The Lost Children

by Theresa Talbot

  Irene’s head was back against the pillow. ‘You tried to save him.’ Her eyes were closed. Apparently she was seeing the same picture as Oonagh. ‘You tried to shove my hand away but you were too small, so you stood in front of him and—’ Her voice choked in the back of her throat.

  Oonagh remembered the blade plunging into her neck. Remembered everything going red, then black. Then nothing. Thank God she couldn’t remember Charlie Antonio standing on her shoulder to work the blade free.

  ‘I’m sorry. I ran away. I was scared. I just ran.’ Irene sniffed, and Oonagh stuffed more paper tissues into her hand.

  ‘I’m fine now, Irene, and that’s what counts.’

  Tom seemed to forget about the sanctity of the confessional. ‘What a bastard. He must have known you were alive when he left you.’ He hung one arm loosely round Oonagh’s shoulder and tried to comfort Irene with the other.

  Oonagh shrugged him off and stood up. ‘Will we get going and let you get some shut-eye, Irene?’ She waited for Tom to follow. But his face was fixed on Irene.

  ‘Surely her being Jack’s mother would be a nine day wonder for the media.’ Tom was speaking to Oonagh, but his eyes never left Irene.

  Irene looked puzzled. Shook her head. ‘He wasn’t threatening to blackmail me for that.’

  Oonagh held Irene by the shoulders. She didn’t want Tom to hear any more.

  ‘No, Irene. Stop this. You don’t know what you’re saying.’

  Irene Connolly wriggled free, and Oonagh was terrified for her.

  ‘No,’ Irene’s voice was coming out in short sharp breaths – ‘he heard me telling Oonagh that it was me who killed Father Kennedy.’ There was no remorse in her voice. ‘I poisoned him.’

  Oonagh could’ve wept. Instead she checked the bed for hospital corners and tucked the sheet flat under the mattress. ‘Oh, Irene. You’re just all confused.’ She turned to Tom, ‘It’s called transference,’ she whispered. ‘She’s probably dreamt about bumping off Father Kennedy so many times that now she’s convinced herself she did it.’

  But Tom was having none of it. He rubbed his eyes and slumped back in his chair. ‘Why did you kill Father Kennedy, Irene? Why now?’ He was as calm as Oonagh had ever seen him. He wasn’t letting go.

  ‘This doesn’t leave this room, Tom.’ Short of putting her hand over the woman’s mouth, Oonagh was powerless to stop Irene Connolly’s confession.

  Irene let out a breathless laugh. ‘Why? Why not? I read those letters he’d written. Making peace with God and the world before he died. Well, no. I couldn’t allow that.’ She looked at Oonagh as if to find reassurance. ‘Why should he have had the chance to make peace? Why should he have been allowed to die happy? I wanted him to rot in purgatory.’

  ‘But you’d found Isaac,’ Tom said. ‘Surely you’d found peace.’

  Oonagh despaired. Tom just wasn’t grasping this at all.

  Irene shook her head. ‘Peace? I’ve never had a day’s peace in my life. I killed him because I felt like it, I killed him because it was Patricia’s birthday and it was the best present I could think of to give her. I killed him so his suffering might let a few more babies into heaven.’

  ‘You knew all this?’ Tom turned to Oonagh, ‘Is that what was on that bloody tape?’

  Oonagh shrugged her shoulders and said nothing.

  Irene’s wee voice was tearful. ‘I’m so, so sorry, pet.’ She struggled to reach the wound on Oonagh’s neck.

  ‘Irene, it was an accident. And I’m fine. Stop torturing yourself like this.’ But Oonagh knew why Irene was still so tortured.

  ‘I’d no idea you were pregnant. Oh God, please forgive me.’

  Oonagh took what felt like the biggest breath of her life. ‘Irene, it just wasn’t the right time.’ She struggled not to cry. ‘Some babies aren’t meant to survive.’

  Oonagh thought of the deck stacked against the wee mite from the start. ‘And Tom gave me the Last Rites, so—’

  Irene cut in. ‘That means your wee baby will go straight to heaven, doesn’t it?’ she said in a child’s voice. Oonagh smiled and nodded. Some things were so black and white for Irene Connolly.

  Oonagh felt a familiar chill run down her spine. ‘Irene, did you tell Jack all this when he came to see you earlier?’

