by Shane Dunphy
‘Yeah, all perfectly run-of-the-mill, New Age nonsense. I agree, it looks like Downey is a bad guy, but what have we got to go on? It’s all guesswork.’
‘He dresses it up as Paganism and alternative lifestyle, but children are always on the periphery of it,’ Devereux said. ‘More than one of the kids involved have ended up very messed up. Downey preys on the sick, on those whose lives are out of control, on the mentally disturbed. He targets them and draws them in, offering them community and a cure for all physical and spiritual sicknesses. It’s a cult, and probably a front for something even darker. What I’m certain of is that children are the currency they’re trading in.’
‘If you know all this, why are you here ruining my night?’
‘Clive Plummer.’
‘What about him?’
‘Have you spoken to his father?’
‘Not really. It’s his sister I have most contact with.’
‘Mr Plummer and his wife were close, weren’t they?’
‘From what I’ve been told.’
‘Look at all the damning evidence you’ve collated. Perhaps it’s time to present it to him, see what comes out.’
‘Jesus, Devereux. I’ve been doing a lot of confronting lately. I’m kind of sick of it, to tell you the truth.’
‘Drink up your coffee. We’ve got work to do.’
I wasn’t fit to drive, so we took Devereux’s plain black Volvo.
Roberta answered the door.
‘I need to see your dad,’ I told her.
‘He’s in his study,’ she said. ‘Who’s this?’
‘He’s a colleague,’ I said. My head was starting to ache, and I didn’t want to get into a lengthy conversation with her. I wanted to get this over with, crawl into bed and sleep for a long time.
Jensen Plummer was sitting in his shirtsleeves at a large wooden desk when Roberta showed us in. He stood and offered his hand. He was a tall, well-built man, with a thin crop of white hair. He had a friendly face, but dark rings showed under his eyes.
‘It’s a little late to call, Shane,’ he said. ‘I hope you’ll be brief.’
‘We’ll be as quick as possible,’ I said. ‘I want to talk to you about Clive and Cynthia’s relationship with Father Downey.’
‘Can I ask what the significance of this line of questioning is?’
I told him. He listened carefully, and, when I had finished, he reached for a crystal glass that sat near his elbow and took a long drink. ‘Edward came to visit us shortly after we got married. I’d known him for a while, through the local historical society, but I had no idea of his interest in the occult. Cynthia had always dabbled in spiritualism, but I saw it as a harmless interest – angel cards and auras – it seemed a sweet kind of thing, really. I left her to it.’
‘Edward Downey found out about her interests?’ Devereux asked.
‘Almost at that first visit. Cynthia used to like to read the cards for guests, a kind of party trick, I suppose. I remember she was particularly excited about reading Father Downey’s. He’s a priest, and I suppose that added a frisson to the whole thing.’
‘When did Clive become involved?’ I asked.
‘When Cynthia became ill, Father Downey asked her to attend some prayer evenings at the presbytery. I didn’t realize until she’d been to a couple that they were actually more a kind of Pagan gathering, but as long as it made her happy, I didn’t give a damn. I think it was after the third or fourth one she asked me if she could take him. She told me that Father Downey had told her that, because Clive was her son, he’d amplify her natural energies, accelerate her healing. Clive said he’d be glad to go – he was completely devoted to his mother – and I thought no more about it.’
‘When did you begin to realize something was wrong?’ Devereux asked.
‘I wish I could say it was an immediate thing, but it wasn’t. Clive was a bit reserved after some of the meetings, but he’s a teenager, so I passed it off as adolescence. I talked to Cynthia, and she admitted to me that there was a sexual element to some of the ceremonies they performed, and that perhaps this was stirring up some hormonal issues for Clive. I told her I didn’t want him witnessing anything inappropriate, but she laughed and told me it was more imagery and suggestion than anything else. So I said no more about it. I never thought for a moment she’d allow anything harmful to happen to our son.’
‘But she did, didn’t she?’ Devereux said.
