The waitress placed their order on the table and started to pour the wine. ‘I’ll get that.’ Oonagh took the bottle from her and smiled. She wanted rid of her as quickly as possible. Once she was out of earshot Oonagh pushed her glass to one side and opened the case file properly. ‘Hold on a second. Are you saying Dorothy Malloy suffered from…’ she scanned back at Tom’s handwriting on the first page ‘… post-partum psychosis?’
Tom nodded, clearly excited by the fact Oonagh was now taking an interest.
‘What does post-partum mean?’
Tom held his hands out in disbelief. ‘Are you kidding?’
Oonagh felt a bit pissed off with Tom’s superior attitude. ‘No, or I would have started that sentence with have you heard the one about…’
Tom ignored the jibe. ‘It means after giving birth… I thought you’d have known that, being a woman.’
‘Yeah, because you’re right on it with all things masculine!’ Oonagh sat back. ‘When it comes to bodily functions I work on a strictly need-to-know basis.’ She tried to get her head round this. This wasn’t quite adding up. ‘I thought her son was five. That’s hardly post—’
‘Partum.’ Tom cut in a bit too quickly for Oonagh’s liking.
‘I know the word, Tom, but the timeline doesn’t quite fit.’
Tom reached across and laid his hands on the file. ‘She’d just lost a baby. Stillbirth. She’d been eight months pregnant. The symptoms can present themselves any time from around thirty-two weeks.’
‘Bloody hell. Surely that must have been taken into account in the court. That had to be a mitigating factor?’ Oonagh had struggled to find a reason why Dorothy Malloy would kill her husband and son. Now she seemed to have one.
Tom nodded and sipped on his coffee. It left a cream moustache on his top lip. ‘It’s hard enough now to get a diagnosis. The world was a different place in 1975.’
Oonagh’s mind was racing. She flicked through the notes, trying to make sense of it. ‘I take it there are no trial notes in here?’
Tom explained there was no trial. Dorothy Malloy was deemed unfit to plead and subsequently was detained at the state mental hospital, without, it would seem, limit of time.
‘What kind of treatment did she get, Tom? Was she given any help, therapy?’
Tom bit the inside of his cheek. There was a pause before he answered. ‘Deep-sleep therapy.’
‘Don’t tell me—’ Oonagh wasn’t sure if she really wanted to hear this ‘—that’s also exactly what it says on the tin.’
Tom reached into his briefcase and pulled out a pile of papers, which he told Oonagh he’d downloaded from the Internet. ‘There’s not a whole lot of information online at the moment. But I’ve managed to get some research papers from colleagues of mine.’
Oonagh cast her eye over the A4 sheets.
Evidence of patients being kept in a medically induced comatose state for weeks or months on end… Lying naked on beds in communal rooms… fed through tubes… convulsive electric-shock treatment administered against their will.
A wave of exhaustion swamped Oonagh. ‘This happened here?’
Tom nodded.
‘In this country?’
Tom nodded again.
‘Scotland?’
‘It was first used in the 1930s down south. I think it was Devon, of all places. They found that a narcotic-induced coma for a few hours could help some patients calm down.’
‘This isn’t a few hours, Tom…’ Oonagh pointed to the notes.
‘The regulation for psychiatric treatment was, and still is, shite, Oonagh.’ Tom explained that some psychiatrists tried to make a name for themselves with this revolutionary new treatment. They used patients as guinea pigs; research indicated that they were often kept like this for weeks on end. Wakened for just a day at a time then put back into a coma.’
Oonagh eased back into her chair and took a deep breath. ‘Jesus Christ!’
‘There’s footage, Oon – these women were like zombies.’
Oonagh struggled to take in what Tom was saying. Footage suggested that the procedure was not carried out in secret, and there was also the suggestion that it was mainly women who underwent this treatment.
‘There were psychiatrists across the world desperate to make a name for themselves with this. It was used to treat depression, hysteria, anorexia… PMT… you name it.’
Oonagh felt her eyes sting with tears.
‘You OK?’
