The Child Before

by Michael Scanlon

  He spoke, his voice from somewhere far off.

  ‘Just a taster,’ he said.

  He leaned onto the bed on fisted hands, like a primate, moving towards her, pushing between her legs, her short skirt riding up as his elbows forced them out. He lowered himself, settling on her, lay there still. She could smell his hot, clammy breath, could smell it, like old vegetable peelings. Gradually, she felt something against her leg, through his pants, a throbbing, a dull pulse, like a mouse’s heart.

  Still, he lay there, an ostrich sitting on an egg.

  ‘Oliver,’ the sound so faint she wondered if she had actually heard it at all.

  He dipped his head to one side.

  ‘Oliver,’ the voice a little louder, enough to convince her that it was real.

  He smiled, a twisted smile, in that twisted face, looking down at her with deadpan eyes.

  ‘Oliver. There are cars outside.’

  He froze, his smile evaporating.

  Ninety-Seven

  The roadway to the farmhouse led into the back yard. The three garda cars pulled up and Beck got out of the Focus. He stared for a moment before approaching the house, pushing through a green painted gate and walking along a path to the door. He noticed someone standing by a window, an elderly female, her face framed within long white hair, before she was gone again, shuffling out of view. He felt something brush against his leg, glanced down, saw a cat walking alongside. When he looked back up again, the door had opened and she was standing there, skin and bones, confusion on a leathered old face, and as he drew near, he detected the pungency of stale urine filling the air about her.

  ‘The President’s dead,’ Danny Black’s mother said, her voice shrill. ‘They said it on the wireless.’

  Beck noticed the unkempt hair, the filthy pinafore, the swollen legs inside the grubby black shoes.

  ‘We’re looking for Danny Black.’

  ‘Oh, I remember. Did he win? Did you pull his name out of the hat? Did you?’

  Beck noted the distant eyes, the expression, a mixture of perpetual fear and surprise.

  ‘We’d like to come in,’ he said, already gently passing her.

  He heard Garda Ryan speaking from behind.

  ‘It’s okay, my love, come with me and we’ll sit you down.’

  Beck, Wilde, Connor and two detectives filed down the hall. Beck opened the front door. The two uniforms were standing there.

  ‘One of you wait there. The other come with us.’

  He looked back down the hall. Claire was emerging from a room. ‘This way,’ he called to her.

  He led the way up the stairs. Wilde and the uniform began going through the remaining downstairs rooms. Beck crossed the landing, the linoleum floor covering worn through in places to the wooden boards beneath. He selected a room, turned the door handle, and entered. There was a picture of the Sacred Heart on a wall, the red bulb beneath broken. There was a single metal bed, a jumbled collection of blankets on top, a crumpled dirty sheet, old clothes strewn everywhere, a wardrobe open, cardboard boxes piled inside, an open empty suitcase by the bed, and a table, an alarm clock on top, old style with metal cylinders like ears on top, streaked with rust. The room was cold with the smell of bodily waste. And there was something else. Beck could see it lying on the floor by the wardrobe, its wooden frame broken in one corner. A photograph, of someone he recognised: Michéal Peoples.

  Claire’s voice. Sudden. Loud. From further down the hall.

  ‘Beck. Down here. Quick.’

  The woman was curled up on the bed when Beck entered the room, Claire standing above her, both hands on her shoulders, gentle, reassuring. He noticed immediately the manacle securing her foot to the bed. The two detectives were standing in the doorway. The woman began to sob.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Claire said. ‘You’re safe now. What’s your name?’

  ‘Vicky,’ Beck heard her reply as he crossed to the window, partially covered in black plastic stripes, torn in the centre. Jesus. Vicky. He turned. The woman he knew, the cheeky, confident, sexy, sensual woman, a quivering wreck on the bed. He was about to speak, but there was no time. He went to the old sash window, one panel pulled down and flush with the other. He noted the sturdy metal drainpipe outside running down the wall next to it. This was the side of the house, invisible from the yard and from the front. He cursed, clenching his fists. The sound of an engine, in the near distance, a throaty diesel. He looked towards that sound, to the track that ran past the house. Through the bushes and trees he could see a flash of colour, silver, moving fast.

