Tom nodded, but Oonagh jumped out of her chair as though it was on fire. ‘NO!’ She slammed her hand on the desk in front of her. ‘There is no way you’re sticking her in a mental ward. Is that clear?’
Tom looked slightly embarrassed by her outburst but Oonagh didn’t care.
Doctor Simmons was on a roll. ‘Self-harm is actually very common in people who themselves have been victims of abuse. With the right treatment and the correct medication, she could actually be—’
But Oonagh cut her off. ‘Doctor.’ She took a breath and tried to remain calm. ‘It’s because of the so-called correct treatment that she’s ended up in this state. Anna Brady’s been abused by the system her whole life and I don’t care what it takes, I don’t care what it costs, she’s not going back into an asylum.’ Oonagh was aware that her voice was getting louder, but didn’t care. ‘Now, please just treat Anna Brady with the dignity she deserves and not as some problem to be shut away in a loony bin.’
Doctor Simmons looked somewhat shocked at this last remark. ‘Remarks like that can be very damaging to those suffering from mental illness—’
‘Save it,’ replied Oonagh, who had no time for niceties. She could feel herself shaking. She walked out of the office before Doctor Simmons had a chance to find her a bed in the ward next to Anna Brady.
*
Anna Brady was in a small single room off the main surgical ward. Blood was being slowly fed into her veins through a tube connected to a needle in her left arm. Her right hand was still hooked up to the saline drip, which hung on a rail. Her wounds had been expertly bandaged. A single sheet covered her body, with four heart monitors stuck to her chest. Her eyes were closed, but Oonagh could tell by her shallow breathing that she wasn’t asleep.
A nurse was sitting by Anna’s side. Oonagh pulled up a chair and sat down. She’d calmed down – Doctor Simmons had insisted that she do so before being allowed onto the ward – and Tom was behind her. The nurse seemed grateful for the break and rose and left.
As she stroked Anna’s hand, Oonagh saw for the first time the silvery purple scars gouged deep into her forearms. The small, round, shiny red marks on her shoulders that Oonagh hoped to God weren’t cigarette burns even though she knew that they were. On both wrists, just above the bandages, were the scars from years gone by that Doctor Simmons had spoken of. Horizontal scars, presumably from before she’d perfected the art of opening up her veins properly.
‘It’s easy to recognise another damaged soul,’ Tom said.
‘Eh?’ Oonagh turned round, but Tom shook his head.
‘Nothing,’ he said, ‘just thinking out loud.’ He reached across and touched her hand. ‘You know I’ve never noticed her pain before. It was there staring me in the face. And I never even saw the damage in her eyes.’ His eyes filled with tears as he held Anna Brady’s fingers. He whispered her name.
Oonagh shifted in her seat to let him pull a chair up beside her.
Anna Brady’s eyelids flickered for a few seconds before opening. She knitted her brows together and let out a low moan, turning her head away when she saw them at the side of her bed.
‘Hi there.’ Oonagh pulled the sheet up to cover the scars on her chest. ‘I’m… here if you need to talk.’ It was all she ever seemed to say to her. It sounded pathetic and impotent.
‘Mrs Brady, please. Let us help.’ Tom’s voice was very calm. ‘They want to put you in a psychiatric unit. Please, just—’
Oonagh jabbed her elbow into his ribs. He gasped in pain.
Anna gripped Oonagh’s hand, her eyes wide, fearful. ‘Can’t go back there.’ She took another breath. ‘Not going back.’
‘Shh, shh.’ Oonagh stroked her forehead, and gestured for Tom to get out. ‘It’s going to be okay, just try and get some rest. I promise you, everything will be okay.’
The tears fell from the corners of Anna’s eyes and dropped onto the pillow, wetting her hairline. Oonagh dabbed them with a tissue and held Anna’s hand until her quiet sobs subsided and she drifted off to sleep.
The door opened and the nurse entered, wiping a crumb from the corner of her mouth with her pinkie. She swallowed a last mouthful before she spoke. ‘She needs her rest, better go now.’ It was more of an order than a piece of advice. She straightened the covers on the bed and busied herself with nursing duties. As Oonagh watched, she tried not to think of the horrors that would no doubt haunt Anna’s dreams during the night.