She shook her head. ‘Honestly, Tom? No. Not really.’ She looked around for the right words. ‘I don’t know if I can take much more misery and heartache and…’ she caught her breath before she cried ‘… any more fucking injustice.’ Her voice came out slightly louder than intended and a couple at the next table turned to look.
‘So, will you help or not?’
‘No. I don’t know. Maybe.’ She held up her hands, aware she was getting carried away. ‘OK, hang on. Fine, there’s a story here, but it’s not one that I can tell, Tom.’
He reached across and touched her forearm.
‘Oonagh, I’m going away.’
‘Where?’
‘Down south. London.’
‘Oh, behave yourself.’
‘No, seriously. I’m going shortly. Only for six weeks, but it means Dorothy’s care will be handed over to someone else.’
‘Can’t you postpone your trip?’
He shook his head. ‘I’m working within the LGBT community, that’s the Lesbian, Gay, Bi and—’
‘I know what it is, Tom. You don’t need to spell it out.’
‘I’m setting up a counselling and support centre in Larkhall. I’m going down for training. I’m committed, I’m afraid. You need to get on board now.’
Tom dangled the carrot. But Dorothy Malloy was fragile and volatile and promised Oonagh more trouble than she needed in her life right now. She would be an unstable subject for a documentary and getting a reliable story out of her at this stage would be nigh on impossible. It had disaster written all over it.
‘Tell me more.’
23
Cartland 1979
Her arms wouldn’t work so she couldn’t reach down to feel if the sensation of wetness between her legs was real or in her head. But something felt sticky. Her legs too were useless lumps; incapable of even the slightest movement. A different life played out in her head. One where she had a husband, a son, people who loved her. It seemed so real she could taste it. Twisting her head was all she could do, and the noise; never quite sure if the noise was real or in her head. A boy’s screams and his heels banging against a bath. Why didn’t someone stop it? Why didn’t someone help him, make it stop, save him? But they left him to suffer the way she was suffering and her every waking moment was filled with that poor wee boy’s screams.
She’d had a wee boy once. Of that she was almost sure. Or maybe that too had been a dream.
Footsteps broke through the noise and her spine stiffened as they stopped by her bed.
‘What the fuck am I meant to do with her?’
‘You’ve got ten minutes, I told you, then get the fuck out of here.’
‘She’s got a fucking tube sticking out of her hole.’
‘It’s a catheter, ya twat. She cannae move, so she needs to pee into a bag.’
‘I’me not paying you a tenner for some bitch with a tube sticking out of her hole.’
‘Shut it. Here, give us a hand rolling her over. Take her up the arse instead.’
Dorothy’s body heaved as she was pushed onto her stomach. Her face buried in the stale pillow, making it hard for her to breathe. The weight was on top of her now, pressing down on her lungs. She thought she was going to pass out, and still that poor little boy’s screams pierced her brain. It was a different pain than before. Normally it felt hot and sore inside. But this time she felt as though her insides were on fire, as though she was being ripped apart from the inside. Something grunted and heaved itself on top of her. Her hip bones dug
into the rough mattress.
Then another scream. This one sounded different. Deeper, more like a growl. It took Dorothy a few seconds to realise the sound was coming from her own mouth, from deep inside her chest, muffled by the sound of the pillow. The beast on top of her pulled at her hair; she knew this was her punishment for not helping that poor wee boy. The one who screamed each day and night. The one who sounded like Robbie.
Raphael had deserted her. He’d promised to help, but instead he’d sent a demon to take his place.
Then the heaving stopped, she was rolled onto her back once more.
‘I don’t want her again. She fucking stinks.’
‘They all stink in here, ya twat. They’ve been lying in their scratchers for years. Fucking ga-ga, the lot of them.’
‘Aye well, she’s weird.’
The footsteps walked away from her. She thought she heard them laugh, but couldn’t be sure. It’d been so long since she’d heard anyone laugh. She closed her eyes and wondered when Robbie and Andrew would visit. Perhaps they could help that little boy. The one whose screams never stopped.