  *

  The tea was made and the pot sat in the middle of the table. She took the cosy off and pressed her hands against it until the metal burned her skin.

  She jumped when he rattled his hand off the back door. She hadn’t been sure if he’d come.

  She led him into the kitchen and pointed her hand towards a chair, then waited until he’d sat down before pouring his tea. He didn’t drink it.

  He was the first to speak. ‘You know the police have the money.’ She looked confused. ‘The five thousand pounds,’ he explained, ‘the police took it.’

  ‘Oh.’ She’d forgotten about the money.

  ‘But I can give you more. Money’s not the problem here, Irene.’ He reached into his inside pocket, but she stopped him. She hadn’t expected him to call her mum, but she’d still hoped he might. But at least he was making an attempt to be civil, and she thought that was nice. ‘No, son.’ She reached across to touch his knee but he pulled back. ‘I don’t need any money. I just wanted to talk, that’s all.’

  He looked at his watch.

  ‘It won’t take long.’ She patted her frizzy hair away from her face and smiled as she looked at him. She felt a swell in her chest. His eyes hadn’t changed in all those years. ‘Jack, that money wasn’t for me. It was for that man, Antonio.’

  She slid a plate of cheap digestive biscuits towards him. He pushed it to the other end of the table.

  He stopped drumming his fingers on the table. ‘The one who fell? How did you know him?’ He rubbed his hand along his face. ‘Please don’t tell me he was another of your long lost babies?’

  ‘No. No, nothing like that, son. It wasn’t that.’ Her short stubby nails were already bitten to the quick and she chewed the skin round her fingertips.

  Jack sat back, crossed his legs.

  ‘I’ve done something, son. I’ve done a bad thing.’ She looked down and picked at a loose thread on her overall. Outside, the rain from the gutter bounced off the wheelie bin in the back garden. She scraped the edge of her finger along the seam of her nylon overall, gathering enough fluff to roll into a ball.

  ‘How bad?’ he said. She thought his eyes looked scared. ‘You better not have told anyone that you’re my…’ He stopped. ‘… About us.’

  She managed a half smile and shook her head as she pulled a roll-up from her pocket. ‘I’d never tell, son. Never.’

  He sighed as he let himself fall back into his chair and sat stony faced for a few seconds. ‘Good,’ he said. Then got up to leave.

  She flicked her thumb against her disposable lighter, but the gas was running out and she struggled to light the two-inch stub. ‘I’ve killed someone,’ she whispered, taking a deep draw.

  He quickly swung round, grabbing her by the shoulders. ‘What?’ He shook her until her head snapped back against her neck. She dropped her cigarette, breathing in the pain of his fingers digging into her flesh. Irene wasn’t used to answering questions. She wasn’t sure which bit to tell him first. She cupped her hands over her face and wiped away a tear before telling him about Father Kennedy… and Oonagh O’Neil.

  She looked up at his face and reached towards him.

  He recoiled. ‘Don’t come near me.’ He retreated to the other side of the room.

  A flutter of panic stirred in her chest. ‘Isaac, please…’

  He was leaning with both hands against the wall. She tugged at his jacket.

  ‘Don’t fucking come near me. You’re psychotic.’ He spat the words into her face ‘And don’t call me that. My name’s Jack. Jack Cranworth.’ He slumped down onto a chair and dropped his head into his hands. ‘Do you know what you’ve done? Have you any idea what you’ve done?’

 
She hesitated before resting her hand on his shoulder. He pushed her off. She fell against the wall. Her bony shoulders smashed against the tiles. Irene didn’t scream. She didn’t like noise.

  ‘Oonagh was pregnant.’

  Irene struggled to hear Jack’s low voice.

  ‘Oonagh,’ he said, ‘was pregnant with my child, and you’ve killed it. You’ve killed your own grandchild, you mad fucking, stupid bitch.’ He raised his hand above his head and slapped her full force in the face.

  Irene knew she’d done wrong. A pain hit her gut and spread throughout her body as she took in the horror of what he’d said.

  He grabbed her by the throat and she struggled for breath as he squeezed. She felt her legs go limp and when he let go she fell in a crumpled heap on the floor.

  She pleaded with him. ‘Oh, Dear God, say it’s not true.’

  ‘You’ve ruined my fucking life,’ was all he said as she begged for forgiveness.

