‘Do something!’ I shout. ‘Let us out of here!’
Gillian shakes her head.
‘Call an ambulance,’ I beg. ‘We need paramedics.’
‘Please help me!’ Rose cries, squirming.
Gillian considers for a moment, then closes the door and locks it again, plunging us into a darkness that seems so much blacker than before.
‘Darcy. Darcy are you there?’ Rose says, and her voice is worryingly faint. She’s not screaming any more either and she’s suddenly oddly still.
‘I’m here,’ I say, taking her hand in mine and stroking my thumb over and back across her clammy palm.
‘Don’t leave me,’ she whispers. ‘Please don’t leave me.’
I make the redundant promise. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’
Rose is drifting in and out of consciousness and when I feel something warm and wet trickle past my knees, I suspect it’s blood.
Oh Christ.
I hold my breath as the key rattles in the lock. No chains this time. And the door opens.
‘They’re here, Rose,’ I say. ‘They’re going to help.’
I really hope they’re going to help.
But it isn’t paramedics, it’s Gillian. She’s carrying the large halogen torch that Luke uses when he’s fishing the Christmas tree out of the attic. The torch lights up the whole shed. Gillian locks the door from the inside and puts the key in her coat pocket. My jaw drops as I stare at the puddle of blood that Rose is sitting in. It’s a bright red and there’s more of it than I was expecting.
‘Is she still alive?’ Gillian asks, and I can see lines of worry etched into her brow.
‘I’m fine,’ Rose answers.
‘Don’t fuck this up,’ Gillian warns her. ‘There’s only one practice run.’
‘Practice run?’ I echo. Oh God. I begin to shake harder than I ever have before. ‘So Rose is your guinea pig. This is your practice delivery and I’m next.’
‘Rose is my patient,’ Gillian snaps, genuinely offended.
In my panic I didn’t notice the stethoscope that dangles around Gillian’s neck before now. It’s short, barely sitting on her shoulders on both sides, and I’m not sure but I think it’s made of plastic. A toy, I think, horrified. If this is Gillian’s idea of a joke it’s bloody sick. And if it’s not, then that’s even more worrying.
Gillian places a baking tray on the ground next to Rose and me. There’s a towel, scissors and tongs on it. Rose is ghostly pale and she’s not moving. She’s losing a lot of blood. I wish I knew how much is too much. My heart is beating out of my chest.
I look at Gillian, hoping she will suddenly realise how insane this is and do something to help. She can’t seriously deliver Rose’s baby with a child’s-play toy and some kitchen equipment.
Rose screams, and I’m so relieved to hear her, despite her agony. ‘It’s coming! The baby is coming!’
‘Gillian please,’ I cry. ‘It’s not too late. Call an ambulance.’
‘It’s natural, Darcy,’ Gillian says. ‘Having a baby is the most natural thing in the world. You’ll see. Soon it will be you.’ She points towards my stomach.
‘It’s not natural to have a baby in a shed,’ I say. ‘Look around us. This is dangerous. Anything could go wrong.’
‘I can see the head,’ Gillian says, giddily.
‘Breathe, Rose. Just breathe,’ I encourage.
Gillian stands up and pulls her phone out of her pocket. But she isn’t making a call for an ambulance. She’s taking a picture.
‘What are you doing?’ I say.
‘What?’ Gillian shrugs. ‘It’s for my scrapbook.’
‘You’re still collaging,’ I say, remembering.
‘It’s an underappreciated art,’ Gillian says, snapping shots on her phone before putting it back in her pocket.
Rose howls and strains with all her strength. Her screams ring in my ears and Gillian, dropping to her knees, catches a tiny, bloodied baby. Shock cuts through the air, chopping out any sound, and there is a moment of disbelief and reverence, before a tiny newborn’s cries fill the air.
‘Huh, a little girl,’ Gillian says.
She reaches for some scissors and I gasp as she holds the scissors above the baby. Her hands shake as she cuts the cord and she turns towards me with round, softening eyes. And I know she’s thinking about my baby. I glare back, determined not to let her see how petrified I am. She wraps the baby in the towel and it settles, crying less. Rose stretches her arms out waiting for Gillian to pass her the infant, but Gillian turns away and places the baby in the baking tray. She whips the towel off the infant and uses it to wipe the floor. ‘You made a mess, Rose,’ she scolds.