24
Glasgow 2002
‘I can only stay ten minutes.’ Alec eyed the drink Oonagh had ready for him on the table. ‘Fifteen at the most.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ve got a meeting in twenty minutes anyway,’ she lied. Oonagh was good at lulling people into a false sense of security.
Alec leaned over the table and kissed her cheek before sitting down. ‘What’s the big mystery, then?’
Oonagh had thought it best if she arranged to meet Davies in a public place. She was sailing close to the wind with this and wanted to make sure he wouldn’t go off on one.
‘No mystery.’ She was desperate to ask him about Dorothy Malloy but couldn’t do it over the phone. She needed to gauge his reaction. ‘Just want to pick your brains.’
Alec picked up his pint and took a long slow sip. Oonagh noticed the lines around his eyes were more pronounced than usual, and he’d lost a bit of weight from his face. He looked drawn. ‘I’m all ears.’
‘Dorothy Malloy.’
Alec was leaning to place his drink back on the table and stopped midway. Oonagh caught a look in his eye she’d never seen before. ‘I take it you’ve heard of her, then?’
‘Why’re you asking?’
‘Someone mentioned her name when I was researching material for the new programme—’ Oonagh poured the rest of her tonic into her gin and avoided Alec’s eye ‘—but I can’t really find anything about her. Did she…?’ She was hoping Alec would finish off her sentence and spill the beans but his mouth formed into a tight line. ‘Did she kill her husband? Is that right?’ Oonagh’s face flushed scarlet. She was making an arse of this and one look from Alec said that he could see right through her.
‘Give me a break, Alec. Someone gave me her case files and…’
A hollow smile tugged at his lips but didn’t quite reach his eyes. He let out a laugh. ‘Bloody hell, Oonagh, I wish all my suspects were as easy to interrogate as you.’ He leaned back and softened slightly. ‘What d’you know? Or what d’you think you know?’
‘I want to know why I can’t find a trace of her in any of the archives. Jesus Christ, a woman butchers her husband and son and it doesn’t even make page five in her home town!’
‘Come on, I need some fresh air.’ Alec stood up and walked towards the door as Oonagh scrambled her stuff together and hurried after him. Outside the traffic was nose to tail and the clouds overhead threatened rain. ‘Fancy a walk through the park? I’ve been cooped up in the office all morning.’
Oonagh nodded and tried to fall into step beside him but struggled to keep up. The mention of Dorothy Malloy had spooked him and she had no idea why. The park gates were only a few hundred yards away but Oonagh was already slightly out of breath and tugged at his arm. ‘Can we slow down a bit?’ He seemed miles away but slowed down to allow her to match his pace. He didn’t say a word until they were sitting on a bench.
‘D’you want a look around the orchid house?’
‘No, I don’t want a bloody look around the orchid house. I want to ask you about—’
This time he cut in before she could say the name. ‘It was a long time ago, Oonagh, but it’s still fresh for some of the guys who were there.’
This tiny scrap of information took Oonagh by surprise. ‘You know some of them? Are they still here? I mean alive? Are they…?’
Alec put his hand up. Stopped her. ‘Oonagh, the death of a colleague is never easy. The murder of a kid is heartbreaking. The two together is a nightmare the guys can’t shake off.’
This put her on the back foot. Slightly. She hadn’t realised quite how close to home this case was for Alec. He might have been a hardened cop, but he lived, breathed and slept the force. It was his life. She softened. Chose her words with care.
‘I don’t get how such a…’ she struggled a bit ‘… an extreme murder, two murders, could be swept under the carpet… and why? That doesn’t make sense.’
‘Just because the press didn’t get a hold of it doesn’t mean it was swept under the carpet.’
Oonagh wasn’t grasping this at all. It made no sense. Alec seemed to read her thoughts. ‘We put a blanket ban…’ He corrected himself. ‘When I say we, I mean…’ Oonagh nodded for him to continue. ‘Andrew Malloy’s death rocked the force. He was an absolute gem. His parents never got over it.’
‘But why all the secrecy?’ None of this added up. ‘I mean, he was the victim here.’
‘We promised his family they’d be able to grieve in peace. It was the least we could do.’
