Holding

by Graham Norton

  Linus stared into her face, willing her to understand telepathically what was coming next. Nothing. Her eyes wet with tears, she looked at him expectantly. ‘They recovered the body of an infant,’ he told her. ‘They think it had suffocated.’ He could still hear her crying as he sat in the car outside. Sergeant fucking Sumo didn’t know how lucky he had it.

  When the silver Mercedes came to a halt in the rutted area of mud that served as a car park, neither PJ or Linus would have admitted it, but they were quite happy to see each other. The sergeant walked down towards the car and they greeted each other with the sort of overpumped handshake two men who had been friends years before might give each other at a school reunion. PJ led the way up a small incline to the edge of the site. Protruding over the brow of the hill were the white hoods of the forensics team. The sergeant took great pleasure in being able to bring Linus up to speed with the case.

  ‘The lads were saying that if it hadn’t been buried in some sort of metal box, there would have been nothing left after all this time. Their guess would be that it’s been here at least thirty years, maybe longer. They’ll know more after the proper tests, obviously.’

  ‘Of course.’ They were right at the edge of the excavation now, and Linus peered down into the chocolate-brown soil. A few rusty fragments were dotted in a loose rectangle, and there in the middle were the small, dull bones. To a casual observer it might have been the remains of an ancient picnic or discarded Sunday roast, except for the tiny skull lying on its side staring into the ditch for eternity. Linus thought of his own baby. How big was he now? He thought of the waitress and her howling tears. Who had wept for this little mite? Who had placed the tiny frame into that box and buried it up here away from the house?

  Over to his right a blackthorn tree was heavy with noisy birds. Were they chaffinches? He wished they would shut the fuck up. Despite the blue sky, the wind still had some chill in it, and he pulled his coat around himself as he turned without speaking and headed back down towards the car. He could hear PJ’s heavy breathing following him. ‘Are they sure it’s only one body up there? It’s not some weird burial ground for unwanted babies, is it?’

  ‘They can’t be sure yet, but it’s unlikely. The local place for those babies is in the old famine graveyard beyond the creamery. There was one found there as recently as about four years ago. It turned out it belonged to this little one from Ballytorne. She—’

  ‘Right,’ Linus announced, interrupting PJ. ‘Once we get a timeline, I want you talking to anyone who would be the right age to remember. Babies come from somewhere. Who was pregnant? Who lost their kid?’

  ‘Will do. I’ve already established it wasn’t Mrs Burke herself. She was only pregnant the once, and that was with Tommy.’

  At the mention of his name, the two men looked at each other. Tommy Burke. Where was he? Was he even now walking past them in a hi-vis jacket, smirking with pleasure because of his well-kept secret?

  ‘Do you think there’s a connection between—’

  ‘I don’t think anything,’ Linus snapped. ‘I don’t know anything.’ He opened his car door. As he got in, he turned back towards PJ. ‘We’ll know more soon.’ Raising his eyebrows as some sort of apology for his short temper, he closed the door and slowly navigated his way across the churned-up surface towards the road.

  PJ watched the silver car go and then, squinting against the sun, looked back up towards the baby’s burial site. He was not a man who got feelings, or acted on hunches, but there had to be a link, he thought. Two bodies on one farm. They had to be connected somehow. He balled his hands into fists as he headed towards his own car. He was enjoying this.

  Back at the bungalow, there was silence. PJ stuck his head around the kitchen door, but there was no sign of Mrs Meany. He considered going down to the pub for a sandwich. People wanted to talk to him again, and he knew that the solution to this case had to be in the collective memory of Duneen. It might only take one person to remember something very simple for everything to become clear. In his office a small corner of paper was on his desk with Mrs Meany’s writing on it. Back soon was all it said. He wondered if he should wait. No, he’d go to the pub.