‘I didn’t find out what they’d done to him until it was too late,’ Plummer said. He took another hit of his drink. ‘Cynthia was in hospital and knew she was going to die. As part of their ceremonies, some of the men performed sexual acts on Clive. She told me that, on one occasion, she had intercourse with him. In the end, she understood the awful impact it had had on the child. She wanted me to get Clive help. My wife realized what she had done was wrong, but she was desperate for a cure. I can’t be angry with her. Wouldn’t it have been better for him to have a mother? She thought that was what she was doing, you see. She was trying to live.’
My head thumped dully. Acid welled in my throat, and I longed for a cigarette. ‘Mr Plummer, in her effort to live, your wife almost killed her son. Your son,’ I said.
He looked at Devereux and me with rheumy eyes. I realized, as we sat in the darkened room, with its shelves of books and dusty oil paintings, that he was an old man who probably didn’t have much time left himself. This whole business had just about killed him too.
‘I loved her,’ he said simply. ‘I still love her. I couldn’t tell anyone what had happened. I couldn’t bear for people to think badly of her. I hoped, if Clive spent some time in the hospital, that he’d get better, with drugs and medical treatment.’
Devereux stood up, tying the belt of his leather trench coat. ‘She’s dead, old man,’ he said. ‘Look to your son, before he joins her.’
We passed Roberta on the way out. She was standing by the door, tears glistening on her cheeks. She had obviously been listening to what had passed in the study.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
‘So am I,’ she replied.
Father Downey smiled when he saw us.
‘Let’s go to my room,’ he said. ‘It’s more comfortable, and on a cold night like this, I think a snifter of something with a bit of a kick to it is called for, don’t you agree?’
His room was more an apartment: a large living space led on to a small, neat kitchen, and I saw a doorway to what I assumed was a bathroom and sleeping area. The entire place was opulently adorned: no expense had been spared. Devereux ran his eyes along a selection of leather-bound volumes on one of the many shelves, while I looked at an unusual painting on the wall, which I thought I recognized. Downey returned with a tray on which sat three lowball glasses, a decanter of something amber and a jug of water. ‘Will Black and White be all right for you?’ he asked.
‘Is this a mandala?’ I said, pointing at the picture.
‘Well spotted. It is indeed. Painted by Carl Gustav Jung himself. A vision from the world of the spirit, he called it. He produced thousands of them during his life.’
‘How did you come by it?’
‘An auction.’
We sat. Devereux did not beat around the bush. ‘We know about the children,’ he said.
‘Now what, pray tell, do you know about “the children”?’
‘Enough.’
Downey laughed and sipped his drink. He took a Peterson pipe from the pocket of his cardigan and tamped the contents of the bowl with his thumb. I took the cue and lit a cigarette, feeling my headache ease immediately. The whiskey wasn’t hurting it either.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said, when he had the pipe drawing satisfactorily, ‘conversations like this have become an occupational hazard, part and parcel of being a priest, particularly a priest who refuses to conform, and who believes that ministry is the most important part of the job.’
‘Do you call it “ministry”, what you did to Clive Plummer?’ I asked.
‘I’ve already told you, I tried to dissuade Cynthia from her fascination with the darker aspects of spirituality.’
‘Her husband has just told us a different story,’ Devereux said. ‘She confessed on her deathbed, told him what you coerced her into doing.’
‘It sounds to me like you’ve been duped by the ramblings of a dying woman and the ravings of a psychiatrically disturbed child,’ Downey said with a smirk.
‘We’ll see what your bishop thinks of Mr Plummer’s story, and how the police view the evidence,’ Devereux said. ‘Occult paintings by acknowledged experts in the field hang on your walls. Your bookshelves are laden with tomes on everything from the Book of Enoch to the works of Aleister Crowley. I don’t believe it would be too difficult to make a case against you.’
‘They’ve tried to put me away before, Mr Devereux,’ Downey crowed. ‘It didn’t work then, and I don’t think it’ll work now. But feel free to try.’
