The Dead Ground

by Claire McGowan

  ‘Yeah.’ What could she say? ‘Aren’t you going home?’ she asked again.

  Guy paused for a moment. ‘Yes. Things are – our water’s off. It’s making Tess – well, she’s very anxious about it. They’re saying we might have to queue for supplies.’

  ‘I know. You must be thinking this is all a bit Third World. Supposedly the Water Board didn’t maintain any of the pipes, not for years. Did you hear?’

  But Guy didn’t rise to the usual this-place-is-so-backward bait. ‘I’m locking up now. Let me see you to your car.’

  She said goodbye as quickly as she could, not wanting to linger with him under the snowy pall of the car park. As she waited for her windscreen to clear she watched Guy’s car pull out, the lights fade gently into the night, and disappear entirely. She started the Volvo, sighing, and made her way home, visibility so poor the world had shrunk to the square before her headlights, the other lights of cars blurred in the distance. She couldn’t remember when she’d last felt so alone. She found herself thinking of Aidan, wondering where he was on this bleak night. Back in Dublin with Maeve? Warm in her double bed, in the only bedroom? She gripped the wheel tight and tried to forget it.

  Paula parked in the street, trudging up the slippery pavement and gripping onto front walls of houses as she passed. Behind every window light and warmth, the flicker of TVs and the glow of lit-up trees. Days to Christmas. Nothing right with the world.

  At her father’s, she paused, searching her bag for keys, before finding them in her hand. Already, her brain was turning to mush. Was this why she couldn’t solve this case, the baby leaching into all her corners, a sea-change at the very heart of her? She turned the key in the frosty lock. ‘Dad?’

  No answer, no sound of TV. A light burned in the hallway but nothing from the kitchen, which was in darkness. A cold blast blew and she saw the back door was open, banging in the wind. Where was he? ‘Da—?’

  She reached for the light, and as she did she felt something sticking her boots to the kitchen lino. She looked down. There was her father, on his back below the kitchen table. One of the letters she’d given him was grasped in his hand. His eyes were shut, and what was sticking her boot to the floor was the blood that had spread out from the scalpel stuck in his arm.

  She rushed over to him, but hadn’t gone two steps before a shadow moved, and something hit her from the left side, a searing pain scratching her stomach. There was a flash of black in the corner of her eye and she felt breath on her face, cold as the air outside.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  ‘Dad? Can you hear me? Christ, what’s wrong with him?’ Sometimes Paula thought all the worst moments of her life had taken place in Ballyterrin General Hospital, racing down those puke-green corridors, lights fuzzing overhead, trying to still the dread that wrapped around her heart like a snake.

  The past twenty minutes were a blur. Whoever had been there had pushed past her and out the open front door. Paula had raced out after them, the pain in her side slowing her. There was no sign in the street. Vanished like a ghost again, except for the footsteps in the new-fallen snow leading away. They must have disappeared into one of the alleys along the street. She’d called an ambulance, giving the details in a strangely calm voice, then she’d gone back in to her father, tied a tea towel round his upper arm as a tourniquet, and held his head on her lap. ‘It’ll be OK,’ she’d muttered to him over and over. His eyelids fluttered and a thin moaning seeped out of his mouth; he was awake, but only just. In the past she’d often wondered how she would react in an extreme situation, and this job had given her the answer – with eerie calm, almost not taking it in until it was over and she’d collapse, weeping. She’d hardly dared lift up her layers of jumper and coat, now ripped with the knife the assailant had tried to stick in her. It wasn’t so bad. Blood stuck the wool to her skin, but the injury wasn’t deep. Helping PJ was more important.

  Now she put up her arms to crash through the doors of A & E, her father strapped to a trolley, his eyes closed. Nurses and doctors fussed round him, checking his pupils, feeling his wrists. Paula hung alongside, nervously wringing her hands. ‘Please! Is he still awake?’

  ‘You can’t be in here, miss,’ said one doctor officiously. ‘Mr Maguire’s to go for emergency surgery. We have to get him ready.’

  PJ cut a forlorn figure, all six foot three of him dressed only in torn pyjamas, his face grey and drawn. The arm was bandaged roughly, blood blooming through above the elbow. As they wheeled him into a cubicle, his eyes fluttered and Paula saw his lips move. He was trying to talk. She fumbled past the nurse. ‘I’m his daughter, I need to speak to him. Dad, what happened?’

