by Emily Gunnis
Where was the bloody main road? The car slid again and he hit the brakes, but nothing happened. The car was turning sideways. If something comes the other way now, he thought, I’m dead. He was in a nightmare, a bottomless pit from which he would never escape. He had let her down. Again. He didn’t deserve her. He never had.
When Helena had agreed that he could bring Kitty home, he thought his heart would explode. She would always be devastated at his betrayal, but she had found it in her to understand. With his wife in hospital, he had needed companionship, and Kitty’s mother had provided it. He had desperately wanted a child and Helena had found a way to give him one when she never could.
As the car finally righted itself, he could at last see the lights of the main road in the distance. But as he turned the final bend, he saw her. Although he had pictured her battling through the snow to get to him, he found it nearly impossible to take in the image before him. He frantically tried to shake the hallucination from his head, but she was still there, wearing her red duffel coat, walking towards him, her small body bent forward, her head buried into her hood, trying to shield herself from the pelting snow. How could she have done it? How was she here? It couldn’t be her, it couldn’t. No, Kitty. NO!
He knew immediately that he was going to hit her. He pressed his palm on the horn and slammed on the brakes, wrenching the steering wheel as hard as he could in the opposite direction to where she stood. As the car roared towards her, the headlights fell into her path and she looked up, blinking in their glare. For a moment their eyes locked, and as the car spun past, George reached out to her. For a second she was in his arms again, as she had been the first day he held her, her life in his hands.
A rushing, scraping sound filled the car as the tyres tried to grip what they could not, and as he spun round and round, over and over, he began to scream her name. Run to me, Kitty, he thought frantically, get to me, hold my hand before I die.
The snow-covered world rushed past his window, and he spun uncontrollably for one last time, then suddenly plummeted downwards, his head forced against the windscreen so hard he felt as if somebody had cut his skull open with an axe. Pain like he had never felt before radiated down his back, as if each vertebra was being twisted loose. Screaming, grinding metal began to crush his body as he felt the cabin closing in around him tighter and tighter, until finally everything stopped and he could not move at all.
For a second there was silence as fluid began to pour from his head and mouth into his eyes and down his neck. He tried to turn his head and shout Kitty’s name, but only liquid came out. He coughed and spluttered, blood and mucus filling the footwell below him.
He lay helpless, crying out in agony, tears and vomit mingling with his blood as he waited desperately for his daughter to get to him. Help me, Kitty, help me! Don’t let me die alone.
Chapter Eleven
Sunday 5 February 2017
Gracewell Retirement Home was a modest two-storey red-brick building at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac on the far side of Preston village. Sam walked up the path to the front door and pressed the bell, glancing at her watch. She had called the office on her way over, and Fred had looked up Mother Carlin’s cuttings, which revealed that she had died at Gracewell in August 2006. As she was en route, Sam had decided it was still worth the trip. Andy had told her that a couple of the nuns were living there, so there was a chance Mother Carlin wasn’t the only staff member from St Margaret’s who had retired to Gracewell.
‘Shit,’ she mumbled under her breath, painfully aware that she needed to be back at her desk in less than two hours. When no reply came, she cupped her hand over one of the glass panes on either side of the door, peering down the empty hallway.
‘Come on!’ she urged, ringing the bell again before the sound of heels tapping on tiles finally began to echo towards her. After a quick glance through the peephole, a heavily made-up girl in her mid twenties opened the door, her large bosom straining against her nurse’s uniform.
‘Yes?’ she said, returning a stray hair to her scraped-back ponytail.
‘Oh, hi,’ said Sam, realising that she hadn’t prepared a speech. ‘I was wondering if you could help me. I’m looking for someone called Mother Carlin,’ she said, pretending she didn’t know about Mother Carlin’s death. ‘She was Mother Superior at St Margaret’s down the road in Preston and I believe she may be living here at Gracewell.’
‘I’m sorry, Mother Carlin died many years ago I believe, any queries regarding St Margaret’s need to be referred to the council,’ said the girl.