Outside in the corridor, Tom grabbed her arm. ‘What the hell’s going on?’ His voice was a high-pitched whisper.
‘I don’t know. What do you mean?’ Oonagh twisted her arm free and quickened her pace towards the stairs.
But Tom caught up with her. ‘Stop.’ And when she tried to carry on he forced her shoulders back against the wall. ‘Listen, Oonagh, what the hell’s making Anna Brady so fucking scared?’
It was as if her attack was happening all over again. She broke free and pushed him away, descending the stairs as fast as she could. But her legs had turned to jelly and buckled on every step. The fog in her head cleared and she relived every moment of her attack. The stairs stretched before her like an eternity.
‘For God’s sake speak to me, Oonagh.’ Tom insisted. ‘I’m not stupid. The pair of you know more than you’re letting on. If she was there that day, why won’t you let her speak to the police?’
‘What difference does it make now?’ Oonagh sobbed. ‘Charlie Antonio’s dead.’ Even on a good day, Tom could get on her nerves, but now his questions were like a vice round her throat. Her breath grew shallow and her chest tightened. She clung onto the banister and let her arms lower her as her legs eventually gave way completely. She pulled her blue inhaler from her bag and sucked hard, allowing the drug to flood through her and open her airways. She gasped and a breath of stale air filled her lungs.
Tom sat down beside her. He looked scared. ‘God, Oonagh, I’m sorry. Are you all right? Just try and breathe deeply, come on. Want me to get someone?’
She shook her head and wiped her nose with the edge of her sleeve. She took comfort from the noise leaking through from accident and emergency.
Tom had his arm round her. His voice was calm. ‘Oonagh, did Anna Brady see Antonio in your house? Did she see him attack you?’
Oonagh looked down at a stain on the bottom stair. ‘You need to just stop it now,’ she said in a small voice. ‘Please stop asking questions. She pinched her nose with her fingers to stop it dripping onto her jacket. ‘You got a hankie?’
‘Oh, right. Here.’
Tom stuffed a crumpled tissue into her hand. It looked as though it had been used but she didn’t care.
Tom seemed to think his tissue had bought him some favour. ‘This doesn’t make any sense, does it? I mean, I know she’s vulnerable and that, and if Antonio was threatening her, to keep her mouth shut, she’d have been terrified, but—’
‘But what?’
‘Well, why is she still scared? Scared enough to try and kill herself? You said it yourself, Antonio’s dead. What difference does it make now?’ Tom stood up and raised his arms as though he’d just had an epiphany. ‘Oh, bloody hell, what if someone else was there? What if the police were right and he wasn’t working alone? You said it yourself, he had no real motive. What if—?’
Oonagh’s scream pierced the stairwell. It carried on until it drowned out his words and her throat was raw. She saw two nurses throw open the fire escape door and look up as if someone was being murdered.
‘She’s all right,’ Tom called, covering for her, ‘she’s just had some bad news.’
The nurses gave Oonagh a pitying look, waited for her slight nod, and shuffled back out into the corridor.
Tom resumed his seat beside her on the stair and put his arm round her shoulder. ‘You look dreadful.’
She shrugged off his arm and took in large gulps of air to calm herself. She didn’t like the shift in the balance of power – didn’t much care for Tom being the strong capable one while she struggled to
come out of the other end of a panic attack.
It was a few minutes before she trusted herself to speak. ‘Never join the Samaritans…’ she whispered.
Tom finished the sentence for her. ‘… they’d need to employ a locum to cope with the increase in the suicide rate.’ He nodded his head. ‘I know. But Oonagh,’ he clutched at her wrist, ‘you do remember more about the attack than you’re letting on, don’t you?’
The strength was coming back to her legs, and the fear in her chest was subsiding. Her heart was returning to a more stable rhythm. She hadn’t ever understood what a panic attack really was, not until now.
‘Tom, please, just give me a break here. I’m not sure what I remember. It’s still all muddled up. Things just flash up in my head and it’s… I can’t explain it. It’s like I remember, then when I try to remember, it’s gone. Just leave it for now, Tom, eh?’
