Oonagh’s voice remained calm and comforting. ‘You know it’s only natural to feel guilt, but don’t forget you were the victim in all this. You did nothing wrong…’ And still the gentle cries of the woman continued. He switched it off, taking the tape from the machine.
The kitchen door burst open, causing him to jump. Shit! Oonagh’s mum’s footsteps were silent in her sheepskin slippers, and his nerves were more frayed than he’d realised. He slipped the tape into his pocket. He didn’t want her to think he was snooping.
‘Tea, Mrs O’Neil?’
‘Oonagh’s leprechaun.’
‘Eh?’
‘Her leprechaun – Oonagh’s leprechaun. It’s gone. I’ve looked through the whole house and it’s nowhere. And please, call me Fran.’
‘Sorry. Her leprechaun? What’s—?’
‘Oonagh had a silver letter opener with a leprechaun on top.’ Her voice began to crack. ‘She treasured it. Her dad gave it to her just before he died. It was just this thing they had between them. He always claimed he’d seen a leprechaun once. She’ll go mad if it’s not here.’
Tom tried to usher her into the living room to calm her down. But the sound of the key in the lock sent her racing to the front door.
*
‘You okay with this, Oonagh?’
She tugged her collar up round her neck, covering the stitches that held her wound closed. There were only three steps leading up to her front door. Three steps she’d taken hundreds – thousands – of times. But today was different. She wondered if she’d ever feel safe at home again.
Her mum was already inside, having left the hospital after dropping off some clothes. Tom would be with her, which would at least keep him occupied. As Alec Davies had said, Tom had been hanging around the hospital like a ‘fart in a trance’.
It had been left to Davies to drive her home, and she was glad. Because that’s all it was. A drive home. No emotions. No hysterics. Just a drive home. They’d taken their time and stopped at Bloody Mary’s for a cucumber-gin and tonic, so by the time Oonagh climbed the three stairs to her home, the morning champagne and afternoon G & T were having an effect. Davies steadied her, holding her arm, but the butterflies in her stomach were fluttering so fiercely that they sent a wave of nausea through her entire body.
Oonagh trembled and hesitated as she inserted the key.
*
Oonagh had to prise her mum’s hands from round her neck because her fingers were digging into her stitches. Despite the anaesthetising effect of the alcohol, her wound still throbbed like mad.
‘There, there, Mum. I’m home. I’m all right.’
Her mum held on, as if to make sure she really was there. Alive. In the flesh. ‘Darling, darling girl. My baby.’
‘Some baby!’ Oonagh laughed. With her heels she stood easily three inches taller than her mum.
They led each other into the living room. Davies sat down on the sofa opposite the two women.
Her mum immediately spilled the beans about the missing leprechaun.
‘Was it valuable?’ Davies asked.
‘Very,’ said Oonagh, ‘but that’s not the point.’
‘No,’ continued Davies, ‘but it might have been lifted during the break in, and if it’s valuable it might be easier to trace. Oonagh, when did you see it last?’
‘I…’ Oonagh stammered. ‘I think… I’m not sure. I don’t know.’
‘Can you describe it to me?’
‘No need,’ her mum said, taking a photograph album from the bureau in the corner and opening it at the front page. She handed it to Davies. ‘Oonagh has quite a few valuable pieces. Her dad made sure she took pictures of everything. You know, for insurance purposes.’
Oonagh let out an exaggerated cough. ‘Mum! Do you mind not talking about me as though I’m not here! I can speak for myself, you know.’
Davies looked at the picture. His eyes widened. The little silver leprechaun sat cross legged on top of a long narrow blade. ‘Can I take this, Oonagh?’ he asked, already peeling back the protective plastic sheeting before she had a chance to refuse.
He immediately called McVeigh, Hi, get a plod to drop you off and meet me here,’ he gave him enough time to jot down the address then hung up.
*
Back in the car, McVeigh was unusually quiet. They were almost back at the station before he spoke.
‘D’ye think that’s the weapon, boss?’
‘Aye, son, I do.’