  Beck was already running from the room, calculating the distance, the odds of making it in time, scrambling down the stairs, out the front door, along the path running down the centre of the overgrown garden, and finally, out through the gateless pillars.

  And at that very moment, as Beck emerged onto the track, it rounded a curve maybe twenty yards away, heading towards him: a blue and silver Mitsubishi pickup. It bounced over the rough ground, riding high on its springs, bearing down.

  Beck stood, legs astride, knees bent slightly, one leg back in a boxer’s stance, reaching for the Walther, pulling it from its holster, extending his arms, one shoulder slightly angled forward, pistol butt held tight – but not too tight – in both hands, the way he’d been trained. Lining up the front and rear sights, both eyes looking down the barrel. Ready.

  The pickup, slithering and jumping, but big enough to always remain dangling at the end of those sights.

  Beck pulled the trigger, the sound a crackling thunderclap through the air, every bird for a half mile taking flight. The hole appeared in the windscreen, on the passenger side, as intended, a spider’s web of broken glass spreading out around it.

  I’m not messing around here, fella.

  But the pickup kept coming.

  Beck realised a part of him didn’t care, even as he heard the grinding of gears, the high-pitched squeal of dry springs rising and falling as the pickup bounced over the rutted track.

  Come on.

  His body stiffened, lining up the sights again, aiming for the wide area of chest just beneath the neck of the driver. He followed that jumping, moving target, keeping both sights on it, ignoring Black’s face, just that target, offering the best possibility. His finger, moist on the trigger, feeling the resistance as he began to press.

  A shower of pebbles and dirt on his legs, bouncing off his trousers, a scraping sound, a hundred sticks of chalk dragged across a blackboard. The pickup, tyres grinding and tearing at the track for grip. The back end swinging round now, lurching back and forth as it came to a stop side on, the sound of the engine, a diesel tic-toc, the smell of hot oil and rubber.

  Beck ran and tugged on the passenger door.

  ‘Hands on the wheel! Hands on the wheel!’

  Black ignored him, climbing out of the pickup, walking round the front end towards him. Something in his hands. Beck glanced. A chisel. The voice of Gumbell in his head, Something like a shank, maybe.

  Beck aimed at the centre of Black’s forehead.

  I’m not messing round here, fella.

  A smile played on Black’s lips. It altered his already altered face. Gave him a look like there was no evil he was not capable of. He began walking slowly towards Beck.

  As Beck’s finger began to press…

  ‘Beck! Don’t.’

  Black couldn’t help it. He stopped, his head shifting, eyes peering from the corners of their sockets, away from Beck, back over his shoulder, to the source of that voice. Beck, in the blind spot, took the opportunity. He had not forgotten. It was like riding a bike. A church hall in Central Dublin, martial arts class, Sok Ti, the slashing elbow. Forward on the balls of his feet, at the same time twisting in the opposite direction, bending the elbow close to his side, rising now, above Black’s head, and as Black looked back, slashing down, with the elbow, the power of Beck’s entire upper body behind it, a sledgehammer, right into the front of Black’s face… Crack!

 
The head went back as the body collapsed. Dropped like a rock. Or a sack of potatoes. Whatever. There was little blood, but Black’s nose had fallen into what looked like a sink hole in his face. He roared in agony. They allowed him to roar. Feel free. Handcuffed him, led him to the marked squad car. He roared all the way to the station, where they were obliged to call an ambulance. They could have taken him directly to hospital, that would have saved time, but they didn’t want that. No one wanted that. The sound of his roaring satisfied in each of them a belief, that in some small way, justice was already being served.

  Ninety-Eight

  Beck had remained at the scene. With Claire. And a couple of uniforms posted at the top of the road. Forensics and a search team would arrive eventually. But it was after the fact. That is, unless the property hid other secrets. Other surprises. If it did, they would find them.

