Red Ribbons (35 page)

The
Late Late Show
is on Friday nights, but most of us see it on
Sunday. I’m not a fan of the programme. Mary loves it. On Fridays she says, ‘Fridays wouldn’t be Fridays without the
Late Late Show
.’ When she gets to see it all over again, she says, ‘Great. Sundays wouldn’t be Sundays without the
Late Late Show
.’ Mary has been here longer than any of us; she came in when she was eighteen. A man did badly by her, got her put away because she was ‘trouble’. According to Mary, that was a lie because ‘my mother, God rest her, brought me up proper’. Mary is fifty, which means she has been here for thirty-two years. That’s a long time. Most people think Mary is slow, soft in the head and kind of stupid with it. I don’t see it that way. I just think of her as different.

I’ve no interest in any of the programmes really, but I usually sit with them on Sunday. I hate the day either way, so I might as well pass the time somehow. I want the time to go faster now, so that I’m with Dr Ebbs sooner. We settle ourselves in armchairs and the theme tune blares out, making Mary very happy.

The first item is about the murder of the young girl. I’ve heard about it on the radio. Since Friday, they say another girl has been found. As part of the segment, they are showing pictures of children murdered over the past twenty years. They do this whenever there’s a news story about bad things happening to children. I often think about the other families, wonder if, like me, they hate it too, seeing the frozen images put out for public consumption over and over. I’m not surprised to see Amy’s picture nor am I surprised when no one looks at me. Either they’ve forgotten the reason I’m here or they’re new and don’t know my story. Perhaps no one cares any more.

The discussion is about whether society has become more dangerous for our children. Lots of people want to speak. The show is having what they call a heated debate. This type of thing pumps up the viewer ratings, so it happens often. Mary is transfixed by the screen. I’ve stopped listening to their arguments. After a time, it all becomes nothing more than a mishmash of words. Fear gets people
upset, but despite their heated debate, none of them thinks anything like that will ever happen to them.

When Dr Ebbs asked me what it was that I was afraid of, I told him it was change. Change upsets the routine, the cocoon I’ve created for myself. Is that cheating? If I’m being honest, if the only reason I exist is because death would be too easy an option, then I shouldn’t take the protected path.

Like those people on the television, I’m afraid, but I’m afraid of different things. In here, physically I’m safe. I can live out my protected existence, continuing my life of nothingness. But I can never escape from me. I can’t go back and change all the things I want to change. No matter how long I’m on this earth, nothing will ever undo what has happened; nothing will ever bring her back.

Seeing Amy’s picture on the television reminds me again that I will ask Dr Ebbs for her photograph. It’s a big step, and I fear perhaps I’m starting to forgive myself. There can never be any talk of that. I just want to look at her before I go to sleep. I think Dr Ebbs believes in me and, for some reason, that means something. Maybe Bridget is right, maybe the good doctor is just that: good.

It’s only when the programme shows images of the first young girl murdered that I take a closer look. She is wearing her school uniform. She looks so young, so full of life. Maybe that’s why I’m thinking the way I am, because when I look at the girl, it’s as if I’m seeing a different version of Amy staring back at me. As they continue the debate, they leave the image up on the screen, so I have plenty of time to make my own comparisons. The more I look at the image, the more I wonder if I’ve gone completely mad, because the longer the picture is up there, the more convinced I am that I am right.

If I were to ask someone a question about the murdered girls, one of the nurses, say, they wouldn’t like it. They would think I had a sick mind. Not that they don’t think that already, but even so, considering my history, a question from me about murdered girls would be taken
badly. Bridget is my best hope, but that means waiting until the morning. I can ask her about both girls then, find out what she knows. It wouldn’t be a good idea to say anything to anyone else now. There is no point. I’ll just sit here and go to my room when I’m allowed.

≈

Back in my room, I pace the floor. I don’t have a large room, so I don’t have far to go, back and forth. I wonder if my curiosity about the girls is a good or a bad sign. Why do I care? After all, they aren’t Amy. It’s daft thinking this way. What can I possibly achieve by finding out more about them? Did I imagine the similarities in the first girl’s looks? Is it of any importance? Maybe I’m trying to bring Amy back. Maybe I want to relive all of it again so that, somehow, it will make sense.