  She got onto her knees, hugging her arms round his legs. ‘I’ll go to the police. Tell them everything. Oh God, I’m so sorry. So, so sorry, son,’ she sobbed.

  ‘Don’t you dare go to the police. It’s already bad enough without you making things even worse.’ He pointed into her face. ‘Listen to me, just keep your mouth shut. Tell no one what happened with Oonagh. The police are already on top of things, okay?’

  She nodded eagerly and drew her finger across her chest. ‘Cross my heart,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell no one.’ She curled up in a ball on the floor at his feet. She hugged his legs and dragged herself closer. ‘Cross my heart and hope to die, Jack.’ She sobbed into his trousers and clung on as he tried to leave. Dragged herself along the floor – let herself be dragged. She kissed the hem of his trousers, kissed his shoes. Telling him over and over again how sorry she was. Sobbing. Crying. Screaming. Pleading. He prised her hands from his legs as he struggled for the door.

  ‘Jack, I didn’t know she was pregnant. I didn’t know!’ She scrambled across the floor after him. Clawing, pulling him back as he was leaving. ‘I wish I was dead,’ she screamed after him. ‘I wish I was dead.’

  He gave her one last look. ‘Well that makes two of us.’

  The door slammed hard behind him.

  51

  Glasgow, 2000

  The rain had stopped. The dawn struggled through with some watery sunshine.

  Oonagh opened her eyes. Her mouth was thick and sticky, her neck stiff from sleeping on the chair all night. She rubbed it with the palm of her hand, standing, stretching her back and listening for cracks and groans as her spine slipped back into place.

  Irene Connolly lay on the hospital bed, eyes closed, breathing slow and rhythmic.

  Tom opened the door gingerly, and entered carrying a tray with three steaming cups of what Oonagh hoped was coffee. It was, and it was awful. She blew on hers; it made no difference to the taste.

  ‘Christ, Tom, it’s a mess,’ she whispered. She couldn’t bear to think of Jack attacking Irene, slapping her, goading her into taking her own life. By rights she should afford him at least a scrap of sympathy. If ever there was a case of the sins of the fathers.

  Tom read her mind. ‘Jack maybe needs help, Oonagh.’

  Oonagh sipped on her coffee and tipped her chin at him. She couldn’t answer. What could she say?

  ‘I mean,’ Tom continued, ‘he’s maybe not right. Doesn’t think straight… you know?’

  ‘You mean he’s an inbred? God, he’ll be skinning rabbits and claiming he’s seen UFOs next.’ She tried to inflect a bit of humour into her voice, but it was dull and flat. Tom gave a wry smile – out of politeness, she imagined.

  Oonagh made her way to the bathroom down the hall, where she caught her reflection in the mirror. She looked like shit.

  She put the lid down on the pan, then sat and wept. Wept for Irene Connolly’s miserable life, for her dead baby, for Jack’s twisted logic… and at the cruel fate that had conspired to collide such disparate elements.

  Eventually she dried her tears and walked reluctantly back down the corridor. The door of Irene’s room was open. Strange voices carried above the clatter of the breakfast trolley being wheeled into the main ward. Her heart raced. Something was wrong. Oonagh ran.

  A doctor was leaning over Irene, pumping his hands up and down on her chest. A nurse stood by, anxious. Oonagh could see a flatline on the bedside monitor. Tom was at the side of her bed giving her the final sacrament, the Last Rites. Anointing her forehead.

  No one tried to stop Oonagh as she raced to Irene’s side and held her hand. She prayed to God to take her quickly before they managed to revive her.

  For once God was generous and looked down with pity on poor Irene Connolly.

  Oonagh squeezed Irene’s hand. It was still warm. She was sure Irene’s mouth had formed into a faint smile, her lips slightly parted.

  Tom leaned across the bed and kissed Irene’s forehead. Oonagh guessed he was the only man, other than her own father, who had ever kissed her.

  *

  They walked to where Oonagh had left her car the night before. A parking ticket flapped under the windscreen wiper. ‘Bastard,’ muttered Oonagh as she ripped it off and opened the passenger door for Tom.

  She drove towards Govan. It wasn’t yet six in the morning so the roads were empty. She flicked on the stereo. Billie Holiday’s sad lament came out of the speakers, telling them to ‘Weep No More’.

