The Lost Children

by Theresa Talbot

  The muzak had hummed softly in the background as she filled her trolley with all sorts of things she didn’t need. Tampons, baby milk, Sellotape. By the time she was finished she had four bags full, and began the long walk home.

  She was mortified when Oonagh O’Neil stopped the car and made her get in. She was grateful the tampons and baby milk were at the bottom of the bags as she put them in the boot.

  49

  Glasgow, 2000

  ‘They wouldn’t even let him keep the name I’d given him.’

  ‘Oh, Irene, I’m so sorry.’ Oonagh held Irene close and felt her ribs jutting out. ‘Tom,’ she said, without turning round, ‘see if the nurse can’t get Irene a proper robe or something to put on.’ Then, shaking her head, she added, ‘We should have brought her stuff. Why didn’t we bring her stuff?’

  ‘Oonagh. Forget her stuff. You need to call Davies and tell him.’ Tom was strutting around the room, his spirits obviously galvanized by his display of macho violence minutes before.

  ‘Oh, just shut up, Tom.’ Oonagh kept her voice low and laid Irene Connolly back down onto her pillow.

  ‘Look, I know I don’t know the full ins and outs of it, but I’m not daft. Cranworth was trying to kill her and he walloped you.’ Tom stared straight at her as though expecting her to reveal all. ‘Are you trying to tell me after all this that he’s got nothing to do with your attack?’

  Oonagh slid out from Irene’s grip, grabbed Tom by the elbow and ushered him over to the window. She squeezed hard into his flesh. ‘Can you just shut it for now, Tom? We’ll talk about it later.’ She glanced back at Irene, whose eyelids were flickering as she fell in and out of sleep.

  ‘Later? The guy’s a maniac! Just tell me one thing.’

  ‘What?’

  He took a deep breath. ‘Was it him who stabbed you? Did…’ he hesitated before he said her name, ‘… did Irene see him do it? She’s trying to protect him, isn’t she?’

  Oonagh rested her head on the glass and looked out at the street below. ‘No,’ she said. ‘No.’ She’d had enough. She was tired.

  Tom twisted her round to face him. ‘I need more than you’re telling me, Oonagh. I didn’t ask to be dragged into all of this.’ He looked hurt and disappointed.

  The room was hot and claustrophobic, and Oonagh didn’t feel like explaining anything. The last thing she wanted right now was to talk.

  Low moans from Irene’s bed gave her an excuse to tend to her. ‘Come on now, you, try and get some sleep.’ Her pillows were plumped and the sheets were tucked in as tight as they were going to go. There was nothing left for Oonagh to do.

  Irene reached for her hand. ‘You’re a good girl,’ she said. Her voice was weak.

  Oonagh wiped her eyes and felt Tom’s hand on her shoulder. Suddenly she was glad he was there. ‘This is a mess, Tom. A bloody mess.’

  He pulled up a chair, patted Irene’s legs through the sheet and sat by the bed. ‘I’m here,’ he said. ‘If you need to talk.’

  ‘She’s exhausted, Tom. She’d be better going to sleep.’

  Irene’s small voice cut in. ‘No, love,’ she said, tapping Oonagh’s hand, ‘I want to talk.’

  Oonagh felt her adrenalin drain away, taking with it every last ounce of emotion. She didn’t want this. Didn’t want Tom to hear Irene’s outpourings. She couldn’t bear it. ‘Please, Irene. Don’t.’

  But Irene insisted, and told him. Told him all about her dad. The rape. Baby Isaac. How her flesh had burned when they’d stuck the electrodes to her head in the asylum. She could never go back there. She’d rather die.

  Oonagh watched the expression on Tom’s face turn to horror as Irene calmly relayed how she’d watched from the icy window as they’d buried the poor dead infants in the back yard of Lochbridge House. Baby Patricia first, then three more the following night. How she’d held her daughter’s twisted, broken body in her arms until the girl had died.

  They both smiled at the story of Bridie Flanagan, her granny and the big hairy coats and were gutted at how Sally had just faded away one night. Irene even told him about spitting on her parent’s grave. Didn’t flinch from any of it.

  Tom hung his head and held her hand when she told him about her efforts to get Patricia into heaven. Blessed himself at her campaign of self-abuse lasting more than forty years.

  Oonagh watched Tom pick at his dog collar like a wound.

  ‘Irene,’ he said, ‘we don’t believe in limbo anymore.’