Ever since I made the decision to ask Dr Ebbs for the photograph, I’ve started to think and feel things I haven’t thought or felt for a very long time. To a great many people, the photograph of Amy would have been something I should have asked for from the beginning. But for me, asking for it, even now, feels undeserving. Feeling undeserving is something I’m well used to, but what I’m not used to is how my heart and my head feel. It’s as if they’re opening up in ways I’ve long since forgotten. All the remembering, thinking back about Joe and Amy, and Andrew, it’s forced me to think about the person I used to be. I know I can never be her again. I wouldn’t want to be. She’s a stranger, a woman no longer of relevance. Or maybe I’m wrong. Maybe that woman is what this is all about. Maybe all these years I’ve fooled myself into thinking my punishment was to live out this nothing existence, when really it should have been about facing that woman again, my old self, and really looking at who she was and why, other than self-punishment, she should still be here.

I don’t understand any of it clearly, but somewhere inside of me
something is shifting, like an enormous tidal wave moving inland, slow, quiet, but devastatingly forceful. Before the fire, like most other people, I thought I understood death. That having lost others – parents, grandparents, friends – I had an insight into it. I was wrong. That kind of grieving tells you nothing about losing a child, because the loss of your child isn’t like anything else.

When I think about the murdered girls, I think about how their parents are feeling, the hell they must be going through. Nothing will ever bring their daughters back. They won’t ever hear them laugh or cry, or argue or sing, or any of the things they used to do. All they will feel will be the aching sadness and emptiness in their hearts. It will eat away at them until what is left is worn down, no longer fit for purpose. They will know the only thing worse than looking forward is looking back. I’ve lived that life for the past fifteen years. I know it as well as anyone can. I know the hellish silence that comes with death, when the only sound is the sound of your own madness.

Bridget will give me answers to everything I ask her. I’ll explain that I don’t fully understand why I need to know about these girls – perhaps it’s because of the similarities to Amy. I’ll tell her that I don’t mean the girls or their families any harm. She won’t think badly of me, she doesn’t think about people that way.

I get into bed and pull the bedcovers over my head. I feel cold. Maybe the shaking will help me sleep. Anything is easier than thinking.

KATE SAT ALONE IN THE DARK, HER MOBILE PHONE switched off. She thought about phoning her mother, about checking with O’Connor, she even considered ringing Declan, but somehow nothing seemed right any more.

She had allowed Charlie to stay up late, taking her time getting him ready for bed, not minding when he’d insisted on a million stories. He had asked her why she looked sad, and instantly she’d regretted not hiding her feelings better. They’d played Snap and she’d let him win, enjoying his laughter when his hand had snapped down on top of hers. But with Charlie now asleep, it was as if somehow everything had stopped. The investigation would have to stay on hold for another while; all her rushing around, all the things that had seemed so important for so long, didn’t seem quite so important any more.

Had she been running away from things? Had she not cared about saving their marriage? Had she neglected both Declan and Charlie? Declan had obviously decided that she had done those things. Kate was not so sure. Nonetheless, it had taken the packing of his suitcase for her to realise there was no running away from feelings. They always catch up with you. He’d packed his suitcase and left them, without even telling her where he was going, probably a hotel room, an empty hotel room, anywhere other than being with her. At least she had taken some action and cancelled work at Ocean House for the next few days. She needed time to think, time to work it all out.

The wind outside was building up. Her mind felt blank, tired. Then a sound from out back stirred her, a noise like smashing glass, and something falling. Kate walked over to the back window. A black cat was on the fire escape, the sensor light was broken again. She stood at the window, thinking about how even the apartment sounded different now it was just the two of them.

Huddled on the couch, the darkness and the wind reflected her mood, like she was out in the wilderness, the howl of nature the only thing making any sense. If it rained now, it would be a relief. She wasn’t in the mood for tears. Tears were for long after. Right now, she needed to stop running, to stop everything. It’s a funny thing, loneliness, the way it creeps up on you. One minute everything is such a rush, people are everywhere, and then you are right back to just you. Kate had no desire for morning, nor any wish to set a clock, or be anywhere other than where she was. Tonight was all about being still. Tomorrow would bring its own answers.