‘Oh, c’mon, Alec, that’s bullshit.’
‘Really? Have you any idea the effect press intrusion has on a family? D’you think any of them wanted to be related to the woman who slaughtered her husband and son?’
‘Yeah, but—’
‘This was a very high-profile case slap bang in the middle of the Raphael killings and—’
Oonagh grabbed the top of his arm. ‘What’s that got to do with this case?’
‘Andrew Malloy was the forensic pathologist.’
‘And?’
‘Well, he was doing the post-mortem examinations on the murder victims.’
Oonagh stood up. ‘Whoa. Hold on a second.’
Alec leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. He looked exhausted. ‘Please, Oonagh, no more conspiracy theories.’
Oonagh’s mind was working overtime. Would that seriously be enough reason to put a blanket ban on the press? ‘How did you pull that one off?’
‘We have our ways, Oonagh. The force was a bit more… forceful then.’
Oonagh didn’t like to think of what they could be like. She thought they were pretty forceful now. She badgered him some more but he wasn’t budging and insisted that the cops were protecting Malloy’s family.
‘That bitch really went to town on him.’
‘Oi! Alec, don’t use that word in front of me. It’s offensive.’
Alec stood up, his eyes widened. ‘You’ve got to be kidding me. A poor guy gets butchered in his own home…’ he pointed to somewhere in the distance ‘… his son drowned in the bath. And you’re offended at the word bitch?’
The dig stung her, but she stood her ground.
‘I didn’t mean to offend you, Oonagh, but she really was a crazy mother-fucker.’ Oonagh reckoned McVeigh’s chat was rubbing off on Davies. Everything around them seemed so normal. People strolled by eating lunchtime sandwiches. On the grass a teenage boy tried to impress a group of girls with his footballing skills. A mother with a pushchair walked past with a mobile phone tucked into her shoulder as she unwrapped some chocolate to appease her toddler’s cries. Life went on around them as Oonagh and Alec talked about the crazy lady who slaughtered her family.
It didn’t matter how much Oonagh tried to plead Dorothy Malloy’s case, Alec refused to believe there could be any reason – insanity or otherwise – for her ac
tions.
‘Some people are just born bad, Oonagh, accept it.’ Part of her thought he might be right.
‘You’d never think she was capable. She’s tiny, Alec.’
‘Tiny? What d’you mean?’
Oonagh wasn’t quite grasping this line of questioning. ‘I mean she’s small.’
‘She’s still alive?’
Oonagh looked around. She suddenly felt guilty. She nodded slightly. Alec spoke very slowly. ‘Have you seen her?’ Again, Oonagh nodded. Slowly.
‘She’s in a bad way, Alec.’
Alec took a deep breath. ‘Promise you won’t go back to Cartland, Oonagh.’ He held her by the shoulders. ‘Don’t get involved with Dorothy Malloy.’
Oonagh was almost scared to be the bearer of this particular bit of news. ‘She’s not in Cartland, Alec.’
‘Where’s she been moved to?’
Oonagh was stunned at Alec’s apparent ignorance. ‘Don’t you know?’
The shrill ring of Alec’s phone made her jump. He pressed his thumb on the answer button. ‘What?’ He listened for a few seconds. ‘Too fucking late,’ he yelled. ‘I’ve just been enlightened to this fact. By a fucking civilian!’
25
Glasgow 2002
‘I didn’t like the men.’ Dorothy worried a smooth white pebble between her fingers. ‘They hurt me. It was sore.’
Oonagh sat opposite. The room was calm and quiet with soft lighting; outside the rain beat gently on the window. She was desperate to ask what men, how had they hurt her, what had they done?
‘You’re safe here now, Dorothy.’ Tom laid a protective hand on the arm of her chair.
Today was a good day for Dorothy. Today Dorothy knew her name and where she was. Today Dorothy could remember some of her time at Cartland.
‘They thought I was asleep, but I wasn’t.’ Dorothy threaded a strand of hair behind her ear then clutched the neck of her cardigan, tugging it closed across her throat.
Keep Her Silent Page 9