The Quiet Ones

by Theresa Talbot

  ‘Mum, I don’t need a man. I just need some coffee and a lie-down.’ Oonagh had had enough. All she wanted now was for her mum to stop making noise, stop asking questions, stop judging her.

  ‘Please, Mum.’

  Fran reached out her hand; Oonagh could feel the warmth on her shoulder. ‘Sweetheart, I’m not saying it’s about time you got married, but…’ her voice sounded heavy with regret ‘… you need someone to share your life with. This isn’t good for you. Just…’

  Oonagh reached up and patted her hand. Said nothing. It was enough. Fran leaned and kissed the back of her head, threading a strand of hair behind her ear the way she used to when Oonagh was a kid, then gave her shoulder a little squeeze before putting her coat on. She had the good grace to close the door quietly on the way out. Looking around, Oonagh knew most people would give their eye teeth to have her life. A good job, money in the bank, nice things. She rested her head on the table and cried.

  The shower was hotter than was probably good for her in her state, but she clenched her toes, feeling the roughness of the mosaic floor underfoot and allowed the hot jets to hit her skin, bringing her slowly back to somewhere on the right side of normal.

  The morning was bleeding into the afternoon by the time she got online to see what the latest about Nugent was. It wasn’t a huge surprise to see someone had now come forward claiming he’d abused them as a young boy. Nesbit had refused to go on record, but he gave her enough to know this story wasn’t going to go away.

  She punched the number into her phone, and tried to shake any remaining sleep from her voice. ‘Hey, Alec.’

  He picked up after only two rings. ‘At last. I was wondering how long it would take you to call me again.’ He didn’t sound pissed off. Just matter-of-fact. He clearly knew exactly what it was about.

  ‘There are claims, Alec, that abuse allegations against Nugent were never investigated.’ She tried to keep any accusatory tone out of her voice. ‘I know it was before your time, but still…’ At the end of the day, Alec might have been a pal, but he was a copper first and she’d need to skirt round this one very carefully.

  ‘We’re looking into that, Oonagh.’

  ‘So, was it an open secret right enough?’ She busied around the kitchen, making another coffee to replace the one she’d dropped. ‘Was Nugent abusing young boys?’ The machine hissed in the background. ‘Shit,’ she added, giving nothing away about her meeting with Nesbit. ‘I was so sure it was gangland.’

  ‘Oonagh, I’m up to my eyes in it here… I can’t…’

  She knew better than to push him when he was like this and didn’t argue when he made his excuses and hung up.

  She scanned the tabloid story again; it had one person’s name written all over it. Matt Bradley had worked beside her years ago in local radio; they’d started off as cub reporters together. Even without the byline, Oonagh could recognise his handiwork. She decided to chance her luck.

  ‘Hey, Matt…’

  ‘Don’t even ask me to name names…’ Matt thought he was one step ahead of her.

  ‘Oh, c’mon, I’m only asking you for a heads up here.’ She could hear him rolling his eyes down the phone. ‘Is it genuine or are you hoping to smoke out any other victims?’ Oonagh didn’t quite ask him if the whole story was made up, but she was no fool. There were enough rumours flying around now to roast Harry Nugent, but nothing that anyone could actually prove. Rumours just weren’t enough in hard news and police investigations. Matt had always been a bit of a maverick and operated on the shady side of legal. He’d been threatened by so many Glasgow gangsters over the years it was a miracle he still had ten fingers and ten toes intact, although in fairness she’d never seen him wearing a pair of sandals. Despite Matt’s apparent fearless reputation, he was no Bernstein or Woodward. He had a contact list as long as his arm, so for every gangster who’d threatened him, there were two more heavies who’d be happy to throw their weight around if he needed some protection.

  Looking at this story, Oonagh had a good idea what he was doing. ‘So, did you really get that interview?’

  ‘You saying I made this up?’ He was smiling, she could hear it.

  ‘Did you?’ She knew how he operated. The dead can’t be defamed, the cops couldn’t force him to hand over any contacts if he claimed the interview was done anonymously, and meanwhile it could smoke out other victims, men who may come forward under the protection of safety in numbers.

  ‘Listen, Oonagh, we all know that creep was up to his neck in something.’ In effect Matt had created this story. But it didn’t mean it didn’t have a grain of truth.