  Byrne’s was the only pub that did food beyond crisps or packets of nuts, so he parked outside and went in. It took his eyes a moment or two to adjust to the gloom, and when they did, it appeared he was the only customer. A radio phone-in was coming through the speakers. A woman was berating the lazy mothers of Ireland for childhood obesity. PJ rolled his eyes. This was the last thing he wanted to listen to. He considered sitting up at the bar but in the end opted for a small table behind the door just under the dartboard. Even after more than a decade there was still a smell of stale cigarettes. Behind the bar was also deserted, so PJ just sat and waited. He was in no hurry.

  ‘If you loved your kids you would. Sure it’s no effort to peel a couple of spuds.’

  ‘When I come home from work I’ve only got the energy to put something in the microwave, and sure that’s all they’ll eat. They wouldn’t thank me for a potato.’

  Behind the frosted amber glass of the window PJ saw a couple of ghostly passers-by probably heading into O’Driscoll’s. A large truck trundled past, plunging the bar into momentary night.

  He wasn’t in a rush, but this waiting was making the sergeant anxious. What if he was some sort of criminal? He could have carried the whole till out to the car by now. He stood up and went to stand by the bar. From somewhere came the noise of bottles being moved. At least he wasn’t alone.

  ‘Hello?’ he called, his voice sounding flat and tinny in the hollow air.

  ‘Be with you in a second,’ came the muffled reply from somewhere behind the door at the back of the bar. It was Cormac Byrne’s voice.

  Another few minutes ticked by and then Cormac burst through the door rubbing his hands on an old rag.

  ‘Sorry about that. The deliveries were late.’

  ‘No problem, Cormac.’

  ‘Ah, it’s yourself, Sergeant!’ as if he only knew him by the sound of his voice and had been unaware who the very large man in the Garda uniform was. ‘What can I get you?’

  ‘I’ll just have a ham and cheese sandwich on brown bread if you have it, and a glass of 7Up. Thanks.’

  Cormac walked back towards the door and called out PJ’s sandwich order to a nameless helper in an unseen kitchen. Then he got a green bottle out of one of the fridges.

  ‘Ice?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  ‘Actually, you’re the very man I wanted to see.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Did you know that my mother is in the nursing home over near Schull?’

  ‘I didn’t. I’m sorry to hear that. Is she all right?’

  ‘Ah, she’s fine. Not too steady on her feet and her memory is going, so I didn’t like leaving her here on her own. I said I’d bring her home again if she didn’t like it, but she’s happy out there. I get over to visit a few times a week; normally it would be midweek because it can be busy here at the weekends.’

  ‘Of course.’ PJ nodded and took a sip of his drink. He wondered where this was going.

  ‘The thing is, it’s very hard to think of things to talk about. She’d know me, but that’s about it. I find if I talk about things long ago she sometimes has more of a clue. That’s why the Tommy Burke excitement was great. She could remember his parents, and the girls scrapping in the street and all of that.’

  ‘Right.’ PJ was becoming more interested.

  ‘Well I remember you were in a few months ago asking about Tommy getting on the bus to Cork and I told you that I’d heard it from my mother but that I’d no clue who told her. Last night I was telling her about the baby bones and she was asking about Tommy. I had to tell her he was gone a long time ago and then she said, and this may or may not be true, but what she said last night was “Oh that’s right. Abigail Ross saw him getting on the bus.”’

  ‘Abigail?’

  ‘That’s what sh
e said. It might be nonsense. I mean, this is a woman who thinks Maggie Thatcher is in the room next to hers, but when she’s talking about the past she gets it right more often than not.’

  ‘Abigail Ross.’ PJ thought back to the conversations that had taken place at Ard Carraig. He couldn’t remember asking directly, but surely one of the sisters would have said something if Abigail had actually seen Tommy Burke getting on the bus.

  A small, thin girl with greasy black hair scraped into a ponytail came from behind the bar and plonked a plate in front of PJ.

  ‘Your sandwich. There’s salt and pepper on the tables.’ She turned and disappeared from view.

  The sergeant looked down. It was on white bread and there didn’t appear to be any cheese in it. He decided not to make a fuss. Picking up the plate and his glass, he headed back to his small table.

  ‘Thanks for that, Cormac. I’ll check it out, and if your mother has any bright ideas about the mother of the dead baby, be sure to let us know.’