  PJ could barely move, but was beckoning her over. She grasped his hand; he smelled of blood and fear. ‘Someone came . . . knife.’

  ‘Who was it, Dad? Please tell me.’

  ‘I’ve . . . to tell you something, pet. Remembered something, s’very important. Letters . . . letters you gave me.’

  ‘Dad, don’t sit up!’ She gently pushed him down. ‘Whisper to me.’

  ‘Mr Maguire, you really mustn’t move! Miss, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’ The doctor wasn’t happy.

  ‘I’m with the police,’ Paula shot over her shoulder. ‘Just give me a minute. What do you mean, Dad?’ She bent down low.

  ‘Remember . . . funeral I was at – Kevin . . . Kevin Conway.’

  ‘Your old colleague? Yeah, I remember, but Dad, don’t worry about that.’ She gripped his rough hand. ‘Try to tell me who did this to you.’

  He coughed, crushing her hand with a surprising strength and finding his voice again. ‘Listen. Saw Kevin before he died, and he said . . . he’d seen someone. A woman. Woman we both knew. We worked on her case years back. Bad business.’ He stopped to cough again, his body convulsing.

  ‘Mr Maguire! You really mustn’t talk!’

  Paula shooed the doctor away, who started muttering about getting the consultant and pushed out of the cubicle. Her father resumed his fevered whispers. ‘This woman . . . she was . . . married to some small-time crook, stole cars and ran guns for the Provos and that. They’d this farm way out near the border. Anyway we went out when her husband turned up dead in a bog. Place was all locked. She was in the kitchen.’ He stopped, coughing hard. His speech speeded up, as if he were desperate to get the words out. ‘Not a good story, pet. I’d not tell you for a million years, but you need to know. You need to know. She’s in the kitchen and they’d handcuffed her there and taken the husband. The IRA. You know . . . came for the husband and left her there. Thing was, she’s pregnant, and she’s gone into labour the same day. They beat her. Her face. All ruined.’

  Paula was almost dancing with frustration. ‘But what’s this got to do with—’

  ‘Listen! There’s no one to help her. No one. Miles from anywhere, they were, and the husband shot in the head in some bog and there was a sister but she lived in Dublin. And the baby came.’

  ‘What happened?’ Paula’s voice was trapped in her throat.

  ‘She cut the wean out of herself,’ said PJ in his dying rasp. ‘We were . . . too late. Wee thing was dead. Three days she’d been there. Thought she was dead too.’

  ‘But she lived?’

  ‘Aye. Kevin was . . . with me. First . . . month on the job, God love him. Bob Hamilton, he was the Sergeant. And when we went to hospital with her the doctor gave her . . . hysterectomy.’

  Paula’s heart was beating fast. ‘Which doctor, Dad?’

  ‘The Bates woman. The one who’s dead, with her stomach all sliced.’ He waved his hands weakly in the direction of his torso.

  Fuck. ‘Oh Dad. You mean . . . you think this is all connected?’

  ‘I know. I know, pet. I was thinking all this time . . . cuts across the belly, exactly the same. Should’ve remembered. Then you said, had I ever worked wit
h Mick Quinn. Should’ve remembered. It was him found the husband’s body. Think the letters . . . the letters you had, think they were from her. To her sister.’

  Her mind was whirring. Seizing. Stopped. Come on, think! ‘And Kevin said he saw this woman again? Dad, was it Magdalena Croft? The faith healer?’ His eyes had sagged shut again. She squeezed his hand. ‘Please Dad, just try to tell me. Was it her?’

  His voice seeped out of his closed mouth. ‘That was . . . the sister.’

  ‘The sister?’

  ‘Aye.’

  Paula frowned. ‘But how . . . The woman – Dad, was the husband called Brian Rourke?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘And the wife . . . fuck, Dad, was she called Bridget?’

  He didn’t even scold her for swearing. ‘Mary Rourke. Called herself that. Letters from her to her sister. You see?’

  ‘Where did he see her? Where did Kevin see the woman?’