  Right now, though, Beck was waiting on a social worker to return his call. Already it was out of hours. Vulnerable elderly did not warrant the same response as vulnerable children. He was standing in the yard, from where the cats had disappeared.

  As had Danny Black’s mother.

  ‘She’s not in the house,’ Claire said emerging from the back door of the house, ‘No one thought about this. Did they?

  Beck looked ahead, through the open gate of the back yard, noting a series of tiny footsteps meandering through it. Claire followed his gaze. Without a word, they both began to follow the thread of small indentations. It disappeared when they reached the middle of the yard outside, where it was dry, the ground elevated slightly. Beck knew it had been a run off, from the time the empty pens at the side of the yard had held cattle. He raised his hand. They both stopped.

  There was no breeze. The day was still hot, clammy. Beck felt a drop of sweat roll into his eye, stinging him. He wiped at it with one finger. A sound, like a rustling of paper. He listened as it came again, from somewhere ahead, towards the corner of the yard. Beck cupped a hand behind his ear and motioned to Claire: Listen. They stood without making a sound, then Beck began to walk slowly ahead, towards that sound. Claire followed. It grew louder with each step they took.

  Unmistakeable.

  In the corner of the yard, hidden from the house, was a small stone building: sloping slate roof, door with a window on either side of it. One window was open, a lace curtain as white as a snow flake hanging out of it and motionless in the stagnant air.

  The baby was no longer crying, but instead was making a series of gurgling sounds. Which was accompanied by singing, an aged and hoarse voice but one that was in perfect harmony. It was a lullaby.

  Beck moved to the door. He placed his hand gently on the knob and turned it. He pushed and the door opened. The inside of what looked like a doll’s house revealed itself, bright colours, little chairs, a little bed, and a plastic toy kitchen with plastic pots and pans.

  Danny Black’s mother had her back to him. Her filthy old clothes and body were alien in this place. And alien to what she held against her chest. Looking back over the old woman’s shoulder at Beck was a baby, its beautiful blue eyes of innocence twinkling before the detective inspector’s smile, a red blob on the side of her head. Baby Róisín.

  The old woman, as if sensing their presence, turned.

  ‘I always wanted a girl,’ she said. ‘Oliver and I are over the moon. It’s only a touch of colic. She doesn’t really need the doctor. I keep this place spotless. You won’t find a speck of dirt in here, doctor.’

  Beck stepped to her, gently but firmly gripped the child. Claire was already placing her hands on the fragile old wrists. Danny Black’s mother released Róisín. Who was clean. Appeared healthy. Well cared for. Smelt as a baby should. Beck breathed in that baby smell deeply, closed his eyes and leaned his forehead gently against the child’s.

  ‘Thank you,’ he whispered. ‘God. Thank you.’

  Róisín pulled at his ear.

  The child was strong.

  Ninety-Nine

  Beck stood inside the door of the conference room in the Hibernian Hotel, hurriedly converted to hold a special sitting of Cross Beg District Court. It was six thirty in the evening and Judge Constance Canavan observed Danny Black standing handcuffed before her between two uniformed guards. The centre of his head was swathed in bandages, a smudge of blood soaking through. Twice he was asked to confirm his identity before he did so, the painkillers he’d been given responsible for the lethargy of response. He was then remanded to Castlerea prison to appear at Galway Circuit Court the following week.

  ‘At that court,’ Judge Canavan announced, her soprano voice cutting through the room, ‘a preliminary psychological evaluation will be available for consideration, because it is my belief that those wilfully evil acts perpetrated by the defendant can only be understood against the backdrop of a virulent form of mental illness.’

  As Beck smoked a cigarette outside afterwards, a man in a burgundy suit and fawn-coloured leather shoes approached. It was a suit Beck would expect an entertainer to wear, a compère on a cruise ship, someone like that. George Noone had fair hair, moulded into a quiff at the front, a strong square chin with a dimple in the centre. Beck had heard it said by women of his acquaintance that they would not trust a man with a dimple in his chin. Noone extended his hand and introduced himself. On his wrist was a massive, ochre-faced watch.