  The two men laughed, and then the only sound that remained was the voice bemoaning the low price of chicken nuggets.

  3

  A dark shadow moved slowly against the black outline of the hedgerow. It might have been a ghost, but then the crunch of a heel against some loose grit on the road betrayed that it was a living soul. Someone was walking with a steady confidence through the darkness up the hill past the primary school. One foot in front of the other, both hands clutching the collar of their coat to their throat even though it was a mild, windless night.

  Nothing had changed since Mrs Meany was a young girl who had walked this road every day for nearly a year. She knew exactly where she was. She paused by the old gate lost in a jungle of briars and weeds, then kept going till she found the wide gash that had been opened as the entrance to the building site. She hesitated and then ventured forward. She was moving slower now, unsure of the terrain. Following the tracks left by the various cars and vans that used the site, she made her way up the slope. When she came across the plastic tape hanging limply, she knew that she had found the right place. Turning around, she could just make out the glow of lights from the village below. Yes, this was the spot.

  Mrs Meany didn’t know why she had come here, but it seemed like the right thing to do. A pilgrimage of sorts. She squeezed her eyes shut and hugged her bony frame tightly. Anyone can keep a secret when nobody suspects anything, but now it was unbearable. Until a few days ago, only four people had known about the baby buried up here, and three of them were dead. She knew that soon she would have to tell someone, and then everything would unravel. A vision drifted into her mind where she was nailed to the big cross that sat behind the altar. She saw her grey-haired head slumped to one side, the blood from the crown of thorns trickling down her face, her body draped in a silky dressing gown. All the people of the village she had ever known, alive or dead, sat in the pews and glared at her, their eyes full of unforgiving judgement.

  Mrs Meany opened her eyes and stared into the darkness. Almost fifty years had passed since she had stood here shivering under a starry sky, reciting the rosary. Old Tommy Burke had asked her to say some prayers, but she had only ever been to her grandmother’s funeral and could hardly remember it, she’d been that young, so wasn’t sure what was appropriate. At first she hadn’t cried. Just stood there pointing the big heavy torch while the shovel scraped against stones in the soil under the hedge. She had wondered why they hadn’t chosen a spot in the pretty little kitchen garden behind the house, but Big Tommy had explained that too much digging went on there and it might be discovered. She had nodded her head as if she understood, but her mind swarmed with unanswered questions. Why not call the priest? Should there be a doctor? If this was so wrong, then where would the little soul end up? Was there no way to have it baptised? Somehow she knew that the answers to all these questions had something to do with trying to protect her, so she stayed silent.

  Tears only came when Big Tommy had picked up the tin chest that until a few hours earlier had contained a random selection of tools. It looked so small and light in his big dark hands. She thought of the empty cot with its neatly folded blankets, and then looked down at the cold, dank hole where this tiny child would sleep forever. Her shoulders shook with sobs.

  ‘Hold the torch still, girl,’ Big Tommy had hissed at her as she tried to control her juddering chest. The tin box disappeared from view and the scoops of earth fell on the lid like heavy rain.

  Mrs Meany peered around her and tried to get her bearings. It was useless. With the house gone and trees felled, there was nothing to help her figure out where the other body had been found. Her head ached from all the thinking, all the secrets. Soon, she thought, they must escape. Like a lanced boil, the poison of the past had to be released.

  Picking her way carefully back to the road, she remembered the last time she had left the farm. It had been so quiet after all the noise and commotion. Her throat was still sore from the screaming, her body felt unfamiliar, and every step had made her flinch. She hadn’t been back at home for long before her mother had got her the job up at the priest’s house. Had Mam known? She went to her grave never having said anything. Mrs Meany had desperately wanted to tell her, but by the time she was standing by her narrow bed in the nursing home, it had seemed too cruel to upset her.

  It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered any more. Going to work for the priest was as good as becoming a nun in her mind, and she had simply chosen to ignore her own pleasure or enjoyment. Back then, just living was enough; just knowing gave her all the comfort she needed. Then the comfort had turned to heartbreak, and as the house slowly vanished under its shroud of branches and weeds, so did she. She had chosen not to exist. That was weak and selfish of her and had led to all the trouble. It had led to this moment fifty years later, as she made her way home through the empty night.

