Daughter of the Storm

by Tina Callaghan

  Matt stopped breathing, then started again with a snort and a sigh. They waited until his breathing settled back into a rhythm before moving again. Once in the corridor, linking arms, with Rose rolling the IV, they headed slowly towards the lifts. The night-time wards were in twilight and the white light of the nurses’ station ahead hurt Becky’s eyes. The station was deserted and they plodded slowly by without incident.

  There was one more private room before they were out onto the landing and the lifts. As they approached, the door opened and a child looked out. A girl, no more than ten, wearing a cheery oversize T-shirt draped to her knees. Her hair was gone and she was frighteningly thin. Her shinbones were like barely covered blades. Her skin was yellow and her head looked too heavy for her neck to hold.

  Becky stopped and the three of them studied each other.

  ‘Are you OK, lady?’ the girl asked.

  Becky felt tears sting and she nodded. ‘I’m OK. Do you need a nurse?’

  The girl shook her head. ‘I just wanted …’ She stopped and made a helpless gesture.

  Becky was trying to figure out how to give her a hug when Rose wrapped her arms around the girl. There were no tears or hitching breaths. There was just the birdlike girl, made of bones, and Rose, motherly as always. Becky put her free arm around the pair.

  She wasn’t sure which of them took more comfort from the hug, from the break from the night and the darkness, but it was brief, a tiny human moment, over too quickly.

  The girl straightened and looked up at them, before silently turning and going back inside, closing the door softly. She left a smell behind her and Becky suddenly knew what it was. It was the smell of death and it was coming from the girl’s breath and her skin, her life force yellowed and leaving her. Becky remembered it because she had last smelled it coming from her father on the bench. She shared a look with Rose and saw tears in her eyes.

  A wave of weakness swept through her and she swayed against Rose, who threw an arm about her and supported her until it passed. Then they linked arms again and shuffled on.

  They reached the lifts and made their way down into the depths of the hospital until they saw the sign they wanted. Mortuary.

  The doors to the outside were open and there was a hearse out there, waiting for someone. The mortuary doors were open too and they could hear someone moving about somewhere close by. They went inside where the bright merciless lights shone on the great metal drawers and the clean examination tables.

  An orderly approached them.

  ‘You shouldn’t be in here. Did you get lost? What ward are you on?’

  Becky shook her head. ‘We want to see my dad.’

  ‘Sorry, can’t do that. Come on, I’ll take you back upstairs.’

  He reached a hand out to take Becky’s elbow, but she grabbed the hand instead.

  ‘I nearly died having my baby. My father is in here in one of your horrible drawers. I’m not going to get to see him again and I won’t go without screaming and pulling this out of my arm.’ She rattled the IV pole. Her voice sounded husky and she suddenly had an image of how she must look. Her hair was always crazy after sleeping and she was wearing the giant nightgown that Matt had bought in a panic.

  She saw that the orderly recognised that she was serious. There was something about him that was familiar. Some twist of his lips or the colour of his eyes.

  Rose stepped forward and the orderly seemed to notice her properly for the first time. His expression changed.

  ‘That’s right, Tom Murphy, I know who you are and I’ve known your family long enough to know plenty about you. Now, just let us do what we need to do, and no one has to be any the wiser.’

  He cast a glance over his shoulder and then up at the security camera, before moving Becky back a couple of steps, using her own grip on his hand. She grasped his fingers hard, finding the strength to squeeze. He was an islander. With the name, she suddenly saw who he was. Andrew’s son, AJ’s brother. He somehow looked different in the cold light of the mortuary.

  As she looked at him, he seemed to waver.

  ‘Don’t change your mind,’ she said. ‘We have to do this.’

  Without a word, he tore his hand loose and walked away without waiting for them to follow. He went to the back of the room and turned the lights down to their minimum. He went to a drawer and pulled it out, checking the toe-tag briefly.