‘She’s cold,’ I say, my eyes on the tiny baby girl whose spindly arms and legs squirm about as she shivers. ‘Can’t you see? The baby is freezing. She needs a blanket.’
Gillian continues to mop the floor.
‘Please,’ I shout. ‘Listen to me.’
Rose’s eyes roll back and the pool of blood beneath her swells. I shake her and call her name but she’s unconscious.
‘Help her!’ I scream. ‘Please, help her—’
‘I knew I could do it,’ Gillian says, cutting across me with a giddy sense of achievement.
‘She’s dying.’ I’m hysterical as I alternate between shaking Rose and casting an eye on her shivering little girl.
‘I know.’ Gillian shrugs as she grabs the shovel that she left resting against the side of the shed. ‘I’ll need to get digging. Hopefully this won’t take long. There’s a repeat of Good Morning, Ireland in twenty minutes and I don’t want to miss it.’
Rose is deathly pale and she’s not moving and I can just about make out her chest rising and falling. The baby has stopped crying. The only sound is my hurried breathing.
‘You can’t leave us here,’ I say as I crawl closer to Rose, placing my hand on her chest, desperate to feel her breathing. Fat, salty tears trickle down my cheeks when I feel her chest rise, pause and slowly fall as she clings to life.
‘Stay with me Rose,’ I beg. ‘Please.’
I pull off my top and turn towards the baby, wrapping her up in it. She’s cold to touch and she’s so tiny my shirt can double fold over her.
‘What are you doing?’ Gillian snaps, catching my shoulder and jerking me away. ‘Don’t touch her!’
I wrap my arms around myself, shivering in just my bra. ‘Gillian please. She’s cold.’
‘Stop calling me that!’ Gillian screeches, raising the shovel above her head.
I scream and dive over the baby.
‘I’m not Gillian.’ She stands up, the shovel still held high. ‘I’m not Gillian.’
‘You’re not Gillian,’ I say, hoping that’s what she wants me to say.
I reach my hand out for the baby but keep my eyes on Gillian’s.
‘I’m not Gillian,’ she repeats.
I rub the baby’s belly gently, hoping to warm or rouse her. It’s only when a subtle cry follows that I realise I’m holding my breath.
The baby’s crying grows louder.
Thank God.
Gillian twitches and snaps out of her daze. She lowers the shovel and points the sharp metal edge towards the baby. ‘Shut that thing up!’
I grab the baby as quickly as my exhausted arms can and cradle her wrinkled, new skin close to my chest. I can feel her warm up instantly and she’s moving again, all uncoordinated and helpless.
‘You can’t keep her,’ Gillian says.
‘I know,’ I say, kissing her little head. ‘She has a family.’
Gillian laughs. ‘No. Not that. Bloody hell, Darcy. You can’t keep her because I need rid. Rid of them both.’
I glance over my shoulder at Rose. The puddle on the floor isn’t any bigger than the last time I checked and I can hear her laboured breaths – just about, but she’s still here.
‘You wouldn’t do something like that,’ I say, a part of me still believing that she isn’t capable
of such darkness.
‘It wouldn’t be the first time.’
It’s hard to breathe. Fear is a heavy thing. It can crush a person. Realisation is even heavier.
‘What have you done?’ I gasp.
Gillian smirks, but there’s an unmissable sadness in her eyes. A hint of regret.
‘Andrew Buckley?’ I ask, knowingly.
Gillian shrugs.
‘And Gillian. The real Gillian.’
‘She thought she was better than me.’ Gillian exhales.
Rose groans, rousing to consciousness.
‘Right. Gimme her,’ Gillian says, reaching her arms out to me.
‘What?’ My eyes drop to the baby. ‘No.’
Gillian, exhales, losing patience. ‘I said give her to me.’
I clutch the baby tighter, turning her away. ‘Gillian please,’ I beg.
‘Gillian is dead!’ she hisses, spraying saliva into the air. ‘I’m Tina. And you fucking know it!’
‘Okay. Okay,’ I say. ‘You’re Tina.’
I turn towards Rose and press the baby against her chest. I fold her arms around her daughter, securing them both together.