  ‘Here. Hospital. Went for a scan and she walked in to see . . . radiologist. She said hello Sergeant Conway. She knew him. And he couldn’t place her, the way you do. But he remembered after. Her face looked different – that’d be right, it was all smashed up, you see. And she’d a new name on her badge. Wasn’t Mary any more.’

  ‘What was it?’ Paula had to stop herself from crushing his hand. ‘Dad, what was the name? Who is she?’ Rourke, Rourke. Had she seen that somewhere recently?

  ‘He couldn’t remember, love. All those drugs. And then I never saw him again, he went that quickly. Never got . . . to ask him.’

  ‘We can find out. We must be able to find out.’

  He tried to sit up again, speaking rapidly. ‘Love, I want you to be careful. That’s the doctor gone, and her daughter, and that poor wee Quinn girl lost her baby, you said? Mick Quinn was the one found the husband’s body.’

  ‘Yes, but we thought – shit. You think, what, the killer’s targeting anyone involved in the case?’

  ‘Not us,’ he said, coughing. ‘Our children. You see? We could have helped, all of us, but we didn’t. We couldn’t. She lost a baby that day. She wants us to know what that feels like. Now Kevin never had any weans, but Bob has one that I know of, and there’s you, pet. Take care, will you?’ His hand slipped from hers. ‘Just take care. I think . . . maybe it was you . . . you see?’

  ‘What do you . . . ?’ Then, she got it. Whoever had done this to her father, they’d been looking for Paula. Paula and her baby. ‘Dad! Oh God, what do I do?’

  ‘Miss Maguire, we really have to take him down,’ said the doctor more urgently, whisking the curtains aside as she came back in. ‘He’s lost a lot of blood. He’s in danger. You’ve been injured too, we need to examine you.’

  ‘OK. Christ, just wait a second. Dad, I have to go – I have to do something about this. Pat’s on her way, she’ll be with you. Will you try to remember more? I need to tell all this to Guy, and we have to warn Bob, and whoever else – shit.’

  ‘Don’t swear, pet,’ said PJ, being wheeled away and closing his eyes against the pain. Left alone, Paula put a hand to her side, where pain still throbbed, and realised when she took it away it was covered in blood.

  She raced up the stairs of the hospital, too impatient to wait for the lift. The doctors in A & E were preoccupied with her father. She needed to find someone and get them to check out the baby. The knife must have gone in deeper than she thought. She could feel blood seep out as she half-ran, half-staggered up.

  Her mind was whirling. If Aidan was right, the Mary who’d married Brian Rourke, and who’d lost her child, was really Bridget Conaghan, using her sister’s name. And she was somewhere in Ballyterrin. Paula barged out of the stairwell on floor three and ran down to Gynaecology. It was closed up for the day, the reception desk unstaffed and no one waiting in the seats. The water shortages meant the hospital was operating reduced hours. Please God someone would be there. She pushed open the door of the midwife’s office and saw someone sitting there.

  ‘Tess?’

  Guy’s wife was hunched over the desk in the darkened room. Paula stopped short. ‘Are you OK?’

  Tess raised her head to Paula, eyes red buttons in a drab white face. ‘You told him, didn’t you?’

  Paula didn’t even get it for a moment. ‘Guy? No – I haven’t.’

  ‘But you were with him. This weekend.’

  ‘I – for work, that was all.’ Paula thought of their night in the hotel, when she’d fallen asleep in his arms and he’d whispered into her hair. Words she wasn’t even sure were meant for her.

  ‘I can see it on him.’ Tess kneaded her temples with her long fingers. Her bun of black hair was coming down at the back. ‘He comes home every day and I see it in his eyes. It’s you he’s thinking about. He barely even touches me, and I’m his wife.’

  ‘Tess – no. There’s nothing going on with us.’

  ‘I want you to leave.’

  ‘What?’

  Tess pushed back her chair with a scrape and walked over to Paula, holding her elbows in each hand. She was a tall woman. Tall and dark. In nursing clothes.

  A woman aged between thirty-five and fifty, tall, with dark hair, likely with medical training . . . How old was Tess? No matter, Paula knew it exactly. She was forty, the same as Guy. Tess was in front of her, and she reached out now and took Paula’s reluctant hand, squeezing it in front of her.

