Oonagh bent to pick it up. ‘Irene Connolly. She’s dead. As are the other two. I didn’t know them, but I knew Irene.’
‘Oh I see. Is this your merry band of harpies who were supposedly used and abused by the big bad Church? Well, you have my sympathy… Now close the door on the way out, won’t you?’
But Oonagh wasn’t listening. She reached into the black bag and took out more copies of the photograph – dozens of them – and tossed them into his face. He flinched and tightened his lips, but said nothing. Just stared at her. Then she took out the rest. Hundreds. Photographs she’d downloaded from the internet. The faces of all the men and women who’d searched for years for their mammies. She plastered some of the pictures onto the window. The condensation made them stick. Then she turned the bag upside down and scattered the rest across the room.
‘Look at them. Go on,’ she screamed. ‘Take a fucking look! I want you to see every single one of their faces and then tell me you’ve done nothing wrong, you big bastard.’
Father Watson stubbed out his cigarette, stood up and picked up the phone. ‘Right. That’s enough. I’m calling the police. You’re a bloody lunatic.’
Oonagh grabbed it from his hand. ‘I wouldn’t bother if I were you. They’ll be here soon enough. Why not catch up on a bit of television while you wait.’
He glanced over to the set nestling in a cabinet in the corner. Oonagh picked up the remote control and flicked it on. The lunchtime news was just starting.
For the first time she saw a glimmer of panic in the man’s face. She turned up the volume as the opening credits rolled. The signature tune blared through the office and the newsreader came in on cue.
‘In today’s lunchtime news… in an exclusive report… the Catholic Church apologises for the misery of the Magdalenes…’
‘What the fu—?’ Father Watson leaned forward in his chair. His hand trembled as he lit another cigarette while the rest of the headlines were read.
Oonagh perched on the table next to him, swinging her leg, kicking the back of his chair with the toe of her shoe. And then the lead story commenced. Tom filled the screen. He looked better on camera than she’d expected, but that was often the way with small guys. The caption read Father Tom Findlay – St Patrick’s Parish Church, Glasgow.
‘What the hell is this all about?’
‘Call it parallel justice! Now shush.’ She wafted her hand across Father Watson’s face to shut him up. Her eyes were glued to the screen. She couldn’t believe her luck. The duty editor was new, and had simply believed Oonagh when she’d told her the whole interview had been passed by the station’s legal team.
Tom didn’t look at all nervous. The light blue shirt with the black suit and white dog collar was a good choice. ‘Firstly,’ his voice was calm and steady as he recited the lines Oonagh had prepared for him ‘can I make a public apology on behalf of the Catholic Church for the misery endured by these poor women over the years.’ Tom waved the document Oonagh had printed off for him, and licked his lips. He was really camping it up as he got into his stride. ‘And it is with deep regret that this latest allegation – of an illegal baby trade at Lochbridge Magdalene Asylum in Glasgow – has come to our attention. Obviously I can assure not only Scotland’s Catholics, but the public in general, that each and every allegation, no matter how many years it goes back, will be fully investigated.’
There was a brief pause and her heart sank as she thought for a moment that the end had been edited out. Then came the payoff she was waiting for.
‘There is no room for this sort of contamination in the Catholic Church. But, I would like to say at this point that there is no proof – no proof whatsoever – that Father Patrick Joseph Kennedy took his own life because of these allegations. And furthermore, it would be unfair to implicate Father Michael Watson of the Catholic Press Office at this stage. It is now up to Strathclyde Police to fully investigate the matter.’
The camera switched to the pre-recorded section with Oonagh. ‘This is the latest in a long line of damaging allegations to hit the Catholic Church in recent years. Strathclyde Police have confirmed that a full investigation will be launched but refuse to say whether a report will be sent to the Procurator Fiscal, or indeed, if any charges will be brought.’ The screen switched back to the newsreader.
