The Stolen Girls

by Patricia Gibney

  Who should she call? The clock showed 9.15 p.m. The Child and Family Agency would need to be contacted. But there was distrust between the agency and the gardaí from a previous incident. She couldn’t thrust Milot into the hands of strangers. Anyway, his mother could be in danger. Lying hurt somewhere? Dead? Surely Mimoza hadn’t abandoned her son?

  Quickly Lottie checked the child. No obvious bruising or cuts. No sign of trauma, except for his tears. She held his little hand. Skin so soft, but no soft toy.

  ‘Talk to me, Milot. Where is your mum?’

  He stared at her, tears trekking down his cheeks, then stuck his thumb into his rosebud mouth again. He wasn’t going to tell her anything. Did he even understand her? Could he speak English at all? She didn’t know. Shit.

  Pink petals were stuck to his hair and she gently picked them out. Cherry blossom. Had he walked? His little white shoes were dusty. She examined them. Tiny stones clogged the rubber soles. He’d walked, she deduced. Escaping from something or someone? She wished he would talk. Her heart broke for the child.

  Katie appeared, pale-faced, at the kitchen door. ‘What’s going on?’

  Lottie explained, and the girl took Milot into her arms. ‘Is he staying the night?’

  Katie’s demeanour had brightened, and without further thought Lottie made her decision. ‘Yes, he’s staying.’ There was no way she could turn the boy over to social services, not tonight. She’d be in trouble for this.

  ‘He can sleep in my room,’ Katie said, cuddling the little boy. Chloe scowled.

  ‘I’ll get a duvet for him and we’ll sort this out in the morning. Is that all right with you?’ Lottie said.

  Katie nodded. ‘Come on, little man. Wait till I show you my room. Oh Mam, he’s shivering. The poor little thing.’

  Lottie touched his arm. So he was.

  Bundling the boy into her arms, Katie caressed his back, his head nestling into her shoulder.

  ‘I’ll follow you up in a minute,’ Lottie said.

  She had to think this through.

  She needed to talk to Boyd.

  Chloe shut her bedroom door and stretched full-length on her bed, mad at the way Katie had shoved her aside and taken the little boy.

  She thought of Maeve and wondered what else she could do to find her. She had messaged everyone who knew her. No one had seen or heard from Maeve. No new posts on Twitter, and her Facebook page looked sad without updates.

  There was one person who might know, but she was hesitant to make contact with him. Too risky? Yes, it was. Then again, Maeve could be in trouble. She really should talk to her mother first, but she didn’t even answer her phone call earlier in the day.

  Sitting up, she tapped her phone. Before she could change her mind, she took a photograph of her toes and sent him a Snapchat message.

  He replied immediately: Meet me. Town park. Ten minutes.

  FORTY-ONE

  The call went straight to voicemail.

  ‘Boyd, will you for feck’s sake answer your phone.’ Lottie hung up.

  She had folded a duvet around Milot on Katie’s bed. The girl lay beside him, stroking his hair. Eventually he closed his eyes. Hoping she was doing the right thing by keeping him at her house, knowing she had the child’s interests at heart, Lottie crept back down the stairs. Sean had returned to his computer game and she assumed Chloe was studying with headphones on. No sound from her room.

  By half past ten, unable to stand it any longer, she grabbed her keys and headed for Boyd’s apartment. Hopefully Jackie wouldn’t be there. So what? she told herself. I’m a big girl. I can handle it.

  ‘I shouldn’t have come.’ Chloe flopped onto the park bench in the furthest corner, behind the children’s playground. She’d sneaked out of the house while her mother had been on the phone in the kitchen.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said and took two cans of Diet Coke from his jacket pockets.

  Sitting up straight, Chloe flicked open her can and smiled nervously. ‘So do you know where Maeve is?’

  He inched closer beside her. She scrunched up along the bench.

  ‘I won’t bite,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not so sure this is a good idea,’ she said.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘My mother…’

  ‘Forget your mother.’

  Chloe shrugged. ‘I’m worried about Maeve. I thought she might have told you if she was going away or something.’