*
Tom had left not long after Davies, thankfully taking the hint. Her mum, however, insisted on staying. Judging from her overnight bag she planned to be around for several days. Despite insisting she’d be fine, Oonagh was glad her mum was staying. She wanted her close at hand.
It was still light outside, but what Oonagh needed most was her bed. Her own bed. Her mum brought up tea and toasted cheese on a tray ‘I’ve cut the crusts off, sweetheart’ and set about plumping the already ridiculously over stuffed pillows.
Oonagh felt herself sink back into the softness and let herself be babied. ‘Thanks.’
Her mum sat next to her, brushing the strands of hair from her forehead. ‘I thought I’d lost you, sweetheart.’ Her chin quivered and her bottom lip went into little spasms. ‘You know you’re the most important thing to me in the whole wide world.’
Oonagh knew she meant it.
‘Mum, about the last time… with Owen…’
‘Shush now.’ Her mum patted her arm. ‘Don’t upset yourself. You try and get some rest. I’ll be downstairs if you need me, darling.’ She blew Oonagh a kiss as she backed out of the room and Oonagh snatched it from the air the way she had as a child.
She waited until she heard her mum moving dishes downstairs in the kitchen. Only then did she pick up the phone.
‘Hello, can I speak to Father Watson please. Yes, it’s Miss O’Neil.’ She drew circles on the duvet cover with her nail while waiting to be put through.
‘Father Watson? Oonagh O’Neil here. I think it’s about time you and I had a little chat, don’t you?’
31
Glasgow, 2000
She wasn’t really looking forward to the meeting, but it gave her an excuse to get out of the house where someone had attempted to slit her throat only days earlier.
She stretched her leg to step over the bloodstain that stubbornly remained at the bottom of the stairs, despite attempts at cleaning it out. She wrapped a scarf around her neck to hide her stitches, and applied more make up than normal to give her sickly pallor a bit of colour. The trace of a bruise was appearing around her left eye, apparently caused by her brain bouncing up and hitting the front of her skull when she fell. She’d been bleeding heavily throughout the night and felt weak and tired. It was apparently normal after a miscarriage. Especially at her age. She checked her car keys were in her bag then shouted to her mum that she was taking a walk. A bit of fresh air that’s all. She was out the door before Fran had a chance to answer her.
Fuelled by fear and anger, she made her way to the city centre. The morning rush hour was over, but Charing Cross was thick with traffic, cars still bumper to bumper as they left the M8.
*
Charlie Antonio made his way up the three steps to the front door of St Patrick’s. He stopped to catch his breath at the last one. Once again he’d left his car parked a few streets back. No point in advertising that he was there.
He slipped his index finger under his shirt collar to prise it away from his sweaty neck, and wiped his forehead with a cotton handkerchief. In the past few months, he’d noticed a slight bulge forming just above the waistband of his trousers. That gut had to go. First thing Monday, he would go for a session at the gym, before things got out of hand. He needed to be one step ahead, to stay in control. It was the only way.
Before entering, he patted his breast pocket for reassurance – there would be no point in the meeting if he wasn’t in possession of the trump card. But yes, the letter opener was still there. He’d
wrapped it carefully – in tissue rather than anything cotton, less chance of telltale fibres – being careful not to scrape off even a sliver of the blood that caked the razor sharp blade. His own hands were gloved, but he wanted a decent set of prints before the day was through. For a bit of added security – insurance.
He shook his head. Bloody stupid bitch, leaving a thing like that lying in her hall. Someone could have been killed!
*
Oonagh didn’t wait to be ushered into the office. ‘He’s expecting me,’ she made clear to the grey nun behind the desk, offering her the merest hint of a sardonic smile before barging through the door.
The nun ran in behind her in a state of apoplexy. ‘Father, she pushed right past me!’
Father Watson stood up. Oonagh hadn’t realised he was quite so big and had to steady herself against the nerves that were shaking her insides.
Oonagh tipped her chin towards the nun in a show of false bravado. ‘She can stay if she wants. Depends how public you want this meeting to be.’