  Alec Davies was standing outside at the door of the police station. Oonagh turned the car left off Helen Street and through the car park entrance. She stopped under the No Parking sign and waited for a few moments, letting Lady Day finish her song before switching off the engine and getting out. Neither she nor Tom had uttered a word since leaving the hospital.

  Davies drew on a cigarette and descended the stairs to meet them. He didn’t look surprised to see them.

  ‘She’s dead,’ said Oonagh. ‘Mrs Brady. She took a heart attack.’

  Davies tutted, looked down at his feet and shook his head. ‘Ach. I was on my way to see her. I’ve got Jack Cranworth in here – after last night.’

  ‘I know,’ said Oonagh.

  ‘Claimed Anna Brady was his mother. Said Charlie Antonio was threatening her because she saw him stab you. Is that right, Oonagh?’ He didn’t wait for her to answer. ‘Said the money was for her to clear off back to Ireland.’

  Oonagh looked at Tom. He said nothing, just drew circles on the ground with his toe. Oonagh nodded. ‘Kind of, Alec. She spoke to Tom and me before she died. Told us everything.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Antonio didn’t mean to stab me. It was an accident, Alec.’ Davies took her by the elbow and led her back up the stairs. She continued, ‘To be honest, it was starting to come back to me, anyway. Antonio was in my house and I started waving a weapon around to get him out. Backfired I’m afraid.’

  Davies threw his cigarette on the ground and stubbed it out with his foot. ‘I wish she’d come to me.’ He pushed his arms through the sleeves of his jacket and pulled it up over his shoulders. ‘You’ll need to make a statement.’ Then, looking at Tom, he added, ‘Both of you. And Oonagh, I want you to take a look over Cranworth’s statement. Make sure what he’s told me is true.’

  ‘Yeah. No problem.’ Oonagh followed Davies up the steps.

  She paused at the door and said a silent prayer for all the Irene Connollys of the world. ‘I’ll be right there, Alec.’

  She turned to make sure Tom was coming too. And he was. Right behind her.

  ‘Just one thing,’ Tom said, and her heart sank. Lately she’d become used to preparing for disappointments. ‘Have you got the disk?’ he asked.

  She’d almost forgotten about it. She’d taken it from Tom the previous evening before he’d thrown his blood soaked clothes into a bin liner. ‘Yeah, right here.’ She patted the side of her handbag.

  ‘Good,’ said Tom. ‘Then let’s go.’

  She waited for Tom to catch up and watched as he took a
deep breath on the third step before pulling off his dog collar and throwing it onto the ground.

  Epilogue

  Glasgow, 2000

  She dried her eyes. There would be plenty of time to cry later. Oonagh drove through the city centre and everything reminded her of Irene Connolly. Every turn, every street corner, there she was. She’d left Tom back at the chapel house. He’d been packing his bags as she’d said goodbye.

  She didn’t wait for the lift and took the stairs, dragging the black plastic bag up the three storeys. This time the grey nun spotted her as she reached the edge of the corridor. You dare, thought Oonagh. You fucking dare.

  The nun didn’t dare, instead staying in her seat, typing like mad, knocking lumps out of the keyboard.

  The door was already open. Father Watson was standing at the window. The room reeked of garlic.

  ‘Early lunch?’

  He turned and looked her up and down. His face fell. ‘Oh, not again. Dear God, woman, will you just go away.’

  Oonagh lugged the black bin liner across the carpet. She was wheezing and her arms ached. It was heavier than she’d imagined. ‘Irene Connolly died this morning,’ she said, settling in the centre of the room.

  A slight flicker of something passed across Father Watson’s face. ‘Oh. I’m sorry. Was she a—’

  Oonagh reached into the bag and took out a photograph. ‘She had forty-two separate injuries on her body. Cigarette burns, cuts, scars.’ She placed the picture on the desk in front of him. It was an old photograph of three teenage girls. ‘Recognise them?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘That girl there is Irene Connolly. The one at the front is Bridie Flanagan. The other one’s called Sally. Don’t know her second name.’

  ‘Listen, Miss O’Neil. I’m sorry for your loss and all, but really. Take your crusade elsewhere, eh? This is getting bloody tedious and quite frankly, I’m bored with it all. It’s got nothing to do with me.’ Father Watson sat down and flicked the grainy picture off his desk with the back of his hand.