  Rose gripped Becky’s hand hard and together they moved closer to the drawer in a world that had suddenly lost all sound and colour.

  Frank was lying in perfect stillness, his eyes closed. Becky watched him carefully and eventually let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding.

  Rose let go of her hand and leaned in closer to the body.

  Tom came around by her father’s feet and took Becky’s elbow.

  ‘Alright? Come on, let’s get you back upstairs. You need a cuppa. Both of you. This is no good to anyone.’

  Becky nodded. He was right. She did need tea, or anything hot with sugar in it. She felt hungry and sick at the same time. Her father wasn’t like the bald little girl. His skin wasn’t yellow and tired. He looked like he had done in pictures of them together when he was still fishing, when his hair was thinning but still there, when his eyes were a sharper blue. Those eyes were brilliant, sharp blue crystals.

  And they were looking right at her.

  Becky stared back into her father’s eyes. A flood of relief washed through her. Her heart had known that there was something terribly wrong with him. Her unborn baby had known it. The knowledge had almost killed them both. Her nightmares had been full of it. For a brief moment, she was just glad that she wasn’t mad.

  ‘That’s enough. I’ll get in trouble. You have to leave.’

  When she found her voice, it was a hoarse whisper.

  ‘He’s … look at him!’ she hissed.

  The man looked at the body. His expression didn’t change, but Becky felt a tremor run through him as though there were wriggling snakes under his skin. His hand dropped from her elbow.

  ‘I’m locking up. Either leave now or stay in here for the night.’

  ‘His eyes are open. He’s looking right at us.’

  Tom shook his head and when Becky looked again her father’s eyes were closed and he looked like a waxwork, lifeless and cold.

  Rose made a small noise and Becky looked at her. Rose’s eyes were blazing. A feverish red had mottled her cheeks.

  ‘I knew it wasn’t right,’ she said. ‘You did too, Becky. This – this thing is not your father, not my Frank.’

  ‘C’mon, Mrs. Tierney, you’re tired,’ Tom said. ‘You should both go back now.’

  ‘Mam?’

  Rose shook her head and Becky thought that she was going to refuse.

  Instead, she looked again at the body and shuddered.

  ‘Tom, I don’t know what this is, but you do. All you bloody men do. Just tell me you’ll take care of it. You’ll finish this and – and let my Frank rest.’

  He didn’t answer and just looked down at his feet, miserable. There was nothing more to be said, so they let him lead them to the door.

  Once outside, with the door closed, he turned to them.

  ‘Go on to bed now. Try to get a bit of sleep.’

  He looked at Becky, his eyes kinder than they had been.

  ‘Go back to the island and look after your boy.’

  They made their way to the lift doors and Becky pressed the button. When the doors opened, she glanced back and saw him staring into the mortuary, not moving.

  The others came back from the van and stood beside Tom at the mortuary doors.

  ‘They’re gone?’ one said.

  Tom nodded. ‘You’ll have to take him. He’s not dead.’

  ‘They said that this would never happen again.’

  Tom looked sharply at his cousin. ‘Well, Mick, it bloody has and now we have to clean up the mess.’

  Mick glanced at his brother. ‘It’s not we though, is it,
Tom? It’s me and John who have to do it. You’re staying here.’

  ‘Someone has to,’ Tom said.

  John, the stockier of the two, pushed Tom aside and shouldered open the doors of the mortuary.

  ‘Whatever. We might as well get on with it. Mick, get the trolley.’

  Being quick and careful, they worked together to load the van, and Tom stood in the bright cold corridor watching his cousins drive away with their cargo. He shuddered, glad he had the excuse of having to stay behind. He didn’t envy the terrible duty that awaited the others.

  They drove in silence for a while. Mick broke it first, clearing his throat. The sound was shocking. John twitched, his hands gripping the steering wheel as though welded to it.

  ‘Sorry,’ Mick said. He twisted in his seat to look in the back.

  ‘Everything OK back there?’