  Oonagh flinched slightly but said nothing. Just sank further back into the chair. Tom obviously thought this would give Irene Connolly some comfort. Poor Irene Connolly who’d burned and scratched and cut herself for forty years for nothing.

  ‘Babies who die without being baptised,’ he explained, ‘well, they go straight to heaven.’

  Irene Connolly looked neither pleased nor relieved. Her dead eyes sank further back into her head. ‘Oh.’ She struggled to prop herself up on the bed. ‘And when did you decide on this?’

  ‘It wasn’t me. It was the Vatican Council—’

  But she cut him dead. ‘The Vatican Council! So the babies who died before then, are they still in limbo? And the ones who died afterwards… are they in heaven? Where’s my Patricia?’ Her voice shook with emotion.

  Oonagh stroked Irene’s arm in an impotent gesture of comfort. Inside she screamed at the injustice this poor woman had endured. But she said nothing. This was Irene’s moment.

  ‘Where’s my Patricia?’ Irene repeated. ‘Where’s my baby girl?’ She tugged at Oonagh’s arm, then stared at Tom. ‘Who decides who can and who can’t get into heaven?’

  Tom didn’t have the answers she was looking for, and Oonagh couldn’t – wouldn’t – help him.

  ‘You bunch of horrible, evil bastards.’ Irene pulled her hand away from Tom’s and reached again for Oonagh.

  Tom was visibly shocked. ‘What?’

  ‘What gives you the right? Just what gives you the right to play with people’s lives?’ Irene was sobbing now. ‘Do you honestly think God is sitting in his heaven, looking down on all those poor innocent wee babies in purgatory waiting until your lot make a decision?’ She looked straight at him. ‘It’s not your decision to make!’ Her voice was weak even though she was screaming. ‘It’s not your decision to make!’ She scratched at her arm and tried to gouge the flesh with her bitten nails. ‘Jesus Christ, what makes you think you’re all so important?’

  ‘We don’t,’ Tom said, unconvincingly.

  ‘Oh, just give up, Tom,’ Oonagh told him, holding out both her hands to stop Irene hurting herself any more. ‘Break rank and tell her she’s right and you’re wrong.’ Oonagh felt the pity burn the back of her throat. ‘Tell her the Church made a mistake.’ She held Irene Connolly’s sobbing body close to her chest and felt the hot tears seep into her blouse. ‘Just tell her you’re sorry.’

  Tom had no answers. ‘We’re all a product of our time,’ he mumbled feebly.

  ‘Dear God,’ said Irene, her voice muffled by Oonagh’s embrace, ‘do you know what you’ve done?’

  The nurse from the ward station pushed open the door.

  ‘She’s just a bit upset,’ Tom tried to explain.

  Oonagh drew him a dagger.

  ‘Want a sedative?’ the nurse asked. Irene shook her head and the nurse seemed relieved to be able to leave.

  It took a few moments for Irene to pull herself together. Then, unprompted by either Oonagh or Tom, she continued her story.

  Throughout the years she’d thought about what she would say to Father Kennedy, rehearsed the words in her head countless times, changing wee bits here and there depending on how vicious or magnanimous she was feeling. But when she’d seen him – a pathetic, sad old man – he’d meant nothing to her. She hadn’t even been able to drum up enough feeling to spit in his face as she’d planned.

  She should have left there and then, but she didn’t. Introduced herself as Anna Brady and stayed. Never went back to her bed and brea
kfast. Left her meagre belongings to be dumped by the next tenant.

  ‘So did you only arrive at St Patrick’s a few months before me then?’ asked Tom. ‘I thought you’d been there… well, years.’

  Oonagh looked at the grey, faceless woman with no life and wondered what might have been. She thought Tom looked as though he could have kicked himself. She urged Irene back to her story.

  It had taken Irene three years to gather the courage to speak to Isaac, her son. She’d gone over the scenario in her head time and time again. Holding him, kissing his face, smelling the back of his neck the way she should have done when he was a baby.

  ‘I should have written him a letter first.’ she said. It had been her own fault; he was bound to be shocked. Her turning up at his door like that, out of the blue. Really, what was he supposed to do? He’d hardly be pleased. A man in his position finding out that his real mother was ‘a fucking retard’. She flinched as she recalled his words.