  ‘I’m surprised that with your contacts, Matt, you’ve not come up with a gangland connection.’ She heard him take a sharp breath, but it was just a bit too theatrical for her liking. ‘So nothing to suggest he’d stepped on the toes of one too many hardmen?’

  ‘You should know more than me – you’ve already spoken to the merry widow.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I’m clearly losing my touch because I didn’t have a clue.’ She cradled the phone between her ear and her shoulder, pouring more coffee. She needed to sober up quick-style. ‘D’you honestly believe he was abusing those boys?’

  ‘Absolutely. But proving it’s another matter. That guy’s slippier than Teflon.’

  That was all Oonagh needed to know what Matt’s game was. She pondered whether a career on the red tops would be an easier bet than the broadcasting editorial guidelines she was currently stymied by.

  Nugent’s away games were fast becoming public knowledge. Football clubs and celebrities across the country were distancing themselves from him, and the pressure would now be on the police to investigate any claims made by victims. As far as she knew, none of the victims had actually been brave enough to come forward in person yet. It didn’t do well to put yourself in the frame of a murder investigation, but as soon as an arrest was made and the killer of Harry Nugent made public, then there would be a queue forming. She was sure of that.

  11

  Oonagh flicked off the edited interview of Sarah Nugent. There was no doubt about it, that woman knew how to work a room, and the camera loved her. The feature had gone out last night as part of the evening news programme. It was hardly the thirty minute programme Oonagh had pitched for, but given today’s wee nugget in the press about Nugent it was just as well.

  On screen, Sarah had struck just the right balance of grieving widow mixed with victim. In the last shot she’d looked straight into the camera and appealed for anyone with any information about the death of her husband to come forward. As agreed, Oonagh had thrown in a few pictures of Sarah in her glory days, which had seemed to give her an added incentive to open up more. The fact that Harry had been married to a former model, albeit a lesser known former model, gave some credence to his public image of a normal guy with no interest in young boys. And perhaps for that reason Sarah had wanted to big up her part as a model, skimming over her nursing career. But now Nugent’s reputation was in tatters. Social media was in overdrive with everyone throwing their tuppence worth in, and Sarah Nugent was well and truly in the firing line. The main stream media was still playing it a tad too softly-softly for her liking. Journalists could be a petty lot. Not wanting to admit that Matt Bradley had broken the story. So for now it was all very much ‘police are refusing to comment on rumours.’ Oonagh looked again at the screen, she’d not quite so much stepped on the toes of the crime correspondent as danced all over his feet by getting the interview on what was effectively his story. He’d initially gone bleating to Alan, but Oonagh had just claimed that Mrs Nugent had made the first move and refused to talk to anyone else. He was livid and had stormed out of the newsroom muttering something about Oonagh being a lightweight. But his tail was now well and truly between his legs. Oonagh didn’t really care; her skin had grown thick and somewhat impenetrable over the years. Alan didn’t seem to care much either. As long as the interview was in the can, he’d let them slug it out among themsel
ves. The police were no closer to an arrest, and had no real leads to go on, as far as she could tell. For Oonagh that was the best news ever. As soon as an arrest was made and the case became live, they’d stop any future reporting or speculation until the case went to court. But until then, Oonagh was free to investigate how she liked. Within reason.

  Despite growing speculation that Nugent was in fact an abusive psychopath, she had nothing more concrete than that to go on. But somewhere along the way he’d crossed a line, and his luck had run out.

  Her phone buzzed in her bag. She looked down; it was her mum. She was going to ignore it, but a pang of guilt got the better of her; she owed her an apology for yesterday. It stopped ringing just as she stretched down to get it. Within seconds a text pinged through. How the hell did her mum do that? Manage to type so quickly? She glanced at the screen.

  Hi darling, just seeing what you’re up to. Do you fancy coming for dinner one night this week? Loads to catch up on. I’ve got some news. Mrs Reilly died. GBH. That’s not my news. Well it is news, but that’s not what I want to tell you. Let me know when you’re free darling. And let me know if you can come along to Mrs Reilly’s funeral. It’s on Friday. She was a poor old soul at the end. LMAO.