  ‘Yeah. Maybe it won’t be too bad.’

  John glanced at him. ‘I wouldn’t bet on it.’

  That was enough to still any further conversation.

  When they pulled in at the back of the funeral home, they got out of the van and went to the back doors.

  ‘John?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘What would happen if we just left it here and caught the next plane to America?’

  John thought about it. ‘Well, this fella wouldn’t stay put and he’d cause a fair amount of trouble.’

  ‘But we’d be thousands of miles away.’

  ‘True,’ John said. ‘We could go somewhere sunny, where the girls don’t have to wear a lot of clothes.’

  ‘Hawaii?’

  John shook his head. ‘No way. No more islands.’

  Mick sighed and looked at his brother once more before pulling the back doors open.

  John didn’t want to show his brother how scared he was, but cold sweat had gathered in greasy beads on his forehead. The back of his short hair was wet. He and Mick had been told that no one had had to do this for a long time. That it would never happen again because they had everything ‘under control’.

  Sometimes they had to tidy up a corpse before sending it on. Mostly, there was nothing left to tidy and the bodies didn’t reach them, but instead went to join the others underneath the blowholes on the island.

  But they had made a blood promise that if this ever happened they would deal with it. It had sounded almost cool when they were eighteen and nineteen. Like an Xbox game. It was bloody different now, standing in the night-time funeral parlour back room, with plastic spread over the floor and with them wearing clear plastic coveralls and goggles.

  Although he was a year older, Mick was waiting for him. John nodded, and a bead of sweat dropped from his forehead onto the body bag. He couldn’t bear the sight of it. It ran down the mound made by Frank’s shoulder. John fumbled at the zip but got it on his second try and opened it all the way down.

  A smell arose from the bag. It was a dry smell, quite pleasant. John puffed his cheeks out. He didn’t want it in his lungs. Mick pulled the bag edges apart, showing Frank’s face. He looked good. Fresh.

  ‘They found him on the rocks?’ Mick said.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘He looks pretty good then.’

  Frank opened his eyes and they both yelled and jumped backwards.

  ‘Fuck!’ John said. ‘Quick!’

  Mick grabbed the saw and looked at it blindly.

  John pushed him away and took up the big knife. The blade was going into one of those blue eyes. He raised it above his head with both hands and paused. A warm feeling came over him and the strength ran out of his arms. Frank’s eyes were so blue. He was just lying there, looking at him. John pitied him. He hadn’t asked for any of this. Frank and Rose were just ordinary people living their lives and selling souvenirs to the tourists.

  Frank’s grandson had just been born. He hadn’t even got to see him. It was such a shame. After all, Frank was an islander too. He put the knife down and Frank smiled at him. Such a nice kind smile.

  Pain exploded in his cheek as Mick punched him and he staggered sideways.

  The thing on the gurney hissed.

  ‘What the hell, Mick?’

  ‘John, wake the fuck up! Don’t look at him!’

  John blinked. His brother’s punch had made him bite the inside of his cheek and he hastily swallowed the blood rather than spit it out. He gripped the knife and plunged it into Frank’s chest. Frank belched, releasing a rusty-smelling bubble of spit and blood. Then, to John’s horror, he laughed and showed his gums. His false teeth must have come out at some point. The gums weren’t entirely bare though. White needles of bone had started to poke through, top and bottom. They were made for piercing, not tearing or grinding.

  With his stomach roiling, he grabbed the axe and without hesitation brought it down on Frank’s neck. He missed and his feeble blow glanced off a collarbone and bounced off. He looked in desperation to his brother, who was crying.

  Mick picked up a second axe and struck, slicing Frank’s throat and chin, causing a gout of blood to arc into the air. John jumped back but surged forward again. In a mixture of horror and desperation, he hacked at the throat until he severed the spinal cord.