  ‘Or something? Like what?’

  ‘I know she fancies the arse off you.’

  ‘Really? I don’t think that.’

  ‘Maybe I should go,’ she said, flicking the tab on the can up and down, breaking her nail.

  ‘I want to talk to you,’ he said, moving right up beside her.

  Chloe felt her heart beat a little faster as their knees touched and he lifted her hand. He began stroking her fingers, one by one, endless, even touches.

  ‘As long as you’re not going to confess to being an axe murderer or anything.’ She pulled her hand free, now conscious of the seclusion around them. Not even a bird sang in the branches overhead.

  ‘Be serious,’ he snapped.

  She thought she caught the hint of a shadow drooping over his eyes, but when he raised his head, he smiled again.

  She said, ‘I am serious. I’m all ears.’

  ‘Ears? My sweet girl, you are so much more than ears.’

  Chloe got up and walked around the tree beside the bench, sipping her Coke.

  ‘Can’t you stay still for a moment?’ he said.

  She stopped her pacing.

  He stood up. ‘My one request is that you never, ever tell anyone about me,’ he said, his voice sharp.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘About me knowing Maeve.’ He walked over and stood in front of her.

  ‘Okay.’ Chloe gulped loudly. He was freaking her out now.

  ‘Good,’ he said, and his shoulders relaxed.

  ‘Where is Maeve?’ she asked, feeling the bark of the tree cutting through her thin cotton T-shirt.

  He shrugged. ‘She didn’t tell me. And you must not tell anyone about us either.’

  ‘I don’t know anything to tell. You asked me here. I thought you’d know where she is.’ Chloe didn’t like where this was going. She should leave. She ducked under his arm.

  Too late. She felt him grab her hair and pull her back against the tree. His fingers tipped up her chin and his lips locked firmly onto hers, stemming further words from her mouth. Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes before exploding down her cheeks as he thrust his tongue into her mouth and sucked until she couldn’t breathe.

  Bringing her knee up, she hit him between the legs with every ounce of energy she could muster. He drew back with a yell.

  ‘Bitch!’

  ‘Let me go!’ she screamed, twisting away furiously from his grasp. ‘My mother knows I’m here.’

  ‘Fuck your mother!’

  Tears flowing freely, Chloe began to run.

  He shouted after her. ‘I will know if you tell anyone. You witch.’

  She kept running until she reached home. Her mother’s car wasn’t in the drive. Thanking God for small mercies, she flew up the stairs and into her room.

  She got out her blade. Without searching for a perfect site, she hurriedly stuck the sharp edge into her arm and dragged it towards her elbow. Blood oozed. Sinking to her knees, she tore off her top and bra and turned the blade to her breast. She lifted up the mound of flesh and drew the sharpness over her ribs. Gritting her teeth, she kept her scream in her throat.

  She climbed into bed shivering and pulled the duvet over her head. She didn’t care that there was blood everywhere. She needed to feel the intensity of the pain. She deserved it. Every sharp dart. She had gone willingly to him but he’d told her nothing about Maeve. Had he done something to her?

  That look in his eyes. That had made her more frightened than anything else.

  Even more frightened than having t
o hide the bloodstained sheets from her mother.

  Peering through the patterned pane of glass on the upper half of the door, Lottie waited for Boyd. She heard the hum of his turbo bike slowing down.

  He opened the door. ‘Hey, Mrs Parker. Nice surprise. Come in.’

  ‘I want to talk to you. Something’s happened.’

  Boyd headed for the kitchenette. ‘Fire ahead.’

  ‘Sit down and listen,’ Lottie said, looking at him. He wore tight tracksuit bottoms and no T-shirt. She could see the muscles across his chest and the scar where he’d suffered a potentially life-threatening knife injury months earlier.

  ‘It must be important,’ he said, producing small bottles of water.

  Lottie longed for something stronger but took the water and unscrewed the cap.

  ‘It is. Put something on,’ she said, and sat down.

  Boyd laughed but went to the bedroom and returned wearing a loose white T-shirt.