‘Oh right. It’s not really a question about St Margaret’s,’ said Sam. ‘My grandfather worked there as a caretaker, and he was very fond of Mother Carlin. He recently died and I found some letters and documents of hers amongst his things. They seem important and I was hoping to trace any family members or friends in case they might want them.’
‘Um, this isn’t a great time. We’re actually in the middle of doing breakfast.’ The girl looked over her shoulder.
Sam stamped her feet and rubbed her hands. ‘Blimey, it’s freezing out here. I’m happy to wait.’
‘Well, I suppose you’d better come in, but you could be waiting a while.’
‘Of course, no problem.’
The girl let Sam in, closing the door behind them, then led her down a corridor lined with staff photographs and faded prints of the Sussex Downs and into a lounge containing threadbare chairs and a few pieces of tired-looking furniture.
‘I’ll tell my manager you’re here. Hopefully she won’t be long. What was your name?’
‘Thank you, it’s Samantha Harper,’ said Sam, seeing no reason to lie.
The girl left her alone in the room presumably reserved for afternoon dozing and Columbo reruns. The smell of bleach and yesterday’s food hung in the air. Sam felt nauseous as she paced, scanning the bookcases and windowsills for any records or photographs of the residents of Gracewell.
‘Miss Harper?’ The girl popped her head round the door. ‘I’m afraid our manager is rather tied up at the moment. She’s suggested you write to Sister Mary Francis, who knew Mother Carlin well.’
‘Oh, right, is Sister Mary Francis living here?’ Sam forced a smile as the girl nodded at her whilst backing out of the room. ‘Is there no chance of seeing her today?’
‘I’m afraid not. She’s in her nineties now and sleeps most mornings because of her heart medication. She wouldn’t cope with a surprise visitor; she’d be unsettled for the rest of the day.’
‘I understand.’ Sam nodded. ‘Would it help if you told her it was related to St Margaret’s?’
‘I don’t think so. We get the occasional visitor looking for information about babies born at St Margaret’s that they’re trying to trace. They are often very distressed and Sister Mary Francis finds it upsetting. She won’t meet with them at all any more, so we refer them to the council.’
‘Yes, yes. I’m sure it must be very upsetting,’ said Sam, as the girl checked her watch. ‘But as I said, this documentation looks quite important to me and relates to Mother Carlin’s affairs. I think, as a friend of hers, Sister Mary Francis might want to see it. It isn’t anything to do with tracing babies.’
‘Still, we’d have to go through the proper channels. I’m sure you understand.’
‘Sure. Thanks for trying.’ Sam took out her phone, then glanced at the girl’s name badge. ‘Would I be able to just make a call in here before I go, Gemma? My grandmother is waiting to hear if I’ve managed to track down Mother Carlin or anyone who knew her. It’s very important to her, as my grandfather only just passed away.’
‘I can’t leave you in here, and I really need to get on or I’ll be late finishing my shift.’
‘You pulled the short straw this week then? You must be wrecked!’
‘Yup, night shift all this week, been on my feet since eleven last night.’ The girl smiled faintly.
‘Look, I’ll be two minutes,’ said Sam. ‘I’m fine to le
t myself out if you’re busy. I’ll stick my head into the dining room to let you know I’m going.’ She smiled and started to make the call as if it was a done deal, giving Gemma little choice but to leave her there.
Once the girl had gone, Sam dropped her phone into her bag and, making one more sweep of the room for any useful information, went out into the corridor. It was obvious where the dining room was from the clatter of cutlery and aroma of burnt toast. As she reached the entrance, Gemma came flying past with a trolley of dirty plates.
‘Bye then, thank you!’ called Sam. Gemma waved distractedly, not looking up, before charging through the double doors into the kitchen.