  50

  Glasgow, 2000

  Davies had managed to shower and change. Spending three, maybe four days on the trot at the station was nothing new. At least Govan was fairly state of the art as far as staff facilities went. Back when he’d been at Craigie Street he’d resorted to nipping round the corner to the public swimming baths in Calder Street to get a shower.

  He stood in front of the mirror, shaving. Holding up his nose with one finger as he carefully pulled the razor down over his top lip.

  McVeigh was four sinks along. It had taken a while, but eventually he’d got the message that Davies didn’t care for anyone standing too close. McVeigh rinsed his face with cold water, then dried it with a hand towel and wiped off the stray blobs of foam round his ears.

  Davies squinted. ‘Hey,’ he said, tapping his own lip, ‘you’ve no’ finished yet.’

  ‘Thought I’d grow a moustache. Looks kind of… well, distinguished, don’t you think?’ He looked in the mirror, twisting his head from side to side.

  ‘Get rid of it.’ Davies didn’t look at him.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘That fucking hair of yours is bad enough. If you think I’m parading around with you sporting a bloody ginger moustache, you’ve got another think coming.’

  McVeigh refilled the sink with hot water and finished shaving. Davies left him to it.

  His heart sank moments later when he saw Cranworth at the front desk, in handcuffs. ‘What the bloody hell’s going on here?’

  ‘Attacked an auld woman at the hospital,’ volunteered one of his uniformed colleagues, who didn’t look up, keen to finish filling in the charge sheet.

  Cranworth sighed. ‘Don’t be so bloody ridiculous, man.’ Then, looking at Davies, he said, ‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’

  He nodded. ‘Aye, aye, of course.’

  Davies led him through the double swing doors once the cuffs were removed. Cranworth looked relieved to see they were heading for the office and not the interview room.

  *

  For all Irene had been through, the last few weeks had been the most painful, she said. She’d never meant to ruin Jack’s life. She’d rather take her own than ruin his.

  ‘He came round to the house to see me tonight, you know. Before… before all this.’ She raised her wrists slightly.

  Oonagh was too terrified to speak. Jack was a bastard, but surely he couldn’t have hurt his own mother. She wanted to know just what had gone on.

  ‘I wanted to go to the police.’ Her eyes pleaded with Oonagh. ‘Honest, I did. But he begged me not to. Said I owed him that much at least. And I do. He’s my baby boy.’

  Tom butted in. ‘Irene, if he tried to kill Oonagh, then it’s wrong to protect him.’

  It seemed to Oonagh that Tom was determined to pick at the scab until he made it bleed.

  Irene’s grip tightened around Oonagh’s hand. ‘Don’t you tell me what’s right and wrong.’

  The beep from the heart monitor quickened. Oonagh tried to calm her. ‘Shh. There, Irene. C’mon.’

  Oonagh looked out of the window. The vertical blinds were only half drawn. She could see the taxi rank across the road on the street below. The cabs’ yellow lights shone in the darkness. She could just about make out a few people walking home after a night out and the lights of a high-rise in Toryglen in the distance. Life did indeed go on.

  ‘Father Thomas,’ Irene said, ‘do you believe in the sanctity of the confessional?’

  ‘Well,’ said Tom, ‘I’m a priest. Yes, yes of course.’

  ‘Then, will you hear my confession?’

  Oonagh’s heart quickened. ‘No, Irene.’ Her voice was louder than she’d intended. She looked at Tom. ‘She’s tired, she needs to get her head down.’ She could see he wasn’t going to accept that.

  But Irene Connolly was remarkably calm.

  ‘You can stay or go as you like, pet,’ she said to Oonagh.

  Oonagh stayed put and held her hand. Tom sat by her side, waiting.

  ‘Father, does God forgive? Truly forgive?’

  ‘Well, if you’re truly repentant, he does,’ said Tom. Oonagh kicked him on the leg. ‘Yes, Irene,’ he added rubbing his shin, ‘God truly does forgive.’

  ‘Irene,’ said Oonagh, trying to soothe her, ‘you don’t always have to say it out loud though. God forgives you anyway.’ She was trying to shut her up. Once out, it would be impossible to force the genie back into the bottle.

  ‘I don’t want to feel like this anymore,’ she said. ‘Jack told me his wife was being questioned about you, Oonagh.’ She lifted her head off the pillow. Her breathing was shallow and talking was an effort. ‘She never paid anyone to try and kill you, pet. Honest. I told Jack I couldn’t let her take the blame for this. But he told me to keep my mouth shut.’ Irene started to sob and wiped her eyes with the sheet. Oonagh handed her a tissue from a box by the side of the bed. She remained silent, terrified of what was coming next.