*
They dragged themselves back to the chapel house, exhausted, and set about trying to secure the front door. Oonagh wedged an upside-down broom under the Yale lock. ‘That’s about the best we’ll manage tonight.’ She looked at Tom. His suit still showed traces of blood. ‘Best get them off, Tom.’
He stared down at the soiled trousers and shoes. ‘I, ehm, what’ll I do with them…?’
‘Och, have you never dealt with your own laundry…? Actually, don’t answer that. Just stick them in a bin liner, Tom. We’ll sort them out later.’ Oonagh didn’t know what to do with them either and made her way up the stairs while Tom took a shower. At least he had his own bathroom and wouldn’t have to use the main one with its wrecked door. Destroyed bathroom doors seemed to be becoming a feature of her life.
For all that the house was old and full of character, it reeked of decades of loneliness. ‘Why don’t you stay at mine tonight?’ Oonagh shouted through the bathroom door once the shower had been turned off. She didn’t really fancy being alone.
‘Are you sure?’ he said quickly, seemingly welcoming the suggestion.
Out on the landing, Oonagh realised the door to Mrs Brady’s room was open, as if reminding her why they were there. She poked her head in.
The room was sparse, bare. Desolate. Nothing gave any hint of the occupant’s identity. A faint smell of damp hung in the air. Under the bed lay a wooden crucifix and a picture of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, both stuffed into a single transparent carrier bag. A cheap plywood bookcase crammed with books was the only piece of furniture that looked as though it was in use. But there was none of the usual romantic fiction. Instead Hobbes, Dante and Sartre stared back. A copy of Nietzsche lay on the bed, an Underground ticket serving as a bookmark. Oonagh opened it at the page, and read the words underlined heavily in pencil.
The thought of suicide is a great source of comfort: with it a calm passage is to be made across many a night.
Oonagh hurried back to the landing and rapped on Tom’s bedroom door.
‘We’ve got to go back to the hospital,’ she called. ‘We can’t leave her on her own tonight.’
48
Glasgow, 2000
Oonagh stood behind Tom as he popped his head round the nurses’ station. He had a fresh suit on. She’d insisted he wear his dog collar; always easier to curry favour.
Giving his perfected concerned look, he asked to see Mrs Brady. ‘I know it’s really late. But… well, I’m really worried about her. To be honest—’ He didn’t have to finish. The same nurse they’d seen earlier was watching a repeat of ER on a small portable television. The sound was turned right down, and she craned her neck forward to hear.
She dismissed him with a wave. ‘Aye, no problem. On you go.’
It was late. They were both dead beat, but they’d be as well sitting awake all night at the bedside as anywhere else.
‘I’m just going to take a leak,’ Tom told Oonagh. ‘I’ll be there in a minute.’ He doubled back to the toilets.
She watched him tiptoe away, trying to stop his leather soled shoes squeaking on the floor.
*
Jack had his hand over Anna Brady’s mouth when Oonagh opened the door. He didn’t hear her come in.
‘I’m warning you,’ she heard him say, ‘don’t even think about going to the police.’
‘Jack! What the hell—?’ Oonagh flew at him, clawing at his arm, trying to pull his hand from Anna’s face. But as he swung round his elbow caught the side of her jaw and sent her crashing to the floor. She was on her feet again in seconds. But this time Tom pushed her back as he went for Jack Cranworth himself.
‘You fucking bastard!’ she yelled. ‘It was you all along! I knew it!’
Oonagh ran to Anna Brady’s side as the nurse ran in from her station. As soon as the nurse saw the fight she rang the security bell, then pushed herself head first between the two men. Her thick, solid legs held her steady.
It was only moments before a security guard appeared at the door, looking ready for a bit of action. He grabbed Jack’s arms and tried to pin them behind his back.
It gave Tom the break he needed. He brought his knee straight up. ‘Fuck you,’ he hissed and kicked his heel into Jack’s balls. The big man doubled up in agony. Cupping his hands round his groin, gasping for breath, he writhed around on the floor.
For Oonagh, time stood still. She couldn’t believe what she’d just seen. Or heard. Sweat was lashing off Tom’s forehead. He crouched forward, resting his hands on his thighs.