The priest contemplated his options for a few moments and lit a slim cigar, sucking a few times on the end until the light took hold.
Oonagh noticed that the nicotine stains on his fingers extended almost to his knuckles.
‘Trying to give up the fags,’ he said, holding the cigar in front of him. ‘Apparently these things are marginally less hazardous. But I suppose we’ve all got to die of something.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Might as well be something pleasurable, eh?’ He turned to the nun. ‘Right, Sister, that’ll be all.’
The nun edged out of the room.
Oonagh tried to slam the door shut behind her and felt Father Watson’s eyes laughing into the back of her head as the control hinges took charge. The door eased over slowly.
‘Nice of you to pop by. Mind telling me what you want, Miss O’Neil?’
‘Please don’t bother pretending you don’t know what I’m here for.’
‘Why don’t you take a seat?’
Oonagh would rather have remained standing, but needed to get off her feet. She sat opposite him and hoped she looked more confident than she felt.
Father Watson walked to the windows and adjusted the vertical blinds just enough to ensure the low autumn sun squeezed through and hit Oonagh in the eyes. She took her shades from her bag and turned her seat round until the light was behind her.
‘So…’ he said.
She opened her bag once more, took out a letter and waved it at the priest. ‘The small matter of you covering up an illegal adoption racket.’
32
Glasgow, 2000
‘I beg your pardon?’ Father Watson sniggered.
Oonagh had a good sense of humour, but didn’t enjoy being laughed at when she wasn’t trying to be funny.
‘Listen, Father, don’t come the innocent with me. You know exactly what I’m talking about.’ He raised his eyebrows and she knew he was goading her to tell him what she knew. ‘Did you think you could hide it away forever? How much did you lot make over the years? Thousands? Hundreds of thousands? More? I suppose by today’s standards you must have creamed off a small fortune.’
Father Watson leaned back in his chair until the front legs lifted off the floor. He sucked on his cigar and blew circles of smoke in the air. ‘You’re an ex-Catholic aren’t you, Miss O’Neil?’
‘What the hell’s that got to do with this?’
‘You’re not married either. At your age. And with no kids. Your life must feel a bit empty. You must feel a bit disappointed with things.’
Oonagh mused on his question for a moment before replying, ‘No, not really. I would have liked to have been taller with bigger tits, but no, on the whole, Father Watson, I’m fairly happy with the hand God has dealt me. And I note that you’re also unmarried and childless, despite your even greater age.’
He ignored her retort and wouldn’t let up. ‘You can always tell. What happened? Read The Female Eunuch at uni and decided the Church was too patriarchal? Decided we didn’t quite fit your left wing post-feminist ideals?’
She sliced through his words, unable to stomach any more. ‘How dare you. My politics and religious beliefs have nothing whatsoever to do with this. Are you mental? Do you think I’m getting my feminist rocks off with a bit of petty Church bashing? For fuck’s sake. Your mob – and yes, that’s exactly what they are, a bloody mob – your mob snatched babies from their mothers and sold them. Sold them. And those that weren’t fit to be sold were left to rot until they died. All this under some parallel moral code that made it okay because you could hide your crimes behind a collar. Have you any idea of the misery you’ve caused? You’d better pray that God truly is forgiving, or you’ll burn in hell for what you’ve done.’
She felt the beads of sweat on her brow. Her mouth was dry and parched and she was worn out from the sheer effort of not being at home in bed.
Father Watson stubbed out his cigar and the smoke caught the back of her throat. He pulled a packet of unfiltered cigarettes from the drawer. ‘Let’s live dangerously, shall we?’ He licked his lips, sizing her up. ‘If you really believe all this, why don’t you go to the police?’ He looked directly at her.
Oonagh didn’t reply.
‘Miss O’Neil, I don’t know where you’re getting your information from but it’s not true. I assume you think you’ve uncovered some great miscarriage of justice during your Magdalene research with Father Thomas.’
She still said nothing and just let him continue.
‘But whatever it is, I can assure you you’re wrong. Those poor women were treated harshly, of that I have no doubt. But Miss O’Neil – can I call you Oonagh?’
