognised some of the nearby tenements; they stood on Maryhill Road to this day.

  The frontrunner was the valiant teenager, her gap-toothed smile grinning into the camera. Holding her hand, and lagging slightly behind, was a tall, skinny lassie with wiry hair and scared eyes. Oonagh had looked at the picture so often she felt she knew them. The image would work well in the opening credits of the programme.

  She hadn’t managed to trace any of the girls in the photos. Still, the interviews she had managed to record had made her weep. Gut wrenching stuff: mothers trying to trace children they’d last seen as babies thirty, forty or even fifty years ago. Grown men and women searching for perfect strangers, just for the chance of calling someone ‘Mum’ for the first time ever.

  The programme was coming together nicely, like pieces in a jigsaw. For maximum impact she would slot in the footage of Father Kennedy’s funeral near the end, after a section on the Irish institutes. There was some shocking material in that part: how one hundred and thirty-three unmarked graves had been discovered in a cemetery on convent grounds near Dublin in the early seventies; the bodies of one hundred and thirty-three women who had lived and died in the Magdalene. The dark secret had only come to light when the Sisters of Charity had sold the land and the bulldozers had moved in. But the ensuing public outcry had ensured the nameless souls now lay in the city’s Glasnevin Cemetery. It had made headline news at the time, and Oonagh planned to mix footage of the mass reburial with shots of Father Kennedy’s own funeral. It was a cheap shot, and she knew it. Call it dramatic licence. There was no record of him having had any dealings with the Dublin convent, but he’d been instrumental in Glasgow and Galway, and that was good enough for her. She couldn’t actually say he’d committed suicide, but with a few well-chosen words the audience would make up their own minds. It was Oonagh’s version of parallel justice.

  She sat down at her PC to rejig the final running order. The only thing left to film was the funeral. That would be on Monday, just a few days away. She made a few quick calculations in her head. Oonagh reckoned the whole thing would be done and dusted within the next week.

  It was past midnight, but she battered away at the keyboard to keep thoughts of Jack at bay.

  Her eyes switched from the screen to the black and white photographs still scattered on the floor, to her belly, then back to the screen. She picked up her favoured picture again and traced her finger along the face of the girl with the scared eyes.

  She wandered through to the kitchen and had to feel for the light switch in the hall. She could see nothing in the complete blackness. Even the streetlights were out.

  She switched on the kettle and, as usual, Cat wanted food. He snaked around her ankles and stood on his hind legs, head butting her lower thighs. She fondled him and he purred with satisfaction and anticipation.

  ‘You’re so bloody lucky,’ she said as she poured out a mound of dried food from a Tupperware container.

  The kettle reached boiling point at the same time as the phone rang.

  She wasn’t too fazed. She was used to getting calls at all hours.

  ‘Hello?’

  It went dead. But as soon as she put it back in its cradle it rang again.

  ‘Hello…?’ This time she was slightly irked.

  Once again it went dead as soon as she spoke.

  She dialled 1471 – number withheld.

  It rang a third time. She grabbed the receiver, ‘Listen, who is this…?’

  A high-pitched child’s voice squealed with delight. ‘It’s me, Mummy.’

  ‘Oh, em…’ Oonagh was taken aback to hear the little girl on the other end. ‘No, I’m not your mummy. Are you on your own, or do you have—?’

  ‘Peek-a-boo, Mummy. I can see you.’

  ‘No, I’m not your mummy – I’m… is there a grown up with you?’

  ‘Mummy please don’t kill me – I’ll be good, Mummy.’

  Her legs buckled and she steadied herself against the wall. ‘Who the hell is this?’

  The child’s voice distorted into a man’s low, rasping growl.

  ‘Abortion’s a sin. Didn’t your priest ever tell you that, you fucking murdering whore.’

  Oonagh screamed and threw down the phone. She was trembling, breathless.

  When it rang again she screamed in panic and knocked it out of its stand with the back of her hand, then grabbed it and hung up again before he had time to call back.

  Shaking, she staggered back into her office and slumped down on the chair.

  Adrenalin rushed through her veins. A telltale asthmatic wheeze rattled in her chest as she gasped for air and tried to gulp back tears at the same time. She hugged herself and shook uncontrollably. Fear, panic, anger, confusion; they all fought for pole position. She rummaged in her bag for her inhaler, then realised she’d left it upstairs. ‘Fuck!’ She sat for a few seconds trying to take in what she’d just heard. She breathed deeply and tried to relax back into the chair.

  As she exhaled slowly and opened her eyes, Oonagh O’Neil came to know the true meaning of fear. The
screen saver had kicked in and brought with it her worst nightmare.

  … I’M… IN… THE… HOUSE… YOU… STUPID… BITCH…

  I’M… IN… THE… HOUSE… YOU… STUPID… BITCH…

  Rooted to the spot, she stared straight ahead, uttering a pathetic plea for help. ‘No. Oh God, no. Oh dear God, please, not this…’

  The tightening in her throat moved down towards her chest and fear stole her breath.

  Retching with panic, a vein throbbed in her neck. Her pulse became a deafening thump inside her head. She grabbed the phone, but instead of the dialling tone, the deep rasping voice taunted her from the other end.

  ‘Did you think I’d gone away? I told you, I’m in the house, you stupid fucking bitch.’

  She held the phone in both hands, and screamed as she battered it on the desk, smashing it in a desperate, vain attempt to make it go away. Then she threw it to the ground and grabbed her mobile instead, before bolting from the room and out through the front door. In a blind panic she stumbled in her bare feet down the three steps onto the street outside, tripped on the last one and was sent flying to the ground.

  The pavement stung the heel of her hand and tore the skin from her knuckles. Searing pain shot through her arm as her elbow cracked on the ground, and her knee scraped along the concrete. Still she held onto her cellular lifeline, which was glued to her palm. The cold night air caught the back of her throat and tightened her chest still further. She tried to scream, but could only utter a strangulated asthmatic groan. Without her inhaler she’d be helpless in minutes.

  She crawled on all fours into the middle of the road and punched 999 into the keypad. It rang, once, twice.

  ‘Answer the phone, answer, please answer!’ she cried at the mouthpiece.

  At last she was connected.

  ‘Police. Police. I need the police.’ Her voice came out in a high-pitched comic squeak. She tried desperately to control her breathing. Her body performed involuntary spasms from pain, fear and cold. A thin t-shirt, cotton drawstring trousers and bare feet offered little in the way of protection from the elements. She looked up and down the length of the street; its emptiness stretched on forever. The streetlights were out and the blackness engulfed her. One house had a light in the front window, but she could barely move.