  ‘He made me promise not to tell. Said if I couldn’t live with myself, then that was up to me.’ She broke down.

  Fury, anger, disbelief rose in Oonagh. ‘Is that why you tried to kill yourself, Irene?’

  She tried to keep calm as Irene nodded. ‘I had no choice. I couldn’t live with myself.’

  ‘Irene,’ interrupted Tom, ‘you have to tell the police.’

  ‘I wanted to. But he said no.’ Spasms contracted her throat. Her cries came out in convulsions. She gulped back her tears as they spilled onto her cheeks.

  Tom leaned over the bed. ‘Irene, I know Jack’s your son. But if he tried to kill Oonagh, he could kill again. He needs help. You can’t really protect him any longer.’

  Her sobs stopped momentarily. ‘I’m not protecting Jack. He’s protecting me.’

  ‘You?’

  She looked at Oonagh, and very calmly said. ‘Jack didn’t stab you, Oonagh, neither did that fat man. I did it.’

  Oonagh’s head swam as the final piece of the jigsaw slotted into place. She saw the silver blade once more plunge into her throat. She tugged at her collar, gasping for air as the room closed in on her. Dryness closed her throat, fear caught her breath. She felt sickness rise in her gut and the room started to spin. And then arms were grabbing her as she fell onto the floor.

  She was thankful for Tom helping her back onto the chair. He held a glass of water to her lips. But it tasted stale and did nothing to make her feel better.

  ‘She didn’t like crusts either.’ Irene Connolly’s voice was so small that she was barely audible.

  ‘Pardon?’ Tom said.

  ‘Oonagh,’ said Irene. ‘She doesn’t like crusts on her bread, and neither do I. They’re meant to give you curly hair. That’s what my mum said.’

  Fear and panic merged into pity as Oonagh watched Irene Connolly’s sanity unravel before their eyes.

  ‘She was nice. She made me tea and toast. I like tea and toast. I like Oonagh. She’s pretty.’

  Oonagh started to cry. Irene was looking right through her.

  ‘
Why did you attack Oonagh, Irene? Why?’ Tom’s voice had no emotion.

  Irene swayed back and forth on the bed. Her nails left deep red marks on the backs of her hands. Her eyes widened as she spoke.

  ‘I think Patricia would have turned out like Oonagh. Do you think Patricia would have turned out like Oonagh?’ Her question was aimed at Oonagh, as though she was someone else entirely.

  The tip of Oonagh’s nose stung red with sadness and her throat swelled.

  ‘Yes, Irene, perhaps she might have.’

  They were losing her and had no idea how to get back inside her head. Irene’s lips trembled and her face crumpled, pain in her eyes. ‘Do you think she’ll be all right? Will Oonagh die?’

  ‘Irene.’ Oonagh took the woman’s hand. ‘I’m here, look, I’m fine. It was just a scratch. You didn’t hurt me, honestly.’ The pain of her attack throbbed through her entire body, but she was determined not to let it show.

  The bloody scratches darkened the backs of Irene’s hands as her nails dug deeper. Oonagh prised the housekeeper’s fingers apart and rested her arms by her sides.

  Tom looked to Oonagh for an explanation. ‘Is this true? Did she stab you?’

  Oonagh nodded. ‘It was an accident. A stupid bloody accident.’ And this time she was telling the truth. She tried to smile at the bitter irony, and ran her fingers through her hair. The memory of her attack unfolded like a film. ‘I’d been interviewing her and suddenly Antonio was at the kitchen door.’ A shudder ran through her as she remembered him standing in the hall, laughing at her. ‘He seemed to appear from nowhere. I don’t know how he got in. And he threatened to spill the beans about Irene. Said he’d sell her story to the papers and—’ Oonagh eased the crick out of the back of her neck. ‘He was going to blackmail her. Everything happened so fast. I remember him standing at the hall door ready to leave when—’ She faltered, trying to patch the detail together. ‘“I’ll be in touch.” That was the last thing he said. Then I think you,’ – she looked at Irene – ‘you grabbed the letter opener and went for him, and after that—’ She remembered Antonio’s scream. High-pitched, like a woman’s. ‘I just sort of got caught in the crossfire.’