  ‘Now, what’s bothering you?’ He sat beside her.

  ‘The boy, Milot, turned up on my doorstep earlier.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The child who was with the girl Mimoza at my house on Monday morning. He just appeared at my front door around nine o’clock tonight.’

  ‘Holy shit. Where is he now?’ Boyd spluttered, eyes open wide. ‘No, please don’t tell me he’s still at yours.’

  She nodded.

  ‘And you haven’t contacted the Child and Family Agency either?’

  She said nothing.

  ‘You’d better give them a call,’ he insisted. ‘Now.’

  Lottie sipped her water. ‘Who’ll be there this late? Come on, Boyd. Be practical. I’ll call them in the morning.’

  He shrugged. ‘You’re hoping his mother comes looking for him, aren’t you?’

  ‘She might have dumped him,’ Lottie said. ‘Oh, I don’t know what to think.’ She put down the water. ‘I’d love a proper drink. Do you have any wine? Or vodka? Even a beer?’ She could really do with a Xanax. She’d been weaning herself off them, denying she was taking the odd one.

  Boyd ignored her request. ‘The boy. How old is he? Tell me more.’

  She sighed. ‘He’s only three or four years old. He knocked at the door. Chloe brought him in. I reckon he walked. His shoes were grubby and there were cherry-blossom petals in his hair. Someone left him at my door, but I’ve no idea who or why.’

  ‘So where’s his mother?’

  ‘Wish I knew. He was crying and he hadn’t his toy rabbit with him. Something’s happened to Mimoza, I think, and Milot escaped – ran away.’

  ‘Don’t be so melodramatic. How did he know the way to your house?’

  ‘Like I said, someone probably brought him, or maybe he remembered the way and came alone.’

  ‘It’s dark. I don’t think he’d remember.’ He gulped his water noisily. ‘Has he been reported missing?’

  ‘I rang the station. No reports. Something’s not right with all this.’

  ‘I agree, and something’s not right with you. Get the boy placed in care. Tonight.’

  ‘I can’t. Not tonight.’ A yawning silence sprung up between them before she changed the subject. ‘I spoke briefly with Jane Dore this evening, about the second girl we found.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She’s doing the PM in the morning, but she said the body has a similar scar to the first girl.’

  ‘Missing a kidney?’

  ‘I’d imagine so but we won’t know for sure until Jane completes her work. It’s getting very scary.’

  ‘Jesus, someone is going round Ragmullin taking out organs and then shooting the victims. Unbelievable.’

  ‘I know.’ Lottie drained her water and stood up. ‘I’d better go.’

  Boyd wiped the damp ring on the table with his hand. She smiled.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘You.’

  ‘Glad you feel that way because I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes when Superintendent Corrigan finds out you kept a lost boy in your house overnight.’

  ‘Who’s going to tell?’ She went towards the door. ‘You know the history with that agency. I can make him see my point of view. By the way, I meant to ask you—’

  The doorbell rang. Lottie glanced at the time, then at Boyd. He shrugged. She opened the door.

  ‘Hello, Jackie,’ she said.

  Jackie Boyd smiled coldly, took a long drag from the cigarette in her hand before dropping it to the step and crushing it with the heel of her stiletto. Long legs, clad in leopard-print jeggings, edged inside.

  Stepping around her, Lottie headed for her car. She’d been about to ask Boyd what he’d been doing at Hill Point that afternoon. Maybe now she had the answer to her unasked question.

  FORTY-TWO

  For the second night in a row, he’d raped her. But he hadn’t broken her. No way. He’d only succeeded in strengthening her resolve to get the hell out. Somehow.

  When he was done, he tied her hands behind her back and pushed her into the room. Maeve dropped to the floor, her body numbed from the rape, and banged her head against the concrete. The man had his balaclava on, but she had already seen his face. She knew what that meant. She’d read about these types of abductions online, never in a million years thinking she could be one of the statistics.

  ‘Bastard,’ she cried. ‘Let me go.’