  ‘I’m begging you, Paula. I know there’s something between you and him. And God, you’re maybe having his baby. I tried so hard after Jamie. I thought a baby might bring us back – we were destroyed. We were falling apart. But I couldn’t, it never happened. I’m too old, maybe. And you – you waltz in with your red hair and your Irish cheek and it’s all Paula this, such a bright girl, such an asset to the team . . .’

  A woman who has lost a child . . .

  ‘Please Paula. Give him back to me. Don’t have this baby. We have a child, me and him. We still have one child alive and that’s all I have to bring him back to me. Don’t have yours. I know you don’t want it anyway.’

  Paula shook off Tess’s touch, angry. ‘You left him! You tried to divorce him, when he was at his lowest point!’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking right. I was mad with grief for my son. What would you know about it – you’ve never had a child. It kills you when you lose them. It makes you into someone else. But when I saw you were pregnant, I knew I’d made a mistake leaving. I love him. He’s my husband.’ Tess’s eyes were dark and hooded. ‘There’s still time. You don’t really want this child. You told me.’ Her hand moved to Paula’s stomach.

  Paula grabbed it, pushed it off. ‘Look, I’m sorry you lost Jamie. But there is no time, none. You don’t understand. I need to get help. Let me go.’

  For a moment Paula wasn’t sure she would let her. Suspicions crowded – a woman in her forties, who’s lost a child, who can’t get pregnant, who’s tall, with medical training . . . But no, it made no sense. It couldn’t be. God, she was so confused.

  She backed away to the door, then felt it open behind her. ‘What’s going on?’ Bernice the midwife. Paula had never been so happy to see someone.

  ‘I was looking for you – I need help.’

  ‘Good Lord, I can see why! You’re bleeding. We need to get you looked at.’ She hustled Paula out the door, leaving Tess standing there hugging her elbows.

  Paula’s head reeled as Bernice practically marched her down the dark, empty corridor, feet squeaking on the plastic floors. Jesus! She couldn’t believe it, not Guy’s wife. It didn’t fit. She had to talk to him. Tell him everything, upturn it into his lap, and it would all make sense. The end of the corridor by the consulting room was deserted, a faulty light flickering on and off above.

  Bernice opened the door to her office. ‘Go in, pet. You’re white as a sheet, are you OK?’

 
‘Yeah, it’s just a scratch I think, but I—’

  ‘Sit down.’ Bernice ushered her into the room and sat her down on the bed, which was shrouded in blue tissue paper. ‘You look like you’ve had a shock.’

  ‘I have, but—’

  ‘Any nausea?’

  ‘Um, a bit, but—’ She tried to get up but Bernice held her wrist, feeling for the pulse.

  ‘Paula, your heart’s racing. I think the baby might be in trouble. You need to lie down, let me have a look at you.’

  ‘No, I need to call the station, I – can I phone from here? Do you have a phone?’

  ‘Of course,’ she soothed. ‘But think of the baby first. She’ll be getting an awful dose of anxiety right now. Whatever’s in you is in her, you know. She won’t be happy.’

  ‘I—’ She? Had the woman said she? ‘Please, I really need to phone someone.’

  ‘It’s OK, Paula.’ Bernice turned around. She was strapping a surgical mask over her face. ‘We’re going to take care of the baby. Just a shot to calm you first.’

  ‘I don’t want a shot!’

  ‘You need it. The baby’s in distress. There.’

  ‘Ow!’ Quick as a snake, Bernice had jabbed a syringe in Paula’s arm, into the crook of her elbow. Blood beaded.

  ‘Press that down or it’ll bruise.’ Bernice passed over a cotton pad and stunned, Paula did what she was told.

  ‘What did you give me?’

  ‘Just something to relax you. You’re always running round the place. Aren’t you? I’ve watched you in the snow, at crime scenes, racketing round with that newspaper editor – he’s a bad boy. He’d make a terrible father. Not to mention the married policeman. Really, Paula, you’ve made some very bad choices. That poor wean, with you as her mother. No, you’re not really safe with a baby, are you?’

  ‘Wh-what do you mean?’ Paula’s mouth felt stiff and dry. The lights overhead began to blur. ‘What did you give me?’