Knowing her window was a small one, Sam slammed the front door, yelling out another ‘Bye!’ for good measure, then darted towards the brown-carpeted stairway, bolting up two steps at a time. The bustle of the floor below gave way to an eerily quiet landing, and as she looked down the long corridor of numbered bedrooms, her heart sank at the impossibility of her task. Even if she were somehow to discover which room Sister Mary Francis was sleeping in, if she bounded in unannounced, she would possibly cause the old lady’s heart to give out. But now that she was here, she couldn’t give up. In two days the ghosts of St Margaret’s would be gone, and whatever tied Kitty Cannon to the place would be severed for ever. Sister Mary Francis was here somewhere, and Sam felt compelled to try and talk to her.
She checked the stairs again for signs of life, then started to make her way down the long corridor, scanning each room as she went for any clue as to who its occupant might be. By the time she’d reached the fire escape at the end, she was none the wiser, and when she heard the sound of doors slamming and staff chatting in the hallway below, her nerve started to fail her completely. She glanced at her watch – 8.15. If she left now, she could still escape Gracewell unscathed and make it back to the office in time for her shift.
Just as she was turning to go, she saw it: a blue file resting on a shelf next to the fire extinguisher. Quickly she walked over and flicked it open to find that its back page contained a map of the building, with a list underneath of every resident. She ran her finger down until she found who she was looking for: Sister Mary Francis – Room 15.
‘Gotcha!’ she muttered, returning the file and setting off back along the corridor.
It felt like the most daunting doorstep of her career to date, but without giving herself a moment to change her mind, she lifted her fist to the door of Room 15 and knocked. Silence. As her heart hammered in her ears, she knocked again. ‘Sister Mary Francis? It’s Gemma. There’s a visitor here to see you, can we come in?’ Slowly she pushed the door handle down, then, checking the corridor one last time, she entered the darkened room and closed the door quickly behind her, locking it shut.
The curtains were drawn and it took Sam’s eyes a moment to adjust and decipher the layout of the room. It was divided into two parts: she was standing in a lounge area containing a large armchair, a television and a small table; beyond that she could make out the outline of a person lying in the bed by the window. The blinds were down and the slats closed, but as Sam approached, she could see the sunlight trying to get in, illuminating Sister Mary Francis’s face.
‘Sister? Are you awake?’ The woman didn’t stir, and after a second or two Sam moved closer.
Despite her age, the nun’s skin was smooth of wrinkles, as if she’d never expressed an emotion in her life, and her grey hair had spread itself out obediently across her pillow like a fan. She was very thin, and her arms lay straight alongside her body, her arthritic fingers reaching out stiffly over the sides of the bed. Her covers were perfectly intact, as though she hadn’t moved all night, and she was so deathly white that if the blankets hadn’t been gently rising and falling with her breathing, Sam might have assumed she was dead.
‘Sister? Are you awake?’ she said as loudly as she dared.
Sister Mary Francis began to stir, turning her head from left to right and then finally opening her dark blue eyes. Sam froze, terrified that she would scream at the sight of a complete stranger in her room. But the woman just looked at her briefly, then closed her eyes again.
‘Where is Gemma?’ she said croakily, beginning to cough slightly.
‘She’s just making your breakfast.’
Sister Mary Francis was coughing harder now. Sam listened to the phlegm bubbling in her lungs, waiting for the coughing to subside. Finally the old woman managed to whisper, ‘Who are you?’
‘My name is Samantha. I asked Gemma if I could have a quick word with you.’
‘Gemma knows I don’t like visitors,’ said the nun, wiping the spit away from around her mouth.
‘I’m sorry. I only need to ask you a couple of questions, then I’ll leave you in peace.’
Sister Mary opened her eyes and looked at Sam intently. ‘Questions about what, child?’
‘I recently attended the inquest of someone called Father Benjamin. I believe you worked at St Margaret’s with him.’
‘Any questions about St Margaret’s need to be directed to the council,’ said Sister Mary Francis, her dozy state evaporating suddenly.
‘I don’t need to speak to the council,’ said Sam, ‘I’m just trying to find out if you ever knew someone by the name of Kitty Cannon during your time at St Margaret’s.’
Sister Mary looked at her as if she were a fly in her soup, then sat up slowly and swung her legs out of the bed. She pulled a cord to open the blinds and sunshine flooded in. Sam blinked, looking away momentarily.