Father Watson’s cigarette had burned all the way up to his fingers as he dissolved into his chair. ‘You bitch. You fucking stupid bitch. Have you any idea what you’ve done?’
‘Probably lost my job?’
‘I’ll drag you through the courts for this.’ He was jabbing his finger in the air next to her chest, pointing towards the television. ‘That is fucking illegal and you know it.’
Oonagh was picking her nails. ‘Mm, you’re right. But you know, sometimes shit happens. So deal with it.’
‘I’ll sue you. I’ll fucking ruin you.’
His words were music to Oonagh’s ears. ‘Have you ever been to a libel case, Father Watson?’ He said nothing. Oonagh sucked the air in through her teeth and tutted while shaking her head. ‘Nasty businesses. They drag on for months. All sorts of dirt comes out.’ For the first time in a long while Oonagh laughed out loud. Really laughed. She slapped her hand off his chest. ‘Do yourself a favour, stupid! Quit while you’re ahead. D’you think I don’t know how to wangle my way round Scotland’s libel laws? Take this to court and you’ll come out looking like a bigger prick than you are already.’
She strode to the window. Most of Glasgow’s news agencies were within spitting distance. She spotted a white van with a satellite dish pulling into the kerb. A camera crew jumped out and ran along the pavement.
Father Watson attempted to rationalise what had just happened. ‘But Thomas Findlay is not a spokesperson for the Catholic Church!’ The veins on his neck bulged as he gripped the side of the desk. ‘He has no right. No fucking right to stand there apologising for the Church.’
Oonagh noticed even his nicotine stained fingers had turned white. She found it hard not to spit in his face. ‘Oh, really? Thanks for the tip. I’ll make sure we don’t use him as a contributor again.’
Raised voices carried from the corridor.
‘Now’s your big chance to explain yourself,’ Oonagh said, as she opened the door. The grey nun was trying to hold back a big bearded highlander, who was stuffing a microphone into her face. A girl with a camera perched on her shoulder stood behind him. The rest would soon follow.
‘He’s all yours, mate,’ Oonagh said, leaving Father Watson scrambling on his hands and knees as he tried to scrape up the pictures strewn across his floor.
*
Oonagh saw Alec Davies leaning against his car as she exited the building. He was parked on a double yellow and shaking his head. Her bravado of moments earlier evaporated and she felt her legs tremble.
‘What the hell am I going to do with you, Oonagh O’Neil?’
‘Buy me a large gin?’
He held out his arms and she collapsed into them. He hugged her and she breathed a long sigh into his shoulder.
‘You do realise that by getting Tom to name him you’ve now prejudiced any possible court case against him.’
‘Oh, come on, Alec, both of us know there’s not a hope in hell’s chance of that case getting anywhere near a court. We’ve got no reliable witnesses, no real proof. But I couldn’t just sit back and do nothing. At least…’ She thought for a moment. ‘Well, at least this way, it’s something.’
It wasn’t much though. It wasn’t much for all Irene Connolly’s pain and suffering.
‘I’ll never forget her, Alec.’
‘I know.’ He squeezed her hand and opened the car door. She made a weak gesture, pointing to her own car parked on the double yellows just yards away.
‘I’ll get a plod to take it home for you.’
Relieved, she dropped the keys into his hand and belted up. ‘So, where are we going?’
Alec Davies stared straight ahead for a moment, then s
aid, ‘As far away from here as possible.’
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Author’s Note
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Author’s Note
In 1958 Glasgow’s Magdalene Institution closed-down after the inmates staged a three day ‘riot’. The girls all aged between 15 and 19 broke out of the notorious Lochburn House amid claims of physical, verbal and psychological abuse. None of the inmates had ever been convicted of a criminal offence, yet were quickly rounded up by the police. Each time they were captured they broke out again and vowed to do so until their voices were heard. This game of cat and mouse continued for three days until a visit from the Scottish Home Department brought the promise of an investigation. An official inquiry followed and the home closed shortly thereafter; no-one was ever held accountable for the cruelty the girls endured.