  Frank’s hands came up and clamped on John’s wrists, and the pressure was monstrous. Mick tried to pull the gripping fingers open and, once more, John met Frank’s gaze. The blue of his eyes was fading, replaced by pale pupils that had stared out over a thousand seas. His hair greyed and his skin sagged. The deathly grip on John’s wrists loosened and Frank’s hands fell away. For a moment before life passed away from him, Frank’s eyes blinked once and each shed one perfect teardrop, inside of which swirled a taint of blood. Then he was gone.

  Panting, John turned to Mick and they clung to each other for a long time.

  When they were able, they cleaned away the mess and stood together for the last duty. John was grateful when his brother took the brick from his hand.

  Quietly, awkward from lack of practice, they said the Lord’s Prayer.

  Then Mick began to try to wedge the brick between the corpse’s jaws. When it wouldn’t go, John got the hammer and struck a blow. The sharp teeth (were they longer?) snapped into jagged edges.

  The worst moment came when the lower jaw crunched and then snapped, and the brick plunged into the mouth.

  Mick jerked his hand back with a cry.

  The teeth had scraped the skin but not broken it. Mick laughed nervously and covered his mouth.

  ‘C’mon, one more thing and we can go home,’ John said.

  They moved the body to the coffin and screwed the lid on tight, four screws in all, two either side, and then got the hell out of there.

  Eleven

  How good and thoughtful he is; the world seems full of good men – even if there are monsters in it.”

  Bram Stoker, Dracula, 1897

  Ed got up early and found Harry already in the kitchen, having breakfast.

  ‘Morning, Ed. You look terrible. That eye – all the colours of the rainbow, huh? Painkillers are on the dresser.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Ed said, taking two paracetamol from the foil. He swallowed the tablets with a mug of strong, milky tea.

  ‘Help yourself to toast,’ Harry said.

  ‘No, thanks,’ Ed said.

  ‘Most important meal of the day, my mother always said.’

  ‘True. Listen, Mr. Crowe – Harry. Thanks for letting me stay.’

  Harry nodded and crunched toast.

  ‘I’m going to the farm to feed the animals,’ Ed said. ‘I don’t want Lia to come, in case …’

  He looked at Harry, seeing understanding in his eyes, and kindness but no pity. He was glad of it.

  ‘Right,’ Harry said. ‘Give me one minute.’ He stood up and dumped his dishes on the counter. ‘I’m coming with you. I can help with the animals and, sure, if your father is there, I can help with him too.’

  ‘You don’t need to.’

  A strange expression crossed Harry’s face. ‘I
do. Give me a minute.’

  Ed said nothing more. He was grateful that Harry was coming. It wasn’t just that he was a big man and knew Dan well. Ed just kept thinking about the potato knife. If his father came at him again, he wasn’t sure what might happen.

  ‘Come on then. I don’t know my niece very well yet, but I’m betting she won’t be told to stay behind if she catches us,’ Harry said with a grin.

  Ed smiled. ‘I don’t know her that well yet either, but I think you might be right.’

  Ed was a good walker but, stiff and hurting, he had some trouble keeping up with Harry whose long strides covered the ground effortlessly. They stopped only once, to let Andy Carroll’s truck go by, full and fragrant, with some cattle in the back.

  Ed knew there was something wrong before he got near the house. The animals were too quiet. He hurried past Harry and started to run.

  The shed was empty, gates standing wide. Straw and cow dung littered the yard. Ed rushed to the pig pen. The sow was gone as well. Someone had opened the chicken house and the fox had been. There was blood on the wood.

  Harry stood beside him and looked at the empty roosts.

  ‘What did he do?’ Ed said.

  ‘I was talking to Andy yesterday. He didn’t say anything about going across with cattle,’ Harry said.

  Ed turned to look at him.

  ‘He sold the animals to Andy? Why would he do that?’

  ‘I don’t know, Ed. I’m hoping it was only the animals.’

  Ed felt like Harry had put his hand inside him and twisted everything in there. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Look, let’s go into the house. I thought he went across, but maybe he didn’t.’