  ‘Feisty tonight, missy,’ he sneered as he dressed himself. ‘Not so brave when I put this down your neck.’ He cupped his penis beneath his trousers. ‘Not so brave when you saw my slaughter room.’

  ‘If you were going to kill me, why haven’t you done it yet? You prick.’ She stared at his eyes gleaming through the knitted slits. ‘Untie my hands, I need to pee.’

  ‘Use the bucket.’

  ‘Fuck you and your bucket.’ She spat at him, kicking out.

  He pulled a knife from the back of his jeans and flicked it beneath her chin.

  ‘What do you want with me?’ she whimpered, her bravado dissipating.

  ‘Soon. You will find out soon. Your time is almost up.’

  He turned and left, slamming the door behind him.

  Lying on the ground, resting her head on the rough concrete, Maeve vowed she would get out alive. Surely by now her mother had raised the alarm. Unless she was drowning in one of her drunken stupors.

  But Maeve knew in her heart that Tracy Phillips really only thought of herself.

  A fist smashed into her face. Mimoza screamed.

  The woman, Anya, was standing over her. Another smack. Bone crunching. Blood flowing. Wrenched out of her bed, she fell to the floor.

  ‘Bitch. Get up. You leave. Now.’

  Dragging herself to her knees, Mimoza crawled to the open door. A kick to her buttocks sent her crashing into the small corridor. A polished black boot nudged at her nose. Pulled to her feet, she squinted through her unbruised eye into the face of the man with the crooked teeth.

  She found herself being twisted around and a blanket thrown over her head. Hauled up onto his shoulder, she was carried down the stairs, out the front door and down steps. A car engine revved. Flung into the back seat, she fell to the floor when it screeched in a turn and sped off.

  The policeman must have found the note and begun asking questions, she thought wildly. And that had scared her captors.

  A cold reality dawned on her. Now that they were moving her, the policeman wouldn’t find her.

  And she would never see her son again.

  Lottie knocked on Chloe’s door. She thought she’d heard her crying when she returned from Boyd’s.

  ‘Go away. I’m trying to sleep.’

  Lottie put her head around the door. ‘You sure you’re okay?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Okay, goodnight, pet.’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  Lottie closed the door and peeked into Katie’s room. The little boy was curled up with her daughter’s arm resting lightly over him. Tomorrow she would have to sort him
out with the social services agency. She prayed Corrigan wouldn’t find out that she’d kept him here overnight.

  ‘Turn off that game,’ she said to Sean’s closed door.

  ‘Five more minutes.’

  ‘It’s a school night.’

  No reply.

  In her own room she undressed without switching on the light. Pulling on a long T-shirt, she lay on the bed and closed her eyes. Sometimes all she could do was pray to a God she didn’t believe in to spare her family from the horrors she had to witness in her job. Two girls without names and an unborn baby were lying tonight in Jane Dore’s Dead House. Maeve Phillips was still missing. A frightened young boy was sleeping across the landing. She had no idea where his mother was.

  And Jackie was back in town, stalking Boyd.

  KOSOVO, 1999

  It wasn’t very clean inside. Not for a clinic. But there had been a war. That must be the reason, the boy thought.

  He followed the captain though a swing door into a narrow corridor. At the end, an open door.

  ‘Ah, thank you.’ A man in a white coat rose from behind the desk and shook the captain’s hand vigorously. ‘You never let me down.’

  ‘Take a blood sample, Doctor. See if he’s any good to you. The lads at the chicken farm have seen him. He can’t disappear. Not yet, anyway.’

  The boy watched as the doctor took a syringe from a steel tray and pinched his arm. When a vein rose, he jabbed in the needle. The boy scrunched his eyes until the implement was extracted. When he looked, it was full with his blood. A plaster was applied and his elbow bent upwards.

  ‘What now?’ the captain asked.

  ‘A few days. Come back with him then.’

  The two men shook hands and the boy felt a nudge in his back as he was shoved out of the door.

  In the corridor he came face to face with another boy not much older than himself, leaning with one foot up against the wall, arms folded. One eye slanted into a wink as he unfolded his arms and drew a hand across his neck in a slicing motion.