‘You are a predator, Father,’ Devereux said, every word ringing with focused, righteous anger. ‘You’ve spent decades living in a society where you and your kind could hunt with impunity, but heed this, and mark my words well: those days are over. If I ever hear that you’ve approached Clive Plummer, or his family, again, I will see to it that you spend a very, very long time in prison. And don’t think you’ll be safe in a nice secluded wing with your fellow sex offenders. I’ll ensure someone with a monumental axe to grind finds you. I have many contacts on the inside.’
‘Is that a threat, Mr Devereux?’
‘No, Father. A polite warning. Take it or leave it, as you see fit. But I advise you to heed me.’
The priest sipped his whiskey and regarded us both: Devereux, his glass before him on the table, untouched; me, nursing mine, looking decidedly the worse for wear.
‘And I suppose,’ he said, ‘I should watch my back, as you’ll be lurking behind every corner, waiting for me to slip up, to do something stupid.’
‘Count on it,’ Devereux said.
‘Do you think you’re the first person to come here with the express purpose of frightening me? Do you really think no one has ever sat where you are and told me to watch my step, to keep away from this person, or that person? I’m above all such recriminations. I serve a higher power, and my conscience is clear. As, incidentally, is my police record.’
‘I’ll be seeing you,’ Devereux said, and we left.
He dropped me off outside my apartment building. ‘Tell the staff at St Vitus’s what we know. I think it might alter how they approach the boy’s treatment,’ he said.
‘I will. Is there any hope of Downey being prosecuted?’
‘Every piece of information there is against him brings it closer. If Clive were to recover his faculties and disclose … I think that would be a major blow against him.’
‘I wouldn’t hold out for that.’
Devereux nodded. ‘Get some sleep,’ he said, and drove away.
17
Katie stared at the ceiling of the playroom. She spent a lot of her time doing that now. It was as if the frenetic energy, the bottomless pit of anger, had been drained, only to be replaced by a colossal sadness.
‘How about we go and see a movie?’ I asked, lying on a beanbag beside her. ‘There’re a few decent ones on at the IMAX at the moment. When was the last time you saw a film?’
‘I don’t feel like it.’
‘Why not?’
‘Just don’t.’
‘We could go and get a pizza.’
‘Don’t like pizza.’
‘Yes, you do!’
‘Not any more.’
‘Since when?’
‘I just don’t want to, okay?’
We lay for a while, saying nothing.
‘What’s wrong, Katie?’
‘Nothin’.’
‘Yes, there is. You’ve been like this for days. I think it’s time we talked about it.’
‘There ain’t anythin’ to talk about.’
‘I think there is, and I’m not leaving until you tell me. So we can lie here staring at the paintwork until tomorrow if you like, because I, as you might have noticed, can be very determined when the mood takes me.’
‘That’s fine by me.’
‘Good.’
‘Great.’
‘Brilliant.’
We lay some more.
Finally: ‘It’s just that I’m all alone. I don’t got no one.’
I pushed myself up on one elbow. ‘How d’you mean?’
‘Me mam and dad are dead, and they never wanted me anyway. Me da left me by the side of the road, for fuck’s sake – I mean, you can’t get much more not givin’ a shit about your kids than that, can you?’
‘Your dad probably had his own problems, Katie.’
‘Will you give it a rest? When he wasn’t dumpin’ me out of cars, he was molestin’ me. He couldn’t’ve cared less if I lived or died. I’m too mad to be in a house with other children, and I’m too stupid to go to school. You’re the best friend I’ve got, and you’re only here because the staff in the house are scared of me.’
‘They’re not any more.’
‘That’s not the shaggin’ point, Shane. I’m a disaster. No one has ever given a fuck about me. They might as well lock me up, ’cause I just don’t see the point of goin’ on no more.’
‘I give a fuck, Katie. Doesn’t that count for anything? Dorothy and the team here all care a great deal about you. And I bet, if you think really hard, you’ll find that lots of people have cared about you.’
She sighed and rolled over, so her back was to me. I had come to understand that it was a defence mechanism of hers. It meant she was afraid she’d start to cry, and didn’t want me to see. She muttered something.