‘Who are you again?’ said Sister Mary. The door handle began to rattle, making Sam jump.
‘I’m a friend of Kitty Cannon’s. We were at Father Benjamin’s inquest together, and she was looking for you. I mean, she hoped to see you again.’
Sister Mary glared at her. ‘I’m certain I’ve never met anyone by that name.’
‘Sister? Are you okay?’ Gemma called out urgently. The nun looked to the door and then at Sam. ‘I thought I heard voices in there. Sister, why is the door locked?’
‘Could you get the key, Gemma? I’ve locked myself in and I can’t get out of bed,’ said Sister Mary Francis, her eyes fixed on Sam.
‘Okay, Sister, I’ll be right back,’ called Gemma. ‘Just hold on!’
‘You’d better go, child. They’ll call the police if they catch you in here.’ Sister Mary sat on the end of her bed and wound her rosary beads through her fingers.
Sam stared at her, her heart pounding. ‘Well, maybe we should speak to the police about St Margaret’s. I’d hate to bring the name of the Sisters of Mercy into disrepute and for you to spend your remaining time here having to answer awkward questions about what went on in that hellhole. Times are different now, Sister. I’ve seen the makeshift coffin in Mother Carlin’s office floor and I think you’d find the protection you enjoyed all those years ago might have fallen away.’
Sister Mary stood slowly and walked over to the Bible by her bedside table, running her fingers over the gold cross embedded in the front. ‘Why is it that all these years later, everyone is looking for someone to blame?’
‘Maybe because they can’t get over what you did to them,’ said Sam.
Sister Mary Francis smiled. ‘Be careful, child. Satan disguises himself as an angel of light.’
‘Who do you think Kitty Cannon should blame, then?’ said Sam.
‘She could start by accepting that her father was a philanderer,’ she hissed, ‘we gave those girls a roof over their heads when they would otherwise have been on the streets. I know what some of the staff here say about us, how they talked about Mother Carlin. I heard her shouting out when she died and nobody came to help. Nobody cared about what happened to her that night.’
‘What do you mean what happened to her?’
But Sister Mary Francis didn’t answer her. The old woman turned her back and Sam knew her time was up. She unlocked the door and darted along the corridor back towards the fire escape. Pushing it open, she ran down t
he steel staircase, frantically dialling Fred’s mobile number.
‘Fred, it’s Sam. I’m gonna be a bit late. Can you cover for me?’ She jumped into her car. ‘And can you look up any cuttings on Kitty Cannon’s father. Yes, the chat show host. I’ll fill you in when I get in.’
As soon as she hung up, she rang Nana to check she and Emma were okay.
‘We’re fine, darling, are you all right? You left very early.’ Nana’s voice was deep, as if she had just woken up.
‘I’m good, Nana. I was wondering, could you possibly look in Grandad’s paperwork and see if there are any other letters from that girl Ivy. You know, like the one you were reading last night.’ The line went quiet. ‘Nana? Can you hear me?’
‘Yes, I can hear you,’ said Nana, as Sam heard Emma calling out to her in the background.
‘Sorry to ask, Nana. I know you’re busy, but could you possibly check now? It’s pretty important.’
‘All right,’ Nana sighed. ‘Hold on.’
Sam felt a surge of guilt at the thought of Nana having to run around after her as well as Emma. But she had two days before St Margaret’s was torn down, and if this was the story that was going to get her noticed, then she was doing it for all of them. Nana needed her flat back, and Sam needed to earn some proper money so that she could provide for her and Emma.
As she looked at her watch, panicking about getting back to the office before Murray noticed she was late, she heard Nana pick up the phone and let out another heavy sigh as she sat back down.
‘Why are you so interested in these letters?’ Nana said.
‘Who wouldn’t be? That poor girl.’
‘You’re not using them for your work, are you?’
Sam hesitated. She’d never lied to Nana before, but then again, she wasn’t strictly using them for work; she was doing some digging for her own purposes. ‘No, I just think she’s fascinating.’