‘Get up,’ Tina hisses.
‘Okay. Okay,’ I say as I drop my hands by my sides and I slide the scissors from the baking tray between my fingers. My whole body is shaking, but I remind myself that Tina doesn’t know that.
Tina bends and reaches for the baby and I raise my arm and lunge. The scissors swipe her face, dragging a chunk from her chin. She presses her hand to her face, blood trickling past her knuckles, and she tumbles and bangs against the lawnmower knocking my clunky Businesswoman of the Year trophy on to my foot. Pain surges through my bones but I don’t make a sound as I bend down and pick it up. Gillian drags herself to her feet, furious and bloodied. My teeth are chattering. I was cold in my bra before but now my body is on fire.
She glares at me. I can’t take my eyes off the blood trickling down her fingers. I didn’t mean to hurt her, just frighten her. But she’s not scared.
Tina raises the shovel above her head. The baby cries and I scream, and as she jerks forward I kick the halogen lamp. She trips and flaps her arms to keep her balance. Her spade falls, but she doesn’t. And when she bends to pick it up again, I scream, loud and petrified and powerful, as I raise the trophy above my head and bring it crashing down.
This is it.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Friday 12 May 2000
GILLIAN
I don’t see her face as her hands curl around my neck, her fingers overlapping when she squeezes. Her chest is hot against my back as she works up a sweat when I buck and twist. My mouth gapes, searching for air, and my lungs burn when I can’t find it. Pointing my tiptoes, I can just about manage to sweep the blades of freshly cut grass as I dangle from her strong hold.
I hear her scream. Above the racing squish of my blood coursing through my veins, above the high-pitched ringing in my ears, I can hear her scream as she realises she’s gone too far. Too crazy. She’s killing me. And she knows it.
When her grip loosens and she tosses me to the ground, for a fleeting second I think it’s over.
I guzzle air. The smell of soil and summer as I lie face down in the grass. Pain explodes in my lower back and something snaps under the weight of her boot stomping me into the earth. When her hand fans my hair, shoving my face into the soil, I know this is it. I taste blood and muck as I drink in my final moments. The crack of the rock as it slams into my skull is loud and sudden. It takes my breath away as the noise hangs in the air. And then. I’m gone.
TINA
Stars twinkle in a cloudless sky. Moonlight shines through the branches of huge old trees casting creepy shapes and shadows on the ground. I stand under the tallest one and cross my arms, and then I rub my hands up and down my arms trying to keep myself warm while I breathe in the enormity of what I’ve just done. Exhausted and blood spattered, I scorch the grass so it’s like the stamp of a half-arsed bonfire. I fetch the cans of cheap cider from my school bag. The smell turns my stomach as soon as I open them and spill each one on to the ground, tossing the empty cans on to the grass in the notorious binge-drinking spot. Satisfied I’m leaving the remains of a good party behind, I roll Gillian down the hill. It’s much harder work than I thought and beads of nervous perspiration trickle down my spine. Finally, I dump her into the shallow grave I’ve dug in the foundations for the wall around the new tennis court. I overheard Mr Buckley telling Mr McEvoy that the cement trucks are arriving first thing in the morning. Gillian will be under three feet of concrete before anyone notices she’s missing.
I take one last look at her beautiful face before I cover it in clay. As I walk away, leaving Gillian’s mutilated body under cold soil, I whisper aloud, ‘I don’t like it when people think they’re better than me,’ and I watch my foggy breath dance across the night air as I skip back to the dorm.
Chapter Fifty-Four
DARCY
Wednesday 24 July 2019
The sound of my screams is ringing in my ears and the pain in my foot is almost unbearable. I look down. Tina is face down on the ground with my blood-spattered trophy beside her. Crimson blood trickles past her red hair and pools around her.
The baby stirs, but I’m paralysed. My chest is constricted and I can’t breathe. I can’t believe what I’ve done. I’ve killed her.