‘What was that, Katie?’
‘My uncle – he liked me.’
‘Which uncle?’ I asked.
‘Uncle ’Phonso. The oul’ fella. I remember, he cried when they took me away. I was cryin’ too, and holdin’ on to him. He was always really nice to me. I never saw him again.’
The old house in Dolphin’s Barn had a new coat of paint on it, which worried me when we got there. Katie looked exceptionally nervous.
‘What if he doesn’t know me?’
‘Thelma – the Rice Krispie woman, as you call her – spoke to him just this morning. He’s looking forward to seeing you. He remembers you very well.’
‘He must be about a hundred years old now.’
‘He’s ninety-one but bright as a button, I’m told.’
Her voice softened. ‘My Uncle ’Phonso. I like the sound of that.’
The door opened, and there he was. He wasn’t much taller than the child, dressed in a thick woollen cardigan, grey trousers that came halfway to his chest and a purple tie that was askew. He had long wisps of white hair that hung about his shoulders, and little black eyes that showed a vivid mind. When he saw Katie, he smiled, showing more gums than teeth.
‘Is that my princess?’ he asked. ‘I can’t believe you’ve come back.’
‘Princess,’ Katie said, her voice catching. ‘You used to call me that. I remember.’
And then they were holding each other, and I felt a little bit like an intruder. Katie was no longer alone.
The city streets were full of rabidly focused Christmas shoppers. Patrick and I gazed in a toyshop window, looking for something appropriate for Bethany, for whom, it appeared, the phrase ‘the child who has everything’ was coined.
‘What about that one?’ I asked, indicating a disturbingly lifelike blonde doll.
‘She might not have that one, but she’s definitely got one like it.’
‘I’ll tell you what, here’s an idea. It looks like she’s got every doll ever made. How about you get a load of doll accessories?’
‘Doll what?’
‘Accessories – clothes and shoes and … um … handbags and … uh … stuff of that nature.’
‘That’s a good idea. Let’s go.’<
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To my utter amazement, there appeared to be as many accessories for dolls as there are for real people, and it proved a difficult undertaking. However, we finally left the shop with a good selection. ‘She’ll like that,’ Patrick said, grinning.
‘Okay, who next?’
‘I want to get something for Gertrude, and for my real mum.’
‘For Freda?’
‘Yes.’
I stopped and looked at him. ‘You want to go back there?’
‘Will you come with me?’
‘I’m sure as hell not letting you go on your own.’
‘I have to see her again.’
I shook my head. ‘Shit, Patrick. Come on, let’s get a cup of coffee and you can explain it to me.’
‘The people I’m with now,’ Patrick said, when we were settled in a café bedecked with seasonal decorations, ‘they’re really good people – a strong family. The other kids there, they’ve all got stories like mine. They treat me really well. It’s nice. Kind of weird, because I’m not used to it, having such a big family, but it’s a good feeling. And I know you’re here for me too. I feel safe, knowing that.’
‘I am.’
‘What it’s taught me, Shane, what I’ve learned from all this, is that you can’t give up. There were times – when it fell apart with Gertrude, and when I saw where I’m really from – when I thought about just giving in. I even considered killing myself. But then something would happen, something I didn’t expect – you’d take me home and treat me so well, I’d hear a wonderful piece of music, I’d meet my new family – there are so many good things in the world.’
I looked at Patrick over the rim of my coffee cup and thought how much he had grown in the past few weeks. He had always been a solemn child, perhaps too old for his years, but this short speech was remarkable, even by his standards.
‘Freda gave up on me,’ he continued. ‘Gertrude gave up on me. But I won’t give up on them. I can be better than that.’
‘Gertrude has her own problems, Patrick,’ I said, trying to speak as plainly as I could without being devastating. ‘She probably had a tough upbringing herself, and that made her like she is. But I think, deep down, she knows she made a mistake throwing you out. Freda, on the other hand … I can try to put her in touch with some support services, but I don’t think she particularly wants any help. You could be setting yourself up for a lot of hurt.’