  In the morning, she was surprised to see two cars outside the Garda barracks. It turned out that the detective from Cork was down early, so she made two full breakfasts. It was more work but it was nice to have the sound of voices in the kitchen after the months of silence. As she wiped down the counters and left the pan to soak for a few minutes, she listened to snatches of conversation. They were going to question Brid Riordan and the Ross girl again. The theory was that the baby had probably belonged to one of them and was linked to Tommy’s disappearance. The other body could have been a jealous boyfriend or … Their scenarios ground to a halt.

  Mrs Meany wondered if she was acting suspiciously. Was it possible to tell by looking at her that she could solve their mystery, or at least some of it? She could have pulled out a chair and told them everything. Instead she made a fresh pot of tea and poured the two men a mug each. They were talking now about Abigail Ross being the last person to have seen Tommy. The old lady folded a damp cloth carefully and hung it over the taps. Abigail? Something about that didn’t ring true. The detective fellow was explaining to PJ how they needed to collect DNA from the women to help identify the baby. DNA? Mrs Meany had seen enough episodes of CSI to know that stuff could tell you everything. Soon they would unearth the truth.

  4

  It was Abigail herself who opened the front door at Ard Carraig. She looked pale and drawn and PJ wondered if she was ill. She offered no greeting and seemed perfectly comfortable for the three of them to just stare at each other. Linus broke the silence.

  ‘Good morning. I’m Detective Superintendent Dunne, and I’m sure you know the sergeant here.’

  PJ gave a weak smile of acknowledgement and Abigail simply nodded. She clearly was in no mood for this intrusion. Linus cleared his throat and tried to take control.

  ‘There have been further developments up at the building site and I would like to ask you a few questions.’

  ‘This is Abigail Ross,’ PJ interjected. ‘It’s really Evelyn we’re after.’

  ‘My sister is out at the moment but I’m sure she’ll be happy … Oh.’ Abigail stopped herself in mid-sentence a
s a long-limbed golden dog came bounding around the side of the house and threw himself against Linus and PJ as if they were long-lost family members returning from war.

  ‘Bobby! Down! Bad boy!’ Abigail commanded without much conviction. ‘He’s a bit wild, I’m afraid. He’ll calm down in a minute.’

  Linus was not a fan of dogs at the best of times, and he certainly did not appreciate struggling with this writhing mass of hair and saliva while trying to conduct an investigation. PJ was secretly pleased at the detective’s discomfort. He rubbed his hands along Bobby’s back, enjoying the sheen of his coat and the crazed energy of the young dog with its warm squirming body that didn’t seem to contain a single bone.

  ‘I’m so sorry!’ It was Evelyn, slightly out of breath, rushing from the side of the house. ‘He heard voices and was off like a shot. He loves new people. He’ll calm down in a minute.’

  ‘So we hear,’ muttered Linus.

  Bobby, oblivious to any sense of calm, seemed even more excited now that Evelyn had joined the group. The pack was complete!

  Evelyn spread her arms as if she were herding small children. ‘Shall we head inside?’

  Abigail turned on her heel and went into the darkened hallway, followed by Linus and PJ. As Evelyn closed the door behind them, Bobby decided it was a race to see who could get to the kitchen door first. He won.

  PJ was struck by how different Ard Carraig seemed. No lamps were lit to dispel the gloom, and the previously pristine kitchen had small collections of dirty crockery scattered on the counters, while the floor was covered with a patchwork of old newspapers stained yellow from what he assumed was dog piss. There was a strong smell, and it wasn’t of baking.

  ‘Forgive the mess,’ Evelyn said as she walked over to the sink. ‘Bobby hasn’t quite got the hang of where to do his business. Have you, Bobby?’ She leaned down to the dog and rubbed his ears. ‘You don’t know where to do your business, do you?’ Bobby wagged his thick tail furiously from side to side, as if he thought ‘business’ might be some sort of chicken drumstick.