Glasgow had housed a Magdalene Institution for almost one hundred and fifty years – until one day the girls said, ‘enough is enough.’ No-one knows what sparked such a radical protest, and for my part I could never find out what happened to the girls afterwards. But their story haunted me, and became the inspiration for this novel. I wanted to use dramatic licence to give them a voice.
There’s enough documentation on the history of the Magdalene’s for those interested to research further – but it’s worth noting that those throughout Great Britain, including Lochburn House, were not run by the Catholic Church. Rather, they were non-denominational and the commercial laundries within meant they were almost self-funding.
The narrative for The Lost Children necessitates that the institution was based in Glasgow, and mirrored those Catholic run homes in Ireland. Lochbridge House in The Lost Children is actually an amalgamation of Glasgow’s Magdalene Institution and the city’s notorious Lock Hospital which incarcerated ‘dangerous’ females with sexually transmitted diseases.
Both institutions were originally set up in response to the city’s growing concern about prostitution and sexually transmitted disease; the women being the obvious scapegoats for the spread of V.D.
Glasgow policed its own version of the Contagious Diseases Act (1864). The Glasgow System, as it became known, saw the unprecedented collusion between the local constabulary and the medical authorities. Women under suspicion were forced to undergo an intimate examination by male police officers; if they showed signs of V.D they’d be incarcerated into The Lock Hospital without limit of time. Many were never released.
The Glasgow system was deemed so successful, it was adopted by several cities and port-towns across the U.K. The Lock Hospital eventually closed its doors in 1950. Demolished in 1955, there are very few records of its existence.
Acknowledgements
I owe a huge thanks to a whole team of people who helped make this happen. Lucy Gilmour, my lovely editor and all the team at Aria especially Rose, Sue & Melanie. Their hard work, enthusiasm and all round loveliness are a constant joy & inspiration. My fabulous agent Nicola Barr who refused to give up.
Mum and Dad, who although no longer here in person are never far away. I need to also thank my lovely sister Tricia and brothers Stephen and Martin who have promised to take care of me in my old age. Now it’s in writing they can’t back out.
Former publisher and ‘always’ friend, Keith Charters, his calm nature and custard creams have been the making of me. William George my early reader who laughed and cried at all the right places and also Brian Hannan for his sound advice. A special thanks to Stewart Carle and Stuart Brennan – part of Strathclyde’s finest – for help on police procedure. I swear guys none of the cops are based on you!
The many crime writers who’ve become friends along the way – especially Denise Mina for her help & encouragement in the early days – they’re an inspiration, a bloody good laugh and always know where to hide the body.
Dr Jeremy Fellick, who made a surprising appearance at the final hurdle and stayed for tea! His medical knowledge at the eleventh hour saved my blushes, and he even offered to sharpen my pencils. Thanks Jez.
A shout out to every reader, blogger and reviewer who give writers a reason to go on with this madness.
But of course, the biggest debt goes to all the women who lived and died incarcerated in institutions without a voice. We may never know their names, we may never see their faces, but as long as we spare a thought for them each day they’ll never be forgotten.
About Theresa Talbot
THERESA TALBOT is a BBC broadcaster and freelance producer. A former radio news editor, she also hosted The Beechgrove Potting Shed on BBC Radio Scotland, but for many she will be most familiar as the voice of the station's Traffic & Travel. Late 2014 saw the publication of her first book, This Is What I Look Like, a humorous memoir covering everything from working with Andy Williams to rescuing chickens and discovering nuns hidden in gardens. She's much in demand at book festivals, both as an author and as a chairperson. Penance is Theresa's debut crime novel.
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Addictive Fiction
First published in the United Kingdom in 2018 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © Theresa Talbot, 2018
The moral right of Theresa Talbot to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (E) 9781788545327
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