Anna Brady let out a snigger, then slapped her hand across her mouth when she realised no one else was joining in.
Oonagh stood beside the bed and Anna flung her arms around her waist, clinging on tight. Oonagh held Anna Brady in her arms and rocked her back and forth. The taste of blood was in her mouth from the blow to her face and she glared at Jack, glad he was still writhing in pain.
He was still on the floor when the police arrived. They’d been down in A&E. They helped Jack to his feet, sat him on a chair, then cuffed him. His face, chalk white from the kick, slowly regained its colour.
Tom leaned against the wall and struggled to catch his breath.
‘He was trying to kill her,’ Oonagh told the policemen, pointing at Jack without looking at him, ‘I caught him with his hand over her mouth.’ Her voice was no more than a whisper.
‘No, that’s not true,’ Anna protested.
‘It’s all right,’ said Oonagh, ‘no one’ll hurt you now.’ She looked towards the police. ‘He also assaulted me.’ She stroked her hand over her cheekbone and looked directly at him. Get out of that, you pig, she thought.
‘No. Please.’ Anna tugged at Oonagh’s sleeve like a child. ‘I got a bit of a fright when I woke and saw him in the room, that’s all. He was trying to stop me screaming. I’d had a nightmare. He’s a… he’s a friend. Please let him go. I’m sorry, it’s just a mistake.’
The skin tightened round Oonagh’s scalp as she suddenly recognised the likeness between Jack and Anna, and once more her heart ached for all the lost years and emptiness that had filled Anna Brady’s miserable wee life.
Jack stood and stretched out his hands for the cuffs to be unlocked and removed. The two policemen ignored the gesture and each took an arm as they pulled him towards the door.
‘No!’ pleaded Anna, ‘Please, don’t.’
Jack stared back at both women for a few seconds before being led away.
‘Is someone going to tell me what the hell’s going on?’ said Tom as the doors closed. ‘Mrs Brady?’
‘Her name’s Irene,’ said Oonagh, taking a damp flannel from the bedside locker and wiping Irene’s forehead. ‘Irene Connolly.’
Tom opened his mouth to speak, then seemed to think better of it.
Oonagh combed her fingers through Irene’s wiry hair, smoothing it back onto the pillow behind her. ‘Irene,’ she said, ‘was it… was it you Jack was meeting in St Patrick’s?’
Irene Connolly tipped her chin and blinked hard.
But Oonagh already knew the answer.
*
&
nbsp; When she’d first turned up after all those years he had offered to pay her off. To write her a cheque. Said she could name her price, he just wanted her the hell out of his life. But Irene didn’t have a price. She already had a place to sleep and food in her belly. She hadn’t needed money until Charlie Antonio had called, barking his demands.
She’d asked Jack to bring five thousand pounds in an envelope, and leave it behind the back pew at St Patrick’s. From his reaction, Jack had obviously thought that was her price. Five thousand pounds for her to leave and never contact him again. But it hadn’t been her price, it had been Antonio’s, though she’d realised Antonio wouldn’t stop at that. Blackmailers never stopped, not unless someone put a stop to them.
Irene had forgotten that all the kids would be in the Church that day. They sounded so innocent as they sang: ‘All things bright and beautiful, all creatures great and small…’ She heard their voices as she climbed the stairs, stopping every so often because her swollen veins throbbed, causing her legs to ache with each step. She gripped the banister for support. ‘… All things wise and wonderful…’ Years of living in cold, damp bedsits and smoking roll-ups had left her with a bronchial wheeze. She caught her breath, and wiped the sweat from her face with her hand. ‘The Lord God made them all…’
Aye, she thought, they don’t sing about all the other things God makes.
She didn’t see him until she reached the top. He was straining over the balcony. His fat body rested on the banister, his gut spilling over the edge. One leg was hoisted as he hung over to get a better look.
She hadn’t expected him until later. And he couldn’t hear her above the noise of the singing.
She was surprised at how easy it was. One shove was all it took. One shove. She didn’t even need both hands to make him tumble over the top and crash onto the pews below.
The screams of the children and teachers blocked out any noise she made on her way out. By the time she walked the four blocks to the mini-market, she could hear sirens wailing in the distance.
The Lost Children Page 26