  ‘I had to come. To see what he looked like. The animal.’ The voice was softly spoken. ‘I’m Vicky’s husband, ex-husband. I just want to thank you for saving her life.’

  As they shook hands, Beck decided he didn’t like George Noone. No reason. Just his gimp. He was… Beck searched for a word but couldn’t find it.

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘Under observation at the Galway Clinic. She’ll pull through, thank God, but something like this…’ His voice trailed off.

  Beck took a long draw on his cigarette.

  ‘I’ll call to see her very soon,’ Beck said.

  Noone hesitated, a silence hanging between them for a moment. ‘Well,’ he said then. ‘Thank you again,’ as he turned and walked away.

  Beck watched him go.

  Smarmy, the word he’d been looking for. Yes, that was it.

  Smarmy.

  Beck saw him then, standing at a corner of the court house, looking across at him. It was Joe, his posture that same veneer of defensiveness as displayed at meetings and afterwards at Frazzali’s. But he raised a hand now and waved, and Beck waved back. Then he too turned and walked away.

  Beck made it to the meeting on time for once, just about. He sat in the back row and when he was asked if he would like to speak, he even said a few words. Innocuous words, about how wonderful it was to be sober, and how he thanked God every day for helping him to stay that way. He didn’t mean a word of it of course, it was just some shit he’d heard others say.

  As he dried his coffee mug afterwards, Mikey Power came and stood beside him.

  ‘Alright, mate? I want to thank you for what you did. Finding that bastard. And getting Róisín back. It means everything.’

  Beck hadn’t noticed him at the meeting. He thought again of the question he wanted answered.

  ‘If I may ask. How long have you been in Australia, Mikey?’

  ‘Ten years, mate. Why?’

  ‘You come across as more Australian than a kangaroo, that’s why.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment, mate. Once I bury my poor unfortunate sister, and my little niece is settled in with my mother, that’s where I’ll be going straight back to.’

  Beck realised he was still holding the cup. He put it down onto the draining board.

  ‘And your mother? What about her?’

  ‘What can I say, mate? What about her? I know what I’ve got to do. My mother can look after herself. Sorry. That’s how it is.’

  Beck nodded. ‘You don’t have to be sorry. Not to me. I understand. Really.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Mikey said, putting the cup down without washing it.

 
; Beck offered his hand, but instead found himself pulled into a reluctant bear hug.

  ‘You’re emotionally stunted, mate, you know that?’

  Beck did not reply, thought: I already know that.

  It was a bar near the river. The ‘C’ in the name over the door missing, so it read AROLANS. When he walked in the few punters seated at the counter turned, watching as he walked towards them. A barmaid sat on a high stool behind it, busy filing her nails. She was young, bored, passing time, waiting, for something else, anything else, to come along. She placed the file down on a ledge behind her, beside a stack of glasses, and slid off the stool, turning to look at him.

  ‘It’s you,’ she said.

  Beck immediately thought this signified he had been in here previously in some drunken state or other that he couldn’t remember now. But then she smiled. No, all was well.

  ‘You were on the telly. A while back. When that crazy headcase had the town terrorised.’

  ‘Ah ha, that’s who it is,’ a voice further along. ‘Taut I recognised him.

  ‘He looks different so he does,’ it was someone else.

  ‘You got the bastard,’ the barmaid said. ‘That’s all that matters. Well done.’

  Beck wasn’t certain which bastard she was referring to.

  ‘What’ll it be?’ She asked the question Beck was most interested in.

  ‘Guinness. Pint. And a chaser. Whiskey. Thanks.’

  He sat in a corner, draped in the shadows. He knew the hushed tones were concerned with him, could tell by the furtive glances thrown in his direction. He felt the sensation he’d missed for so long and had feared in equal measure, could feel it softening him like a warm sun on hard, frozen ground. Had they nothing better to do than gossip about him? He knew the answer to that: Probably not.