‘No, it’s Miss O’Neil.’
‘Well then, Miss O’Neil, what we have to remember is that it was a long time ago. The world was a harsher place. Everyone was treated harshly. Even the men.’
The priest let out a wee laugh, but to Oonagh, he looked predatory.
‘It’s understandable that the women you’ve spoken to are bitter. But stories like this crawl out of the woodwork every day. The Church has become an easy target for people wanting revenge – and, in many cases, compensation. Is it any wonder they sometimes expand on the truth? No, I’m sorry;’ he shook his head ‘I’m afraid you’ve been the victim of some glory-seeking, compensation-hungry confidence trickster. No doubt we’ll have her lawyer’s letter before the end of the week. Then they’ll offer to settle out of court ’cause they’ve not got a shred of bloody evidence.’
‘This isn’t about money; it’s about the difference between right and wrong. You understand that much, don’t you?’ She slammed her hands on his desk. The wound on her neck throbbed as her blood pressure rose. She was conscious of shouting, and tried to keep her voice at a pitch short of hysteria. ‘How could you be party to this?’
‘Miss O’Neil, I’m party to nothing. I was barely out of my teens at the time you’re talking about. Now please, I know you’ve recently been the victim of a serious assault, and I’ve no doubt this is a very difficult time for you, but you know, I’ve given you enough time here. This is getting beyond a joke. I’m extremely busy. You’ll have to excuse me.’
‘You were party to covering it up. That’s enough.’ She held the folded letter up for him to see. ‘Your lot were making a bloody packet from forcing innocent girls to give up their babies. Well, Father Kennedy couldn’t live with the guilt. Seems he wanted to make his peace before he went. And you don’t fare too well either.’ She waved the document right under his nose. ‘He’s really landed you in it. You and a few others besides.’
Father Watson dropped the smouldering cigarette onto his lap. ‘Shite!’ He jumped up and brushed the burning ash from his thighs. A smell of singed wool filled the office.
‘Where did you get that?’ He reached to snatch it from her, but Oonagh quickly stuffed it back in her bag, securing it in a zipped compartment.
‘And don’t be stupid,’ she said. ‘I’ve got another co
py at home.’ She looked for his reaction. His face turned waxy and grey and he seemed to dissolve into his clothes. This time it was her turn to snigger. ‘What’s wrong? Didn’t you know Father Kennedy had made a copy?’ She crinkled her nose at him. ‘Nice try, buster.’
She stood and opened the door to leave, but the priest leapt from behind his desk and forced it closed. He towered over her and she could smell the stale cigar smoke and sour whisky on his breath. She held her bag tight against her chest. For a fleeting moment she thought he might even hit her, then realised how ridiculous that would be with the nun outside. Instead he pressed himself against her until she could hardly breathe.
‘Miss O’Neil, please take my advice. Don’t go making a fool of yourself with what you think is a last confession of Father Kennedy. He was very old, very frail. And, let’s face it, everyone knows he wasn’t quite… how can I put this… he wasn’t quite the full shilling.’ He bent over until his nose touched hers. His teeth were clenched as he spoke slowly and deliberately into her face. ‘Now, listen to me.’
But Oonagh had done enough listening. She lifted her leg and brought her heel down hard on his foot, then hurried from the office and into the waiting lift. Once in the car she flicked on the central locking to secure the doors.
She shook all the way home.
*
Davies was standing on her top doorstep, finger on the bell. ‘Where have you been? I thought you were meant to be staying in bed. You look awful.’
‘Thanks.’
She was just getting her breath back. Davies had to steady her hand as she fumbled with the key in the lock.
Inside, all was quiet. A note on the fridge door explained that her mum had gone to the shops, but there were still signs of her in the kitchen: a bottle of red wine was chilling nicely in the fridge. Her mum was teetotal and presumably thought she was doing her a favour. Looking around, Oonagh cast a despairing glance at the washing machine as her red cashmere cardigan swished from side to side in a sea of biological bubbles.
The Lost Children Page 16