OLLIE HAD NO IDEA WHY WILLIAM CRONLY HAD A photograph of the girl who was killed in the fire, or why he had any of the other stuff either, but he was pretty sure that whatever the answer was, he wasn’t going to like it.

Standing at the gateway of the Lodge, looking up at the old building with its curtains drawn, his mind went back again to that summer.

≈

Ollie hadn’t been working at Beachfield long when the fire happened. A bloody awful affair. The girl’s mother was a right lunatic. He had caught her roaming about the caravan site a couple of nights before it happened. Up to no good she was, parading around the place when all other decent folk were in their beds. He hadn’t had a good night poaching, so his mood wasn’t good when he came upon her. Cheeky as anything, she even questioned him about his gun, like he was the one requiring interrogation.

The day the blaze took hold, at first he thought it was vandals, and he had cursed his bad luck. If that blaze had really got going, it could have taken the whole bloody caravan park with it. He raised the alarm as best he could, banging his fists on caravans and mobile homes on his way. Within seconds there were men running for the water hose, looking for anything to fill up with water.

When he reached the caravan, the door was locked, so he went back
for the main set of keys. Although it was a bit of a struggle, he got the door open. The smoke caught him in the chest, forcing him to stand back in an effort to clear his lungs. He knew the caravan was occupied. The family had already been there for nearly a week. Covering his nose and mouth with his jacket, he crawled on his hands and knees under the smoke in the living area. When he pushed through to the back room, he saw the woman and the girl. The mother was the nearest one to him. He grabbed her, managing to get out before the flames went shooting through from the bedroom. By the time he’d got out with the woman, others, including her husband, had arrived. It didn’t take long for the man to work out that his daughter was still trapped inside.

Everything happened so fast. Within seconds of Ollie getting the wife out, the thing turned into an inferno. The heat was intense, forcing them all back. The roar of the fire was like nothing Ollie had ever heard, like an angry beast that kept on exploding with rage. The water hose wasn’t much use either. Some of the men did their best to pour water on the thing, but their efforts fast became useless. The father of the girl went mental. It took all Ollie’s strength to hold him back. Ollie was a big man, but the girl’s father was having none of it and he managed to get loose seconds before the fire cracked out the glass. As the flames roared into the black smoke, there was an explosion, knocking the father off his feet. When the gas cylinder at the back blew, Ollie grabbed hold of him again. By then, the man must have known his daughter was beyond saving. He could still see that look of blind acceptance on the father’s face, looking over at his wife, and then back to the flames. There was something about how the woman stood, her skin blackened by the smoke, her eyes wild, that made her look as guilty as hell.

≈

The fact that Steve Hughes had found a photograph of the girl up at the Lodge didn’t make sense. But if the photograph proved one
thing, it proved that William Cronly was connected to her, and it was a connection that Ollie wasn’t happy about. The fire may have happened a long time back, but if William Cronly did know the girl, then things were more than ‘fishy’, as Hughes had put it. Things were a whole lot worse than that.

Ollie had only visited Cronly on two occasions in the past. The last time was two days after the death of Alison Cronly, when he had been forced out of duty to pay his respects. It was a small parish, and folks felt it was necessary to give the impression of a close community, especially in death. The first occasion, fifteen years earlier, wasn’t long after the fire.

Up until that point, he’d only heard about Alison Cronly from Fitzsimons, the owner of Beachfield, and from what he’d heard about the woman, and the airs and graces about her, she was someone who insisted on being treated in high regard, even if you didn’t take kindly to her reputation. It was for that very reason that Ollie had avoided her, not wanting to kowtow like everybody else. After the fire, there was a right fuss about the place. Everyone was talking, everyone had a different story about what they thought had happened and who was to blame. There seemed to be no credit given to the fact that he had risked his life to save the mother. If anything, it was the very opposite. If his suspicions at the time were correct, from the looks he was getting, the question everyone was asking was why had he saved the madwoman and not the child. The whole bloody thing had pissed him off to high heaven. He had no idea when he had dragged the woman out that he wouldn’t get a chance to go back in. After all, she had been the nearest one to him. How was he to know she’d set fire to the blasted thing?