  As ever, Fran’s text was long enough to be entered for the Booker Prize. It took Oonagh a few seconds to realise that poor Mrs Reilly didn’t die from grievous bodily harm, or that her mum wasn’t laughing her arse off at the thought of her final send off. It didn’t matter how many times Oonagh explained, Fran didn’t quite get why she shouldn’t abbreviate God Bless Her or Love Mum And Owen. Oonagh didn’t have time for this right now, but replied with a single kiss, otherwise Fran would continue texting – each one longer than the last – until she could be sure that her daughter wasn’t lying dead in a ditch.

  A very slight feeling of unease niggled at the back of Oonagh’s mind. She had too much work to do right now and tried to push the thought out. But it kept coming back bigger and stronger than ever. Her mum’s news. It could only mean one thing. She and Owen were getting married. Oonagh rested her forehead in her hand and slumped down in the chair. Memories of how she’d behaved when she’d first met Owen burned crimson through her body. It wasn’t that she didn’t like the guy. And it wasn’t as though she didn’t want her mum to be happy. None of that. Turned out he was a decent bloke and she’d actually quite warmed to him now. It was just that she missed her dad so much that seeing her mum with another man was sore.

  It was gone nine. Once again, she hadn’t intended to stay so late. She printed off a load of research notes and threw them, along with her handbag, into an archive box, deciding to call it a day. It had been dark for hours and there was no one left in this part of the building. Shivering, she made her way to the corridor which led to the stairwell and wished to god they’d stretch to a decent heating system as she flicked the light off on her way out.

  The sound from the room was muffled. The door was closed and the dim light escaping from underneath it seemed to be coming from a computer screen. Whoever was in that office was clearly having more fun than she’d had in a long time. Oonagh carried the box in both hands, pushing open the double doors with her back. Again, it was faint, but a very slight squeal pierced through the sound, and it triggered that sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach. She might be wrong but couldn’t take the risk. The carpet tiles swallowed the noise of her footsteps as she placed her box down on the nearest desk, and, easing the handle gently, Oonagh opened the door as quietly as she could.

  Sophie was half perched, half pressed against the desk, her hands steadying her as she dropped her head to one side. Ross had his back to her, but Oonagh didn’t have to see his face to know it was him. Oonagh had had enough run-ins with the fat bastard in the past. He leaned over Sophie, his thighs pinning both her legs in place, his arms at either side. Even in the poor light Oonagh could see Sophie looked scared and her chin gave little involuntary spasms as she tried to fake a smile.

  ‘Let her go, you fucking monster.’ Oonagh wasn’t sure if she meant to grab Ross by the hair, or if it was the first thing that came to hand, but once there it felt good between her fingers and she gave it a twist before yanking as hard as she could, pulling him off Sophie.

  The young girl darted from the desk and stood at the open door. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’ She reached a hand out, looked panicked as Oonagh let go of Ross’s hair.

  ‘You’ve nothing to be sorry for, Sophie, you’ve done nothing wrong.’ Oonagh put a protective arm around her, ignoring Ross cursing in the background.

  ‘And neither have I.’ Ross just wasn’t getting it and refused to give up. ‘You’re a fucking maniac, O’Neil,’ he said, rubbing his head.

  ‘Sophie, sit outside for a few moments, sweetheart, leave the door open and please make sure you can see me at all times.’ Sophie did as Oonagh asked, and purposely avoided Ross’s eye as his rant continued.

  ‘She’s nothing but a jealous old bag,’ he shouted through the open door, before turning back to Oonagh. ‘You’re a has-been, O’Neil, a jealous, pathetic has-been.’

  Oonagh ignored him momentarily as she scrolled through the staff contacts list on the desk-top monitor. Picking up the phone on his desk, she tucked the receiver between her chin and her shoulder and spoke to Ross almost as an afterthought. ‘Being part of your sad little wank-fantasy wasn’t really high up on my agenda.’ She glanced at Sophie and gave her a reassuring nod. The poor girl looked petrified as the exchange escalated.

  ‘You gonna call the police? Go on, make an arse of yourself, why don’t you? Think they’ll come running because I was chatting to a colleague after hours?’ Ross jabbed his thumb vaguely in the direction of Sophie, then gave that little snigger that brought out the bad girl in Oonagh and made her want to smash his face in.