The crying grows louder and I know we have to get out of here. I crouch over Tina’s body and yelp as searing pain shoots from my foot all the way up my leg, and I’m desperate to stand and take the weight off my foot, but I don’t. Not until I reach into Tina’s pocket and fish out the key. Euphoric, I pull myself up and hop on my good leg towards the lock. The key slides into it with ease and I turn it, waiting for the blissful clink of it opening. But it doesn’t unlock. I turn the key back. And forward again. And back. Nothing. And finally when I turn the lock over I discover a combination is needed too. My heart breaks as I look around at the carnage in the shed and realise it was all for nothing.
I drag myself back to the crying baby as she tries to suckle.
‘Rose?’ I whisper as I bend and place my hand on her shoulder. ‘Rose, are you awake?’
Rose groans and tries to lift her head.
‘Can you feed the baby?’ I ask, wondering if that’s the right thing to do. Rose is so weak. What if I make her sicker? I’m so scared.
Rose’s eyes flicker open and she nods.
‘Shh,’ I encourage. ‘Shh. It’s okay.’
I lift Rose’s shirt and guide the baby to her breast. Rose rouses enough to smile, thanking me without words, but she can’t muster enough energy to completely open her eyes.
‘She’s feeding,’ I say, as the baby cuddles close to her mother. And my hands cradle my bump, as I fear we might all die in this shed.
Rose and I fall into a pattern of feeding and sleeping. When the baby cries, I help her to her mother’s breast. When she’s content I place her in the baking tray and clean what I can. I took my trousers off – my leg is badly swollen and I needed the relief – and ripped the material into cloths. They clean the baby up when she wees or poos. I hang the damp ones over the handle of the lawnmower so I can use them again when they’re dry.
The pain is intense, and I’m not sure if I’m passing out or sleeping, but it grows increasingly harder for me to wake when the baby cries, and I wonder if she’s been crying for a while before I heard her this time. I lift her and press her against Rose but she continues crying and nuzzles away from her mother. I try again but she’s becoming distressed. Rose too. Rose is hot. Too hot. I place my hand against her chest and her skin sears like hot coal. A fever, I think. And it doesn’t take a genius to work out Rose has an infection. She’s barely had more than a few lucid seconds since the baby arrived, hours ago now. I want to ask her where it hurts – if it hurts – but I know she’s not strong enough to offer a response.
A film of dust clings to the back of my throat. I’ve
never been so thirsty. And Rose must need water too, especially as she’s feeding the baby. The smell of bodily fluid and dried blood mixing with old grass is rancid, and if I leave this place I swear to never take fresh air for granted ever again.
Time passes in a blur. Hours are punctuated only by the baby sleeping or crying. Rose doesn’t wake any more. And the baby seems to cry and cry now. I wish I could pace to soothe her in my arms, but I’m weary and broken. I sit next to Rose and the baby and I close our eyes.
I hear a distant voice call my name. ‘Darcy!’ someone shouts. ‘Darcy, I’m here.’
I smile, thinking I’m dreaming, but the door rattles and rattles and then a voice says, ‘Step back’ and there’s a crashing sound and with my eyes closed I feel a burst of light against my face.
‘Oh thank God. Oh thank you Jesus.’ I recognise Mildred’s voice. I try to open my eyes but the light is too bright.
‘I have it. I have a pulse,’ someone else says, and I feel fingers on my wrist.
‘It’s Rose Callahan, Sarge,’ a voice I don’t recognise says. My eyes flick open and I see a woman in Gardaí uniform standing over me. ‘Rose? Is that you?’ I ask.
‘You’re safe now, Darcy,’ the woman whispers. ‘Everything is okay. We have you.’
There’s commotion all around me. The baby crying. Voices. Someone is lifting me. I feel fresh air on my skin. I’m outside. They came. They really, really came.
‘Luke,’ I whisper. ‘Find Luke.’
Someone is holding my hand. Sunlight shines on my face. I’m lying down and I feel slow and steady waves of movement beneath. My eyes flicker open and I see blue sky and fluffy clouds overhead as I’m carried across my lawn on a stretcher.
We pass by a low hum of voices.
‘Unresponsive male in the sitting room, Sarge,’ someone says.
‘And the kidnapper?’ a man asks.
‘Female. Late thirties. Bled out in the shed.’
Epilogue
There’s a guy doing my hair. He pulls and tugs.
‘Post-baby hair,’ he complains. ‘We can never get it right.’
Keep Your Friends Close Page 28