  ‘No, Ross,’ she punched the numbers into the keypad, ‘I’m not phoning the police.’ Even Oonagh knew that would be pointless – she’d been in this game long enough. ‘I’m calling your wife, you worthless piece of shit.’

  ‘You fucking dare.’ He lunged towards her but she held her ground and squared up to him but her right leg trembled and she was secretly grateful for the desk between them.

  ‘Quit while you’re ahead, Ross.’ She brandished the receiver in front of his face. ‘Don’t take another inch towards me. I’m not some twenty-three year old trainee you can bully.’ Whatever look was in her eye, it did the trick. He stopped dead in his tracks. Changed tack.

  ‘Listen, come on, it was a misunderstanding.’ He turned in Sophie’s direction, pleaded slightly. ‘Sophie, tell her.’

  Oonagh keyed in the last number and waited for someone to answer. ‘Hi, Jennifer. It’s Oonagh O’Neil at the office here.’ A beat while the other woman spoke. ‘No, no, nothing’s wrong. Ross asked me to give you a call. His mobile’s out of battery and he needs a lift home.’ Again another pause. ‘No, some little shit’s trashed his car. Slashed the tyres and keyed the doors.’ Ross was trying to take this in. ‘I know, terrible, isn’t it…? I’ll tell him to get a taxi, then. Hope to see you soon. Lovely… yip, bye.’ She dropped the receiver back on its cradle.

  ‘Jennifer’s put the baby to bed, so you’ll need to get a taxi.’

  ‘What the fuck are you playing at?’

  Oonagh came round from behind the desk. ‘Listen to me, Ross. If it weren’t for the fact that I don’t want to upset Jennifer, you’d be in the brown smelly stuff by now. If I even hear a whiff of you throwing your fat gut around and intimidating female colleagues who’re trying to do their job, I’ll have your balls on a plate.’

  ‘I never touched her!’

  She walked out of the office and to Sophie, whose mouth was hanging open. ‘You OK?’

  Sophie nodded, still saying nothing. Ross was hovering in the doorway.

  ‘Look, I’m not the bad guy here. I misread the signs.’

  ‘Signs?’ Oonagh swung round to face him. ‘What signs?’ This guy just d
idn’t know when to give up.

  He looked genuinely confused, took on the role of the injured party. ‘She was always flirting with me, making me tea and stuff.’

  ‘Will you just give it up?’ Ross’s wounded expression was getting on her tits. ‘She was nice to you because she’s a nice person. She made you tea because you’re her boss, and she laughed at your pathetic jokes because she was too embarrassed to do anything else.’

  Oonagh put out her hand and pulled Sophie up to her feet. ‘You can take this further, you know. I can still call the police. You don’t need to accept this.’ To her shame, Oonagh hoped Sophie would indeed accept this particular form of rough justice. She knew she’d be slaughtered if she spoke out. They’d hang her out to dry; blacklisted from every media outlet in Scotland. Branded a troublemaker who couldn’t have a laugh with the boys. She’d been there herself. Knew the score. And despite all the press coverage, Oonagh knew the Me Too movement hadn’t quite made it far enough down the food chain to include trainees in a Glasgow newsroom. It still had a long way to go.

  Sophie forced a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. ‘No, I’m fine, honestly.’

  Oonagh draped her arm around her shoulder and gave her a little hug. ‘D’you know how to let tyres down on a car?’ Sophie shook her head. ‘What the hell do they teach you at journalist college nowadays?’ She laughed and Oonagh was glad to see the colour come back to her cheeks.

  ‘Hey!’ Ross shouted from the office, ‘You’re not really going to trash my car?’

  ‘Just let the tyres down, and maybe a wee scratch – need to make it look authentic.’ Oonagh picked up her box from the desk and Sophie held open the swing doors. She turned to Ross before they left. ‘Switch off the lights on your way out, eh, love.’

  *

  Oonagh got the drinks in, embarrassed to see the gratitude in Sophie’s eyes as she placed them on the table. She could almost have written the script to what was coming next. ‘Thanks, but you know…’ Sophie hesitated slightly; Oonagh gave her space to finish ‘… it really wasn’t that bad.’